that.”
He returned her smile. “I understand Claude Durham left you the café. I’m surprised. I didn’t think you knew him.”
“I’m surprised that you would be interested in my relationship with Claude.”
“What kind of relationship was that?”
“Friends.”
“So you’d been to Beartooth before Claude died.”
“Sheriff, what is this about?”
“Your name isn’t Kate LaFond.”
“No, not legally, but I’m sure you know that. After Claude died and left me the café, I wanted a fresh start in Beartooth, so I chose a new name to go with it.”
“How do I know you’re this Melissa Logan, the woman Claude left the Branding Iron to in his will?”
She got up. He heard her go upstairs and listened to her footfalls moving through the apartment. A few minutes later, she returned and dropped on the table in front of him a Nevada driver’s license in the name Melissa Logan. The photograph wasn’t a great one, but there was no doubt the woman in it was the one now sitting in the booth across from him.
“You changed your hair color, too,” he said. The woman in the photo was blonde, clearly not her natural color. “Most people don’t change their appearance and name unless they have something to hide.”
Kate laughed. “I’m not most women and neither is the woman who put you up to this. I notice Nettie has a new hairstyle and color herself. What do you think she’s trying to hide?”
He smiled, her point well taken. “Under Montana law, you need to get a new driver’s license,” he said, handing back her old one. “You might want to see about changing your name legally. That is, if you think you’re going to be Kate LaFond for a while.”
“Sheriff, haven’t you ever wanted to simply be someone else for a while?”
“Can’t say I have.” He got to his feet. The one thing he’d learned being a lawman was that changing a name didn’t change a person—or their past. He had a body down at the morgue without a name. But even nameless the man’s past was branded on him like one of his jailhouse tattoos.
Kate had a past, a murky one. It hadn’t escaped his mind that the murdered man in the morgue hadn’t just been looking for Kate. He’d found her—and now he was dead.
* * *
N ETTIE FOUND THE apartment over the general store neat as a pin. She wasn’t all that surprised. Tiffany hadn’t brought enough personal items to make much of a mess. Nor did the girl seem like the disorganized, cluttered teenage type.
But as she glanced around, Nettie thought there was something almost too neat about the apartment. There was nothing personal in sight. No photographs. No books. No trinkets of any kind.
Tiffany seemed the kind of kid who would have brought with her a favorite stuffed animal. A collage of photos of her best friends. Or, being an artist, a favorite artwork.
The room looked exactly as it had the day Nettie had rented it to her—as if the girl wasn’t planning to stay long.
Then why pay six months’ rent?
Nettie shook her head at how human nature often astounded her, as she went into the bathroom and opened her toolbox. After she fixed the leaky faucet, she had a thought.
She walked back into the living room. Nothing about it looked lived-in. She noticed that the bedroom door was cracked partially open and realized she hadn’t looked in there.
As the landlord she had the right to take a look, right? She stepped forward and slowly pushed on the door, not sure what she was afraid of finding.
The room looked much like the rest of the apartment—the same as the day it had been rented. The bed was made, the pillows lined up as neatly as if the bed hadn’t been slept in.
Nettie moved to the closet. A jacket and a couple of shirts hung on hangers, but otherwise the closet was empty.
She checked the chest of drawers. A bare minimum of underwear, all very reserved for a girl of Tiffany’s age, Nettie thought. No thongs, no lace, nothing sexy at all. It was as if this
He returned her smile. “I understand Claude Durham left you the café. I’m surprised. I didn’t think you knew him.”
“I’m surprised that you would be interested in my relationship with Claude.”
“What kind of relationship was that?”
“Friends.”
“So you’d been to Beartooth before Claude died.”
“Sheriff, what is this about?”
“Your name isn’t Kate LaFond.”
“No, not legally, but I’m sure you know that. After Claude died and left me the café, I wanted a fresh start in Beartooth, so I chose a new name to go with it.”
“How do I know you’re this Melissa Logan, the woman Claude left the Branding Iron to in his will?”
She got up. He heard her go upstairs and listened to her footfalls moving through the apartment. A few minutes later, she returned and dropped on the table in front of him a Nevada driver’s license in the name Melissa Logan. The photograph wasn’t a great one, but there was no doubt the woman in it was the one now sitting in the booth across from him.
“You changed your hair color, too,” he said. The woman in the photo was blonde, clearly not her natural color. “Most people don’t change their appearance and name unless they have something to hide.”
Kate laughed. “I’m not most women and neither is the woman who put you up to this. I notice Nettie has a new hairstyle and color herself. What do you think she’s trying to hide?”
He smiled, her point well taken. “Under Montana law, you need to get a new driver’s license,” he said, handing back her old one. “You might want to see about changing your name legally. That is, if you think you’re going to be Kate LaFond for a while.”
“Sheriff, haven’t you ever wanted to simply be someone else for a while?”
“Can’t say I have.” He got to his feet. The one thing he’d learned being a lawman was that changing a name didn’t change a person—or their past. He had a body down at the morgue without a name. But even nameless the man’s past was branded on him like one of his jailhouse tattoos.
Kate had a past, a murky one. It hadn’t escaped his mind that the murdered man in the morgue hadn’t just been looking for Kate. He’d found her—and now he was dead.
* * *
N ETTIE FOUND THE apartment over the general store neat as a pin. She wasn’t all that surprised. Tiffany hadn’t brought enough personal items to make much of a mess. Nor did the girl seem like the disorganized, cluttered teenage type.
But as she glanced around, Nettie thought there was something almost too neat about the apartment. There was nothing personal in sight. No photographs. No books. No trinkets of any kind.
Tiffany seemed the kind of kid who would have brought with her a favorite stuffed animal. A collage of photos of her best friends. Or, being an artist, a favorite artwork.
The room looked exactly as it had the day Nettie had rented it to her—as if the girl wasn’t planning to stay long.
Then why pay six months’ rent?
Nettie shook her head at how human nature often astounded her, as she went into the bathroom and opened her toolbox. After she fixed the leaky faucet, she had a thought.
She walked back into the living room. Nothing about it looked lived-in. She noticed that the bedroom door was cracked partially open and realized she hadn’t looked in there.
As the landlord she had the right to take a look, right? She stepped forward and slowly pushed on the door, not sure what she was afraid of finding.
The room looked much like the rest of the apartment—the same as the day it had been rented. The bed was made, the pillows lined up as neatly as if the bed hadn’t been slept in.
Nettie moved to the closet. A jacket and a couple of shirts hung on hangers, but otherwise the closet was empty.
She checked the chest of drawers. A bare minimum of underwear, all very reserved for a girl of Tiffany’s age, Nettie thought. No thongs, no lace, nothing sexy at all. It was as if this
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