“I’m not officially with the U.S. Marshals’ office right now,” Rourke said. “I have a couple of weeks off.”
Frank nodded. “But you aren’t here on vacation.”
Rourke smiled. “No. I’ll be honest with you, Frank. I’m looking for someone but on my own time. Because of that, though, I’d just as soon no one around here knows my connection to the U.S. Marshals’ office.”
Or the U.S. Marshals’ office know what he was up to. “Maybe if you told me who you’re looking for...”
Rourke took another sip of the coffee and put the mug down on the small table between them. He glanced toward the front window and the crows all still on the line, before he turned back to him.
“I’m investigating a cold case in which one individual’s name came up several times.”
Frank wondered why he was pussyfooting around telling him, but kept quiet.
“I believe I’m looking for someone close to her.”
“Her?” Frank said, lifting a brow.
“Caligrace Westfield.”
“Callie? The waitress at the Branding Iron. I’m familiar with her.” He didn’t mention that last spring his fiancé, Nettie Benton, had told him there might be more to Callie than anyone knew. Now he realized he was not as familiar with Callie Westfield as he should have been if a U.S. marshal was interested in her. He could feel Rourke’s gaze on him.
“Is there something I should know about her?”
Frank cleared his throat. Rourke was certainly not being forthcoming about what had brought him to Beartooth. He hadn’t even said what kind of crime was involved.
“Let me ask you this,” Frank finally said. “What are we talking here?”
“Murder. She is a lead in three separate cases at least.”
That got his attention. “Where were the crimes committed?”
“Seattle area. If you know something about Caligrace Westfield...”
Frank sighed. “I don’t know anything actually. However, last spring a friend of mine hired a private investigator to run a check on Callie.” He saw he’d piqued the marshal’s interest. “My friend was just curious.” That hadn’t been quite the case, but it was close enough. “My friend hadn’t expected anything to come up on the girl.”
“But something did.”
Frank nodded. “The problem is my friend never found out what. The private investigator was killed before he could give his report.” He shook his head when he saw Rourke’s surprise. “The investigator was killed in a completely separate matter. But he told my friend that he found something that would surprise her.” And Nettie Benton, formerly the worst gossip in the county, wasn’t easily surprised.
Rourke seemed to take that information in for a moment. “How long has Callie worked at the café in Beartooth?”
Frank rubbed his jaw as he thought. “About a year or so. As I understand it, she just showed up one day, saw the sign in the window at the café, asked for the job and got it. You know she lives upstairs in the apartment over the place?”
Rourke nodded. “Was there a man with her? A boyfriend? Husband?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Kate LaFond...sorry, Kate French owns the café. She might be able to tell you. But I’ve never seen Callie with anyone.”
“So she doesn’t date at all?”
“Not that I know of.” He frowned as he remembered overhearing a discussion at the café one morning.
“Did someone come to mind?” Rourke asked.
Frank hesitated before he said, “Carson Grant has apparently asked her out on more than one occasion. He works as a wrangler on his sister and brother-in-law’s ranch. He’s been back a couple of years now. Probably not the man you’re looking for, though.”
* * *
THE LONGHORN CAFÉ was just as small-town local as Edwin had suspected it would be. The narrow building opened into a room with three tables and six stools at a counter. The place smelled of floor cleaner and old grease. The decor consisted of a few photos of cows, and the floor was noticeably out of level.
Edwin felt his stomach turn as he stepped in. Given that it was the middle of the afternoon, the café was nearly empty, but then again, so was the town. He wondered how the café could stay in business—it and that old motel he spotted at the far end of town. But he was reminded of all the cultivated fields he’d seen flying in. Must be ranches around the area for miles. Not to mention, the town was on what Pete had called the Hi-Line—the most northern two-lane highway across the top of the state.
An elderly man sat at one end of the counter, Pete at the other. The older man was slumped over a cup of coffee, head down. Edwin headed for the pilot. Pete was busy putting away a stack of pancakes and a side of bacon. Just the thought of food made Edwin sick again, but he sat down next to him and ordered a glass of milk.
“Milk?” Pete asked with a laugh. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Not really.” He’d gotten more than he’d expected, and yet he still couldn’t prove that Caligrace Westfield had lived in Westfield Manor.
“So who’s this woman you’re looking for?” the pilot asked between bites.
“Caligrace Westfield.”
He frowned. “Never heard of her.”
Not a surprise. Pete was in his early twenties, and while he knew the area, he was from a town farther east along the Hi-Line.
“Whadda you say?” At the other end of the counter, the elderly man had lifted his head from his coffee and was now looking in their direction.
Edwin gave the man his full attention. “Have you heard of a woman named Caligrace Westfield?”
“Caligrace,” the man said and closed his eyes. “Pretty as a Montana morning.”
Edwin figured the old man might be senile, but he said, “Dark hair and eyes?”
“Black as coal sometimes.” Opening his own eyes, the old man said, “But her name wasn’t Westfield.”
Edwin got up and moved down the counter. The man could be full of bull, just wanting attention. Edwin ran into those sorts all the time during an investigation. They were the ones who wanted to contribute—even if they had nothing to offer. They were often happy to make it up.
As he neared the man, he was surprised that on closer inspection, though not shaved and gray of both hair and beard, the man wasn’t as old as he’d first thought.
“Where do you know her from?” Edwin asked.
“That home outside of town.”
“Westfield Manor?”
“Weren’t no manor,” the man said with obvious disgust.
Knowing it couldn’t be possible, he still reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Rourke had supplied him with. “The woman I’m looking for, though, isn’t very old. If the home closed twenty-five years ago, Caligrace wouldn’t have been more than—” He was going to say “five.”
“Sixteen,” the man interrupted.
Sixteen? Edwin did the math. No way was the woman in the photo forty-one. He tried to hide his disappointment.
“That her photo?” the man asked and took the enhanced snapshot with his thick fingers.
“It’s not a great photo. But you think you know the woman?”