“I was on duty the Tuesday evening Rush disappeared. I didn’t tell the chief this, I didn’t tell anybody, but the evening he disappeared, right before he left the hotel, Rush received a phone call, a call to his room. It was made through our switchboard. Our switchboard is automatic. If you know the recipient’s room number, you can just punch it in and not use the operator, so I didn’t hear a voice. Our switchboard, we have caller ID. The call came from Mr. Miller’s house.”
It made perfect sense to me. The Imposter gets a call from Miller, probably about Sara, and he panics. That’s why he left town so quickly, not even bothering to pack. Perfect sense.
“Why didn’t you tell the chief?” I said.
“I should have. I know I should have because now, if keeping quiet is the reason Tracie and Mike … I didn’t tell him because, McKenzie, you should know, Mr. Miller—he owns the hotel. Also, I felt guilty about Saranne, about ruining her reputation. As for Rush, he got what he deserved, didn’t he?”
“Sharren, unless you know something I don’t, what Rush got was a whole lot of money and a trip to the Cayman Islands.”
“Do you still believe that?”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe he’s lying in a shallow grave somewhere.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I liked it, I really did—the idea that Dewey Miller put the Imposter down for trifling with his daughter. It smacked of frontier justice. Except I didn’t believe it. The problem was the missing money. If the Imposter was dead, whoever took the money must have known he was dead—probably killed him—and had to have the wherewithal to abscond with the funds. I didn’t think Miller was that guy. If he were, he never would have sent two bounty hunters to track down Rushmore McKenzie. ’Course, he might have, knowing I was innocent, to prove his deep concern to the community, an alibi after the fact …
Stop it, my inner voice warned me. You’re thinking too hard.
After cleaning up, I asked Sharren for directions to Miller’s home. I waited patiently while she cycled through a menu of conflicting emotions. Finally, after I promised to keep her name out of it, she relented, pointing me in the direction of Boucher Gardens. I found the house just west of the cemetery. I was expecting a mansion, but the Miller home didn’t even aspire to a McMansion. It was no bigger or grander than any home you might find in a first-ring suburb of St. Paul.
The woman who answered my knock was another one of Libbie’s seemingly endless supply of beauties—red-brown hair, blue-green eyes, and a body that most twenty-year-olds would do anything for, except diet and exercise, of course, and she so closely resembled her daughter that I nearly asked if her father was home. Instead, I said, “I would like to see Mr. Miller. My name is McKenzie.”
“I know who you are,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Miller.” She paused while she carefully considered my appearance. “I’m told you are a millionaire.”
“I have a couple of bucks.”
“Do you always go about attired in this fashion, or are you dressing down for the natives?”
I did a quick inventory of my dress—white Nikes, blue jeans, rust-colored short-sleeve polo shirt, and black lightweight sports jacket.
“If I had known it mattered, I would have put a ribbon in my hair,” I said.
“I guess not everyone should have money,” Mrs. Miller said.
I asked again to see her husband.
“He is unavailable at this time,” she said.
“When will he be available?”
“I do not approve of your tone.”
“Oh, for crissake.”
“Mr. McKenzie!”
“Tell your husband I was here. Tell him that I have questions, specifically where was he the night the Imposter disappeared. Tell him he can talk to me or Big Joe Balk—I really don’t care which.”
I turned and started for my car. It was a fully loaded Audi 225 TT Coupe with a Napa leather interior and light silver exterior. I doubted Mrs. Miller approved of that, either. She called to me before I could reach it.
“Stop. Mr. McKenzie. Please.”
I spun to face her. She was still standing at the front door, still holding it open. She gestured inside.
“Please,” she said.
I hesitated.
“Please,” she said again.
Unlike her husband, Mrs. Miller apparently knew the magic word.
I went inside.
She shut the door behind me.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Mrs. Miller said. She pointed at a chair, and I sat. “May I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Mrs. Miller sat across from me.
“How is your head?” she asked.
I automatically touched the back of my head and winced, although the pain was more memory now.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Mrs. Miller—”
“My name is Michelle. Better yet, call me Mickie. All my friends do.”
“Michelle,” I said, although Mrs. Miller didn’t seem to notice the snub.
“I am grateful to you, of course,” she said. “Grateful that you went to my daughter’s defense last night. That was heroic of you. I cannot say the same, however, about the lecture you delivered afterward. It seems you have rekindled her rebellious nature. Sara Anne, indeed. Suddenly she insists on being called Sara Anne. I swear, I don’t know what’s wrong with that girl.”
