“Hi, Vivian. Can I help you?” Naomi Jowalski, the assistant manager, stood as Vivian approached her desk. Naomi had helped her before, when she’d first come to town and brought in the tightly wrapped bundle that hid the gun.
“I’d like to get into my safe-deposit box, please.”
“No problem.” She began sorting through the large number of keys she wore on an expandable bracelet. One of those keys unlocked the door leading to the basement vault. “Can you tell me the number?”
Vivian gave it to her and showed her driver’s license—the one Virgil had purchased for her on the black market just before she’d moved here. Then she signed in and Naomi led her downstairs to the vault that held a smattering of boxes, some bigger and some smaller than her own. Considering the population of Pineview, the bank didn’t need to devote a lot of space to safe-deposit boxes and they didn’t. They’d tucked them away in a far corner of the basement and, at the moment, that basement was empty except for the two of them.
“I’ll wait right here.” Naomi stopped at the entrance to allow Vivian some privacy.
Even as she turned the key, Vivian wasn’t too happy about taking the gun into her possession. She couldn’t bear to think of what could happen if her children ever found it. But she watched her kids carefully—and just as bad was the thought of being unable to protect them if The Crew showed up. She’d been in that situation before, hadn’t she?
“Did you hear about Pat Stueben?” Naomi said.
Blocking the assistant manager’s view in case she glanced over, Vivian unwrapped the gun. She’d been in such a rush to get Mia to ballet on time she’d forgotten to bring a bag to carry it in, but she had her purse. Leaving her real birth certificate and driver’s license, along with her children’s birth certificates, in the box, she put the gun in her bag and locked up. “I did. Tragic, isn’t it?”
“Who could beat someone to death, especially someone like Pat?” Naomi asked. “For forty-eight dollars?”
Everyone was wondering the same thing. Vivian had just had a similar conversation with Pearl Stringham, Mia’s dance instructor. “No one we know. It has to be a stranger.”
“That’s what I’ve been hearing. But still—” she rubbed her arms as Vivian approached “—I get chills thinking about it.”
“Certainly makes it difficult to sleep at night.” How would Naomi react if she knew what Vivian had been through? What she was fighting so hard to prevent?
“All finished?”
Vivian nodded.
“Right this way, then.”
Supremely conscious of the gun in her purse, Vivian followed Naomi up the stairs. Having a lethal weapon empowered her in a sense. But that didn’t end the worry. What if she made a mistake? Shot the wrong person? Nana Vera and Claire—not to mention Leah, a waitress from the local diner who’d introduced her to the Thursday-night book group—had a tendency to come by at unexpected times. Occasionally they’d even make themselves at home while waiting for her to return. That was the type of community they lived in…?.
“Vivian?”
Engrossed in her own thoughts, she’d missed a question. “Yes?”
“Is there anything else we can do for you here at Mountain Bank and Trust?”
“No, thank you.”
The assistant manager donned a pleasant smile. “Have a good day.”
Eager to hide the Sig in her trunk and get back to Mia’s ballet class, Vivian lowered her head and charged through the double doors, only to run into what felt like a brick wall. Bouncing back, she hit the door, which hadn’t quite closed, and dropped her purse.
Buster Hayes, six foot four and three hundred and fifty pounds of collegiate football star, had just rounded the corner; she’d plowed right into him.
“Oh, wow! I’m sorry.” He steadied her, then bent to recover what had spilled out—but froze when he saw the Sig P220 lying on the concrete between them.
Chrissy Gunther was walking toward the bank at the same time, and came to an immediate stop. “Is that a gun?” she gasped.
Vivian scooped it up, along with the rest of her belongings. “Just a little something for self-protection,” she muttered, and hurried away.
None of the waitresses at the Golden Griddle had noticed anyone using the pay phone, which left the investigation exactly nowhere.
Head pounding, Myles turned off the lights and propped his feet on his desk. Half of Pineview had called him this morning. Chester Magnuson, over at the paper. Gertie, looking to see if he’d been able to identify her husband’s murderer. The stepson, who’d arrived in town and was staying with his mother. Delbert wondered how such a thing could happen in Pineview and wanted to know what was going on with the investigation. Even the mayor had phoned.
Myles needed a few seconds to himself. But the moment he closed his eyes, Chrissy Gunther came dashing into the reception area, squawking like an old hen. He wished he could ignore her. It was his lunch hour. Surely that meant he could take five minutes. But there was too much excitement in her voice to attribute all of it to her high-strung nature. And no matter how many excuses she trumped up to talk to him, she didn’t usually drive thirty miles to do that.
“I have to speak with Sheriff King,” she told Deputy Campbell. “Right away. It’s important.”
Wishing the painkiller he’d swallowed several minutes ago would hurry and stop the jackhammer in his head, Myles forced his eyes open and got up to turn on his light. Although married, Chrissy made a habit of seeking him out. He was pretty sure she didn’t understand how he could resist her, despite her marital status.
Deputy Campbell appeared in the doorway just as he reached for the light switch. “Chrissy Gunther is here to see you. She says she might have some information on the Pat Stueben case.”
“Really? Chrissy?” Myles could see the little dynamo coming to report that the school principal wasn’t allowing her cheer squad to use the gym, even though school was out for summer. Or that the lunch lady hadn’t refunded the three dollars and fifty cents that was left on one of her children’s lunch cards, and was therefore trying to steal it. To Chrissy, those things would be worth the drive. But her world didn’t extend beyond her kids.
Campbell cast a glance over his shoulder as if he wasn’t quite sure what to think. He lived here in Libby, not in Pineview, so he didn’t know Chrissy, but the look on his face suggested that he could tell she was a handful. “So she claims.”