Hardy’s family owned a plate-glass repair business. Over the years, when he wasn’t playing one sport or the other, he had worked for his father part time. He had also once told her he would never want to make a living replacing windshields. The boredom would kill him.
What had changed his mind, she wondered? “I thought you were going to open your own bike shop in Moab.” At Christmas, Chance had told her that Hardy had met a millionaire dot.com couple from Seattle who were going to finance the business.
“Didn’t work out. Customers love me, but I need capital, and I haven’t been able to get the kind of backers I want.”
Hardy was smart but had no real credentials. He couldn’t flash around a college degree, let alone an MBA to instill confidence in potential investors he might meet slumming in Moab. Plus, Hardy, like most Butte rats, was no good at hiding his disdain for guys with money who had done little to earn it. Or, more likely, it could mean that the husband had figured out that his wife had more than a business interest in Hardy.
“Besides, my dad’s thinking of retiring. He’s got some heart problems, and my brother could really use the help.”
Mesa wondered if this change of heart signaled a change in attitude in other ways. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of settling down in Butte.”
Hardy shifted in his seat, stretching his shoulders. “Let’s just say I been thinking about making a few changes. What about you? I heard you were running some paper back east and gonna marry a banker.”
That was bar talk. Tyler had probably repeated something Chance said, which Colleen turned into her own version and then repeated. “No on both fronts,” she said with a chuckle.
This banter felt deceptively comfortable, and Mesa allowed herself to fall into it as she separated truth from fiction, her job at the Current and her semi-defunct love life, explaining bits and pieces of the conflicts.
“Funny how things work out,” Hardy finally said, “or don’t.”
Two hours and three beers later, Hardy agreed to give Mesa a ride home. Standing outside the Hoist House, she had put her hands into her pockets, and felt the spare key to Chance’s duplex, which he had given her on Sunday. At that moment, Hardy had turned to her and said, “Be nice to curl up in front of a fireplace about now.”
Hardy never mentioned sex directly, though it all but oozed from his pores, which of course was what made him so hard to turn down. At least that was how Mesa saw it when she slid next to him in one of his father’s Yukon Glass pickups.
* * *
Hours later, Mesa opened one eyelid to stare at moose-covered, navy-blue flannel sheets, a parade of antlers marching by. She had given the sheets to Chance right after his divorce. Stephanie had always made him sleep on sheets with flowers on them.
She could hear Hardy’s steady breathing next to her. She rose from the bed, careful not to wake him, and tiptoed down the stairwell to peek into the downstairs. The sofa was empty. The clock on the nearby desk read 4 a.m. Chance had not come home.
She couldn’t decide if she was more relieved or curious. She would not have relished the crap he would have given her if he had found Hardy and her in his bed. But that didn’t stop her from wondering where he was.
She retraced her route upstairs and crawled under the covers, where she lay awake for another hour. She had once told Tara that sex with Hardy was like bungee jumping. You weren't sure why you did it until it was over, and then the thrill would stay with you for days.
She had to admit she still felt the same, but his days of extreme sports were catching up with him. He still looked good, but it took him longer to heal from his bangs and scrapes. Eventually, her thoughts drifted to Chance and Adrienne, whose bed was where she ventured her brother was currently laying his head.
Chapter 12
When Micah, the intern, arrived with Mesa’s double latte on Wednesday morning, she was so grateful that she had included him in the editorial staff meeting. After all, she wasn’t planning any bloodletting, that was for sure, and she liked the idea of the big happy family, despite the fact that she herself felt like a fallen woman.
Erin was first to arrive with a fresh reporter’s pad and pen, followed by Phade, who looked like he had slept in his clothes. Chance appeared on time, looking decidedly chipper. Mesa exchanged muted pleasantries with Delilah, the arts and entertainment editor, who arrived predictably dressed in black with a teal and mauve silk scarf fashionably draped over the left shoulder.
The office felt so crowded that Irita had them all adjourn to the reception area, where she locked the front door so they could avoid any interruptions from their adoring public. Mesa did her best, despite the fact that her beauty sleep had suffered from having to get up at 5 a.m. so Hardy could drive her home. She gave a passable pep talk about how local weeklies were holding their own compared to the rest of the newspaper world. She talked about smartening up the paper, beefing up their advertising revenue, and encouraged everyone to think creatively. After all, their fate would soon be in their own hands, although she hadn’t said that out loud.
Delilah was quick to establish her turf, and suggested she could expand the arts and entertainment section of the paper with more profiles of local artists. Mesa agreed, provided Delilah worked with Chance to bring in more paying advertisers to support the extra space.
Chance appeared to take no notice of this dig in his direction. Instead, he reported on the continuing saga of the plane crash and the information he had gathered the day before including the two men seen leaving the plane like they knew where they were going, and the maroon Bronco. He asked if Erin could pal with him and work up a feature.
“Isn’t the Standard all over this story?” Mesa asked. She had not gotten to the office soon enough to scan the daily, but the story about Austin below the fold on the front page the day before had clearly been written with hopes that it would get picked up on the wires.
“It’s still breaking news,” Delilah chirped in. “What can we say that the Standard hasn’t already? What direction are you going with the story? Do you have any leads?”
Mesa thought about cutting Delilah off. Her tone reminded her vaguely of her former publisher, a man with no heart. And she suddenly felt protective of Chance.
Chance nodded. “I’m sensing there’s a local angle to this story,” he said, which brought even more reactions from Irita and Delilah, both of whom were playfully derogatory, if not negative.
“Mr. Engineer has intuition,” Irita said.
“At least he admits he can’t write,” Delilah said and crossed her arms.
Mesa looked at Erin, who had made no protest. “How many stories are you working on already? Do you have time to work on another?”
She nodded timidly. “I’m working on a feature about the new animal shelter, but we can run that anytime. Micah’s ready to cover the city council meeting this week, so I have time. And I already drafted a couple of paragraphs from notes Chance gave me yesterday.”
Mesa knew what it was like to be hungry for a story about something completely new, and she could see that look in Erin’s eyes. “Okay. Let me see what you have. Chance, give it another day. Micah, Erin will have oversight over all your Court House assignments.”
The meeting was over in forty minutes, with Irita giving Mesa a congratulatory nod. The staff dispersed, walking a little taller and with a sense of purpose. Everyone seemed so eager, trying so hard, that Mesa felt rife with guilt.
* * *
Chance headed toward the front door, but Mesa caught up with him before he could get away. “Where are you going?”
“Pork Chop John’s, of course.” Aside from its prime location, one block south of the Messenger’s office, Chance loved the restaurant, not just for its homey atmosphere, but its historical significance. For eighty-plus years, the uptown spot had been Butte’s answer to fast food before the term even existed.
On any given day, you never knew who might show up—the sheriff, the mayor. Even the
governor had stopped by before last year’s St. Paddy’s Day parade and had a chop sandwich. And, the part Chance liked best, they treated everybody the same.
“I’ve got just enough time to grab a bite before the sheriff’s press conference,” he said, licking his lips. “Come on. I’ll treat.”
“I haven’t seen you alone for more than five minutes since I came to town,” Mesa said. They walked quickly along Main Street.
“Yeah. I’ve been humping on this story the whole time.” He tried to sound contrite.
“Is that what you were doing when I stopped by your apartment last night?” Mesa asked just as they crossed Mercury Street and entered Pork Chop John’s.
The patrons greeted Chance as they entered the restaurant, which sported a Formica counter circa 1950, ten red vinyl and chrome stools, and a walk-up window.
He tried to act nonchalant, but he could tell from Mesa’s manner that she had something on her mind. Before he even reached his regular seat—the stool next to the wall at the back—the latest counter guy, a Butte rat with a pierced eyebrow and tongue, said, “The usual?” To which Chance, thankful for the diversion, replied, “You betcha.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said to Mesa, “I was out at the Copper Baron Hotel talking to the National Safety Board crash investigator.”
“All night?”
Chance smiled. “Is there a problem?”
The counter boy appeared to take Mesa’s order before she could answer. “You guys remember my sister, Mesa,” Chance said. “She’s back in town to help out at the paper,” he said, addressing his introduction to either side of the counter.
Mesa felt her neck redden, but everybody tucked back into their sandwiches almost immediately.
“What’ll it be?” said the counter boy in a soft voice that suggested he understood her embarrassment.
She looked for a second at the monumental plateful being placed in front of Chance and then said, “Just coffee.”
“There’s no problem,” she said turning back to Chance, her voice high-pitched and petulant. A long pause ensued, during which Chance took a large bite of his pork chop sandwich, mustard oozing from its edge.
Mesa finally said, “I met Adrienne DeBrook yesterday.”
“I know,” Chance said with another grin, which seemed to irritate Mesa more.
“Why didn’t you tell me about her? I had to hear it from Irita.”
Chance could hear the hurt in her voice.
“Usually when you start dating somebody, I get a day-by-day commentary,” Mesa said.
Chance paused for a moment to think about what Mesa had said. Dating hardly seemed to cover his relationship with Adrienne. It was too direct. She had entered his life through a side door, not head-on at all.
The first time he had met her, she was in a fix, and he was all business. She had bought one of those self-contained cabins, designed like the Sherpa huts in the Himalayas. In all-too-common Butte fashion, the local contractor who was supposed to pour the foundation had crapped out on her.
The cabin’s builder, from Thompson Falls, had gone to engineering school with Chance. He called and asked for help. It blew Chance’s mind to meet this sophisticated, big-city lady who was prepared to live in a fourteen by twenty-six foot cabin next to the national forest for the rest of her days.
“This is different,” Chance said as Mesa fixed her attention on her cup of coffee. “It wasn’t like I was asking her out on dates. We started out doing business together, then we became friends and then it grew into something else.”
He had spent two weeks putting a daylight basement under her cabin. Twice she had come into Butte to consult with him about the work. Then a week later, she had told him she was interested in buying the Imperial Building and would he look at it with her.
Whenever he spent time with her, he found something else about her that was so different from any woman he had ever met. “Why does it matter, Mesa? Is there something about her you don’t like?”
“I don’t dislike her,” Mesa said while she stirred her coffee. “I haven’t known her long enough to form an opinion. I don’t really know any women her age that well. Sure you’re not just another boy toy?”
Chance’s brow furrowed. “Adrienne struck you as someone who’s shallow and frivolous and primarily interested in sex?”
“No,” she said, “I guess not.”
Her voice had taken on a serious tone. Chance wiped his mouth with a napkin, surprised to feel fire rising in his gut.
So that was what was bothering Mesa. He had to admit he was taken aback. What did age have to do with the fact that Adrienne could carry on an entire conversation without ever mentioning money, clothes, or the local gossip, all the things that women talked about that could make a guy crazy. “What do you mean ‘her age’?”
“I don’t hang out with anybody”—here Mesa hesitated and then focused on straightening the napkin under her coffee cup— “anybody as old as her. Maybe I would if Mom were still alive.”
“It may come as a surprise to you, Mesa, but I don’t think about Adrienne’s age. What I think about is how much I enjoy her company. How she doesn’t play games, how she says exactly what she means.” Chance put his sandwich on the plate. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you about her, because subconsciously I knew you would have an attitude about it. Turns out I was right, I guess.”
Mesa stopped stirring her coffee mid-swirl. “How . . .”
Here, to Chance’s surprise, Mesa, usually the champion of underdogs everywhere, stumbled.
“How much older is she? It’s just that, well, she has gray hair. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have been prepared.”
Chance tried not to show his disappointment. He didn’t want to give Mesa the satisfaction. “There’s nothing to tell except I like her a lot, and you need to relax about the age thing. She’s fifty-one. You do the math. Here,” he said and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Coffee’s on me. Sheriff’s press conference starts in fifteen minutes.” He turned to go.
“Aren’t you going to finish your pork chop?” she asked.
Chance could hear the astonishment in her voice. “No, for once, I think I’ve actually lost my appetite.”
Moments later, Mesa walked slowly up Main Street to the office. The midmorning sun fell on her shoulders, but she felt oddly chilled. For the first time since she could remember, she had found herself trying to filter out what she wanted to say to her brother, mindful that she might say something that could hurt his feelings. Over the years, they had often disagreed about the people they dated, but they had always confided in each other. He made the usual big-brother inquiries about the guys she dated. Mesa had been the first to hear about Chance’s divorce.
She had told herself to choose her words wisely, but she had not suppressed the underlying tone of disapproval. She felt embarrassed, surprised by the resentment that welled up in her. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand where all these feelings were coming from. Adrienne DeBrook seemed like an attractive, intelligent, creative person, someone Mesa might otherwise find appealing. Except for the minor detail that Adrienne and Chance were sleeping together.
* * *
“Somebody local was flying that plane. You don’t just land in the middle of a neighborhood and then disappear,” Chance said in a low voice, “not unless you know the vicinity. Even a little old lady in the Virginia Apartments knows that.”
“And you think you know who this pilot was?” Rollie Solheim asked. They were standing in the hallway outside the sheriff’s office. The press conference had been predictably short. Agent Perryman had sat in at the beginning but then gave a “No comment” to any questions from Noah or Chance, including the one about what was found in the plane.
Chance’s question about whether the FBI were aware of a witness who lived in the Virginia Apartments merited a different response from Perryman—a brusque “We’re on it.”
Apparently, Edith Penmarro
n had called the sheriff’s office right after Chance had left her the day before. Perryman even responded with “No comment” to Chance’s inquiry about what Mrs. Penmarron had said—information Chance already knew and which he was sure Mrs. Penmarron had told the FBI that she had told him.
Hoping Rollie would be more forth coming, Chance cornered him in the hallway afterward. “I think I know just about every pilot in town, not that I think any of them is so coldhearted, not to mention dimwitted, as to leave a dying man in a plane crash.”
“So you don’t know who it was?” Rollie said with a sly grin.
“I think I might be able to find out. Whoever was flying that plane may have walked away, but not without any scratches. And if there’s any evidence that was left in the plane, maybe I could help you come up with a lead or two.”
Rollie nodded imperceptibly. “Hang on a minute. Let me talk to Perryman. Maybe you can give him the benefit of your wisdom,” Rollie said with a laugh and a slap on Chance’s shoulder.
Moments later, Roy Perryman reappeared. He, Solheim and Chance went back into Solheim’s office, with Agent Perryman closing the door behind them.
Chance explained his connection to Silver Bow Aviation, and gave a quick rundown of his efforts to identify the pilot so far. He covered everything from seeing the plane moments before it went down, what Kevin had said about three men taking the plane up, and Jake Brinig’s seeing a car that they might have driven to the airport. Chance punched home his usefulness with the fact that he was the one who had found Mrs. Penmarron and told her to call the sheriff.
Perryman sat silently for a moment, sizing Chance up as if the agent couldn’t decide if he were trustworthy or not. Finally, he said, “All right. But whatever information I give you now, I share with you as part of an ongoing investigation. None of it goes into your paper. You can write your story, but the details I’m giving you now are directly pertinent to the investigation, and if they find their way into print before we’ve made an arrest, I’ll have you charged with obstruction. Do we understand each other?”
Chance nodded. He, for one, wasn’t expecting the Messenger to get any kind of scoop anyway. He knew it was his own curiosity, and pilot’s integrity, that was driving this story. If the Messenger ran anything later, it would be a feature after the fact.