Bitter Past, page 3
“Thanks, but no, it’s not the main thing. I found something in Brent’s office last night. Would you take a look?” Olivia pushed a folder that had been sitting on the table closer to Joelle.
The folder was labeled Lost Trail, which Joelle knew as a rural, mountain-locked community between Ravelli and Beaverhead Counties. She opened the cover and found a letter in an opened envelope, a few photos, and copies of newspaper articles. She picked up the envelope first. The front label had Brent’s name and home address. The postmark was stamped over two weeks ago from Lost Trail.
“Read the note inside,” Olivia said.
Joelle pulled out the single sheet of paper.
Heard you had some good luck in the lottery recently. Brought back some old memories. Remember that summer job in Lost Trail? The body you “found” in the forest? Did you know someone took a picture? If you don’t want me going public with the story and the photo, bring fifty grand to the gas station where we stopped that time we went to the training course in Whitefish. Next Friday night at ten.
“What the hell is this?” Joelle asked, holding the letter out to her sister.
“Sounds like an attempt at extortion to me,” said her lawyer sister.
How could Olivia sound so calm? Brent had been killed last Friday, pulling out of a gas station. Had it been the same gas station referred to in this letter?
“Do you think Brent was meeting this person when he had his accident?” Joelle asked cautiously.
“Maybe. Obviously, he took the letter seriously or he wouldn’t have started this file.”
“Did Brent talk to you about this?”
“I wish he had. But get this. The day before the accident he went to Lost Trail. He told me he was working on a case for another attorney at our firm. But I think he went because of that letter.”
“What about the money? Do you think Brent intended to pay it?”
“There were no big withdrawals from our accounts. And as far as I know, there wasn’t any cash found in our car after the accident.”
This letter had to be a crank. The fact that the accident had happened on a Friday, at a gas station, all that was coincidence.
But an anxious feeling was growing in Joelle’s gut.
“Check out the rest of the stuff in the folder,” Olivia said.
There were three old photos with a printing date of September 1, 2009, stamped on the border. The first photo was of three guys and one woman, all young, in their early twenties. They were in a forest, hanging around a brown sign with white lettering reading, Bitterroot National Forest. All wore US Forest Service shirts and were laughing, seemingly unaware that their picture was being taken.
“Brent worked for the Forest Service the summer before we met,” Olivia explained. “But he never talked about it, and I hadn’t seen these pictures before.”
Joelle studied the photo more closely. One of the other guys in the picture was slightly shorter than Brent, with even features and dark-blond hair. The third was shorter and broader, with black hair and a scruffy beard. All three of the guys were taller than the woman who was slender and small-boned, with black curly hair and thickly lashed dark eyes.
They seemed happy in the photo, not a care in the world. Typical summer workers goofing off on the job.
The last two photos were also casual shots. One showed the same group of four people milling around the open tailgate of a white pickup truck, only this time, no one was smiling. The group looked somber. Worried.
The final photo was an interior shot, taken in a dining room. No one was looking at the camera. The same group of four summer workers were gathered around a long rectangular table, along with two older couples.
“Looks like pancakes and bacon on the plates,” Olivia pointed out. “I wonder who the older people are? Work supervisors?”
“No one’s in uniform,” Joelle observed. “The two older couples might be parents.” She sat back and considered the three photos. “These are all candid photos, probably taken on a traditional camera. The first iPhone didn’t even launch until 2007. I wonder who took them?”
Olivia handed her the final pages from the folder, copies of various newspaper articles, mostly from the Missoulian during September of 2009. The headline on the first one read: Female Hiker Goes Missing in Bitterroot Forest. Joelle scanned the article for more details. The missing hiker was identified as Eve Brooks, aged twenty-nine.
The accompanying color photograph showed a pretty woman with wavy red hair held back by a buff. She was wearing a plaid shirt and a short silver necklace with a red crystal pendant. “Poor thing has red hair and freckles too.”
“Our hair is auburn,” Olivia corrected her. “And if you wore sunscreen like you’re supposed to, you wouldn’t have so many freckles.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Joelle was used to Olivia’s lectures. The truth was, Olivia cared a lot more about her appearance than Joelle cared about hers. Plus, putting on sunscreen took time. And Joelle was almost always in a rush.
“Have you read all these articles?” she asked her sister.
“Yes. I can summarize them for you if you like.”
“Sure.” As a lawyer Olivia specialized in summaries, so Joelle knew she would catch all the salient facts.
“Apparently Eve dreamed of hiking the Continental Divide Trail from the US–Canadian border all the way to Mexico. But an unplanned pregnancy caused her to postpone her plans. When her child turned four, her husband surprised her by taking a leave from his job so she could pursue her dream. He took over childcare and regularly brought their daughter to visit at various stops along the trail.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“Right? The family had planned to rendezvous in Leadore, Idaho, but Eve never showed up. The last time anyone saw her was about a week earlier in Lost Trail. A search was mounted, but according to all these articles, she was never found. There’s even a note from Brent saying that as far as authorities are concerned, she’s still considered missing as of today.”
Joelle let the information soak in. “This Eve Brooks must have been a capable woman if she was solo hiking the CDT.”
“What’s the big deal about the CDT anyway?” Olivia asked.
“During the pandemic, I did a story on the popularity of the trail,” Joelle said. “Talking to some of the people who were making the attempt made me want to lace up my hiking boots and take on the challenge. But it’s a real commitment. As the name suggests the trail follows the Continental Divide starting at the Canadian border in Glacier National Park all the way to the border of Mexico. Even going at a steady pace, it would take over five months to hike.” Joelle pulled out her phone and called up a bird’s-eye view of the trail to show Olivia. Then she focused in on the Montana section of the trail.
The trail dropped down from Glacier National Park, right by the state capital of Helena, before jogging to the west and eventually meeting up with the Bitterroot Mountains and the Montana–Idaho border.
Then Joelle found a blog from one of the hikers she’d interviewed for her story. “Look, she stayed in Lost Trail and Leadore too. They must be common resting and stocking-up points for CDT hikers.” She looked at her sister. “Do you think the body referred to in that letter was Eve’s?”
“I’m guessing that’s what Brent thought,” Olivia said softly. “If only he’d spoken to me about all this. I doubt if everything he knew is in this file.”
“Could he have made notes on his computer or phone?”
“You know my husband. I don’t have codes for either.”
When it came to their work, both Olivia and Brent were extremely security conscious. They had a family laptop that they used for household finances, streaming, and—prior to their lottery win—social media accounts. But they did not share their passcodes for their work electronics.
Still, there was enough here to make Joelle wonder if Brent’s death had been as accidental as it had seemed.
“You should show all this to the police. Maybe their experts can get into his phone and computer.”
“I phoned the police station right after I texted you. The sergeant I spoke with said he’d come and pick up the file and Brent’s devices. But Jo, he didn’t sound very concerned. He said the letter was most likely another attempt to scam some of Brent’s lottery winnings.”
Joelle’s sister and her husband had received dozens of solicitations, and sob stories, and “no-fail” investment opportunities since the lottery win, including a plea for money from someone claiming to be Brent’s long-lost daughter. The deluge had been so overwhelming both Brent and Olivia had deleted all their social media accounts.
Brent hadn’t bothered to investigate any of those. But he had seemed to take this one letter seriously.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Joelle admitted.
Her sister’s eyelashes fluttered as she fought back tears. “It was bad enough when I thought it was an accident. But if someone actually drove into him on purpose… I just can’t… I mean, why?”
“I don’t know,” Joelle said miserably. She wished she knew how to comfort Olivia. But she had never been good at the emotional support stuff. Her parents teased that she was like a bull in a china shop and they were right. Her determination and single-mindedness served her well as a journalist. But not as a sympathetic sister.
And then it hit her. Her sister knew her well. Olivia hadn’t asked her to come because she needed consoling.
“You want me to figure out who sent that letter?”
Olivia nodded, as first one tear and then another overflowed to her cheeks. “If someone killed my husband, they need to be brought to justice. And if anyone can find the truth, my money isn’t on the police. It’s on you.”
Chapter Three
Joelle hoped her sister’s trust wasn’t misplaced. “I’ll do my best,” she promised. “I’ll have to make copies of everything in that file before you hand it over to the police.”
Olivia handed her the file. “Take pictures of these and then you can use the printer in our office.”
Jo had just finished when a Sergeant Cooper showed up. He listened politely as Olivia showed him Brent’s file and told him her concerns. Joelle couldn’t tell from his deadpan expression whether he took her sister seriously or not. Shortly after he left, with the file, as well as Brent’s phone and laptop, Brent’s parents returned with the children.
“Auntie Jo!”
Riley and Mia came running and Joelle hugged them tightly, not caring about the chocolate stains on their chins and T-shirts. Doris gave her a tired smile. “They need showers, but I promised they could watch a few episodes of Bluey first.”
Joelle looked to Olivia, who gave a small nod. “Sure. That will give me time to pack. I’ve got a lasagna in the oven for dinner.”
Joelle cuddled on the couch with the twins while they watched their show. After dinner, she helped them with their shower, before finally reading them stories until they fell asleep. Ernie and Doris, exhausted after a day of running after the twins, had already gone to bed by the time she joined her sister in the family room. Olivia was flipping through her collection of photo books—she’d made one for each year since the twins were born. On one side of her was a box of tissues, on the other a soggy mass of used tissues.
“Want some tea? A glass of wine?”
Olivia shook her head and closed the photobook, adding it to the others on the coffee table. “I’m going to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Thanks for doing the nighttime routine with the girls. Did they ask for their daddy?”
“Not tonight.”
Olivia sighed. “One of my colleagues who lost his wife to cancer recommended a good grief counselor for children. When we get back, I’ll have to look into that.”
“It’s a smart idea. For the kids and for you.”
Olivia nodded. “Have you thought about that blackmail letter? Do you have any idea where to start looking for answers?”
“Lost Trail seems the obvious starting point. I’m going to try and find an Airbnb in the area and go down for a week or so.”
Olivia frowned. “Is that necessary? I thought you could check into things by phone and email.”
“In person will be better.”
“But—you have to be careful, Jo. If there is a connection between the file and Brent’s death…”
“Don’t worry. I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re a journalist, not an investigator.”
“You think a journalist doesn’t investigate?” Joelle hugged her sister and was surprised when Olivia didn’t let go for a long time.
“You talk about me seeing a counselor,” Olivia said. “I’ve often thought Mom and Dad should have taken you to one. After the—”
“That was nothing,” Joelle said quickly. “I was so young, I don’t remember a thing. Plus, I was fine, right? Not even a scratch on me.”
“But—”
“Shush. No worrying about me. You’ve got two little girls to take care of. Now go get some rest. You’ll need all your energy to manage those kids on a cross-country flight tomorrow.”
*
After seeing her family off the next morning, Joelle hauled her duffel bag, and the dog supplies out to her Jeep. Trix didn’t come when Joelle called her—of course she didn’t, that dog hated her—so Joelle had to search almost every room in the house before she finally found the dog nestled into the pillows on Olivia and Brent’s king-sized bed. Getting Trix into the Jeep was a struggle involving lots of bribery with dried liver dog treats. Despite the fact that Olivia and the twins had left, the dog clearly did not want to leave her house. And definitely not with Joelle.
“I’m not excited about the situation either,” Joelle muttered as she scooped the thirty-pound dog into her arms. “But if you want to be fed and taken for walks, then I’m your only option.” She deposited the reluctant dog onto the front passenger seat, clipped a tether to Trix’s harness, then headed to the driver’s side.
Once on the road, however, Trix seemed ready for adventure, watching the passing scenery with interest, and letting out sharp barks when they passed herds of cattle (which happened many times), pastures with horses (also many), a herd of bighorn ewes with lambs (once), and a herd of bighorn rams (also once).
As the miles sped by, Joelle felt her mood lighten. She was always happiest when she was on the hunt for a story, or—in this case—on the hunt for answers to what had happened to her brother-in-law. The view through her windshield showed brilliant blue sky and a valley lush and green after a long, wet spring. As an added bonus, her temperamental air conditioning was working to combat the day’s already growing heat. Most thrilling of all, though, were the mountains, the Bitterroots to the west and the Sapphire Range to the east. The road wound through the valley, along clear running rivers Joelle knew were chock full of trout, and beside thousands of acres of publicly owned and managed forests.
From her years of living in the state and researching stories for the Journal, Joelle knew many considered the Bitterroot Valley the most wild and remote part of Western Montana. She’d always admired the folks who’d been brave and tough enough to carve out cattle ranches here or settle in the small mining and lumber towns. It was hard to believe that less than a hundred and fifty years ago, there hadn’t been any European settlers here at all. One hundred and fifty years wasn’t that long. How many more changes would come in the next hundred and fifty years? Joelle hoped the valley would still be wild and free. That possibility was far from a given though.
Her musings ended when she reached the sign announcing she’d crossed the county line and soon she was in the county seat of Lost Trail. She slowed as she passed the Raven Christmas Tree Farm, then turned right at the Dew Drop Inn. She was on Tumbleweed Lane now and had to drive for three blocks before turning left and locating the real estate company she’d found online.
Booking a place to stay in Lost Trail had turned out to be a challenge. Apparently their annual Huckleberry Festival was happening on the weekend and all the local motels and bed and breakfasts were full. She’d managed to find one cottage available for a week, but unfortunately it was thirty minutes out of town, deep in the heart of the Bitterroot Forest. Since she didn’t have any other reasonable options, she’d jumped on it, agreeing to meet the owner at the real estate office where she worked.
Joelle angle-parked right out front of the office, and her somewhat battered, and a little bit rusty, Jeep looked perfectly at home among the other hardworking trucks and SUVs on the street. She wasn’t coming from a big city by any standard—Whitefish’s population was only ten thousand or so. But it was a vibrant place, relatively urban and liberal-minded. The ski hill and Flathead Lake attracted people with money from all over the United States and Canada. In contrast, Lost Trail clearly served a rural and less affluent population.
Trix was happy to get out of the vehicle and promptly christened the base of a conveniently located planter box. Joelle had set up her appointment with Myrtle Ward online, and she was pleased to see she’d timed her arrival almost to the minute. As she entered the office she expected to see rustic Montana furnishings and was surprised by the contemporary, Zen-like decor. The paintings on the wall were soothing nature studies and the leather chairs in the waiting area were sleek and modern.
Though there was a desk for a receptionist, no one was sitting at it. Before she had a chance to ring the small bell on the counter, a woman in her sixties came out of one of the offices. She was dressed in a patterned tunic in jewel tones of red, green, and gold. Her silky white trousers were so wide they almost appeared to be a skirt.
But the outfit was secondary. The woman had an aura of serenity about her, with an open smile and an intelligent spark in her pale blue eyes. More importantly, now that she was seeing her in person, Joelle was struck by her resemblance to one of the older women at the pancake breakfast in Brent’s photo.
