Bannon Brothers: Trust

Book 1: Bannon Brothers

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense; Western Romance

Synopsis

With relentless suspense and a deft feel for creating men of power and character, Janet Dailey introduces three unforgettable brothers: RJ, Linc, and Deke Bannon. Cold cases aren't RJ Bannon's usual line of work. But Ann Montgomery's long-ago abduction is too intriguing to pass up. Ann was just three when she was taken in the night from her family's historic Virginia mansion more than twenty-five years ago. The socially prominent Montgomerys launched a heartbreaking search but no trace of the missing girl was ever found. Bannon knows the chances of finding her now--alive or dead--are slim, yet he can't stop searching for answers. Especially once he meets Erin Randall. A beautiful, talented local artist, she seems to share some tantalizing connections with the vanished Ann. As the legacy of lies and deception comes to a shocking climax, a hidden menace explodes, and Bannon vows to protect Erin at all costs. . .even if it puts his own life on the line. . . "Fast-paced, compelling romantic mystery." -- Library Journal Praise For Janet Dailey and her novels "Dailey confirms her place as a top mega-seller." -- Kirkus Reviews "Evocative, flavorful. . .Dailey casts her spell . . ."-- Publishers Weekly on Masquerade "A sure-fire winner." -- Publishers Weekly on Rivals

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 433

Sample

High clouds drifted above the Blue Ridge Mountains as a hawk swept down from a barren granite summit, its wings spread wide, soaring over the rolling terrain below. Wheeling only once, the hawk flew through vast, moving shafts of light that cast farms and fields into alternating bands of sun and shadow. Sheltered by nature, the rich land of Virginia’s valleys had been tilled for generations and tamed long ago, unlike the ancient mountains that rose abruptly from them, clad in their namesake haze of indigo. The hawk made a banking turn, spotting a moving object below. Its sharp eyes quickly identified a vehicle traveling along Route 231. But it took no interest in the dark-haired man behind the wheel and swung west toward the Shenandoah.

With eyes as keen as the hawk’s, the driver saw it lift away, then refocused his attention on the road ahead, catching glimpses of forest on the verge of spring. A pair of sunglasses shielded his eyes from the morning glare. The cut of his cheekbones and jawline were on the hard side. Although only in his early thirties, RJ Bannon looked more experienced than that.

As he let a truck pass him, he glanced again at the steep slopes of Old Rag, a solitary outcrop of the Blue Ridge, the only one with a bare rock summit. A smile of remembrance softened the line of his mouth as he recalled climbing that mountain as a boy, scrambling over giant boulders to beat his brothers and father to the top.

The experience got him into rappelling and free climbing by the time he was twenty, something he very much doubted he could do now, twelve years later.

Bannon sat up straighter when he felt a twinge near his spine, an unwelcome reminder of the bullet still lodged there. In most respects, he was as strong as ever, something his brothers had taken into account when they’d asked him to open the backcountry cabin the three of them shared. He’d gone up two days ago, a jolting drive over ruts that the winter had deepened, to look the place over. Nothing too dire. The roof was still on, minus a few shingles. The well was working and, after a little persuasion with a wrench, so was the plumbing. A critter or two had taken up residence beneath the floorboards—he’d flung open all the windows and gotten into the crawl space with a flashlight to make sure it had vacated its winter lodgings. Nothing there but drifts of fur.

After that it had been nice to get out into the air and do the hard work of clearing away and chopping fallen branches around the property for firewood and kindling. When he was done, he hadn’t wanted to leave. But now that he was on the road, he wasn’t sure when he’d get back out again. With Deke and Linc out of the state on assignment, Bannon didn’t feel much inclined to hang out at the cabin on his own.

He drove on, humming some old song to himself, toward Wainsville. He could see it in the distance. Not his hometown, but he’d been happy enough there, wanting to live in a town that time forgot, until Wainsville had been “discovered.” Now its friendly old houses were overshadowed by condos and too many trees had been taken down to make room for them. The town even had a couple of office parks on land that had been bought cheap and developed with no thought to tradition. The surrounding area was still beautiful and largely rural, but an influx of hedge-fund titans who’d cashed out had come here. Their new, outsize mansions were everywhere and their nouveau riche attitude rankled the locals.

Bannon scowled as he passed a just-built monstrosity that sat on raw soil, an eyesore from any angle. Construction debris was halfheartedly controlled by an orange plastic fence that flapped in the breeze. He didn’t have a good reason to feel superior. After all, he lived in a condo, mostly so he wouldn’t get stuck maintaining a home. Being a cop, you made decisions like that. He stopped at his condo long enough to pick up an envelope of paperwork and headed out again.

The sun grew brighter as Bannon drove through town, turning left at a small complex of textured cinder-block buildings on the other side of Wainsville. Someone had made an effort to landscape around headquarters—yellow daffodils, the eye-popping yellow of crime scene tape, were blooming in rows of unvarying straightness. He bet the chief of police approved.

He parked in what had once been his slot and switched off the engine, looking up at the narrow windows under the eaves. They were too high to see in from the outside, but it was a safe guess that everyone was right where they usually were. Except him.

Out of habit he used the reflection of the wire-gridded glass to look behind him as he went up the front steps. What would it be like, he wondered, to not feel compelled to check every corner, every shadow, every movement for danger? But the habit of constant watchfulness had been drilled into him the hard way.

Bannon spared a fraction of a second to check himself out before he opened the door. His dark hair was windblown and his jaw was outlined with stubble after two days up at the cabin. Forget the uniform. He still wore the torn jeans, scuffed work boots, and banged-up leather jacket that had served him out in the woods. Too bad. He was here and he was on time. Chief Hoebel would have to deal with him the way he was.

His boots were old and they didn’t make much noise on the gleaming tile floor of the hallway as he walked down to the young officer on desk duty. Fair-haired and freckled, Kyle Rasmussen was a rookie, a fact almost anyone could conclude just from his spotless uniform and shiny new gun belt, laden with forty pounds of regulation-issue junk.

“Can I help you?” Rasmussen studied him with curious, almost innocent blue eyes.

It took Bannon a second to realize that the new cop didn’t recognize him. He’d been out of the office for too many months, thanks to a drug dealer with fairly good aim and a chief who didn’t like him for being a hero—and for a few other reasons he was beginning to figure out. Without saying a word, he reached inside his jacket and flashed his badge. The officer shrugged, looking a little surprised, and went back to reading a binder with bulleted lists and line illustrations, a manual on police techniques that no one took seriously. Bannon suppressed a smile and headed down the hall to where the chief’s office was located.

When he reached the outer office, Bannon flicked a glance at the closed door to the chief’s inner sanctum, then focused on Chief Hoebel’s assistant behind the desk. The blond and blue-eyed Jolene Summer had the phone cradled to her ear—with both hands. That, and the low flirty tone of her voice, made it easy for Bannon to guess she was talking to her boyfriend.

Looking up almost indifferently, she cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “The chief had to go out. He said to leave your paperwork with me.”

“Okay. Here.” Irritated that he’d come this far without getting to talk to Hoebel, Bannon smiled at Jolene anyway and passed her the manila envelope with his paperwork.

“I’ll try to get him to sign it today,” she added in the same low whisper. “It’s not going to be easy. You know he’s got it in for you.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” He winked at her and left her to flirt with the lucky guy on the other end of the call.

Retracing his steps, he headed back to the front. Near the door to the basement, he automatically glanced at it and hesitated when he read the sign there.

Doris Rawling. Case Files Manager.

An image of the fiftysomething woman flashed in his mind—average height, slim build, iron-dark hair with stylish streaks of silver-white, warm brown eyes, and lips that were always ready with a smile for him.

Bannon looked at the new title again, realizing she had been promoted from evidence clerk sometime in the last several weeks. But he had a feeling she hated being stuck in the windowless basement with its chill-inducing cement floor.

As he opened the steel door, he called out a greeting and descended the studded metal stairs. When there was no reply to his call, he ventured forward. The floor-to-ceiling metal grates that enclosed the Evidence Control Unit blocked the lines of sight. Bannon looked through them for a person on duty, then swung around a corner, spotting the top of Doris’s head at a makeshift computer workstation.

“Hey, RJ,” she tossed over her shoulder. Doris was about the only one who called him RJ; to everyone else, except for his mother, he was just Bannon. Doris put a document from the huge pile beside her into a scanner and closed the lid. A thin bar of light moved from one end of the machine to another as the scanner emitted a faint hum. She looked into her monitor and clicked the mouse a few times to make the image fit a format, then saved it with another click. Turning, she flashed him a smile, a pair of reading glasses perched on her pudgy nose. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

Bannon shot a glance around the area. “Fine. Are you alone?”

Eyes dancing, she peered at him through her half-glasses. “What the hell do you have in mind, kid?”

He winked at her. “Just wanted to know. Who’s handling evidence now?”

“Hoebel’s son-in-law Petey. He leaves early.”

Bannon nodded, then waved a hand at the tall stacks of file folders surrounding her. “So what’s all this?”

“We’re going paperless. I’m archiving old case files,” Doris said, adding, “Hoebel gave me a month. I’ll never finish in time.”

RJ looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her. “I was supposed to meet with him but he’s out. Want some help, or is that against the rules?”

“Sure. He doesn’t have to know.” One shoulder lifted in an uncaring shrug. “Hardly anyone comes down to this dungeon.”

“Good. Hey, I forgot to say congratulations on your promotion.” He lifted his coffee cup in a salute and caught her faint smile of pride.

“I guess it’s worth the extra work.” She pushed aside the pepper-and-salt bangs that fell into her eyes when she leaned forward to peer closely at the document on the screen. “The information is going to be shared with the new national databanks.”

“State and federal, right?” He crumpled up his takeout coffee cup and tossed it in the nearest wastebasket, then looked over the files spread out in irregular rows.

“That’s the idea. Connect the dots, catch the criminals.”

“About time,” RJ said. “Some of these old cases could be charged or cleared.”

“The chief thought so. For once I agree with him.” She stopped what she was doing to swivel her chair and actually look at him. “So what brings you here?” she asked.

“I had paperwork for Hoebel to sign. Continuance of claim, that kind of thing.”

“Are you still on official leave?”

“Yup.”

“Take your time about coming back, RJ. You did get a settlement after the shooting, right? Enough to live on?”

“For a while. Not indefinitely.”

Doris sniffed. “After being used for target practice, you should have gotten plenty.”

“Tell that to the insurance company and the top brass,” he replied. “Getting better was all I wanted to do.”

“Ever think about catching the guy who shot you?”

“All the time,” he said. “Who did Hoebel assign to the case after the first guy quit? Hope it’s not the baby boy on the desk.”

“No, it’s not him. I think right now it’s up for grabs, actually,” she replied.

He threw up his hands. “Nice to know a shot cop is such a high priority around here. Is it me? Is it Hoebel? Is it something I said?”

“Uh, he does think you’re a loose cannon—”

Bannon had to smile. “From him, that’s a compliment. But I guess he didn’t appreciate my noticing where his new car came from.”

“Refresh my memory, dear.”

“Remember that college kid who set fire to the gas station at the crossroads just for the hell of it?”

“Yes. The charges were dropped before it ever got to court.”

“Of course. Because his daddy owns the Big, Fast, and Ridiculously Expensive dealership out on the highway.”

“Ah.” Doris nodded sagely. “I understand. I did notice that Hoebel was driving a Beefer. Well, he needs the extra belly room.”

“So will I,” Bannon said ruefully, looking down at his midsection and slapping it. Physically, he was most of the way back to what he had been, thanks to a rigorous exercise routine he’d devised to rehab his body. “Someday,” he added quickly. Too late. Doris was laughing.

“Yeah, maybe in fifty years,” she teased him. “Anyway, getting back to you being shot, it’s hard to believe there are still no leads in the case.” There was an edge of disgust in her voice.

“Who cares?”

“I do, RJ. Anyway, welcome to Cold Case City. Guess that makes me its mayor.” She glanced back at her computer screen. “I wish this was over. I’m only halfway through.”

“Take a break,” RJ said.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“It’s a beautiful day, Doris.”

“And the Art Walk is going on. Wish I didn’t have to miss it.” She gave him a dejected look. “Days like this make me eager to retire.”

“Really?” he asked. “You don’t look old enough.”

“Aww. Aren’t you sweet,” she mocked in amusement.

RJ returned his attention to the files on the table, wondering if any of his older cases were among them. They had been laid out in alphabetical order, he noticed. “Okay. Where do you want me to start?”

“Are you really that desperate for something to do?” She sliced him a doubting glance.

“What letter are you up to?” he asked.

“M.” She slid off her chair to come over to where he was and picked a thick, crammed folder from a group. “The Montgomery case is next. This is the main file.” She set it in front of him.

“It’s a monster.”

“You volunteered,” she reminded him and sighed. “This one’s a mess, and there are ten others.”

“Mind giving me a summary of it?”

One eyebrow went up. “You can read, right?”

He grinned. “Big type. Small words. You know me, I just sit on a stump and shoot tin cans for laughs.”

“Don’t make me believe it, Detective Bannon.” She patted the file. “Get started. Do what you can.”

“How come it’s so big?”

“Oh—there are lots of Montgomerys around here, for one thing.” He noticed that she had dodged his question. “The family goes back twelve generations in this part of Virginia. The historical society even gives tours of the ancestral mansion outside of Wainsville—one of those big stately homes that got built, oh, in the eighteen hundreds. Haven’t you seen it?”

“No. I usually get assigned to drug dealers in double-wides, remember?”

“Of course I do.” She nodded, then smiled wryly. “Somehow I don’t think the Montgomerys would know a double-wide if one snuck up on them and bit their butts. They’re rich and always have been.” Her dry tone made the social divide between the Rawlings and the Montgomerys more than clear. “Still and all, they’re not as snooty as some of the newcomers around here. And the Mrs. Montgomery in that file definitely wasn’t a blueblood.”

“You read it?” Bannon challenged.

Her face was a study in patience. “I knew her—not well, though. We went to the same church when we were younger. Before she married and I didn’t. Luanne was always nice.”

Something about her thoughtful tone made him curious. Very curious. “You going to tell me more about that?”

“Later. Maybe.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he responded.

Doris turned back to her work. “Go ahead and start sorting what you can. I’ll finish the one I’m working on while you do.”

“Okay. Take your time.”

He took off his leather jacket and slung it across the back of a folding chair, then settled his long frame into the seat, ignoring a sharp twinge in his back when he sat down. RJ opened the Montgomery file and noticed that the earliest forms had been completed on a manual typewriter. He picked up the first piece of paper and read the basics.

Victim: Ann Spencer Montgomery.

Adult/Child: child.

Age: 3.

Nature of crime: abduction.

At a later date, someone had scrawled four bleak words across the paper.

Still missing. Presumed dead.

Presumed dead. Not declared dead. Officially still considered missing. Curious, Bannon began turning pages of the thick file and soon became engrossed in it for the better part of an hour. “This is one hell of a case,” he said softly and glanced at Doris. “How come I never heard of it?”

“You were a kid when it happened, Bannon.” She sounded a little surprised by his interest. “It was before your time. Before you knew it all,” she added in a teasing way.

“Yeah, sure. But—Ann Montgomery was abducted at the age of three.” He grabbed a pad of paper and pencil and jotted down some quick figures. “That means she would be twenty-nine now if she somehow survived.”

“That’s correct,” Doris agreed.

Pulling out the old reward poster and the bank document clipped to it, Bannon scanned them both. The money was held in a trust that would terminate on Ann’s thirtieth birthday. “There’s a year to go on this reward.” He couldn’t imagine why the case was being closed. The female victim was still officially classified as missing and a million-dollar reward was still in force for information leading to her safe return.

Decades had gone by. Her family had faith, he’d give them that. Some people would cling to hope forever when no body was found. A few abducted children had turned up alive, years later, but the odds were solidly against this little girl. He flipped through the documentation, feeling a rush of hunting instinct. It felt good. Like his old self was back.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Doris replied. “What’s your point?”

“Fake Anns might start showing up. I wouldn’t call this case cold.”

“It’s been forgotten, RJ. Don’t spin your wheels.”

RJ leafed through another section of documents. “I don’t get it. Did you ask Hoebel about this? What could it hurt to keep it open for one more lousy year?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, RJ. But he said nothing doing—every case more than five years old with no activity and no leads is officially cold. He wants these off the shelves. The actual files are going into a document storage place in a week. It’s about a hundred miles from here.”

RJ frowned. “Not this one. It could be a gold mine of information. Every scrap of paper counts. This was a kidnapping, for chrissake.”

“Hoebel knows that,” she said, “but he doesn’t care. He wasn’t working here when the Montgomery case was headline news. Bye-bye, files.”

“But why—”

“Did you get through everything in that one?” Doris was asking.

“I skimmed most of it.”

“Finish reading,” she ordered in a schoolteachery voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” RJ sank his chin into his hand and pored over the last miscellaneous pages. When he was done twenty minutes later, he glanced at Doris, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. “I still don’t understand. Tell me why a case with a million-dollar ticking clock and a missing child gets closed.”

“More like two million. Don’t forget the interest,” Doris pointed out.

He flipped back to the bank document and noted the date on it. “Eight per cent, compounded, low tax. Yeah, two million is probably about right.”

“Now look at the date on the last document in the file.”

He found it—a memo from a detective, now retired, whose name he remembered only vaguely. It was about something minor. RJ read the date aloud. “Okay, that was fifteen years ago. So?”

“It’s ancient history, RJ. We don’t have the manpower or the money to stick with cold cases, even a high-profile one like this. Our budget keeps getting cut.” She scowled into her screen. “Hoebel has a master plan to streamline some of us out of existence, you know.”

“But you just got promoted.”

“Which means I have to prove myself, right? I intend to get every single file down here entered in my lifetime. Which is getting shorter every day.” She picked up a staple remover and snapped the tiny jaws at him. “Getting old really bites. Just you wait.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He sat up and clasped his hands over his head, stretching out his back. “Are there other Montgomery files? I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Like I said, there are ten on that table. It’s possible some already went to the storage place, but I can’t be sure until I find the master list of files. That thing runs to about three hundred pages all told.”

“What about the record of evidence? Where’s that?”

Doris’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Evidence? There wasn’t any to speak of. Not a drop of blood or a sign of a struggle. Whoever took Ann left virtually no trace.”

RJ favored her with a look of disbelief. “That can’t be. Who handled the investigation?”

She wagged a finger at him. “Did you forget I wasn’t working here then?”

“What’s that got to do with it? You just said you looked into all the Montgomery files.”

Doris gave him an annoyed look. “RJ, you’d know as much as I do if you’d really read the material.”

“Brief me anyway. For old times’ sake.”

She sighed and tapped her pencil on the tabletop. “Half the cops in Virginia were working on it for months. Every sheriff who could keep his pants up over his gut got in on the action and dragged his deputies along. Search and Rescue went out with tracking dogs. The woods around the Montgomery house were gone over inch by inch.”

“And nothing was found?” His tone was skeptical.

“The dog handlers couldn’t pick up a scent trail and the searchers found zip. Whoever took her was extremely careful. I don’t know if you noticed it,” she added tartly, “but the FBI sent a profiler to try to match the MO to their list of known offenders.”

“Where’s that file?”

“I’m not sure.” She looked his way. “Maybe to your left.”

He set aside the file he’d been leafing through to look for something labeled FBI and got distracted by another one labeled Photos. Montgomery, Ann. Bannon instinctively steeled himself.

This was where it got real.

After five years as a cop and five more as a detective, there were things he never wanted to see again. Crime scene photos that involved kids were among them. Granted, Doris had said there was no evidence, but the way he’d tensed up made his back twinge again. Damn bullet.

Two years ago it had stopped perilously close to his spine, just short of severing it. The surgeons had left it in. Bannon thought of it as a souvenir of his own unsolved case, a meth lab bust that hadn’t gone too well. The dealer had used his young sons for a human shield and Bannon had no choice but to drop his gun, unable to ignore the terror in their eyes. But the dealer had opened fire.

Two other bullets had been successfully removed from his chest. He had them somewhere, maybe in his sock drawer. The dealer’s sons were on the lam with him as far as anyone knew. RJ would give anything to set them free. But he wasn’t going to get the chance.

He had lived—Bannon was grateful for that. And he planned to keep on living. But he’d learned you never knew, that was all.

Opening the file, he looked through the faded photographs of a smiling little girl, pale blond hair caught back in ribbons, clad in a smocked dress. A photo-studio shot showed her holding a favorite toy, a pink teddy bear with flowered tummy and paws. There were others of her: most with her parents as a baby, as a toddler, as a three-year-old.

Nothing he could go on now.

“No age-progression images, looks like,” he said absently.

“They didn’t have the software back then.”

“Guess there were no sightings of the suspects. There’s no police composite either,” he said. “For what they were worth. I’ve heard they used to give a cop a crayon and hope for the best.”

Doris snorted. “I know what you mean.”

Looking at the photos stirred feelings in RJ that went beyond a mere hunting instinct. Protectiveness was chief among them. A vulnerable child had vanished. That kind of crime got under the skin and stayed there.

Apparently not with Hoebel, though. The chief was declaring the case cold exactly when anyone who knew the particulars of the reward might come forward. Stupid bastard. Still, he had to concur with Hoebel on the probable outcome of the kidnapping.

Ann Montgomery hadn’t lived long. Somewhere there was a shallow grave that had never been found. A small one.

Someone ought to be behind bars, facing the maximum penalty for that, no matter how long it took to make it happen. Bannon knew it was wrong to let this one go.

He put back the drawings and sketches of Ann at three. What was the point? He knew the odds that little girl had lived for more than a couple days after her abduction weren’t good.

“What else needs to be organized?” he asked briskly.

“Every freakin’ file on that table. Pick a letter,” she said absently.

RJ went one row down to the N files and opened folders for other cases that were a lot less sensational, sorting police documents by date and methodically dealing with the miscellaneous papers in them.

After a couple hours of sitting in one place, his back began to ache, a warning signal that he needed to move around if he didn’t want it to start stiffening up. Right now a break and some fresh air had a welcome sound to it.

Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood up. “I have a couple errands to run, Doris.” Truth to tell, he didn’t, but it was a good excuse. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, okay?”

Doris acknowledged that with a nod. “Off you go. Give my regards to the real world.”

“Want anything?”

She made a face. “A vacation would be nice.”

“I meant something to eat. Or is there food at an Art Walk?”

“We are below the Mason-Dixon Line, therefore there is food. It’s the unwritten law of the South. But I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.”

“You’re welcome. See you later.” RJ put the folders he’d been working on into some kind of order and left, taking the stairs up from the basement two at a time. At the top he hesitated and glanced down the corridor. There was Jolene, still talking on the phone. When she caught his questioning look, she gave a negative shake.

Still no chief. No problem, he thought and realized it was probably a good thing Hoebel wasn’t back. If he saw him right now, Bannon suspected he would argue with him over the decision to archive the Montgomery case. Considering that he needed Hoebel to sign off on his leave extension, a confrontation wouldn’t exactly be a wise move.

Outside the sun was bright and the air smelled fresh and clean after the basement’s staleness. With no particular agenda other than movement, Bannon decided to drive around and see what else was new in Wainsville besides just the Art Walk.

Without really thinking about it, RJ took the routes he’d favored when he was still a patrol cop, before he’d made detective. It wasn’t like he knew every inch of the streets—he’d grown up outside of Arlington with his mother and two younger brothers after his dad died—but he liked the town, had made a home for himself here. One hand on the steering wheel, he looked up idly at trees that hadn’t leafed out yet, their trunks damp from the recent rain. A few skinny shrubs were trying.

When he turned the wheel to take a shortcut through the community center parking lot, he remembered the Art Walk and headed that way.

A professionally made sign with a holder for brochures stood at the park entrance. Beyond it was some lightweight scaffolding that supported framed photographs, watercolors, and oil paintings. Attached to the big sign was a smaller one, made by hand. HOME-MADE PIES, CAKES, AND MUFFINS.

That got Bannon’s attention. He rolled down the window, doing a recon of the baked-goods table strategically positioned near the entrance to the park. The pies looked good at a dollar a slice and so did everything else—their money jar was filling up. Sunlight glinted on a gigantic coffee urn that he guessed had been borrowed from a church or a restaurant.

Decision made. Bannon parked and got out, walking over to the short line at the table, ready for some pie and coffee to soothe his soul. A plump woman was putting slices of fruit-filled pie onto paper plates while another woman was serving.

“One slice, please. And coffee. Black,” he requested when he reached them. RJ slid a five across the table and shook his head when the plump woman started to make change. “Keep it,” he said. “The pie looks worth the extra.”

“It is. I made it myself.” A shyly proud smile dimpled her cheeks an instant before she turned to the next customer.

Bannon walked away and leaned against an empty concrete planter, idly looking around while he ate and drank. Noticing the number of artists still setting up, he realized the event wasn’t in full swing yet. He took a brochure and read it, surprised to find he recognized a few of the participants’ names. A lot of them had studios or homes in the Rappahannock area, which was turning into a cultural mecca of sorts.

With a slight lift of curiosity, he let his gaze wander over the exhibit area. Near the far end, a young woman stood next to a display of framed watercolors, something proprietary in her stance. From this distance, Bannon couldn’t identify the subjects of th