Hot Rocks

them, had a link to something called Roundup, which turned out to be a western barbecue joint, and they had a web page. Everyone did, Max thought.
    There was even a picture of the happy restaurateurs beside an enormous cartoon cowboy with lariat. He enlarged and printed out the picture before flipping through the site. The attached menu didn’t sound half bad, and you could order Rob’s Kick-Ass Barbecue Sauce through the site.
    Rob, Max noted. Not Bob.
    They looked happy, he thought as he studied the photo. Ordinary, working class, pleased as punch to own their own business. Marilyn Tavish didn’t look like the former wife—and suspected accomplice—of a career thief and con artist who’d not only gotten delusions of grandeur, but had somehow pulled it off.
    She looked more like the type who’d fix you a sandwich before she went out to hang up the wash.
    He noted Roundup had been in business eight years, which meant they’d started the place while Laine had been in college. Playing a hunch, he logged onto the local Taos paper, dipped into the archives and looked for a story on the Tavishes.
    He found six, which surprised him, and went back to the first, in which the paper had covered the restaurant opening. He read it all, paying close attention to personal details. Such as the Tavishes had been married for six years at that point, and had met, according to the report, in Chicago, where Marilyn had been a waitress and Rob worked for a Chrysler dealership. There was a brief mention of a daughter who was a business major in college back East.
    Rob had always wanted to own his own place, blah blah, and finally took up his wife’s dare to do something with his culinary talents besides feed their friends and neighbors at picnics.
    Other stories followed Rob’s interest in local politics and Marilyn’s association with a Taos arts council. There was another feature when Roundup celebrated its fifth anniversary with an open-air party, including pony rides for kids.
    That story carried a picture of the beaming couple, flanking a laughing Laine.
    Jesus, she was a knockout. Her head was thrown back with the laugh, her arms slung affectionately around her mother and stepfather’s shoulders. She was wearing some western-cut shirt with little bits of fringe on the pockets, which—for reasons he couldn’t fathom—made him crazy.
    He could see a resemblance to her mother now that they were side by side. Around the eyes, the mouth.
    But she’d gotten that hair, that bright red hair, from Big Jack. He was sure of it now.
    The timing worked, too well. Marilyn O’Hara had filed for divorce while Jack was serving a short stretch, courtesy of the state of Indiana. She’d taken the kid and moved to Jacksonville, Florida. Authorities had kept their eye on her for a few months, but she’d been clean and had worked as a waitress.
    She’d bumped around a bit. Texas, Philadelphia, Kansas. Then she’d dropped out of sight, off the radar, a little less than two years before she and Rob tied the knot.
    Maybe she’d wanted to start fresh for herself, for the kid. Or maybe it was just a long con. Max was making it his mission to find out.

CHAPTER 3
    “What am I doing? This isn’t something I do.”
    Jenny peered over Laine’s shoulder at their dual reflections in the bathroom mirror. “You’re going to have a drink with a great-looking man. Why that isn’t something you do is best discussed with a therapist.”
    “I don’t even know who he is.” Laine set down the lipstick she held before applying it. “I hit on him, Jen. For God’s sake, I hit on him in my own shop.”
    “A woman can’t hit on a sexy guy in her own shop, where can she? Use the lipstick.” She glanced down to where Henry was thumping his tail. “See, Henry agrees with me.”
    “I should just call the inn, leave a message for him, tell him something came up.”
    “Laine, you’re breaking my heart.” She picked up the lipstick. “Paint,” she ordered.
    “I can’t believe I let you talk me into closing a half hour early. I can’t believe how easy it was for you to talk me into it. Coming home to change—it looks obvious, doesn’t it?”
    “What’s wrong with obvious?”
    “I don’t know.” Laine used the lipstick, studied the tube. “I’m not thinking straight. It was that moment, that kaboom moment. I just wanted to yank off his shirt and bite his neck.”
    “Well, go to it, honey.”
    With a laugh, Laine turned around.