Leapfrog: Yellowstone Investigations, #3

By Clara Kendrick

This third book in the series, with over 79,000 words of romantic suspense, tells the story of Frankie and Shawn...

 

Frankie: My name is Frankie Benson, and I'm a journalist. I'm tired of everyone thinking that I'm splashing lies all over the front page. When the bodies of two women are found not far from each other within the boundaries of Yellowstone National Park, I figure this is my chance. The problem is that nobody will even believe that these women were murdered.

 

Shawn: Trying to change an official cause of death from accidental to homicide doesn't happen very often. This crazy reporter thinks she's going to get me to help her do it anyway. At first, I only go along with Frankie to keep her from getting herself into trouble. The longer I listen to her insanity, the more sense she starts to make. By the time I realize that Frankie isn't crazy at all, we're in this thing so deep I'm not sure I can get us out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clara Kendrick
• Release date: May 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224525362

Clara Kendrick

Discover the captivating world of Clara Kendrick's romantic suspense. With her masterful storytelling and skillful blend of intrigue, romance, and passion, Kendrick draws readers in and keeps them hooked until the very end. Get ready to be swept away by her thrilling and steamy tales of love and suspense. Signup and follow at: Books2read.com/ClaraKendrick Facebook.com/AuthorClaraKendrick

Book preview

Chapter One

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Ew, that is gross. Wait. I’m supposed to be professional about this. So maybe... Wow, that is brutal—Does that sound more professional?

Frankie Benson turned the photographs to the right and then to the left. They were of a body and that body barely resembled a human anymore. The flesh had literally been boiled from the woman’s bones. The damage had been done by the waters gushing from a geyser. According to park officials, the water was over two hundred fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Livid red burn marks marred the remaining flesh on her torso and nothing remained of her fingers, toes, or face. It was almost as though the geyser had intentionally wiped away any trace of features that might help identify the woman’s remains. The only thing left were dental records, and that was a shot in the dark since so many out of state visitors came to the park each year and there was no national database for dental records.

So if someone comes looking for you, Jane Doe, Frankie whispered. We’ll at least have that to compare.

What are you doing?

Frankie leaped in the air so violently that the photographs fell from her numb fingers and hit the floor in a splash of brightly colored paper. Glaring at the doorway, she pointed to her hand-lettered sign.

Don’t you know how to read? Frankie was sick and tired of her fellow reporters snooping around to see what she was working on. Go find your own story.

Oh please! Susan Campbell rolled her eyes. Then she bent over and picked up a photograph. Are you still on about this death? It was an accident. People die all the time because they do something stupid like wander off the path or go jumping into the wrong creek or pond. It’s just one of those things.

Twenty deaths in several decades is not dying all the time, Frankie muttered to herself. She shook her head at Susan. And can you explain to me how this woman was burned as if someone was trying to cover a mob hit? Come on. It’s too perfect. Nobody saw her. Nobody knows who she is. That’s not how the typical Yellowstone fatality occurs.

"Listen to you. The typical Yellowstone fatality. Susan scoffed at Frankie and then turned and walked away. You know what? You go ahead and believe whatever you want. It just means you’ll focus on that stupid story and eventually Jonathan will get tired of you and fire your ass. More stories for me then."

With one last sniff, Susan flung the photo Frisbee style at Frankie and then left the office. It was rude to be sure. But Susan was always rude to Frankie. Frankie would have liked to believe it was because Frankie was the better reporter and Susan knew it. The more likely scenario was that Susan was just angry with pretty much anyone who stood in the way of her getting a promotion.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason that Frankie disliked Susan. It was just that on most days Frankie really couldn’t put her finger on the exact reason why the woman was just so distasteful. Her attitude was bad. She was snarky and rude and she always wore a pair of tennis shoes that were pink and sparkly and looked as though she had stolen them from some first grader. That and her mousy brown ponytail and tight skinny jeans just made her annoying on multiple levels that really made no practical sense but made Frankie want to grind her teeth down to nubs anyway.

Frankie bent down and picked up the photograph once again. This was a disgusting picture. She had been sent out to Yellowstone’s Norris Geyser Basin to do a quick local interest piece about yet another hiker who had left the path and paid the price. What she got was much different. Or at least Frankie’s reporter senses told her so.

Did you get that copy ready yet?

I told you to knock!

Frankie swung around prepared to bite into yet another one of her coworkers, but froze solid when she found herself staring at handsome Jonathan Winters, the editor-in-chief of the Yellowstone Bugle. He was her boss and she’d just yelled at him. Great. That was going to go over well.

But Jonathan only raised his eyebrows. So, care to explain what has you all upset?

No. Not particularly. Frankie felt her cheeks blushing red hot. She had a redhead’s complexion and that pretty much meant anytime she was embarrassed the entire world knew about it. And that was embarrassing. I, uh—I was just tired of everyone barging into my office without knocking. The door is stuck open again.

The entire building that housed the paper had once been a turn-of-the-century logging operation. The doors were nothing but an afterthought and did not typically fit in their appointed openings. Hers tended to stick in the open position. Of course, this was much better than Rose Walton’s. Hers had gotten jammed while she was inside the tiny box-like space.

Right. Jonathan shrugged. I’ll have Lenny take a look when he’s doing some other random maintenance work. In the meantime. Copy?

I need a little more time on the story. And I don’t want to bother Lenny with my silly door. The poor guy has enough to do.

Jonathan frowned. Lenny is mentally challenged and a bit simple in the head, but he’s a perfectly competent maintenance man. Don’t worry about having him work on your door. God knows he needs to do plenty around here to earn his keep. I’m sick of paying him to do nothing but sit on his slow backside.

I thought he was doing a lot of work for you outside the office and stuff, Frankie mused. Lately I see him leaving in his truck as though he’s about to go fight a fire.

Don’t worry about Lenny, Jonathan insisted. About that story?

She bit her lip. There was no telling how this was going to go over. I think there’s more to it than just a random hiker wandering off the path.

Jonathan frowned. Why? Then he held out his hands. I’m not telling you no so don’t jump down my throat. I’m just asking for a reason to put more man hours into this. I have other things for you to do.

Right. Frankie picked up a photograph and handed it to him. I got these from the coroner’s office.

Is that legal?

Does it matter? Frankie shrugged. The death is currently ruled an accident and she’s a Jane Doe.

Jane Doe? Jonathan frowned. Nobody knows who she is? That seems odd. Were there any hikers or others reported missing?

No. That’s what bothers me. Frankie felt her excitement rising. Her cheeks were heating up again, but this time the flush was going down her neck. Soon enough her chest would even be flushed and her freckles would just start to blend in. She cleared her throat. Focus. This is my chance! She hasn’t been identified. No prints on hands or even feet. No face to put in a newspaper or on the news. It’s like her identity was wiped away on purpose.

Okay, hold on. Jonathan pushed the photo right back at Frankie’s chest. You’re making a pretty big leap there. All the way from unidentified dead hiker to dead hiker who was deliberately killed in a way that was intended to conceal her identity.

See! Frankie pointed excitedly and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Your brain went there too! Because you’re a reporter and you know that there’s no such thing as coincidence!

I didn’t say that. I just went there because I knew you already had, Jonathan snorted. He looked very skeptical at best. I don’t know if you really have any more time to waste on this story, Frankie. There’s a special interest story about a mother bear taking in an orphan cub that I wanted you to cover.

Seriously? Frankie whined. You want me to go from possible homicide to grizzly foster families? Jonathan, don’t do this to me!

He started laughing. Grizzly Foster Families. Great title. Go with that.

I don’t want to go with that! Frankie was beginning to feel mildly panicky. She didn’t want to stop working on this story. She didn’t want to just write some lukewarm piece on the geyser death and turn it in. She wanted to give the real story—the whole story. Please, Jonathan? What if I poke around on my own time? Would that work? I’ll do the stupid bear story. I just want to be able to keep looking around. Frankie put her hands together and prepared to get down on her knees to beg.

Don’t do that. Jonathan held up his hands. Good God, don’t actually get down on your knees and beg. That’s just not necessary. If you really think that it means that much, then I’ll let you keep investigating this story. I want you to write a preliminary piece though. Jonathan’s expression grew suddenly grim. "And don’t be making a bunch of wild allegations either. Make sure you are absolutely not speculating in your initial piece."

Yes! Frankie was ready to do a fist pump, but that might cause her to accidentally punch her boss in the face, which would be bad. I know exactly how to put it. I’ll just say that these are the facts, but that this reporter is still investigating and is looking into the strangeness of the circumstances surrounding the death!

He rolled his eyes. The jerk! But she couldn’t be mad at him right now. He had allowed her to keep investigating.

Finally Jonathan heaved a sigh and gave an imperious sort of wave with his hand. That’s fine. Just don’t go off on some wild goose chase and make the paper look ridiculous. All right?

Right. Frankie gnawed her lip. You know we could hire an independent investigations firm...

No!

Frankie drew back in surprise. She’d never seen that particular expression on Jonathan’s face. He’d gone from patronizing to pissed in like one second. Sheesh! Fine. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to kill your operating budget.

Really? Jonathan snorted. He turned as though he were going to walk out of her office and not say another word. But at the last second he paused and spoke over his shoulder. I don’t want to hire some company to investigate a death that the coroner has already called an accidental incident. That’s not going to endear the Bugle to the local authorities. I would still call us a struggling paper. If you want a steady paycheck, then don’t screw this up for us. Got it?

Got it.

But as Frankie watched Jonathan walk away she realized that she did not feel as though she got it at all. What was up with Jonathan? One of the reasons that Frankie liked working for the man had to do with his ability to be objective about the stories that he covered in his paper. He wasn’t one of those old-school editors who waited for everyone else to find the news and then tried to scoop them out of the headlines just to sell papers and make money. Jonathan wasn’t a panderer. He didn’t patronize his readers. He offered them current and absolutely up-to-date information about what was happening around them.

Frankie picked up a crime scene photograph and held it in front of her. Staring down at the horrible details of the burn victim that had been laid bare by not only the geyser, but also the crime scene photographers, Frankie tried to be objective. It was still so difficult to see past the woman’s horrific injuries.

Absently reaching for a stack of sticky notes, Frankie used a note to cover the woman’s naked torso. Her belly had not been burned very badly at all. It was distracting as hell. Frankie experimented with trying to cover different bits and pieces of the body to see if any additional thoughts jumped out at her.

Well, that’s rather odd.

Frankie moved the sticky note again and realized that there was a really odd little wound on the woman’s right hip. It didn’t look like a burn. It looked like a cut. Or rather it looked like a portion of skin had been removed. On purpose.

Tracing the outline with her fingertip, Frankie wondered what had been on that patch of skin. Hypothetically, if someone had really burned her on purpose while trying to disguise or just totally obliterate her identity, they would have needed to make sure there were no other identifying marks. Her face was gone. Any beauty marks or distinctive features like nose and chin were too fried by the geyser water to be recognizable.

So what else would have to go?

Frankie put down that photograph and picked up another one. The ankles were toast and the hands up to the wrists. One forearm was gone. The victim’s back had been completely scorched. The flesh was utterly gone from her buttocks. It was absolutely disturbing to look at.

Tattoos are used to identify people.

Frankie picked up another photograph and realized that she was looking at a left hip. It was unblemished. How had the buttocks been scorched, but the hips were perfect except for a very precise looking cut on the right one?

You had a tattoo right there. Frankie felt ridiculous talking to the photograph, but she could not stop herself. What was on your hip? What kind of design? Was it distinctive? Were there initials or a name? What did someone feel the need to remove?

That was the answer! That was it. That was the thing that was going to blow this case right out of the water. There had been a tattoo on this woman’s right hip and it had not gotten burned as the murderer had intended. Either it had been missed or the murderer had been too afraid of getting burned himself—or herself perhaps—to try and get rid of that tattoo in the same way he’d done the others. That was it!

I have to tell the coroner, Frankie decided. Then she looked at her cluttered desktop. Shit. I have to write the first part of this story. I promised Jonathan.

Closing her laptop, Frankie scooped it up and pushed it into her shoulder bag. She could write it later. Maybe she could write it while she was sitting in the coroner’s waiting room because there was no doubt that Frankie was going to have to wait in order to get an audience with the man. He did not particularly like Frankie. She’d pestered him too much and her friend Gladys worked in his office and never hesitated to leak whatever information Frankie wanted. That didn’t make Frankie the most popular woman in Northern Wyoming. Although it did go a long way toward making her the most informed woman.

Oh, isn’t that nice? Susan’s snarky tone hit Frankie just as she left her office for the main room of the former logging operation office. You just go talk to those little bears and have fun with that foster family angle.

Susan Campbell was such a smug customer. There was no doubt in Frankie’s mind that she had been eavesdropping. But what made Susan such a crappy reporter was her assumption that she knew and could anticipate the way everything would end. So no doubt she hadn’t listened long enough. She didn’t realize that Jonathan had agreed to let Frankie keep investigating the possible suspicious death. She had just heard the bear story part. And maybe that was fine.

Grizzly foster families, Frankie agreed. She smiled sweetly at Susan. I can’t wait to get started.

You’re such a liar. Susan’s expression turned ugly. You’re such a suck up. I hate the fact that you’re practically in bed with Jonathan. I know that’s what’s going on. I’m not stupid, Frankie Benson. I know an illicit office romance when I see one.

Now that accusation nearly caused Frankie to drop her shoulder bag. She actually didn’t know what to say. And for a woman who made her living with words, that was a pretty damned scary state of affairs. But maybe it was just better to walk away for now. She turned her back on Susan and walked out of the office without saying another word. Because right now there was nothing left to say.

Chapter Two

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Shawn Rourke moved the mouse to the little arrows pointing to the left at the bottom of his computer screen and grumbled to himself as he spent about thirty seconds rewinding the security feed. Sometimes his job totally sucked. There was no other way to say it. It was a boring exercise in futility that had absolutely no basis in reality. And of course that was because most people seemed to be so absolutely sure that someone was stalking them.

Do you see it? The woman with the dark oily-looking ponytail and the thick-rimmed glasses peered owlishly at the screen of Shawn’s computer. You see it, right? There’s someone walking there. She put her fat finger right on the screen and left a smudge. Right. Here. I know I saw someone. There’s been someone walking there every single day. So I set up my tablet and took video. Now I want you to find out who it is.

Shawn cleared his throat. Ms. Barry....

Barney, the woman corrected. Julia Barney. I live over at Mammoth Hot Springs with my boyfriend. We’re being stalked. I’m telling you that it’s true.

I’m not saying that there isn’t someone in the video, Shawn assured Ms. Barney.

Shawn was really struggling with his patience right now. He usually didn’t have trouble with this kind of thing, but it had been an unusually long summer. It was late August and the weather was finally starting to cool off. But the tourist population was still burgeoning and they brought with them a whole plethora of stupid problems. This was a perfect example.

Ms. Barney, Shawn began in what he hoped was a patient voice. He was beginning to feel as though he did not have much patience left. I want you to understand that there are a lot of incidences of visitors and tourists wandering through the park employee housing areas. They don’t usually realize that the housing is private and not supposed to be accessed by the public. They don’t generally mean any harm. Have you noticed anyone peeping into your windows?

Well, no. Julia Barney frowned. From the expression on her round face, she appeared to be really thinking this possibility over. Not exactly. See, I could have sworn the other night that someone was peeking into the front window of our house. Then I heard someone opening and closing the mailbox.

Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Would this be sometime around two or three o’clock in the afternoon?

Yes! She nearly came out of her chair with the excitement. You’ve had other complaints, haven’t you? I knew it!

No, ma’am. No, we really haven’t.

Shawn ran his fingers through his hair and decided that it was really in need of a washing. His scalp was starting to itch. He had been sleeping outside at night for the last week and living out of a tent while dealing with Ms. Barney’s complaints regarding stalkers, trespassers, and peeping toms at the national park employee housing area at Mammoth Hot Springs. The ranger captain at the Mammoth Hot Springs station—a man they called Ranger Glen—had asked Shawn to look into the complaints that Ms. Barney had been filing with just about every administrative office in the US National Parks Service.

How did you know about the peeping tom that keeps looking in my front window between two and three o’clock? Ms. Barney spoke in a hushed voice. Her eyes were absolutely enormous behind her glasses. Did you see this person when you were doing the surveillance?

"No. I saw the mailman, Shawn said flatly. He was so exhausted. Not just by this situation, but with life in general. The mail comes between two and three every afternoon, Ms. Barney. The mailman has to go up on your porch because he walks the route through housing. He typically goes across the yards because that makes it quicker. I’ve spoken with him on multiple occasions. He’s never seen anyone else. He’s never even seen a tourist or visitor out of place on your street. He admits that he’s not supposed to be walking in your yard, but that it makes his route a lot quicker to go across the yards since the boxes are attached to the front porch instead of out by the road."

In fact, Shawn had actually talked to Ranger Glen about putting a bank of mailboxes out by the front of the employee housing area and making the employees walk for the mail instead of making the poor mailman hike around. Most of the employees had to pass the entrance every day after three o’clock anyway. It would make the postman’s job a lot easier—especially considering the guy had a shit job during the winter months when there were dozens upon dozens of feet of snow littering the ground as well as sub-zero temperatures. Ranger Glen was currently submitting a request to the housing authority. He happened to agree with Shawn. If it would make Ms. Barney shut up, Ranger Glen was all for it.

The mailman? Ms. Julia Barney looked flabbergasted. You know I’m disabled, Mr. Rourke. I know that. She narrowed her huge eyes and glared at him through her glasses. I have a mental health disorder and that means I’m disabled, but I’m not stupid. I don’t appreciate you treating me as though you are discriminating against me because of my mental disorder.

Shawn exhaled a little sigh. Ranger Glen had warned Shawn of this particular hang-up regarding Ms. Barney. Apparently every time Ms. Barney spoke to someone who did not support her wild theories about stalkers, she started talking about discrimination. Then she went off on some tangent and that was pretty much where things went downhill.

Has your boyfriend experienced this stalker situation you’re talking about? Shawn asked Ms. Barney. He tried to keep his tone serious and his expression neutral. He did not want her to accuse him of not taking her seriously. The problem was that he was taking her very, very seriously because she was becoming such a total pain in the ass.

Her nostrils flared and she looked more than a little irritated. I don’t think that’s relevant. He supports me and he knows that I’m not the kind of person to make wild accusations that don’t have any grounds for proof.

But has he actually experienced any of this? Shawn tried to press without pressing. He knew for a fact that Ms. Barney was experiencing clandestine and unintentional encounters with the mailman, but he had to get her to realize this. "Has he come home and sat with you in order to verify that what you’re experiencing isn’t the mailman doing his usual route? I notice that you didn’t video the area around your mailbox. Maybe setting up a camera and directing the feed to the mailbox would alleviate your suspicions. I watched your home for an entire week and I can tell you without doubt that the only person who has touched your mailbox is you and the mailman."

Ms. Barney growled. She pursed her lips so tightly that they actually bowed upwards into a little horseshoe shaped moue. "I’m not imagining this! You’re trying to call me insane! Next you’ll be suggesting that I need to be institutionalized! I already had to deal with that outrageous accusation and behavior from Ranger Glen. Don’t you start too! You’re supposed