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CHAPTER TWELVE

PAYSON, ARIZONA

FRIDAY, MARCH 17, 2023

10:00 P.M.

It was almost ten that night before Ali finally left Payson to head home. Fortunately, the Stu Ramey she had left behind was in far better shape than the one she’d met up with earlier in the afternoon, and Ali was grateful that she had been there to help him navigate a complex process that he’d never encountered before.

Their first stop that afternoon at Karen Corman’s law office had been a revelation. Although Julia Miller may not have discussed her long-term plans with Stu, clearly a good deal of thought had gone into her arrangements, and her nephew was at the center of all of them.

She had directed that there was to be no funeral or memorial service, and no urn, either. Her body was to be cremated, and the ashes scattered in a small grove of pine trees at the far northeast corner of Racehorse Rest, so there was no need to waste money on an urn, and the whole cremation process, container included, was entirely prepaid.

With that information in hand, Ali had expected they’d leave the law office immediately and head for the mortuary. Not so. Since Stu was Julia’s only heir, Karen Corman suggested that they go ahead and read the will. The ranch itself, all of her investments and financial accounts, as well as control of the charity went to him. Stu could choose to continue to operate the ranch as a rescue or sell it. That decision was his alone to make.

“Why didn’t she ever talk to me about any of this?” Stu asked when the reading of the will ended.

“I believe she didn’t want to worry you,” Karen told him. “She was also afraid that if she gave you too much advance notice that you’d make your decisions about the ranch based on what you thought she’d want rather than going by what you want.”

Stu considered that for a moment. “Aunt Julia was very opinionated,” he said at last.

Karen laughed aloud. “Do you think?” she asked.

After leaving the attorney’s office, the mortuary was the next stop. The last time Ali had set foot inside a funeral home had been in the aftermath of her father’s death, and she was dreading the visit almost as much as Stu was, but when they headed inside, Ali was relieved to see that Stu had pulled himself together enough to face down whatever was coming.

The funeral director, a Mr. Jonathan Castor, met them at the door. “How may I help you?” he asked.

“We’re here about Julia Miller,” Stu replied.

“You must be Mr. Ramey,” Castor said, extending his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Stu nodded. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“Please call me Jonathan,” Mr. Castor said before turning his attention to Ali. “And would you be Mrs. Ramey?” he asked.

“This is my friend Ali Reynolds,” Stu interjected. “She’s here to help.”

“Very well,” Mr. Castor said. “Please come this way.”

He led them into a private office where a file labeled Julia Miller was the only item on an otherwise pristine desk.

“Your aunt was very particular about how she wanted things to be handled,” Jonathan Castor began. “And most of the expenses have been paid in advance.”

“Most?” Stu asked.

“Transportation expenses, of course,” Castor replied, “and the cremation cost itself. If you wish to have a viewing, however, the cost of that would not be included.”

“Viewing?” Stu inquired.

“It’s a public gathering so friends can stop by the funeral home, see her, and pay their respects.”

“She’s dead,” Stu said flatly. “I already saw her after she died. Why would anyone else want to?”

Why indeed? Ali thought.

Mr. Castor seemed taken aback by Stu’s direct response. Ali was not. Over the past few years, in part due to bonding with the horses at Racehorse Rest, the quality of Stu’s human interactions had improved immeasurably, but they seemed to regress when he was under stress.

“How long will this take?” Stu asked. “The cremation, I mean.”

“Since there’s no need for an autopsy, the ashes should be ready for pickup by tomorrow afternoon, if that’s convenient. And if you’d like an urn, we have a whole selection—”

“No urn,” Stu interrupted. “I want a box, preferably a cardboard box with a cover on it, so I can open it and scatter her ashes the way she wanted.”

“Of course,” Castor said, “as you wish.”

Ali caught the hint of regret in the man’s voice. No doubt he had hoped to add in a few extras that would have brought in a bit more cash than the amount Julia Miller had previously paid. Ali noticed the reaction, but she was sure that part of the discussion had flown right over Stu’s head.

“What time?” he asked.

“Shall we say two?” Castor suggested.

“That’ll be fine,” Stu said, standing up. “I’ll see you then.”

Ali followed Stu out of the office and out of the mortuary as well. He paused on the sidewalk just outside the door. “There’s a pizza place just up the street,” he said. “Let’s go there.”

Under similar circumstances, most people wouldn’t have gone in search of pizza, but for Stu Ramey, pizza was comfort food—the more toppings the better.

“Sounds good,” Ali told him.

The pizza Stu ordered was good, but so overburdened with toppings that the crust collapsed under the excess weight. As a result, they ended up having to eat their slices with a knife and fork. While they ate, and for more than an hour afterward, Stuart Ramey talked, spilling out more words than Ali had ever heard him utter. He mostly talked about Aunt Julia, and how much she had meant to him, and about how much he had enjoyed being a part of Racehorse Rest. Julia Miller may not have wanted a memorial service, but she had one that afternoon anyway, and Ali Reynolds was honored to be a part of it.

At last Stu pushed himself away from the table. “We need to go to the ranch,” he said. “I have to let the people there know that she’s dead, and I want them to understand that nothing will change—that they’ll still have their jobs and their places to live. I want them to know that everything is going to be okay.”

That’s where they went next—to Racehorse Rest. There were five full-time employees—the foreman, three ranch hands, and Martha, Aunt Julia’s longtime housekeeper/cook. Stu summoned everyone to the ranch house. As they gathered in the living room Ali sensed the growing uncertainty. Stu delivered the news that Julia was dead with the same directness he had used with the funeral director. Clearly, the fact that Julia Miller was dead didn’t come as a surprise to any of them, but Ali caught the palpable sense of relief that went around the room as Stu assured them that, from then on, he would be in charge. Clearly, his was a known and trusted presence.

Listening to Stu reassure that room of grieving people, Ali wished that B. could have been there, too. Years earlier, B. was the one who had rescued an abandoned and broken but very smart young man from the homeless shelter where he was living and had put him back together. The process had taken decades.

B. Simpson had no sons of his own, but in a very real way, he had fathered not only Stu Ramey but also Lance Tucker and now Mateo Vega. Seeing Stu come into his own like this, far away from the safety of High Noon’s computer lab, should have been B.’s well-deserved reward. Instead it was Ali’s.

Once the meeting ended, Stu went out to spend some time with the horses in their corrals. Ali attempted to take her leave, but Martha insisted that she stay for dinner. Although the pizza feast wasn’t nearly far enough in the rearview mirror, Ali went ahead and accepted the invitation, and once dinner was over, she stayed even longer. As a result, she finally headed for Sedona much later than she had intended.

Over the course of the day she had been in touch by phone with both B. and the people at High Noon so everyone was now aware of what was going on with Stu. Ali had also learned that after a long flight delay on the ground in DC, B. and Lance were back home.

Wary of having a nighttime encounter with stray livestock or a wandering elk, Ali made no effort to call the house until she turned onto I-17 at Cordes Junction, but once she did, the moment she heard B.’s voice, she knew something was amiss.

“What’s going on?” Ali asked.

“I just got off the phone with Sonja.”

Ali’s heart skipped a beat. “Sonja Bjornson? What’s wrong?”

“Some guy tried to come after Cami at the hotel fitness center tonight. She got away from him and hid out in the hotel kitchen where she ran up the flag to WWS.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No, she’s fine. She got away clean. Sonja’s people sent a car to pick Cami up and take her to Sonja’s place. Someone from WWS will stop by the hotel and pack up her stuff so she doesn’t have to go back there. I’ve chartered a jet to pick her up from Lindbergh Field in San Diego tomorrow morning. Chances are, if whoever’s behind this knew she was staying at the Lancaster, they also know about her original flight arrangements. I don’t want her going anywhere near an L.A. airport.”

“Good thinking,” Ali murmured. “But who would do such a thing?”

“No idea,” B. replied. “I haven’t spoken to Cami directly. Sonja says she gave her a killer margarita and sent her to bed. According to Sonja, however, Cami had suspected someone might be keeping track of her while she was in L.A, but she never caught anyone red-handed. Then tonight at dinner, she noticed a guy wearing a concealed weapon giving her the eye. When he showed up again later while she was working out at the fitness center, she decided it was time to split. We don’t know for sure that she was targeted, but she was right to get the hell out.”

“Is there surveillance footage?” Ali asked.

“We thought so,” B. replied, “but when Frigg tried accessing the hotel’s security system, she was late to the party.”

“It had already been wiped?”

“Completely, but it turns out Frigg has been able to ID the guy anyway. His name is Bogdan Petrov. He’s Bulgarian and is thought to have connections to people involved in Eastern European human trafficking.”

“If the hotel’s surveillance footage was wiped, how did Frigg ID him?”

“Cami used her phone to video him as he walked through the fitness center,” B. explained. “She sent that to Frigg and asked for a facial rec on him. Frigg is currently compiling a dossier on the guy.”

Ali thought about that for a time. “So, because of Cami’s quick thinking, nothing really happened, and we’re not even sure she was targeted.”

“Exactly, but we need to respond as though she was.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s due to head out to the UK on Monday afternoon,” Ali said thoughtfully. “Shouldn’t we have her cancel?”

“Let’s make that decision tomorrow, once we have her safely home. Where are you at the moment?” B. asked.

“Coming up I-17, just south of the Sedona exit.”

“All right,” B. said. “See you when you get here.”

As the call ended, Ali realized that she hadn’t mentioned a word about what was going on with Clarice Brewster. Given everything else that was happening, she wasn’t likely to do so any time soon.