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  He waved her to silence. “Don’t say it!” Because if anyone ever asked him, he would have to make a choice between the truth and a supportive lie. “This afternoon, while we were at the hospital, I talked to Kittilia, got the whole story. Last year, before I took the job, Kittilia and Officer Gerasimova decided they were going to get into the protection-racket business. They were doing pretty well—cakes from the tea shop, greeting cards from the bookshop.”

  “Dumbasses,” Donatti said in disgust.

  “Then Kittilia needed tires and Gerasimova needed an oil change, and they went to Cold Road Tires and ‘talked’ to Rob Colip, told him if he didn’t cooperate, he’d be in trouble.”

  “I guess they were in for a surprise.”

  “They were. He leaped right back at them. He told them he’d handle the blackmail and the collection of funds, and that if they tried to turn him in, he had them on camera for extortion.” Dumas took a breath. “He’d been waiting for just that opportunity. Turns out, he had been a cop in eastern Washington.”

  “Bad cop?”

  “The worst. I spoke to the town’s mayor. Colip ran the protection racket there, too, and they’d played hades getting rid of him. He was smart and mean, almost impossible to trap, and when they finally did, their witness was so scared they had to put her in a jail cell to keep her safe, and the mayor slept outside her cell.”

  “Armed?”

  “Yes, indeed. Colip struck a deal—if they’d drop all charges, he’d leave town and not come back. If they didn’t—he knew a lot of secrets.”

  “Like about the mayor?”

  With some humor, Dumas said, “The mayor did not admit to that. But the town was glad to see the back of Colip, and they took the deal. He came up here, I suppose with all his ill-gotten gains, and started the tire shop.”

  She turned to face Dumas. “Do you realize he didn’t care about the money? He liked the power. He liked being mean to the owner of the flower shop, the owner of the bookshop. He liked having two police officers under his thumb.”

  “Power is indeed the great corrupter,” Dumas said. “Colip made Kittilia call in the Bigfoot story while he drove out to vandalize your mother’s greenhouse, supposedly to keep us busy, distracted and chasing our tails. But he enjoyed the destruction. That man was mean to the bone.”

  Fiercely, Donatti said, “Thank God she sensed him and stayed away.”

  “God’s own truth,” Dumas agreed. “After I fired Gerasimova, there was only one police officer for Colip to intimidate, and that was poor old Kittilia. I had given Gerasimova the out he needed.”

  “I heard Gerasimova moved to the Lower 48.”

  “He was probably afraid Anchorage wasn’t far enough away from Rob Colip.” Dumas didn’t want to complete the story, but he had to admit the truth. “When Colip came to me, told me about the officers who were blackmailing him, I fell for it hook, line and sinker. I felt there was something bad going on with Kittilia, so I asked Colip about him. He wouldn’t admit to anything—too afraid of retaliation, he told me. But he slipped.” His tone clearly told her it had not been a slip. “So I knew it was Kittilia. What a sucker I am.”

  “You really are, Chief. Anything else you want to confess?” Donatti sounded good-humored, but also exasperated.

  For good reason. She had bigger personal problems.

  “I’ll go to confession on Sunday. The good priest will give me penance, and in the future I’ll remember not to be the old fool who imagines he can handle a sting operation alone.” He paused, then added, “I won’t be leaving you behind again.”

  “Damned right you won’t.”

  “Did I scare you, chère?”

  “I’m too young for white hairs.”

  “So you are. The sun is dropping below the treetops. We’ll be at your folks’ soon. Look.” He gestured to the east, where a full moon rose above the mountains. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  “Nope.”

  “I surmise this special gene only manifests in the males of your family?”

  She shot him an exasperated glance. “So if I don’t want to discuss it, you will?”

  “When you were born, your parents knew you wouldn’t follow in your father’s large footsteps.” Dumas was groping his way through a tangle of thoughts. “They sent you to Nevada because…?”

  “Because my aunt lived there and they knew she would put me in my Catholic girls’ school and watch over me.”

  “You lived here until you were in grade school when you…?”

  “You have it all figured out.” Donatti was sarcastic. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You went to kindergarten…”

  “First grade.”

  “And drew a photo of your parents…?”

  “I gave a report on what my father did.”

  “You announced to the whole school he was a yeti who talked to animals, which promptly led to a psychiatric evaluation.”

  “And a social worker who visited weekly because obviously my parents had been playing reality games with me. It didn’t help that I said my mom’s job was to see the future.”

  “The other children were tormenting you. The teachers treated you with caution.”

  “I had to go.” Donatti sighed. “It was the worst kind of exile, but every summer I came back and every year I understood more. Coming to Rockin was coming home.”

  “Chère, that’s how I feel, too.”

  They drove down the highway at a reasonable speed, united in their pleasure in at last finding their places in the world.

  At 8:35 p.m., they turned into the Magnussons’ driveway. Dumas slowed abruptly; on the side lawn, he saw three bears, a mama and two babies, rolling in the grass. “Quite a coincidence,” he said.

  Donatti hummed a noncommittal response.

  Dumas pulled up in front of the home and parked behind the three vehicles in the driveway: Theresa’s SUV, Shawn’s gray 2015 Ram pickup—and a twenty-year-old faded green truck.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON HIS KNOCK, Theresa opened the door. “Welcome, Chief. Did you bring us your gumbo? I’m delighted. Gabriella has told us so much about it!” She sounded like she had expected him.

  Well, of course she had.

  “Come on in.” She stepped back to allow him to enter the old-fashioned, slightly worn living area. One oversize, warmly colored Oriental rug covered the hardwood floor. Two recliners and a couch sat in front of the large-screen TV.

  The kitchen/dining area was equally worn and oh-so-homey. The blue Formica countertop sported a yogurt maker, a well-used knife block and a cooling pie on a metal trivet. The scent of baking bread filled the air, and Dumas didn’t need Theresa’s gift to know that this house had been loved and lived in.

  “Your home is wonderful,” he said. “It reminds me of my great-aunt’s home in Louisiana. So hospitable!”

  “Hello, baby.” Theresa enfolded Donatti in her arms, her voice warm and loving.

  Now that she was here, Donatti looked wary, scared, pleased, unsure, as if she anticipated interesting revelations with who knew what results.

  Dumas carried the cooler over to the stovetop. He opened it, placed the pot on the burner, flipped the heat on low and said, “Let me know when we’re going to eat, and I’ll add the filé powder.” Because you had to add filé off the heat, then serve quickly, and no reheating. He placed the rice cooker next to an ancient chrome toaster, plugged it in and turned it to warm. “I prepared the rice at home, so I can have dinner on the table in ten minutes.”

  The Magnussons hadn’t eaten; five places had been set at the kitchen table, although Dumas had arrived unannounced and—“It’s a drive out here. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Shawn’s in there right now, but… Ah, there he is.” Theresa smiled at her husband. “Dear, look who came to dinner!” />
  Shawn shook Dumas’s hand. “Mi casa es tu casa.”

  “Gracias,” Dumas replied easily. “I didn’t mean to make you change.”

  Magnusson paused. Looked down at his clothes. “I’m wearing the same outfit I was wearing earlier today.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Dumas put his hand on the fifth chair at the table. “I think you know that.”

  Donatti rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “Listen, folks…”

  “Your son can come out,” Dumas said. “I won’t be shocked. And a growing boy shouldn’t miss a meal.”

  Donatti said, “Dad, I told you he had it figured out.”

  “So did I.” Theresa smirked at Shawn. “But you know your father never listens to me.”

  “I do, too!” Shawn said.

  Theresa looked at him. Just looked at him.

  “When you make sense,” he added.

  Theresa smacked him in the arm, went to the door in the hallway and opened it. “It’s okay, you can come out. He’s a friend.”

  The boy came out slowly, walked through the shadowy hallway and stepped into the light.

  Donatti went to his side. “This is my brother, George.”

  George was tall, like his father and sister, but obviously an adolescent, wearing a teen’s uniform—roomy T-shirt and frayed jeans. His feet were huge and bare, and he moved awkwardly, as if he had yet to grow into his long arms and legs.

  And of course, he was hairy. All-over hairy, as far as Dumas could see, from his bare toes to the top of his head.

  This was Bigfoot, son of Bigfoot, and to Dumas, the only surprise was how closely he resembled the Sasquatch of legend.

  George watched for Dumas’s reaction with a mix of defiance and worry.

  Dumas extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m Chief Rodolphe Dumas. It’s good to meet you at last.”

  George looked at Dumas’s palm, then extended his own hand. But he didn’t quite touch; he waited to see Dumas’s reaction to that very human yet very hairy hand.

  Dumas took George’s hand, used the other to cup it, and shook heartily. “I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon. I did see you in the rearview mirror.”

  “I couldn’t come to meet you. Dad’s teaching me to force back the change, as needed, but I can’t do it when it’s a full moon and if I’m angry.” George’s blue eyes narrowed. “And the destruction of my mother’s shed made me very angry.”

  “As it should. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but between your sister and I, we’ve cleared away at least one of the problem areas.” Dumas stepped back. “I suspect you might have some bear scratches on your chest?”

  “Yeah.” George moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “Mom stitched them and smeared her ointment on them. They itch and they hurt, but I’ll be okay. I dropped the bears off not far from here.”

  “They followed you home,” Dumas told him.

  “George is a natural with the animals.” Shawn sounded proud. “He understands them, and they understand him. We think it’s a meshing of Theresa’s genetics and mine that has created this empathetic young man who relates to all creatures on earth.”

  “Except girls,” George muttered.

  “You carry the banner and I’ll march in that parade,” Dumas told him.

  When Dumas looked at him, he realized Shawn had transitioned back to his yeti form.

  “Your sister saved my life today,” Dumas told George.

  George smiled. “She’s a good shot, isn’t she?”

  “A great shot.” Dumas turned back toward the table.

  “Not better than me, though,” George added.

  “A challenge.” Donatti smiled evilly. “We’ll see about that.”

  Dumas liked this family. They were real, they were fond of each other, and they weren’t afraid to be themselves.

  “What’s for dinner?” George asked.

  “Gumbo.” Dumas started toward the stove. “Shall I serve it?”

  “Yessir!” George spoke with the enthusiasm of a growing boy and started toward the table.

  As Theresa bustled to the oven to remove the loaf of bread, she said, “See, Shawn? I told you I didn’t need to make anything more than two loaves of bread and a huckleberry pie.”

  * * *

  ISBN-13: 9781488078279

  Right Motive

  Copyright © 2020 by Christina Dodd

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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  Photo credit: Marc von Borstel

  CHRISTINA DODD

  New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd writes “edge-of-the-seat suspense” (Iris Johansen) with “brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor that are pure Dodd” (Booklist). Her books have been called “scary, sexy, and smartly written” by Booklist, and much to her mother’s delight, Dodd was once a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. With more than fifteen million copies of her books in print, Dodd’s fans know that when they pick one up they’ve found, as Karen Robards writes, “an absolute thrill ride of a book!” Enter Christina’s worlds and join her mailing list for humor, book news and entertainment (yes, she’s the proud author with the infamous three-armed cover) at christinadodd.com.