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It took every bit of self-control Adam had to keep from heading to Harlan’s house to see how he was doing. He’d have to console himself with the fact Beverly would check on Harlan later. The only cure for his worries was work, and he had plenty of that.
First up was a check of local property records to look for a “Rotheimer,” the name Fern Gery gave him for one of Wallace Ryall’s lawsuit victims. The same victim whose efforts fighting the lawsuit had allegedly cost the man his job, his wife, and his kids. He did find a Payton Rotheimer who’d died a year or so ago. Adam made a note to dig further into his family and whether they’d be livid enough with Ryall to kill him over it.
When Adam’s cell rang, he was surprised to hear Beverly’s voice. Afraid it was bad news, he rushed to ask, “Is Harlan okay?”
“I haven’t been over yet, but I will. I made a stop at Harlan’s store to talk with Prospero.”
“Beverly—”
“It was to apologize, okay? For barging in when your Joe Brimm was there fingerprinting.”
“You’re only calling to tell me that? I mean, I’m grateful for the heads-up, but you didn’t have to.”
“I asked Prospero if Braddon Hopper visited the store recently. And Prospero thinks he had. And get this, he wanted to look at swords.”
“Swords? Very interesting. We’ll check into it. Thanks for the tip, but don’t make this solo act of yours a habit, ‘kay?”
“A habit is what a nun wears. I have no intention of getting those any time soon. And you’re welcome.”
When she hung up, he felt a twinge at the way his comment had come out like he was ungrateful. But headstrong Beverly had a way of getting herself into trouble, and Adam didn’t need that on his overflowing plate along with everything else.
He rubbed his temples and stared at the computer screensaver—of a llama dressed in a cop uniform Jinks had installed as a joke—that seemed to be mocking him. This day was getting better and better.
As he hunched over his computer, a hand moved in from his left and dangled something he didn’t recognize in front of him. “What’s that?” He caught a whiff of something exotic that smelled like cardamom.
Jinks replied, “I know you hate donuts in principle, but this isn’t a donut. It’s a kolompeh.”
“Never heard of it.”
“A gourmet chef like you? I’m shocked. Felicia works with a woman from Iran, and these are a big deal there. Cookies made from flour and a bunch of stuff like dates, walnuts, cardamom. And I think saffron. And sometimes sesame.”
He studied it. “It’s quite intricate. How do they make these? A press?”
“There’s the chef I know and love coming back to me. Yep. Then decorated by hand.”
She placed it on a napkin on his desk. “Think you’ve dropped a couple of pounds over the past few days. Time to fatten you up.”
“They do say the best diet is stress.”
“Amen to that. But don’t leave me in suspense. How did Harlan’s arraignment go?”
“Good and bad. He was released on bail with home monitoring.”
“Okaaay. That’s good. I think. So why the long face? I mean, other than the prosecuting attorney being the same guy who defended a man Harlan beat up years ago.”
“Said prosecutor is also good friends with Mayor Lehmann, who was there today, so there’s that. Plus, it’s the whole thought of Harlan being treated like a pariah. Ankle monitor and all.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s strong, and he’s got the best detective on his case. Make that plural, if I’m helping.” She grinned, and he relaxed a degree or two.
“Speaking of cases, Jinks, how’s that sexual assault thing going? Mariel McWilliams, right?”
“The girl’s still traumatized but putting up a brave front. I’d dearly love to nail the evil bastard. A date rape drug, following her out of a very crowded bar, attacking her when she’s most vulnerable. Alas, no witnesses.”
“Keep at it. I’ll help when I can. More of that teamwork you mentioned.”
“Batman and Robin.”
Adam shook his head. “Not getting me to wear tights.”
“Aw, you’d be adorable.”
“Deplorable is more like it.” Adam tapped his pen on the desk. “Think I’d like to head back to the crime scene for a fresh look. Care to come with?”
“I’d dearly love to slog through leftover snow and mud with you. But I have a new lead, myself. Meeting one of the bar regulars where Mariel was drugged.”
“I could go along with you instead.”
“I’ve got a feeling this is another dead end. Hardly worth wasting your time.” Then she winked at him. “Maybe you should take Sergeant Moody.”
He glared at her, and she laughed and gave him a quick wave, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the kolompeh cookie. He took a tentative bite. Damn. Flaky, delicate, not too sweet. He wolfed the rest down and made plans to find a recipe so he could try making some himself.
Jinks was right. He had dropped a few pounds recently without trying. He grabbed a sugary soda on the way out of the building—with a silent apology to his dentist—and headed to his car. He’d honed a pretty good sense of direction working cases in this neck of Vermont through the years. But he was still grateful for his GPS that helped him navigate right to the site of Wallace Ryall’s murder.
It wasn’t all that far from Harlan’s favorite ice-fishing spot, one that Adam hoped his friend would be able to visit again in the not-too-distant future as a free man. The police tape was still there, cordoning off the area. He’d already got a call from Farmer Wigley fretting about when that tape would come down, with Adam having to placate him that it wouldn’t be much longer.
Adam made sure to park down the road. Since the police and EMTs and their vehicles had slogged through the scene, he didn’t expect to find any new tire tracks. Not that he was sure what he hoped to find. They were pretty thorough, but it wouldn’t be the first time a police unit had overlooked something.
He ducked under the tape and made his way to the tree, still stained with blood and still sporting a sword tip-sized hole in the trunk. The snow had partially melted, leaving some of that mud Jinks “loved” so much. He took in the sights, sounds, and smells. Dirty snow had a different smell from fresh snow—or else it was all the exhaust fumes from cars and pollution it absorbed.
Winter was one of his favorite times of the year. Quieter, for one, just the sound of the wind and a few crows. Balsam fir trees perfumed the air with their woodsy scent, and every now and then, wood smoke from chimneys wafted his way.
He spied some animal tracks in what remained of the snow and studied them. Not a muskrat or a mink. Most likely a snowshoe hare. He followed the tracks for a few feet and then noticed a second pair of tracks—a fisher. Fishers were known to eat hares, but since he didn’t see any signs of blood or a struggle, maybe this bunny got lucky.
Winter was the season of death, wasn’t it? But why Wallace Ryall and why now? And why here? It was away from prying eyes, sure, but if someone were trying to frame Harlan for the murder, there were much easier and neater ways to do it, like Jinks said.
If not a frame-up, then nothing about it made any sense. The murderer could have killed Ryall in such a way to make it look like suicide. Why draw attention to it?
When he heard a noise not far from where he’d parked his car, he whipped around to see if he was no longer alone. But no new vehicles or even fisher cats. Probably nothing. As often as Beverly Laborde turned up at times like this, he half-expected her to pop out from behind the bushes any minute.
It was bad enough Adam’s ex-wife was doing some kind of peculiar dance making him question that relationship, but Beverly. . .she was a more complicated conundrum. And she seemed determined to undermine him at times, accidentally, willfully, or subconsciously, hard to say.
He’d never known a con woman—make that a hopefully former con woman—before. Definitely none any smarter and more beautiful. He slapped the side of his head at that thought. Focus, bucko.
Adam closed his eyes to recall the GPS map of the area. Whoever drove the car creating the tire tracks that fateful day traveled down the one-way Happy Valley Road. He would have had to turn around a quarter of a mile down from the crime scene in the lone gravel cut-out. Did the murderer simply happen upon it by accident?
Adam had to laugh at the thought of their killer saying, “Well now, this looks like a nice little spot for murder.”
A sudden squawking from above turned his attention to the trees. The source of the earlier sound, no doubt. About a dozen crows perched on the gray branches of a leafless maple like ornaments on a noir Christmas tree. One of the bunch swooped down by his head, making him jump back, starting a cacophony from the crow-ish “choir.” The swooping-crow dropped to the ground and seemed to be interested in something shiny on the ground. Adam shooed the bird away and squatted down to get a better look.
It was a small silver metal circle with a hole in the center. A tiny bit of the circle was missing like the object had broken and fallen off something, but what? It didn’t look antique, but it certainly wasn’t dropped by a fisher or snowshoe hare. He carefully carried the piece to the car to place it in a baggy for safekeeping.
He returned to the site of the find and carefully sifted through the snow to see what else he might turn up. They must have missed this earlier. Wasn’t dropped since then, half-hidden as it was under the old snow.
But after a methodical grid-pattern search, he came up empty. With his luck, the damned crow dropped this and was coming back to retrieve it. Crows were known to be attracted to shiny objects and even carry them off.
He looked over at the swooping-crow who’d hung around watching Adam, making clicking noises as if laughing at his failed efforts. Adam called out to it, “Thanks for nothing, bird.”
Despite the crows and Farmer Wigley’s nearby farm, this was a lonely place. Wallace Ryall’s killer had gagged him before running him through with the sword, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Any screams would get carried away on the wind and be indistinguishable from the ungodly screeching of a fisher cat.
It was difficult for Adam not to feel empathy for a victim’s pain and suffering, but objectivity was critical. Still, the image of Ryall tied up and gagged, watching helplessly as the sword was pulled back before being plunged into his chest, was hard to take.
Adam gave one last glance around before heading to the car. He didn’t know why, but he waved at his crow. The bird flew to the hood of the car and stared at Adam through the windshield. Then, with a flapping of his blue-black wingtip feathers spread out like fingers, it took off.
Too bad crows couldn’t talk. The one thing Adam desperately needed right then was a good witness. With a sigh, he headed back toward the office. There would be many a phone call and investigative mile to go before he slept tonight.
