With Lilly and Jenna Plunkett in the house, I took a few moments alone to inspect the murder scene. I avoided poor Mr. Plunkett's lifeless body since I wasn't wearing any protective gear and, of course, since I wasn't authorized to do so. My mind combed through a few tangled thoughts that led me right to one clear idea—since this appeared to be a homicide, I could expect to see Detective Jackson roll up to the Plunkett farm. I wasn't entirely sure I was ready to see him again. I was also not ready to explain to him how I once again managed to end up at a murder scene.
I made a gentle, nearly tippy-toe circle around the body and didn't notice anything significant until I reached his feet. They were closest to the barn opening. In the layer of dust that had accumulated on top of the otherwise hard packed dirt of the barn floor, I spotted prints from a large pair of shoes, possibly even work boots. Their heavy tread left wavy horizontal channels in the debris. Because of his position, I had a clear view of the soles of Grayson Plunkett's work boots. The treads didn't match at all. The footprints in the dust had come from someone else, someone who had murder on their mind when they walked into the barn.
The incriminating footprints were fragile enough to be erased by a good breeze and most certainly by the harried footsteps of the paramedics and other first responders who would soon descend upon the Plunkett farm. I glanced around and spotted a row of mucking rakes hanging from nails on the back wall of the barn. They could be used as makeshift caution tape.
I hurried to the back wall and pulled down three of the rakes. I returned to the prints and created a protective triangle around them. In the distance, sirens began to break up the quiet summer day. By my guess, they were still a few miles out, and the vehicles would be slowed by the unpaved stretch of road leading to the farm.
I had a few more minutes to myself before they arrived. Six horse stalls took up the rear end of the barn, but the first half, where Mr. Plunkett lay, was a breezeway, a place where horses could be cross tied and groomed or saddled. A tack room took up most of the wall on the right, but the left had been made into smaller animal pens, for pigs or goats. The three pens were filled with straw, but the animals must have been out in a pasture because the pens were empty.
The sliding door to the tack room was open a few feet. Without touching anything, I stepped inside and glanced around. The room was thick with the smell of leather. Jutting metal bars held an impressive array of saddles, both western and English. Reins and leather bridles hung on hooks near the saddles. It was a clean, nicely organized tack room. Nothing seemed out of place. Unlike the center aisle and the animal pens, the tack room had a cement floor which had been swept clean. I doubted the murderer would have had any reason to enter the tack room. From what I'd seen, I'd already theorized that the killer walked just a few feet into the barn and shot Grayson Plunkett in the back. There was a good chance the poor man never saw or heard it coming.
"Shooting practice." My voice sounded extra quiet in the vast building. Sammy heard shots and assumed Ronny was engaged in target practice. But Ronny was at summer school. Sammy must have heard the shot that killed Grayson Plunkett. That meant he hadn't been dead for more than an hour. He might still have been lying in the barn undiscovered if Lilly hadn't marched out to, as Helena put it, give someone a tongue lashing.
It seemed the footprints were going to be the big find at the scene. As I waited for the sirens to get closer, I meandered across to the empty small animal pens. I glanced briefly and somewhat haphazardly around the pens, certain they wouldn't provide any clues but was stunned to discover the shiny metal end of a gun barrel sticking out from a tangle of straw. I stared at the object for a few seconds astounded that a murder weapon would be left at the scene. It was hardly even hidden in the straw, almost as if the perpetrator was hoping to get caught.
Jenna came out of the back door as the paramedics and police pulled up to the farm. She waved them through a stretch of dirt that had been carved out to allow vehicles to reach the barn and sheds.
I reached her as she stood with puffy eyes and nose watching the procession of emergency vehicles. A familiar detective's car rolled in behind the somber parade. My entire body reacted as if I'd just been snapped with a bolt of static electricity. Since I hadn't reported a death, I wasn't expecting to see Jackson yet. I hadn't prepared myself.
"My dad is dead." Jenna's voice broke as she sniffled. She had a tissue hiding in her curled up fist, and she used it to blow her nose. "My mom told me."
"I'm afraid it looks that way," I said.
Her shoulders slumped forward as she crossed her arms around herself.
I badly wanted to ask her who might have shot her dad, but she looked so frail and devastated, it wasn't the right time. "How is your mother?" I asked.
She sniffled again. "Just how you would expect. In shock and angry."
My face swung her direction. Maybe the timing wasn't wrong after all. It was possible the two women, as they came to grips with the grim reality that the patriarch of the family was dead, had already placed the blame solidly at someone's feet. And I had an inkling of whose feet those might be.
"Did your mom see something? Does she know who shot your dad?"
Jenna blew her nose. Her shiny, dark hair swished as she shook her head. "She didn't see anything, but there's only one person who hated my dad enough to kill him." Jenna looked pointedly across the fields toward the Carmichael farm.
The paramedics pulled their bags out of the truck, my cue to show them to the victim. At the same time, I tried my best to ignore the tall, amber eyed detective who was just parking his unmarked sedan.
Both paramedics were young and fresh faced and eager to get to work on their victim.
"He's right in here." I waved toward the barn opening. "He was shot in the back. My uneducated guess would be that the shot was fatal," I added.
Their gazes shot toward me. I nodded to confirm that they'd heard me correctly. We entered the barn, and more voices streamed in after us. Two uniformed police trailed in behind. We were in a more remote part of Hickory Flats, so they weren't officers I recognized.
One of the officers was about to step directly into my rake triangle.
"Wait! Don't step over the rakes."
They both looked somewhat askance at a civilian giving them orders. I pointed out the footprints. "I think these look important, but they'll be ruined if we walk on them."
"Already taking charge of the evidence?" A deep voice that still, even when speaking dryly, sent my pulse into overdrive.
With some inner mental encouragement, I turned to face him. He looked breathtaking but then that was his usual look.
I smiled coyly. "I guess you're surprised to see me."
He scratched the side of his chiseled jaw. "Actually, Bluebird, the way you keep showing up at these murders, I'd be surprised not to see you."