Before Tavish could move, someone grabbed her arm. Helen.
Tavish tried to pull from the woman’s grasp. “Who is that man?”
“Did you see someone snooping?”
“Not exactly snooping. I saw a man with a camera and briefcase with a Salvador Dali mustache. Is that the insurance investigator?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met the man.”
“Just what have you got yourself into, Helen?”
“Nothing. Filthy lies. Don’t make a scene.”
“Let go!” Tavish glared into her mother’s tight-lipped face. “You’re making the scene.”
Helen glanced around. “If he’s an insurance investigator, just meet with him and get it over with. He’s right over . . .” He was gone. The guests continued to mingle and chatter with each other in small groups.
“He’s gone.” Tavish again looked at her mother. “We have to talk.”
“Later.”
“But—”
“We will talk in the morning. Go.” Her mother released her arm, stepped back, and said—loud enough for nearby guests to hear—“Of course I understand. Teaching art to underprivileged children should come first.”
Tavish stared at her mother a moment, turned, and walked away, her legs feeling like she’d run a marathon. The farther she got from the poolside party, the faster she pushed herself. Thoughts bounced around in her brain.
What does the man at the party have to do with anything? He reacted when he saw me. Maybe because he saw me near John Coyote’s house? What was he doing there? And why is Helen acting so strange? Is any of this related to last night and the shooting?
By the time she reached her house, she was running. How is my mother involved? She couldn’t be aware of the attempt on my life or she would have acted differently when I showed up at the party.
If Dali-mustache is the insurance investigator, what is he investigating? The artwork is here. Why did Helen say “filthy lies”? Insurance fraud? Did she arrange to have her own artwork stolen?
Tavish slammed the door shut and leaned against it. The crazy thoughts continued to swirl in her brain.
Dusty Rhodes suggested her mother had expensive tastes. Helen had avoided answering her question about returning the insurance money. Could Helen be in financial trouble? If so, the money Tavish was set to inherit would come in mighty handy.
For once Marley hadn’t emptied the dirty-clothes hamper. Tavish swiftly pulled on a pair of jeans, good running shoes, and a loose-fitting T-shirt. She grabbed a hooded sweatshirt and jacket. The phone rang, but she ignored it.
She needed to drop out of sight until she could figure out who was trying to kill her. And why.
I can drive to . . . Wait . . . Her car was still parked in Helen’s garage. She couldn’t retrieve it without being seen by the guests. She dropped the jacket and sweatshirt on the sofa.
The gathering wouldn’t last forever. No one would try anything in broad daylight. She could relax. Maybe do . . . something. Think about the timeline of events. Review the facts. She paced across the living room and back. I drew their faces. Someone should recognize one of the sketches. I need to call about Sawyer. Find out what happened to him. She paced faster. Does any of this have to do with Softmode? Microchips—
“Umph!”
She fell.
Marley yelped and raced from the room.
“Oh, Marley, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
The dog trotted into the room and sat.
“Okay, I’ll stop pacing. Action, I need to take action.” She picked up the phone book and looked up the sheriff’s number. She really needed to replace her cell phone.
It took a few minutes for her to figure out the town of Bernalillo was not in Bernalillo County, but Sandoval. She dialed the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Department. After a stream of recorded information, a human finally answered.
“I’m calling about the two murder victims found last night at Dusty Rhodes’s trailer. One of them was Dusty Rhodes. The other was”—she swallowed hard—“Sawyer Price.”
“I don’t know anything about a Sawyer Price. Let me connect you to Lieutenant Hammen.”
In a few moments, a man answered. “Lieutenant Hammen.”
“Yes. I’m calling about the two murder victims found last night at Dusty Rhodes’s trailer.”
“Two? Who’s calling, please?”
She disconnected. That was stupid. He now had her number. Sure enough, the phone rang. She picked it up.
“We must have been disconnected. Who am I speaking to?”
“Evelyn McTavish.”
“And are you one of the dead people?”
“Excuse me?” Tavish gripped the phone.
“An FBI agent—”
“Sawyer!” Tavish gasped. “He’s . . . dead?”
Lieutenant Hammen paused for a moment. “Um . . . maybe we need to talk in person.”
“So he is dead.” Tavish swallowed hard.
“Miss McTavish, this is an active investigation, and I’m not at liberty to reveal details to you. I can tell you that an FBI agent reported you as dying in the shooting and fire.”
Only Sawyer would believe I died in the fire. He’s alive!
“. . . As your car was missing, and no female bodies were found, we thought—we hoped—you might just show up. We put out an APB on your car. I’ll cancel that, but I need you to come in to our office for an interview and statement as soon as possible. You’re a witness.”
“I didn’t see the shooter.”
“We need to have you come down to our office and tell us exactly what you did see. And hear. And did.”
“Who did this? Do you know?”
“Not yet. We believe it’s someone connected with Antifa.”
“Antifa? But I thought—”
“We need you to come in and share those thoughts. If transportation is a problem, I can send an officer to pick you up.”
“No. I’ll come there.”
“When can I expect you?”
“Could you get word to Sawyer that I’m alive and . . .” Want to see him? Have him hold me?
Lieutenant Hammen sighed. “I’ll tell him when I see him. When can you come in?”
Sawyer said he was investigating. She trusted him. Not so much the sheriff’s department. If she didn’t come in, would they arrest her?
“Miss McTavish, do you want me to come to you? Or shall I—”
“I’ll be there in three hours.” She crossed her fingers and didn’t look at Marley.
“Do you know how to find the department?”
“I’ll get there.” She disconnected.
Marley was still sitting in the same place.
“Don’t say a word about my lying. We have three hours to figure this out and disappear for a bit. It’s hard to kill someone you can’t find.”
She moved to the kitchen table, Marley hot on her heels. “I’m not going to be a victim. Or an innocent bystander, or collateral damage, or an unfortunate accident.” She pointed at the dog. “Got that?” The spiral notebook still rested where she’d left it. “I’m tired of being shot at, attempted incineration, accused of being nuts, car stolen, someone in my house, told by my mother!” Her voice had reached a shout. She took a deep breath and lowered her tone. “That ‘we’ll talk about it in the morning.’”
She opened her sketchbook and laid out the drawing she’d done of John Coyote, then retrieved her laptop. It took a moment to boot up the machine and look up Happy Tails Dog Shelter. After checking the time, she dialed. “Hello, is Mr. Brown working?”
“No,” a pleasant woman said. “May I take a message?”
“He called me about, um, my dog. He found me through a microchip, and I was wondering if I could get more information.”
“That’s not a problem. Give me your name and address and a few minutes. I’ll look it up.”
Tavish did as asked. After being put on hold, the woman returned. “I found it. What information did you need?”
“When Mr. Brown first called, he gave me some numbers. Could you give them to me?”
“Certainly. Thirty-five, zero three, seventeen seventy-nine, then your name and address.”
After jotting the numbers in the notebook, Tavish asked, “Are the numbers separated by spaces or dashes, or are they all run together, like three-five-zero-three-one-seven-seven-nine?”
“Good question. Spaces between every two numbers.”
“By any chance did the information list who put the microchip in?”
“Usually no, but this one listed Mountain View Veterinary Hospital.”
Tavish thanked her and disconnected. Opening her spiral notebook to a clean page, she wrote:
The numbers were odd. A phone number would be seven digits, nine with an area code. Zip codes were five or, with the extension, nine. Not a date. Lock combination? She typed the numbers into her laptop. Keno numbers, sessional papers, astronomical observations, labor statistics. Whatever it was, John wanted her to know because he put it with her name. She sighed and continued to write.
Her pencil skidded on the last entry. If someone wanted to keep tabs on her, would they have put something in her home? Was she being watched now?
She hunched her shoulders and shivered. If she was being watched, they’d know she had survived the shooting and explosion. Gritting her teeth, she continued to write.
She had only her mother’s comment that the man at the party might be the insurance investigator. But her mother hadn’t even seen the man. Was Tavish making a bad assumption? Could more than one person be watching her?
“This is ridiculous.” She stood and moved to the center of the living room. Slowly she turned, staring at each surface and object. Nothing looked out of place. She didn’t even know what to look for.
She’d have to assume someone was watching. After checking her watch, Tavish peered toward the pool. The soiree seemed to have ended. The catering service her mother used was busy cleaning up. They’d be done in about an hour.
She’d work until the coast was clear, then head out to . . . somewhere.
The prickly feeling was stronger than ever.
She returned to her notes. Under the last entry, she continued to write.
How could she have been followed? More likely, Sawyer had her tracking device with him, and he’d been stalked—with the shooter believing it was her. Of course, all of that was an assumption. She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t one of Dusty’s psycho listeners who’d finally snapped.
She stared at the name, then drew a line through it. “That’s what whoever is behind this wants the police to think.”
She’d need to sketch the Dali guy and add it to her growing pile of drawings.
She could link two people to her mother—John Coyote and Mr. Dali-mustache—and the start of the events seemed to be the party in March.
Tavish had set up a drafting table in the second bedroom. Collecting her notes and the sketches she’d already completed, she moved everything to the taboret next to the drafting table.
The sketch of the Dali-mustached man took a little more than an hour. She added it to the other drawings and placed them all in a small portfolio along with her notes. She tapped the small pile of evidence, picked up the phone, and dialed. The recorded voice informed her it was after hours for the FBI, but she could leave a message.
She disconnected without saying anything.
What if Sawyer can’t help me? The thought left her gasping for air. He was a federal law-enforcement officer. Nothing that had happened was a federal crime, was it?
Outside of Sawyer, who could she really trust?
Maybe the question should be what could she really trust?
Money. She looked down at the dog. “For your information, Marley, I have scads of money. Well, maybe not scads, but enough to hire a bodyguard, or a bunch of bodyguards, and pay for a private investigator. And maybe a lawyer.”
Marley sniffed.
“If Sawyer . . .” Her voice caught. “If Sawyer can’t get involved, I can pay for my own protection.”
Marley barked.
“Of course I know what time it is. The bank’s closed, as is the post office, UPS, and FedEx. I can’t get funds or mail the evidence until morning.” Whoever tried to kill her knew her car, where she lived, everything. The car problem wasn’t an issue—she’d just take the staff pickup.
What if she put her materials someplace safe, then called Sawyer and told him where he could collect them? If he refused, she could hire someone and do the same thing. She could go away until the killers were arrested and the coast was clear.
She paced across the living room. Her mother’s home was secure, but it had been broken into this year, as had hers.
A face flashed through her mind. The man at the cemetery—Ezekiel Lewis. No one had been around when they met, and he’d offered to listen to her.
Can you trust him?
I have to. She retrieved his card and dialed the number. He answered on the first ring. “Hi, Ezekiel, it’s Tavish. I don’t know if you remember me. We met at the cemetery and you gave me your card.”
“Tavish! Of course I remember you. Did you decide to take me up on my offer?”
“Sort of. I’d like to drop by, if that’s okay with you. I . . . might need some help.”
“Absolutely. I’ll see you soon.”
Checking the pool area, she saw that all seemed to be quiet. She gathered dog chow, bottled water, and bowls into a cloth bag. In a roller bag, she packed enough clothing for several days, toiletries, the portfolio, and all the cash she had around the house. She’d cash a check tomorrow. At the last minute she added a blanket and pillow.
Taking one last tour of the house to be sure she had everything, she pulled on her sweatshirt and jacket and quietly slipped outside, Marley in tow.
Most of her mother’s lights were out, with only her office illuminated. Good. The office was on the opposite side of the house from the garage. The truck keys were under the windshield wiper. She still winced when the garage door opened, and it wasn’t until they’d driven two blocks away that she could breathe normally.
The old man lived at the base of the Sandia Mountains in a beautifully maintained, single-level patio home. He met her at the door. Marley wagged a greeting and was rewarded with a scratch behind her ear.
They didn’t speak until he’d shown her into a well-appointed living room smelling faintly of lemon oil. Photographs of a plump woman with a generous smile covered the top of a grand piano in the corner of the room. The hardwood floors gleamed where they peeked out from under priceless oriental rugs. She sat on a sepia-colored leather sofa, and he sat opposite on a matching chair. He studied her face for a moment.
“Why, Tavish, are you running for your life?”