by Irene Hannon
“I thought so. Need anything else today?”
“If I do, I’ll be in touch.”
“The Acme Detective Agency stands ready to meet your every need.”
At his brother’s atypical jocularity, Finn narrowed his eyes and swung down a side street as the chief returned to his car. “What’s with you today? You’re in unusually high spirits.”
“Must have something to do with impending fatherhood.”
Finn’s mouth dropped open, and he jammed on the brake. “Lisa’s pregnant?”
“Yep.”
“Man. That’s . . . wow! Did you tell Mom and Dad?”
“Earlier today.”
“I bet they were over the moon.”
“You might say that. Mom’s already planning a baby shower for Lisa.”
“That sounds like her.” Out of the corner of his eye, Finn caught the chief’s car passing the side street. He executed a quick U-turn and zipped back to the main road. “We’ll make Saturday a double celebration. Congratulations—and give her my best.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. See you Saturday.”
As he slid the phone back in its holster, a slow smile tugged up the corners of Finn’s lips.
Mac—a father.
What a kick.
And that would make him an uncle.
Uncle Finn.
Not bad.
He picked up speed as the chief accelerated back toward town. Hard to believe a new generation of McGregors was on the way.
And if all went as he hoped with Dana, he might not be too far behind making his own contribution to the family line.
“Good morning.” Dana turned from the stove in Finn’s cabin as he entered the kitchen.
“Morning. Thanks for getting up to cook breakfast.”
“My pleasure. I wanted to do it yesterday, but you beat me to it—again.”
“I was awake early yesterday—again.” He wandered over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “Need any help?”
“No. I have it under control. Why don’t you sit and enjoy your coffee?”
He followed her suggestion without protest.
Hmm. That was revealing—as were the faint lines etched beside his eyes and the shadows beneath his lower lashes.
Finn might think he could survive on limited sleep forever, but after four days, it was taking an obvious toll.
Worst of all, despite the considerable effort he’d put into solving the mystery of Lewis Lake, they were no closer to answers now than they’d been when he’d begun watching the chief. Burnett kept showing up each night at the cabin . . . but nothing ever happened.
“You know, I’m beginning to think the vandals are through at my place.” She set a plate of pancakes in front of her host.
“That thought’s crossed my mind too.” He opened the bottle of syrup and squirted some on the stack. “But the chief hasn’t stopped watching for them yet.”
“I expect he will soon, don’t you?”
“Depends on what he knows that we don’t.”
“He didn’t dive last night, did he?”
“No. There hasn’t been any more diving since the night I spotted him on the far side of the lake.”
She joined him at the table with her own plate in hand. “Do you think the gold he sold is somehow related?”
“I don’t see how. The bank manager said he retrieved it from his safe-deposit box, and it’s common knowledge in town that Burnett’s wife came from money.” He raked his fingers through his hair, frustration scoring his features. “None of the pieces are fitting.”
“Do you think we might be complicating this too much?” She used the tip of her knife to slide a pat of butter over her top pancake, watching it slowly dissolve. “He might be hanging out here hoping to catch the vandals himself. We know the department doesn’t have the personnel to do a stakeout, and he strikes me as a dedicated guy who’d be willing to put in extra hours to solve a case. As for my vandals, they could have gotten tired of their games.”
“True. Except that doesn’t explain Burnett’s diving. And if he was planning to do night surveillance at the cabin, why not tell you?”
“Both valid points.” She speared a bite of pancake. “But if he wasn’t involved in the vandalism, and the vandals are gone, I should be safe, right? I agree the scuba diving in my lake is odd, but do we really need to find out why? He didn’t hurt anyone doing it. Maybe we should let it go.”
Based on the firm set of Finn’s jaw and his obstinate expression, letting go wasn’t part of his DNA.
His next words confirmed that.
“I don’t like loose ends or unanswered questions. I’m thinking of following a hunch and trying a different tack today.”
“What?”
He forked a piece of pancake and chased some syrup around his plate. “I want to check out Wayne Phelps. Hazel gave me the impression the brief conversation Burnett had with him in the parking lot at the Walleye was out of character. Even stranger, according to her, was that they both took off in the same direction—out of town.”
“Why was that strange?”
“She didn’t offer any specifics then—but I asked a few questions about him when I dropped in at the Walleye yesterday while I was following Burnett. She said Phelps lost his job a few years ago and now earns his living with a market garden, selling his organic vegetables and herbs at farmers’ markets and to restaurants. According to Hazel, he used to be a nice boy who loved his daddy something fierce—her words—but her opinion of him has deteriorated in the recent past.”
“Did she say why?”
“Not directly. But she isn’t impressed with how he’s let his folks’ place go downhill since they died—and she used the words loner and surly to describe him.”
“Hmm.” Dana wasn’t about to discount Finn’s instincts . . . but homing in on Phelps? Seemed like a stretch. “Do you think it’s worth spending a lot of effort on such a wild card?”
“It can’t hurt. I’ve gotten nowhere with Burnett.”
“What about today’s birthday lunch with your brothers?”
He shrugged and finished off his pancakes. “I may bail.”
“No.” She set her fork down and sat up straighter. She was not going to let her troubles interfere with such an important family event. “You can’t not show up, especially now that you have two things to celebrate. I’d feel terrible if I was the reason you missed it.”
He studied her over the rim of his mug. “I’m running out of time to solve this, Dana. My last day in Beaumont is Wednesday.”
As if she didn’t know that. It was circled in black on her calendar.
“You could check Wayne out after you get back from St. Louis.”
He took a sip of coffee. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s compromise. Lance scheduled a late lunch, so I’ll work the Phelps angle this morning, show up for lunch, and see if I can pick up his tail after I get back. Sound reasonable?”
“No. With that agenda, you’ll end up putting in another eighteen- or twenty-hour day.”
“I can catch up on sleep in Atlanta.”
“Hah. I bet your father is chomping at the bit to get you on board and up to speed at the firm.”
“He’ll cut me some slack for the first few days after I explain what went on here.” He drained his coffee. “You want to stay here today or go to your place?”
“I’d like to work while you’re gone. If I get a little ahead, I’ll have a few more hours to spend with you before you leave—assuming we solve our mystery soon so your schedule frees up.”
“No arguments from me on that.” He twisted his wrist to examine his watch. “It’s early, and Phelps isn’t too far away. If he’s in the market garden business, he’s probably long gone to some Saturday farmers’ market. That will give me a chance to poke around his place.”
“You’re going to trespass?”
He gave her a look of mock indignation. “That would be illegal. I’m just going to stop by f
or a visit. If no one answers the door, who would blame me for taking a walk around the place to see if I can find him?”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
He grinned and guzzled the last of his coffee. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you.”
She sighed and propped her elbow on the table, chin in hand. “You know what I wish? I wish our plans for the day included a leisurely spin on the lake, a picnic on the dock, and pie later at the Walleye.”
The fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I like how you think. I propose we implement that plan at the first opportunity—at the very latest on Tuesday.”
“Your last full day here.”
“But the prelude to lots of days in a new chapter of our lives.”
Warmth filled her heart. “As you said a moment ago—I like the way you think.” She squeezed his hand, rose, and began clearing the table.
He joined her half a minute later, working with his usual quiet efficiency.
Twenty minutes later, with a kiss and a promise to stop in before eleven with a report before he drove to St. Louis for lunch, he disappeared down her drive.
She closed the door, flipped the locks, and strolled over to her computer. Her neighbor had tenacity, she’d give him that. Unable to discount his negative vibes about what was going on in Beaumont, he was wearing himself out trying to keep her safe.
But as she booted up her computer, she felt more secure than she had in weeks. While lots of unanswered questions remained, everything had been quiet at the cabin for days. Why not let the mystery rest?
Given her druthers, that’s what she’d choose.
Because if no one had gotten hurt yet despite plenty of opportunities to inflict harm, was there really any reason to think danger might still be lurking in the shadows?
Talk about perfect timing.
As Finn’s GPS guided him to the access road to Wayne Phelps’s farm, a small, nondescript pickup truck pulled out, Phelps at the wheel. He wasn’t an exact match for the photo in the news article about Washington County market gardeners that Google had unearthed—his hair was longer, and he sported a scruffy beard—but it was him, no question about it.
Now he could be certain the place was unoccupied.
However . . .
He tapped a finger against the steering wheel. It was late to be leaving for a farmers’ market. Most of the Saturday events started at seven, seven-thirty.
Follow him—or use the window of opportunity to poke around the farm undisturbed?
Finn slowed, grateful he’d opted for dark-tinted windows and generic black when he’d ordered the vehicle. The SUV had the power he wanted without attracting attention. There were countless vehicles like his on the road . . . including a couple in Beaumont.
Phelps’s truck passed him going the opposite direction.
Decision time.
Follow him.
Sound advice. If Phelps ended up at a farmers’ market, he could come back and nose around while the man was hawking his produce.
Without further deliberation, Finn reversed direction and accelerated.
He caught sight of Phelps’s truck again as he rounded a bend, keeping it in view as it traveled through Beaumont. Passed Dana’s drive. Continued north.
Frowning, Finn backed off on the gas. The next town of any size was Potosi, home to the county farmers’ market. If Phelps hadn’t stopped in Beaumont, that was probably his destination. Was it worth a drive all the way there just to watch him unload his new-age vegetables and . . .
Wait.
The pickup slowed.
Finn reduced his speed again.
Thirty seconds later, the truck veered right and disappeared into the woods.
He squinted. Was there even a road there?
Approaching the spot at a crawl, he scrutinized the overgrown ground as the pickup’s receding taillights flickered in the woods. Yes, faint tracks were visible—as if this had once been a road.
Like a forest road, perhaps?
They were on national forest land now.
Land that adjoined the Busch and Lewis property.
His pulse took an uptick. Hard to say for sure what Phelps was up to—but one thing was certain.
He wasn’t going to a farmers’ market.
Finn swung onto the road. If this was the same byway where they’d discovered the buckle, there were spots wide enough to allow a vehicle to turn around. If it wasn’t—if he met Phelps coming back the other way—he could claim he’d been looking for a hiking trail and gotten lost.
Lame—but if the man had nothing to hide, the excuse would be irrelevant.
And if he did . . . Finn rested his fingers against his Beretta, tucked inside the top of his jeans in its concealed carry holster.
He was prepared for any contingency.
Peering through the trees as he jounced over the rough terrain, Finn managed to keep the man in sight thanks to the small cloud of dust billowing in the truck’s wake.
But once that cloud remained stationary, Finn braked as well. If Phelps had arrived at his destination, he needed to squeeze the SUV into one of the niches along the road and proceed on foot.
When the haze of dust stayed in one place and began to settle, Finn picked up his binoculars from the seat beside him and aimed them that direction. Even with his trained eye, it took him a few moments to locate the vehicle. Phelps had pulled off to the side of the road and tucked his truck behind some brush. If the man hadn’t been moving around, he doubted he’d have seen it.
Very suspicious.
If this was some sort of innocent outing, why not leave the truck in plain view?
He watched as Phelps withdrew a large, overstuffed backpack. The kind people took on several-day treks into the wilderness.
But he’d lay odds Phelps hadn’t come out here to commune with Mother Nature.
After hoisting the backpack into position, Phelps crossed the road and disappeared into the woods.
Toward Dana’s property.
Finn’s adrenaline surged.
Tucking the binoculars onto his belt, he slid out of the SUV and jogged down the overgrown road toward the concealed truck. The man might already have melted into the trees, but it wouldn’t be difficult to track him. For one thing, the large backpack would slow his progress. For another, a man carrying that kind of bulk would leave clear evidence of his route through the overgrown woods. And finally, he wasn’t making much effort to conceal his presence. As he approached the truck, Finn had no trouble picking up the sound of Phelps’s movements in the quiet forest.
Once he reached the man’s point of entry into the woods, Finn shifted into stealth mode.
And as he followed the market garden farmer toward Dana’s property, he had a feeling the answers to all their questions were only a short hike away.
20
Roger adjusted his glasses, smoothed a hand over the single sheet of lined yellow paper, and reread what he’d written while sipping his Saturday morning coffee on the back porch. It wasn’t perfect, nor did it right any of his wrongs—but it was the best he could do.
Leaning back, he exhaled and lifted his gaze to the cloudless sky, where a hawk soared, wings outstretched, letting the air current set his course. Someday, once he was gone and long after Leah had passed on to her reward, the gold from Len White’s decades-old crime would at last be returned to its rightful owner.
Most of it, anyway.
Shoulders drooping, he picked up his pen, signed the handwritten document, and slid it into the envelope containing White’s letter to him. He licked the flap, sealed it, and with a hand that wasn’t quite steady, wrote nine words across the front.
To be opened upon the death of Roger Burnett.
On Monday, he’d drop the envelope off at his attorney’s office in Potosi. The man would be curious—but he wouldn’t ask any questions, and he could be trusted to deal with the matter promptly at the appropriate time.
Leaving the envelope on the kitchen table, he pushed himself to his feet. He should have slept in this morning instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to weed Leah’s flower beds. Lord knew he needed some shut-eye after crouching in the brush at Dana Lewis’s place until the wee hours for nights on end. Plus, every muscle in his body ached. His close-to-retirement-age bones weren’t up to that kind of punishment anymore, not like in the old days when he could go twenty hours at a stretch without feeling any ill effects.
Yet sleep was as elusive as the hummingbirds that would soon be flitting around Leah’s feeders, coming almost within reaching distance but always darting away before they could be grasped.
And he had Wayne to thank for his insomnia.
While acid from the java gurgled in his stomach, he pushed through the door into the kitchen, empty mug in hand. The man might be lying low for the moment, but the threat hadn’t gone away. He was up to something.
Roger opened the fridge and inspected the contents. He ought to have some breakfast. A man needed to eat whether he was hungry or not. An egg, maybe. Or toast and jam. Or a bowl of oatmeal.
But nothing tempted his taste buds.
No matter what he fixed for himself, it wouldn’t come close to the great Saturday-morning breakfasts Leah used to whip up for him and John, back in the happy days when his family was intact and laughter rang around his long-empty table.
What little appetite he had evaporated.
Why not go back to bed for a while? Even if he didn’t sleep, he could rest. Or try to. Otherwise, he could end up drifting off during the long night to come at the Lewis place. Wayne might be biding his time, but he’d been clear about his intention to remove all risks of detection.
Especially one named Dana.
Who knew what he’d try next?
Ditching his mug in the sink, Roger trudged back toward the bedroom.
Halfway there, the strains of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” trilled from his cell phone.
He stopped. Looked like sleep wasn’t going to be on his agenda after all. No one would call him on an off-duty Saturday morning unless there was some sort of emergency.
Pulse picking up, he returned to the kitchen and plucked the phone from the charger on the counter. Hopefully this crisis wasn’t related to Leah, like the one two weeks ago after she’d fallen and bruised her knee while trying to run away from the staff at Woodside Gardens.
