UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  Indeed he did. In more ways than one.

  At least there weren’t any reports of the utility-worker impersonators wreaking havoc.

  A fresh pot of coffee—minus the cup Baronick had poured—sat in the corner of Pete’s office. He silently blessed Nancy and picked up his favorite mug. It needed to be washed, but he decided one more cup before it saw suds wouldn’t kill him.

  With a steaming mug of caffeine in hand, he took a seat. Kevin claimed the one across from him. Baronick dragged one of the chairs on wheels from the conference room and edged in next to the night-shift officer. The detective flopped into the chair and rocked back, stopping short of propping his feet on the desk.

  Ordinarily, Pete would have protested the detective’s presence, but this morning he wanted to talk to him anyway.

  “Anything I need to know?” Pete directed the question to both men.

  Kevin reported on a number of minor traffic collisions, courtesy of slippery roads. None of them required an ambulance ride to the ER. “I kept an eye out for the damaged white van while I was patrolling.” He shook his head. “Nada.”

  “I’ve contacted all the body shops in Monongahela and surrounding counties,” Baronick said. “If they take it someplace reputable for repairs, we’ll hear about it.”

  Pete grunted. “‘Reputable’ being the keyword.”

  “Or they could just drive it as is,” Kevin said.

  “Maybe.” Baronick took a long hit from the mug. “But there are hundreds of white panel vans on the road. Considerably fewer have passenger-side front-end damage. If they want to be inconspicuous, they’ll fix it.”

  “Either the repairs or the snow seems to have kept them off the road last night.” Pete caught and held Baronick’s gaze. “Let’s get out there and find them. Today.”

  “Do you want me to stay on duty?” Kevin asked.

  “No. Go home. You put in enough overtime covering for me yesterday.”

  Once Kevin had gone, Pete turned to Baronick. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  The detective feigned a pout. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “No.” Pete wasn’t about to admit otherwise.

  “I’m hurt.” But Baronick rocked forward and rested his forearms on the desk, still cupping the mug in his hands. “I agree we need to nail these guys. Mrs. Bassi was damned lucky she wasn’t home when they returned.”

  Pete wasn’t so sure Sylvia would concur. “Ideas?”

  “I’m going to update our social media posts encouraging residents to be proactive. I think I’ll call another press briefing for later this morning too. These guys didn’t just crawl into a hole. Someone out there knows something.”

  Which reminded Pete of why he wanted to talk to the detective. “Lauren Sanders.”

  Baronick scowled. “Who?”

  “She’s a reporter for a new local paper.”

  “Oh, right. The Phillipsburg Enterprise. We have a pool going on how long before it folds. My money’s on six months. Most of the guys are betting on less than three though.”

  “But you think this area will support a local newspaper for the long haul.” Pete made no effort to contain his sarcasm.

  Baronick grinned. “I’m not betting on the paper. I’m betting on that reporter you just mentioned. Lauren Sanders. I don’t see her going down without a fight.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Personally? I don’t. But she’s been at every press briefing I’ve held recently. The woman’s the proverbial dog with a bone.”

  “If the dog happens to be a pit bull.”

  Baronick’s smile faded. “You don’t like her.” He chuffed a laugh. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t. You hate all reporters.”

  “I gather you do like her.”

  The detective pondered the question a moment before answering. “I admire tenacity.”

  “Is she tenacious? Or fixated on this particular case?” Pete slid the message from Sanders across the desk toward Baronick. “She’s been here twice. She’s left more messages than I care to count—”

  “Because you’re so good at returning her phone calls.”

  Pete glared at the detective. “She showed up at the funeral home last night.”

  This last bit of information seemed to catch Baronick off guard. “She what?”

  Pete remained silent, watching the detective mull it over.

  “She could have become friendly with Mrs. Andrews’ family.”

  Pete continued his silence.

  “But that negates even the appearance of impartiality.”

  “So Lauren Sanders is either the most insensitive reporter I’ve ever met,” Pete said, “or she’s way more invested in this particular story than she’s letting on.”

  FOURTEEN

  Kimberly’s Florida tan had paled on the drive to the old farm. The snow-covered back roads made for an adventurous trip even in Patsy’s four-wheel-drive Tundra. The blast of Arctic air, which hit them the moment the three women stepped out of the pickup, painted a tinge of pink on Zoe’s mother’s cheeks.

  Kimberly let fly a stream of curses that would make a drunken sailor proud. “It was supposed to be warmer this morning.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Zoe said, too soft for her mother to hear. Arguing was never productive where the two of them were concerned, and while it would be heated, it wouldn’t help thaw the current situation.

  At least the frozen landscape provided a buffer to Zoe’s memories of the place. No wagonload of hay. No flies buzzing around a corpse hanging from the barn rafters. The massive maple in the front yard stood stark and naked rather than providing shade to a crew of nauseated farm workers.

  The death of James Engle, the previous owner, wasn’t the first to have taken place on the property. Decades before, Kimberly’s bachelor uncles, Denver and Vernon Miller, had been murdered here, back when they owned it.

  Good thing Zoe didn’t believe in curses.

  She took a step away from the truck’s cab and sunk into snow well above her ankles. The wind sliced through her jeans and long johns, chilling her legs. She wished she had on her quilt-lined coveralls.

  But Kimberly was wearing them. Having arrived in Pennsylvania ill prepared for January, she’d feigned bravado earlier at the Krolls’ house, insisting her idea of a winter coat would be more than sufficient. Zoe, Patsy, and Mrs. Kroll took one look at the stylish leather jacket before combining efforts to provide Kimberly with cold-weather gear. By the time they set out, she was attired in a pair of Patsy’s barn boots, Mrs. Kroll’s fur-lined gloves, Zoe’s bibbed coveralls, and one of Mr. Kroll’s old but warm coats as well as his hat with the ear flaps. Kimberly left the house complaining, but now, standing in front of the dilapidated barn with the thermometer reading twelve degrees—not counting wind chill—she huddled into her borrowed clothing like a turtle retreating into its shell.

  Zoe shoved her hands deep into her pockets and squinted against the bitter wind. The house’s porch sagged worse than she remembered, but the structure appeared sound enough. She could remodel it little by little over time. New windows. Shore up the porch. Strip that horrible red asbestos siding. Was there clapboard beneath it?

  The house had potential. A little fixer-upper.

  As she recalled, the barn was in better shape. The massive doors were closed now, and she took a step toward them.

  Kimberly, however, trudged toward the house. “Let’s get out of this cold.”

  Zoe looked to Patsy for some support, and while she shot a longing glance toward the barn, she shrugged at Zoe and followed Kimberly.

  Zoe glared after them. At least she knew where Patsy’s loyalty lay.

  The closer they got to the porch, the more rickety it appeared. Several of the floorboards were rotted through, leaving gaping holes. Kimberly step
ped onto it and stopped, looking down.

  Zoe suspected her mother would have made some snide comments about the place had she not been “making amends” by giving it to her daughter.

  Kimberly picked her way to the door, a key ring clutched in her gloved hand. Patsy stepped onto the porch behind her, treading carefully. Zoe feared the weight of all three of them would be more than the old lumber could tolerate, so she stayed where she was.

  The screen door screeched when Kimberly opened it. “What the hell?”

  Patsy looked over Kimberly’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s padlocked.”

  Zoe stomped her feet to warm up. “Don’t you have the keys?”

  Kimberly fumbled through the keys on the ring, trying each one and coming up empty. “No.” She let the screen door bang shut and picked her way back across the porch, brushing past Zoe. “There’s another door around the corner.”

  Zoe and Patsy shuffled through the snow behind Kimberly. She was right. The side of the house looked like it had been the front at some point. Zoe searched the yard for signs that a driveway or even a sidewalk had once led to this door, but the snow and a patch of brambles covered any evidence of what might have been. Then again, only strangers had ever used the “front” door of the Krolls’ old farmhouse. Farmers tended to use the entrance closest to the barn.

  Kimberly climbed onto the concrete stoop with a grunt—an additional step would have been nice, but was nonexistent—and planted her fists against her hips. “This one’s padlocked too.” She made a half-hearted effort of trying all the keys. None worked. Pointing at Zoe, she said, “Go around to the back. There’s an entrance to the basement. See if it’s open and then come back and let us know.”

  Of course. Why should Kimberly waste her energy plodding through the snow when Zoe was at her beck and call?

  Another look at Patsy elicited another helpless shrug.

  At least the effort might keep the circulation going in Zoe’s legs. She stumped through the drifts, rounded the corner, and spotted the sloping wooden bulkhead against the foundation. As she made her way closer, she could see the hasp was flipped open. No padlock here. Zoe almost turned to call back to her mother and Patsy, but thought about the similar set-up on the old farmhouse that had burnt. Zoe shuffled the rest of the way to the weathered doors, grabbed the pitted metal handle, and yanked.

  It didn’t budge. She kicked snow away from the bottom edge, but knew it wasn’t the problem. As predicted, a second effort proved equally fruitless.

  She retraced the same path she’d already broken to find her mother hugging herself against the cold and rocking from foot to foot impatiently. “The basement doors are latched from the inside,” Zoe reported.

  Grumbling, Kimberly dug in her purse and came up with a cell phone. “I’ll call the attorney who’s been handling all this.”

  Punching in the number required Kimberly remove one glove. Her grumbling ratcheted up a notch.

  Moments passed as Zoe gathered a receptionist had placed her mother on hold. Meanwhile the wind continued to pierce her jeans, numbing her legs.

  “This is Kimberly Jackson,” she finally announced into the phone. “We’re at my farm right now, and you failed to give me the keys to the padlocks.”

  There was a long silence.

  “The padlocks,” Kimberly repeated, enunciating each syllable as if communicating with someone who didn’t understand the language.

  Another silence.

  “There most certainly are. On both doors.” Kimberly met Zoe’s gaze and rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I don’t care if they aren’t supposed to be there.”

  More silence.

  “Fine.” Kimberly jabbed at the phone, and Zoe suspected she’d much rather have had an old-fashioned landline to slam down. “This is just great. My attorney says no one put padlocks on the doors.” She reached out to Patsy, who took the hint and offered a hand, helping her down. Without a thank you, Kimberly turned and tromped away.

  Patsy started after her. Zoe gazed at the door. Something wasn’t right. She clambered onto the concrete stoop and examined the lock. The hasp and the padlock shined like new. No rust. No pitting.

  “What are you doing?” Patsy had paused at the corner of the house and was watching her.

  Zoe scowled and shook her head. “I’m not sure.” She hopped down into the shin-deep snow and shuffled past her cousin.

  Kimberly stood next to the pickup. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “In a minute,” Zoe called. She stepped onto the dilapidated porch and tried to ignore the give of the rotted wood beneath her feet as she picked her way across and opened the screen door. The hasp and lock that greeted her matched the other. New.

  “Come on.” Kimberly’s insistent whine sounded like a child who wasn’t getting her way.

  Zoe made it to safe ground without falling through the porch decking. “Let her in the truck and crank up the heater,” Zoe told Patsy. “Then meet me at the barn.”

  Kimberly’s complaining carried over the wind, but Zoe ignored it. Someone had recently installed those padlocks. Her mother was the owner of record, and the attorney knew nothing about them. That meant if Zoe took a pry bar to them, she wouldn’t be breaking the law. She hoped there were some tools left in the barn. If not a pry bar, something equally effective at forcible entry.

  Except the barn doors also wore a new hasp and lock. “Crap.”

  “What?”

  Zoe glanced over her shoulder at Patsy. Behind them, the big pickup roared to life. If it weren’t for the snow coating the windshield, Zoe felt certain she’d see her mother shooting looks that would kill at her.

  “I gave Kimberly the keys and told her to warm it up,” Patsy said. “Which of course means she could easily drive away and leave us here.”

  The comment startled Zoe. Not because she didn’t think her mother would do it. But because she didn’t think her mother would abandon Patsy. Or that Patsy would think such a thing.

  Her cousin must have read her mind. “Yeah, Kimberly’s used to getting her way and doesn’t play well with others when she doesn’t.”

  “And she doesn’t drive you crazy?”

  Patsy grinned apologetically. “She’s family. I’ve heard they’re supposed to drive you crazy.”

  “I don’t know about that, but if they are, she’s an expert.”

  “You should cut her some slack.”

  Zoe bristled. “Like she cuts me slack?”

  Patsy’s exhale fogged the air between them. When it cleared, her eyes gleamed. “Kimberly’s hard on you because you’re her daughter, and she loves you.”

  Zoe wanted to gag.

  “You two have a history. You’ve been related all your life. I envy that, family conflict and all. I’ve never had family before, remember?”

  Zoe’s annoyance dissipated like the condensation cloud of her exhalation. “I’m sorry.”

  Patsy waved the apology away. “Forget it.” She nodded toward the barn door. “What are you doing?”

  “Breaking into ‘my’ house,” Zoe said. “Or so I planned, but someone locked the barn too.” She looked around and spotted a wooden handle sticking out of the snow. Hoping it was attached to a shovel or a sledgehammer, she high-stepped through the snow and wrapped her fingers around the wood. It didn’t budge. At all. Buried in the frozen ground until spring thaw. “There has to be something around here we can use to bust in.”

  “I’ll look over here.” Patsy headed around the far side of the barn.

  Zoe shuffled along the side between the barn and the house, scraping the snow away with her boot in hopes of finding a discarded hammer or anything that might work.

  The pickup truck door slammed. She didn’t look, but expected Kimberly to march over and grab her by the ear, insisting they go somewhere warm.
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  Instead, Kimberly called out to her, “Zoe.”

  When Zoe turned, she discovered her mother standing there, holding up a small ax. “Would this help?”

  “Where did you find that?”

  Kimberly thumbed toward the pickup. “Behind the seat.”

  Patsy returned from her scavenger hunt empty-handed.

  Zoe looked at her. “You keep an ax in your truck?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  Zoe snatched the implement from her mother and plowed back to the barn door.

  Kimberly gestured at the house. “Why bother with the barn? Just break into the house.”

  “Because I’d rather replace a few boards than pay for a new entry door.”

  Kimberly looked oblivious. “Huh?”

  “The ax is gonna make a mess. There might be a screwdriver or something less destructive inside that I can use to get into the house.”

  Kimberly muttered something about the house needing a lot more than just new doors, but Zoe ignored her.

  She swung the ax, burying it into the wood next to the hasp.

  Patsy planted her gloved fists on her hips. “You could have tried to pry the lock open with that.”

  True. But Zoe’s fingers were freezing and fast approaching numb. Finessing an ax blade between the wood and the metal seemed like too much effort at the moment, and the blade was too wide to use on the lock. Three good whacks was all it took to cut through the plank. She grabbed the splintered piece and ripped it the rest of the way off.

  Zoe and Patsy scraped the snow from the base of the door to let it swing open wide enough for the women to slip inside.

  Zoe had expected to find hay stacked to the rafters since the last time she’d been there, the neighboring farmer had been bringing in a new crop. Instead, the barn was empty.

  Almost.

  “What’s that doing here?” Kimberly demanded.

  Parked in the middle of the cavernous space sat a white panel van, its passenger-side headlight shattered, the grill and front fender showing evidence of a collision.

  Zoe looked around, anticipating a band of thieves to jump out of the darkened corners. But the only movement was a faint puff of wind-driven snow finding its way in through a space between the wall boards. The only sound, the wailing howl of the wind.