“Are you okay?” Pete’s chuckle made the inquiry lack sincerity.
She backed out on her knees, her head aching, and pushed up to stand. “No. Don’t surprise me like that.”
He entered, lugging a box. “I called out, but you must not have heard me over the music.”
Rubbing her head and wondering if she had a concussion, Zoe crossed to the window—the pigeon had flown the coop—and hit pause on her phone. “It was too quiet.”
“I thought you liked quiet.”
“On the farm, yes. That’s peaceful. In a hundred-plus-year-old building, on a floor that’s otherwise deserted? Not so much.”
He looked around. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm.
“You’re not funny.”
Pete jiggled the box. “Where do you want this?”
“Anywhere. I’m not planning to unpack much. Paulette’s trying to get us a real office in the Courthouse Annex.”
He thunked the box on top of another. “Speaking of Paulette, where is she?”
“Having lunch with Lauren Sanders.” At his raised eyebrow, Zoe explained about Lauren’s proposed tribute.
Pete nodded his approval. “I guess that means I can’t whisk you off for lunch right now.”
“Or later either.” She swept an arm around the room. “Too much work to do. And I can’t exactly come in tomorrow to do it.”
“How about you help me unload all the stuff in my Explorer, and then I’ll get takeout for us.”
On cue, Zoe’s stomach growled. “Deal,” she said.
As Pete deposited the last pile of books, Paulette and Lauren returned from their lunch meeting, chatting like old friends. Zoe hoped Lauren hadn’t pried any sensitive information from Franklin’s secretary. Even though Lauren was doing a feature, she was an investigative journalist at heart—and was very good at her job.
Paulette took one look at the additional boxes piled on the desks and lining the walls. “Looks like I have my work cut out for me.”
“How much do we really want to unpack though?” Zoe asked. “I’d rather not get too comfortable here if we’re going to relocate in a few days.” She glanced at Pete and grinned. “I’m getting tired of moving.”
“I have no idea how long we’ll be here before something opens up in the Annex.” Paulette gathered a stack of books from the desk she’d claimed and dumped them on the floor next to it. “I thought you were going to hook up my computer while I was out.”
“I was busy.”
Lauren backed toward the door. “I’m having flashbacks to a story I did on hoarding. A stack of boxes fell over and killed an elderly woman. You all have fun getting settled in.”
“Coward,” Zoe called to her.
“Self-preservation.” Lauren pointed with her chin at Pete. “I have some questions for you. Mind if I stop by your station later this afternoon?”
“Questions about what?”
“The serial killer who may be responsible for Elizabeth Landis’ murder.”
Zoe watched his jaw clench. Lauren might be safer with the boxes than with Pete if she hounded him about his least favorite topic.
Lauren must’ve taken his silence as a “yes.” She fluttered a hand at him and darted out of the office.
He looked at Zoe. “What can I bring you for lunch?”
She gave him a flirtatious grin. “You know me as well as I know myself. I trust your judgment.”
He turned to Paulette. “You heard that, right? I have a witness.”
“I did, indeed.”
“Speaking of witnesses…” came Wayne’s voice from the door.
Zoe wheeled toward the newcomer, who clamped a folder under one arm and lacked his usual smile.
But he wasn’t addressing her. He was looking at Pete. “I need to talk to you.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going on,” he grumbled.
“My sister told me where I could find you.” Wayne glanced Zoe’s way. Now he smiled, but she had a feeling it was as veneered as his teeth. “I think that broom closet in the hospital would have been bigger than this.”
Before she could make a wisecrack, his attention reverted to Pete. “Seriously. We need to talk.”
Pete nodded. “You can walk to the deli with me.”
After the pair left, Paulette’s gaze met Zoe’s. “What in heaven’s name was that about?”
“I wish I knew.” Or maybe she didn’t. “Let’s get our computers hooked up so we can get some work done this afternoon.”
“What’s going on with my sister?” Baronick asked as he and Pete strode the half block to the Main Street Delicatessen. “She sounded distracted on the phone.”
“She’s working on something.”
“What exactly is she working on?”
“I don’t know. She said she has a hunch.”
Baronick grunted.
“You didn’t come here to talk about your sister. What’s so urgent?”
They reached the deli’s entrance. Baronick led the way in, withdrew the folder from under his arm, and set it on an unoccupied table. “Place your order. I’ll show you this while you wait for your food.”
Pete hated games—unless they involved professional sports teams, preferably from Pittsburgh—and he especially hated when Baronick played them. But the detective’s grim expression told Pete he needed to pay attention to whatever was inside the folder.
And Zoe was waiting for lunch.
He ordered a BLT and fries for Zoe, a ham and swiss on rye for himself, plus two coffees. After paying at the register, he rejoined Baronick who’d taken a seat. “All right. What’s this all about?”
Baronick opened the folder. “We’ve lost another prosecution witness.”
“Lost? How?”
“Dead.” He used his fingertips to slide two sheets of paper toward Pete and spun them to face him. “Gina Wagner died unexpectedly four days ago.”
Twenty-One
Pete stared at the printout of the obituary. He was all too familiar with the second paper—the list of witnesses the prosecution had called at the first trial. “What happened?”
“You didn’t know?”
“That Gina Wagner had died? No.” He fished his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, stuck them on his face, and read the obit all the way through. “It doesn’t say much. Passed away unexpectedly Monday evening.”
“Zoe didn’t mention it to you?”
“No.” He read the short obit again. Gina’s mother had chosen to keep the details
