He slowly made his way back down to the main part of the cabin, and, when he stepped into the first floor, it had a different sense to it. A different air about the room. He stepped back, looked around at the small house, wondering what it was he sensed, then took another step forward. He stopped in the doorway and just surveyed the structure. A log cabin with log outer walls, and the interior wall was some drywall on part of it and some tongue-and-groove on the other. It was an eclectic mix, again as if Grant had done some of his own work after-the-fact.
A small bathroom was attached. He wandered through it again, back to the bedroom, wondering what it was about the room that bothered him.
Then he realized only one pillow was on the bed. He made note of that and walked over to the closets, checking to see if it was still full of both sets of clothing. He opened up the doors to see only men’s clothing. He frowned at that. Just as he was sorting it out, his phone rang. It was the detective.
“Where did you find that?” the detective asked harshly.
“I’m in the cabin now. That envelope was in the utility drawer with other mail. And, yes, it was open already.”
“And now you’ve got your fingerprints all over it too, I suppose.”
“No, I used a pair of tongs,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ll be happy to put it in a bag and bring it in to you.”
“I’m on my way out there,” the detective said. “I had to come out that direction anyway.”
“Yeah, and maybe you could tell me why no women’s clothing is in the closet.” There was an odd silence. “There should be, shouldn’t there? Did the brother come up here after all?”
“Not that I know of,” the detective said. “I’ve spoken to him on the phone, but he didn’t say anything about coming.”
“The closet is empty of female clothing. And only one pillow is on the bed.”
“I’ll contact him and see if he did then.”
“Otherwise, who’s had access?”
“I can’t tell you that, but, if people know they’re dead and gone, it’s possible a squatter has moved in.”
“It’s possible.” Weston turned as he hit the End Call button on the phone and caught sight of movement.
Instinctively he dropped to his knees, then turned as a blow came out of nowhere. It was enough to shake him but not stun him. He reached out with his right fist, connecting with a jawbone. The man went to his knees, and Weston followed up with a hard left and dropped him.
Shambhala stood in the doorway, whining.
He looked over at her, surprised. “Come here, girl,” he said. She came forward, wagging her tail, but obviously upset. He looked down at the man on the ground. “So, do you know who this is?”
She whined, but she didn’t bark at the intruder.
Weston picked up the man in a fireman’s carry and took him to the kitchen, where Weston propped his captive up on a chair at the kitchen table and tied his legs together. For all Weston knew, he was the intruder and not this guy. He went over in his mind the first few minutes that he’d been in the house, but there’d been no sign of anyone. There’d been no call out or anything. And Shambhala hadn’t acted surprised. That was the odd part of this.
While the guy was unconscious, Weston went through his pockets and came up with a name that made him stop. This guy was Grant Buckman. As in, the man who lived here.
Weston frowned. The guy carried credit cards in his name too. Weston went through the rest of the wallet. The guy had a cell phone in his other pocket. He took several photos of the Contacts list and checked most of the texts from the last couple weeks. Apparently Grant had been gone for six weeks.
So, what the hell was going on here? The guy was just starting to wake up when Weston heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway. Keeping his eye on Grant or whoever this guy was, Weston opened the front door as the detective hopped out of his vehicle.
“You got that letter for me?” the detective asked.
“Yeah, but we’ve got bigger problems than that.”
“What’s up?” The detective stepped inside, took one look at the prisoner tied to the chair and gasped.
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on here,” Weston said, “but, according to his ID and credit cards, this is Grant Buckman. And, if this is Grant, who in the hell got buried along with Ginger?”
Chapter 7
Daniela set out all the prep work for dinner, but she wasn’t sure when Weston would make it home. She checked her phone several times to see if he’d texted her, but she found no message. Sari was enjoying building with her blocks and playing with her dolls. She had this peculiar habit of creating little monuments and having her dolly sit right beside them. She wondered if she’d seen a lot of people taking selfies or something. It wasn’t something Daniela did, but she’d certainly seen enough other people taking photos of themselves all the time. Maybe so did Sari.
Keeping busy with cleaning had been Daniela’s strategy this afternoon in order to avoid rehashing the conversation she’d had at the grocery store earlier. Finally she sat beside her computer with a heavy thud. Daniela looked over at Sari, who was completely oblivious and happily getting her dolls to build blocks. Daniela smiled at the innocence of the little girl at eighteen months old. She wasn’t a baby but wasn’t quite a toddler yet either. She walked and talked and garbled sentences, but she wasn’t superclear on her diction yet.
Daniela looked around at the kitchen in the house she rented, wishing she
