She sat down hard in the kitchen chair. ‘That sounds crazy. I don’t understand how this all started.”
“I’m not sure either,” he said. “I’m heading out to Grant and Ginger’s now, with the detective. Don’t worry. I still expect to be home on time for our dinner date.”
“Earlier you made it sound like you thought Sari and I were in danger. Should we even be going out tonight?”
He hesitated and then said, “Or, we could take Sari to your sister’s house and pick her up on the way home. Would that be better?”
“It would probably make me feel better. I wouldn’t want to put my sister in danger.”
“Understood,” he said. “So call your sister and see if that’ll work for her.”
“Or we could just do it later,” she said, fretting.
“You can’t keep avoiding us,” he said.
“Avoiding what?” she asked. “I haven’t been on a date in years, so what difference does it make if I wait a little longer?”
“I hear you,” he said. “But I really would like to spend some time with you.”
“We could pick up and bring it in?” she said hopefully.
He laughed. “Are you afraid of me or afraid of going out on a date?”
“Neither. I’m afraid of something happening when we’re not here. I would never forgive myself.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll pick up something and bring it home. But I’m not counting that as the date. We’re just pushing that back a bit.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “Once this craziness is over, we won’t have to worry so much.”
“Maybe not as much as now,” he said, “but I doubt if it’ll be over that quickly.”
She frowned at that. “So, do you know when you’ll be home?”
“A couple hours,” he said. “Go ahead and call your sister and cancel. But remember. It’s a temporary postponement.” With that, he hung up.
The detective drove in front of him, and, with Shambhala beside him, Weston drove his rental right through to Grant and Ginger’s property. When Weston hopped out, the detective stood on the front porch, knocking on the door. No vehicles were around, no signs of life. When there was no response from inside, the detective pushed open the door as it was already slightly ajar. With Shambhala at his side, Weston caught up and the two walked into the living room.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Weston called out.
Shambhala headed for her bed in front of the fireplace and lay down.
He looked at her and smiled. “Every time we come here, she goes there.”
“Smart dog,” the detective said. “But where the hell is Grant?”
“Do you believe it’s Grant, or do you think it’s his brother, Gregory?”
“I have no clue. I don’t particularly like either of them, and nothing about this situation makes any sense.”
“I hear you there,” Weston said.
They did a quick search of the cabin but found nobody here.
Weston walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. “Doesn’t look like the guy’s been staying here,” he said, “because the fridge is empty.”
They checked everything else, but it didn’t look like anybody was living here at all.
“If it is Grant,” the detective said, “why wouldn’t he stay here? It’s his place.”
“Looks like we’re back to that same issue.”
“I don’t like anything about this.” Frustrated, the detective stood in the center of the living room, turning around in a slow circle.
“And what does that threatening letter have to do with anything?” Weston asked, leaning against the sink, his arms across his chest. “And the shooter?” he added. “Where the hell did he come from?”
“It makes sense that it would have been Grant or Gregory. I just don’t know why.”
“And did it have anything to do with the lawyer who handled the Buckmans’ estate?”
“That’s another question,” the detective said. “We’ve got people going through the dead lawyer’s files to see if anything unusual is in there. But the Buckman estate hasn’t been settled yet because it’s only been six weeks. Everything goes to the brother though, so that shouldn’t have been much of an issue.”
“No. Unless somebody else was supposed to get it.”
The detective raised both hands, palms up. “So, what? He kills the two of them, expecting to get the property? We don’t have anybody else here to blame.”
“How old was Ginger?”
The detective smirked. “She was coming up on her fifties. Her husband was a little younger.”
“She was a looker?”
He frowned at that. “Yes, she was. Like one of those women who never really ages. She used to be a model or some such thing. I don’t know.”
“Interesting,” Weston said.
“Why? What are you thinking?”
“How old do you think Grant is?”
“He was younger for sure,” the detective said. “Maybe forty, or almost anyway.”
“Right. Any chance Ginger’s kids are after the property? Like maybe they figured that the couple was dead, and they should get it instead of Gregory?” Weston headed out to the front door, around the porch. He thought he’d heard something but wasn’t sure. He didn’t have a weapon, but he did have Shambhala, and her ears were pointed toward the woodshed. He looked back at the detective and lifted a finger to his lips. With Shambhala at his side, he headed there.
He walked around the outside perimeter of the outbuilding first, and then he pulled the door wide open but hid behind it, in case any shots were fired. No sound came. Ears up, Shambhala stared around the corner, but they didn’t hear another sound.
Shrugging, he went inside. The woodshed was heavily packed for the winter, which was a good sign. There was a space at the far end for some tools and for access, but not a ton of openings for someone to hide in. Then again, it didn’t take a lot.
As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he heard the detective coming up behind him. He turned to look just as a rifle barrel came down from the top of
