His throat bobbed. “Yes.”
Daisy stood in the middle of the room under the antler chandelier, looking between Peter and me. Her dark eyes locked onto Quincy, and she wagged her tail. True.
I nodded and turned back to him. “And the last time you were in here, do you remember if you locked it up behind you?”
He wrung his long hands. “I—I’m not sure, but I don’t think I did.” He hung his head.
I sighed. So just about anyone might’ve had access to the keys.
Peter watched him. “Where was the blow gun kept?”
Quincy looked up and gestured at the wall behind Peter. It was covered in peacock feather wallpaper with several wood racks supporting a row of blow guns, all carved and painted intricately. “Right there at the top.” His deep voice cracked.
Peter looked it over and muttered something to the cop beside him. She stopped her sorting of the desk and turned to bag up the other blow guns. Beside them, a rack held an assortment of feathered darts—one in the middle conspicuously missing.
Peter turned back to us. “The last time you were in here—do you remember seeing the blow gun on the wall?”
Quincy moved closer, eyes on the wall. “Yes—yes, I do.” He seemed almost entranced by the spot that would’ve held the missing feathered dart.
Daisy let out a whine that slid into a growl. Mixed read.
I narrowed my eyes as the back of my neck prickled, feeling suddenly suspicious. “Quincy—”
He snapped out of it and whipped his head around to stare at me, wide-eyed.
I stepped toward him. “Did you use the blow gun on your wife, Malorie?”
12
DARTS
Russo’s thick brows jumped up, and he hastily shoved the bridge of his glasses up his nose. The other cops all looked up from their work to hear Quincy’s answer.
He glanced at Daisy, who held very still, then squared his thin shoulders. “No. No, I didn’t use a blow gun on my wife or on anyone else, for that matter!”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Daisy. The German shepherd whined. True.
I cocked my head. “And you didn’t ask someone else to use it on her?”
Quincy’s cheeks reddened. “No!”
I nodded. “Right. Thanks.” Guess I’d been on the wrong track there.
Peter looked around as the other officers returned to their work. He moved to the painted leopard print wood cabinet and paused with his hands on the pulls.
Quincy pointed. “We keep some of the meds chilled in there.” He gulped.
Peter pulled the double doors open, and cold air poured out. Goose bumps prickled my arms, and I rubbed them. It felt downright nippy in the humid air.
Peter bent to look over the shelves, all lined with tiny glass vials full of glowing potions. Quincy, frowning, rushed closer. “Why—so many are missing. This doesn’t make sense!”
I joined them, as did Daisy and Russo. Shivering, I looked over the shelves. Big gaps in the vials indicated that a lot of them were gone.
Peter frowned. “Could this be related to your wife’s murder? Were these vials valuable?”
Quincy craned his skinny neck forward, blinking at the empty spots. “I—I don’t know, to be honest.”
I pointed at a bare bit of middle shelf. “What was kept here?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
The tip of Daisy’s tail wagged as she lifted her nose, sniffing the air. True.
I shot Peter a look. What did this guy know? He was clearly not very involved in the running of the sanctuary; he’d admitted so himself. Maybe the vials weren’t even missing—maybe they’d just been used up and the sanctuary was waiting on a shipment of more meds.
Peter seemed to be thinking something along the same lines. He nodded and stepped back. “Alright, no worries, we’ll look into it.” He scanned the office, frowning. “As far as the office being unlocked, does it appear anything else is missing or could have been stolen?”
Quincy turned from the cabinet, wringing his hands, and looked around. “I—I don’t immediately see anything else that was stolen.” He let out a whimper. “Though, Malorie handled most of everything related to the sanctuary. I didn’t spend much time in here, typically.”
Something glinted in the candlelight cast by the antler chandelier overhead, and I pointed at the item in Quincy’s hands. “Souvenir?”
He blinked at me, then down at his hands and jumped, nearly dropping the little glass vial. He ducked and fumbled with it, catching it before it smashed on the ground. “I, uh, no.” He turned and replaced it on the shelf in the chilled cabinet.
He adjusted the bow tie at his throat. “Just a—just a nervous habit of mine. I tend to pick little things up and fidget with them. I’m not even aware I’m doing it most of the time.” He paled, his gaze far away.
I drummed my fingers on my crossed arms. Right… I looked around. The furnishings, though tacky and over-the-top for my taste, were clearly expensive. I cocked a brow at Quincy. “Were you not worried about money being stolen from the office?”
He shook his head, jowls wobbling slightly. “Again, it’s not like I made a point of leaving the door unlocked. It’s just—I’m a bit absentminded, as Malorie put it.” He dipped his chin and let out a wistful sigh.
I glanced at Daisy, wondering if his recently deceased wife might have put it a little stronger, but Daisy continued to sniff the man’s shiny shoes and didn’t call him on any falsehood.
He looked up suddenly. “Oh, plus there’s a hidden safe where we keep the valuables and the day’s cash.”
Peter raised his brows, and Quincy jumped. “Oh. Right.” He led the way to the back wall. To the left of the huge wooden desk hung an oil painting in a gilded frame of an enormous spider fighting a tiger. Quincy lifted it off its nail and set it on the desk behind him, revealing a silver safe set into the wall.
I grinned. Hidden safe behind a painting—nice. I curled my lip at the giant spider with its
