But as she’d reached to unlock the wine cellar, she’d seen that the hand holding the knife was shaking, and there were tears in Megan’s eyes.
“Stop pretending that you’re the one who’s scared.”
Megan let out a snort. “I’m not scared of you, pip-squeak. I hope the monster gets you.” She wiped at her eyes and stormed off.
“Put that knife back in the kitchen where you found it,” Casey had yelled after her.
“This should get it open.” The sound of Finn’s voice made her jump. “Sorry. You all right?”
She nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat. Megan had been genuinely afraid. Why hadn’t Casey seen that? Why hadn’t she questioned her further? Because she thought it was one of Megan’s stunts.
“Step back,” Finn said and went to work on the door to the sound of splintering wood.
Casey watched him cut away wood next to the lock and begin to pry. The lock broke with a crack that was like an explosion in the enclosed space. Casey watched him remove the rest of the large padlock and reach for the handle. He stopped and turned back to her, thinking he would need the key. But as he turned the handle, the door creaked open.
She was almost afraid to look beyond it for fear of what she would see. A stale but familiar scent rushed out. He felt inside for a light switch, and a moment later the wine racks were illuminated—along with the wine bottles.
Finn let out a low whistle. “I did not expect this.”
“Me, either.” Whoever had put the padlock on the door had kept anyone from raiding the wine. “I knew that when my grandmother fell ill, she closed the hotel, paid to have it boarded up and left everything as it was because she’d thought she would be back. Lars must have done this to keep anyone out.” She shook her head, surprised at how much wine was still here as she glanced inside. The wine cellar was large from a time when the many shelves had been full. Now most of the shelves were filled with only dust, and yet there were still a lot of wine bottles.
“Why don’t you grab some, and we’ll take them upstairs? You can pick,” she told him, feeling ill at ease.
He nodded, handed her the flashlight and started into the room but stopped.
“What is it?” Casey moved to look past him. He was staring down at the dust marks on the floor. What she saw sent her pulse into overdrive. Her throat had gone dry. She tried to swallow. “What is that?” she asked, voice breaking as she thought of the animal he’d thought had been digging down there.
“What would make a track like that?” he asked. He shook his head, but she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. Something had been dragged through the dust.
She stared at the concrete floor and the misplaced dust. The marks went from the doorway deep into the wine cellar. What had been dragged back in there? “Be careful.”
“You might want to stay out there for a minute while I check.” He didn’t have to ask her twice. His tone made goose bumps ripple over her flesh. What did he think might be back there?
She stepped away from the door and crossed her arms as she fought off the chill. The basement was starting to get to her. She desperately wanted out of here and found herself looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dimness beyond the cellar. She turned on the flashlight and pointed it down the tunnel where Finn said something had been digging.
It was what lay next to it that had caught her eye. She told herself it couldn’t be a skull even as the beam told her different. “Finn?” she called, her voice too high, too thin. “Finn?”
She jumped at his light touch on her arm. The moment she saw his expression, she knew. All the color had drained from his face. He had his phone in his hand. She watched him hit 9-1-1 before he looked up at her.
“It’s bad, Casey,” he said. As the emergency-services operator answered, he said, “I need to report a murder. Actually, two murder victims.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MARSHAL LEROY BAGGINS felt a sense of déjà vu. The last time there’d been a murder at the Crenshaw Hotel he’d been a deputy, green as a gourd and still wet behind the ears. That was when Megan Broadhurst had been murdered.
He remembered then-marshal Hugh Trafton getting the call and looking around the office that evening for someone to take with him to Buckhorn. Everyone else had gone home or was already out on a call. Hugh’s gaze had skimmed over him and then slowly come back with a sigh.
“Come on,” the marshal had said. “You might as well ride along.”
Leroy had been excited to get out of the office. He’d had no idea at the time where they were going or why. They’d gotten into the big patrol car, and Hugh had turned on the lights and siren. Hugh was famous for driving fast.
Leroy remembered that thrilling feeling as they raced through the darkness on the empty two-lane toward Buckhorn. When he’d gotten into law enforcement, he’d thought it would be an adventure.
Not in small-town Montana. The calls for the law were often about checking on some old person in town, barking-dog complaints, a few break-ins and assists on car accidents, which meant directing traffic.
But that night, it had felt like he’d imagined law enforcement would be. There’d been a murder, and Hugh had gotten them to Buckhorn in record time. The town hadn’t been a surprise, even though Leroy had never been there before. That was the problem: he’d hardly ever been out of his county before he signed on as a deputy with the marshal’s department.
But when he’d seen the Crenshaw
