I don’t know why I felt compelled to go to the hospital to visit Sue Meister, but the compulsion to see the young woman was strong. I spent most of the drive wondering if Greg Hunzer had harmed both his paralegals, and what could drive a man to do such a thing. I parked on the fourth floor of the parking garage and made my way to the visitors’ desk. Once there, I told the kindly silver-haired volunteer who I was there to see. I expected to get some pushback, but instead, she handed me a pass and gave me detailed directions to the room.

  I knocked softly on the door and called, “Sue? Sue, it’s Kiki Long,” before I entered. Creeping in, I gasped when I saw her bandaged head and the array of clicking and beeping machines she was hooked up to.

  Composing myself, I walked over to the bed and squeezed her hand. I got no response. Still, I hung on to her. Not knowing what to say, I launched into the story of how, out of nowhere, it seemed, my son had become a different person; a responsible adult and a talented baker. I told her about Moon’s instruction and spoke in detail about his maple nutmeg cupcakes.

  Having run out of chitchat, I gave her hand an extra squeeze and promised to visit again soon. Then, I walked out. Once I was in the hallway, I had to lean against the wall, taking shaky breaths until I felt strong enough to go back to my car.

  I retraced my steps, returning the pass to the helpful volunteer and climbing in the elevator to go back to the parking garage. As I reached for the button for the fourth floor, a weird buzzing zapped through my hand and up my arm, making me hit the wrong button. I hadn’t noticed I’d pressed the wrong one until I stepped out of the elevator because I’d been staring at my hand, which still tingled. Most of the ring was black, but at the center was a small red dot. I’d never seen it turn that way before and wondered if maybe an electrical shock had caused it.

  The elevator doors had already closed when I realized I was on the level above where my car was parked. Deciding it would be quicker to just walk, I headed for a nearby flight of stairs. I froze, mid-step, as I heard the sound of breaking glass below me. Bending down, I peered through the railings of the staircase, but couldn’t find the source of the noise.

  Shaking my head, telling myself I was paranoid, I continued down the steps. I paused at the bottom, once again feeling like someone was watching me. I glanced around nervously, but I didn’t see anyone. Still, I could feel their presence. Tightening my grip on my purse, I hurried in the direction I’d parked, doing my best to appear confident, like the self-defense instructor had taught.

  Heart pounding, breathing shallow, I thought my footsteps sounded like that of a stampeding elephant as I drew nearer my vehicle. “You really need to lay off Moon’s baked goods,” I told myself.

  And then, I saw it. Broken glass, like bits of blueish diamond, scattered on the cement. Looking up, I realized my passenger window had been smashed. And looking past that, I realized that the trunk of my car was open.

  I desperately wanted to see if my cameras had been stolen, but I’ve seen enough Lifetime movies to know that now was the time to run.

  31

  So I did.

  I ran, screaming for help, until I encountered five women in brightly covered scrubs, who kindly stayed with me until security arrived.

  I completed both the hospital’s security paperwork and spoke at length to the police officer who took the report of the vandalism of my car and the loss of my cameras. I didn’t tell him that I suspected that the damage was tied to my visit to Sue. I didn’t share my suspicions that someone had followed me to the hospital and that the broken window was a warning, not a simple smash and grab.

  I listened to a lecture about leaving valuables in plain sight and then waited for a tow truck to carry my car off to a shop, all while peering into the shadows, worried that whoever was watching me was nearby.

  Finally, feeling exhausted from the mixture of victim shaming and paranoia, I called Moon.

  I sat on a bench in front of the hospital, a well-lit and busy area, for exactly twenty-four minutes before Moon’s car came careening up to the entrance. I was so relieved to see her that I refrained from mentioning that, if one is obeying the traffic laws, it takes at least thirty minutes to get from Pride Falls to Pinedale. Instead, I climbed into her car, buckled my seatbelt, and muttered thanks.

  Instinctively understanding that I wasn’t in any condition to explain anything, my friend didn’t ask what I was doing there or what had happened. Instead, she turned on the 80’s radio station and belted out every lyric of every song they played, which meant I was subjected to the likes of Holiday by Madonna, Rock Me Amadeus by Falco, and her favorite, considering how much oomph she put into the chorus, Taco’s Puttin’ On The Ritz.

  I wasn’t sure if the headache that I’d developed was due to stress or her singing, but just before we reached my driveway, I was struck by a thought that made me hit the palm of my hand into my forehead. “What was missing,” I shouted.

  “Huh?” she asked, turning down the radio.

  “I need to go to the Sheriff’s Office.”

  Sighing, she made a u-turn in the middle of the road and headed that way.

  I flipped through my phone, examining the photos from the farmstand excitedly. Ray had talked about the importance of what wasn’t there in regards to Karl’s case, and now I’d figured out something that was missing from the Falstaff crime scene.

  Moon offered to stay while I talked to the sheriff, but I assured her I’d find another ride home. She looked doubtful and told me she was leaving her phone on before leaving me outside the building.

  I rushed inside, eager to reveal what I’d discovered, and almost collided with Deputy Balentine.

  We both pulled up short, automatically murmuring, “Sorry.”

  “I heard about your car,” he said sympathetically.

  “You did?” I asked, confused. Had the Pinedale Police Department shared a bulletin about my missing cameras?

  “Of course I did,” Ray said, sounding exasperated.

  “How?”

  “Grace told me.”

  “Grace knows, too?” It’s amazing how fast bad news travels.

  Ray squinted at me. “Are you feeling okay? Did you go for another long walk in this heat?”

  “I’m fine. I have to see the sheriff.”

  “He stepped out.”

  “Oh.”

  Hearing my disappointment, he offered, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I glanced around, not wanting my theory to be overheard. Grace was talking on the phone and I had no idea where Jacob Siffen was skulking. “Can we talk in private?”

  “Sure.”

  He ushered me into the sheriff’s office and closed the door. “What’s up?”

  “You know how you said you saw something that wasn’t there in Karl’s case file?”

  He shook his head. “Now is not the time or place for this conversation.”

  He reached to open the door, but I grabbed his hand. “No, wait.” A tingle, not unpleasant, but still startling, made me jerk my hand away.

  He searched my face.

  I licked my lips nervously and blurted out, “There are no vultures.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “There weren’t any turkey vultures in the field with Gunnar Falstaff’s body,” I hurriedly explained. “Something that wasn’t there. I mean, if a squirrel is run over, there’s a half dozen birds circling overhead, but there weren’t any when there was a man’s body. You don’t think that’s strange?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, considering the idea.

  I was feeling kind of lightheaded, so I sank into one of the chairs in front of the sheriff’s desk.

  “You’re sure there were none?” Ray confirmed.

  I nodded. “So I was thinking…”

  “Oh no!” he teased.

  Haha, funny guy“. We know Mr. Bensmiller is building an ice rink.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What if Falstaff’s body was frozen when it was put in the field? That might explain why the birds weren’t attracted.”

  “Nobody mentioned him being frozen stiff,” he pointed out. “I didn’t see any ice crystals, did you?”

  “No. But it was hot. Maybe he thawed out.”

  “Maybe he thawed out,” Ray repeated, rubbing his chin.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was impressed, horrified, or amused by my theory.

  “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I wanted to run it by the sheriff, first.”

  He nodded. “That’s wise. You should always run it past him, or me, before you mention your ideas to anyone.”

  I scowled at him. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “I think you’re an out-of-the-box thinker,” he replied carefully.

  “Nuts. Insane. A fool.” I gasped out the last syllable, swamped by old hurts that Karl had hurled at me over the years.

  “Hey, easy,” Ray murmured. He crouched down to look up at me. “I think it’s an idea that the medical examiner, who can determine whether or not a body was turned into a human popsicle, can address better than either you or me.”

  I grinned, realizing that he hadn’t dismissed my theory out of hand. “Popsicles have sticks.”

  He chuckled. “I guess I should have said ice cube.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.” He stood up. “Now that we’ve cleared up that miscommunication, explain to me why you thought I wouldn’t know about your taillights being smashed.”

  “You were talking about my taillights?”

  He stared at me. “What were you talking about?”

  I quickly filled him in on what had occurred at the hospital, concluding with, “I’m living under a cloud of bad luck.”

  While I’d talked, he’d sat down in the chair beside me, watching my face with rapt attention as I’d told the story. I hadn’t realized I’d been nervously twisting my fingers until he covered my hands with his. My breath caught at the unexpected contact and I stared at him, unable to speak.

  “Am I interrupting something?” the sheriff asked softly from behind us.

  Ray sprang out of his chair like an overwound jack-in-the-box. “No, Sir.” He glanced down at me, “We needed someplace private to talk. I shouldn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” Rockland excused with the wave of his hand. “But I would like someone to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Vultures,” I blurted out.

  Ray took in a sharp breath, and I thought he was going to correct me, but he looked away.

  “There were no vultures when Gunnar’s body was in the field and I was wondering if maybe his body was frozen in the Bensmillers’s skating rink,” I explained quickly.

  The sheriff looked from me to his deputy. Ray just shrugged.

  “And it thawed in the heat,” I added as an afterthought. “Which I’m guessing would put everyone’s alibis in question.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “I guess we could ask the medical examiner if that’s a possibility.”

  I smiled my satisfaction.

  “Now, tell him about the car,” Ray urged, his voice tight.

  Rockland’s smile disappeared when he heard his tone. “Yes, tell me about that.”

  I told him about my window being smashed as efficiently as I could. His expression grew grim, and he kept flicking his gaze toward Ray.

  When I was done talking, he asked the deputy, “Did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t get a chance, Sir.”

  A chill passed through me as they exchanged words. Whatever was coming couldn’t be good.

  The sheriff took the seat Ray had occupied and looked into my eyes as he said, “We have reason to believe you’re being targeted.”

  32

  “Targeted,” I told Kodak. We were curled up in the hammock he’d tried to shred the night before. “Me. A target on my back.”

  The cat meowed his concern.

  Someone had disabled the cameras that covered the parking lot behind the Sheriff’s Office so there was no footage of whoever had taken out my taillights. Considering that no other cars had been damaged, the sheriff considered this to be a pinpoint strike. That, coupled with the smash and grab of my car in the hospital parking garage, indicated that someone was after me.

  “Have you gotten any threatening phone calls?” Rockland had asked.

  “Any texts?” Balentine had added.

  I’d shaken my head. “Do you think this has to do with the murder?”

  They’d exchanged another look that made me uncomfortable.

  “According to Big Al, both the car you drive and that belonging to Sue Meister needed the same repair,” Ray revealed. “It’s why she was at the garage, to pick up her car.”

  I’d shivered, then, realizing that the person who’d bashed in the paralegal’s head might be after me, too.

  “We’re not sure what this is about,” Rockland had continued carefully. “It also coincides with the arrival of the forensic accountant who’s looking into your husband’s…”

  “Crimes?” I supplied for him, forcefully.

  Rockland dipped his head, barely suppressing a smile. “Alleged crimes, ma’am.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “So far, the moves made against you have been minor, petty, almost,” the sheriff said.

  “Tell that to my insurance claim representative,” I muttered.

  “The point is,” Rockland continued calmly. “We don’t think you’re in danger, per se. We just think you’re being targeted.”

  “Just targeted,” I repeated to Kodak. “They said they’ll handle it.”

  The cat’s meow seemed to say that I should leave the handling of petty criminals to the professional crime fighters.

  But I still felt like I should do something useful, so I watched the video I’d made of Sue Meister. I hadn’t been lying when I told the sheriff I hadn’t understood what she’d said, but I also hadn’t actually viewed the video in an attempt to figure it out.

  Now, without the fear and adrenaline (not to mention, heat exhaustion) that had been pumping through me in the garage, it was easier to concentrate on her voice. I’d replayed it three times, and was ninety percent certain I knew what she’d groaned, when I heard Rachel’s voice tentatively calling my name.

  Looking up, I saw my friend approaching, waving a white paper towel. “I come in peace.”

  I motioned for her to come closer, trying to tamp down the spurt of anger burning in my chest.

  She hesitantly climbed the steps, watching me warily. “I’m here to apologize.”

  I waited silently.

  “I’m sorry, Kiki.” She hung her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I drank too much and said things I shouldn’t have.”

  “You shouted out something I told you in confidence,” I accused hotly. “You knew it was a secret.”

  She nodded.

  “You humiliated me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  I wanted to lash out, make her as miserable as I’d been the night before, but she looked so beaten and dejected that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “You’re drinking too much.”

  She nodded.

  Maybe if I was a better friend, I would have asked her what was going on with her, but in that moment, I was reliving the shocked expression on Ray Balentine’s face when he’d learned of my prolonged abstinence.

  After standing there for a full minute in silence, she murmured, “I do apologize.” Then, shoulders slumped, she turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, climbing out of the hammock and putting Kodak on the floor.

  “Home.”

  “You’re not going to stay for leftover lasagna?”

  She turned back slowly, a grudging hope glimmering in the shadows of her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d want to…”

  I shook my head. “You were horrible last night and you betrayed me.”

  She flinched like I’d physically hit her, and stared down at the ground.

  “But you’ve been a good friend through this whole ordeal,” I admitted. “So I want to try to put this behind us.”

  Tears glimmering, lips trembling, she choked out, “I’d like that.”

  “So our first order of business is to break bread together,” I told her matter-of-factly. “Or in this case, pasta.”

  “Carbs and cheese can heal almost anything,” she sniffled.

  I smiled fondly at the memory those words invoked. “Your mom used to say that.”

  “I know.”

  “She was a wise woman.”

  She nodded. “I know. When I moved in with her, one of the first things she told me was that I should make friends with you. ‘That Kiki’s good people’ she used to say.” Then, with a devilish glint in her eye, she added, “You don’t want to know what she thought of Karl.”

  I laughed, looped my arm through hers, and led my friend into my home.

  “Your car’s still in the shop?” she asked.

  While I made a quick salad, noting there would no longer be any green foods left in the house after it was polished off, I told her about the taillights and smashed window. I left out the part about being targeted.

  As we were sitting down to eat, Henry came home. His clothes were dirty and I saw the red delineation of a sunburn on the back of his neck, but he looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  He joined us on the deck and chatted away about what he’d done, who he’d talked to and what the work had entailed. For years, he’d been the stereotypical withdrawn male teenager, grunting single syllable responses, and now he was effusive and charming. I didn’t know what had triggered the massive changes I’d recently seen in him, but I was grateful for the person he was becoming.

  When we were done eating, he declared he needed a shower and Rachel claimed to have a headache and headed home. That left me alone on the deck with Kodak.

  I picked up my phone, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I flicked to the picture of the business card I’d taken, dialed the number, and waited for an answer.

 

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