UNEASY PREY Page 7

  “What news?” Zoe repeated.

  Mr. Kroll fidgeted. “You know we’ve been struggling lately. Medical bills for me and for Bernice and all.”

  Zoe knew.

  “We were really counting on the money from leasing our gas rights to get us out of the hole.” His shoulders slumped. “And then Federated Petroleum pulled out of the county.”

  The fiasco of a couple months ago was all too fresh in her memory. “Yeah. I know.” Her mind rushed ahead, filling in the blanks. They were going to sell some parcels of land. No, that wouldn’t affect her. They were about to raise her board to keep her horse there. Money was tight for her too, but she’d manage. The Krolls had already cut her a deal since she oversaw the barn duties.

  Mr. Kroll took her by the shoulders, gazing at her with sad eyes. “We’ve found a buyer for the farm.”

  “What?” The farm? The whole farm?

  “We were planning to put it on the open market in the spring, but the Realtor we spoke with already had someone looking for property.” The words tumbled out of the old man once the news had been revealed. “The guy came out, liked what he saw, and made us an offer. I know it sounds like a cliché, but it really was one we couldn’t refuse.”

  Zoe leaned back on the kitchen counter, grateful Mr. Kroll had had the foresight to take the stoneware plate away from her. Thoughts continued to bounce around inside her brain. “So…” She dragged the word out. “…the barn will be under new ownership. Do you think he’ll want to keep me on as manager?”

  Mr. Kroll shot another sorrowful look at his wife. “I’m sorry, dear. He has plans for the property. Plans that don’t include livestock.”

  The reality of the situation sunk in. “Not at all?”

  Mr. Kroll shook his head sadly. “You’ll need to let the boarders know they’ll have to find new homes for their horses.”

  Including her own.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Zoe had been more-or-less homeless since fire claimed the Krolls’ old farmhouse. She’d become comfortable at Pete’s. And he didn’t object to her cats. Finding new digs for a horse wasn’t going to be quite so easy. Plus, she’d long thought of the farm almost as her own. She knew every plank in the barn, every trail, every creek and spring on the acreage. “How long do we have?”

  There was that look between the Krolls again. “I should have told you sooner, but it happened so fast and then I ended up back in the hospital.” He ran a hand alongside his neck, as if massaging away the tension. “The closing is February first. And the new owner wants to take possession immediately.”

  Meaning…“He wants us out in two weeks?” she asked incredulously.

  Mr. Kroll lowered his head and his hand. “I’m afraid so.”

  Janie Baker stood, arms crossed, at the base of the hill as Pete swung his SUV onto Andrews Lane. He braked and powered down the passenger window. Her breath fogged in the cold air, veiling her face a moment as she stepped up to the vehicle.

  “I tried calling you directly,” she said, her voice accusatory, “but when you didn’t get back to me, I had to call 911.”

  The message slip he hadn’t gotten to. He started to explain that his number was for non-emergency calls, but stopped. “What’s going on?”

  She shot a glance up the hill. “I was going to check the house. With no one living there, I figured I should turn down the heat, shut off the water. That sort of thing. But when I pulled up out front, I saw movement inside.”

  “What kind of movement?”

  “Shadows. Sort of. A figure passing by the front window.”

  Had the con men come back yet again? “You didn’t attempt to go in, did you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Heavens no. I didn’t even get out of my car. I called you and drove down here to wait.”

  “Did you see another vehicle near the house?”

  “No.” Her eyes shifted. “I don’t think so. But they could have parked somewhere else, couldn’t they?”

  Pete scanned the street leading up to the house. Just the usual residents’ cars and pickups parked in front of their homes. Nothing out of place. “You wait here. I’ll go investigate.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “Janie—”

  “I’ll wait in the car.” Her hands rested on the edge of his passenger door. “Please.”

  He sighed. “Fine.”

  She climbed in, clicked the seatbelt, and folded her hands in her lap like an obedient child. Pete powered her window closed and eased the SUV up the hill.

  He parked in front of the old house. It always looked in need of a good handyman, but now the place appeared despondent, as if it too mourned Oriole’s loss. There were no signs of a white van. Or any other vehicle.

  He unclipped his seatbelt. “Stay here.”

  “Okay.”

  Pete stepped into the bracing chill and pulled his collar tighter around his neck. With a glance back to confirm Janie was staying put, he approached the house. Somewhere down the valley, a dog barked. The loud pulsing growl of a semi Jake braking as it approached the sharp turn into town carried all the way up to Pete. But no sounds from inside.

  He wrapped his gloved fingers around the doorknob, half convinced Janie Baker had grown jumpy and paranoid—and understandably so—until he turned the knob and it clicked open. As jittery as the granddaughter was, she wouldn’t have forgotten to lock up. Another glance over his shoulder. She was still in his car, but he could make out her wide eyes fixed on him.

  He removed his gloves, stuffing them into his duty belt. With one hand on his sidearm, his finger ready on the holster’s release, he pushed the door open, trying to be quiet. The creaky hinges squelched that plan.

  “Police,” he called.

  There was a thud from upstairs. Then slow footsteps above Pete’s head.

  He drew his Glock and approached the base of the staircase to the second floor. “Come to the top of the stairs and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  A frantic quivering voice drifted down to him. “Don’t shoot.”

  Pete could track the intruder’s movements as the footsteps headed down what Pete knew to be the upstairs hallway. Floorboards creaked. A figure, familiar even in the shadows, appeared, hands raised. “Mr. Troutman?”

  The elderly gentleman stood stock still, his hands high over his head. “Yes. Please don’t shoot. I’m not armed.”

  Pete re-holstered his Glock. “I’m not going to shoot. Come on down here.”

  Trout didn’t move. “Can I lower my hands? If I don’t hold onto the banister, I’m afraid I’ll fall.”

  “Please.” The last thing Pete wanted was another of the township’s senior citizens taking a tumble. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing in here?”

  Trout shuffled down the stairs, each step deliberate. Cautious.

  Or he was buying time before answering. “Mr. Troutman?” Pete said.

  At the bottom, Trout looked up at Pete. “Yes?”

  Worry lines creased the old man’s face. Pete had seen a similar vapid look in his own father’s gaze. Similar, but not quite right. Trout was trying to feign confusion. “What,” Pete asked, keeping his voice firm, “are you doing in here?”

  Trout’s expression shifted from faked bewilderment to admitted defeat. “I wasn’t stealing anything. Honest.” He extended both arms out to his sides. “You can search me. I don’t mind.”

  Behind Pete, the front door swung open. His hand again went to his sidearm as he spun. Janie Baker stood there, taking in the scene.

  “Trout?” she said. “What on earth—”

  Tension released its grip on Pete’s shoulders. In response, he released his grip on his gun. “I told you to stay in the car.”

  “I know, but I thought you might need help.” She shot a fierce look at the elderly man.
“How did you get in here?”

  It was a fair question and one Pete would have asked had Trout answered the first one.

  “I have a key.” He defiantly crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “A key?” Janie’s voice was a screech. “How’d you get a key?”

  “Oriole gave me one.”

  “She most definitely did not.”

  Pete raised his hands in a “T.” Time-out.

  The two fell silent, but glared at each other.

  “Yes, she did,” Trout whispered.

  Janie opened her mouth to reply, but Pete snapped his fingers and held the flat of one palm toward her. “Go back out to the car and stay there.”

  She pressed her mouth into a rebellious scowl, shot an even darker scowl at Trout, and stomped out of the house, slamming the door as she went.

  Pete turned back to a victorious Trout. “Talk.”

  The old man again attempted the befuddled look. “What?”

  A dull headache throbbed inside Pete’s forehead. “Look, Mr. Troutman—”

  “Trout. Please.”

  Pete battled the urge to shake the old man. “Trout. You need to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  He held Pete’s gaze for a moment before looking down with a conciliatory sigh. “Oriole and I have been friends a long time. I always worried about her being here alone.” Trout’s eyes glazed as he glanced around the house. “I guess I had good cause to worry. Anyhow, even though she’s gone now, I still feel…responsible for her. For her home.”

  Pete recognized the depth of the grief in the old man’s face and in his voice. Trout had been in love with Oriole. Gentler, Pete said, “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Have you seen anyone trying to break in?”

  “No. I don’t expect you to understand, but I still feel her presence here.” He hugged himself. “I miss her.”

  Not for the first time, Pete saw his father in Trout’s face. “I do understand. But she’s gone. You can’t just come in and make yourself at home any time you’re lonely.”

  Trout blinked and tears trickled down his pale wrinkled cheeks. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Pete gave the old man’s frail shoulder a soothing pat before putting his gloves back on. “Go home, Trout.”

  “All right.”

  Pete walked him to the door, but stopped him before he could step outside and held out a hand.

  Trout looked at it, perplexed.

  “The key,” Pete said.

  The pain in the old man’s eyes gnawed a hole in Pete’s heart. He almost wished he could let him keep it. But Trout dug in his pocket, pulled out a key ring, and struggled to work one of the keys free. Once he did, he pinched it between his finger and thumb before dropping it into Pete’s gloved palm.

  Trout shambled across the snowy yard and up the road without a backward glance at Pete’s SUV or Janie, who opened the car door and started to climb out.

  Pete waved at her to get back in. “I’m going to do a quick check of the house,” he called to her. “Make sure nothing’s been tampered with.”

  She swung her feet back inside.

  He closed the door, dug a small evidence bag from his coat pocket, and deposited Trout’s key into it. Once Pete returned to the station, he’d dust the key for prints. He was pretty sure they’d match the unidentified set the crime scene techs had lifted from the house.

  With the bag labeled and tucked safely away, he did a walk-through of the downstairs. Nothing seemed moved or changed from his last visit.

  He climbed the stairs.

  Four doors greeted him. Three closed. One at the far end of the hallway—the front of the house—stood open. Judging from the footsteps Pete had heard upon announcing his presence, this was the room Trout had been in. To be thorough, Pete paused at each of the closed doors, opened them, and peered inside. The first room appeared to be used as storage. Stacks of dusty boxes. An equally dusty dining table with a set of chairs turned upside-down on top of it. An old treadle sewing machine. Shelves of books. Nothing appeared disturbed.

  The second room contained a more modern sewing machine, one of those things in the shape of a female figure that he’d seen dressmakers use as a model, an ironing board and iron, and shelves of fabric.

  The third room was a small tidy guest room. A bed with a colorful quilt, a set of bedside stands, and a dresser. A closet door stood open, revealing a rod and a dozen or so empty hangers.

  Pete moved on to the final room. He stood in the doorway to what had been Oriole’s bedroom. The forensics crew had left fingerprint powder on many of the surfaces. The furniture was the big heavy stuff that fit best in these old houses with their high ceilings. The oak headboard alone would never have fit in his own bedroom. But the set also included a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a mammoth chifforobe. A delicate round table covered with a lace doily sat next to the bed on one side with a reading lamp and a box of tissues perched on it. He rounded the foot of the bed, which had been stripped down to the mattress, and stopped. A second table, the match to the first, lay on its side. A book sprawled open, pages down, on the floor.

  The crime-scene tech had mentioned something about a possible struggle in the bedroom. Was this what he’d referred to? Or was the thud Pete had heard earlier the table tipping over?

  He pivoted, scanning the rest of the room. At first glance, nothing else appeared out of place.

  Except…

  Two of the dresser’s bottom drawers were askew, much like he’d found the drawers on the dresser by the basement door. These antique pieces didn’t have the modern hardware and drawer slides that allowed perfect alignment with ease. Often, they required some fussing and jiggling to get them neatly closed. Pete remembered such a piece in his childhood home. Harry would always say “you have to hold your mouth just right to get it to close.”

  The other drawers in the set were shut perfectly. He crossed the room to the dresser and opened one of the cockeyed drawers. Inside was a mishmash of undergarments. He wasn’t surprised. Even if Oriole had been a compulsive neatnik, the crime-scene guys had gone through her things and didn’t make an effort to put them back the same as they’d found them.

  Pete slid the drawer closed. As suspected, it jammed on one side. He shifted it a bit, lifted up slightly, and it slipped into place with a thud. “Have to hold your mouth right,” he said to the empty room. Something the crime-scene techs wouldn’t have bothered to do.

  He eyed the top drawers that weren’t askew and opened one containing a tidy stack of folded sweaters. Nothing even slightly akimbo. He eased the drawer closed. It jammed, same as the other. After a bit of adjusting, it slid into place.

  Pete pulled out his pen and notepad and jotted down his findings. Before leaving the room, he snapped a few photos with his phone.

  Janie remained seated in his SUV, right where he’d left her. He climbed behind the wheel.

  She stared at him expectantly. “Well?”

  “Everything looked fine to me.”

  She placed a hand on her chest. “Good.”

  Pete reached for the gearshift but paused. “When’s your grandmother’s funeral?”

  “Friday morning. The viewing is tomorrow afternoon and evening.”

  “I’ll be sure to stop by.” He sat up straighter, acting like he’d just remembered something. “By the way. Did you manage to get the clothes you wanted for your grandmother?”

  “Yes, I did. Those investigators finished up and let me back in just like you said they would.”

  “Good. Good. I imagine they left quite a mess for you to clean up.”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t too bad. I mean, there’s a lot of that fingerprint stuff on everything, but they’re just doing their job, right?”

  “Right. Still, you probably had some tidying up to do.”

 
“Honestly, I don’t have the energy to mess with it. I know I’ll have to clear Gram’s stuff out and clean the place up before I can put it on the market, but I’m in no rush.” She smiled weakly. “I stayed up late the other night watching old movies. Gone with the Wind. Like Scarlett said, ‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’”

  Pete reached over and squeezed her hand before shifting the SUV into drive. Janie had just provided a few answers for him.

  Even if she didn’t realize it.

  EIGHT

  Zoe rested her forearms on the top of the gate, watching the horses vacuuming up the fresh alfalfa she’d just tossed to them. Beyond the herd, the pasture sloped away from the barn, leveled out and then sloped again, down to the creek glazed with ice. Dried stalks of grass poked up through patches of snow. Stark brown trees rimmed the field in the distance. Lazy snowflakes drifted down, but patches of blue offered hope for a clearing sky as well as the only color in an otherwise monochrome landscape.

  She’d taken in this view more times than she could count, but the realization that her time on this piece of land was finite gave her an appreciation for it she’d never had before. Two weeks, possibly less.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Zoe turned.

  Patsy strode across the barn’s indoor arena toward her. “Don’t you have to work tonight?”

  Zoe fumbled with her coat sleeve to check her watch. Almost three o’clock. “Yeah. Time got away from me.” At least she only had to walk back to the Krolls’ house to change into her uniform.

  “I stopped in to give the horses some hay. Guess you beat me to it.” Patsy slowed as she grew closer, her smile fading. “What’s wrong? You look like you lost your best friend.” She froze, and her eyes widened. “My God. Did something happen to Mr. or Mrs. Kroll?”

  “No. Not like you mean anyway.” Zoe had spent the last three hours rehearsing a dozen different versions of how to break the news to her boarders. None of them sounded right inside her head.