“Don’t forget the swab, Russ. Marisol’s office, first thing tomorrow morning.”
Russ nodded, sighed. “You know it’ll come back positive,” he said. “I’ve never seen that girl in my life, but it’s uncanny how much she looks like Bethanne. Nobody’s going to believe I didn’t know who she was.”
“Being related doesn’t mean you’re the killer,” Eli reminded the other man. “It doesn’t mean you’re a liar, either. Try not to make a big thing out of this, Russ. My main objective here isn’t to charge you with murder—I’m trying to find out who the girl is, that’s all. That might be the whole puzzle, right there. If we know who she is, we can find out who she hung out with, and at that point, I think we’re going to know who killed her.”
“What if it was a stranger?” Russ asked, almost plaintively. “What if she was Bethanne’s kid, and she was trying to get here for some reason? What if she was in trouble and she was hoping to find some kinfolks here? Somebody who would help her, take her in?”
“All that’s possible, of course,” Eli said, feeling sorry for Russ and doing his damnedest not to let it show. “Statistically, though, most victims are murdered by someone they know. Random crimes happen, obviously, but in general, killing another human being requires some strong emotions, usually a combination of them. Revenge. Jealousy. Rejection. That kind of thing.”
“Right,” Russ said wearily, hoisting himself up from his chair. “Guess I’d better get spiffed up for Shallie’s New Year’s get-together,” he said. “You think she’d understand if I begged off?”
“Yeah,” Eli said quietly, “I think she’d understand. But you ought to go, Russ. Get out of here for a while. Give yourself a breather from everything that’s going on.”
“You sound just like Shallie. Cord, too. As far as they’re concerned, taking action is the cure for everything.” Russ’s grin was feeble, but it was a grin, and some of the light had come back into his eyes. “Suspected of first-degree murder? Simple—go out and ride a horse for hours. Better yet, teach it a few tricks, like how to walk on water or perform in Swan Lake.”
Eli smiled. “If anybody could get a horse to walk on water,” he said, “it would be Cord Hollister.”
With that, he gave Russ a half salute in farewell and left the Painted Pony Creek Motel for more cheerful destinations.
He drove back through town, not stopping at the office, and headed out to his own place. Without Festus there to sound the alarm, he supposed he was vulnerable to some kind of surprise attack, but he wasn’t too worried.
He was ready for a fight, if one should come his way.
Ready for something.
Without shutting off the SUV, he took out his phone, tapped into the app controlling the security cameras covering both entrances to his house, scrolled through until he saw himself leaving that morning, in great haste, with Festus frolicking at his heels, probably expecting a game of Frisbee to break out at any second.
There was nothing else, which was a relief.
He’d dropped Festus off at Sara’s, like a kid at day care, and hastened to join Melba and the others at the murder scene.
In the interim, zip.
Maybe Freddie and the folks were sitting down to a holiday dinner right about now, like normal people, having slept in after a late night, waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square.
Whatever. It was broad daylight, and Freddie and the old man probably did most of their dirty work under cover of darkness.
Besides, they were cowards, which meant they were more likely to go after Eric or Hayley or even Festus. Maybe Sara.
That would prove to be a mistake, considering she and her family had Dan Summers for a bodyguard.
And then there was Sara’s Glock.
Eli went inside the house, scanned his surroundings, the way he always did, then stripped and took a hot shower. When that was done, he splashed on some cologne—fancy stuff recommended by his sister—and dressed in jeans and a beige Henley shirt, open at the throat.
Then, hair combed and left to dry on its own, teeth brushed and mouthwash swished, he proceeded to the kitchen in search of the red wine Sara had requested.
The cabinet was empty.
No surprise there; Eli was a beer man, and he rarely drank wine. Kept it on hand only for pizza nights and spaghetti dinners, when Sara and the kids were over.
He sighed, tossed his keys, caught them.
After he secured the house, resetting the alarm system and checking the app to make sure the cameras were still operating, he walked to the SUV. He would normally have driven his truck, since he was technically off the clock, but today, he wanted the official rig and all the equipment it contained close at hand.
He drove back into town, passing the turnoff to Sara’s place, and made his way to the town’s one real supermarket. He parked and got out of the rig, scrolling through his phone in search of Sara’s text, the one where she’d asked him to bring red wine.
He found it, went inside the store and grabbed a cart, one of the smaller ones, meant for shoppers who weren’t there to stock up for the next faux-Armageddon, but just to pick up milk, bread and eggs.
The wine had a whole aisle to itself, both sides stacked high.
The selection was overwhelming.
Eli tracked down the ones he knew Sara favored, laid them in the cart, where they rattled annoyingly, until he braced them with half a case of good beer.
Rolling toward the checkout lines, which were surprisingly clear, he spotted none other than Gretchen Lansing at one of the tills, and headed her way.
Small and mercilessly freckled, with mouse-brown hair that rested limply across her low forehead and left her ears exposed, Gretchen greeted him with a poisonous look.
After running the first bottle across the scanner, she set it down with an eloquent thump.
Eli suppressed a grin. “How’s your day going, Mrs. Lansing?” he asked.
“‘Bout like you’d expect,” she said, still glaring.
Eli wondered if Gretchen Lansing treated every customer to the stink eye, decided that she was probably civil to most folks, if only to keep herself gainfully employed. Being the sheriff, and thus antagonistic toward her son and husband, he was beneath contempt.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Eli finally replied. She hadn’t exactly said she was having a bad day, but then, she didn’t need to say it.
Gretchen lowered her voice, looked briefly around for eavesdropping managers, and spat, “I’ll just bet you are, Sheriff. You leave my boy alone, you hear me?”
“Or what, Mrs. Lansing?”