In the quiet heart of southwestern Wyoming, a small town clings to its small-town ways. But when a sudden boom brings big money and bigger secrets, what’s left of the town they thought they knew?

As usual, I want to than Malady for beta reading, and helping edit.
I'd also like to thank those who comment for their part in beta reading too! :-)
Chapter 17

For all the trouble he’d gone through, Fran decided to let Trey serve the warrant.

They stepped into the lobby of Spotless Solutions. Bill sat behind the receptionist desk, hunched over a clipboard. He glanced up—and his expression soured instantly.

“You again?” Bill asked, exasperated. “What have we done this time?”

His tone wasn’t curious. It was tired. Defensive. Like he’d been bracing for this moment since the last visit—and had finally run out of patience.

Trey didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, warrant in hand, and held it out. The silence stretched—just long enough to make Bill squirm.

Bill finally sighed, shoulders sagging with resignation. There was no way around it. If he wanted to stay on the right side of the law, he had to comply.

Still, he made a valiant effort. “There’s nothing in here that’ll help you,” he said, voice clipped. “But if you must, you must.”

They started with the meeting room across the lobby from the desk. Fran had been inside before, back when she and Sheriff Goldman interviewed Reggie and Debra—but she hadn’t paid much attention to the surroundings then.

Now, with fresh eyes and a slower pace, the details stood out. The room was far more luxurious than she’d expect from a janitorial service.

Polished mahogany table. Leather chairs that looked barely used. A wall-mounted screen, sleek and over-sized. Even the lighting—soft, recessed, deliberate—spoke of money and presentation, not mop buckets and bleach.

Fran glanced at Trish, who stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised in silent judgment.

“Maybe they like to impress customers,” Trey muttered, shaking his head.

He crossed to the table, where a video player sat beneath the wall-mounted screen. With a tap of the play button, the screen flickered to life—first showing the lobby with Mitch behind the desk, then capturing Reggie and Debra as they entered.

They weren’t speaking loudly, but their body language said enough. Reggie’s jaw was tight. Debra’s arms were crossed. They leaned toward each other, whispering with clipped urgency.

On the screen, Debra gestured sharply—then caught herself, glancing toward the camera. Reggie shifted his weight, visibly upset.

Almost as one, they turned and headed down the hallway, to the equipment room.

Trey suddenly reached out and paused the video. He backed it up a bit, then zoomed in on Mitch’s face. He advanced the video slowly, then let it stop.

Fran stared at the screen. Mitch’s face was white as a sheet, his mouth slack, eyes wide—not with surprise, but something deeper.

Shock. Or fear.

What did they say? she wondered.

He looks terrified.

Not confused. Not curious. Terrified.

He knows what they were arguing about. And he’s scared to death of telling us.

“Back it up, Trey,” Trish said, her voice low and deliberate. “I want to see Debra’s lips.”

“Lip reading isn’t very reliable,” Fran warned.

“I know,” Trish replied. “But it might give us a clue. Too bad Reggie’s face is turned.”

Trey pressed play. The two figures re-entered the frame. He zoomed in on Debra’s face, then backed it up until her mouth movements were clear and unobstructed.

When the clip ended, Trish leaned forward. “I can’t be one hundred percent certain… but it looks like she’s saying, ‘You’ll do what I say, or I’ll kill you too.’ There are other possibilities. But that one fits her lips best.”

Fran commented wryly, “And Bill said there was nothing here to help us.”

“I want to look at the equipment they brought back,” Trish said. “Who knows what we’ll find.”

Fran’s voice dropped. “You think she meant Ginny? As the other one she killed?”

“Maybe.”

“If so…” Fran hesitated. “Reggie didn’t take it well.”

“Well,” Trey told his wife, “While you’re looking at the equipment, I’m going to make a meal out of Bill.”

“You know,” Trish said, “she didn’t say how many people she killed. It might be four.”

“Or more,” Fran agreed. Her tone sharpened. “I want all of their records. Originals. And I think this business is closed until further notice.” She paused, eyes still locked on the screen. “They’re not so spotless.”

As Fran spoke, a scuffling noise echoed from outside—quick, uneven, like someone running. Then the front door banged shut.

Trey bolted into the lobby. Bill was gone.

Without pausing, he lunged for the exit, his momentum throwing the door wide. It slammed against its stop as he pivoted and sprinted toward the street.

He skidded to a halt, turned left, and shouted, “On the ground!”

Then he took off at full speed.

“You don’t think Bill knows something we don’t, do you?” Trish asked, voice dry as dust.

“I think we’ve got a very good reason to search this place now. You check the equipment—I’m going to assist Trey.”

Fran had barely turned when the door swung open.

“…right to remain silent. Anything you say…” Trey’s voice rang out, calm and clipped.

Fran crossed the lobby, her steps sounding like punctuation. Bill sat at the desk, white as a sheet, hands cuffed behind him in steel bracelets.

This should be interesting, she thought. Time to help Trey roast him.

“Why’d you run?” Fran asked, looming over Bill, her nails clicking rhythmically on the counter.

“I don’t know anything about Debra killing anyone…” Bill blurted, voice high and panicked.

“Then why’d you run?” Trey echoed, stepping in.

“You’re going to take the records!”

“I see,” Fran said coolly. “What are they gonna tell us?”

Bill clamped his mouth shut.

“You know we’re gonna find out,” Fran added.

“Obviously,” Trey said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have run.”

“I want a lawyer,” Bill muttered.

“Suit yourself,” Trey replied. “We’re gonna look at your records.”

He hauled the hapless owner to his feet and marched him outside.

Must be taking him to my truck, Fran thought. Even with cuffs on, I doubt the Yugo would hold him.

A moment later, Trey stepped back inside. Fran was still crouched at the desk, methodically disconnecting the main computer. Trey pulled on gloves and retrieved the keys from the safe—fortuitously unlocked.

Trish returned to the lobby and set something down on the counter with a muted clunk.

Fran turned. It was a mop bucket. She stepped closer.

The handle was bent—badly.

“I could be wrong,” Trish said, her voice calm but edged, “but this looks like it’s been somewhere it shouldn’t. Probably jammed into a walk-in freezer latch.”

She lifted the handle. Fran leaned in. The metal had an offset spot—partially cut, as if with a pair of dikes.

Fran squinted and pointed at something, careful not to touch. “Is that grease?”

Trish nodded. “Smells like.”

“Could that be from the latch mechanism?”

“Probably.”

Trey stepped closer, frowning. “So we’ve got a likely perpetrator for Ginny’s murder—who was herself possibly killed by her brother?”

“A very distinct possibility,” Trish agreed.

-=#=-

When they’d finished collecting what they felt they needed, they went outside. Across the street, Bill was sitting in the truck which was idling smoothly, allowing for necessary heat for the prisoner who’d exited the building so quickly he didn’t grab a coat.

On their side of the street sat the dilapidated Yugo. Trish wanted to go to the restaurant to check if the handle matched the freezer latch, while Trey and Fran took Bill to the station and stored him in a cell.

But as she got a better look at the little car, Trish began to have second thoughts.

“You came here in that?” she asked, quoting one of her favorite lines from Star Wars. “You’re braver than I thought.”

For a moment, Trey looked like he might give her a raspberry, but instead went along with the joke. “Careful. She jumps to hyperspace at the slightest provocation.”

“I’m surprised she can reach hyperspace,” Trish said dryly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Trey replied. “It’s not a smooth jump. More like a violent shudder and a prayer.”

Fran gave the Yugo a sideways glance. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t blow the hyperdrive motivator.”

Gingerly, Trish opened the door and took the key from Trevor. She slid into the seat and stared at the dash with open distaste.

“Does it take a slap to get it running?”

“No!” Trey said quickly. “That’s just for the heater. But it spits dirt at you when it kicks in.”

Trish shook her head. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

Trish turned the ignition key, and the engine turned over like a yawning sloth getting up from a nap. Then it ground to a stop.

Fran had started across the street, but was suddenly stopped by Trish shouting, “Fran! Did you bring your jumper cables?”

Chapter 18

Fran happily guided Bill to the cells, which sat in full view of the public—no hallway, no privacy, just a row of bars and a bench severely lacking in creature comforts.

It reminded her of Otis’s old haunt in Mayberry, minus the open-door policy. Bill wouldn’t be wandering out for a soda and back in for a nap. Not today.

He hesitated at the threshold, as if hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

“In you go,” Fran said, giving him some assistance in the small of his back.

Bill acted like he was going to resist, but a glance at Trey's face put the kibosh on that idea.

Fran slammed the door shut behind the young man and locked the door. She took the key, tossed it about six inches in the air, caught it, and dropped it into the center drawer of her desk.

“Let’s see what you didn’t want us seeing,” Fran said, settling beside Trey and glancing toward the cell.

“Fran,” Trey said gently, “we’ve got him. There’s no need to gloat.”

“After his attitude every time I tried to get information from him?” She shook her head. “I feel like gloating.”

Trey sighed, the sound low and familiar. “Don’t you feel like you’re stooping to his level?”

Fran exhaled, her shoulders tight. “Don’t I deserve a little satisfaction after all his arrogance?”

Trey didn’t look up from the folder. “Doesn’t he deserve some dignity, even now? We don’t know what he’s done until we look at the evidence.”

Fran glared at Bill, then muttered, “I'll give him some dignity.”

She let her gaze linger on the prisoner, who was uncomfortably watching them, then slowly turned her gaze on the computer screen in front of Trey. “What’ve we got?”

Trey had been watching Fran, looking for visual cues into her frame of mind but decided not to fight this particular windmill. He sighed, and turned his attention to the computer screen. “A lot of information to digest, he said.”

“What do you want to look at first?” Trey asked as he looked through the menu on the screen.

Schedules, personnel, finances, clients…. There was a plethora to look at. Fran thought for a moment, then said, clients.

Trey opened the folder and they saw several documents, each titled with the name of a business. Some of them were listed in different cities and states.

Each showed the contract between Spotless Solutions and the company in question.

They perused the contracts between General Alarms, Venture Land Development, and The Bird's Nest and found nothing that stood out. The rates seemed a bit excessive, but weren't completely outrageous.

They went to the personnel folder next, and saw little of interest.

“Check his references,” Fran said when they were looking at Bill’s file. Two of the three names in his file were very familiar. George Ross and Les Parker. The third was not immediately, but the last name definitely was. Regina Bernard.

Fran’s eyes widened and she murmured, “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Uh, Bill,” Trey said, looking up at the prisoner. “Who’s Regina Bernard?”

“My lawyer,” Bill said, defiant.

“She's your lawyer?” Fran asked.

“No. I'm supposed to have one phone call. I wanna talk to my lawyer.”

Fran stood and asked Bill who he wanted to talk to.

“McNeil, James, and Bertram,” he replied. Fran raised an eyebrow and nodded. The lawyers were new to the area, and extremely exclusive. How Bill could afford them, she had no idea.

She dialed the number and handed Bill the receiver through the bars.

As she prepared to sit back down and eavesdrop on Bill's side of the conversation, the front door swung open and Trish hurried in. She slammed the front door shut, stomped her feet and reached for the mop. She saw that Bill was making his one phone call and saw Fran watching him closely, so she began making all of her motions as quiet as possible.

Fran wasn't allowed to listen in on the line, but anything she happened to hear…. Well. If the city commissioners didn't want to fund a private room with a phone, well, that wasn't her fault.

She'd have to thank Trey for that little oversight of the commissioners.

Trish moved like a ghost, her boots squeaking once before she caught herself. She glanced at Fran, then at Bill, then back at the mop in her hands.

Fran didn’t acknowledge her. She was too focused on the cadence of Bill’s voice—low, clipped, nervous.

Trey glanced up from the screen. “Everything okay?”

Trish nodded, then held up the mop handle like a trophy. “It’s a match.”

Fran’s eyes flicked toward her, then back to Bill.

Bill had been talking quietly, but now he had stopped. He was staring at Trish in confusion. How was anything in the cleaning arsenal a match for something at a murder scene? He didn’t know. It didn’t make sense to him.

His knuckles tightened around the receiver. His eyes flicked from Trish to Fran, then to the mop handle again, as if it might explain itself.

“I need to talk to you now, James,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

Fran didn’t move. She watched him like a hawk watching a mouse that just realized it’s in the open.

A pause. Then Bill nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you in a few.”

He hung up the phone with a slow, deliberate motion—like he was trying not to betray how badly his hands were shaking.

“You look frightened, Bill,” Fran commented.

He was staring at the floor, his mouth moving. He didn’t respond when Fran spoke to him.

Fran looked at Trish, who was staring intently at Bill. Probably reading his lips, Fran assumed. Looking at Bill, all she could see was surprise and fear.

She glanced at Trey, who was watching Trish closely, as if trying to read her body language.

Finally Trish stood and moved to the table where Fran and Trey sat.

“What’ve you got?” Trey asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“He’s repeating the same phrase over and over. I think he’s saying, “What did you do, Deb?”

“Not Reggie?” Fran wondered.

“No. Deb.”

“Not Debra?” Trey asked.

“No. Deb.”

“What are you thinking, Trey,” Fran asked.

“Why the familiarity?” Trey said. “Everybody seems to think Debra was a psychopath. Why would Bill, of all people, be familiar enough to use a shortened version of her name when nobody else does?”

“Reggie did,” Fran pointed out.

Trey snapped his gaze to Fran. “Family?” he asked. “Married?”

He turned back to the computer and asked for a more detailed list of Bill’s acquaintances. It took a few minutes and there didn’t seem to be any list of Bill Graves having married Debra Thompson.

He reversed the search and asked for a familial list of Debra Thompson. There was an older sister, deceased, born Regina Thompson; married name, Regina Bernard. Next listed was older brother, Reginald Thompson. That made sense – Reggie. Next, however, was a twin. William Graves. William?

“Why a different last name?” Trish wondered. She gently pulled the mouse and keyboard in front of her. She typed a bit, and then the computer displayed; Debra Thompson and William Graves – heteropaternal superfecundation.

“What?” Trey wondered.

“They’re twins, but have different fathers.”

Fran looked at her friend strangely. “Huh? Is that possible?”

“It’s rare, but possible.”

She searched a bit more, and came up with birth certificates for both. Debra Thompson, mother: Georgia Thompson, nee Rivers. Father: Reginald Thompson.

William Graves showed, mother: Georgia Thompson, nee Rivers. Father: Richard Graves.

“Let me see that,” Fran said. She confiscated the mouse and keyboard, and typed in a search. “Richard Graves was military. He was stationed at Riverside at the right time. Then he moved to Kirtland AFB, at Albuquerque, New Mexico.” She pressed a few more keys. “Look. Bill’s school records are from an elementary school on the base, but Debra’s are from Riverside.”

“Oh, no!” Fran suddenly said. She pointed to the screen and Trey put voice to what they read.

“Sergeant Richard Graves died overseas. Looks like Bill only lived with him for a few years, then his mother took him back when he went overseas. It was only supposed to be temporary, but ended up permanent.”

“Did they even understand that their fathers were different?” Fran asked.

“Yes, we did.” The answer came from the cell. “My father promised me he’d be back.” He looked back at the floor. “He wasn’t. He got killed, and I never saw him after he dropped me off at school that morning.”

Fran didn’t speak right away. She just watched him—his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the floor like it held the last trace of his father’s shadow.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. Not as a cop. Not as a friend. Just as someone who understood what it meant to lose someone she really cared about.

Bill didn’t look up. “He said he’d be gone six months. I counted the days. Drew them on the wall with a crayon. Georgia painted over them.”

Trish’s voice was gentle. “Debra knew?”

“She didn’t care,” Bill said. “She had Reginald. He stayed. He tried to be my dad, but he wasn’t, and I knew it. He liked Debra, not me. I left just as soon as I could.”

Trey leaned against the desk. “So you knew you were different. From the start.”

Bill nodded, then; “I didn’t belong. I sort of got along with Reggie. Most of the time, at least in front of Mom and Reginald, Debra acted like she liked me, but when we were alone...” His voice trailed off.

Fran stepped closer to the bars. “And now she’s gone. And you’re here.”

Bill finally looked up. His eyes were dry, but his voice cracked. “She said I was the mistake. That Mom should’ve kept her and left me with the dead.”

At that, Bill refused to answer any more questions. He defiantly waited until Ronald James, the James from the practice, arrived.

-=#=-

Chapter 19

Ronald James was a person who knew what he wanted, and expected it when he wanted it. Upon entering the station, he saw Bill in the cell and demanded loudly, “I need a private room in which to speak to my client.”

Fran slowly turned to face him. Her expression was acid. “Keep that up, and you’ll need one of your partners down here. I’ve got a headache and a case to work, and your yelling makes it harder. Yell again, and I’ll book you in with your client—for obstruction.”

Trey didn’t look up, but Fran caught the flicker of a smirk in her peripheral vision—a silent jab that nearly cracked her composure.

James seemed to rethink his approach. Suddenly he wasn't bombastic. He was meek. “I'm sorry,” he stammered, much more quietly. “It’s nasty out there. I had to shovel my driveway just to get the car moving.”

“Around here, Mr. James, you might try a bit more civility. It'll get you more cooperation.

She decided to play nice. “This way, Mr. James. And thank you for adjusting your volume.”

She led the way to the private room while Trevor escorted Bill.

Fran stepped out and turned the key with a firm twist. The lock clicked shut behind her—a quiet seal on civility.

Trish had been looking through the computer while Fran and Trey were busy, and called them over when they were back in the office.

“What’s up?” Fran asked.

“Kinda strange. I was wondering how much they actually were receiving personally from each business, so I did a little bit of snooping.” She pointed to a line buried deep in the general funds ledger—one that didn’t match any known source. “This... doesn’t belong. Where’s it coming from? There doesn’t seem to be a company that matches this code.”

Fran sat down and took over the mouse and keyboard. Laboriously, she started sifting through the ledgers. “I need an intern to do this,” she muttered.

Afraid she might hand off a comprehensive search to him, Trey said, “You’re doing fine.”

“This looks like it’s routed through a holding account in Winnemucca,” she said in response.

“Lovely,” sighed Trey. “Kickback? Special payment for services rendered?”

“Probably the second, but what kind of services rendered?” Fran wondered.

“Well,” Trish ventured, “They have access to lots of businesses without necessarily having employees of said businesses around when they’re working. They could look through just about any computer if they knew how.”

“But who would be wanting that kind of information?” Fran asked, more to herself than anyone else.

“It only seems to be coming from one account,” Trish commented.

“So they’re funneling information to just one buyer? Does that buyer sell it to the highest bidder, or are they wanting it for themselves?” Fran asked. She clicked into the account’s transaction history. “There’s a recurring payment every quarter. Same amount. Same memo.”

“What’s the memo?” Trish asked.

“Community Systems Integration”

Trey raised an eyebrow. “A profile?”

“Maybe patterns,” Trish said. “Who buys what. Who visits which businesses. Who’s emailing whom. You build enough of that, you can predict just about anything about a town.”

Fran leaned back, staring at the screen. “So it’s not just data. It’s behavioral modeling.”

Trey exhaled. “And if it’s only going to one buyer, they’re either very rich, very paranoid, or very strategic.”

Before the investigation could continue, a bell sounded, saying someone wanted the privacy door opened. Trish stood, and looked at the other two. “Whaddya think? Should I let him out?”

“Do we have to?” Fran asked.

“Don’t ask me,” Trey quipped. “I don’t want to release either one of them.”

“I suppose we have to,” Trish sighed. She retrieved the key from Fran’s desk, then went to the privacy room.

“My client would like to speak to you before I leave,” James informed her.

Trish looked dubious, but for everyone’s comfort, she led Bill out to the table where they’d been investigating, and brought out a chair with a relatively small amount of springs that would stick into the backside for James.

Bill was invited to sit, to which he grudgingly acquiesced. James winced a bit when he attempted a seated posture, but he was able to shift his weight to allow only the minimal amount of pain.

“What can you tell us?” Fran asked.

“I can’t tell you anything about the deaths,” Bill said.

Fran’s expression grew grim. “So why are we wasting time?”

James decided it was time to turn the tables on Fran. “My client feels he might be able to shed some light on activities which may further your investigation.”

“Such as?”

“You were doing a lot of genealogical searching earlier. Did you find anything out regarding George Ross?” Bill wondered.

“Should we have?” Fran asked, motioning for Trey to do just that.

At Trey’s quick tapping of the keys, Bill smirked. “I don’t want to have to do all of your work for you, but I’ll tell you this;” He paused as Trey obviously saw something relevant on the screen. Fran leaned over and looked, while Trish scoweled at the screen.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “Ross, Parker, and Reggie knew each other in school. Ross was a bit of a computer programmer and Parker was interested in flipping homes. Reggie… Well, he wasn’t an expert at keeping his nose clean, and came up with a hypothetical idea.”

He paused and asked for some water. Trish brought it, and while Bill was busy downing half a glass of water, Fran eyed James.

“What does your client want for this information?”

“Well, Chief. As you so eloquently pointed out, this is a small town. There’s the possibility that by giving information to you, even hypothetical information, from which you can draw your own conclusions, the DA might be willing to cut a deal on whatever type of sentence Mr. Graves may be rewarded with.”

Fran didn’t blink. “So your client is asking for leniency in exchange for a theory.”

James smiled thinly. “A theory which may or may not be proved true. Nothing my client knows can tell you why people have died. He’s in the dark just as much as you are in reference to that.”

“The hypothetical information he can give you is something you’ll never get from the computer, and the number of people who can shed some light on this area are rapidly dwindling. It’s your choice, Chief Smith.”

Fran leaned back, her fingers steepled. “You’re right about one thing, Mr. Graves. The number of people who can shed light is shrinking. But I don’t make deals. That’s the DA’s job.”

James nodded. “Of course.”

“But I do decide what’s worth passing along.” She turned to Trish. “Record this conversation. Make sure it’s logged.”

Trish pulled out her department phone and tapped the screen. A moment later, she nodded.

Fran looked at Bill. “You’ve got five minutes. Hypothetical or not, make it count.”

Bill glanced at James, like a trained animal looking for permission from it’s owner.

James wasn’t thrilled with the recording being made, but he nodded slightly. Now was the time to try for a deal. The more open Bill acted, the better things would go for him. Especially with the possible ties to five murder investigations in the works.

“Reggie wanted to make an extra buck, and he came up with the idea of utilizing janitorial services for espionage.”

“That’s nothing new,” Fran said. “Four and a half minutes.”

“Right, but you see, with Parker’s real estate ventures, and Ross’ computer brains, he figured he could make it a lot easier.”

“How?”

“Ross was already working on a security system that would beat all systems, and Parker wanted information on who wanted to sell property, and how he could make a killing… Sorry for the choice of words there… on land deals.” He took another sip of water. “What Reggie suggested was that they find a place with a lot of land going cheap, and buy it up, as much as possible.”

“And Venture fits that bill, no pun intended, Bill,” Trey said.

“Venture seemed like it was perfect, except most of the land is for rent, not sale.”

Fran snerked. “So Parker couldn’t get very far in his part of the endeavor.”

“He was able to do things low key, but not like he wanted.”

Trey had been listening carefully. “And how did you get involved?”

“I’ve had Spotless Solutions going for awhile. And my twin sister used to go steady with Ross before he got married.” His expression when he mentioned his sister made it clear there wasn’t any love loss between the two. “I’ve always suspected that it was her that pushed Reggie to make the suggestion. Ross wasn’t listening to her anymore.”

“So your janitorial service was ready and able to be used for their services,” Trish commented. “What makes you think Debra was involved?”

“She, not so subtly, told me I should bring Spotless Solutions to Venture.”

“Hypothetically,” Fran said, “When were you let in on the idea?”

James made as if to stop Bill, but the younger man was on a roll, and didn’t seem to notice his counsel’s warning gesture.

“I threatened to pull out when I figured out what Debra and Reggie were doing.”

Fran gazed at Bill like he was a toddler, found with his hand in the cookie jar, trying to proclaim his innocence.

“Why didn’t you pull out?” Trey asked after a bit.

“Come on, Pastor… you know what type of person Debra was. I’ve already told you she was a sociopath. She swore up and down that she had some kind of setup with her own lawyer that if anyone backed out, they’d be made to look like the instigator of the whole thing.” He was shaking and he clumsily took a drink, spilling some on his shirt. “When Debra says something like that, you listen.”

Fran didn’t flinch. “So you stayed in. Out of fear.”

Bill nodded, wiping at the wet patch on his shirt. “She had leverage. Not just legal. Emotional. She knew things about me—about Spotless—that I couldn’t afford to have aired.”

Trish’s voice was quiet. “Did she ever threaten you directly?”

Bill hesitated. “Not in so many words. But she’d leave notes. Cryptic ones. Stuff only I would understand. Like a receipt from a diner I hadn’t been to in years, with a date circled. Or a photo of my old apartment door. Just to show that she was armed and ready.”

Trey frowned. “That’s not leverage. That’s psychological warfare.”

“She was good at it,” Bill said. “She didn’t care who she hurt, as long as she stayed in control.”

Fran leaned forward. “And now she’s dead.”

Bill’s eyes flicked to hers. “Which means someone finally stopped listening.

Fran glanced at James, who looked very uncomfortable. She could well understand. Bill had just placed himself at the top of the suspect list.

Chapter 20

Fran decided it was time to call Ashley Bernard again. She let the phone ring, but there was no answer, so she left a message.

A few minutes later the phone rang. Trey answered it and handed it off to Fran. It was Ashley Bernard.

“Hello, Ms. Bernard,” Fran said, pleasantly, “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Regarding?” Ashley asked defensively, Fran thought.

“Did your Aunt Debra have a twin?”

There was a pause, then Ashley said, “I think I’d prefer to have my attorney present when I talk to you.”

“What?”

“I said,” Ashley said, her voice slow and deliberate, “I’d prefer to have my attorney present for any communication with you.”

Fran blinked, mystified. “Ms. Bernard, I assure you; you’re not a person of interest. I’m just trying to get background on your aunt.”

“That doesn’t change that I need to have my attorney…”

“I understand,” Fran said, cutting her off, her voice louder than intended. “Can you have your attorney contact me when you’re ready to talk?”

“That can be arranged,” Ashley replied.

Then came the click.

Fran lowered the phone. She and Trey stared at each other, the silence between them thick with questions.

-=#=-

In lieu of speaking to Ashley Bernard, Fran went to talk to Mitch Bernard. She checked the database for his address, then went there with Trey.

“Will you let me do the talking?” Trey asked when they stopped outside his home.

“Why?”

Trey looked at her for a moment, then said, “I would prefer he didn’t pass out this time.”

“I’m not going to…” He cut her off.

“Fran, you are my best friend and I love you like you are my sister. But…”

“Here it comes,” Fran murmured.

“You sometimes have a very brusque manner.”

“And you think I’m going to rattle him?”

“No offense, but scare him might be the better term.”

“When have I ever…” He held up a hand to stop the building tirade.

“Will you just trust me on this? Just make a note of what he says.”

“I didn’t bring a notebook,” she told him.

“Good,” he replied.

Fran appeared as though she was going to make a retort, but then closed her mouth and glared at him. “You know,” she said after a moment, “Sometimes I just hate your guts!”

“Uh, huh,” Trey responded, a bit of a smirk on his lips. “How much is that ocean front property outside Grade?”

She really couldn’t think of a decent response, so stuck out her tongue at him, then they got out of her pickup and went to knock on the door.

Mitch answered the door, and shrank back when he saw Fran. Yeah, it’s a good thing I didn’t bring a notebook, Fran thought. We’d be calling for another ambulance.

Trey pulled out his ID with his left hand and held out his right to shake hands with Mitch. “Mr. Bernard? I’m Special Consultant Trevor Grant, for the Venture Police Department. I’d like to ask you some questions regarding some members of your family.”

Almost blankly, Mitch responded by shaking Trey’s hand.

“Which family members?” Mitch asked, tentatively.

Fran started to respond, but Trey held up a hand to silence her. Fran’s eyes widened in surprise, but she closed her mouth.

“Your mom and Ashley. Debra, Reggie, and Bill.”

“What about them?” Mitch asked. He still hadn’t opened the door wide enough to let them in.

“Can we come in?” Trey asked. “It’s getting chilly out here.”

Mitch looked at the wind whipping up snow in the street, and acquiesced. “Come in,” he said opening the door.

He started to close the door before Fran could follow Trey, but Trey said, “That’s not a way to treat someone.”

“You shouldda seen the way she treated me.”

“I promise that won’t happen today,” Trey countered.

Mitch still hesitated, so Trey said, “Chief Smith agreed to let me do the talking, right Chief?”

If the fire in Fran’s eyes could incinerate him, Trey would have been an incredibly small pile of ash on the floor, but she reached up and made a zipping motion across her mouth.

Mitch considered, the said, “Okay, Chief. Come in.”

As they stepped inside, they smelled and heard coffee brewing. It smelled good on such a cold day.

Mitch didn’t invite them to sit. He stood, hands on hips, but his voice shook as he said, “What’s your question?”

“Well, Mitch,” Trey said. “I’ve got a few. Can we sit down?”

For a moment, Mitch looked like he’d refuse, but then he motioned to the couch while he pulled a chair out from his dining room set. He sat with his hands firmly placed on the arms. His knuckles were white, and it looked like they were physically restraining him from heading to the bathroom again.

“What’s your relationship with your aunt?” Trey asked.

“Is it… Is it true she’s dead?” Mitch asked, voice shaking even more.

“I’m afraid so,” Trey said.

Suddenly, Mitch’s demeanor changed. He seemed to relax and said, “Thank God!”

“Why do you say that?” Fran asked. She couldn’t stop herself.

She made a mental note of his relaxation.

Trey exhaled like he was deflating, but Mitch said, “She’s… She was a sociopath.” He smiled as he changed from present to past tense.

Suddenly, he jumped up. “Would you like coffee?” he asked, looking at them both. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

Before they could even answer, he hurried into his kitchen stuck his head out the door to ask, “Cream and sugar?”

“Black,” Trey said, echoed by Fran. This time, he didn’t glare at her. In fact, his expression was more, What is going on here?

When Mitch came back, he handed each of them a huge mug of steaming coffee.

“Thank you,” Fran said, this time she was echoed by Trey.

Mitch sat down and said, quite easily, “Before you start with the questions;” he turned to Fran, “Chief, I’m really sorry how I acted before. In my family, you don’t, or I guess, didn’t cross Debra.” Again, he had a small smile on his face as he said it.

“I was afraid what Debra would do if she knew I’d talked to you.”

Fran gave a small nod and made another mental note. Things were really starting to add up to Debra being universally disliked, even by her family members.

“Why were you afraid?” Trey asked.

“Oh wow! You know what it was like growing up with a wanna-be Debra?”

“Your mother?” Fran asked.

“No. Mom was great. It was Ashley. She thought Debra had wings and a halo. She hated Mom, though. Thought every rule mom had was simply to ruin her life.”

He shook his head. “Debra didn’t help. She was constantly harping on mom for the rules, and reinforced everything she said to Ashley once mom wasn’t there.”

“Finally, Mom gave up.”

“How?” Trey asked.

“She left a note,” Mitch said, tears forming in his eyes. “Said she didn’t know who was right anymore. Her or Debra. So she ended everything.”

“What did Debra do?” Fran asked gently.

“Smiled,” Mitch said, angrily. “Like it was what she wanted all along.”

“Who would have wanted Debra dead?” Fran asked.

Mitch looked at her like she’d just sprouted snakes from her head. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes, and I recognize that people didn’t like her, but who didn’t like her enough to kill her?”

“I’m shouldn’t say this, but everyone except for the one person Debra fan club.”

“Ashley?” Trey asked, just for confirmation.

“You got it,” Mitch confirmed.

-=#=-

It was the next day that Fran received a call from an unknown number in San Bernadino, California.

“Hello,” she said into the mouthpiece. After listening a moment, she motioned for Trey to pick up his phone. He did, while muting the mic on his handset.

“That’s fine, Ms. Snow,” she said. “I can talk to you now.”

“Good,” Ms. Snow said. “And to whoever joined you the moment you learned who I am; hello. I’m Brenda Snow, attorney for Ms. Ashley Bernard, who is also on the call.”

Fran raised an eyebrow. Trey, lips twitching, fought the urge to laugh.

“Thank you,” he said, unmuting his mic. “I’m Special Consultant Trevor Grant.”

“Good,” Brenda replied, her tone cool and precise. “My client wants assurance that anything she shares will not be used to pursue criminal charges against her.”

“Ms. Bernard isn’t under investigation,” Fran explained. “We’re trying to understand what happened to Debra.”

“Reggie said Debra was being mean to everyone,” Ashley said, but it didn’t sound like she believed it.

“When did you talk to Reggie?” Trey asked.

“He called a couple of days ago,” she responded.

Brenda Snow stepped in. “To be clear—my client heard what Reggie said and consulted me before passing it along. She wasn’t sure what she was obligated to disclose, and she wasn’t trying to withhold anything.”

“I appreciate that,” Fran said. “We have no intention of pressing charges unless they’re warranted.”

“That’s what I advised my client,” Brenda assured her. “You won’t mind if I continue to advise my client as she’s speaking to you, will you​?”

Fran shook her head, frustrated. Of course she couldn’t object. And truth be told, she respected Brenda’s caution. Ashley Bernard was young; too young to be navigating this alone, and clearly needed the guidance of a sharp attorney. But Fran couldn’t shake the feeling that this particular sharp attorney was about to make the next hour far more tangled than it had to be.

“So what did he say when he called?” Trey asked. “I’m sure he said more than Debra was being mean to everyone.”

“He said Aunt Debra was a sociopath. Why would he say that? It’s not true.”

Trey paused. “I don’t know how to answer that, Ms. Bernard. I’ve heard from her brothers that she could be very mean. I’ve also heard from others that her behavior could be interpreted that way. But I’m not a therapist.”

He leaned in slightly, voice softening. “What I’d really like to know is—what did you think of her?”

“I’ve always liked her. She was so smart.” Ashley paused. “I always admired how she was so in charge, and always knew the best way to do things. I wanted to be like her.”

Fran felt a chill. She hated to imagine what that might have looked like. Was that why Ashley had sought emancipation from her own mother? Had Debra been a role model—or a blueprint? Through posture. Through the illusion of control.

Fran thought of her own parents, and how that relationship had been torn apart. She’d wanted to live on her own terms, and she had; but at a cost. Years of silence. Years she hadn’t wanted. She hadn’t meant to lose them. That had never been the goal.

Ashley had said her mother was dead, but then, in the same conversation, said her mother tried to control her all the time so she left. Was her mother actually dead, or was she just dead to her?

Like her own parents? Here she was, trying to get in the head of a girl who left her mother, at least, just like she’d done, herself. How was she supposed to figure out what Ashley was thinking when she didn’t know what she was thinking.

But then, she heard Trey asking the question she wasn’t able to ask…

“So your mother is Debra’s sister?”

“Was.”

“She’s dead?” Trey knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Ashley’s reaction.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Trey said gently.

“Why?” Ashley said? “I’m not. She always had to control everything about my life. Do this, do that… It’s funny; everyone says Aunt Debra was like that, but it was my mother who was always doing it.”

“What about your father?”

“Who’s that?”

Trey pointed toward the cell where Bill was, then toward the interview rooms. Fran agreed. They needed to talk to Bill about this.

Fran broke in. “What else did Reggie say?”

“He said he ran. It was too dangerous to stay in Venture.”

“Did he say why?”

“I just said it was too dangerous to stay…”

“Why was it too dangerous to stay in Venture?”

“He said two friends of theirs had gotten killed. One was Ross, Aunt Debra’s old boyfriend.”

“Did you know Ross?” Trey asked.

“Not really. I met him once, but that was a few years ago.”

“What about the other?”

“I don’t even know who it was.”

“The name Les Parker doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Maybe I heard the name, but that’s it.”

“Did Reggie say where he was?” Fran wanted to know.

“He said he was getting as far away from Venture as he could get.”

“Did he give the name of a town, or even state?”

“Not that I can remember,” Ashley replied.

“Well, Ms. Bernard, if you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

After they hung up the phones, Fran commented, frustrated, “Well, that got us absolutely nowhere.”

“I don’t know,” Trey said. “It tells us that Bill isn’t the only one who was on less than friendly terms with his sister. Apparently Reggie wasn’t thrilled with her either.”

“Right, which means Reggie’s not low on the list of suspects.”

“Was he ever?” Trey asked.

“No, but I think he may have moved up even farther.”

“And who do you like better for Debra’s killer?”

Fran sighed. “Reggie,” she said, simply.

Trey stood up and stretched his back. “I’ll pull the files on Reggie’s last knowns. Maybe we missed something there.”

77

-=#=-

They sat at the interview table with Bill. “What can you tell us about Regina?”

“Shouldn’t Mister James be here?” Bill asked, avoiding the question.

As if in response, the door opened and James walked in.

Fran beamed at Bill. “Yes,” she said, then repeated her question as Ronald James sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs. “What can you tell us about Regina?”

“Big sister Regina,” Bill said. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to launch into a sarcastic monologue, but his attorney shook his head gravely, and the sarcasm died in his throat.

“She was fine,” he said, looking down at the table. “Debra ran her down, and always made it seem like Gina was the instigator of everything to Mom and Reg Senior. Got her in trouble for just about anything you could think of. Gina left home early.” He gave a sardonic chuckle in a single explosive burst. “Wish I could have left with her.”

“When did she leave?” Trey asked.

“When she was seventeen. You know what was stupid, though? Debra still made life miserable for her. Everytime we’d see Ashley, Debra would be poisoning her, asking how horrible Gina was making things for her. Eventually, Ashley decided to leave home because of the garbage Gina was supposedly doing in her life.”

He paused, and tears started to come to his eyes. “Gina died a few months ago, and she left a note behind. Talking about how everything comes back to haunt a person. She left home early, and her daughter left home early.”

“Talked about how Debra painted the past in such a way she couldn’t trust her own mind on what was the truth anymore. She wondered if she was as bad as Debra said, and couldn’t bear being so unsure anymore.”

“Gina wasn’t evil. She was insisting on order and structure for Ashley."

“And, Ashley didn’t like that,” Trey deduced.

“Not at all,” Bill said. “Ashley’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of Chuck Norris’ reputation. If she doesn’t already have something, she figures the world owes it to her, so she goes and gets it.”

Trevor nodded. “How’d she get emancipation?”

“She listened to my dear sister, and said what she told her. Ashley isn’t terribly convincing, but Debra sure is.”

Fran scribbled a note, then looked up. “So Debra coached her?”

Bill nodded. “Word for word, probably. Told her what to say, how to say it. Made it sound like Regina was some kind of monster.”

“And the court bought it?” Trey asked.

Bill gave a bitter laugh. “Debra could sell sand in a desert. She made it sound like she was rescuing Ashley from a tyrant. Regina didn’t stand a chance.”

Trey leaned back and sighed.. “So Ashley left home thinking she was escaping the villain—when the villain was the one holding the door. Typical of so many of us.”

Fran heard what was said, and she wanted to moralize along with Trey, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if she hadn’t been very much the same. She’d pulled away from her parents in much the same way. They hadn’t agreed with her choice to transition, and she’d left. She’d had to. Hadn’t she?

Did she really have to leave? She’d already transitioned in LA. So why did she have to leave? Because they didn’t want me!

Really? How do you know?

They said so.

Did they? They wanted you very much. That was clear.

They wanted Frank, not Fran. They wanted their son on their terms. She knew that. She also knew if they’d had a chance to get to know Fran, they would have realized that she was the same person she’d always been.

Her mind played back Trey’s simple question to her when she gave him the same argument. “So why take away their opportunity to find that out?”

Because I didn’t want to be hurt again.

But weren’t you already hurting?

Yes. But at least it was my choice.

She blinked, realizing how much that sounded like Ashley. Like the girl who’d left home to escape a villain—only to find the villain was the one holding the door.

Fran exhaled slowly. Maybe Trey was right. Maybe it was typical of so many people.

Chapter 21

June 21st, 2028

3:23 PM

The snow had melted, though the investigation had not.

Spotless Solutions remained shuttered, and Bill Graves had become a long-term ward of the county. He’d been charged, but the evidence was thin—nothing that proved he hadn’t killed Debra, and nothing that proved he had. The case was circumstantial, stitched together with implication and unease. Still, the DA was confident he could get a conviction.

No one in the department liked it.

Fran couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t explain Ginny.

Trey said if he was going to send a man away for life, he wanted more than nervous testimony and a trail of suggestion. He wanted something direct. Something undeniable.

Trish just wanted clarity. Either Bill did it or he didn’t. “Might have” wasn’t enough—not for a murder, and not for a town already fraying at the edges.

Too many questions remained.

Where were Parker, Ross, and Julie? Were they still alive—or had they joined Debra in silence?

And Millie. She hadn’t come back. No one had seen her since the night she, in effect, ran Trey off the road.

It was as if the town had swallowed them whole.

So on a nice day in June, with the wildflowers tentatively poking their heads up as if afraid Old Man Winter would try to kill them again, Fran found herself on the way to Chick’s garage.

She was giving herself a day off from the investigations that seemed to lead nowhere, and was telling Denise about how she obtained her F150, which she’d named, Bluebell.

For her part, Denise laughed at the image of the immovable object that was Chick being bulldozed by the unstoppable force of Fran.

Fran wouldn't have known about him for quite some time, except for the fact he maintained all of the town vehicles.

“Do you maintain personal vehicles as well?” She had asked him.

“Sure, but I have to charge the private individual,” he told her.

“What if I use my own F150 crew cab for police work as well as my private use?”

“Yeah, I suppose I could maintain it for you free of charge then,” he conceded.

“I'll need the radio, lights, siren…. Plexiglass partition. You know.”

“You gonna want it decked out for pursuit too?”

She considered for a moment. “No…. I like the inline 6 it has.”

“Good engine,” Chick agreed. “Lots of low end torque. Yours propane or gas?”

“Propane,” she said. “Gas is way too expensive nowadays.”

“Well, we've got an excess of propane around here. Just got a get it outta the ground.”

Fran laughed and nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

Chick flashed a toothless smile and stuck his thumbs through his overall straps. “When you want me to kit out your truck?”

Fran returned the grin and said, “As soon as I find one.”

Chick’s smile vanished and he stared at her for a full 30 seconds, then his grin returned. He nodded and laughed, then beckoned her to follow him, and he took her behind his house where he had a 2015 F150 frame and body on jack stands and an old 300 6 cylinder engine paired to a Ford 4 speed transmission on a hoist ready to drop in. There were huge mud and snow tires mounted on chrome rims lined up and ready to go on behind it, and it looked like he'd jacked up the body to accommodate them. He pointed to a winch and snow blade sitting not far away. “Those are going on too.”

The body was navy and white, but he said, “I've got some great cobalt blue paint for it.”

Fran gazed at it, but doubted she could come up with the funds necessary on her salary.

Chick seemed to read her thoughts. “Tell ya what, Chief. I'll loan her to the police force for you to use, both on duty and off. You make it through 2 winters here, and she's yours, free and clear.”

Fran stared at her like he was insane. “Why?”

“Revren’s good people, n’ he says you're good people. I figur’ he ain' gonna lie.”

Back in the present, Fran and Denise had just walked to Chick’s garage, a Conoco that had, at one time or another, been a brothel, a barn, and a restaurant, although not necessarily in that order. Now, it had the familiar Conoco sign, but in this case, it was proudly being pointed to by the wing of a cartoon baby chicken on a custom made sign beside it. Above both of them were seven rectangular signs with one character a piece, that spelled out CHICK'S.

“Hey Chief!” the older man called from the pit underneath an Edsel.

“Hi, Chick!” Fran called back.

“Are you ever gonna tell me how you do that?” Denise asked. There was no way he could possibly have seen them walk in.

“And spoil my fun? Not on my life!”

The first time Denise heard him use that phrase she had told him it was supposed to be, “not on YOUR life,” but he calmly explained that he couldn't bet HER life, but he could bet his own.

It was just one of the many eccentricities that made a 68 year old man named Chick his own beloved self.

“Is Bluebell done?” Fran asked, a wicked smile crossing her lips. She knew exactly what Chick was gonna say, and he didn't disappoint her.

“If Ida know'd you were gonna call’er that, Ida charged ya’”

Denise tried hard not to snerk as she watched Fran mouth the words as Chick said them.

“Ya laughin’ at me, Neecie?” He asked as he climbed out of the pit.

The two had become friends quickly. Chick's daughter in law, Lizbeth, was a teacher at the local high school and had taken the young trans girl under her wing of protection. In a town like Venture, it was necessary.

One might think that Denise's grandfather being the Sheriff would automatically, but it had nowhere near the effect as the protection of the Chick Birdlander. The greatest unspoken rule of Venture, and Grade for that matter, was you didn't get on Chick's bad side.

“Now, Chickee, you know I'd never laugh at you,” Denise said with a sly smile on her face. As far as Fran could tell, Denise was the only person permitted to call Chick, Chickee.

“Sure,” Chick said as he retrieved the keys for the F150, affectionately called Bluebell by Fran.

Once he handed them to Fran, he turned back to Denise. “Ya ever waterskied, Neecie?”

“Around here?”

“Good point,” Chick said. “Would ya like t’ learn?”

“Around here?” Denise asked again.

“Ya can only use that phrase once.” Chick laughed, pointing to an odd looking car sitting along one wall of the garage. “That's an Amphicar. It's half car, half boat.”

He led the two women over to the car and showed them some of its oddities. “It's not a great car, and not a great boat, but it’s kinda cool anyway. You can drive it right into the water, click in the propeller and just keep going. Barely goes highway speeds, and’s too heavy for any speed in the water, but it does work. I'm gonna enter it in the 4th of July parade.”

Fran snerked. “And you want Denise to ‘waterski’ behind it?”

Chick grinned broadly. “I can lock in the propeller even driving down the road and I've got an old pair of waterskis I found at a garage sale. I don't have much use for ‘em, but I'm gonna put the wheels from a couple of pair o’ roller skates on ’em.”

“We're gonna have to get you a bikini, Denise,” Fran said.

“Uh… I'm not so sure about that,” Denise said. “I don't think I'd look very good in one.”

“A one-piece would work fine,” Chick said.

“I'll think about it,” Denise said.

“It'd promote tourism,” Chick said. “Beaver Pond is five times the size it used to be after runoff.”

While they were talking, Trevor walked in. Without even looking toward the door, Chick said, “Hi, Revren’!”

Denise turned to Fran. “How does he do that?”

Fran just shook her head as Trevor said, “Hey, Chick! Elroy get me those blueprints?”

In answer, Chick’s son walked in, holding a tube of what was obviously Trey’s blueprints. “Here ya’ are, Revren’,” said Elroy, sounding exactly like a younger version of his dad.

“Wonderful!” Trey exclaimed. “We wanna see just how far the old house went.” He turned to Denise. “We’ve got to see the layout of the old farmhouse. We really don’t want to find concrete where we’re expecting dirt.”

Trevor’s church had recently gotten to the size where it needed a new fellowship hall, and while expanding things, he and his builder had talked about putting in a gymnasium as well. During the long winters, it would be invaluable for people to have something to do. Basketball… Volleyball. They would allow people to play while the schools practiced.

Down in the chilly half-light of the church basement, the work had taken a gritty turn. The fellowship hall’s expansion had already pushed the crew into tight corners and stubborn concrete, but the newly planned gymnasium—meant to give folks winter shelter and sorely needed warmth—came with its own complications. Pressure-treated lumber for concrete forms stood like ribs in a skeletal structure, and every scoop of earth felt like it had a story to tell.

Trevor had his back to the dig when the clink echoed—sharp, metallic, wrong. Joe, the youngest worker on the team, paused mid-shovel and leaned on the handle. What he’d hit wasn’t rock. It was too narrow, too deliberate. A pipe, maybe. And it wasn’t sitting at a natural angle.

“Something here,” Joe called, cutting through the distant murmur of voices and machinery.

Trevor and Ralph—the foreman—were hunched over blueprints like they were deciphering scripture. The interruption earned Ralph a groan. “If this is another rock, I swear…”

Joe didn’t flinch. “No, Ralph. This is something different.”

Curiosity won out. Joe got a hand spade and scraped carefully around the buried metal, revealing a two-inch pipe, ridged and bent, worming its way from surface to unknown depths.

“This isn’t under where the house used to be,” Trevor said, crouching down. “What’s it doing here?”

“Looks like a well point,” Joe replied, brushing away decades of soil like brushing dust off secrets.

Ralph grunted. “On a hill? That’s ridiculous.”

Trevor looked from one to the other. “What’s a well point?”

“It’s kinda a DIY well drilling kit,” Joe explained. “If you’ve got a place with water, you can drive one into the ground and pull it up. It’s only good for around thirty feet or so.”

“So what’s it doing here?” Fran asked as she walked up. She’d decided to see what was happening at the church and swung by, Denise in tow.

“Hi, Chief,” Joe said as he turned to see who it was. “I didn’t say it was smart, just that’s what it looks like.”

“You know anything about it, Denise?” Trey asked.

“I moved in with Grandpa at around three years old, Pastor Trey. I don’t know what my parents did up here.”

“There’s a joint there,” Ralph commented as he brushed off a bit more clay. “We might be able to turn it loose, then jack out the point.”

“It's worth a try,” Joe agreed. He walked over to a 4x4 support and grabbed a 2 foot pipe wrench that was hanging from a nail. He looked back at the pipe, then shook his head and returned the wrench. Walking over to a bench, he grabbed the grand-daddy of the 2 foot wrench. This one was twice as long, and looked like it would need three people to hold onto it.

Ralph helped guide the teeth onto the pipe, then held it there while Joe positioned himself at the end of the handle. He pulled and nothing happened.

“Just a sec, Joe. Let me get a better bite.” As Joe backed up his pull, Ralph pushed the teeth onto the pipe as hard as he could and held it there while Joe positioned himself again.

This time, once Joe had tension on the wrench, Ralph moved his hands to the handle and held the wrench up while Joe put his weight into it.

“OSHA would scream,” Fran commented dryly.

“OSHA ain’t here,” Joe said through gritted teeth as the pipe started groaning.

It took six full revolutions of the pipe to get it loose, but once it did, it popped out of the fitting with a clang. Both sections of metal jerked away from each other with the release of tension, and Trey caught Joe as he almost fell. Ralph ended up sitting down very hard on his backside.

“What were you saying about OSHA?” Fran needled.

Joe just gave her a dirty look as Trey said, “What’s that?”

They all looked back at the pipe, and joining the two sections was a yellow nylon rope.

Ralph looked up at it from where he’d fallen and climbed laboriously to his knees. He grabbed the rope and pulled up on it. They could hear a slight brushing sound from inside the pipe.

Carefully, so as not to dislodge whatever was at the end of the rope, he pulled it up.

A small carabineer came into view, tied in place by the rope, and going through the corner of a ziplock bag. Inside the bag Trey saw what looked like a spiral notebook he would have used in high school. The notebook was bound around by a twisted rubber band.

Trey looked at Denise, who simply said, “Don’t look at me. I’ve got no idea.”

“I'd love to know why this is here,” Trevor murmured.

“Who’s that guy in Denver?” Fran said. “Professor MacTavish?”

“Yeah. He’s probably the best to talk to.”

“You think it’s important?” Joe asked. “Just looks like a notebook to me.”

“Yeah, it does to me too, but someone wanted it hidden. Why?”

“It could be some kids and documents from a club or something,” Ralph laughed.

“Yeah, it could,” Fran agreed.

“But it’s history,” Trevor told them all. “That makes it important.”