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 12

The envelope Fran had found in the wastebasket contained a birthday card. It was hard to be certain, but the card might never have been out of the envelope. The handwriting on both the envelope and the note inside looked like a teenager’s—loopy, uneven, and earnest. The return address read Ashley Bernard, Riverside, California.

Fran paused. Mitch Bernard—Reggie and Debra’s nephew over at Spotless Solutions—shared that surname. Could Ashley be his sister? It bore checking out.

She yawned and glanced at her watch. Four A.M.

They’d been called to The Chicken Coop by Chick at eight the previous morning. Twenty hours of nonstop investigating had left her running on fumes. She locked the evidence they’d collected into its locker, then flipped off the lights. The alarm panel blinked its now-familiar flicker when she armed it. She disarmed and rearmed it. This time, it came on normally.

Why does it do that? she wondered—not for the first time.

-=#=-

Fran awoke to the comforting aroma of coffee—and something else. Not bacon. Rich, yeasty, and warm. Bread. And… clam chowder?

She blinked at the clock. Ten A.M. Thank God. She was still in her uniform, sprawled sideways across the bed like she’d been dropped there. Five hours of sleep. Not enough, but better than none. Trish had been right—it had been a long night.

As she sat up, another smell hit her. Not comforting. The sour, clinging stench of death. It had soaked into her uniform, her hair, and—judging by the air—her bedding. She looked down at the blankets she’d slept on rather than under. The mattress, mercifully, had been spared.

She stripped the bed, shoved the linens into a laundry bag, and peeled off her uniform. It went straight into the hamper. The shower was hot, fast, and necessary. When she emerged in a fresh uniform, she tossed the blankets into the old top-loader and prayed it would handle the weight. She needed to talk to Chick about getting a front loader with extra capacity. But not today.

Then she stepped into the living room—and stopped.

Trey, Trish, and Sheriff Goldman were seated around her small 1970s dining table, coffee cups in hand. Denise emerged from the kitchen with two plates, each bearing a hollowed-out sourdough round filled with steaming clam chowder. She set them down in front of Trish and Trey, then returned for two more.

“Sit down, Mom,” she said, placing a bowl in front of Fran and one in front of her grandfather. “Just like Aunt Sylvie makes—though I had to cheat on the sourdough.”

Goldman took a spoonful and smiled. “You’ve got that recipe down well.”

Fran sat, still blinking at the scene. The chowder was thick, creamy, and perfect. “I certainly didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Denise called,” Goldman said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Promised clam chowder and a chance to discuss the mysterious case that kept you out until dawn. I couldn’t pass up the chowder.”

Trey laughed. “So the case was just a bonus?”

“One has to have one’s priorities.”

Denise had disappeared into the kitchen, and Goldman turned to Fran. “She’s calling you Mom. That’s good. She hardly ever knew hers.”

Fran caught the slight hitch in his voice when he said she, but at least he was trying. That mattered.

Before she could respond, Denise returned with another plate and settled onto the sofa, balancing a TV tray in front of her. “Don’t mind me,” she said, slipping on a bone-conduction Bluetooth headset and tapping her phone. Fran could hear faint vibrations—just enough to catch snippets of whatever Denise was watching.

Most of the meal passed in easy conversation. No one wanted to talk about crime scenes while eating chowder.

Goldman asked about their time at the academy in LA. Trish and Trey swapped stories, and Fran chimed in now and then. The Sheriff raised his eyebrows when he learned that Trey and Fran had been roommates.

“I didn’t know they had co-ed dorms at the academy.”

“They don’t,” Fran said, spooning up another bite of chowder. “I didn’t look—quite like I do now.”

Goldman paused, studying her. Then he said, “Is that why you’re so good for…” He glanced toward Denise, lowering his voice and gesturing subtly.

Fran nodded. “Yes.”

Goldman took it in stride, giving a quiet nod of understanding.

Once they finished eating, at least to the amount that they could. Neither Trish nor Fran could get all the way through their bread. Fran said, “I looked at that pink envelope I found in the trash yesterday. It was a birthday card for Debra, although I don’t think she ever took the card out of the envelope.”

“Might have been seeing if it contained any money,” Goldman commented.

“You really think she was that shallow?” Trey wondered.

“You saw that house. Except for Reggie’s room, you could operate anywhere.”

“Someone tried,” Fran commented.

“Yeah, well,” Goldman agreed.

Trish leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “We stopped by the station before coming here. The envelope was postmarked Riverside. Return address said Ashley Bernard.”

Goldman’s brow furrowed. “Bernard. That’s Mitch’s last name, right?”

Fran nodded. “Could be a sister. Or someone using the name to get Debra’s attention.”

“Or her guard down,” Trey added.

Denise had taken the mostly empty plates into the kitchen, but now she reappeared, drying her hands on a dish towel. She sat down with her phone, scrolling for a moment before speaking. “Ashley Bernard has a LinkedIn profile. Looks like she’s a teenager. No mention of Mitch, but she’s got a connection to Spotless Solutions. She liked one of their posts last month.”

Goldman gave a low whistle. “That’s thin, but it’s something.”

Fran stood and retrieved her notebook from the sideboard. “I want to talk to her. If she sent that card, she might know more than she realizes.”

Denise raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s involved?”

Fran gave her a mock-stern look. “You know this is confidential information, young lady.”

Denise grinned. “Grandpa and I always talk about cases. He says it gives him a wider range of ideas.”

Goldman shrugged. “It does.”

Fran nodded. “Just keep whatever you hear confidential.”

“Always.”

Fran flipped open her notebook. “If she’s been in Riverside this whole time, I’m pretty sure she’s not involved. But we can’t be too careful.”

“What about Ginny?” Trey asked.

“We’ll need to talk about what Chick said,” Fran replied, “but first—were you able to do an autopsy?” She turned to Trish.

“I haven’t done either one,” Trish said. “But she’s gonna need to thaw out before I can do a proper postmortem.”

Fran was about to respond when a soft gasp came from Denise.

“Ginny Birdlander?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fran hesitated. Denise’s tone wasn’t just surprised—it was personal. Like she knew Ginny. Maybe they were even friends.

Sheriff Goldman stepped in gently. “I know you liked her, Denise. I’m sorry. Ginny was found dead yesterday morning. Chick found her.”

A tear slid down Denise’s cheek. “How did she die? You said she needs to thaw?”

Goldman nodded solemnly. “She was stuck in the walk-in freezer at her restaurant.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Fran asked. Denise’s face had gone completely white at the revelation.

“I had a crush on Ginny for a long time,” Denise said quietly. Then, after a breath, her voice steadied. “I’ll be okay.”

Goldman leaned forward, his tone gentle but firm. “Denise, I’ve got to tell you—there was no way she could’ve been stuck in there without someone barring the door from the outside.”

Denise nodded slowly. “I figured that. I’ve seen that done on TV. It’s not really possible.”

Fran turned to Goldman. “What can you tell me about the Birdlanders?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because you’ve been here a long time. And it looks like the land all around town was owned by your wife?”

“Yes. Then our daughter,” Goldman said. “It’s actually in trust for Denise, now. She takes possession when she turns twenty-five.”

“What?” Denise asked, eyes wide. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

“Yes,” Goldman said calmly. “I’m just managing the land right now. It’s actually yours.”

“But why isn’t it yours?” Denise asked.

Goldman smiled. “It was something your grandma set up. I’m not entirely sure why, but I certainly don’t mind it going to you. I’d be leaving it to you anyway, so why not get it now?”

He turned to Fran. “Gordon Berlander was our ranch manager. He’d worked for the Brightlys for years before that.”

Then he added, almost offhandedly, “As a matter of fact, his home—and the home Chick grew up in—was 133 East Washington Street.”

Fran nodded, jotting the address into her notebook. Then her eyes widened. She looked up sharply. “133 East Washington?”

“Yep.”

“This property?”

“This house,” Goldman confirmed.

“Wait a minute,” Fran said, sitting up straighter. “You said Berlander. Not Birdlander.”

Goldman chuckled. “Yeah. Chick’s real name is Charles—same as mine—but he always went by Chuck. In school, people started calling him Chuck Birdlander. I guess Berlander sounded close enough, and then Chick came about naturally. All the Birdlanders are actually Berlanders, which you’ll find if you search official records.”

He leaned back, warming to the story. “My understanding is that Chick decided to capitalize on being Chick Birdlander. You’ve seen how his wife, Birdie, leaned into it too. Her real name was Elizabeth.”

“So did Gordon ever own this house?”

“No. There wasn’t any need to. He had it until he died.”

“Ever wonder why you’ve got that opening in your garage into the alley and why your front door is your back door?”

“Not really,” Fran replied. “I like it, though. Gives a sense of privacy in the living room.”

“There is that,” Goldman said. “The actual reason is that the alley used to be Washington Road. It was the road that wound up the hill to where the church is.” He directed the last to Trey and Trish.” Your parsonage was the main house for a long time until my daughter and son-in-law built their house. Where the church sits is where the barn used to be.”

“What about The Bird’s Nest?” Trey wondered. “How long has it been there?”

“Oh wow,” Goldman exclaimed, trying to remember. “Highway 7 has been there for a long time. I think Chick built the motel for Birdie about fifty years ago.”

“How old is he now?” Fran wondered.

“Around seventy, if I remember right. I think that’s it. He’s a good ten years older than I am.”

“Wait a minute,” Trish said. “Chick built The Bird’s Nest at twenty? That would be expensive to a twenty year old.”

“Yeah, it was. And he built it with his own hands too. My understanding is he didn’t have help.”

“Where were you during all this?” Fran wondered.

“I lived in Grade. That's where the school system was at the time, so I saw Peg, Chick. Even Chick’s son Elroy when they were in school.”

“Do you know anything about Jaime Gutierrez?” Fran asked.

Denise suddenly exclaimed, “Why would Ginny leave him for Reggie? Why would she do that?" She shook her head, arms crossed like she was trying to hold herself together. "She knew what people would think."

Trish turned toward her, brow lifting slightly. "What do you mean?"

Denise stared out the window above Fran’s desk, past the bare trees and back fence. "There’s a line in this town," she said. "Between people who belong and people who try to change what they don’t understand. The locals? We don’t say it out loud, but we know who’s really from here. Who gets it."

Fran tilted her head, listening.

Denise hesitated. "Ginny was one of us. Her grandma built half this place with biscuits and kindness. But Reggie... he’s not like us. He’s new. He's not just from out of town—he acts like he’s from out of town. Big ideas. Fast opinions."

“What about Reggie, Denise?” Fran asked.

“I don’t know that much. We’re not in the same age group. Ginny was seven years older than me. Reggie’s another six.”

“Do you know much about Debra?”

Denise took on a look of distaste. “I know all I want to about her. She was just a little bit older than Ginny, so I knew her more than I do Reggie. Debra was just mean. Spotless Solutions came to the high school to talk about opportunities for students during summer and after school hours. Debra gave a talk, and when it came time to answer some questions, Andy Sherwood asked a question that she thought was dumb. She seemed to go out of the way to make him feel like he was 6 inches tall. Like I said. She was mean.”

Trish nodded. “I can corroborate that Debra was mean. She got a sprained ankle at a work site a few months ago and came to my office for treatment. Becca, one of my nurses, said Debra would have to wait, since she didn’t have an appointment. Or she could go to the ER in Smith’s Forge. Debra didn’t like that idea at all, I guess, so she mentioned a few things that Spotless Solutions had ‘noticed’ at the movie theater Becca’s brother managed. Becca moved some of my appointments around so Debra could get right in.”

“And Ginny was moving Reggie in,” Fran said gently.

Denise nodded, eyes wet. “I don’t understand it. She was smart. She knew what it meant—to choose someone like that. What it would feel like to all the people who loved her. It’s like she stepped out of the circle.”

Trey leaned forward, voice calm. “And maybe someone didn’t want her stepping out.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Fran went to answer it, and Chick stood there. She bade him to enter.

He stepped inside and saw who was present. He removed his hat and started to nervously work it with his fingers.

“What can I do for you, Chick?” Fran asked gently. She gestured for him to sit down on the sofa, but he shook his head no.

“I, well…” He paused, then his words came out in a rush. “Chief, ya just gotta find who did this. Ya know? Hell, sorry Revren’, it couldda been anyone. She ‘uz getting together with that big city boy, ya know. Folks around here don’ like ‘at. Someone mightta – you know – really not liked it.”

“You think it might have been a local?” Goldman asked.

Chick looked horrified at the thought, but he nodded. “I don’ like it, Sheriff. People ‘roun about here are good people. I just keep thinkin’ if someone din’ like Ginny gettin’ t‘gether with that big city boy, well.... What’d they do? How far might’n they go?”

Trey studied the older man closely, then said, “Chick, I’ve gotta ask. Do you have anyone in mind?”

Chick looked down. It was clear he didn’t like where his thoughts were going. “Well, Revren’; If I ‘uz t’ say, it’d just be my persnal ‘pinion, ya know? I don’ wanna be right.”

Fran kept her tone gentle as she said, “Chick, sometimes personal opinions point us in directions where we need to look. You don’t want to be right. I get that. If it’s someone you know and respect, you sure as the world don’t want to be right, but what if you are? We need to know where to look, either to clear someone or find they’re to blame.”

Chick nodded. “Ya’ all need to look at everyone. Whether they be local or big city transplants. It don’ matter who they are. If they killed my little Ginny, they need to pay the price. You look at the locals too, ya hear? Especially Jaime Gutierrez.”

Jaime Gutierrez again, thought Fran. She still had the search warrant for his home. She hadn’t been able to use it yet, but she needed to.

She definitely needed to.

Trey had been thinking. “Fran,” he said after a bit. “I think it could be arranged to have the locals over to the church tomorrow. Maybe have Chick talk to them about the necessity of telling the police anything they might know.”

“A town meeting?”

“Might help,” Trey asserted.

“I’d be willing to urge people to talk to ya’all,” Chick agreed.

Chapter 13

The theater was old and familiar. People filed in and sat where their parents had before them, and their parents before them. Fran, Trish, Trey, and Sheriff Goldman stood at the edge of the stage along with Chick Birdlander. It took a few minutes for everyone to file in, but Fran was grateful to see that it was an almost full house.

Chick went to the center of the stage. There wasn’t a podium or lectern, or anything like that. Instead, the man stood, once again with his hat in his hands, his graying, stringy hair sticking out on all sides of his head, wearing the overalls that were his trademark. He looked up at the people in attendance, taking them all in.

“Folks,” he said. “I’ve known most of you my whole life. Some of you since you were knee-high, some before that even. I never figured I’d be up here talkin’ about my granddaughter like this.”

“Ginny was ours. She belonged to this place—not just by birth, but by heart. She learned to fry eggs in the same pan her grandma did, cleaned rooms folks stayed in when they first built Venture. She knew our stories, our stubborn ways, our goodness...”

He stopped to let his words sink in. “And someone took her from us.”

Once more, Chick stopped speaking. There was a small murmur of agreement in the crowd. What he said hit home. Nobody was about to argue the fact.

“Now I’m gonna say something hard for me cause I’m mad... I’m hurt! I want to scream and throw things and hunt whoever did this down myself. I want to hurt them as much as they hurt me and my granddaughter! That’s what revenge is!”

“But justice...”

“Justice ain’t about how you feel. It’s about the truth. It’s about letting the Chief here, and her team, dig deep and clean it out—all of it. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s one of us!”

Another pause, but now the murmur sounded shocked. They could hardly conceive that one of them might be the one who killed Ginny.

“Revenge wants blood, but justice wants the truth, and a reckoning that fits, right?”

Nobody dared argue with Chick. They knew he was right. “So here’s what we need to do, so Ginny gets her justice. If you know something—anything—that might help these officers, you come forward. Don’t hide it behind old friendships or local pride.”

“It don’t matter if you were born on Brightly soil or moved in last year from Salt Lake. If you care about Ginny, you speak! You cooperate! Because silence? That only shows that we’re cowards. That we’re afraid to speak up where we need to.”

“Let these folks do their job. Help them do their job! Give them what they need. Don’t let my Ginny’s name hang in the air without justice behind it.”

“Thank you!”

He stood for a moment as if unsure what to do next. Then he stepped down from the platform.

The room erupted into the pandemonium until the sheriff stepped to the center of the stage. He held up his hands for silence and one by one, the voices died out.

“I know there’s been a division for a long time here. Ever since the Brightlys owned everything, and Venture was just a few buildings they rented to their hired hands. I know we’re a pretty well close knit people. But Chick’s right. We need to let the people who are supposed to do their job, do it. As one of them, I promise that we will find whoever did this. You’ve got my word on that.”

As Sheriff Goldman stepped back to the side of the platform, the room erupted again. People were upset. They were being asked -- no told -- to cooperate with the police on the off chance one of them were the culprit. It sat well outside what they considered propriety.

But then, Jaime Gutierrez stood up. He had been Ginny’s steady boyfriend for years, until the big city boy, Reggie Thompson, came to town.

“What do you want from us?” Jaime yelled. “I’ll give you whatever you need! I want whoever did this found!”

Fran stepped to the center of the platform. “And you are?”

“Jaime Gutierrez,” the young man said. “Ginny was my girlfriend!”

Nobody argued with him. It was well known that she had been moving Reggie into her place, but it was also well known that the handsome Reggie had overwhelmed her with his suavity and charm. The general consensus was that Ginny had made a mistake, and that she would eventually see that and return to Jaime.

-=#=-

The next day at the police station, the four law enforcement officials sat talking about the meeting the night before.

What Chick had said to the community hit them like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. The people did not like the idea that any one of them could be responsible, but they also realized that the police had to turn over every stone and consider every possibility, or justice wouldn’t be done.

“That room went through the stages of grief in a hurry,” Trey observed. “They skipped a couple and substituted a couple, but it was quick.”

“They started out with anger,” Fran said, “but they seemed to circle back to there.”

“Well,” Trish said, agreeing with her husband, “They started with anger, went through depression, denial, and bargaining, then acceptance.”

“Not exactly in the way we would have liked,” Trey said.

“No, but I’ll take it,” Goldman said. “Anger and depression that she was killed, denial that they did it, bargaining with us… They’d be questioned if we wouldn’t accuse them, then acceptance that they’d have to help us.”

“What do you know,” Fran said grinning. “They didn’t miss any.”

“No,” Goldman said, sobering. “I can empathize with them, though. This county has been a cohesive organism since forever. To think that a part of that organism can’t be trusted…” Something in his voice struck Fran as if he understood that more than he let on.

“I get it, Sheriff, but if we don’t cover every base, even if we catch the culprit, we can’t guarantee a conviction.”

“You're preaching to the choir, Chief. I agree, but I see their side too.”

Trish nodded. “It’s hard to think that someone you’ve known your entire life is capable of murder.”

Sheriff Goldman nodded slowly and somberly. “Yes,” he murmured.

Trey looked at him strangely. “Are you okay, Charlie?” he asked, using the Sheriff's first name, something rarely done by anyone but his closest friends.

Sheriff Goldman looked quickly, startled really, at Trey. Then he smiled. “Yeah. I think so. Just some reminders from years ago.”

“Sheriff,” Trey pressed, “I don’t want to pry. Ross and Parker. That’s one thing. They’re outsiders. But Ginny. She’s from here. She’s part of that cohesive organism that makes up this county. There are liable to be a lot of reminders. Are you sure you want to work on this case?”

“This case is personal for me. In fact, it’s just as personal for me as it is for Chick.”

Fran suddenly wondered if she should have done a little more research on the Birdlanders.

“Lizbeth, Elroy's wife and Ginny’s mother, is the product of a dalliance I had before I married Peg.”

Fran’s face took on a stern look. “Sheriff, don’t you think you should have told us before now?”

“What was I supposed to say, Chief? Chelsea never let anyone know who Lizbeth’s father was. You won’t even find that on your computer.”

“Does Lizbeth know?” Fran asked, her voice a bit softer.

“If she does, she hides it real well. I don’t think Chelsea wanted people to look down on her or me. Peg and I were high school sweethearts, and it was just the one time when we both got drunk.”

He paused and mopped his brow. “I was so plastered I don’t even remember what happened. I woke up the next morning in her bed with a horrible headache. That was the last time I drank alcohol. Any alcohol.”

Fran nodded. “Please, Sheriff. If it starts to get too much, let us know.”

“I’m willing to listen, if you need to talk, Sheriff,” Trey offered.

“I’ll let you know,” Goldman replied.

-=#=-

Sheriff Goldman excused himself soon after his revelation. He said he needed to make sure Wagner and Carlson were doing their jobs properly, but the general consensus was that he needed to regroup after the emotional morning.

Fran suddenly realized she was getting hungry, and grabbed her phone.

“Hey, Mel,” she said after dialing. “Can I get some sandwiches dropped off at the police station?”

She listened a moment, then said, “Sure. I need a BLT with everything on a hoagie roll, a tuna fish done the same way, and then I’d love one of your chicken salads. And can you add some leaf lettuce and if you’ve got some walnuts to mix in?”

After a moment she said, “Pecans should work fine… Yeah, Denise made one that way for me, and it was delicious. Oh! And some pepperjack cheese on it?”

A moment later, “Thanks Mel! Put it on the department tab. Oh, yeah. A couple of two liters of Doctor Pepper would be great.”

“Hungry?” Trey asked after she hung up the phone.

She gave him a dirty look. “Should I call back and cancel your BLT?”

“No… No…” he laughed. “It’s just amusing how you assume we’re hungry too.”

“Like I said, I can call back and cancel yours.”

“He’s hungry,” Trish said, “and so am I, so knock it off, Trevor!”

His expression said he’d elicited the responses he wanted, and he gave Trish a mock salute and said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Once their food arrived, they followed their usual routine of not talking shop till the food was safely down. Then, Trey commented, “I was very interested in Jaime’s outburst. He called Ginny his girlfriend, but that wasn’t entirely true.”

“No,” Trish agreed, “but I get the impression people felt that she would lose interest in the outsider and return to Jaime.”

“So you think,” Fran ventured, “that people considered this interlude with Reggie to be simply a roll in the hay?”

“Yes,” Trish agreed. “They’d had an argument, and split up.”

“What was their argument about?”

“Well, it seems Ginny was looking for a proposal and Jaime didn’t give it soon enough.”

Trey was confused. “So she dumps him for a guy who probably just wants casual sex?”

“What better way to force Jaime’s hand,” Fran commented.

“Seems like that’s what was going on,” Trish said.

Trevor looked at his wife. “How do you know all of this?”

“We don’t spread margarine,” she said.

“We spread gossip,” Fran continued.

“Right,” Trey said. “The gossip chain.”

Chapter 14

The next day, the weather couldn’t seem to make up its mind. Snow was falling again. One day it was forty degrees and melting; the next, twenty-five and frozen solid.

Snowbanks had grown so high it was hard to see traffic around corners. The plows had done their best to push it back, but there was nowhere left to put it.

Trish entered the police station and shook the snow off her coat. For safety’s sake, she’d walked the ten blocks from the parsonage, so she looked like a snow creature until she shook herself out.

She pulled an envelope from her inside pocket, hung up her coat, and stamped her boots, shedding a considerable amount of whiteness.

Fran, watching from her desk, raised an eyebrow.

“Mop’s right beside the coat rack,” she said, smiling.

“Uh huh,” Trish replied, retrieving the tool and swabbing up the worst of the water.

“What’s that?” Fran asked, pointing at the envelope Trish still had clutched in her hand.

“Autopsy reports on both Ginny and Debra.”

“I assumed Ginny froze and Debra fell apart,” the police chief said.

“A generally accurate assessment,” Trish replied. “Specifics are lacking, however.”

“Do the specifics matter?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Trish said, pulling up a chair in front of Fran’s desk. She pulled the papers out of the envelope and set them on the desk, in front of Fran.

Fran looked at the papers like they might bite. She unfolded them slowly, as if each crease held something she didn’t want to know.

Ginny had absolutely no injuries on her body. No contusions, no defensive wounds. She had simply frozen in the restaurant’s walk-in freezer.

“No fighting? No struggle?”

“She simply froze,” Trish confirmed. “There is bruising on her hands, but it doesn’t look like it was from a fight. It looks more like she was banging on the door, hoping someone would hear her.”

“But the door latch wasn’t broken! It wasn’t jammed! How did it happen?”

Trish nodded. “Trey went by the restaurant and took a picture of the latch.” She manipulated her phone and a moment later, Fran’s beeped. “Take a look at that.”

Fran looked. “I don’t see… wait a minute.” She zoomed the picture in and there it was. The metal looked like it had had a tool wedged in it. It had been pushed on. Hard! The metal was bent, but it hadn’t broken. “It looks like something was jammed in there to keep it from opening.”

Trish nodded, her face solemn. “It looks like someone waited until she fell unconscious, then removed whatever they’d put in there. Then, they left her for dead.”

Sickened, Fran set that report off to the side, then looking at Trish for some kind of emotion, she grabbed the other report. Trish was apparently not going to tell her anything with body language, and that made Fran even more afraid of what she was going to find. Trish might seem completely unemotional when doing her work, but Fran knew that wasn’t the case. She knew that now that when her friend was done with her investigations, she would display the emotions she hadn’t allowed before. She still wasn’t allowing it, and that frightened Fran.

She looked at the report and read.

Cause of death: 8-inch kitchen knife to the heart. Penetrated right atrium.
Missing left pinkie: removed before death. Mangled finger found in garbage disposal.
Wire cutters found under counter: match cut marks on pinkie.
Missing right foot: removed before death. Meat cleaver used. Foot found in trash compactor.
Missing tongue: removed before death. Found in garbage disposal. Appears to have been removed with several bites from wire cutters.

Fran stared at the page, her stomach turning. “Anything else?”

Trish didn’t blink. “Rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Likely from the ropes we found binding them.”

Fran looked around the room, as if Reggie might materialize from the shadows. “Where’s Reggie?”

Before Trish could answer, the sound of tires squeaking in the snow broke the silence. The engine revved once, then cut off. A car door slammed. Footsteps crunched around the side of the building.

The door opened, and Trey stepped inside, dusted in snow like a man-shaped snowdrift. He paused, dripping, then began the same ritual his wife had performed minutes earlier—shaking out his coat, stamping his boots.

Trish didn’t look up. “There’s a mop by the coat rack,” she said.

Trey smiled faintly and dutifully mopped up the water, then stepped toward Fran’s desk.

“Are those the reports?” he asked, nodding at the papers Fran had just read.

Trish gathered them without a word and handed them to her husband. Then, she folded her arms and stared at the floor.

“Read at your own risk,” Fran murmured, her voice thin.

Trey glanced up, catching the horror still etched in her eyes. His own expression tightened, and he looked down reluctantly. Partway through Ginny’s report, he moved to a chair and sank into it slowly, the paper still in his hands, his face carved with infinite sadness.

When he reached Debra’s report, he stopped midway and whispered, “Dear Lord.”

He looked away, blinking hard, tears threatening to spill. After a long pause, he turned back to the page—reluctant, but resolute.

Trey didn’t speak at first. He set the forms in his lap and stared out the window at the falling snow. The whiteness blurred the world beyond, softening the edges of everything. He let it clear his mind for a moment, then said quietly, “We still need to look at Jaime’s house.”

“It’s kinda late,” Trish commented.

Fran shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a crime scene. More a repository of information.”

They got into Trey’s Blazer and dropped Fran off to get her trusty F150, and they made their way across town to Jaime Gutierrez’s home.

When Jaime opened the door, Fran showed the court order, signed by Jaime’s grandfather. Surprisingly, Jaime didn’t comment on his grandfather’s signature; instead, he invited them in.

As they filed in, Jaime asked, “Is there any way I can help you? Show you where anything’s located?”

Trey nodded. “Where are your tools?”

Jaime led him toward the garage, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood.

Fran and Trish lingered in the living room. The place was neat but lived in—books stacked on the coffee table, a pair of hiking boots by the door, a mug left on the windowsill with a tea bag still steeping.

Debra’s house had been sterile, like a showroom. Reggie’s had been a whirlwind of clutter and noise. But Jaime’s—and Ginny’s—felt relaxed. Unpretentious.

Fran took it in slowly, her eyes moving from the worn armchair to the faded quilt draped over the back of the couch. There was no performance here. No curated image.

In this particular matter, she thought, Ginny and Jaime were of a type. People who lived with their guard down. People who didn’t expect to be watched.

On the mantelpiece, beside an anniversary clock, sat a framed picture of Jaime and Ginny sitting on a bench in the town square of Grade. The photo was candid, and it appeared that they were sharing a lunch packed in a basket sitting beside Ginny. Both were clearly enjoying themselves. Fran felt a pang. The moment had been real.

She looked back at the anniversary clock. Whose anniversary? she wondered.

It was a real clock, not battery-powered. She picked it up carefully, not wanting to disturb the time. On the glass dome at the back, written in permanent marker, was a note:

For our 15th anniversary. I love you always, Ginny.

At that moment, Jaime stepped back through the connecting door from the garage. He saw Fran holding the clock, her eyes on the inscription.

“Fifteenth anniversary?” she asked, gently. “Ginny was only twenty-four.”

Jaime smiled, sadly. “We decided, in puppy love I suppose, when she was nine and I was ten, that we’d be friends always. When she turned fifteen, we decided we’d get married when we could afford it.”

Trish tilted her head. “And what do you do for a living?”

“I work for the road department.”

Fran hesitated, then asked, “Why did you split up?”

She watched his face closely, wanting to see if Trish’s understanding had been correct.

Jaime looked down at the floor. “I wanted to be able to support her myself.”

“You can’t with a job at the road department?” Fran asked.

“Yes, I can. But I was building a house in the country, between here and Grade. I wanted to finish it, then maybe rent this one out.”

Trish frowned. “What about Ginny’s place in The Bird’s Nest?”

Jaime hesitated. “My little brother needed a job. I thought he could stay there, take care of the place.”

“She didn’t like that idea?” Fran asked.

“She didn’t want me to waste my money on a house.” He paused, voice thickening. “It was going to be my wedding present for her. But she wanted to keep her grandmother’s legacy alive.”

“Birdie was an icon around here,” Trish said softly.

Jaime nodded, eyes distant. “I know. If I could do it all over again, I’d support her at the motel till my dying day.”

Trey had wandered into the hallway and turned into a room that was clearly used as an office and library. Books lined the shelves in uneven stacks—some well-worn, some pristine.

On the desk sat a notepad, its top sheet blank but etched with the faint indentations of recent writing. Trey picked it up, tilting it toward the light. The pen marks were deep—angry, maybe desperate.

He glanced into the wastebasket beside the desk. The original, a wadded-up sheet of paper sat near the top, stained and crumpled. He reached in carefully and unfolded it. The ink had bled slightly in places, and the stains looked suspiciously like tears.

Depression, then anger, he thought, recalling the conversation about the stages of grief. And maybe bargaining, too.

He smoothed the page out on the desk, careful not to tear the softened edges. The handwriting was uneven, rushed in places, but legible. He read silently, the words pressing into him like weight.

Dear Ginny,

I don’t know how to apologize for what I said yesterday. I guess it’s pride that makes me want to support you all myself.

I hate for you to have to work so hard at the motel and the restaurant. You always seem so exhausted and I hate to see that.

But I see how much you want to keep Birdie’s memory and legacy alive, and you’re the only one who can do that.

Let’s get married as quick as Reverend Grant can do it. You do what you want with the motel and restaurant. If that means you keep running both, working as hard as you have, I’m proud of you. I’m proud to marry you!

I love you always!

Your Honey, Jaime

Trey exhaled slowly, folding the letter with care. He stared at the wastebasket for a moment, as if it might offer an answer.

Why hadn’t Jaime given it to her?

He stepped back into the hallway, letter in hand, and made his way toward the living room. Fran and Trish looked up as he entered.

“Jaime,” Trey said, his voice steady but low, “why didn’t you deliver this?”

He held the letter out to Fran, but his eyes were on Jaime. He knew Jaime would recognize it.

Jaime’s breath caught. His eyes began to shine with tears.

“I was going to,” he said, voice cracking. “I went to the motel the next day, after we broke up. I had the letter in my pocket.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“But she was in the office. With Reggie. They were… necking. Laughing. Like I’d never existed.”

He looked down, ashamed. “I couldn’t take it. I ran out. I didn’t even say a word.”

“So you gave up?” Trish asked, her voice edged with disbelief. “Why didn’t you fight for her?”

Jaime looked down, shoulders sagging. “How could I fight with him? He’s a big city dude. I’m a road worker.”

Trish didn’t flinch. “Fifteen years of being with her,” she said, each word deliberate. “That means a lot.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “It certainly did to me.”

Chapter 15

On the way back to the police station, Fran mulled things over. They had found nothing more of interest. Trey had searched the garage for a tool that might have been used to jam the freezer door, but came up empty.

The letter, Fran had confiscated to check for any trace evidence. She doubted it would hold anything beyond Jaime’s fingerprints—maybe a smudge from the paper mill or the notebook manufacturer. Still, it was worth checking.

His grief had seemed painfully real to her, and she suspected Trish and Trey felt the same.

As she replayed the scene, Fran found herself agreeing with Trish’s words—but not her delivery. Trish had been right, but she could have been gentler. Then again, when Trish was on a case, empathy often flew out the window.

One thing Fran was certain of: if Jaime were ever charged, she would make sure the letter was available to his counsel. She was that sure of his innocence.

As Fran pulled into the station lot, she considered her next move. First priority: find Ashley Bernard.

Trey and Trish had gone home—Trey to work on his sermon for Sunday, though Fran doubted he’d get much done. He’d be mulling the case over, same as she was.

Inside the station, the phone was ringing. She hurried to answer, but by the time she picked up the receiver, it was already a dial tone.

A moment later, her cell rang.

She snatched it up, but again—nothing. No voice. Just silence.

I wish people would wait just a bit longer so I could answer the forward. It was a pet peeve – calls that vanished just as she answered, leaving her with that vague sense of missed urgency.

The voicemail notification pinged.

She sighed and tapped play.

Ashley Bernard!

“Chief Smith, I’m Ashley Bernard.

What’s going on? Reggie Thompson—he’s my uncle—just called and said he’s no longer in Venture. He told me Debra, my aunt, was killed. And now he’s on the run because he doesn’t want to be blamed for it.

I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

She left her number, which Fran quickly called.

“Miss Bernard, I’m Fran Smith, the police chief of Venture.”

“Thank you for calling back,” Ashley responded.

“You’re welcome. I was just about to try to find your number, so I’m glad you reached out.”

“Can you explain what’s happening? What happened to my aunt?”

“Debra was murdered, Miss Bernard.”

There was silence on the line. Then, very quietly: “How?”

Fran sighed. This wasn’t something she wanted to get into over the phone, but she figured the woman’s family deserved answers.

“I think I should speak with your mother first. Can you give me her number?”

“My mother is dead, Chief Smith. I live alone.”

“Oh. I was under the impression you were a teenager.”

The response came sharp and defensive. “I am! I’m seventeen, but I’m emancipated. I had problems with my mother. She was always trying to control my life—telling me who I could date and stuff. So I left.”

“I see,” Fran replied, her tone stiffening.

“Yes,” the girl went on, “I got along much better with Aunt Debra. She didn’t care what I did, or who I saw.”

She didn’t care about anything, Fran thought. Not about Ashley, anyway. She only cared about herself.

But she kept that to herself.

Her voice was quiet, deliberate. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ashley. Debra wasn’t just killed. She was mutilated.”

The silence from the other end of the line stretched long enough for Fran to ask, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” came the reply, almost a whisper.

Fran hesitated. The girl sounded shaken, but it was hard to tell—grief could be quiet, or calculated.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” she said gently. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this over the phone.”

Ashley didn’t respond.

Fran glanced at the notepad in front of her, where she’d scribbled Debra’s name, the time of death, and a few unsettling details she hadn’t yet shared. She tapped her pen against the edge, debating how much more to say.

“Do you have someone you can talk to?” she asked. “A friend, maybe?”

Still nothing.

Then, finally: “I don’t know.”

Instead of continuing, Fran decided to let the details rest for now. The girl sounded fragile, and pushing further might do more harm than good.

Let her absorb what she’s already heard, Fran thought. If she needs the specifics later, Trey might be the one to explain.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, her voice softening. “And if you think of anything—anything at all—you can call me anytime.”

Ashley murmured something that might have been “okay,” but it was hard to tell.

Fran ended the call and sat back in her chair, staring at the receiver for a moment longer than necessary. The silence in her office felt heavier now; Ashley’s whisper had carried the immense weight of grief.

She reached for the case file and flipped it open. The crime scene photos stared back—brutal, unforgiving. Mutilated. The word felt sterile, inadequate. It didn’t capture the violence, the intent.

And all the way in Riverside, California, a seventeen-year-old girl was sitting alone with that knowledge.

-=#=-

The next day, Fran called Trey. He answered quickly and put her on speaker so Trish could listen in.

Fran filled them in on her conversation with Ashley.

“So where’s Reggie?” Trey asked.

“That’s the ninety-nine-thousand-dollar question,” Fran replied. “We need to talk to Mitch again—see if he’s got any idea where Reggie might go.”

“I agree,” Trish said. “We should also get a search warrant for Mitch’s house and Spotless Solutions.”

“Why?” Trey asked.

Trish hesitated – just long enough to make it interesting. “Just a hunch.”

“A hunch isn’t enough to get a search warrant,” Fran reminded her.

“No, but Spotless Solutions seems to be the nexus for the Möbius disappearances, and – maybe these two.”

“I agree with the Möbius cases,” Fran said, doubt creeping into her voice, “but I’m not sure about these.”

“No,” Trey mused, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “But if we find something there that points to Debra’s murder, or Reggie’s—or Ginny’s—then one of us can run to get a warrant while the others stay behind. Keep searching.”

Trish leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And if we’re done searching?”

Trey didn’t look at her. “We won’t be if we find anything like that.”

A beat.

“Even if we are,” he added, “we won’t be.”

Trish stared at him, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, not awkward but weighted—like something sacred was being negotiated.

Then she nodded. Just once.

It was on the edge of gray, but she approved.

Not because she didn’t see the line.

Because she knew why they might need to cross it.

They couldn’t let anything vital be destroyed while they were gone.

Chapter 16

Trey drove to Grade to prevail upon Judge Gutierrez.

The road was quiet, as people didn’t seem to want to travel with the heavy snowfall. He rehearsed the facts in his mind, careful to keep emotion out of his voice when he arrived.

At the courthouse, he reassured the old man that—for now—they had no reason to believe Jaime was guilty of any murder. He explained the link between Spotless Solutions and the cases, including Ginny’s. They’d cleaned the motel. That was enough.

Judge Gutierrez listened, his lined face unreadable. Then he nodded, signed the warrant, and handed it over with a quiet, “Good luck.”

Trey started back toward Venture, the snowfall still thick, the road still quiet.

Just before he passed The Bird’s Nest, a car surged up behind him and began to overtake. It passed at a reckless speed—far too fast for the conditions.

As it flew by, Trey caught a glimpse of the driver: short red hair, glasses, a gold blazer.

Millie Brooks!

Where had she been?

A wall of snow sprayed up from her tires, blinding his windshield. Trey stomped on the brakes. The anti-lock system kicked in, pulsing beneath his foot, but the road ahead curved—and he couldn’t see where.

His speed dropped sharply. Then, slowly, the car slid down the embankment and into the ditch. He pulled out his phone and quickly dialed the sheriff’s office.

“I just saw Millie Brooks’s car on Highway 7. Can you let the sheriff know so he can put out an APB?”

“This is Wagner, Reverend. Sheriff Goldman left a few minutes ago, but I’ll call him after I put out the APB.”

“That sounds good. Can you also call the road department? She ran me off the road.”

Wagner paused. Trey thought he might’ve heard a snicker in the younger man’s voice, but he wasn’t sure—so he let it pass.

“The road department’s pretty swamped, Reverend, but I can call Chick for you.”

“At least let them know not to plow me in.”

“You got it, Reverend.”

About half an hour later, Chick pulled up in an antique tow truck that looked like Mater from the movie Cars.

As long as it’s got the power to pull me out, Trey thought.

Like all of Chick’s vehicles, the truck had plenty of power—and then some. Chains wrapped around the tires, even the steering. Chick set the brakes, hooked up the winch, and began the pull.

The winch whined, and the cable snapped taut. Trey stepped back, boots crunching in the snow. He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping his keys.

Trey’s blazer groaned, then rose slowly from the ditch, snow packed into the undercarriage.

“There you go, Rev’ren. Wanna ride with me into town so I can check it out before you try to drive it?”

Trey sighed. “Yeah. Probably a good idea. You got a loaner I can borrow? I’ve got to get to Spotless Solutions—need to serve a search warrant ASAP.”

“I got a loaner, yeah, but ya ain’t gonna like it.”

Trey eyed the jack-of-all-trades. “What is it?”

Chick grinned. “1988 Yugo.”

Trey grimaced. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Chick said, still smiling. “Gonna soup it up. Jus’ haven’t got ’round to it yet.”

Once they arrived at the garage, Chick led Trey out through a back roll-up door.

The Yugo sat under a tarp. Chick brushed the snow off with a broom, then they tugged the canvas free.

Faded red paint peeled like sunburned skin. One headlight drooped slightly, as if embarrassed.

“Where’d you get it?” Trey asked as Chick tugged the driver’s side door open.

“eBay. Some’un was sellin’ it for next t’ nothin’, and I thought it’d be fun to fix up.”

“Aren’t you afraid of driving it around here?” I certainly am, Trey thought.

“Naw. Never ‘appen. I’m gonna put it back on eBay—auction it off.”

Chick slid the key into the ignition. The engine barely turned over. He popped the hood and hurried into the garage. A moment later, he returned with a jump box.

He hooked it up, flipped the switch, and climbed back behind the wheel. The engine turned over at a decent speed, but Trey wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or concerned.

Finally, it roared to life—roar being the operative word. The muffler clearly had a hole in it.

Chick got out and held out a hand, inviting Trey to take the wheel.

Gingerly, Trey did just that, half afraid the seat might collapse—or jab him with a broken spring.

He put it in gear and tried to move, but the tires seemed frozen to the ground after a partial thaw.

Chick bellowed for Elroy, and somehow the man heard him over the engine’s racket. They both got behind the little car and began rocking it as Trey applied power, then let off.

Reluctantly, the car broke free—but immediately spun. Trey threw it into park and climbed out.

He crouched beside the front tire. Dear Lord, he thought. They’re almost bald.

“You sure this thing’s roadworthy?”

Chick shrugged. “She’s got character.”

“She’s definitely got that,” Trey said as he got in again.

Somehow they got the thing into the garage where Chick stopped him.

“Couldn’t you have inspected my car by now?” Trey wondered.

“Elroy did. What’s wrong, Elroy?” Chick replied.

“Hit the drive shaft when it went off the road, Dad. Bent it all to He… ck. Looks like the transfer case cracked too.”

“We got some chains that’ll fit this lil’ matchbox?” Chick bellowed to Elroy.

“I think so,” his son responded. “Let me go check.”

Trey shut off the engine. He was getting impatient, but Chick was right. His Blazer was crippled, and the Yugo—absurd as it looked—was his only shot. Snow was coming, and chains were non-negotiable.

A moment later, Elroy returned with, of all things, four cable chains. “They’re all we got,” he said apologetically when Trey frowned at them.

Trey had experience with cables. If they weren’t tight enough, the rollers under the tire had a tendency to shift and skate, making the car spin just as if it had no chains at all—useless on ice, dangerous on a grade.

Chick seemed to read his mind and grabbed some industrial-strength bungee cords from the workbench. He laid the cable chains out in front of the little car, then waved Trey forward.

The Yugo crept onto the cables with a whine of protest. Chick crouched, clipped the ends together, and called out, “Elroy! Tighten these up.”

Elroy, a mountain of a man, knelt beside each tire. With a grunt and a twist, he cinched the chains so tight they looked welded to the rubber. They wouldn’t budge unless someone wanted them to.

“Elroy,” Trey muttered, “don’t ever ask me to arm-wrestle you.”

Four chains didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but it certainly helped.

-=#=-

Trey carefully maneuvered the little car out of the garage and onto the highway. The road was compact snow, but it had ice underneath. He wondered if the car was heavy enough to break through to the ice. He hoped not.

As he picked up speed, the wind picked up too, swirling snow across the windshield in erratic gusts. Trey leaned forward, squinting through the blur, the Yugo’s wipers squeaking like a hardwood floor that needed tightening.

He tried the heater, but it wheezed like his Aunt Penelope, right before she died of lung cancer. He slapped the dash, hoping to speed up the fan. He did. Unfortunately. Dust suddenly exploded out of the defrost and heater vents, and he found himself coughing – just like Aunt Penelope.

The windshield fogged up instantly, a thin film of grime smeared across the inside glass. Trey pulled the sleeve of his coat over his hand and wiped a small circle clear, muttering, “Visibility optional.”

The Yugo rattled over a patch of ice, tires skittering just enough to make his stomach drop. He eased off the gas, coaxing the car back into line.

Spotless Solutions wasn’t far, but in this weather, every mile felt like a negotiation.

He found the turnoff into town and tried to slow down, but the Yugo didn’t have anti-lock brakes—something he realized a second too late. The wheels locked, and the car thumped over the curb, skidding sideways onto the sidewalk. It plowed into a snowbank, then bounced back onto the street with just enough momentum to keep going. The impact jarred his teeth, and he felt the sharp pain from them removing a chunk of skin inside his lower lip.

He tasted blood and winced, but didn’t slow down. The Yugo rattled forward like it had something to prove.

Trey gripped the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the quiet storefronts. Spotless Solutions was just ahead.

He didn’t know what he’d find inside.

But he knew what he was hoping for: answers. Or at least a reason why Millie Brooks had come flying out of nowhere like a ghost with a guilty conscience.

He hoped Trish and Fran had found better driving conditions. He called Trish.

She answered immediately. “How’d the Blazer hold up?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I’m almost to Spotless—sans the Blazer.”

“Chick had a loaner?”

“Sort of.”

“What are you driving?”

He sighed as the Yugo blew through a stop sign, its tires refusing to grip. “A crumpled red Coke can.”

“What?” Trish asked.

“A 1988 Yugo.”

Spotless Solutions loomed ahead. Fran’s F-150 was parked out front, and Trish gaped at him from the passenger seat, her expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right?” Fran called out.

“Gangway!” Trey shouted. “I’m coming in for a landing.”