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  “No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. I was talking about something at work, a diary she was involved with at the museum.”

  Silence a moment, then: “Sure, the Rayburn Diary, right? She thought it was pretty cool. She said it was cursed, like something out of an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb. Is there anything else? I really have to go, my break is over and I’m on the clock.”

  We ended the call, and I headed home through a canyon already heavy with violet-tinged dusky shadows. The water in the creek that hugged the canyon was dark and fast moving. On the shoulder of the road, near my turnoff, a few fishermen loaded equipment into the back of a gray truck. One of them, a heavyset man in waders and a checkered pullover, held a string of trout high in the air as his buddy took a photograph. The lifeless fish were dull-colored, their mouths gaping open, their eyes sightless.

  At home, I found the baby already fed and fast asleep in her crib. I hated missing her evening routine, especially after being gone the entire day, but there was little to do about it during an active murder investigation. Being a working mother meant I was always sacrificing something, and I hoped and prayed that one day Grace would not only understand why I did what I did every day, but respect it, too.

  Brody and I spent a few minutes catching up over a light supper of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, then he adjourned to the den to watch a movie. I lingered over a second glass of wine and spent a few hours online.

  Though the Rayburn Diary’s loss alone was a low priority when compared to the Starbuck murder, I felt strongly there was a good chance the theft and the murder were connected. My research started with a narrow focus, but an Internet search of Owen Rayburn led me down a rabbit hole and I was quickly overwhelmed with the sheer amount of information on Rayburn and the Silver Foxes—the wealthy and often unscrupulous men who founded Cedar Valley.

  After my head nodded in sleep for the third time, I finally closed my laptop. The last page I visited, on an amateur historian’s website, had a black-and-white photograph of the Silver Foxes. The six men were unsmiling, as many of the people in old historical photographs are. Owen Rayburn occupied a spot in the middle. He was a short man with a wide girth, a thick mustache, and flat, dark eyes hooded with heavy, toadlike lids.

  I stared at his face, wondering which secrets he had kept to himself and which he had committed to posterity in his diary.

  Were they secrets worth killing for?

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday dawned like an Impressionist painting: a gentle watercolor sky of hazy blues and soft pinks. Seemingly overnight, a thousand white blossoms had appeared on the flowering trees in our yard. I drank my coffee on the front porch, listening to the sounds of the creek moving heavily down the canyon and the staccato cry of a nearby woodpecker.

  Brody had an early meeting in town, so I stayed with Grace until Clementine arrived at eight. By then, Grace and I had walked the front yard several times, looking at the blooming flowers and the various insects that were drawn to them. Though Grace was only six months old, she possessed the calmness and serenity of an old soul. When I thought of how fast the months were flying by, a lump rose in my throat. Brody once said that time is both our most precious and our most wasted commodity. I vowed, once again, to find the blessing in each moment I had with my daughter.

  In town, Main Street was closed to through-traffic for the day’s street fair, sponsored by the arts guild. It was one of the many celebrations planned for the town’s anniversary, complete with vendors, food trucks, and carnival-style rides and booths. I took a detour through the west side of town and arrived at work only a few minutes later than usual.

  I settled in at my computer armed with one thought: whatever the motive, Betty Starbuck’s killing was deeply personal. Standing face-to-face with someone as you choke the life out of them takes enormous will. The victim’s eyes hemorrhage; their skin becomes mottled. It’s a vicious and ugly way to die, and I knew there was a strong likelihood that we were looking for a killer who was close to Starbuck.

  For Betty Starbuck, that meant family—her sons, Patrick Crabbe and Kent Starbuck—and co-workers, Larry Bornstein and Sari Chesney. Friends and acquaintances would need to be considered as well.

  Patrick Crabbe had an alibi for the night of the killing, so for the time being I moved on to Kent Starbuck. I planned to interview him as soon as possible, but I wanted to go into the conversation armed with knowledge. Crabbe had made it clear that Kent had a troubled past, and I assumed that might have included prison time.

  I entered Kent Starbuck’s name into the state and national crime databases. On the monitor, I watched as a number of hits started to return. I had the system consolidate them into a PDF, and then I leaned forward and read. And read. The report was lengthy and troubling.

  When I finished, I sat back, disturbed. I looked over at Finn. “Nowlin.”

  “Monroe.” Finn turned his head. “What’ve you got?”

  I read him the highlights from the report. He listened for a moment, then stood up and joined me at my desk. When I finished reading the report, he whistled, hands on his hips.

  “This is the victim’s son?”

  I nodded. “Kent Starbuck’s been in and out of trouble for years. It’s clear from his record that he was escalating, working his way up from petty crimes to the big leagues. Then he fell off the radar after he got out of prison ten years ago. So … maybe he’s a changed man?”

  “Or maybe he’s been biding his time and now that he’s returned home, he goes after mommy dearest. Go back to the report for a second,” Finn said, then he pointed at the screen. “Did you see Moriarty’s name here? He was the responding officer on a number of Kent Starbuck’s early crimes. They had Lou testify at one of Kent’s trials.”

  “I did see that. I’m not surprised—Lou Moriarty’s been a cop here for years.” I pushed back from the desk. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “You do that. I’m going to finish the warrants for Betty Starbuck’s financial records and accounts.”

  I tracked Lou down in the old jail cell. It was used for storage now and also, apparently, for meals. Lou sat at a narrow desk, wolfing down an onion-laden Italian hoagie with his eyes closed, an expression of utter ecstasy on his face.

  I stuck my head in the doorway. “Talk to me about Kent Starbuck.”

  “He’s dead. Or close to it, would be my guess. The last I heard, he was mopping up sweat from a bunch of yogis at some hippie retreat in the backwoods of North Carolina,” Lou replied, his eyes still closed. “I can’t get a minute of peace. The judge gave us an hour for lunch and look, I’m spending half of it talking about ol’ Kent Starbuck. How did you find me, anyway?”

  I smirked. “The onions. Kent’s not dead, nor is he in North Carolina. He’s here in town.”

  Lou’s eyes popped open. “You’re shitting me. He was on my list.”

  “What list is that?” I asked, leaning back into the hallway to get a breath of fresh air.

  “You know, the List, with a capital L. The perps who will close their careers in some kind of spectacular set of fireworks. I keep a running list in my head of these punks and good old Kenny Starbuck had a prominent place at the top. Assassinate a head of state … get a shiv in his throat in prison … flee the country with a million dollars in stolen stamps,” he said. Lou reached for a large drink and slurped noisily. “It all amounts to the same thing.”

  “I’m not following.”

  Lou closed his eyes and shooed me away with a wave of his hand. “The kid was trouble through and through. Kenny was a bad seed, took after his father that way. His old man walked out on Betty and the kid. I seem to recall he died a few years later in a high-speed car chase with the cops out west somewhere, maybe LA. Anyway, like his father, there was never going to be a happy ending for Kent.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself. He’s kept his nose clean for the last ten years. Maybe he’s a changed man.”

  Lou swallowed another b
ite. “I only know what I know, Monroe. And what I know is that Kent Starbuck is a sad son of a bitch—no disrespect to Betty Starbuck intended—who was a waste of oxygen then and I assume still is. He’s toe jam, slime. A real slick hombre. Listen, how long has he been back in town? I hope you’re looking at him for his poor old mother’s murder.”

  I am now, Lou. I am now.

  * * *

  The front desk officer caught me as I walked back from the old jail cell to the central squad room. “Gemma, you’ve got some visitors up front. A Dr. Larry Bornstein and Mrs. Lois Freeman. They’re insisting on seeing you … but I can take a message?”

  “No, I’ll meet with them. Thanks.”

  They sat in the small waiting area, talking softly to each other. It was clear Bornstein had been crying; his eyes were painfully red, his nose swollen. I noticed he was careful to perch on the edge of the chair and keep his hands tucked together in his lap. The woman he was with was about fifty years old, petite, with tight red curls that bounced as she moved.

  After explaining that she was the president of the board of directors of the Cedar Valley History Museum, Lois Freeman said, “As soon as I heard the awful news, I called Larry and told him we had to come here and speak to you.”

  Bornstein nodded. “When Lois called, my wife insisted on postponing our special brunch—it’s our anniversary, you see—and driving straight here. My wife adored Betty Starbuck. She’s waiting in the car for me as we speak, too distraught to come in.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I looked from Bornstein to Freeman. They stared back at me expectantly. “Well, I’m sure this has all been a terrible shock. There’s not much I can tell you, though. We’ve barely started the investigation.”

  Lois Freeman exhaled and spoke loudly, her curls whipping to and fro as she shook her head. “Detective, I’m here to give you information. I know who killed Betty.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Once we were settled in the privacy of an interview room, I gestured for Lois Freeman to continue.

  “Betty’s son killed her, I’m sure of it.”

  “Kent?”

  “Kent?” A confused look came over Freeman’s face. “God, no. Is he even still alive? I’m talking about Patrick.”

  Surprised, I stared and repeated her words back to her. “You think Patrick killed Betty?”

  She nodded vigorously, her scarlet curls once more dancing. “Yes. He’s a louse who’s been mooching off his mother for years. I’ll bet she finally threatened to cut him off financially, and he snapped.”

  “This is a serious accusation. Do you have any proof?”

  I’d seen Freeman’s type before: full of opinion and bluster, empty of evidence. They typically arrive at the station in the form of a nosy neighbor or a concerned citizen.

  “Only what Betty has told me. We’d become friends, you see, over the years. I went to school with Patrick and Kent, here in town. Everyone was terrified of Kent and his temper, but I’ll tell you something: I’ve always been more afraid of Patrick. You notice the way he won’t look you in the eyes? It’s not right,” Freeman said. She leaned forward and whispered, “It’s downright creepy.”

  She tapped Bornstein on the shoulder, and he flinched. “Go on, Larry. Tell the detective what Betty told you.”

  I turned to Bornstein. He’d pulled a pocket-sized hand sanitizer from his sports coat and gripped it in his right hand as though it were a talisman. His hands were small, pink, and raw-looking, as though the skin had been scrubbed repeatedly.

  Knowing his disorder, it likely had been.

  Bornstein cleared his throat. “A few weeks ago, Betty approached me at the museum, confidentially. She said she was concerned about Patrick and wanted to know if I could recommend a therapist. She told me that he had been acting … well, unusual lately.”

  “What did she mean, ‘unusual’?”

  Bornstein closed his eyes, thinking. “She didn’t get into specifics, only repeated that Patrick was acting odd. I think she thought he might even be on drugs. She’d have known, after everything she went through when Kent was a teenager. I remember very clearly one thing she said. Betty told me that Patrick kept referring to a ‘judgment’ that was coming. Only she didn’t use that word … it was something else, something more exotic sounding.”

  Lois Freeman offered, “A reckoning?”

  “That’s it!” Bornstein open his eyes and smiled. “That’s exactly the word Patrick used. Anyway, Betty thought I could help. I gave her the name of my therapist, and that was the last I heard of the matter.”

  “I hate to be blunt here, but all of this can be explained in nonsuspicious ways,” I said gently. “None of it indicates any kind of implied or stated threat to Betty from Patrick. As far as I know, he has no history of violence.”

  Never mind the fact that he had an airtight alibi for the time of the murder.

  It would be inappropriate to mention that to Freeman and Bornstein, though. Freeman wagged a finger in my direction. “You look into Patrick Crabbe’s finances, and Betty’s will. I’d bet a thousand dollars that you’ll find plenty of motive there. A creepy money-hungry hermit who’s experiencing a sudden psychotic episode sounds like a strong suspect to me.”

  I looked at her steadily. “Of course, we’ll be looking into all aspects of Betty’s life. Larry shared what Betty told him about Patrick; what exactly did she tell you, Mrs. Freeman?”

  Freeman straightened in her seat. “She said when Kent came back to town, Patrick grew depressed. She said she’d awoken at midnight to strange noises on more than one occasion. When she went to the window, she saw Patrick standing in the backyard. Just standing there, can you imagine? In the middle of the night?”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Nothing. Betty told herself Patrick was likely suffering from insomnia, but here’s the strange thing: each time, she’d ask him about it the next day. And each time, he’d deny it!”

  “And she was sure it was Patrick in the yard? Could it have been someone else?”

  Freeman started to answer, then she stopped and her eyes grew wide. “Good lord. You think it was a stranger? Or Betty’s killer?”

  “Let’s not make any assumptions.” I jotted a few notes down. “I’ll follow up with Patrick. In the meantime, please know we’re doing all we can to bring your friend’s killer to justice. I promise.”

  Somewhat mollified, Freeman stood and smoothed down the front of her dress. “I beg you, take Patrick seriously as a suspect. He was a disaster in high school, and he’s a disaster now. Larry? Are you coming? I think we owe your wife brunch somewhere nice.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. He pocketed his hand sanitizer and made to stand up. I wasn’t finished with him, though.

  “Dr. Bornstein, could you stay a moment? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Lois Freeman started to sit back down, and I glanced at her. “Mrs. Freeman, I need to speak with Dr. Bornstein confidentially. If you’ll excuse us?”

  She blushed and left without another word.

  I turned to Bornstein and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. He continued to look worried. I offered to get him a coffee and he hurriedly declined it, so I got right to it.

  “Dr. Bornstein, I saw you and Betty Starbuck talking with James Curry and Alistair Campbell the night of the gala. The conversation looked a little, ah, heated,” I said. “Can you share what that was all about? You can imagine, in light of the murder, that anything out of the ordinary that occurred that night might be important.”

  Bornstein seemed relieved. “Oh that? That was nothing. Simply a difference of opinion on a few matters.”

  “Owen Rayburn’s diary?” I guessed.

  He nodded. “That, among a few other things. When they heard the diary was missing, Alistair and James were livid. They both insisted on an immediate investigation of the museum. As you’re well aware, Betty had made the decision to postpone any investigation until
after the gala. Ultimately, it was her decision as director. Then there were other things we discussed. Alistair’s an odd duck. He has offered an obscene amount of money to buy the diary … and a man like Alistair just can’t believe some things in this world aren’t for sale. And James Curry … well, James has very little money, but he, too, would like to purchase the diary. Or borrow it, is probably a better way to put it.”

  “Didn’t Curry do the restorations on it? It would have been in his possession for quite some time, I’d imagine.” I asked. “Why would he need it again?”

  Bornstein shrugged. “Beats me. He’s never given us—Betty or me—a very clear answer to that question.”

  “How long have you known Curry?”

  “Years. We travel in the same social circles.” Bornstein grew more troubled with his next words. “You must understand, the loss of the diary is a tragedy. We’ll lose thousands in donations, and Betty Starbuck, had she lived, would certainly have been replaced.”

  “I’d say the real tragedy is Mrs. Starbuck’s death.”

  Bornstein flushed at that. “Yes, of course.”

  “You said she would have been replaced. That seems extreme.”

  “It is the latest in a series of misfortunes to hit the museum. Of course, hardly any of them were Betty’s fault, but nonetheless, as director, the buck stopped with her. The last straw was Ruby Cellars’s resignation. She was adored, and the board blamed Betty when Ruby left.”

  “Ruby Cellars … the former employee? Widowed, with a bunch of kids?”

  Bornstein nodded. “She was beloved. Many of us assumed she was next in line for Betty’s job.”

  “Who’s next in line for Betty’s job now?”

  His face turned redder. “Well, that depends … the board has the right to hire an external candidate, of course.”

  Something about his tone gave me pause. “And if they hired internally?”

  Bornstein swallowed. “That would be Sari Chesney or me. Her background is archival in nature, but mine is administrative … but I have seniority. The board is eclectic. They’d likely have been split fifty-fifty.”