Looking Through Darkness

Book 2: A Trading Post Novel

by Aimee Thurlo, David Thurlo

Genres: Native American & Aboriginal; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Few writers have captured the flavor of the American Southwest better than Aimee and David Thurlo, in both mysteries and romantic suspense.
Josephine Buck runs a trading post just off the Navajo Reservation. Widow Leigh Ann Vance is Jo's right-hand-woman, filling the emptiness in her own life. Shortly after her husband, Kurt, was killed, Leigh Ann discovered he had been having a string of affairs. Leigh Ann's trust issues affect her feelings for blind sculptor Melvin Littlewater.
Kurt's business partners accuse Leigh Ann of helping Kurt embezzle and the police wonder if Leigh Ann killed him. When she turns to Melvin for help, she finds him fighting his own demons, haunted by memories of a young girl he saw moments before the car crash that cost him his sight.
Together, Leigh Ann and Melvin delve into the darkest moments of their pasts, searching for truth and light.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: July 7, 2015

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 304

Sample

- ONE -



THE PRESENT

Leigh Ann Vance stood beside the cash register and gave silent thanks that she still had a job. Business wasn't booming, but at least it was steady, and it beat the hell out of that waitressing job she'd had five or six years ago. Here at The Outpost, she'd never once had a beer spilled on her by a drunk or been groped by some horny cowboy.

The only plus back then was that the job got her out of the house and gave her spending money that didn't require her to justify the expenditure to Kurt. Life was definitely better now.

Waving at the last customer of the day as the woman stepped outside, she sighed. It was 6:00 P.M. and she'd been here since six in the morning. Although she was in her mid-thirties, at the moment, her energy level was down to zero and she felt ancient.

"You know that you don't have to put in such long hours, don't you?" Josephine Buck said with a weary smile as she double-locked the door and flipped around the closed sign. Jo owned The Outpost Trading Post, which was located just east of the border of the Navajo Nation in San Juan County, New Mexico.

"You can use a hand," Leigh Ann said. "Your workdays are even longer than mine."

"That's true, but I can't afford to pay you for the extra hours. The trading post is doing better now, but business is still not up to where it was before the recession."

"I don't mind helping out. Working here is better than going-" She stopped speaking abruptly. As friendly as Jo was, she was still the boss, and there were lines that shouldn't be crossed.

"It's your home, isn't it?" Jo said softly. "You don't want to live in that house anymore, do you?"

"No, I don't," Leigh Ann admitted in a quiet voice. "I can make ends meet since my sister Rachel is paying her share of the rent, utilities, and food bills, but I hate that place now. Every time I walk in the door, I think of Kurt, our screwed-up marriage, and his accident. He cheated with other women and left me nearly penniless, but I still feel guilty for not being able to mourn him. I'd sell the place tomorrow if I could, but with the housing market in this area what it is I wouldn't be able to get what it's worth."

"It's tough to make these decisions alone," Jo said with a nod, then glanced in the direction of Ben Stuart's office. Leigh Ann was using it now as Jo's only salaried employee, but she knew it would always be Ben's office. Before that, it had belonged to Ben's father, Tom Stuart, the late owner of The Outpost. He'd left the trading post to Jo, but she and Ben now ran it together.

"You really miss him, don't you?" Leigh Ann said quietly. "How long has it been now, six months since his unit touched down in Afghanistan?"

Jo nodded. "Six months and eight days. We Skype a lot, but seeing his face sometimes makes the separation a lot tougher. He's right there on the screen, so close I can reach out and touch him, but still so far away." Jo shook her head. "At least he's alive and well, and that's all that matters."

"It's really nice that you two found each other again," Leigh Ann said, giving her a bright smile. "On that note, I better get going. I've got to climb into the attic, and I don't like going up there after dark."

"Problems?"

"Yeah, squirrels. Rachel began feeding them, putting raw peanuts along the back wall. I didn't mind-I figured it would keep them outside-but recently one's gotten into the attic."

"You sure it's a squirrel?"

"Pretty sure. I haven't seen any signs of mice yet, but squirrels are running everywhere in the yard. Rachel swore she was only feeding one, but I guess it brought its friends and relatives."

* * *

Leigh Ann drove home slowly in her old Jeep. She envied Jo. The young Navajo woman had ties to her culture that would sustain her no matter what the circumstances. She had rediscovered her relationship with Ben and had a wide circle of friends and a solid support system in place at the trading post. Ben had even helped her pay for the construction of a small hogan behind his house next to The Outpost, a place he insisted could be her medicine hogan someday.

Leigh Ann's own life was vastly different. She'd been alone long before her husband had died in a hunting accident more than a year ago. Their marriage had been nothing more than a sham. Even though she was now sharing her home with her sister, Rachel, they weren't close and mostly went their own ways.

She parked in the driveway and walked past the ADT sign in the front yard. She could no longer afford the security service, but she'd left the sign up, hoping it might deter anyone thinking of breaking in.

As she stepped into the small foyer, she saw Rachel coming down the stairs wearing pink sneakers, white exercise shorts, and a light blue, sleeveless, crop-top T-shirt. Rachel had dyed her beautiful ash-blond hair a garish shade of red that made Leigh Ann cringe. The color didn't do a thing for her, but Rachel loved it.

"You're home earlier than usual," Rachel said, leaning against the banister. "I picked up some takeout. Just pizza, but there's plenty left in the kitchen."

Leigh Ann forced a smile, looking down at her own jeans and turquoise knit Outpost polo shirt, complete with store logo. The jeans were feeling a little tight around the waist today.

She'd told Rachel she was trying to lose a few pounds but, as usual, Rachel couldn't remember anything that didn't directly affect her. "Thanks, I'll pass on that, but before you start your exercises, I'd like you to hold the ladder for me while I go up into the attic."

"Why? There's no telling what's up there-spiders the size of your fist, and maybe even mice. It's just not safe. Remember when I helped you store Mom's things? Except for that one spot, there's no flooring, just insulation and the Sheetrock ceiling. You can't put weight on that without falling through."

"Kurt placed some flat boards on top of the rafters to create walkways and more storage space. Otherwise his fishing gear and golf clubs would have fallen through ages ago."

Rachel gave her a wan smile. "Come on, Leigh Ann, it's really hot and creepy up there. Why do you care if the squirrel set up a nest? Let it."

"They chew through stuff and might eventually short out some electrical wiring. It's a fire hazard. There's way too much junk up there anyway, and I need to clear some of it out."

"Are you thinking about selling the house?" Rachel asked quickly, a touch of panic in her voice.

Leigh Ann knew that Rachel was saving a lot of money by living with her. By sharing expenses, they could afford this large, three-bedroom home instead of being stuck in one-bedroom apartments in Kirtland or Farmington, farther east.

"No, I'm not selling. This isn't a good time for that, but that's not the point. Besides the danger to the wiring, we don't want to provide homes for creatures who might bring in the plague or hantavirus."

"Okay, but you hate closed-in spaces and creepy crawlies as much as I do. Let's get someone else to do it."

"We can't afford an unnecessary expense like that, and I'm through putting this off. Something's been running back and forth up there. If it's a squirrel, then I have to find out how it's getting in and out, and see what damage it's already caused. If it's mice or rats, then we need to set traps."

"Okay, okay. How can I help?" Rachel said with a sigh.

"Stay close by in case I need you."

"Once you're at the top of the ladder, I'll hand you a broom. If anything gross is dangling down from a spiderweb, you can swat it away."

Leigh Ann smiled. "You recall that cabin we squatted in the summer Daddy lost his job?"

"That place was beyond creepy. No windows in the bedroom, and you could hear things moving around at night in the walls and under the floor," Rachel said, and shuddered. "Remember that huge, hairy spider that crawled onto the pillow between us that night? Man, did we scream."

"To this day, I still can't stand spiders," Leigh Ann said. "That's why, as a general rule I've avoided the attic. Kurt and I made a deal. I cleaned the house and he was responsible for the garage and attic."

"It looks like it's our job now," Rachel said with a smile.

A few minutes later, at the top of the ladder, Leigh Ann aimed a flashlight around the hot, dusty attic. After a moment, she hoisted herself up the rest of the way, stepped onto a board, and pulled the long dangling chain connected to the single-bulb fixture. The confined space was suddenly flooded with light.

The place was so dusty it made her nose itch, but at least there was no damp, musty smell. The roof had never leaked. Of course they were in the middle of a drought and rain was as rare as unicorns.

She studied the layers of insulation and the simple board walkways, and looked closely at the electrical wiring and metal conduits that supplied the heat, air-conditioning, powered the ceiling lights and the various circuits. At least it seemed to be in good shape. Fitted together sheets of plywood placed across the rafters supported plastic containers filled with Christmas decorations, a metal book stand, fishing tackle boxes, and several fishing rods. Fine dust and spider webs covered everything.

Close by was a stack of long, flat boards. After a moment's thought, Leigh Ann realized that Kurt had probably used them to create temporary paths across the rafters. One false step onto the Sheetrock or insulation could be dangerous or fatal.

Farther across the attic where the pitched roof sloped down to the walls, she saw another makeshift plywood platform. Several cardboard boxes and one made of metal, maybe a toolbox, were nestled in a pile of fluffy insulation that must have been pulled loose. A couple of black plastic trash bags covered a long object, maybe another fishing rod. The loosened insulation seemed like a potential squirrel hiding place.

"Whatcha see?" Rachel called from below.

"Mom's stuff and a bunch of man toys. I'm going to check out a place I think the squirrel was interested in. I don't think it's there now, but I'll take a look and make sure nothing's damaged. Then I'm going to bring back some junk and hand it down to you. It'll be dusty, so be prepared to sneeze."

As she spoke, Leigh Ann laid one of the long, wide boards across the rafters in the direction of the possible nest.

"Want the broom, just in case?" Rachel asked.

Leigh Ann felt something brush against her leg and tried not to flinch. "Good idea. I can probe the insulation without putting my hand into ... whatever."

Two minutes later, on hands and knees, Leigh Ann inched along the first board, broom and extra boards beside her across the rafters. As she moved, she'd pick up another board and position it in front of her as she created a path toward the boxes. Soon, she'd placed the last board in position and was less than five feet away.

She extended the broom toward the pile of loose pink insulation, then gingerly touched it to the top of the material. She cringed, hoping the squirrel wouldn't leap out and run right down the board.

Nothing. She wiggled the bristles of the broom around a little. All she saw was a little dust and some pink fibers drifting up into the light.

"So far, so good. Nothing's in the nest," she called out.

"Good!" Rachel said, her voice suddenly much louder.

Leigh Ann looked back toward the ladder. Rachel's head was sticking up into the attic. "Joining me?"

"Uh-uh. Sorry, Leigh Ann. This is as far as I go." Rachel seemed to study the situation. "Hey, maybe the squirrel is underneath those trash bags. Stir it up a bit."

"Not funny, what if it attacks?"

"Nah, it'll run toward the wall or a vent and maybe we'll see how it's been getting in," Rachel said.

"I don't want to get any closer until I'm sure it's not hiding somewhere." Leigh Ann inched forward, straining for a closer look. "I wonder what's in that gray metal box?"

She shifted the broom to the top of the box, pressed it against a small handle, and tried to pull it toward her. When she realized there was a string attached to the handle, she tried to break it away with the broom.

An enormous flash and boom shook the entire attic, yanking the broom right out of her hand. Stunned, Leigh Ann ducked, clapping her hands to her ears, and nearly rolled off the narrow board. Her ears ringing, she peered through the cloud of dust and debris, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

"Leigh Ann. Are you okay?" Rachel's voice seemed to floating in from the distance. "Leigh Ann? Leigh Ann!"

Leigh Ann shook her head, backed up a couple of feet, then turned around, looking at Rachel, who was halfway into the opening now. "Umm, I'm okay, but something just blew up."

"What did you do?"

"I don't know. I hit a string with the broom, then something exploded."

Rachel pointed. "Over there. Is that a fire? I see smoke."

As Leigh Ann turned, she saw shattered fishing gear and shreds of cardboard littering the top of the insulation batts. One of the truss beams that braced the connection between the roof and rafters had been peppered with holes and was shattered in half. Farther to the right, she glimpsed something she finally recognized. Sticking out of one of the black plastic bags was a big gun barrel. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the muzzle. "Nope, no fire. I smell gunpowder, though."

"Rachel, that's Kurt's pump shotgun," she added, still trying to make sense of things. "I wondered why I'd never been able to find it."

"Did you touch the trigger, or did it go off by itself?"

Suddenly things popped into place in her mind. "Neither. Kurt set a trap with that damn thing! He loaded the shotgun and aimed it at the front of the box. I saw a piece of string, which must have been attached to the trigger. If I'd have moved that metal box myself instead of using the tip of the broom, my brains would be splattered all over the attic right now."

"Want me to call the sheriff?"

Leigh Ann was still shaking like a leaf. She couldn't move, and she was almost sure she'd wet her pants, but her thinking was crystal clear. "No. Hold off on that. This wasn't meant for you or me. Kurt knew we wouldn't come up here. This was meant for someone else. Before we get the police involved I want to look inside the box. It's no toolbox; it looks more like one of those petty cash containers. There's a lock on the side below the lid."

Kurt hadn't been violent, yet he'd been willing to kill to protect the contents of that box. She had to know what was inside.

Leigh Ann took a shaky breath and reached for the box, making sure that the string was no longer attached to anything. "No more secrets, you bastard."

"Leigh Ann?" Rachel called.

"I'm coming." She edged back on hands and knees, dragging the surprisingly heavy box with her, and made it down the small ladder a few minutes later, carrying the box by the handle on top, a piece of string still attached to it. "I can't stop shaking."

"It's little wonder." Rachel took the metal document box from her hands and tried to open the latch. "It's locked. Do you know where he kept the key?"

"No. I didn't even know this box existed until about five minutes ago. After I go get the shotgun I'm coming down.

I'll get this thing open even if I have to blast it with buckshot."

* * *

It was getting late, and the darkness outside robbed Melvin Littlewater of the contrast between objects that provided him with orientation clues. His life had been shrouded in curtains of gray since the accident that had made him legally blind. Being told his vision was worse than 20/200 meant he could only discern objects in daylight that were within twenty feet or less. Faces, even point blank, were just a blur, and his reading material these days was in Braille.

He put away the clay sculpture of the antelope he'd been shaping with his hands, satisfied with the feel of the almost finished piece. After it was fired, he'd pack it up safely and deliver it to Director Nez at the tribal building.

Exhausted, he turned out the light and walked to the living room, knowing by heart how many steps he needed to take and where everything was placed. During the day he could find his way around his furniture and other large possible obstacles, but at night, outside, everything disappeared into a yawning black void.

He dreaded the night-the time when dreams came back to haunt him. Not yet ready to go to bed, he made himself comfortable in his leather easy chair and reached out to feel for the half-empty whiskey bottle he kept on the table beside it. The liquor was there to remind him that there were other demon-filled roads, some far worse than the one he traveled.

He switched on the TV and listened to a sitcom. Comfortable, yet weary, he soon drifted to sleep and back into the world of the sighted.

Unearthly, yet familiar dreamscapes unfolded before him.

He was on the road, behind the wheel of his truck, tired, and struggling to stay awake. Out of nowhere, he saw the bright headlight beams coming up fast behind him, blinding in the rearview mirror.

He pulled to the right, onto the shoulder of the road, taking his foot off the gas, giving the car behind him space to get around. There were two lanes in either direction and plenty of room.

With his horn blaring, the driver hurtled past him, then pulled back to the right too soon, cutting Melvin off and slamming into the front end of the truck.

At the impact, Melvin slammed on the brakes and fought for control. He saw the irrigation ditch beside the highway and steered left, trying to get away, but the car was shoving him inexorably to the right, tires shrieking.

Desperate to avoid crashing into the guardrail, he yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and broke free from the car. Somehow he avoided the steel guardrail and shot through a metal gate. The impact ripped into the driver's side door but didn't slow him down. Melvin struggled to steer, to regain control, but nothing made any difference. As his pickup struck the water, an air bag went off, nearly breaking his eardrums and slamming him back into the seat. He pushed the bag away and tried to sit up as the truck began to sink.

In the midst of the chaos, he saw the car roll, flip over the guardrail, then bounce into the water ahead of him, upside down.

With ice-cold water rushing into the cab of his truck, Melvin fought desperately to release his seat belt. He had to get out. Blood flowed down his face and his eyes burned so badly he could barely see. Everything seemed to be covered in a thin red veil.

The seat belt gave, but his leg was caught on something-the deflated air bag, he realized. He struggled, yanking at his pant leg with all his strength, and managed to free himself. Afraid of being pulled under as the truck continued to sink, he struggled out through the window and hauled himself onto the top of the cab. That's when he saw the girl, knee-deep in water, struggling to reach him, holding out her hands.

He was about to call out to her when his truck struck the bottom of the ditch. The impact knocked Melvin off the truck and into the current. He couldn't swim. As blackness encompassed him, he felt the presence of death, sweet, warm, and so enticing he almost surrendered.

It was the girl's insistent cries that broke through to him. He couldn't give up. He wasn't ready to die. Somehow, he kept his head above the surface, thrashing as the current tossed him around.

After an eternity, he felt hands pulling him out of the water. Pain followed, then blackness again.

Melvin woke with a start. As he tried to even his breathing, he wondered if he'd ever be able to put that night behind him. Like a man trapped in time, he seemed condemned to relive the moments that had changed his life forever. Yet what haunted him most was the girl.

Over the years, he'd spoken to nearly all the witnesses and responders, but no one else had seen her. At first, he'd thought she'd drowned that night trying to save him, but her body had ever been found.

Everyone had tried to tell him that he'd imagined her, but as logical as their arguments had been, he knew better. She'd been much too real to be only a figment of his imagination.

Melvin found the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Fully awake, he now fought a different battle. Despair and frustration tugged at him, urging him downward into a hell he might never escape, an abyss where no hands could ever reach him.

Determined not to sink, he focused on Leigh Ann Vance. Everything about her, from the music of her voice, to the gentleness of her touch, called to him.

Everyone assumed they were friends, connected by her work at The Outpost, where he often sold some of his sculptures. To Melvin, however, their relationship defied labels. She didn't know how he felt about her, but that was as it should be. He'd never bring her into the nightmare his life had become.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after a quick shower and a change of clothing, Leigh Ann joined Rachel in the room they'd converted into a home office. Rachel had brought in a pot of tea and was sitting by the desk. As Leigh Ann entered the room, Rachel poured two cups of tea, saying, "I decided to make herbal. I figured we both needed something to settle our nerves. I picked the Soothing Afternoon Tea that we bought last week."

Leigh Ann nodded absently and stared at the gray metal case.

"My boss has one like that for petty cash, but without a key that's going to be tough to open," Rachel said, eyeing the box. "The hinges are concealed, too, so prying it open could take time."

"I've still got Kurt's pocket key chain. I tossed it in that drawer over there beside the one with the keys for the garage cabinets," Leigh Ann said, pointing. "Maybe one of those will work. We can try them all."

She found both key chains and inspected the keys, narrowing the possibilities down to two on the set he'd carried with him. As she tried the first one, her hands shook.

"Don't worry, Leigh Ann. He can't hurt you anymore," Rachel said softly.

She tried to remain focused on the box. When the first didn't work, Leigh Ann reached for the second and braced herself. She had a feeling that once she opened the box, her life would take a drastic turn for the worse.

"Maybe I should just destroy this, whatever it is, sight unseen," Leigh Ann said, but even as she spoke, she knew she couldn't back off now. Knowledge wasn't as dangerous as the lack of it-like the shotgun, which was now beneath her bed, unloaded.

The second key fit. As she opened the lid, her heart was beating overtime. The box's contents looked innocuous at first, and she lifted out the items and set them on the desk: a small notebook, a folder filled with receipts, and several folded printouts of bookkeeping spreadsheets. Beneath those papers she found a heavy .38 revolver.

"It's loaded," she said, opening the cylinder and checking. Holding a firearm came as naturally to her as barbecue and driving a pickup truck.

"Is that a passport?" Rachel asked, her eyes glued on the contents of the box.

"Sure looks like it, but what the hell was Kurt doing with one?" Leigh Ann picked it up and looked inside. The photo was of her husband, but the name listed on it was Frank Jones. Glancing quickly through the pages, she found no stamps or other markings. It had yet to be used.

"Frank Jones ... I remember that name," Leigh Ann said. "After Kurt died, both Wayne and Pierre would drop by once in a while, or call to ask if I'd found a Frank Jones file in Kurt's papers. But it looks like Kurt was Frank Jones."

Rachel held the two spreadsheets against the window, one over the other. As light shined through them, she said, "These pages are nearly identical except for the column listing vendor payments. I think most people wouldn't even notice the differences, but it looks like one or more formulas have been altered, too, because the totals still come out the same down here." She pointed to another section. "I'm not a bookkeeper, but I work with spreadsheets and electronic ledgers every day. I think Kurt was doing some creative bookkeeping, and from what I can see, the last entries were made a few days prior to his death."

"There's a flash drive in here," Leigh Ann said. "Let's take a look at that."

Moments later, after loading the program into Leigh Ann's laptop, they went over several more spreadsheets. Finally Rachel spoke. "This is just more of the same, Leigh Ann. Again, there are two sets. One seems to be the real one, the other's doctored. The key differences are the payouts to Frank Jones Enterprises. They're steady and totaling around fifty grand. At a glance, I'd say your hubby found a way to cheat his partners."

"No way they knew," Leigh Ann said. "They considered him one of their buds. They'd even go hunting together. That's a guy bonding thing."

"Although the police and forest service ruled it an accidental death caused by a careless hunter, they never did find out who shot Kurt," Rachel said.

"I would have known if Wayne Hurley and Pierre Boone had found out Kurt was cheating them. Pierre, in particular, has a temper like Vesuvius. From the way they talked, I'm sure they thought Frank Jones was real."

"Neither of those men are fools," Rachel said.

"No, but then again it's easier to be taken in by a friend than it is an enemy. You never see it coming," she said, old hurts stealing over her.

"Do you think that's why Kurt rigged up the shotgun? He didn't want the guys breaking in when nobody was home, nosing around, and finding something that could get him arrested," Rachel said.

Leigh Ann nodded slowly. "He was obviously scared enough to do whatever it took to protect this."

"Why would he keep evidence that could have been used against him? Why not just destroy it?" Rachel said.

"I'm guessing it's because he was embezzling money up to the moment he died and needed to keep things straight so he wouldn't get caught. Kurt was no Einstein."

"What's in the little notebook?"

She looked through it. "I'm seeing a list of names: Sorrelhorse, Natani, Manuelito, Begay, Johnson, and Lee. Most sound Navajo, and I know there's a tribal official by the name of Sorrelhorse, but there are no first names here. Some have question marks next to them."

"Could they be potential clients, maybe?" Rachel asked.

"I have no idea." Leigh Ann continued leafing through the book. "There's also an address of a storage facility and a unit number." A folded piece of paper pressed between the pages slipped to the floor. "Whoops," she said, picking it up. "This looks like a rental receipt. He was paid up for a whole year."

"I recognize the name of that place," Rachel said, looking over her shoulder at the receipt. "I stored some stuff in one of their smaller units before I moved in with you. They're cheap. You provide your own key and lock."

Leigh Ann checked the metal box again. Only one thing remained. "There's this little key with the number zero fifty-five on it. It doesn't match the number of the compartment he rented, but maybe that's it."

"I don't think so. Padlock keys usually have the name of the lock brand on them. It's more likely a desk drawer key, or one to a box like that one. The storage place he used recommends a sturdy lock, and the facility itself doesn't keep a duplicate of the key-to protect the client, they say."

Leigh Ann sifted through more of the papers. "Here's a receipt for a big padlock, but the key's not here."

"Do you suppose that Kurt hid the money he ripped off in that storage locker?" Rachel asked.

"Who knows? If he spent it, all I can tell you is that it wasn't on me."

"You need to go check out that place as soon as possible," Rachel said.

"I've got to find the padlock key first," Leigh Ann said, looking around the room slowly.

"He bought a Master lock," Rachel said, looking at the receipt. "That comes with a very distinctive key."

Leigh Ann looked through the top drawer. "Not here."

"So what happened to it?"

"I don't know, but since Kurt's dead, maybe I can get the storage company to open up his locker for me. I could show them the rental agreement and his death certificate."

"The rental agreement has expired," Rachel said, looking more closely at the receipt, "and I'm not sure how much grace time they give a renter. If they auctioned off the stuff inside, you can kiss that money good-bye. Someone's bound to have found it already."

"It wouldn't be mine to keep, anyway, but it won't hurt to follow up on this."

"If no one's come after the money, why not just keep it?" Rachel smiled and shrugged. "You could sure use a lump sum like that."

"Rachel, that money's not mine. Had it belonged to Kurt, I would cheerfully take it and spend every dime, but it belongs to the company. Anything I find has to go back to his partners."

"At least negotiate a finder's fee, Leigh Ann! If they haven't come to you for that money in all this time, they either don't know the money's gone or they wrote it off as a loss."

"You've just raised an interesting point. By now, they have to know about the missing money, and fifty thousand dollars isn't exactly chump change. Yet they haven't said a word to me about that. Something doesn't add up right."

"You said they asked about Frank Jones. That means they knew something was going on."

She nodded. "They wanted to keep this from me. The question is why?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to hold on to that gun, for starters," she said, glancing at the .38. "I'm also going back up to the attic and see what else is up there."

"No, Leigh Ann, let it be. What if Kurt's got something else booby-trapped?"

L