The insides of my wrists tingled. “From an SUV?”
“Don’t remember, but I could tell you if—” The telephone sitting on his desk rang. “Buster’s Junkyard, we have exactly what your wife hopes you won’t find. How can I—oh, hey, honey. What’s up?” His gaze flicked to me. “I have a customer here, but—okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Love you, too.”
He hung up the phone. “Sorry, but I have to get going. My husband’s family is coming up for a long weekend and half of them showed up early to beat the weather.”
“You started to say something, that you could tell me it was an SUV if . . . what?”
Rob clicked his mouse, making the familiar motions of tidying up his computer desktop before leaving for the day. “Not without looking at the security video. I can do that for you on Monday. Just give me a call.”
“Could you please take a minute and do it now?” I asked.
“I really have to go. Sorry.” He stood.
“Please?” How could I convince him? How could I communicate how important this was? “This isn’t about the headlight. That crime I mentioned? It was a murder,” I said flatly. “And your headlight thief could be the killer.”
Rob sat down slowly. “Murder? I heard something about a woman who was poisoned. Is that what this is about?”
“If you could just look at the security video,” I said. “Please.”
He glanced at the wall clock. Hesitated, then said, “Sure. I’ll have to do some explaining, but sure.” He started clicking away on the keyboard and chatting about the security measures he’d put in place since he’d bought Buster’s. He talked about fencing and lights and how a fresh coat of paint could deter thieves and, still clicking, talked about how he’d decided to buy cameras after he’d noticed an absence of hood ornaments. “The system I installed out there is a glorified trail cam. The cameras cover the entire yard and only turn on when there’s motion. I get raccoons mostly.” He smiled as he clicked. “Cute little buggers, unless you’re trying to keep them out of your garden. Last year Tony was at his wit’s end with—ah, here it is.”
Rob angled the monitor so I could see. “Yeah, that’s an SUV he’s pulling it out of. I meant to get out there and take a look so I could revise my inventory, but haven’t got around to it yet.”
I leaned forward. On the screen was the fuzzy image of a man who looked to be about six feet tall, in a dark coat wearing dark gloves and a hat. A very distinctive hat.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “One more thing. Could you please e-mail that video clip to the sheriff’s office?”
Chapter 18
Mrr.”
I buckled my seat belt and started the engine, talking to Eddie as I did so. “How was I supposed to know that video clip was too big to e-mail? If I have tech questions, I ask Josh, and he’s not here, now is he?” Luckily, because I was sure he would have made fun of me for my lack of knowledge.
“Mrr!”
“Sure, I could have called him, but it’s a little late now, isn’t it? And anyway, until we get out of this valley, there’s no cell service.”
“Mrr!”
I slid a glance over at Eddie, turned on the headlights, and dropped the transmission into gear. “If you’re asking about what I saw on Rob’s video, you’ll be glad to know there’s no way it was Neil.” Neil wasn’t that tall, and he was far bigger around.
But my sigh of relief had frozen when I’d studied the image more closely. The man had been wearing a dark winter coat resembling coats worn by Hugh Novak and Stewart Funston. Far more telling was the hat, that unusual earflap fedora I’d seen both men wearing, a kind I’d never seen on anyone else’s head.
“It was either Hugh or Stewart,” I said out loud, easing my foot onto the accelerator and exhaling with relief when the bookmobile’s tires found traction and inched us forward. Yes, we had great tires and the weight made winter driving reasonably easy, but the current road conditions were less than stellar. “Let’s think about motive.”
“Mrrr!”
“Exactly.” I steered us out of the gravel parking lot. “We haven’t the foggiest idea why Stewart might have killed Rowan, but we know what Hugh’s motive probably is. At the township meeting, Hugh was furious at that guy in the audience. And if you’re that angry in a public meeting, what would it take to tip you into murder?”
I thought about it as I looked both ways—no traffic, such a surprise!—and pulled onto Lolly Road. “Whoa, speaking of tipping . . .”
The time I’d been in Buster’s had been long enough to turn the dusk into complete darkness and, unhappily, to freeze the road’s slush to ice. The bookmobile, usually the epitome of driving stability, seesawed left and right on the slick surface. “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” I murmured in a sort of a prayer as adrenaline shot through me. “Please don’t . . .”
After a few more slips back and forth, we hit a patch of actual asphalt and straightened out.
I blew out a breath and tried to release the tension in my neck. “Anyway, it was either Hugh or Stewart. Thanks to Rob, I have the video clip on a flash drive, and as soon as we get into cell phone range—and find a place to pull over because, as you know, I don’t use my cell while driving the bookmobile, per library policy—I’ll call Ash.” Or Hal, but I’d rather talk to Ash.
“Mrr!”
“What’s that? Hugh’s exact motive? Huh. I thought I told you. Rowan had been organizing people to speak up against the new township hall. After the meeting, I talked to a few people, and they said she’d gone door to door, handing out information about building costs and advising folks to make up their own minds. Apparently she told everyone that if they felt strongly one way or the other to show up at the board meetings for public comment.”
Even over the noise of the bookmobile, I heard the unmistakable sound of Eddie’s body as he flopped against the wire door of the cat carrier. “Well, I agree with you, a new township hall doesn’t seem worth murdering over, but if it’s built, Hugh could make a lot more money from a business on his property if a new hall goes in.”
Eddie’s head clunked against the door.
“Why do you do that?” I asked. “One of these days you’re going to give yourself a concussion.”
“Mrr,” he said, then, from the sounds of it—I didn’t dare look away from the road, so sounds were all I had to go on—he started chewing the door.
“You are so weird. But back to murder motives. I’ve read that domestic disputes are the number one reason for murder, with money number two, but it sure seems to me that there’s a lot of overlap. I mean, aren’t most fights between couples about money? And if a fight gets bad, isn’t . . . oh, geez.”
I eased my foot off the accelerator and said in a voice even I could hear was tight with tension, “Okay, this could be bad. Really bad.”
“Mrr?”
I ignored Eddie’s question. Not intentionally, really, it was just my brain was too busy trying to figure out what I was going to do in the next three seconds. Because up ahead, gusting toward us furiously, was a nearly solid wall of white. Snow. Snow coming down thick and fast. So thick and so fast that all I could do was hold tight and pray that we’d make it through.
The snow hit the windshield and we were instantly inside the whitest whiteout I’d ever endured. All the other whiteouts I’d driven through and thought were the worst had nothing on this.
“Oh, geez,” I heard myself murmuring again. “Oh, geez, oh, geez.” I also heard a low growl that must have been coming from Eddie, but either the snow and wind were transforming his sounds, or he was making a noise I’d never heard.