“Isn’t it too late?” she asked him. “They’re already saying it. And move, please. You’re blocking the refrigerator.”
“I can’t really block it,” he said, but he moved aside.
She reached in and brought out a head of lettuce, shaking it at him. “And quit appearing and disappearing.”
“All right. I’d, um, give you a hand if I could. Since I can’t...I’m going to go prowl around the Horse Farm and see what I can learn.”
Olivia set the lettuce on the cutting board and looked at him. She’d been about to warn him to be careful. She managed to refrain.
“Marcus, why do you think someone wanted you dead?”
“Let’s see. I wasn’t blackmailing anyone. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone’s wife. I wasn’t dealing drugs and I hadn’t robbed any banks. I’ll be damned if I know, Liv.”
“The property?”
“The Horse Farm is nonprofit, and while the management remains in the hands of Aaron Bentley, there’s nothing to be gained by my death. Oh, well, there are specific bequests in the will, but nothing anyone would kill for. Anyway, I’m off.”
“Are you coming back?” she asked him. “I’m so jumpy I actually wouldn’t mind having you around.”
“Keep everything locked up, like the fed told you.”
“But will you be back?”
He smiled. “Of course I’ll be back. I intend to watch out for you through the night.”
Sammy whined and Marcus leaned down to pat his head. Olivia thought the dog couldn’t possibly feel his hand.
And yet it was as if he did.
Then, just like Dustin Blake, he left through the back.
Except that Marcus didn’t have to open the door.
Dustin walked back to Willis House and entered his room by the private door. He put through a call to Malachi and told him he’d been to see Olivia and they’d talked about Marcus Danby. “Do you have anything more on the situation, or on Danby?” Dustin asked.
“Nothing that would explain why anyone wanted the man dead. The property is really only worth anything with a functioning business, and the business only functions if the Horse Farm is successful. The land is valuable to an extent, but there are acreages of similar land if someone was looking to buy, and some of it’s for sale. I don’t think anyone’s crawling out of the man’s past—the Horse Farm isn’t a rehab facility, it’s a therapy center. On paper, there’s nothing our people have been able to find. How is Olivia?”
“She’s fine. I’m sure she’s called you.”
“Not since you’ve been there,” Malachi said.
That was a surprise.
“She was asking about you coming out.”
“I need to handle this delicately. If local law enforcement believes we’re trying to home in on their territory, it could get dicey.”
“Right. Well, as far as I know, law enforcement considers his death an open-and-shut case.”
“What do you think?”
“I think your cousin has spoken to a ghost and that the ghost knows he was murdered,” Dustin said flatly.
“Tread carefully.”
“I intend to.”
“And keep an eye on Liv for me, will you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
They rang off. Dustin figured that since he hadn’t eaten, he might as well go to the diner again. He just might pick up something more than dinner there.
The house was silent as he headed out. The other residents were either gone or in bed. He locked the door behind him, and as he did, he realized Coot was sitting in his usual rocker on the porch.
“Hey, there, Coot,” he said.
“Howdy. Nice night.” Dustin heard the sound of Coot’s rocker moving back and forth.
“I thought I’d go to the café for a bite to eat. Do you want to join me?” Dustin asked.
He thought the old-timer would say no. To his surprise the rocker creaked and Coot stood up and walked over to him. “Sure. Be happy to go along. Thanks for the invite.”
“I’d enjoy the company,” Dustin said, guessing there was more to be learned from the old man.
“We gonna drive?”
Dustin nodded. It seemed like a simpler and safer alternative, with a possible killer skulking in the nearby woods.
Coot knew which car was his and waited patiently at the passenger door for Dustin to open it.
The drive was short. Coot didn’t talk; he merely gazed out the window at the darkened landscape.
Delilah, who was waiting tables again, welcomed them both warmly. Her coffee was fresh, good and strong, and in a few minutes they ordered—the daily special, chicken potpie—and sat facing each other. The café’s only occupants when they came in were a family foursome that appeared to be parents and a girl of twelve or so and a boy of maybe ten.
Delilah, of course, knew all about them. They were the Richardson family and they were driving to Nashville from Colorado; their daughter had won tickets to see the newest sensation on the Nashville charts.
Coot sipped his coffee and stared at Dustin while they waited for their meals.
“You don’t look like you’re in any trouble to me,” he said.
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Thought you law guys hated it when they want you to see shrinks or go through therapy.”
“No, I was ready for a respite. That’s about it,” Dustin responded.
Coot shrugged and lowered his head, trying to hide a smile. Then he glanced up. “I know who you are,” he said.
“You do?” Dustin smiled. “Dustin Blake. That’s my name, sir. Special agent—that’s what I do for a living.”
“I heard about a boy they called Dustin about twenty years ago. I was a reporter in my day. In Nashville, I used to hang out with the cops—I handled the police beat. I’m pretty sure that boy was you. You would’ve been a kid, a few years older than the two at that table over there, when this all happened, but I remember your name. Hell, even the media has some decency. They didn’t let out your name, and maybe I just heard your first name among friends. Anyway, you picked up some knowledge on the street—or in some other way—that helped them find a killer. Am I right?”
Dustin’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips. He paused. It was so long ago. No one ever connected him with the Opry-Buff, as the killer had been labeled, or the police shootout that had taken him out.
“I am right,” Coot said, nodding sagely. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m enjoying the Horse Farm. Really.”
“Sure. So, you seen the general?”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“Oh, everyone claims he sits on that warhorse of his up in the hills, ever watching out. But not many really see him.”
“But you have?”
“Yep. I’ve seen him. I’ve had him tip his hat to me. When the mists are lying low over the pastures and fields, some folks see him ’cause they want to. They see him in the cloud patterns, too, on a summer’s day. But there are those who really see him. Like young Olivia.”
Olivia, he thought, had to be in her mid-to late twenties. To Coot that was young.
“And, I reckon,” Coot went on, “you.”
“Who knows what we see and don’t see?” Dustin said evasively.
“I’ve been thinking about Olivia, you know. She’s one special person. The girl could’ve done just about anything, gone just about anywhere. But she’s done some mighty good things instead. Sometimes she’s got kids with autism so bad the parents are at wits’ end, and she can calm ’em down for a few hours and get ’em grooming the horses, laughing in the field. She’s great with the youth-in-rebellion types, too. I don’t want anything happening to her.”
Dustin felt a coldness in his gut. This old man—this old observer—was worried.
“She thinks someone killed Marcus Danby,” Coot said.