Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“Let’s check it out,” I said before I could lose my nerve. I fumbled what I hoped was the key-it had been on the key ring Rafe gave me-from my purse and advanced toward the cabin, my feet scuffing through layers of dried pine needles and crackly leaves. Reaching the door with Danielle just behind me, I discovered the key wouldn’t be necessary: Someone had cut through the shank of the padlock that secured the cabin.

“That’s not good,” Danielle observed, peering over my shoulder.

I poked a finger at the door and it swung inward. Something rustled inside the cabin. I jumped back, bumping into Danielle. “What was that?” I whispered.

“A squirrel?” Danielle suggested, her voice thinner than usual.

“It sounded bigger than a squirrel.” I eyed the crack between the door and the rough jamb. Nothing bounded, slithered, or hopped out. Hmm . “Stand back.” Danielle complied with alacrity. Inching forward, I stiff-armed the door and jumped back as it smacked against the interior wall. Light illuminated the whole of the one-room cabin and I watched as a ringed, black-tipped tail disappeared out a shattered pane in the window at the back. “A raccoon,” I said with a nervous giggle. “That’s all it was. A raccoon.”

Danielle giggled, too, and said, “I had a plush raccoon when I was little. Mr. Mufty.”

“I remember. Whatever happened to him?”

She shrugged and nudged me over the threshold. My gaze swept a card table with two folding chairs pushed neatly underneath it, a double bed with rumpled sheets, a camp stove, a cupboard, and a pair of jeans hanging on one of three pegs above the bed. Rafe had brought a cooler with him as a fridge when he came to hunt and, I presumed, bed linens and such. A scrap of something shiny green caught my eye and I bent to pick up a granola bar wrapper. “This must be what attracted our Mr. Mufty,” I said, showing it to Danielle.

“The appeal of this place escapes me,” Danielle said, wrinkling her nose at a slightly musty smell. Raccoon scat, perhaps? I crossed to the window and glass shards sparkled at me from the floor. Had the raccoon punched out a pane to gain access? It didn’t seem likely.

“Why would someone break a window and then cut the lock?” I asked. “Or vice versa?”

“Maybe it was two different someones,” Danielle said. “And Someone Number Two came better prepared than Someone Number One. He brought a bolt cutter,” she clarified when I looked confused.

“Or maybe it was high winds or a bear that broke the window,” I said, finding it hard to believe there was a raft of people lining up to break into this primitive cabin. I could see there was nothing here-not so much as a notepad or receipt to hint at who had been here when or what they’d been doing. Maybe I could find a trash bag out back that would be full of clues.

“What, you think they have trash pickups here at 111 Back-of-Beyond Court every Tuesday?” Danielle said when I floated my great idea by her. “I’m sure Rafe packed out his trash and tossed it in some Dumpster in Capon Bridge, like at that seedy motel we passed.”

“Maybe Victoria was less responsible,” I countered. Danielle rolled her eyes but dutifully traipsed after me as I went back outside and circled the cabin. Lots of vehicle tracks, but no trash bag. We studied the tracks and I thought it would be useful if a CSI team would come by with their plaster of paris, or whatever they used, and make casts so we could identify the cars and trucks that had been here since the last rain, which couldn’t have been much more than four or five days ago, judging by the softness of the dirt and the mud lurking in shady spots. Danielle and I agreed there were at least three separate sets of tracks; two looked like they were from pickups or SUVs and one was smaller and narrower, more like the tracks my Beetle made.

“Hunting buddies?” Danielle suggested.

“Not a bad thought. Is anything in season at this time of year?”

“Beats me.”

We stood in the clearing, studying the ground, and then looked at each other out of the corners of our eyes. “We really suck at this investigating thing, don’t we?” I said.

“I think we’d better keep our day jobs,” Danielle agreed and we laughed.

A twig cracked behind me and I started to turn, thinking our raccoon buddy might have come back looking for handouts, when a voice said, “Put your hands up and turn around slowly.”

Danielle and I shot each other scared looks and raised our hands to ear level. We shuffled around to find ourselves facing an athletic-looking woman in a tight brown T-shirt, those camouflaged pants that the military wears, and high-top trainers. She had medium-length brown hair flecked with gray and the no-nonsense attitude of a prison warden or junior high teacher. She also had a gun, a very large pistol, pointed at me and Danielle.

“This is private property,” the woman said, her gaze flicking over us, summing us up. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was crisp, authoritative, and I wondered if she was a ranger.

“Not hunting,” I said, in case she thought we were shooting deer or turkeys out of season. Danielle gave me a funny look.

“I never thought you were,” the woman said drily, looking me up and down.

What-my lemon-and-lime tiered skirt and matching peasant blouse didn’t qualify as hunting togs? I narrowed my eyes at her. “This is my fiancé’s cabin,” I said, not mentioning the ex part or the dead part. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, good Lord.” She lowered the gun and I heard Danielle let out a deep breath. “You’re Graysin? Anastasia Graysin?”

“Stacy,” I said automatically. “Hey, wait, how do you know my name?”

“I’m an investigator,” she said. “I work for Phineas Drake.” The gun hand went behind her back and reappeared without the gun. She stepped toward me, hand outstretched. “Mary Pearce.”

I shook her hand, introduced Danielle, and asked, “Where’s your car?”

“On that gravel road, just past the turnoff for this place. I hiked up. I heard your car and stepped into the woods, thinking I’d see what you were up to.” Mary’s eyes scanned the clearing. “I can’t say I found much.”

“Did you cut the padlock?”

She shook her head. “Nope. It was like that when I got here. So was the window. That big coon gave me a scare, though, I can tell you. He huddled in a corner and growled at me the whole time I was in the cabin. Not that it took long to search it-there’s squat-all in there.”

“What were you looking for?”

“A lead on Victoria Bazán. Drake wants me to find her.”

“Do you have any identification?” Danielle asked suddenly.

With an amused smile, Mary pulled a business card and a driver’s license from one of the deep pockets on her camo pants. “Here.” She handed them to Danielle, who studied them and gave the license back with a nod, passing me the business card. It read PEARCE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS and had the usual assortment of contact info.

“Have you got any leads on Victoria?” I asked.

Mary scratched at a mosquito bite on her arm. “Nothing definitive,” she hedged. “You?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t seen her since she ran off with my wallet Saturday night. Oh, if you’ll be talking to Mr. Drake sometime soon, you might mention that someone set a fire in my dance studio last night.”

“You think it was Victoria?”

The thought startled me. “It never crossed my mind.”

There didn’t seem to be much else to say, so I looked at Danielle and we moved toward the Volkswagen. “Want a lift back to your car?” I asked Mary.

She shook her head. “Nah. I might stick around here for a bit, see if anyone else shows up. Looks like the place has been busier than a costume store in October, so I might get lucky.”