As she fired up her Subaru, she convinced herself she wasn’t really lying when she’d told Lily she was doing research. Not when she had a feeling that Billy Huber’s death might be fodder for her next book.
Chapter 4
The drive to the low country and Billy Huber’s farm took little more than thirty minutes. The April day was bright, the sun rising and promising heat. She rolled the windows down and felt the wind whip through her hair, then drove past the lane leading to the Huber farm, making certain that no police vehicles—or any other vehicles, for that matter—were on the property.
She couldn’t really tell, as the lane curved, but after driving by once, she decided to chance it. Even so, she parked nearly a quarter of a mile down the road, around a corner, on a spur of another drive where the shoulder was wide enough to pull off.
With her bag slung over her shoulder, she jogged back to the lane, which had been overgrown by an untamed hedge of saplings, scrub brush, and berry vines.
The gate was now closed and marked with crime-scene tape that fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. She pushed it open and started along the curving drive to the cluttered, junk-filled yard surrounding the house and outbuildings. Though not as garish as it had appeared the night before, the area was blanketed with all kinds of junk and broken tree limbs.
No dog in sight.
No signs of life.
The air still.
Quiet.
Almost eerily so.
No birds chirping or insects humming.
Oh, get over yourself. It’s just a quiet morning.
Nervously, she eyed the woods surrounding the house and barnyard. A forest of hickory, pine, and live oaks separated Huber’s scrap of land from the rest of the world. As she studied the woods, her skin prickled. She imagined someone hidden deep in the undergrowth.
Someone watching.
Or maybe the missing dog?
Or maybe nothing—Maybe it was all in her fertile, suspicious mind.
It was a crime scene, the spot where a murder had taken place. Her nerves were just on edge, that was all. Knowing that Pierce would throw a fit if he knew she was here, and that at any minute a police cruiser might roll up the drive and she would have to explain herself, had made her jumpy. That was all.
“Get on with it,” she told herself, slipping her phone from her pocket. She started with the matted grass, still stained with blood and the spot where the tiller had been. Quickly, she snapped pictures of the area: the flattened grass and weeds where Huber’s body had landed, the torn gutter on the barn, the remaining collection of junk.
Who had wanted him dead?
And why?
Again the question haunted her.
Carefully, she backed up, avoiding the clutter and making a wide circle while taking shots of the barn, sheds, an abandoned chicken coop, a pump house, and a woodpile, where she was certain hornets and squirrels had nested. She clicked off images of the collected rubble, piles of horseshoes, and car parts scattered everywhere.
As she snapped off a series of shots of the cabin itself, she ignored that little tingle of anxiety that crawled up her spine while she called the dog.
Nothing.
No one was here, not even the shepherd.
She was alone.
She was just being a ninny, letting her wild imagination get thebetter of her, she thought, trying to convince herself as she stumbled over a dirty baby doll that cried out as she stepped on it.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered and backed up to the fence surrounding the house. She took a quick picture of the doll, eased through the gate, and made her way along the path to the porch, where last night she’d stayed with the dog.
The canine, of course, wasn’t around.