Truman didn’t tell her he’d already gone through the Finch investigation with a fine-tooth comb. Once he’d seen the connection between his uncle and Enoch Finch, he’d immediately contacted Deschutes County to share notes. He hadn’t spotted any new leads or possible avenues that the county investigators had missed. Hopefully, Special Agent Peterson would spot something new.
“Are the two of you moving into the bed-and-breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes. We need to be out of the motel before eleven.” She didn’t look up from her pages.
“That motel is horrible.”
“It’s not so bad.”
He raised one brow. His sister and mother wouldn’t have spent one night in that place. Granted, his sister was a diva and insisted everything she owned be the best available, but even a woman with lower standards should show some interest in leaving the slum. Maybe Mercy didn’t need comforts. He remembered Mercy’s awe at his uncle’s supplies. What he’d seen as an embarrassment, she’d admired.
The Kilpatricks are preppers.
But Mercy lived in Portland and had a high-status job with the federal government. In law enforcement.
Clearly she’d left her heritage behind.
Has she?
Roots can run deep. She might imply she was estranged from her family, but he’d glimpsed her face as she’d studied the old photo of her sister. Pain. Longing. Regret. She’d shown them all.
When Joziah Bevins had stopped by their table, fear had flashed across her face. It’d vanished immediately, replaced by confidence. Real confidence? Forced? Truman mulled it over. Joziah was intimidating, and Truman knew he avoided Karl, the Kilpatrick patriarch, and suspected there was old bad blood there. Did it extend to the daughter?
None of my business.
As long as they didn’t start shooting at each other.
“Truman, look at this.” Mercy slid over her notebook and tapped a page with one finger.
He took the notebook, reading the header on the page: “Items missing from the Sanders home.”
A box of inexpensive jewelry.
Two rifles and a handgun.
$550 in cash.
Holding his breath, Truman flipped the pages of Gwen Vargas’s murder book.
Missing items: jewelry, cash, photo album, two handguns.
Truman looked up, meeting Mercy’s gaze. “The weapons?”
“Yes. It’s not the big hauls from the recent murders, but it’s something.”
“They—or he—took the easiest items to sell for the most money,” he argued.
“I know.”
“The Vargas murder included a photo album.”
Her brows came together. “That’s odd. I haven’t seen anything personal taken in the other cases.”
“We don’t know what else could be missing from the recent cases. There was no one to ask.”
“Men who live alone and are isolated. Easy pickings.”
“Nothing about my uncle was easy,” corrected Truman.
“You’re right. And from what I saw at Ned Fahey’s house, he made everything as difficult as possible.”
“I’m not sure these old cases can be connected,” Truman said slowly. “The motivations appear totally different.”
“They’re fifteen years apart,” said Mercy. “Motivations change. I’ll get some searches going through ViCAP and see if anything similar has happened in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe he hasn’t been inactive all this time.”
Truman nodded.
Or has someone been biding their time in Eagle’s Nest?
EIGHTEEN
Mercy hauled her small suitcase up the wooden stairs of Sandy’s Bed & Breakfast. No ADA ramp in sight. To Mercy this would always be the old Norwood house. A house she’d avoided while growing up because old man Norwood and his wife were seriously creepy. The huge house had been straight out of a horror film with its three stories, turrets, peeling paint, and failing gingerbread trim. Now it shone with cheerful colors in the style of a Victorian painted lady, and the architectural details had been lovingly restored.
Someone had sunk a lot of money and elbow grease into the house.
Eddie opened the door with the oval lead glass and Mercy followed, feeling slightly grumpy.
Bed-and-breakfasts weren’t her thing. Too personal. She’d prefer an anonymous hotel with four plain walls where the staff didn’t know her name and she didn’t have to share a breakfast table with strangers.
“Smell that?” Eddie whispered. “Now I’m hungry again.”
She inhaled, and the odor of fresh-baked cookies flooded her senses. Her stomach rumbled.
Dammit.
“Hello, hello! I’m so glad you’re here!” A tall, slender woman with long, red hair came through a swinging door behind a small reception desk. She wiped her hands on her white apron and gave them a genuine smile. Flour dusted her T-shirt. She reminded Mercy of a hostess on a TV cooking show. “Nice to see you again, Agent Peterson.” She nodded at Eddie. “I have your rooms ready for you.” She held out a hand to Mercy.
Mercy took it. “I’m Mercy.” The cookie odor hovered around the woman, and Mercy couldn’t help but return her smile.
“You don’t know how relieved we are to be here,” said Eddie. “Do I smell cookies?” he asked hopefully.