Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(76)

I nodded. “I’m good.”

Emmett crowded into the office, not looking at Draven either. Clearly in the time that Dash had left my house, he’d caught up Emmett on Draven’s adultery.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Draven’s shoulders fall. What had he expected? That after a day, all would be forgiven?

Dash was crushed. His mother’s memory was sacred. Chrissy wasn’t here to punish Draven, so Dash was doing it for her.

The only problem was, if we were going to find a killer, we needed to put feelings aside.

“The reason I came here this morning was because I’ve been thinking about something and wanted to run it by you,” I told Dash.

“Shoot.” He leaned against the wall, Emmett beside him.

“The police found a murder weapon at the scene and identified it as Draven’s. We’ve been operating under the assumption that the knife was Draven’s. But we also think this was a premeditated setup. Could the knife have been a fake? You said that it had your name engraved on the side. What if someone copied it to set you up?”

Draven shook his head. “They have my prints on it.”

“Can’t prints be faked?” I’d seen it on a murder-mystery movie, so the question wasn’t entirely farfetched. Maybe they’d stolen prints from the handlebars on Draven’s motorcycle.

Emmett nodded. “Possibly. Wouldn’t be easy.”

Dash rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What knife was it again?”

“Just a Buck knife,” Draven said.

“With the cherry handle,” Emmett added. “I borrowed it once a few years ago when I went hunting.”

Cherry? That wasn’t right. I dove into my purse for my yellow notepad, flipping to the page where I’d made a note about the knife’s description. It was the one thing Chief Wagner had told me weeks ago that hadn’t been in the press sheets.

“Not cherry. Black. The knife found at the scene had a black handle.”

“Your knife was cherry.” Emmett shook his head. “I’d bet my life on it.”

My heart was racing. Maybe if there was another knife, we’d find a trail that led to the person who’d faked it. How many people engraved knives in Montana? We were grasping at straws, but it was something.

Dash’s brow furrowed. “No, wait. You had a black knife, Dad.”

Before Draven could respond, the office door opened again.

“Morning.” What I assumed was Presley’s cheerful voice preceded her as she came into Draven’s office. The smile on her face fell when she spotted me in the guest chair.

“Hey, Pres? Remember that knife you had engraved for Dad?” Dash asked. “The one you got him for Christmas a few years ago?”

“Yeah. He said his other one was getting old and the engraving was wearing away. Why?”

Dash pushed off the wall. “What color was it?”

“Black, of course. You all love black.”

All eyes shot to Draven.

“Where’d that knife go, Dad?” Dash asked.

“I, um . . . I think I left it in the office at the clubhouse after Presley gave it to me. Might still be in the box too.”

“Seriously?” Presley put her hands on her hips. “That was four years ago. You never even used it?”

“Sorry, Pres, but I liked the old one. It fit my hand.”

Without a word, Dash stalked out of the office, Emmett close on his heels. I shot out of my chair, following too. Draven’s bootsteps thudded behind me.

As we walked outside, I squinted at the bright morning sunlight. Dash picked up his pace, storming for the clubhouse. His long strides required me to skip a few steps to keep up.

I hadn’t taken more than a few curious glances at the clubhouse in my trips to the garage. The building had always loomed, dangerous, shadowed by the surrounding trees. But as we got closer, details jumped out.

The wood siding was stained a brown so dark it was nearly black. It had grayed in some places where the sun had faded the boards. The charcoal tin roof had a few droplets of dew that hadn’t burned off yet. A spider’s web grew in one corner under the eaves, thankfully far away from the door.

There weren’t many windows, only two on the building’s face. They’d always been dark when I’d come here and now I saw why. Behind the dirty glass, there were plywood boards. The green stamp from the lumberyard showing in a few places.

Dash marched up the two wide steps to the concrete platform that ran the entire length of the building. It was shaded by a small overhang of the roof. He fished out his keys from his jeans pocket and we all crowded at his back as he unlocked the padlock on the door.

The smell of must and stale air wafted outside, followed by the lingering scent of booze, smoke and sweat. I gagged. Desperate for information, I shoved it aside and stepped inside behind Dash.

We’d walked into a large, open room. Draven pushed past us, flipping on a row of florescent lights before disappearing down a hallway to the left.

On my right was a long bar. The dusty shelves behind it were empty. The mirror behind the shelves was cracked in a few places. There were some tin beer signs and an old neon light. Only one stool was tucked under the bar. On my left, there was a pool table, the cues hung on a wall rack. Two flags were pinned behind the table: an American flag and the Montana state flag.