Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(55)

“Look at that,” she said, pointing over the roofline of the house. Joe turned in his chair to follow her gesture.

Blue and pink northern lights shimmered and pulsated across the big sky. This was a rare occurrence in Wyoming, but not unprecedented.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “The sky is on fire.”

“From both directions,” Joe said. “Wigwags to the east and northern lights at the same time. It’s like living on the Vegas Strip.”

She sat in the chair Sheridan had left.

“They’re having so much fun in there I don’t want to break it up,” she said.

“Why break things up at all?”

“Do you think it’s safe for everyone to stay here tonight?” she asked. “That intruder spooked me. There was a reason he came to our house. I just don’t know what it was.”

“I’m ready for him next time,” Joe said, patting the receiver of his shotgun.

“I think I’d rather have everyone here under our roof than scattered in the wind where we can’t keep an eye on them,” she said.

“I agree.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” she said. “When you were in Lola’s trailer, did you see the tote bag full of books I brought her from the library? I left it on the floor on the side of her couch.”

Joe looked over, not understanding.

“It had our logo on the outside. It’s like the ones I always bring home.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing it.”

“Do you think you could go back there and look? I see that they’re still investigating Lola’s place.”

Instead, Joe called Gary Norwood’s cell phone. Norwood sounded weary and out of sorts.

“Gary, are you still at the scene?”

“I am, but I’m about to put a lid on it for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow. Joe, I left a half-eaten turkey leg on my plate for this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It isn’t your fault—but try telling Tibbs that.”

“Did you determine what killed her?” Joe asked.

“Not definitively, but, like I said, it wasn’t a gunshot wound. I’d describe the injury as almost like a very large ice pick. It must have been sharpened and delivered with a lot of force because it really penetrated her skull. My guess is she died instantly, which is probably the only good thing about this situation.”

“Does the sheriff have any leads?” Joe asked.

“Other than your mystery SUV, I don’t think so,” Norwood said. “Whoever did it got in through the floor. And he either wore gloves or cleaned up—just like the scene at Kizer’s. Like Bert’s place, there’s no sign of forced entry. I haven’t found anything of note yet, and as far as I know there aren’t any suspects.”

Joe noticed that Marybeth had leaned closer to him so she could overhear Norwood.

“I’ve got a quick question for you and then I’ll let you go,” Joe said. “Do you see a Twelve Sleep County Library tote bag anywhere inside the trailer? Filled with . . .”

“Romance novels,” Marybeth whispered.

“. . . Romance novels,” Joe said.

“Just a sec,” Norwood said. Joe could hear him place his phone down on a hard surface. He came back a minute later.

“Nope. No bag full of books. Why?”

“Marybeth was wondering about it. She dropped the bag off for Lola yesterday.”

“Well, it isn’t here now.”

“Thank you, Gary. Now go eat that turkey leg. And Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too, Joe. And my best to your family.”

Joe disconnected the call and lowered the phone to his lap.

“You heard,” he said.

“It’s interesting. That means either she got rid of the books—which doesn’t sound like Lola—or somebody took them.”

“Who would take romance novels?” Joe asked. “Who would even want them?”

“That isn’t necessary,” Marybeth admonished him. Like a true librarian.

“Sorry.”

The missing book bag obviously took her aback. She paused, deep in thought. While her mind worked, her eyes sparkled. Joe loved to watch her puzzle things out in real time. He found it wildly attractive. And he knew better than to interrupt her.

“Give me your phone,” she said.

He handed it over. She called up the photo app and scrolled through the Kizer crime scene in reverse chronological order. She grimaced in anticipation when she viewed the shots of the interior, not knowing when images of the burned body would begin. He intended to warn her when she got close.

But she didn’t get that far.

“Here,” she said, jabbing at the screen with the tip of her fingernail with a click. “Do you see this long-billed cap on his table? And the jacket hung over the back of the kitchen chair?”

She turned the phone to Joe and he looked at it. It had appeared to him at the time that the items were haphazardly placed there, as if Bert had entered his home and tossed his cap on the table and draped his coat over the chair.

“Okay,” Joe said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a long-billed fishing cap with black under the brim. The black helps with the sun’s reflection off the water. Some guides really like ’em.”