Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(54)

“Yeah. When we let him go, I stashed it in the drawer, along with his sat phone. I meant to get it to the locker that night. Then he came back to town, banging on doors, and I got busy hunting him. Yesterday, I took the gun and the phone and put them into the locker. Which means, not only did I leave a gun out to be used in a crime, but I fucked up your scene by moving it.”

“I forgot all about the gun myself. As for messing up the scene, your prints were already on the gun. You just added more, and you aren’t a suspect anyway. Did you notice anything when you opened the drawer? Was the position changed?”

“The other day, I was just concerned with getting it out of sight. I didn’t pay attention to how I put it into the drawer.”

“So who knows it was in our house? Me, you . . . Oh, and Diana. Did you tell anyone else?”

He shakes his head. “I mentioned it to Will, when I took it to the locker, but that was after the shooting.”

“So only Diana knew. She has a solid alibi. She was with Kenny and April in the clinic. She must have told someone the gun was there.” I snap my book shut. “There. I have a lead.”

When I get up, Dalton says, “You might want to dress first. Not that anyone would object to you walking around like that, but it’s a little nippy out.”

“Ha ha. I’m not that distracted.”

As I head for the stairs, he says, “You want this coffee I’m making? I’d insist on breakfast too, but I know that’d be pushing it.”

I pause. “Actually, now that I have a lead—and it’s not going anywhere—yes, I’ll take the coffee and the breakfast.” I walk back over, eying him, still stretched out by the fire. “Anything else on offer?”

“You’re heading on this investigation. I play support staff. So just tell me what you need.”

I grin. And then I do.





TWENTY-TWO

I’m on the case forty minutes later. I may have a lead, but it’s not like I’m going to fritter my afternoon away, however much fun the frittering might be. I leave the house, rested, caffeinated, fed, and back on my game.

Diana works as a seamstress. Down south, she held a string of marketing jobs, the sort that come with interchangeable titles. There isn’t much use for that here, so like many people, she’s fallen back on hobby interests. She’s always had an eye for fashion and used to make some of her own clothes. Up here, being able to repair or resize clothing is a valuable skill.

I find Diana working at home, sitting on her apartment balcony, sewing in the sunshine.

“I need to speak to you,” I say as I climb the stairs.

“Nice to see you, too, Casey. Keeping busy, I see.”

“You know what the great thing is about knowing a person for fifteen years, Di? Getting to skip the small talk when I am keeping busy. Like investigating a murder.”

She nods and fold the jeans she’d been hemming. “You’re right. Sorry. I just keep hoping we’ll reach the point where you come over for something other than work.”

“The way I see it, you’re lucky I don’t send Eric to interview you instead.”

“That would require delegating. Not happening. Pull up a chair.”

“Better if we take this inside.”

She nods, gathers her sewing, and we go in. Diana’s apartment is even smaller than Paul’s. It’s basic accommodations, where people have a choice between sharing a larger space or taking a bachelor apartment, which is the size of a hotel room with a kitchenette.

“Park yourself on the bed or the sofa,” she says. “They’re in the same room anyway.”

“Hey, you always wanted to move to Vancouver. Think of this as practice for micro apartments.”

She snorts. “No kidding, huh.”

I could also say it’s far more comfortable lodgings than the jail cell she’d have gotten if she hadn’t ended up in Rockton. But that’d take us places I don’t want to go with this conversation.

Contrary to her snark, there’s more than a sofa and a bed. I lower myself into an armchair, and she perches on the sofa . . . which to be fair, is really more of a love seat.

“Mark Garcia was shot with his own gun,” I say.

“He . . . shot himself?”

“Eric took his weapon, remember?”

“Please tell me this story ends with our sheriff being the one who shot the marshal, and sadly, Eric will now be forced into exile, and you’ll take over.”

I just look at her.

She sighs and leans back. “Okay, I’m being bitchy. You’re fond of the guy, and you don’t need the extra work of being sheriff. It wasn’t Eric who shot him, was it?”

“No, I was with Eric—and Garcia—at the time.”

“Wait. So you’re the sheriff’s only alibi? This seems highly suspicious. I think we should investigate.”

“I’m glad you find the situation amusing, Diana, but since I know you’re not actually accusing Eric, I’d suggest you might want to take this a whole lot more seriously. Someone used Garcia’s gun to shoot him. Three people knew we had that gun in our house. You, me and Eric. Since Eric and I alibi ourselves out . . .”

She straightens. “What? Are you suggesting I shot him?”