Don't Look

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Because he was convinced I was being hunted by a serial killer.”

  Kir sucked in a sharp breath. “Why didn’t you call and let me know he’d contacted you?”

  She waved her hand in an apologetic gesture. “To be honest, I didn’t pay any attention to his warning. He’d called the office when I was in the middle of delivering a litter of pups, demanding to speak to me. When I got on the phone his words were slurred, as if he’d been drinking, and he just kept saying over and over I was going to be murdered. When I pressed him for details, he said that he had been getting letters from some mysterious lunatic who was intending to kill the women of Pike. I honestly thought he was confusing the plot of a movie he was watching with real life.” She glanced toward the empty chair in the corner, her expression one of regret. “After work I ran by his house and he didn’t even remember calling me. I just dismissed it. I’m sorry.”

  He moved forward, grabbing her hand to give it a small squeeze. “Don’t apologize, Lynne. I’m just on edge. And trust me, you weren’t the only one to dismiss my father’s ravings. The sheriff did. I did. . . .” His voice broke and he was forced to clear the lump from his throat. “Or at least, I assumed that if he truly was getting letters, they must be from someone who was trying to screw with him. What else could we think when there were never any bodies?”

  “Until now.”

  He started to nod, then he released his breath with a low hiss. “Christ,” he muttered, hurrying across the room and into the old-fashioned kitchen.

  It was a boxy space with old wooden cabinets and a white sink that was chipped and rusting where the water had leaked for years. The fridge hummed with a sound that warned it was on its last legs, and the oven was coated in grease.

  He’d tried to keep his stuff contained here and in his old bedroom, so nothing got lost among the stacks of boxes he was filling with his father’s belongings.

  “Now what?” Lynne followed behind him, her expression puzzled as he reached for the wrinkled piece of paper he’d tossed on the worn dining table.

  He turned the paper so she could see the letters scribbled on the front. “I was given this by Ron Bradshaw.”

  She stepped closer, studying the initials. “What is it?”

  It was a question that had plagued him since Bradshaw had shoved it in his hand. Last night he’d sat at the table, eating his solitary meal and trying to puzzle out what the letters could mean. They were written in the form of initials. S.H. R.D. Did they refer to names? Places? Or nonsense from a delusional man on the edge of death?

  All he’d gotten for his efforts was a headache.

  “I have no idea, but my father left it with the preacher to give to me after his death,” he told Lynne.

  “It looks like initials.” She guessed the obvious.

  He pointed a finger at the bottom letters. “Here.”

  “D.R.L.G.” she read out loud. Then she lifted her head to meet his steady gaze. “Does it mean something to you?”

  “Dr. Lynne Gale.”

  * * *

  Lynne made a sound as if she’d taken a blow to the stomach.

  In fact, it felt like she’d been punched.

  She’d come to this house because she’d remembered the strange phone call from Rudolf. And she honestly had been worried about Kir after he’d charged out of her clinic. But now that he was implying that those were her initials on some sort of weird list he’d been given, she found herself eager to dismiss his suggestion.

  “That’s a stretch,” she argued. “It could mean anything.”

  “The only way to know for certain is to find those letters.”

  She bit back her protest and squared her shoulders. He was right. She hadn’t known Rudolf as well as her father. The two old men had been friends for fifty years. But she’d often stopped by to check on Rudolf ’s dog, knowing that the poor man was going to be devastated when the old hound finally died. And each time she rang the doorbell, she never knew which Rudolf would answer.

  The funny, self-deprecating man with a razor-sharp memory who loved to chat. Or the bleary-eyed, drunkenly muddled man who barely recognized her.

  One thing was for certain. He’d never lied to her. He might have been confused, or mistaken, but he never lied. So, assuming he hadn’t been delusional, then some nutjob had sent him letters that had terrified him enough to call her. Which meant he would have kept them. They had to be somewhere. “Where have you searched?”

  “Dad’s bedroom, and I just finished his office,” he told her.

  “Does he have a safety-deposit box at the bank?”

  He shook his head, even as he abruptly turned toward the narrow door across the room. “He has a safe,” he said, opening the door. “Follow me.”

  “Where are you going?” Lynne asked as he disappeared from view.

  “The cellar. There’s an old safe down here where dad used to keep his gun locked. I think there were some personal papers in there as well,” he called out.

  Lynne passed by the fridge that vibrated with enough force to make the floor shake and headed down the narrow flight of stairs to the basement. The smell of damp hit her before she reached the bottom and she hesitated on the last step.

  She hated creepy, enclosed spaces. “Is there a light?”

  “Yeah, hold on.”

  There was the sound of a click and a barren bulb in the center of the ceiling glowed to life, revealing the damp, musty space. There wasn’t much to see. A washer and dryer along one stone wall, a hot water heater, a bookcase with well-used paperback books. And in the very center of the dirt floor was a three-foot safe.

  “Shit.” Kir’s gaze was locked on the safe’s door, which was wide open. “Someone was in here.”

  “Are you sure?” Lynne forced herself to follow Kir as he surged forward. “Maybe your father lost the key.”

  Kneeling down, he grabbed the crowbar that had been left beside the safe. “He would have had a new one made. He wouldn’t have had the strength to use this.”

  That was true. In the past few years Rudolf had lost enough weight to make him appear gaunt. It was doubtful he could have wedged open a steel door. Even with a crowbar.

  “Do you know what was in there?”

  “Most of his important documents I took to Boston with me,” Kir told her in absent tones. “I was afraid they might get lost. But his gun is gone, along with the bullets.”

  He knelt down, pulling out the only object left in the safe. A large shoebox. Flicking off the lid, Kir peered inside.

  Lynne could tell by his disappointed expression that the letters weren’t there. “Empty?”

  “Yep.” He dropped the box and straightened. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lynne didn’t argue. She desperately wanted out of the dismal cellar. How could anyone breathe in the dark, cramped space?

  Once back in the kitchen, Lynne sucked in the relatively fresh air and studied Kir’s tense expression. “Do you think someone broke in after your father died?”

  His nod was jerky. “I do.”

  “For the gun?”

  “I think the gun was taken to cover up the truth of what the thief really wanted,” he said. “The letters.”

  His face had paled, the blue of his eyes darkened with worry. She understood. It was one thing to talk about Rudolf receiving letters from a mystery person, but now they had a dead woman, and someone willing to break into Rudolf ’s home and destroy his safe.

  “Why risk stealing them?” she asked.

  “Fingerprints. DNA.” A grim smile twisted his lips. “Proof my father wasn’t crazy.”

  She reached to touch his arm, her heart melting with sympathy. Kir had just buried his father, but for the past eighteen years he’d been mourning the loss of the man he’d once loved. She couldn’t even imagine how hard it had been to live in this house, watching Rudolf fade from a respected sheriff to the town drunk. “No one thought that, Kir.”

  He didn’t argue, instead he covered
her hand and squeezed her fingers in a tight grip. “What if he was right, Lynne?”

  “About a killer in Pike?”

  “Yes.”

  Her mouth suddenly felt dry. “There haven’t been any murders. Not until today.”

  “Maybe the killer was hunting in other towns and the bodies haven’t been found. Or maybe . . .”

  “Or maybe what?

  He scrubbed his face with his hands and Lynne was suddenly aware of the weariness that was etched into his face.

  “Maybe something just triggered him. I don’t know.” He reached for his coat. “I’m probably overreacting, but I didn’t listen when my dad was alive. The least I can do is attempt and figure out what he was trying to tell me from the grave.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He tugged on his jacket, the air of weariness replaced by a ruthless determination. “I’m going to take a drive.”

  “To where?”

  He headed out of the kitchen. “To the place they found the woman.”

  She hesitated. She should return to the clinic. Although both of her interns had recently graduated from veterinary school and were perfectly capable of dealing with the daily routine, she preferred to be close by in case they had questions. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

  Not only was she even more worried about Kir than before, but she also wanted the same answers that he did.

  Who killed Sherry Higgins? And did it have anything to do with the letters Rudolf might or might not have received? Why had Rudolf given Pastor Ron the strange list of initials? And why not send it directly to Kir if he wanted his son to have it?

  This all might be a wild-goose chase. As Kir had said, they could be overreacting to events that had simple explanations. But until she was sure, she wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.

  She marched into the living room, grabbing her coat to bundle it around her. Next was her stocking cap and gloves.

  “I’m going with you,” she announced.

  “Lynne.”

  She ignored his exasperated expression. He was obviously like her—used to doing everything himself. For now he was going to have to get used to having a partner.

  “The farm belongs to Raymond Warren,” she told him, moving to shove her feet into her boots. “He’ll shoot you if you drive onto his property without an invitation. Especially now that the sheriff and gawkers are no doubt tramping around the place.”

  Kir furrowed his brow, as if scouring his memory to place the name. “Old man Warren?” he at last demanded.

  She nodded. “I make regular visits to check on his livestock, so he’ll recognize my truck. That should give us time to talk to him before he starts shooting.”

  “I remember him.” Kir shuddered. “He threatened to chop me into little pieces and use me as fertilizer when he caught me stealing apples from his orchard. He scared the shit out of me.” He zipped up his coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. “Yeah. Maybe you should go. I’d hate to end up in his wood chipper.”

  Lynne stilled, studying him with a sudden fascination. She’d already accepted that she was physically attracted to this man. You’d have to be dead not to find Kir insanely sexy. And at the funeral, she’d sensed he’d achieved a maturity that had been profoundly lacking when he’d walked away from Pike. But his easy acceptance of her suggestion touched a raw place deep inside her.

  Probably because her last boyfriend, Nash Cordon, had been an egotistical jerk. He’d accused her of being a control freak who emotionally castrated him. Whatever the hell that meant.

  “I like that,” she said.

  He arched a brow. “What?”

  “A man who can admit he might need a woman’s help.”

  He smiled, moving to tuck one of her stray curls beneath the knit stocking cap. “My career as a jack-of-all-trades has taught me the wisdom of bringing in an expert when I need one. And you, Dr. Lynne Gale, are an expert with the good citizens of Pike.” His fingertips lightly trailed down her cheek. “Perhaps I’ll display my own expertise later.”

  Chapter 4

  The drive to Raymond Warren’s farm was only three miles outside of town, but it took twenty minutes to navigate the icy roads. Eventually they turned onto a snow-packed drive winding toward the double-story white house and sprawling complex of paddocks and outbuildings.

  Lynne had confidently pulled her battered truck to a halt in front of a red-painted barn, smiling when the man who was as broad as he was tall stepped into view. He was wearing a thick layer of coveralls with a flapped hat covering his head, but the ruddy face was scrunched into a scowl and there was a very large shotgun gripped in his gloved hand.

  Kir had inwardly congratulated himself on his astute decision to allow Lynne to drive. He hadn’t been teasing when he’d told her he had learned to seek the knowledge of others. His business thrived because he offered top-notch services for a competitive price. And that meant handing off duties to those better suited to perform a certain task.

  If he’d pulled up in his own vehicle, he was fairly sure he’d be at the wrong end of that shotgun.

  Instead the man had greeted Lynne with an unmistakable warmth, and while he’d sent Kir a suspicious glance, he hadn’t threatened to chop off any parts of his body. Progress. The farmer had even given in to her request to see the scene of the crime, leading them around the barn and to the top of a low hill.

  Kir was instantly struck by the peaceful beauty of the view. Blindingly white snow coated the rolling fields in a thick blanket, dramatically framed by the distant tree line. Here and there a fence row poked through, coated with ice and glittering in the late afternoon sun that peeked through the heavy gray clouds.

  It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting. Until his gaze landed on the spot where Raymond Warren was pointing. There was nothing peaceful about that corner of the field.

  The snow had been trampled by vehicles and footprints until the frozen ground beneath had been churned to the surface. And worse, in the very center, the snow had been dug away to leave a barren patch. He assumed that was where Sherry Higgins’s dead body had been. And that the sheriff had taken everything, including the ground, in case it might have evidence.

  It left behind a gaping scar.

  “Right there,” the man was saying, his voice harsh. “I couldn’t believe it. I was headed to the barn when I saw the red ribbon flapping in the wind. I didn’t know it was attached to a dead woman till I got close.”

  Kir could imagine how easy it would be to spot the crimson ribbon against the backdrop of white. Was that why the killer had put it on the body? Or had the woman already been wearing it? “Do you have any security on the property?” he asked.

  The farmer sent him a narrow-eyed glare. “This is all the security I need.” He waved the gun as if Kir had somehow overlooked the three-foot weapon.

  Kir refused to be intimidated. He wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy who could be run off with a threat. “Did you notice anything unusual this morning?”

  “Besides the dead woman?”

  “Yeah, besides the dead woman.”

  “Nope.”

  Kir glanced around. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Hell, he wasn’t even sure why he was there. But he could almost feel his father urging him to continue the search. It was going to haunt him until he did everything in his power to discover whether or not there was a serial killer in Pike.

  “There weren’t any tracks in the field?” he finally asked.

  “To be honest, I didn’t pay any attention,” the older man admitted. “I was too busy trying to keep down my breakfast.”

  Frustration bubbled though Kir, but before he could say something stupid and get himself shot, Lynne stepped between the two men.

  “What about Rusty?”

  Raymond looked confused. “What about him?”

  “Did you hear him barking?”

  The farmer paused, pondering the question. “We put him inside at night wh
en it’s this cold, but if someone had pulled into our drive, he would have let us know.”

  That meant they had to come from the opposite side of the field, Kir silently concluded. He turned, studying the thick woods. It would be the most secluded way to this area. Did whoever dumped the body know there was a dog here who barked at passing cars? Or had they just wanted to avoid the house?

  “I’m sorry this happened to you, Raymond,” Lynne murmured. “Did you know the poor woman?”

  “It looked like Sherry Higgins,” Raymond muttered, his ruddy face tightening at the horrifying memory. “Fraser’s daughter.”

  Lynne offered a sympathetic frown. “I’ve seen her around town, but I didn’t really know her.”

  “She took over Fraser’s trailer park after he died,” the older man explained. “She kept to herself most of the time, but I’m not sure she was well liked by her tenants. She kicked my nephew out of his trailer last year after he lost his job at the glove factory. And he wasn’t the only one.”

  Kir was instantly reminded of the dude from the news who’d interrupted his lunch with Lynne. Perkins? Parker? Anyway, he’d mentioned that Sherry Higgins hadn’t been the most beloved member of the small community. Perhaps her killing was nothing more than retribution from an angry tenant.

  “Do you have any names?” he demanded. “I’d like to talk to them.”

  Kir swallowed a curse as Raymond stiffened at his abrupt demand. He’d been in Boston too long.

  “I need to get back to my chores,” the older man muttered.

  “Thanks for visiting with us, Raymond.” Lynne tried to smooth over the man’s ruffled feathers.

  Raymond grunted, but before he walked away, he glanced toward Kir. “Sorry about your father, Jansen,” he said without warning. “He once spent an entire night helping me search for a missing calf. It must have been twenty below, but he never gave up. He was a good man.” There was a short pause. “A good sheriff.”

  The gruff words meant more to Kir than any flowery speech. “He was.”

  With another grunt, Raymond stomped toward his nearby barn, entering through the back door.

  “Now what?” Lynne asked.