“I’m not using it,” Betty said. “We just use it around the farm, and the snow tires are new. We insist.”
Laurel smiled. “Thank you. That solves a lot of problems for me.”
“Including having to be around Huck Rivers,” Blake said grimly.
The back door opened, and Uncle Carl walked inside, then carefully toed off his snow boots in the alcove.
“Carl,” Deidre said, smiling and moving toward him. “You remembered family dinner.”
He shuffled his feet. “I found time.” Then he looked up and smiled at Laurel. “Welcome home.” He clasped his hands together as he hovered in the doorway. “I didn’t kill those women.”
“I know.” Laurel gestured to one of the free chairs. This uncle wasn’t a hugger. “Come sit. We’re just getting ready to eat.”
Carl made his way around the table to take one of the six chairs. “Thank you for the invitation,” he said, remembering his manners.
“You’re always welcome,” Deidre replied, bringing over another place setting. The table fit six easily. “You know that, and I’m glad to see you away from the Dairy Dumplin’ for a night. You can’t eat their burgers every day, Carl. You’re getting older and should watch your cholesterol.”
“I like the Dairy Dumplin’. They’ve got salads, too.” Carl brushed his grayish black hair away from his hard-boned face. Like his siblings, he was tall at six foot six and had green eyes. He spent most of his time alone but made an effort with family. He’d been briefly married, and as far as Laurel knew, he’d never really dated anybody after the marriage had ended. A snowmobile accident had left him with a long scar that cut across the right side of his mouth and up to his hairline, the skin on either side puckered and his lips misshapen. “It smells good in here,” he said.
Everyone sat, and Deidre started dishing the casserole. “How is your case going, Laurel?”
Laurel pushed the image of dead blondes out of her mind. “It’s slow right now.”
Blake dug into the chicken the second his plate landed in front of him.
Betty shook her head and forced salad onto his plate, narrowly avoiding his already moving fork. “The entire town is abuzz about the murders.” While Deidre stayed remote with her teas and home-centered business, Betty kept a finger on the pulse in town at all times. “The town sheriff was at Schmitt’s Deli this morning saying that the killer has to be a local who knows the area.”
Carl groaned. “I didn’t kill anybody. Even if the murderer is a local, it ain’t me.”
Laurel paused with her fork almost to her mouth. “The local sheriff? We haven’t even seen a sheriff. Who is it these days?” She hadn’t paid attention the last couple of times she’d been home.
Betty took a bite of mashed potatoes. “Sheriff Upton York. He moved here about five years ago from South Carolina and ran for sheriff. From the sound of it the other day, he’s front and center with the investigation.”
Laurel frowned. “I haven’t even met the guy.”
“He’s a blowhard,” Carl said after chewing thoroughly.
Laurel swung her head to her uncle. She’d planned to wait until after dinner to speak with him, but this was an opening. “Why did the sheriff call you in for questioning?”
Carl shrugged a thick shoulder. He’d dressed in a good red flannel shirt and Carhart jeans for the family dinner. “I got a couple of tickets last year.”
“Four tickets,” Deidre corrected. “For parking in a new unloading zone in front of the post office.”
“It wasn’t an unloading zone last year. They can’t just change it,” Carl muttered.
Diedre looked at her older brother. “Yes, they can. Didn’t the sheriff also bug you while you were fishing up the river last summer?”
Laurel picked onions out of her salad and dug into the watercress. “North of town?” Iceberg River flowed through the mountains behind Huck’s cabin. “At the base of Snowblood Peak?”
“Yeah. There’s good rainbow trout there,” Carl said, taking a drink of the white wine in front of him. “The sheriff accused me of littering, which I did not do. I would not litter.”
Laurel ate more chicken, her brain jumping into her investigation. “Have you ever seen anything suspicious around that area? The river parking area also serves the UTV trail up to the peak as well as all of the walking trails around the base of the mountains.”
“No,” Carl said. “I usually go at dawn and don’t see many other people. When I fish, I like to be alone.”
“You always like to be alone,” Blake said to his older brother, sounding accepting of that fact. “Not that I blame you. How is your job going, anyway?”
Carl finished off his glass of wine. “It was a busy summer at the cemetery. I dug a lot of graves.” Carl had worked at digging graves most of his life. “Not sure if I’ll dig any for the bodies Laurel found.”
