“I think you’re right,” Gavin reported, his nostrils smoking nervously as he peered through the camera he’d brought. “The tall one keeps pointing at the wood grain and the short one is ignoring him.”
“Riveting,” Didi murmured.
Twenty minutes passed. Then forty. The Marchefords continued woodworking. A woman who I assumed was also a Marcheford appeared briefly, handed them both mugs, and disappeared into a back room.
My earpiece crackled.
“Base to Field Team, do you copy?” Nigel’s voice was hushed, like he was conducting espionage from the depths of his closet. Which he was.
“We copy, Nigel,” I said.
“I’ve been monitoring local network activity in the area and I’ve detected something unusual.”
I sat up straighter.
Didi’s expression sharpened. “What kind of unusual?”
“Someone on Oakvale Lane is streaming an abnormal amount of data.” The boogeyman paused. “Oh. Wait. It appears to be a competitive woodworking show. Season four.”
Didi dropped her head on the steering wheel and muttered something unsavory under her breath.
“Thanks, Nigel,” I murmured. “Keep monitoring.”
“Copy that.”
Another twenty minutes crawled by.
Bo shifted and began breathing heavily into the back of my neck.
“It will be lunchtime soon,” the Husky observed morosely.
I was beginning to question every life choice that had led me to sitting in a parked car watching strangers sand wood while my dog pretended to be wasting away when my wolf stirred.
Didi stiffened. “We have movement.”
The workshop door had opened. The stocky Marcheford emerged carrying a stack of flat cardboard boxes. Behind him, the taller one was maneuvering the large wooden chest through the doorway with visible effort.
The woman reappeared, luggingseveral bulging bags. Something brightly colored poked out of the top of one.
My shoulders knotted.
“Are those—” Gavin started.
“Streamers,” Didi confirmed quietly.
A fourth Marcheford materialized from inside. He was younger than the others and was carrying what looked like a rolled-up banner under one arm and a cardboard box under the other.
I could smell sausage rolls from a distance.
They loaded everything into a battered white van parked alongside the workshop. The stocky one slammed the rear doors shut and climbed into the driver’s seat. The other three piled in after him.
The van’s engine coughed twice before turning over.
Gavin’s nostrils sparked. “Are we following them?”
Didi started the car. “We’re following them.”
The Marchefords drove like people who were in no particular hurry and had no idea they were being tailed. Which either meant they were innocent or very good at pretending to be.
