“Any chance you could stop in tomorrow night? Say around sevenish?”
Kinsley glanced in confusion at the console screen where Alex’s name was displayed, wondering why he was being so specific.
“Do you want to elaborate on that?”
“Mom is going out to dinner with Paul.”
“Paul?” The name registered, and Kinsley smiled for the first time in two days. “Paul, the plumber?”
“Maybe I should cancel my fishing trip.”
“Don’t you dare,” Kinsley said with a laugh. “And don’t worry. I’ll get all the details when I check in on her.”
Alex groaned in misery over the potential intimate revelations, but she didn’t give him a chance to deny her the opportunity.
“Enjoy your fishing trip, partner,” Kinsley called out as she rested her thumb on the button to disconnect the call. “Catch a big one for me.”
She pressed down and ended the conversation. For a long moment, she sat motionless, staring at the screen and contemplating whether to scroll to Shane’s contact information.
Would he answer if she called?
And if he did, what would she even say?
Their last conversation had ended with a boundary so clear it might as well have been carved in stone. Stay out of each other’s way. She let her hand drop to her lap.
Through the passenger side window, the grandeur of the Bell mansion was unmistakable despite obvious signs of neglect. Alex’s vacation had given her some breathing room, andinvestigating a cold case from the nineties gave her something to focus on besides the lengths someone had gone to in retrieving Gantz’s vehicle and body from Terrapin Lake.
She needed a distraction right now.
She needed a problem that belonged to someone else.
“No body, no crime,” Kinsley muttered, echoing Shane’s words from yesterday. The phrase that had given her freedom was more like a trap, a reminder that the absence of evidence didn’t mean the absence of guilt. “One minute at a time, Kin.”
The knot in her stomach tightened, and she closed her eyes. She drew a deep breath, held it for a count of four, and slowly released it.
Focus on the job.
One foot in front of the other.
Kinsley grabbed her keys, collected her phone from its holder, and left her leather shoulder bag on the passenger side floor. She’d only be a few minutes, and she didn’t plan on going inside the house. At least, not yet.
With one final deep breath, she tugged on the handle and stepped out of the Jeep. The morning’s humidity was worse than yesterday, the air thick and clinging, but she hadn’t worn a blazer. Instead, she’d opted for a short-sleeved white shirt long enough to tuck into a pair of black jeans. It was Friday, after all.
Three stories of Victorian opulence stretched skyward before her, the grand bay windows reflecting the morning sunlight. Upon closer inspection, their gleam was dulled by a fine layer of dust and neglect. Paint had begun to curl along the eaves, and the decorative trim beneath the roofline was losing its battle with weather and time. The house had the look of something that had once been beautiful and was now just doing its best to remember its glory days.
Kinsley slowed her stride on the flagstone path just inside the boundary of a low stone wall. The barrier was barely three feettall, but it circled the property with a stern formality that made clear where the Bell estate ended and the rest of the world began.
She lingered there, taking in the way the stone cut a clean line between the grounds and the neighboring properties. Unlike the other residences on the street, the Bells had opted for an air of affluence that set them apart. She wondered if their current, downsized home displayed the same kind of intentional grandeur.
“Detective Aspen?”
Kinsley continued up the thin path that wound through what had once been a meticulously manicured front yard. Now, overgrown hedges sprawled like wild tendrils, while dandelions and crabgrass had laid claim to the flower beds. The grass, however, had been cut to a reasonable height, which suggested the homeowners’ association had taken it upon themselves to handle at least that much of the upkeep.
“Yes,” Kinsley called out as she approached the front porch. “You must be Ken Pfeifer.”
The wraparound porch that embraced the front of the house had wide planks and elegant railings. The white paint was still intact, and the wood appeared to be in solid shape, which was more than could be said for the rest of the exterior. A man in stained jeans and a faded black t-shirt was leaning against one of the support columns. His skin was tanned the deep, uneven brown of someone who worked outdoors year-round, and he straightened as she reached the top step, extending a calloused hand.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the foreman for the foreclosure crew.”
