"I don't know," I said. "Just... we're going to see if we can find whoever is hurt, but please send a car out. An ambulance, too, please."

  "I'll get someone out there," the dispatcher assured me in a tone that didn't sound nearly as urgent as I would have liked.

  "Ready?" I asked Quinn.

  "I guess," she said, checking to be sure her gun was loaded. Together, we walked over to the blood smear.

  "It looks fresh," I said. "And as if whoever it was was headed around the side of the garage," I theorized, looking at the smear; it was in the shape of a handprint. It looked as if someone had grabbed the corner of the house--for support?--and then the hand had trailed off as they moved toward the back of the building.

  "There's another one there," Quinn said. Together we crept down the crushed granite path next to the garage; a young wood fern planted along the side of the building brushed my calf, and I jumped.

  "Easy, Tex," Quinn advised me from her position two steps behind me, curly red hair bright against her green bandana, patting the gun in her pocket.

  I peered around the corner, but there was no sign of whoever had left the blood. There was, however, a short staircase leading up to the second floor, presumably Arthur's apartment. What was going on here? Signs of some sort of upset in the house, then blood on the outside of the garage. Had Nigel been surprised, then rushed out and hid in the garage apartment?

  But there was no one else here. Had he hurt himself and gone to Priscilla's brother for help?

  "I'm going upstairs to knock," I told Quinn.

  "Are you sure?" she asked.

  "The police are on their way. If I can help someone in the meantime..."

  "Okay," she said. "But I've got your back."

  "Thanks," I said, smiling at her. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

  I had never been a huge fan of guns--I still didn't own one, despite my country life—but knowing Quinn was behind me, armed, made me much more relaxed about going up and knocking on the door of someone I'd only had about three conversations with. Who might be bleeding. Or dead.

  I took a deep breath and marched up the wood staircase. The door had a large glass window, covered by half-open blinds. It was dark inside; I knocked hard on the door. "Are you okay?" I called. "Hello?" I knocked again.

  Nothing.

  I glanced back to make sure Quinn was still there--she was, staring up at me, gun reassuringly visible in her right hand--and then cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass into the shadowy room.

  It was a kitchen; I could make out the refrigerator, a granite-topped island--also with a smear of blood on the corner, as if someone had gripped it--and, on the ground a few feet away, an outstretched hand. Attached to an arm. The rest of the body was hidden behind a sofa.

  "There's someone lying on the floor in there," I called down to Quinn, and tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door gave when I pushed it, and a moment later I was crouched down next to the bloody body of Nigel Melville.

  "Oh, no," I breathed. There was a wound on his head, and he had a black eye, as if he'd been punched.

  But he also had a jagged cut on his left wrist, and another, smaller one on his right.

  "I found him, Quinn!" I called, touching his neck. I could feel his pulse, but it was feathery, somehow. I cast my eyes around the room, a large open-plan living area with a gigantic television and a sectional, looking for something to use as a tourniquet.

  The only thing in the living area was a thick fleece blanket. I turned around... a dishtowel lay crumpled on the counter. I raced over, grabbed it, and tied it tight around the arm with the bigger wound, then started pulling open drawers until I found a second clean dishtowel. As I wrapped it around the other arm, Nigel’s eyelids fluttered. I reached for my phone and hit 9, and was about to dial the next two digits to tell the dispatcher we needed that ambulance NOW, or preferably five minutes ago, when Nigel, his face pale, made a croaking sound.

  "Stay with me," I said. "I called for an ambulance."

  He reached up and grabbed the arm with the phone. "Arthur," he wheezed.

  "What?"

  "Attacked... Arthur…"

  "You feel guilty for attacking Arthur?"

  He shook his head. "Priscilla," he said.

  "What about Priscilla?"

  "Arthur killed...” He gasped for air. "Killed Priscilla. Tried..."

  Before he could finish, his eyes grew big. "No..."

  "I'm here," I said, and was halfway through saying "It's okay," when something smacked my hand hard, sending my phone skittering across the floor.

  And then there was a second smack, one that knocked me onto my side. As my head bounced against the tasteful hardwood floor, the face of Arthur Graham came into focus somewhere above me.

  Things were definitely not okay. I was lying half-stunned next to a potentially dying man, staring into the angry eyes of his brother-in-law, who was holding a dirt-caked shovel in his hand. The shovel in his hand must have been the source of the smack, I thought. Then I thought of Quinn. Quinn! She would pop through that door, brandishing her gun, at any second. Or the police would arrive, and hopefully an ambulance with them.

  "What happened to Nigel?" I asked, feeling loopy, as if this were somehow a dream bubble that would pop when Quinn burst through the door, or, preferably, the police.

  "He was, uh, committing suicide."

  "Is that why he has a black eye? And why did you attack me just now?"

  "I thought... I thought you were trying to hurt him." His eyes darted around the room.

  "Hurt him? I just tourniqueted his arms." I reached for my phone, then realized it was over next to the refrigerator. "Did you call an ambulance when you found him?"

  "Did you?" he asked, too fast. Where was Quinn? I felt a cold tendril of fear unfurl in my stomach.

  "No," I lied. "I was about to when you interrupted me." I glanced over at the door again.

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  "I... I wanted to ask Nigel why he'd bought that gopher poison and poultry nipples. On Priscilla's card." Why was I telling him all this? How hard had Arthur hit me? "Why is Nigel cutting himself in your house? This is your house, right? Nigel told me."

  "I don't know," he said flatly.

  "Why aren't you calling the ambulance?" I asked.

  "Killer," came a dry, whispery voice from behind me. I turned my head to the other side. Nigel was staring at his brother-in-law with something like horror, his right eye red, the skin around it mottled and dark.

  And then it all came clear. The gopher bait in the shed. The locked door of the cabin. It had been Arthur all the time.

  "I came here thinking Nigel killed Priscilla. But it was you all along, wasn't it?"

  "You can't prove anything. Besides, she deserved what she got and more," he said.

  "And you set up Nigel to take the fall. What happened?" I asked slowly, sitting up and wondering where Quinn was. "Did he figure out what you'd done and threaten to go to the police? Did he catch you leaving one of those little doll babies around? Why did you do that, anyway?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't mess with no baby dolls. And he... he tried to do himself in."

  "In your house," I said. "After you... fought with him."

  "I... was trying to keep him from cutting himself. He came up here and started yelling, holding the knife..."

  "Where's the knife?" I asked, looking around. I hadn't seen one. "And why is there blood leading to your place, instead of away?"

  "I must have gotten some on me," he said. I looked; his forearms were smeared with red, and blood had gotten under his short fingernails, staining the tips rust-colored.

  "Why?" I asked. "Why kill her?"

  "I was sick of being a second-class citizen," he snarled. "A serf to her royalty. We were kin, and she and her family treated me like dirt."

  I'd heard a similar sentiment from Nigel, minus the kin part. Having a lot of money sure didn't seem to be too hot for relationships, I thought. At least not if you were as territorial about it as the Jordans had been.

  "But why now?" I asked.

  "She was going to change the will," he said. "Not that she gave me much to start with... a piddly allowance, as long as I kept the job at the museum. Nothing of my own, just an allowance and a place to live. But she went snooping, got into my shed..."

  "Your shed?" I asked.

  "I was starting my own business. And she was going to torch that."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Never you mind," he said. "Anyway, once that happened, she called me in and told me she'd decided to give everything--every last cent--to her good-for-nothing son and that stupid museum. And that she was going to evict me. Told me to clear out my shed and get off the property within the month." He shook his head. "I had to get her before she disinherited me."

  She already had disinherited him... and he still didn't know it. He'd killed her for nothing.

  And now he might be about to kill me and Nigel. "I'm so sorry," I said, trying to look sympathetic.

  "It's... it's just not fair," he said, and his face crumpled; for a moment, he looked like he must have looked as the 10-year-old Priscilla's parents had once adopted. "Daddy always said he'd take care of me just like his own. That I didn't need to worry. That if anything happened to me, he'd make sure Priscilla took care of me."

  "Only she didn't," I said.

  "No," he said. He swiped at his eyes, and I glanced over at my distant phone, and then the door. Where was Quinn? Why hadn't she done something when Arthur came up the stairs and into the apartment?

  "Why didn't you just kill her on the spot?" I asked, stalling for time.

  "If it looked like I killed her, then I wouldn't get a dime, and I'd spend all my time in jail. I thought they'd think Nigel did her in--that's why I used the tea bottle, and bought the poison with Priscilla's card, but they grabbed that Serafine Alexandre woman instead." He shook his head. "I knew the police were idiots, but man. They really can't tell their head from their... well, you know."

  "How did Nigel figure out you'd done it?"

  "He started asking questions," he said. "He knew Serafine hadn't done it--he had a horrible crush on her, you know."

  "I figured," I said.

  "So he was trying to figure out who had. At first he thought it was Alicia--she's been skimming off the top for a while at the museum, and was ready to spit nails when Priscilla told her she was shutting down that new exhibit. But he found out she left the museum and got herself quesadillas at Rosita's while Serafine was giving her workshop."

  "So it had to be you," I said.

  "He heard us arguin' about the will a few weeks back. Heard her tell me... tell me I wasn't a true Jordan. That if she left me any money, she knew I'd just drug or drink it all away, and that she was doin' me a favor by makin' sure I didn't rely on it." He snorted. "Like that woman did an honest day's work in her life. She always loved holding the strings. What's that sayin', about gold and rules?"

  "He who has the gold makes the rules?"

  "That's the one. Well, I wasn't going to let her take the family money and give it all to some museum and turn me out of our family home penniless. For all her talk of kin, and honoring kin, she sure didn't give a crap about me."

  "She gave you a job," I pointed out. "And a place to live."

  "Right. A pittance. You know she's worth like 50 million, right?"

  "I didn't know it was that much, no."

  "And all she can spare me is a crappy job as a groundskeeper, a few bucks for food, and a garage apartment. While I'm cleanin' public toilets, she's swannin' around town in diamonds and eatin' caviar. If I hadn’t taken care of her before she got that new will pushed through, I'd have ended up with nothing."

  Only because you let yourself be controlled by the promise of money, I thought to myself. If he'd chosen a different path, instead of waiting for a big chunk later on, he might have lived a free life... and a happy one.

  Where were those paramedics, anyway?

  And Quinn?

  "You're probably wondering what happened to your cute little friend with the bandana, aren't you?" he asked, as if reading my mind.

  "Quinn's here?" I asked, blinking as if it were a surprise.

  "I got her with my shovel before she could shoot me," he said. "I came up behind her; I'd gone out to the yard to figure out where to put him. Your friend sure is pretty, isn't she?" he said idly.

  "Is she okay?"

  "She's not dead," he said.

  "I lied about calling the authorities," I blurted. "The police are going to be here at any moment; I called when I saw the open door to the house and the blood. What did you do to her?"

  "She'll be just fine," he said, in a tone of voice that did not inspire confidence. "For now. As for the police, I'm not sure I believe you, but I'd better get you all squared away in case they do come. Why don't you stand up and come along now?"

  "I... I'm not sure I can stand right now," I lied. "You hit me pretty hard." That part, at least, was true.

  He raised the shovel again. "I have a feelin' you can figure it out. Now, get up."

  I stood up slowly, glancing down at Nigel and praying he was going to pull through. The bleeding had stopped, thanks to the tourniquets, but his breathing was so shallow it was almost imperceptible.

  "One more thing," I said. "Did you put that knife in my doorframe?"

  "Guilty as charged," he said. "You were pokin' around too much. If you hadn't come askin' Nigel all those stupid questions, he might not be lyin' here right now."

  I felt sick to my stomach; I'd been on the wrong path. Arthur was right; my questioning Nigel might have been what caused him to clash with Arthur... and end up here.

  "And that voodoo doll on my fence?" I asked.

  "Can't help you with that," he said. "Like I said, I don't do the doll thing. Never have. Someone else must not like you very much. Maybe Serafine."

  "So if you didn't leave that doll by the Warren house, who did?" I asked.

  "No idea," he shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Now, let's get goin'."

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Anywhere but here," he said. "Till I can figure out what to do with you."

  "And Quinn?"

  "Let me worry about your little friend, okay?" he said with a smile I didn't like one bit. "Now on your feet."

  As I stood up, I spotted a knife block on the counter by the sink. "Can I rinse off my hands first?"

  "No," he said. "Let's go."

  With Arthur behind me, shovel in hand, I managed to lever myself upright and walk to the door, mind racing as I tried to figure out what to do. I paused at the doorway and turned to him. "One thing's been bothering me. When did you slip Priscilla the poison?" I asked.

  "I wondered if you'd ask that. Well, I'd been holdin' onto a special bottle of Arizona Tea--Nigel's favorite-- just for my sweet sister, all day," he said proudly. "After Serafine started that beeswax class, Priss went to the office to visit the little girls' room and put the bottle on the desk. I doctored it while she was in there, then when she came out, I told her I wanted to show her somethin' down at the Warren house. Once I knew she was taken care of, I put the label in the tub and the bottle and receipt in the trash, figgerin' the sheriff would do a search, find it, and trace the poison to Nigel." He smirked. "Of course, they just arrested that Serafine woman instead, so you found it, not the police."

  "So she followed you down to the Warren house while the seminar was going on and you locked her in."

  "Bingo," he said. "I even borrowed some of his clothes, dressed up to look like him."

  "Then why did you put the poison in the shed?"

  "That was a mistake, now that I think of it," he said. "It seemed like the right place to put it, so it would be found. But Nigel wouldn't even know where to find a garden shed, much less use what was in it. I should have left it in his house. But no matter... it's all taken care of, even if it didn't quite go to plan. But enough about me... let's get you down there," he said, jerking his chin toward the door.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "You'll find out soon enough," he said. "Now, move." He came close enough to me I could smell the onion on his breath. I walked toward the door I had come through such a short time ago. It felt like hours, but I knew it had only been a few minutes. I glanced back at Nigel; he was still breathing, but he desperately needed help. I hoped the police and EMS would be here soon.

  I stepped through the door. Sure enough, at the base of the steps, Quinn's body lay sprawled on the ground. I hurried down the steps and squatted next to her. Where was the gun?

  Arthur stopped me with a curt "Up!" He was behind me again, practically breathing down my neck. "Stay right there," he said. As I watched, he walked over to the garage and opened the back door, eyes never leaving me. Then he nodded me in. "Go get the wheelbarrow," he said.

  The wheelbarrow? I walked into the garage and found a yellow wheelbarrow, scarred with use, up against the back wall. It barely made it through the door; once I maneuvered it outside, he directed me to stop it next to Quinn.

  "Grab her legs," he said, and I did. Still holding the shovel in one hand, he grabbed one of her arms, and together we levered her into the wheelbarrow. Her head clonked against the side of the wheelbarrow, and she made a small noise; I hoped we hadn't injured her further. I glanced down at the ground. The gun had fallen out of her pocket and was under a bush.

  "Let's go," Arthur said.

  "Oh, I... I’m sorry… my head…" I raised a hand to my temple and stepped backward, then pretended to stumble. I fell down heavily next to the bush. Arthur rounded the wheelbarrow, shovel raised above his head, but it was too late.

  I had Quinn's gun in my hand, trained at his head. And in the distance, the wail of a siren sounded.

  17

  The dispatcher had delivered, it turned out, and sent both EMS and Deputy Garcia to the Jordan homestead.

  "Are you okay, ma'am?" the deputy, who arrived first, asked after my hollering directed him to the corner behind the garage and he had taken Arthur into custody.

 

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