Chapter Thirty-Three

SATURDAY

"Will you getme the white pepper?" Tom asked.

"Why white pepper?"

"Madison worries when she sees dark specks in her scrambled eggs that it's bugs. Tamantha tried to talk her out of it, talking about when I make bacon then use the same pan to make the eggs how there're bits of bacon in the eggs and they're a different color and it's delicious—"

"It is."

His breakfasts were actually worth getting up for. Even ones that came after a night of giggle-interrupted sleep.

"Madison was having none of it. So I bought white pepper. She thinks it's salt and is happy."

"You're a good man, Tom Burrell." I turned back to the cabinet. His spices sat on a plastic gizmo shaped like bleachers, so each row stood higher than the one in front, making them all visible... in contrast to the hodgepodge in the town house. I wondered if that drove Tom nuts. It drove me nuts sometimes and I wasn't nearly as neat as he was.

I spotted the white pepper, snagged it, and handed it to him over his shoulder, then reached for the cabinet door to close it.

I should get one of these bleacher things or a lazy Susan like Keefe had.

The memory of his lazy Susan of spices turning — well, lazily — flashed into my mental vision. The names of the spices on the tins and bottles going past slowly, then stopping.

"Nutmeg," I said aloud.

"You've never said you like nutmeg on eggs," Tom said from a distance. "Don't think it will work for Madison, different color, still too bug-like. Happy to try it another time."

"No. Not on eggs. Though according to Diana, you can use it in practically anything."

He turned, spatula in hand. "Like what?"

"Chili and tacos — that's what really got me. But she also said potatoes, meat dishes, and..." I scoured my memory. "Sauces. Like creamy ones for pasta."

"Interesting."

"Okay, Chef Tom, but that wasn't the point. I was thinking nutmeg being in Keefe's kitchen cabinet."

"It's not salt and pepper, but it's not so exotic I can't imagine him having it. Sort of thing you buy and keep forever. Ulla could have bought it, for that matter."

"He had four tins of nutmeg. I could see an ordinary person having two — you're not sure you have it for a specific recipe so you grab it to avoid another trip to the supermarket. But he had four."

"Four nutmegs?" Tom repeated.

"And at least two were new." I squinted into my memory. "Or newish."

He turned back to the eggs. "I take it we're going to Keefe's place after breakfast."

I'd come back to the present enough to hear the faint grin in his voice, envision the deepening of the lines around his eyes.

"Darn right we are. Or I am—"

"Not alone. Not where somebody was murdered."

We'd talk about that later. "—right after we eat those delicious eggs and all the pounds of bacon you made and deliver the girls to Madison's parents."

****

Two of thecontainers from Keefe's kitchen cabinet held only nutmeg. Both of the newer ones. That was either smart of him — the new tins were certainly the ones that seemed more likely hiding places to me and the ones I checked first — or he had nothing hidden here.

Tom picked up one of the older, worn tins. "Hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

He held the tin up to the light from the window. "Looks like..."

He poked at the tin.

"Looks like what?" He was driving me nuts.

He didn't answer. Instead, he took out his pocket knife, deliberately and delicately pressed the tip along the raised rim all around the bottom of the tin.

"Tom—"

"Be patient."

Before I could protest that patient was already in my rear-view mirror, the bottom of the tin dropped into his palm.

"There's something in the tin. Your fingers will fit better—"

He didn't need to finish the invitation. While he held the small tin by its sides, I slid a finger in, caught a fold of plastic wrap with my nail and drew it down until I could secure it with my thumb. A shower of nutmeg dust fell. Keefe must have covered this with nutmeg so that from the top it looked like another spice tin.

Tom pulled off a length of paper towel with one hand, then set the tin and its separated bottom on it. I set what I'd pulled out onto another section.

I peered at it. "Looks like paper wrapped in plastic wrap."

I opened a drawer and took out two forks.

"And thoroughly dusted with nutmeg. Elizabeth — what are you doing?"

"Opening the plastic wrap."

"If you disturb fingerprints—"

"Shelton will have my head on a pike. That's why I'm using the forks. Besides, my fingerprints are already on it from finding it."

"Wayne's not going to see it that way," he said dryly.

I was aware of him watching over my shoulder as I tried to manipulate the clingy plastic wrap with the tines of the fork. It was like trying to use chopsticks with boxing gloves. I kept at it, seeking a spot with just a tiny gap of space to get the tip of the tine into.

"Hey, Shelton and his minions had their chance. It was sitting here all the time. The first time they searched and the second — after he knew about the DNA test. He can't complain about us finding it after he had two chances."

"Yes, he can. And will. This isn't a game, where you get a turn after—"

The cabin door opened around the corner, followed by the sound of a dog padding in.

"Tom Burrell, is that you?" Brenda Mankin called.

Of course she knew his truck.

I scrambled to wrap our find in the paper towel, securing the two pieces of the tin at the same time. Whatever prying progress I'd made was lost, but they were out of sight and Tom had the other tins restored to the lazy Susan and the cabinet door closed before Brenda came around the corner.

She stopped short.

"Oh, it is you." That was directed at me.

"Hey, Brenda," he said easily.

"Hey, Tom." Her gaze stuck to me. "What are you doing here again? You were just here yesterday."

Sliding our find into my coat pocket brought my hand in contact with my phone and now I pulled it out — leaving the rest in the depths. "My editor insisted I get interior shots of Keefe's home for the piece. Lets people identify with him. We've got the kitchen, but I'd like to take shots of the fireplace area. It's too bad there's no fire."

"I thought Diana did that yesterday."

"I know," I said with emphasis, as if she'd not only pinpointed the issue, but empathized with me over the poor judgment of the mythical editor in sending me to get visuals. "But with the crime scene tape just coming down and other assignments and deadlines coming up and—" I flapped one hand at the totality of all the circumstances conspiring to bring me to this moment in this place.

I moved past her, focusing my phone's camera on the fireplace and tapping as I headed into the bedroom-turned-office. "I want to get the bookcase, too."

On its top shelf, in front of yet another stack of folders, it held a photo taken in front of the kitchen building with Wendy's uncle and Keefe's mother standing with Brenda, Wendy, Keefe in front of them. Brenda and Wendy were in their early twenties. Keefe was a mid-teenager. It was unframed, but appeared to be bonded to a stiff cardboard that held it upright.

I took several pictures of that from various angles.

Brenda trailed in behind me. Tom remained by the fireplace. I doubt he could have fit in this room with us comfortably.

My actions drew Brenda's attention to the photo, as I'd hoped. Even better, it seemed to draw her closer and closer. I took several more shots of her looking at the photo — never touching it — without her showing awareness of having her picture taken.

I tracked Tom moving around near the fireplace, and thought I heard clicks of his phone camera, too. It was really sweet of him to add to the cover story, though it didn't make sense that he'd take photos for my mythical editor.

Several more photos, with me moving around the small space as if I could outdo Diana with a few clicks on my phone.

Although a couple shots of Suzie Q, lying on the hearthrug, head on paws, staring dolefully straight ahead might capture the essence of the mood. If the technology kept it in focus, because I sure didn't.

"That should cover it," I said brightly.

Brenda blinked and turned from her extended consideration of that decades old photo.

"Okay," she said. "Let's go."

I'd hoped for another moment in the kitchen without an audience, but she made it clear she wasn't leaving first.

"Keefe would be rolling over in his grave — if they'd let us put him in his grave. All these people in and out of his cabin. Not you, Tom. I'm sure he'd be okay with you. But not that Randall Kenyon."

That hurt, being lumped with Randall.

"Don't care if Robin did give Keefe the computer and the DNA test. And I don't care what Wendy says about how she's told Randall no when he talks about buying Elk Rock. That man sure seems to think he's welcomed here any time he wants, anywhere he wants, acting all high and mighty and sweeping out and saying he was buying the place, when he was already acting like he owned it. C'mon out of here," she said to Suzie Q.

Brenda was past militant with evicting the dog.

Suzie Q whined without raising her head.

"Fine, stay here, then. But I don't have the time to come checking on you every two minutes." She followed us out and closed the door firmly.

Without a farewell, she went toward her cabin. But she watched until we drove away in Tom's truck.

"Poor Suzie Q," I said, feeling the lump safely in my pocket from the outside. I wasn't going to risk taking it out until we were where I could look it over carefully.

"Brenda will see to physical needs, no matter what she says, but Suzie Q was so much Keefe's dog, it's going to be tough for her. Here—" Steering one-handed on a road that would have taken both my hands — and possibly both feet on the brake — he pulled out a wad of paper towel from a pocket. "This might cheer you up."

He opened his fingers and the paper towel unfurled enough to show what it covered.

Tom had pocketed the other old tin that we hadn't had a chance to check yet.

I grinned at him.

"There's more," he mumbled, going one-handed into another pocket. Another paper towel covered a folded up sheet of paper. Even when the paper towel fell back, there was nothing on the paper to see. But this was the back of the paper and there certainly could be something on the other side. "It was behind the painting. We have to take all this to the sheriff's department."

"We will. As soon as we've had a chance to look at it in good light at the house. And take photos."

He groaned. "Wayne's going to have my head on a pike, too." But the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gave him away.

****

"Hurry up," Mikesaid.

"Be quiet. Or next time, we won't call you until it's all over."

"Next time?" Tom repeated bemusedly.

"You don't think there'll be a next time she finds documents hidden in nutmeg tins or you find something hidden behind a painting?" Diana asked. She'd dropped her Saturday chores to join us at my house.

"I'm afraid to think."

"Shh." I ordered them all.

Jennifer was the only one not harassing me as I used the fork trick again to tackle the paper Tom found first. It wasn't as tightly crumpled as the two from the nutmeg tins. It also wasn't wrapped in plastic, so I tried that first.

She was otherwise occupied with copies of the pictures Tom and I took today.

We would turn those in to Shelton. He'd huff and puff about deleting them from our phones.

If he wanted to get really picky, he could get tech types to track the copies we sent to Jennifer. But they'd never find what she did with them next.

Neither would I, for that matter. But I didn't need to as long as Jennifer could retrieve them.

I had the paper flat enough now, with the edges held down by knives, that we could all read it. Diana held my tablet over it for Jennifer and Mike.

It was a printout. Including the Keefer at the top and the name at the end.

In between, it said:

You can't just say it's over after all these years and expect me to accept it. I won't stand for it.

Wendy

Mike whistled.

"That's motive," Jennifer said.

"Could be."

Mike jumped on my words. "Only could be?"

Diana filled in my lack of answer. "How did you find it, Tom?"

"When Elizabeth and Brenda went into Keefe's office, I stopped by the fireplace. Looked over and saw something white."

"Behind the frame?" Jennifer asked.

"No frame," Diana and I said together.

We all looked at Tom.

"Sticking out past the edge of the painting. Reached behind it and the paper was tucked into the corner of the stretcher."

Diana and I looked at each other. She said, "I didn't see it, but it was dim in there. I'll check the footage."

"Send it to me," Jennifer ordered. "I have a way better program than KWMT does to enhance for low light."

"Good," I said, as Diana began that process. "And ditto on not seeing it, but not not seeing it either."

"Probably just the angle from where I stood," Tom said modestly.

"What about what was in the nutmeg tin?" Mike asked, trying to peer through the screen.

"Starting now."

I moved down the countertop to where we'd set one of the plastic-wrapped wads from the nutmeg tin. This was tighter and dirtier.

"How'd he get something in there?" Mike asked.

Tom said, "It's neatly cut around the bottom. Fits back together very snug. Like some can openers can do with cans. But I'd say this was done by hand. Had to be cut in exactly the right spot. There's a light glue, but that didn't do the main job of holding it together..."

I was aware of the others commenting on that and other topics, but all my concentration was on the wad in front of me. The plastic wrap raised the degree of difficulty considerably.

As it slowly revealed the paper, I muttered, "Looks like a journal or diary..."

At last, we had this one flattened — sort of — and held by more knives.

It wasn't nearly as easy to read as the printout, with the handwriting loopy and small. Diana used her phone camera to zoom in and add more light.

Jennifer typed in what we found as we deciphered it.

"Okay, here's what I have," she said as I sat up, arching my back against being scrunched over the sheet.

"It starts with the boring stuff about a recipe for scalloped potatoes—"

"With nutmeg," Diana inserted.

"—then it says, I probably told my boy too much today, with hints about his paternal line. That decision was made long ago for many reasons and with careful consideration for his well-being. It is a good decision. I know he is curious, but he doesn't need that to be happy. And my boy being happy is what matters most."

"This could refer to what Brenda said Keefe told her about what his mom said," Mike recapped. "You think he found it after she died? Maybe searching for any hint of his father's ancestors."

"And this was all he got," Jennifer said. "That's sad."

"I was remembering something Penny said and I thought it was about Keefe's mom, that she danced close to the edge and couldn't know he'd get so interested. I wonder if that's what this entry's about."

"Sounds a little like she's arguing with herself," Diana said.

All that was true. So was something else.

"One more wad to unwad." I moved down the counter to the last piece we'd found.