A Hint of Murder by Karin Kaufman

Author:Karin Kaufman [Kaufman, Karin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Winter Tree Books
Published: 2024-04-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

I wanted to get home soon, in case Sinclair was good on his word and an officer showed up, but on the way, Angela and I made a quick stop at Fig’s to pick up coffee and scones and to update Gwen.

When I told Gwen I wasn’t going to search the Dickinson Funeral Home, she was in disbelief. It wasn’t like me, she said, and true, I was itching to go there, but that very itchiness, as well as Sinclair’s order, was why I was now refusing to continue.

I was putting an end to the Hint Writer’s game.

Something about it smelled to high heaven, and it wasn’t just the stink of playing at murder like it was a crossword puzzle. My gut was telling me that more was going on. But what, exactly?

Gwen’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Caramel macchiato, mocha latte, two scones. So where are you guys off to?”

“My house,” I replied, fishing around my mini-backpack for cash. “Angela brought her murder board.”

“Are you coming?” Angela asked, laying a bill on the counter.

“Sure, but not till after four. I’ll dig around today and let you know if I hear anything useful. Someone must know about Vin and Kristen.”

I grabbed my change and plunked it in a backpack pocket. “His murderer knew about them, but I wonder how many other people did.”

“If one person knew, ten did,” Gwen said. “This is a small town, and everyone knows everyone and their business.”

“That’s both a comfort and a horror,” Angela said, taking her coffee and scone bag.

We headed back to my Bronco. The sun was peeking through the clouds, and the asphalt on the square shone in the aftermath of the rain. The air smelled fresh, invigorating. That and a caramel macchiato were just what I needed.

The man or woman who wrote those notes knew I couldn’t refuse the challenge. So what was in it for him or her? Think, think.

“We’re back, sweet Stella,” Angela said as she climbed to her seat.

I started the engine. How did the Hint Writer benefit from the game? Because without a doubt, the writer would benefit—was already benefiting—from it. It had a purpose, and not an altruistic one.

Was the writer deriving pleasure from watching Angela and me race around Fairwood, tracking us as we tried to solve his absurd clues?

The idea gave me shivers. I pulled away from the curb.

Two seconds later I slammed on the brakes. “Angela, what if Vin put cameras in my house? Behind the books on my shelves or even in my bedroom? I didn’t look for a camera. Someone could be watching me.”

“We can be sure Vin isn’t,” she answered.

“He was working with the killer, and the killer is getting a kick out of us chasing our tails.”

Behind me, a car honked.

I waved in apology and started up again, driving for Evergreen Road.

“Kelsie, what if the police don’t find the next note? We’re trying to stop another murder.”

Vehemently, I shook my head. “We can’t stop it. No matter what we do, there’ll be another murder—or there won’t.

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