At the Edge of the Woods by Victoria Houston

Author:Victoria Houston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Sixteen

Lew was still talking to Dani as she climbed into the passenger seat of Osborne’s Subaru and watched as he poured her a mug of hot coffee from his thermos. The second she was off her phone, there was a knocking on her window. She turned to see three faces staring at her.

Recognizing the three pickleball players who had driven up right behind her earlier, she lowered the window to let them know she had no official news yet. But she hadn’t even opened her mouth when the man standing closest to the window said, “Sheriff Ferris, we’re pretty sure we know who shot poor Robin—”

The man was so tense, his shoulders were shaking. He wasn’t alone in his anxiety. The two people with him were so wired they gave the impression of jumping up and down.

“Okay, okay, settle down. I’m getting out of the car to talk to you guys,” said Lew as she set her coffee mug into the cupholder and opened the car door.

“Yeah, he was so mad he was spitting,” said a woman who had elbowed her way in front of the man with the vibrating shoulders.

“And you are?” asked Lew, interrupting her.

“Rosie Heston. I’m Clyde Moore’s partner.” She pointed at the man who had knocked on the window. “We’re the number-two team behind Bert and Robin. Well, we were, and this is Terry Craft. He’s going to, oh, he was going to play Bert’s position, but …”

“I see. Now what’s this about someone spitting? And, people, I only have a minute or two. I have to rush some evidence to my office. So I’m sorry, but you have to talk fast.”

“Let me,” said Clyde, pushing his partner out of the way. “See, Bert bought this place last spring so we’d have a good hiding place to practice. At the time, that A-frame next door was still under construction. Idiot didn’t move in until August, and then he started bugging us.

“Now, we like to practice at six thirty in the morning, ’cause I still work full-time. So that jerk moves into his new place and starts coming over to holler that the sound of our balls was waking him up. He must have shouted at us to stop playing, what”—Clyde looked at his friends for their opinions—“maybe six or seven times?”

“At least. Maybe more,” said Rosie, so upset she was continuing to bounce on her toes.

“This last time—the day before Bert was shot—that guy was over here like Rumpelstiltskin, jumping up and down, he was so angry with us. He bothered us so much that morning we couldn’t play. We quit early.”

“I kid you not,” said Rosie. “He marched up to me and shouted right in my face, spit at me. Literally. I’m not making that up. I had to wipe his spit off my cheek.”

“And who is this man?” asked Lew.

“Larry. Larry Weston, and he lives right there.” All three pointed to a brand-new A-frame style house farther down the dirt road and about two hundred yards from the entrance to the boys’ camp.

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