Lucky Break

There was no apparent recognition of Gabriel’s authority in his voice. Just a little uncertainty, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of his steps.

Gabriel inclined his head, and there was plenty of chastisement in his eyes.

“Well,” Tom said, looking at the rest of us, “glad to see you’re all in one piece. We saw the smoke, got the call when the fire department hauled out.”

Ethan didn’t pull his punch. “Considering the McKenzies attempted to burn us out, yes.”

Tom just stared at him. “Burn you out? The department didn’t say anything about arson.”

“They brought torches,” Ethan blandly said. “You may find Niall and Darla are surprised we’re alive.”

Tom blinked. “Niall and Darla? She’s just a wisp of a thing.”

“She’s strong enough,” Ethan assured him.

“They think I killed him,” Nessa said. “They learned I’d had divorce papers drafted, and she saw a fight Taran and I had at the college. She thinks I killed him in anger.”

Tom’s eyes darkened. “You were going to file for divorce?”

“We were working it out,” she said, and sounded as exhausted as I felt.

“What was the fight about?”

Nessa crossed her arms and looked away, the breeze ruffling her tousled hair. “We were supposed to go into town for a date night. He was at the library, lost track of time, and stood me up. I wasn’t happy about that, and I confronted him about it. It was not our proudest moment. He wasn’t perfect,” she said, pushing fresh tears from her cheeks. “But we were working on it.”

“And Darla saw the fight?” Tom asked.

“I suppose. She’s a student; I wasn’t exactly discreet.”

That explained part of what Darla had known, but not the rest of it. “How did she manage to get a copy of the divorce papers?”

Nessa looked at me, blinked. “What?”

Tom frowned. “She had a copy of the papers? I thought you said you didn’t file them.”

“I didn’t.” Realization apparently struck Nessa. She’d thought about Darla’s divorce revelation, but not how Darla had found out about it in the first place. “She had my copy—I remember seeing my name across the top. That copy came from my attorney.”

“Where was it?” I asked. “Your copy.”

“In my office.” Her expression changed, from grief to horror. “They were in my office. They were in my house.”

We looked back at it, the front door marked prophetically by a yellow X of police tape.

“No one was in the house today,” Tom said. “It’s been under guard. It would have been before the murder.”

Or, I grimly thought, during it.

“Why don’t we go inside and take a look?” Ethan suggested.

Tom pulled away the tape, crumpled it into a ball before pushing the door open.

“Ethan, Merit, Gabriel, Nessa,” Tom said, gesturing us inside. “Everyone else stay out here, please.”

No one objected to the instructions.

Considering the circumstances, I tried not to goggle as we walked inside but found it difficult. The house was enormous and opened into a gigantic living area with a kitchen and dining room along one side. The entire back half consisted of unshaded windows that overlooked the valley. The light was necessary for the palm tree that grew in the middle of the living room, set into the Spanish tile floor and surrounded by a small fountain of water.

Any blood that might have been spilled was gone, any sign of Taran’s death erased, except in Nessa’s mind. She stood silently, stoically, staring at a spot on the floor where she’d last seen her husband.

“I’m going to take Nessa into her office,” Tom quietly said. “We’ll start there. Why don’t you start in his office?” He gestured to the left.

The house might have been enormous, but the office was cramped, crowded, and utterly charming. To the left, a tall bookshelf, each shelf stacked with books, papers, tchotchkes. In front of it was a small desk, and on the right was a small and well-worn love seat of teal velvet that probably served as the site of afternoon naps.

Shifter or not, from the piles of paper, the assortment of globes, the collection of hats that hung on pegs on the wall, I figured Taran for the smart and quirky type. My bread and butter, at least before Ethan. I felt a pang of sympathy for his death, but pushed it down. The only way to help him now was to find the truth.

“Gentlemen,” I said, when I was sure my voice would be steady, “we’ve reached the office of an academician. You’re going to want to let me handle this.”

I could all but hear their eyes rolling behind me, but I ignored them, walked inside, and took a look around.

I started at the shelves. The books were primarily about exploration in the western and midwestern United States. A complete set of Lewis and Clark’s journals. A set of Prince Maximilian’s journals. Countless books of flora and fauna. Histories of mining in Colorado.

I moved to the desk, trying to ferret out his organizational system, finally realized each pile was a category. Papers that needed grading were in one pile, already graded papers in another. There was a stack of research on Arapaho settlements, another on the Mormon Trail. And a third of brittle and yellowed paper.

They were notes, each page dated at the top and scratched with “CM” at the bottom.

Christophe Marchand, I thought, blood beginning to race.