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“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.
