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She dropped the painting on the floor. “You really think the sheriff’s department is going to come out here and fingerprint over what amounts to a bad paint job?”
“When we tell them what was painted, they will. They’re investigating this fire as arson. They’ll be interested.”
She flicked her fingers at the painting. “What do you think it means? Who is it that won’t let this case die?”
“Maybe it’s a warning to do just that—let it die. There’s been a lot of attention focused on the case these past few months. The kidnapper or kidnappers were never caught and the children never found—dead or alive. This spotlight on the case must be making someone nervous.”
“I get that, but why me? I haven’t opened an investigation into the Timberline Trio. And what does it all have to do with Rusty?”
“Or my brother.”
“So you don’t believe he’s here looking at your dad’s bikes?”
“Too coincidental—him, Rusty, Chewy. What are they all doing here at the same time?”
“A biker reunion ?”
“Right.” He put his hand on the small of her back and steered her out of the studio. “Let’s go outside and call the police to report this.”
A deputy came out faster than Scarlett expected but found only one set of prints on the paint and the frame, which had to be hers.
The deputy took it more seriously because of the fire, but he didn’t know what to make of it any more than she and Jim did. He took pictures and notes, but there wasn’t much else he could do.
When he left, Scarlett collapsed in a chair and crossed her arms behind her head. “I don’t get it. What do I have to do with the Timberline Trio? I was just a kid when it happened.”
“Have you ever questioned your granny or any of the elders about why they wouldn’t discuss the case?”
“They shut me down every time I tried.”
He nodded toward the studio. “Maybe it’s time to try again now that you’re involved.”
“I never did drop off that yarn I picked up for Granny.” She pushed out of the chair. “How about it? Feel like a trip to the reservation?”
“Don’t think I’m welcome.”
“The Quileute had an issue with your dad and Dax, never you.”
“Guilt by association.”
“Well, you’ll be with me.”
Jim glanced at his watch. “What time are we taking this field trip?”
“Do you mind?”
“No. I want to know as much as you do, but I want to talk to Dax, too.”
“Do you think you can get him to admit what he’s really doing here?”
“Nobody can get Dax to do anything he doesn’t want to do—the only one who could was the old man and he used threats of violence.”
“Okay, you talk to Dax.” She held up her dead cell phone. “I’m going to charge up my phone and call a few landscapers. I’m also going to buy a landline phone and hook up my service.”
“Good idea.” He hesitated by the front door. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, my cabin is fully visible from the road now.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Scarlett.” He raised his hand and slipped out the door.
* * *
WHEN JIM PULLED up to his cabin, Dax looked up from tinkering with a motorcycle and wiped his hands on a rag hanging over the handlebars of the bike.
Jim parked his Harley and joined his brother. “You need any help?”
“You can hand me that wrench by your right foot.”
Crouching down, Jim swept up the tool and handed it to Dax.
“Took you long enough to get back. Did you and that feisty chick finally get it on?” Dax loosened a spark plug with the wrench.
“No, and if we had, I wouldn’t be telling you about it. Someone broke into Scarlett’s place and defaced one of her paintings.”
“That sucks. You think it’s the same person who set the fire?” Dax squinted at the spark plug he was trying to remove.
“Probably. You know what the person put on her painting?”
“Something obscene?”
“Kind of. Someone painted three stick figures at the edge of a forest scene, holding hands.”
