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“Oh.” Nikki understood.
Ashley wasn’t heading to the Cravenses’ cabin.
Her destination was beyond, past Bronco’s home, to the Marianne Inn, which abutted the Cravenses’ property on the river side of the road and where this road dead-ended. That had to be it!
But why?
Nikki didn’t slow or turn onto Settler’s Road for fear Ashley would notice headlights following her. Instead Nikki continued on the main road leading past the winery and the neighboring acres belonging to the Beaumont family. She crossed the bridge, then, on the other side, cut into a wide spot, the tires of her Honda slipping on the loose gravel as she cut a U-ey, turning back on her route and speeding over the bridge. On the far side, she cranked on the wheel and spun onto Settler’s Road. “What’re you doing, Ashley? Who are you meeting? Who, besides you, cares so much about Owen Duval’s suicide?”
Chewing on her lip, her mind filled with questions, Nikki hit the gas over a rise near the Cravenses’ cabin, then cut the headl
ights, using only her parking lights and the moon with its thin glow as her illumination. Scouring the area and squinting into the darkness, she searched for any sign that Ashley was ahead of her, but she saw no red glow of taillights winking through the trees.
Had she been mistaken?
Had Ashley figured out she had a tail and had turned onto this road only to turn around and head in another direction? Could Nikki have lost her already? “Damn,” she muttered as she passed by the spur to the Cravenses’ cabin and wondered how Bronco had been involved in all of this. What was it that had gotten him killed? Yes, he was a small-time crook, but had he been involved in something that would provoke murder? Nikki couldn’t help but think he was dead because he’d been at the Beaumont estate and discovered the bodies. Had he met anyone there? Witnessed something? Been somehow involved? She thought back to the dark afternoon with the grim discovery of the bodies and again conjured the image of the person at the helm of the boat that had been tucked beneath the weeping branches of the willow tree, a boat with the Marianne Inn’s distinct script on it.
Maybe tonight she’d finally get some answers.
Easing off the gas, she searched the darkness for a spot to ditch the car. No need to alert anyone that she was nearby. Her parking lights caught a glimmer of reflection. Eyes staring at her from behind a tree.
“Jesus.” She stood on the brakes, her heart nearly stopping.
The eyes blinked and then, in a flurry of fur and dark mask, the raccoon scrambled up the tree to a higher branch in the pine.
“Idiot,” she said, her pulse still pounding. “Get a grip, Gillette.” If she was going to follow Ashley, she had to be calmer, her nerves steady, because who knew what she was about to discover?
Spying a wide spot in the road, she followed twin ruts barely visible in the thick, dry weeds and rolled to a stop behind a thicket of saplings and brush and killed the engine, the sounds of the night enveloping her. A chorus of humming insects was punctuated with the throaty croak of a frog hidden deep in the surrounding woods. She decided to come clean and sent a quick text to Reed, so he wouldn’t worry:
Am out doing errands and research. Mikado and Jennings need to be fed. Back home soon. Love you!
Not a lie.
Not the truth.
Somewhere in between.
And she’d send him another missive once she knew what she was getting herself into.
Rather than turn the phone off, she put it into silent mode.
Maybe you should take a weapon.
People are dying, being murdered. Remember: someone broke into your house just the other night.
Quickly, she searched her car. No gun, of course. No hunting knife. Not even a damned screwdriver. Nothing that would help.
Think, Nikki, think. Find something. Anything!
Scrounging in the glove compartment beneath an owner’s manual and a wad of napkins, she located a church key bottle opener. “Great,” she muttered, pocketing it before spying a box cutter wedged near the small light in the compartment, one Reed had left there years before. Not perfect, but better than nothing. And she hoped she wouldn’t need it, prayed that she was overthinking the situation as she slid it into another pocket.
“Now or never,” she told herself, leaving the car and feeling that rush of adrenaline that always came with the feeling that she was getting close to the truth, the sense that she was about to cut through the lies, in this case, a web that had existed for over twenty years.
And Ashley Jefferson, Owen Duval’s alibi, was the key.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t know what’s going on. It could be perfectly innocent.
Yeah, right.
