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Instead, he said, “Me either. And I don’t like it.”
“You think someone was waiting to ambush me?”
“It’s possible. But then I showed up.”
She rubbed her arms.
Before they could talk more, Simmy approached them.
The woman was in her late thirties with wavy light-brown hair that flowed to her hips.
She didn’t own the place—Lloyd Krasnodar did. But she basically ran it and kept things afloat. She was always smiling, and her friendly demeanor offered a reprieve for many after being on the road for so long.
But right now, worry creased the sides of her eyes, and her normal cheeriness was dimmed.
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” she started.
Andi seemed to sense Simmy’s concern also as she turned toward the woman. “What’s going on? Who was the killer? I didn’t hear that part of Craig’s show. I ran off the road—”
“You ran off the road?” Simmy’s blue eyes widened. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll tell you about that in a minute.” Andi pulled her handknit hat off and grasped it. “Right now, I really need to know who killed Henrietta.”
“Wait . . . Henrietta Blanco? You’ve got to be kidding me! I want to know too!” Mariella stepped closer, her thick blonde hair swooshing over her shoulders. “I listened to her story on the plane ride here. I need to know who killed her!”
Duke’s back muscles tightened. Who were they talking about? And why did they sound so lighthearted while talking about murder?
He shifted. “Who killed who?”
They didn’t seem to hear him.
“I don’t know.” The rest of Simmy’s usual cheeriness disappeared. “We were so close to finding answers . . .”
“The killer . . . he’s close enough to touch,” Mariella added. “That’s what Craig said.”
Irritation pinched Duke’s spine. “Could someone please fill me in?”
Simmy glanced at him. “Craig Rogers’ podcast cut out and never came back on the air. He was supposed to reveal Henrietta Blanco’s killer today.”
Podcast, Duke mused. Ofcourse. He should have known. On more than one occasion, he’d stopped by the trading post and caught Simmy listening to it. He’d been drawn in himself a few times. True crime was fascinating.
Until it happened to you.
His gut twisted as an image of Celeste filled his mind.
In fact, after listening to one of those podcasts, Duke had contacted Craig and told him about the missing women of Dalton Highway.
Duke was an investigator himself. But he needed more manpower. The search area was massive. The case needed more attention.
Some of the women were indigenous people. Some were wanderers without strong social connections. One was a prostitute. None of them apparently warranted much media attention—not even Celeste, a traveling nurse.
Craig had promised to look into the story and had said they’d talk later.
For now, Duke set those thoughts aside.
Because something in the Arctic Circle seemed to be going haywire . . . next thing he knew the permafrost would be melting.
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