Cold Case Affair

Not after last night.

She needed to stay away from him.

Her best option was to talk directly to the Safe Harbor police. She’d go to the station later today, right after she met with Rick Frankl, the editor of Safe Harbor Publishing. She’d already left a message at Rick’s office for him to call her to set up an appointment. But first she wanted to look inside Gus’s laptop.

Muirinn set her mug down, seated herself at Gus’s rustic wood table and powered up the computer. Immediately, a message box flashed up onto the screen asking for a password.

She tried several possibilities, including O’Donnell family names, and the name of the cat.

Nothing worked.

The only way she was going to access this laptop was with the aid of a computer tech who could circumvent the password protection. She also needed a tech to help reconnect the hard drive up in the attic office. Perhaps Rick Frankl could recommend one.

Muirinn reached instead for the brown envelope and slid the black-and-white crime scene photos out. She spread them over the table. Most of the images she recognized from the book her grandfather had written years ago on the Tolkin massacre. But there were a few other images she didn’t think she’d seen before. She picked one up—a shot of bootprints in shiny black mud, a ruler positioned alongside the impressions.

Muirinn flipped it over, read the notation on the back. Missing Photo #3. Bomber tracks.

She frowned. Quickly, she flipped over the rest of the photographs she didn’t recognize, laying them all facedown on the table. On the back of each one was a similar set of notations, all with the word Missing scrawled in her grandfather’s bold hand.

What did this mean?

Surely her grandfather had given up trying to actually solve the Tolkin murders? Unless … she stared at the images strewn all over the table. Unless there was new evidence.

No. It wasn’t possible.

Was it?

She turned the images faceup again, selected a photo of a mining headframe—a rusted A-shaped metal skeleton that loomed over a small boarded-up shack. She flipped it over, read the back: Missing photo #8. Sodwana headframe. Bomber used as entry to mine?

She’d never heard any theory about the bomber using the Sodwana headframe to gain access to the mine. As far as she could recall, the old Sodwana shaft was literally miles from the actual underground blast location near D-shaft. FBI investigators had always surmised that the bomber had been someone working inside the mine that day, someone who’d crossed the picket line with her father.

Muirinn realized that she didn’t even know which shaft Gus had been found in. Had it been Sodwana?

She shot another look at Jett’s deck, inhaling deeply. He would know … but before she could articulate another thought, the phone rang.

Muirinn jumped at the sudden shrill noise, then, clearing her throat, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Muirinn? This is Rick Frankl, returning your call. Welcome to Safe Harbor—I’d love to meet with you sometime today.”

Smoothing her hand over her hair, Muirinn glanced up at the wall clock. She was nervous about meeting Rick and taking over a small business she knew little about. “How are you fixed for time this afternoon, Rick?”

“Around noon would be perfect.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Looking forward to it—we all are. And I can’t begin to tell you how sorry we are for your loss, Muirinn. Gus was our cornerstone here. We all miss him.”

She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. “Thank you, Rick.”

“His office is ready and waiting for you. We’ve left everything as it was, apart from some cleaning after the break-in—”

“Break-in?” Her hand tightened on the receiver. “When?”

“Two nights ago. Someone managed to disable the alarm system and come in via his office window.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“Nothing that we can ascertain. Gus’s desk drawers were ransacked and his computer was turned on, but that was it. We did file a report with the police, of course. Apparently there’s not much more they can do in a case like this. The cop who responded said it was probably just vandals.”

Muirinn shot another glance at the laptop, the photos spread out over the table. “Which cop?”

“Officer Ted Gage.”

After finalizing the details of the meeting, Muirinn slowly replaced the handset, a coolness cloaking her skin. Both Gus’s offices ransacked? This was more than coincidence.

And why hadn’t Officer Gage mentioned this to her last night?

Muirinn quickly gathered up the photos and slid them back into the envelope. To be safe, she unlocked a drawer hidden in the side of Gus’s thick, handcrafted table.

She placed both the envelope and the laptop into it, but as she was about to shut and lock the drawer, she caught sight of a small bottle of pills in the drawer.

She picked up container and read the label. Digoxin.

Gus’s heart medication.

Closing her fist around the bottle, holding it tight against her chest, Muirinn walked back to the window, eyes hot with emotion. Her grandfather had never mentioned his heart condition to her. But while that hurt, it wasn’t surprising. Gus had routinely refused to acknowledge his encroaching age or ill health, and he used to drink all sorts of herb teas to ward off the inevitable.

Comfrey had been his favorite—knitbone tea, he’d called it. “To knit them old bones.”

Her chest tightened at the memory of his words, and she swiped away an errant tear.

Gus had always said crying was a useless waste of time. If something worried you, you went out and fixed it. And that was exactly what she had to do now. She needed to get to the bottom of these break-ins. And she needed to know why Gus had been looking into the Tolkin Mine murders again.

Collecting herself, she locked the drawer, slipped the key and the pills into her purse, and glanced into the hall mirror. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she scooped up the keys to Gus’s Dodge truck.

She’d go into town, meet with Rick at the paper, and then head over to the police department.

Because now she really wanted some answers.

The truck wouldn’t start.

Muirinn turned the ignition again, and it just clicked. The oil light on the dash glowed red.

Damn.

Muirinn climbed out of the cab, hoisted up her skirt and got onto hands and knees to look underneath the vehicle. Sure enough, there in the gravel was a big, dark pool of glistening liquid.

Stretching to reach under the truck, she tapped her finger lightly into the puddle so she could smell what it was.