Entitled to Kill Read online

  “Notice her. I bought one of her pieces. Plan on hanging it in the—” She stopped short and looked at Dad before looking back at me with a big smile. “In the house.”

  I smiled back and tried to hold off asking any questions about that odd moment. The night was going well, and I loved that Mom had bought one of Henry’s pieces. My mom had always been a great supporter of the arts, but even more than that, she liked to support under-noticed artists. I did love that about her. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  “I’ll bring it when we come to pick you up for dinner tomorrow. Pick you – and you, too, Daniel – up at the shop at seven tomorrow?”

  Daniel gave me a glance, and after I nodded, he said, “Sounds great. See you then.”

  Mom and Dad stood, put on their coats and headed to the door, where she turned and looked back at me. “This was lovely, Harvey. Thank you for a relaxing, comfortable evening.”

  I smiled even as I braced for the lash that often came after my mother’s compliments, but she just turned and walked out the door on Dad’s arm.

  “You did it,” Daniel said as we watched their headlights move back up the drive. “She’s a feisty one, your mom, but I like her.”

  I gazed at this man in my life and felt almost overcome with gratitude. He saw me, saw how I reacted to my mom, respected that, and still knew I really wanted him to like her. I was a lucky woman.

  I was a lucky woman who needed to tell the sheriff about this mysterious “treasure” buried at Harris’s farm. But first, I needed more intel. Good thing my new assistant manager started the next morning.

  4

  The next morning, Marcus was, unsurprisingly, right on time, and it looked like his mom had taken him shopping. He was wearing crisp blue jeans, a carefully ironed blue button-down, and some very cool Air Jordans in a hot blue. “Looking fly,” I said tentatively when he came in behind me that morning.

  He snickered and said, “Two things, Ms. B. The word fly went out about ten years ago, and also, it’s not a good look on you.”

  “Noted,” I said with a laugh. I had this obsessive need to seem cool and hip, but I should have learned that my desire to seem cool and hip always had the opposite effect in that regard. “Don’t ask me about the time I tried out, ‘Let’s bounce!’ on my dad.”

  “You did not?”

  I gave him a quick nod before I headed to the café for the morning caffeine.

  A quick ring of the bell told me someone had come in, and when I walked back with two of Rocky’s largest cups, I saw Woody talking with Marcus by the register. “Hi Woody. What brings you in?”

  “Nothing much. Just here to congratulate Marcus on his first day.”

  I smiled. Woody had taken a liking to Marcus from the get-go, had even made it his mission to get Marcus into woodworking. I can’t say as the bookish young man I knew was much into whittling and lathes, but he was respectful and enjoyed spending time with Woody. So he took the lessons as the cost of making a new friend.

  “That’s nice of you, Woody. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Already had two cups. Can’t manage more than that, if you know what I mean.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but I thought I probably preferred it that way. “Got it. I have a question for you since you’re here.” I handed Marcus his coffee and leaned back against a stool. “You ever hear anything about Huckabee Harris’s farm? I mean about something valuable being out there?”

  “Nothing unusual that I can think of. Why do you ask?”

  I told him quickly about what Mom had overheard Pickle and Bear talking about. “So I was just wondering. Maybe that’s why he was killed?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t put too much credence in what Pickle and Bear say. Those boys fancy themselves venture capitalists. Always looking for the next get-rich-quick scheme. One time, they invested in a vineyard that they saw on the internet. Went around town bragging they were going to be the owners of a famous wine-making enterprise soon. Turned out, they’d bought into an illegal moonshine operation up in Cecil County. Had to do some fast talking with the sheriff to get out of that one. Those boys are very smart men, just not always wise with their cash, if you know what I mean.”

  With names like Pickle and Bear, I didn’t doubt it. “Still, makes me wonder.”

  Woody shot Marcus a glance. “She’s getting curious again, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe she is. I’d try to stop her, but I know there’s no use.”

  “None at all.” Woody gave me a sideways look. “What do you say I take you out to Harris’s place this afternoon? I need to pick up a few slabs of wood that he sold me a while back and never delivered. You can poke around, and I can keep you from getting into trouble.”

  Apparently, I had a reputation. “I’d love the escort, Woody. Marcus, you can hold down the fort after lunch, I expect?”

  “Sure thing, Ms. B.”

  And just like that, I was going on a treasure hunt, and I hadn’t even had to make up my own excuse to start it.

  Marcus and I spent the morning making sure he was up to speed on the management systems of the shop. He’d already done most everything, but now he had managerial access to the computers and needed to be taught how to read the reports and things. He caught on quickly, and while I’d had no doubt I’d made a good choice to hire him, I was especially pleased when he looked forlorn over the pick list, the sheet that I printed out each week that told us what books had been here for over a month without a single sale. I couldn’t afford to keep stock that wasn’t selling – it took up space that might actually go to a book that generated some revenue – and so the pick list was what we used to put together our returns to the publisher.

  “I hate returning books, Ms. B,” Marcus said as he looked at the list. “Someone worked really hard to write that book, and it just sucks that we have to send it back. They lose the money then, right?”

  I sighed. “They do. I hate it, too. But see this binder? I started it the first week the shop was open. It’s got a list of every book I’ve returned, and each week that I have a little extra revenue, I go back in and reorder one of those books. Get that author that sale again.”

  “Do any of them ever sell the second time?”

  “A couple have because I work hard to display them well or recommend them to folks.”

  Marcus picked up the binder. “Mind if I take this to lunch with me? I’d like to study up so I can read these titles and recommend them to people.”

  I smiled. This guy’s heart and endless reading appetite gave me joy. “Feel free.”

  Marcus headed out the door, the orange binder tucked under his arm, and I spent the next hour tidying the shelves and pondering a new window display of “Second Chance Books” compiled from the pick list. I’d have to get Marcus to recommend his favorites, and maybe we could get some of those works of art into homes.

  Woody arrived right at one, just as Marcus came in from lunch. My assistant manager assured me that he was all set with the store and that he’d text if he needed me, and I left, feeling carefree and eager to explore with Woody. Plus, it was an amazing spring day, and I hadn’t had much more than an afternoon here and there off since the shop opened. It felt good to get out into the world for a bit.

  I hadn’t paid much attention to Woody’s vehicle (Daniel was very precise with his language about, um, vehicles: “Not everything is a car, Harvey.”) before, but somehow it fit perfectly that he drove a beat-up pick-up with a tailgate whose paint didn’t match the rest of the car. It wasn’t a honking monstrosity of a truck either, which I appreciated since I didn’t fancy using a trampoline to get into the passenger’s seat.

  As I climbed in, I saw a wide-ranging assortment of ratchet straps and bungee cords mixed in with what appeared to be fifteen years’ worth of Styrofoam coffee cups and plastic bags behind the seat. I was hoping the jack and lug wrench weren’t buried in there because from the looks of the truck, it could be that we might
need to change a tire . . . or two.

  Woody and I made small talk on the way over. I caught him up on how business was going, and he told me about the new piece he was working on – a slab of maple that he was fashioning into a large table. “It could be for a really big dining room or for some corporate board room. All I’m saying is that this isn’t your ‘I work a normal job’ type of table.”

  I laughed. “So you don’t think it would work at my house? That’s what you’re telling me.”

  Woody gave me a sideways grin. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, dear. Exactly.”

  When we pulled up to a large black gate, I turned to Woody in confusion. “Are you stopping to drop off that table?”

  “Nope. This is Huckabee Harris’s place. Plenty snazzy for a farmer, huh?”

  “I’ll say.” I mean, I don’t know that much about farms, but I didn’t expect an electronic gate surrounded by landscaping that was, obviously, tended by gardeners what with the freshly mulched beds and the perfectly symmetrical tulip groupings.

  Woody leaned over and spoke into an intercom. Then, the gate – as if by magic – swung open to let us in.

  “Aren’t you just the powerful one?”

  “If you count being able to repair your hand-crafted bannister before someone breaks their neck, then yes, I am powerful.” He grinned. “Actually, I just know the caretaker, Homer Sloan. He’s a friend.”

  I nodded and took in the view of the pristine white farmhouse with its four brick chimneys and half a dozen outbuildings set in front of a vast pasture dotted with black and white cows. As we approached the house, I got a glimpse into the red barn, which was loaded full of green tractors and implements. I had no idea what those big machines cost, but I bet it was more than my car, maybe my car and my house put together. Harris must have done alright for himself as a farmer.

  On the front porch, a slim man with a long, dark beard waited for us. We climbed out and met him on the steps. “Homer, this is Harvey. Harvey, Homer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harvey,” he said as he gave my hand a hearty handshake. “Woody here tells me you’ve heard the rumors of treasure, too.”

  I shrugged. “The rumor did reach me, but I’m not really interested in finding it – unless there’s a sizeable finder’s fee, of course. Then, I’m all in.”

  Homer threw back his head and laughed. “Woody said you were a witty girl, and he’s right.” He looked out over the lawn in front of the house. “Well, if you’re not here for the treasure, how can I help you?”

  “Just came to get that wood Huck had for me. Mind if I grab it from the barn while you two get to know each other?” Woody shot me a quick wink.

  “No problem at all. It’s in that little garage over there by my truck. Need a hand lifting it?”

  “Nope. I’ll use this as my excuse for a nap later.” He climbed back in among the coffee cups and drove the couple hundred feet to the one-stall garage that looked like it might have once held a wagon.

  Homer smiled at me. “You just fancied a day out in the country?”

  I laughed. “I do appreciate the farmland out here, but I did actually have a couple of questions about that supposed treasure.” He gave me a puzzled look, and I explained about Pickle and Bear’s theory.

  “Those two wouldn’t know a treasure if it shined itself up and put itself in their wallets.” He gestured toward the barn and started walking. Woody pulled up beside us, shut off the truck, and joined us.

  As we strolled down the gravel lane, Homer said, “Somewhere back in the day, somebody started a rumor about Confederate gold hidden here in the barn.”

  Woody groaned. “If the Confederates had actually had all the gold people claimed was hidden under floorboards and in attics, they’d have been able to buy the Federal government right out from under Lincoln’s rear.”

  “Sure glad they didn’t.” Homer said with a heavy tone. “But you’re right. Most old places in the South have some rumor of Confederate gold attached to them. But that’s all they are: rumors. I’ve cleaned out every building on this place, pulled up most of the floor boards to fix pipes, too. There’s no hidden gold here.”

  I let my eyes take in the size and beauty of the dairy barn. A two-story structure with wide doors on a center aisle and what looked to be a hayloft above. I could see how it might seem reasonable that things were stashed in all these outbuildings, but if Homer had gone through them and not found anything, and if that was common knowledge, as Homer seemed to imply it was, then Pickle and Bear couldn’t have been thinking they’d strike it rich from some sort of trove of gold bars. “Alright, then, could they have been thinking of some other kind of treasure? Maybe some family jewels or something buried in the fields?” I realized I was sounding a bit like an adventure novel, but something was telling me that this wasn’t some far-flung hope that was driving Pickle and Bear.

  “No family jewels except the, er, anatomical ones,” Homer gave me an awkward grin, but when I started to giggle, he let out a roar that startled the starlings out of the barn eaves. When he got his breath, he said, “I can’t think of anything that is hidden here. Obviously, Huck had some wealth, but that was no secret. He flaunted his cash with abandon, and anything he didn’t tote around for show was kept in a safe as big as your car that sits plain as day in his office. He wasn’t trying to hide some secret stash.”

  I looked around at the immaculate farmyard and poked my head into the barn door to see two of the largest tractors I’d ever seen, each with a cab that Homer told me had satellite radio and was climate-controlled. I could see what he meant about Harris not being afraid to flaunt his cash.

  I sighed as we walked back toward the house. Woody heard me and looked over. “Don’t worry, Harvey. Something will come clear eventually. Besides, it’s just as well. Daniel would rather you weren’t sleuthing around anyway.”

  I knew my, um, boyfriend didn’t like when I investigated, but curiosity always won with me. It was one of my biggest strengths and also a distinct character flaw.

  As we all leaned up against Woody’s truck, I asked the obvious question. “So Huckabee Harris made all this money from dairy cows?”

  Homer’s laugh could have cracked open the sky. “Oh no. No, no, no. This is oil money, Ms. Beckett. ‘Black gold. Texas T.’” He pointed across the pasture, and there, beyond the cattle, was an oil rig, its hammerhead top going up and down rhythmically.

  “He was mining oil? Does one mine oil? I mean, there’s oil here?”

  “Yep, a lot of it apparently. Huck drilled a water well once and came upon the stuff. Apparently, there’s a pretty big deposit here. So while he could, he bought up all the land around and started wells.”

  I looked hard at Woody and then at Homer, and they gazed back at me sweetly, but clearly without a clue. “Seriously, guys. Don’t you think this is what Pickle and Bear were talking about?”

  The men looked at each other and then shrugged almost in unison. “Could be, I guess. Just sounded like it was some kind of secret thing, the way you described it. Most everybody, I mean everybody who’s lived here for a little while,” Woody blushed, “knew about Huck’s wells. Pickle and Bear definitely knew. So that didn’t sound like what you were describing, Harvey. Now you think it is, though?”

  “From the looks of this place, I’d say there’s enough oil here to motivate the right person to murder, don’t you think?”

  “Probably so,” Homer said as he looked out across the fields. “But then, of course, that’s where Miranda would be the biggest hurdle. She’s the heir.”

  I walked around to the back of Woody’s truck, wrenched down the tailgate, and hopped up on it. I had never in my life done such a thing and felt a little self-conscious, but the two men didn’t act as if I’d done anything odd at all. They just leaned against the sides of the truck and looked at me.

  “I didn’t think Miranda and her dad got along.” I almost added, That’s what Miranda said, but I didn’t. Better to tell too
little than reveal all my secrets.

  “Oh, they didn’t. But Huck still loved that girl. She didn’t come around much anymore.” Homer’s voice had gone soft, and his eyes were fixed on a point out in his memory. “But he still loved her. Left her everything. Even put together a huge trust for those twin grandbabies, but she kept her distance. She had her reasons.”

  “Miranda Harris-Lewis has some motive then.”

  Homer looked me straight in the eye and said, “Yes. Yes she does.”

  The ride back to town was pretty quiet. My mind was spinning with possibilities. Miranda clearly had motive, and she’d lied about seeing Marcus at the crime scene. Pickle and Bear definitely had motive, too, if they could find some way to get their hands on the oil or the oil proceeds. But then, everyone in town, except me apparently, knew about the oil, so that opened up the range of suspects pretty wide. I kept running through the possible murderers and not getting any further. I just didn’t have enough information.

  We pulled up to the shop, and Woody switched off the truck and turned to me. “I can feel the heat from your brain working all the way over here, Harvey. I know you can’t help yourself, but please, can you promise not to do anything ridiculous or haphazard as you follow your curiosity?”

  I looked over at my friend, and then put my hand over his on the seat between us. “Yes, Woody. I will not do anything ridiculous or haphazard, okay?”

  “By my definition of those terms, young lady. Not yours.”

  I laughed. He had a point. “Deal.” I opened my door. “Thank you for the ride. I liked spending the afternoon with you.”

  “Back at ya, kiddo,” he said. I slammed the door, and he pulled out.

  I must have been smiling because when I turned around, I heard my worst nightmare say, “It’s not bad enough that you blew off your own parents on their one full day in town, but you come back grinning like the cat who ate the canary. I’m disappointed in you, Anastasia.”