Fifi butted his thigh, and he lurched forward. The goat bleated. Trask cursed. “Aren’t these animals supposed to be in a pen?”
“Well, yes, but they’re good at escaping. If you pay some attention to her, she might leave you alone.”
“I’ve found the opposite to be true,” he said curtly. “If I pay attention to a female, she tends to stick around, even when she’s not wanted.”
This was a guy she definitely didn’t want to spend time with. “Fifi isn’t like that.”
“Don’t waste my time, Ms. Evans. Are you going to help me or not? The family has concerns.”
If he’d told her right away that he worked for the Spencers, she would have been more cooperative. Looking down the driveway, she spotted the family van approaching the house. In a few moments, Nigel and the kids would be back and they’d be surrounded by chaos. “Come with me. We’ll find somewhere quiet to talk.”
Waving to the van, she directed Trask across the farmyard toward the barn. Two spotted goats trotted side by side as though they had an important mission. One of the llamas strolled past the chicken coops, creating a flurry of angry hens.
Most people would have been amused. Not only was there a varied and interesting menagerie, but the lower two feet of the barn was painted with wild artwork by the kids. It was kind of adorable, but Trask was all business. His primary concern seemed to be to avoid stepping on anything ugly and messing up his wingtip shoes.
By the corral fence, she found a space. “Ask your questions.”
“You were the first person to touch Samuel after entering the room,” he said. “Is that correct?”
“Actually, Nick was the first. He found a pulse, and then I stepped in.”
“Assuming that Samuel committed suicide, can you speculate on how he did it?”
“He must have been standing because his body was beside the desk rather than behind it. He still had the gun in his hand. I’d guess that he turned the weapon toward himself and pulled the trigger.”
“He was still alive when you started treating him. Did he speak?”
“He was mumbling, but he wasn’t conscious.” The police had asked her about this several times, and she knew that a dying declaration would be important. “I’ve been trying to remember if he said anything coherent, but none of it made sense. First he said to close the door. He repeated the word ‘gold’ several times. And he talked about a heart of stone.”
When Fifi came toward them, Trask glared. His expression was so angry that Kelly thought he might pull a gun and shoot the cheerful goat. Fifi turned tail and bounded away.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Trask?”
“Concentrate, Ms. Evans. What did he say about the heart of stone?”
“It didn’t make sense.” She thought for a moment then shook her head. “Sorry. I’m not even sure if those were his words.”
“I don’t like surprises,” he said. “If you’re holding back, we’re going to have a problem.”
Was he threatening her? “Why would I hold anything back?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he focused his angry glare at her. She stared right back at him. Kelly wasn’t a silly goat like Fifi, and she refused to be intimidated.
She snapped, “Are we done?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He pivoted and strode away from her. She imagined that being a private investigator wasn’t a pleasant job; you’d be spying on people, confronting them and serving them with legal papers. Y. E. Trask seemed to have exactly the right temperament for his work—hostile, aggressive and a little nasty.
It bothered her that Nick had sent Trask to interview her without letting her know. He should have warned her that a creepy white-haired man would show up on Serena’s doorstep and accuse her of holding back. Something about this wasn’t right. She decided to talk to Nick.
Her cell phone was in the pocket of the denim jacket she’d grabbed before coming outside. She pulled it out and redialed the number he’d used last night to call her from the hospital. When he answered, she almost hung up. What had she been thinking? Nick had just lost a close family member; she shouldn’t be bothering him because a private eye was rude to her.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Been better,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you. I wanted to thank you again for the way you jumped in and tried to save my uncle.”
“I’m glad to help in any way I can. I tried to answer questions for your private investigator, but I think I made him angry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The guy you sent out to Serena’s house. He’s an investigator working for your family. His name is Y. E. Trask. He has white hair.”
“Hold on.” She could hear him talking to someone else but couldn’t tell what he was saying until he came back on the line. “Kelly, nobody has ever heard of him. He doesn’t work for us.”
Who sent him? And why?
Chapter Four
Monday, Noon
During the drive from Valiant to Serena’s farm, Nick was steamed. He hated that Kelly was being harassed. She was completely innocent—a bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
When he got her phone call, he’d been tangled in a mass of corporate red tape generated by the lawyers, the police, his family and employees. Everyone looked to him—as the most senior member of the Spencer clan—to make the necessary decisions. Nick was expected to step up and take control.
Truth be told, he was probably the least informed person in the room. Working out of his office in Breckenridge, he managed to avoid most of the corporate decisions. That was his brother’s job. Unfortunately, Jared was still in Singapore.
At a mailbox painted with flowers and butterflies, he made a left turn and drove down a long, curving driveway. Hearing Kelly’s voice had given him a focus—a problem he could deal with. He needed to find out who had contacted her and why and, most of all, if she was in any kind of danger from this fake investigator.
Though he’d never been to the farm owned by Serena and Nigel Bellows, he knew he was in the right place when he saw the farmhouse—a mash-up of architectural styles that Marian had described as crazy. From modern A-frame to the Victorian tower topped by an ornate weather vane to the wild splashes of color painted on the barn, none of the construction made sense. And yet, he felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he parked and got out of his SUV.
In keeping with the fanciful atmosphere, a fat goat sashayed toward him, followed by a little blond girl wearing a yellow sweatshirt and a tiara. “You will be the prince,” she said to him. “You’re supposed to slay the dragon. It’s your job.”
He
