of course.
But they were all downstairs.
She did have one thing. Her spear gun. She’d brought it with her when she moved, since she didn’t own enough stuff to make renting a storage locker worthwhile. She’d gotten the spear gun in case of a visit from a too-inquisitive shark when she went diving, one of the things she loved about being a Floridian.
It was in her closet. Staring warily at the mannequin, as if half believing it could move on its own, she backed over to the closet and found the spear gun, then clicked the spear into the mechanism.
Ridiculous.
She lifted the gun toward the mannequin. “Don’t you move—and I mean it,” she said.
The effigy of Nathan Kendall just stared back at her.
She slipped from the room and into the kitchen, then down the hall to the living room and then on into the second bedroom. No one.
She dared to go downstairs. Inch by inch she swept the place—nothing had changed.
Nothing, of course, except that the pedestal near the stairs where Nathan Kendall usually stood was empty.
A key started to turn in the lock of the front door. She was standing there in flannel pajamas, a spear gun in her hand.
“Scarlet, coming in!” someone called. It was Ben.
In that moment she stood there as different scenarios flashed through her mind like wildfire.
Tell Ben what had happened? Accuse him or Trisha of having moved a mannequin upstairs in the middle of the night to give her a heart attack? Accuse them of giving someone else a key?
Someone was guilty of something, that much she knew.
Ben had found the bodies.
Could Ben have killed someone? Surely not.
Then she remembered her feeling of being watched during the night. Had someone really been out there observing her? Had that someone gotten in and brought the mannequin upstairs?
Was that someone Ben?
She had to keep her wits about her, had to keep silent. It was broad daylight now. Even if he was a killer, surely Ben wouldn’t dare do violence right here in his own museum.
But if she told him what had happened...
She could wind up back at the police station with everyone thinking she was a lunatic, at the very least.
“Hang on!” she called. “Let me just throw on a robe.”
She raced back up the stairs, threw on her robe, then struggled to carry Nathan into the living room, hoping she could keep Ben from noticing his absence from his usual spot.
She ran to the top of the stairs, amazed at what she had done. She had left her fingerprints all over the damn thing, and now she was going to pretend that it had never appeared at the foot of her bed.
“Scarlet?” Ben called as she heard the museum door open.
At that moment her cell phone rang. Diego.
An hour, just one hour, and he would be there!
She ran back down the stairs and through the museum, breathless as she came face-to-face with Ben.
He looked at her with surprise. “I woke you up. I’m so sorry. I forgot how late it was when we got in. I just came by to make sure you really are okay after yesterday.”
“I’m fine. What about you and Trisha?”
He nodded. “We’re going to be okay, though with the news rocketing around town and a cop car in front of the house, we won’t be too busy for a while.”
“Everything will be all right eventually, Ben, I promise. They’ll catch the person who did this and prove it had nothing to do with the ranch, and everything will go back to normal. Just hang in there, okay?” she added quietly.
He grinned ruefully. “I was a stockbroker, remember? I’m used to life on the roller coaster. We’ll be good. It’s just that I love this place so much.”
“And you should love it,” Scarlet said. “Spend more time during the next few days riding the trails. Hike.”
He brightened. “I can help you out here in the museum.”
She opened her mouth, trying to figure out just how to answer him.
She didn’t have to; the front door opened again and Trisha walked in. “Scarlet, you doing all right?” she asked.
Scarlet nodded. “I just got up.”
“I can see that,” Trisha said with a smile. “Want us to hang around down here while you go upstairs and shower?” She looked toward the stairs as she spoke, and her eyes widened. “Where’s Nathan?” she asked, almost as if the mannequin was a living, breathing man who might have headed out for a morning walk.
“I have him upstairs,” Scarlet said. “I’m studying his construction. I think he was carved in the 1870s but I’m trying to ascertain who the artist might have been.”
“You moved him upstairs?” Trisha asked.
“Yeah, I’m stronger than I look,” Scarlet said lightly. “But, it’s such a great figure, I want to know more about it.”
“People whittled in these mountains all the time, so if you don’t find a signature or anything, it won’t be surprising. Back then, once the snow fell, there wasn’t much to do except sit around the fire and whittle,” Ben said.
“That’s always true in my line of work,” Scarlet said. “Sometimes we can find the answers, sometimes we can’t. But yes, I’d feel more secure if I knew the two of you were here while I was getting ready. Thank you. Come on up. Nathan Kendall’s in the living room, if you feel like visiting him.”
She turned and fled up the stairs, wondering for a minute if she’d asked a pair of psychotic killers to stand guard while she showered.
No. The idea that Ben and Trisha could be killers was ridiculous.
More ridiculous than that a mannequin had moved on its own?
She winced and silently prayed that Diego would arrive soon.
Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she had to behave normally. Still, she locked the door to her room. Her mind was racing, filled with all the crazy things that had happened in less than twenty-four hours.
Ben and Trisha, the murders, the mannequin at the foot of the bed, her feeling of being watched, the pictures, the man who had stopped her in town...
She finally turned on the water.
But even in the shower, she kept peeking around the curtain, making sure that Nathan didn’t walk in to surprise her when she stepped out.
She
