contemplated the drawing. It did appear kind of witchy.
âMy mother isnât actually a witch.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah.â
Reggie barked once from outside. Owen must have said that too loud and too angrily. Big shock.
âBecca?â Chief Deb asked.
âHis mother isnât a witch,â she agreed. âAnd thisâ¦ââshe waved her hand at the graffiti and the tableââis all new. Wasnât here the last time I was.â
The annoyance that had already sparked over Debâs words, flared at her needing someone elseâs confirmation of his own.
âCould your momâs friends have come here?â Deb continued. âWhat are they called? A coven?â
âShe didnât have friends.â Sheâd had dealers. And if it werenât for that damn star on the wall, the dead animals on the table, and the lack of a meth lab in the kitchen he would have figured those dealers had gone Breaking Bad on the place. It made more sense than a coven.
âShe isnât a witch,â he repeated. Did the woman listen?
âMaybe a coven met here because they knew the place was abandoned.â
âIt wasnât abandoned.â
Sure, he should have come back before now, butâ
His gaze went to Becca, who continued to study the table, probably because she didnât want to look at him. And that meant she really didnât want to look at him because who would choose to look at that?
âCouldnât tell it by the appearance of the place,â Chief Deb muttered.
âAnd whose fault is that?â he snapped. âIf the Carstairsâ farm was left empty you can bet someone from your office would have driven by often enough.â
âThe Carstairsâ farm would never be left empty.â Debâs voice was so reasonable, and her words so true, Owen was at first furious, and then so empty he felt drained.
Heâd been foolish to think the house would be in decent shape, that he could come here and, with a few minor tweaks, have the place ready to sell in a few weeks. But heâd been foolish about a lot of things.
Believing his mother would get better. That his life was finally on track. That heâd ever get over Becca Carstairs.
âI need to call Otto,â Deb said.
Otto Dubberpuhl, the GP in Three Harbors, was the only doctor they had and had been for as long as Owen could recall. Owen had figured the guy would be in his grave by now. Doctor D had been old when they were kids, or maybe heâd just seemed so. Back then, forty was old, so Doctor D might be all of fifty now, but Owen doubted it.
Because the town was so small, Doctor D performed any autopsies. But those consisted of an explanation for a thirty-five-year-old farmer dying on his tractor and the occasional crib death. Once in a while, a domestic disaster. Still, Owen doubted he was the one to call for this.
âMaybe you should find someone with more experience inâ¦â Owen waved at the mess. He wasnât sure what to call that.
âDoctor D took a course on forensics,â Deb protested.
âI think it was called âAccurately Portraying Forensic Science in Your Novel,ââ Becca said.
Owen took a deep breath in an attempt not to laugh, choke, or cough. As the air was still heavy with the scent of ick, the gulp took care of any urge to laugh, though the choking and the coughing were touch and go for a while.
âThis isnât a murder,â Owen pointed out.
Becca cast him a disgusted glance. âIs too.â
âWould forensic techniques work in a case involving animals?â
âProbably not,â Becca said. âBut there was a class in veterinary forensics in college.â
âGreat!â Deb bounced on her toes as if she might actually start to cheer like the good old days. G-R-E-A-T! GRRREAT! âGo nuts, Becca.â
âI didnât say I took it.â
âYou
Alaska Angelini, A. A. Dark