Page 99 of Trigger Happy

Lawton and I share a glance. On a dead woman in a hot spring probably isn’t the best answer.

“We found it on a hike,” I say. “Could we talk to your granddaughter?”

Her face crumples with pain, the wrinkles sinking in under the weight of grief—just as I expected. “She’s no longer with us.”

I twist my mouth into what I hope is a sympathetic expression. “I’m so sorry to hear that. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

Lawton nudges me with an elbow and a look that clearly says, you don’t ask strangers that, but we’re running out of time. We need details.

“She was—she was…” Bea sniffs, dabbing at her eyes.

Lawton pulls a handkerchief out of nowhere. “Here you go, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She blows into the fabric. “Her name was Ella. I named the new shop after her.”

“Do you happen to have a picture of her?” he says.

“Are you with the police?” she asks, eyes brightening with hope.

Lawton and I have another silent conversation, communicating primarily with brow arches. If she’s hoping the police are involved, that must mean people have questions about her death.

“We’re… private investigators,” I finish. “There have been some questions around her disappearance.”

“Oh, of course, then. Let me…” She digs into her sweater and pulls out a heart-shaped locket, opening it for us.

There’s a photo inside of a woman, but it’s so faded and crinkled that I can’t tell if it’s the girl from the hot spring. That and she’s not half-decayed.

“Do you happen to have any other photos of her?” I say.

She blows her nose into the hankie. “Yes, there are a few by the bathroom if you’d like to take a look.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right back.” I pull out my phone and text Lawton.

ME

Keep her busy, ask questions. I’m gonna look around.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, reads the text, and gives me a salute.

ME

and turn on your read receipts.

He types, then my phone buzzes.

HUBS

a period? You’re brutal

I hold in a laugh and walk to the back of the shop toward the bathroom, trying to block out Bea’s sniffles. I feel bad for her, I do, but I shut those feelings down fast. Sympathy only makes you second-guess yourself in this job, and second-guesses get you a knife in the heart, or the neck if they’re left-handed.

The hallway leading to the bathroom is lined with faded wallpaper with little cowboys and horses, but it totally goes with all the old photos in mismatched antique frames.

I scan the wall, looking for anything more incriminating than a Class C misdemeanor. The first picture is of young Bea on a chestnut horse in a denim dress with her arms wrapped around a little girl. Must be the granddaughter. The next is Bea again in a paint-splattered apron, leaning against a man with a big grin. I’m about to move on when the third photo stops me dead in my tracks.

“What…” I peer closer.

It’s Bobbi.