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Karl Gabriel, husband to the widowed Viktoria Gabriel, vanished into the fog of war during the tumult of the First World War. Officially reported dead after a shell attack in Arras, France, his body remained a ghostly absence, never recovered from the battlefield's grasp. However, whispers lingered in the wake of the Hinterkaifeck murders, casting doubt upon Karl's supposed demise. In the absence of her husband, Viktoria bore a son, Josef, under the shadow of whispered rumors. Gossips in the village speculated that Josef's origins were shrouded in a dark secret — a supposed relationship between Viktoria and her own father, Andreas, tinged with allegations of sexual abuse. These scandalous murmurs, documented in court records and known throughout the community, painted a haunting portrait of familial betrayal and forbidden desire. Andreas, accused of unspeakable acts, stood convicted by the town, his perverse actions exposing a dark underbelly hidden within the walls of their once seemingly peaceful village. Rumors swirled like specters in the night, suggesting Karl may have eluded death on the battlefield, returning to cast a shadow over the village once more. Viktoria's son, Josef, born in Karl's absence, bore the weight of speculation, whispered to be the product of an illicit union between Viktoria and her own father, Andreas. In the hushed corners of the village, the echoes of a sordid past reverberated, etching a tale of forbidden secrets into the fabric of the community. As the fog of war lifted with the end of the Second World War, whispers of a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness of Soviet captivity. War captives from Schrobenhausen claimed to have encountered a German-speaking Soviet officer who bore the sinister aura of the Hinterkaifeck murderer. Some dared to suggest that this enigmatic figure could be none other than Karl Gabriel, drawn to the distant lands of Russia by unknown motivations. In the aftermath of the murders, suspicion fell like a shroud upon Lorenz Schlittenbauer, a man entangled in the web of tragedy and intrigue. Bereft of his first wife and rumored to have shared an intimate connection with Viktoria Gabriel, Schlittenbauer became a figure of suspicion in the eyes of his neighbors. His actions on the night of the discovery raised eyebrows and questions alike. As he and his companions stumbled upon the scene of horror, Schlittenbauer's behavior struck a discordant note. Breaking through locked gates to enter the barn, he then ominously retreated into the darkness of the farmhouse alone, wielding a key that had mysteriously disappeared days prior. His cryptic remarks hinted at knowledge beyond the reach of mere speculation, igniting suspicion among the villagers. Yet, Schlittenbauer's shadow loomed large over Hinterkaifeck, fueled by unsettling encounters and whispered secrets. A chance meeting at the site of the demolished farm, his words laden with eerie familiarity with the crime scene, sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to delve into the mystery. Was he a harbinger of justice or a puppeteer pulling the strings of deceit? As the whispers of suspicion echoed through the cobblestone streets of Hinterkaifeck, the truth remained elusive, concealed within the fog of uncertainty. Karl Gabriel and Lorenz Schlittenbauer — two figures entwined in the tapestry of tragedy — cast shadows that stretched far beyond the confines of the village. Their stories, veiled in mystery and shrouded in doubt, linger as enduring enigmas, beckoning intrepid souls to uncover the secrets that lie buried in the heart of darkness.

In the desolate embrace of the Bavarian countryside, a shadow settled over Hinterkaifeck. Whispers of the occult swirled around the isolated farmstead, where the maid fled in terror from unseen sounds in the attic, a phantom newspaper materialized from a distant city, and chilling footprints materialized in the snow, leading to a broken lock. Was it a malevolent spirit or something far more human lurking in the darkness? Days bled into weeks, anxiety tightening its grip on the Gruber family. Footsteps echoed in the dead of night, yet searches yielded nothing. Unease turned to dread when young Cäzilia confided in her friend about her mother's desperate flight into the forest, shrouded in the secrecy of a violent quarrel. Did Viktoria stumble upon a truth too horrifying to face, or was her disappearance a harbinger of the tragedy to come? Then, a new face arrived. The unsuspecting young maid, Maria, became the unwitting bridge between life and oblivion. As shadows lengthened on March 31st, 1922, a macabre dance of death unfolded. One by one, the Grubers were lured to the barn, their pleas silenced by the brutal blows of a mattock. But the killer's hunger wasn't sated. Returning to the house, they stalked the sleeping Josef and Maria, extinguishing their lives with chilling efficiency. The farmhouse became a tomb for three days, the living mingling with the dead. Smoke curled from the chimney; meals were eaten, and fires stoked – all by unseen hands. Was it one deranged mind or a chilling conspiracy? Did they flee into the night or vanish like smoke, leaving behind an enigma etched in blood and whispers? Hinterkaifeck stands as a chilling testament to the darkness that can lurk in the human heart. The truth remains buried beneath Bavarian soil, a mystery as captivating as it is terrifying. Will you dare to unravel its secrets, or will you fade into the chilling silence like the footsteps in the attic? What Really Happened? The shadows cast by the Hinterkaifeck murders stretch long and twisted, riddled with inconsistencies that whisper of a deeper mystery. Though the official report claims the family was lured to their deaths by restless animals, an unsettling truth hides in the silence of the barn – its walls cannot harbor the echo of human screams. Then, amidst the chilling void, a flickering light. A lone artisan stumbles upon a fire burning in the murdered family's hearth, its smoke carrying a stench that twists the stomach. But who stoked the flames? Why did their whispers of investigation die on the wind? The whispers take a darker turn as figures dance at the edge of the forest, cloaked in the veil of a moonless night. Witness to their silent movements, a farmer shudders, recognizing the specters in the news – the ghosts of Hinterkaifeck. Could their secrets lie buried beneath the whispering pines? Madness itself seems to echo the murders' chilling song. A stranger, consumed by the darkness, confesses in the dead of night, only to vanish like smoke from a dying fire. His identity, lost in the shadows, fuels the flames of paranoia. The Hinterkaifeck murders remain an enigma, a puzzle with missing pieces that whisper of unseen hands and secrets guarded by the darkness. Each inconsistency, each unanswered question, is a chilling invitation to peer deeper into the abyss, where the truth may lie, waiting to be unearthed... if you dare to listen.

As investigators combed through the aftermath of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, a chilling landscape of clues and unanswered questions unfolded. The farmhouse, now a crime scene, whispered secrets that seemed to elude rational explanation. The Crime Scene : The Gruber family and their maid, Maria Baumgartner, were found brutally bludgeoned in the barn, their bodies arranged in a horrifying tableau. Oddly, a gruesome detail puzzled investigators — it appeared the killer had stayed on the farm for days after the murders. Food from the pantry had been consumed, and witnesses in the nearby village reported seeing smoke from the chimney during that time. The Mysterious Footprints The Absent Neighbors The Inexplicable Motive: The Supernatural Theories: Witness Testimonies: As the investigation unfolded, the shadow of suspicion deepened, and the once-quiet village of Hinterkaifeck found itself caught in a crime that defied resolution. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" invites you to explore the enigma that continues to haunt the legacy of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, where the past remains entwined with the shadows of an unsolved mystery.

As promised, here is the chilling true crime story of the Hinterkaifeck Murders. I will set the scene and then, each day, unravel the story and what is known now. Feel free to comment, share, like, etc., to get the conversation going. If you know any details I still need to cover, please comment below. Without further ado ... In the tranquil hamlet of Hinterkaifeck, nestled in the rolling hills of Bavaria, Germany, an unspeakable tragedy unfolded in 1922, leaving a community haunted by whispers of a crime that defied explanation. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" unravels the chilling true story of the Hinterkaifeck Murders, a tale that continues to send shivers down the spines of those who dare to delve into its enigmatic depths. The Gruber family, comprising Andreas Gruber, his wife Cäzilia, their daughter Viktoria, and her two children, Cäzilia and Josef, led a quiet life on their secluded farmstead. Yet, the tranquility of Hinterkaifeck would soon be shattered by an unseen malevolence. Strange occurrences plagued the Gruber farm in the weeks leading up to the tragedy — unexplained footsteps in the snow, creaking floorboards, and unsettling noises echoing through the house. The family became increasingly unnerved, suspecting an intruder, but their fears were dismissed as mere paranoia. On a fateful night in March 1922, the veil between the mundane and the macabre was violently torn. The entire Gruber family, along with the maid, Maria Baumgartner, met a gruesome end at the hands of an unknown assailant. The murders were as brutal as they were mysterious, with the killer seemingly residing on the farm for days after the crime. As investigators descended upon Hinterkaifeck, they were met with a chilling tableau. The farmstead bore witness to the unspeakable — the victims seemingly lured into the barn, one by one, and brutally slain. The motive remained elusive, and the identity of the perpetrator obscured in the shadows of speculation. The whispers of Hinterkaifeck persist to this day as theories and conjectures swirl around the motives and potential suspects. From the supernatural to the deeply rooted secrets within the Gruber family, the truth remains elusive, leaving an indelible mark on this once-serene Bavarian village. "Whispers in the Bavarian Wind" invites you to step into the past, where the echoes of a heinous crime still resonate through time. Brace yourself for a journey into the heart of darkness, as the Hinterkaifeck Murders reveal a chilling enigma that continues to defy resolution. This is the first installment of the True Crime Story of The Hinterkaifeck Murders in Bavaria, Germany. Go back in time to 1922 when a family is murdered in their barn, and the clues are so bizarre, you would have to dispel all subscriptions to understand.  Like, comment, share, and join my newsletter, Musings & Mysteries, where I post chapters and discussions on true crime. If you love gardening or want to learn how, join my Gardening Tips & Tricks group, which will be picking back up again in March 2024! Want someplace to vent with job stuff? Come on over to Job Support, Sucks, and Successes! Visit my website @ jewelswrites.blogspot.com , and if you're passionate about sales and can work 100% commission, with monthly revenue tied in, and live in the USA, DM me!

My toes curl against the couch and as I watch Brock scroll through his phone, oblivious to the storm brewing within me. 9:00, then 9:10, the minutes bleed into agonizingly long ticks as my heart hammers against my ribs like a desperate bird trapped in a cage. Then, when I thought they wouldn't show at all, a sharp rap against the door shatters the tension. It's nearly 10:00. Brock's head snaps up, his eyes flashing to me, a silent question. I'm not the only one on edge. Herc, our normally placid mutt, whines from the foot of the couch, hackles raised like a frightened porcupine. "They're really late," Brock mutters, checking his watch. He rises, a hand hovering near my shoulder, offering unspoken reassurance. My fingers itch to grasp it, anchor myself to his calm, but my limbs feel frozen. As I unlock the door, a grim picture unfolds. Not Gray and Lopez. Holder, his familiar face twisted into a mask of cold calculation, a gun glinting in his hand. My breath catches in my throat, the world narrowing to the glint of metal and the dark abyss of his eyes. He's in all black. "Officer," my voice sounds foreign, brittle. But Brock is beside me, a buffer against the icy dread. "So, you know." It was a statement. A humorless smile plays on Holder's lips. "Oh, yes, I know, Trice. But not in the way you intended." His gaze flicks to Brock, then back to me, lingering on the fear I can't hide. "Couldn't keep your nose out of my business, could you?" Brock puts a hand on my arm, a steady rock in the storm. "Not sure what you're talking about, Officer." His voice is smooth, a lawyer's practiced calm masking the storm brewing beneath. Holder scoffs. "Don't play dumb with me. I'm a cop, remember? Look, whatever you think is going on, it's not. You don't know the real story." "Okay, then tell us," Brock counters, voice unwavering. "But standing there with a gun pointed at us in the open doorway isn't exactly a smart move. Chief and Lopez are on their way." A slow, chilling grin spreads across Holder's face. "No, they're not." He waves the gun, casting an ominous shadow across the room. "They had, shall we say, a little blowout. They will be a while. And no, I didn't kill them. Also, before I was a cop, I sold cameras. Yep, even the tiny ones you found in your home. And the ones you, well, I, didn't. The ones I hid without any of you knowing." Herc growls, low and menacing, echoing the fear clawing at my insides. I kneel, burying my face in his fur, seeking solace in his warm, solid presence. "Get your mutt under control," Holder snarls, but his voice lacks conviction. Brock's hand tightens on my arm, a silent message: stay quiet. The next few minutes are a blur of adrenaline and whispered threats. Holder, a predator circling his prey, his words dripping with venomous intent. His plan, diabolical in its simplicity, lays bare: a diversion, a false trail, and us, trapped like flies in a spider's web. And then, a detail, innocuous, almost inconsequential. The scent of Brock's cologne, faint but familiar, wafting from Holder's hair. My head snaps up, a new wave of terror drowning the old. The fourth camera, the one Brock hadn't found, the one tucked away in the sanctuary of our bathroom. My eyes meet Brock's, a silent exchange, a desperate plan forming in the shared flicker of understanding. As Holder rambles on, the gun swaying in his hand, a fragile dance of life and death, I know this isn't the end. It's just the beginning of a game, a deadly game where the stakes are our lives, and the prize, our freedom. The game has changed, and we're ready to play. My blood runs cold as Holder’s smug laughter washes over me. He knows everything. Our trap, Gray’s involvement, even our hushed conversation in the living room – confirmed by the faint trace of Brock’s cologne clinging to him. Panic prickles at my scalp, but I force it down. We have to think, to keep him talking. “Yeah, Gray lured me to the basement to catch my reaction, and so I played right into his hands.” I had to keep him talking. “How did you meet Troy?” He snickers. “In Vegas. We both had an, shall I say, obsession with gambling. It turned into something bigger and better, but if I tell you everything, well then, I’d have to kill you, so that’s all you need to know. Now,” he smacks the couch and I jump. “We need to head on over to your neighbors and grab my future. Once I’m long gone with the goods, you can go running to Gray, unless he meets us here first, in which case, if he tries and stops me, I’ll shoot you both. You might want to ring him and prevent that.” I fumble around my pocket to pull out my phone. My finger is shaking as I punch in Gray’s number. “Hey, Trice. Sorry, we had some tire troubles.” “Oh, okay. Do what you need to. It may be hours before he shows up anyway. Plus, I have a migraine, so maybe hold off coming for a while.” I hold Holder’s gaze and sneer at him. I wait and he says, “Are you OK?” It’s like a broken record of the many times he’s asked me that over the last year, but this time, I must lie to him. “Yes.” And then I think of a code phrase that we came up with months ago for when I was in danger. “Don’t worry.” “Got it.” He hung up. “That’s good,” Holder says. “I’m impressed.” “Listen, can we just get on with this?” Brock says. “Of course. Don’t want you two to stay up past your bedtime.” I would love to strangle him, but I keep my composure. He gets up. “Let’s go. Oh, and hands up and all that.” I raise my hands and Brock follows suit. Herc has been staring down Holder this whole time and he gets up and tries to step between Holder and me. “Put the dog somewhere. I would hate for an accident to occur.” “Come on Herc.” He follows me to his crate, and I have to cajole him in, nearly pushing him inside. I close it and whisper, “We’ll be back.” I hug him and hope I’m right. “All right then, lead the way.” Brock and I get up first, then Holder’s behind us. I feel a jab in my back and know it’s the gun. Brock opens the door and we both walk out. The air is a little cool, the wind picking up. I shiver, as I look at Brock. He’s staring straight ahead, no expression. I adjust my eyes to the darkness but wish we had some light in which to see. The streetlight’s a few houses down and although I see light coming from Leah’s home across the street, is faint like the little lamp she keeps on for when she’s gone. No other light is visible in other homes. But then, it was probably 10:00 by now and people are in bed, either unwinding or going to sleep. We get to the neighbors, and since we have to get in through the window, I dread having to climb the fence. The last time, I sprained my ankle. “Just answer one thing,” I say, taking a chance. “Why did Troy hide the drugs and money in our shed as well as his basement?” “Why do you think? He wanted a little extra for himself, the little prick. We were supposed to split it fifty-fifty until he started getting greedy. He kept changing it. Before he died, he was only willing to give 20%, said it was because he was taking all the risk. I didn’t know about your shed until we all showed up that morning. I hired someone to grab it for me, but then he ended up dead and here we are. Karma came back and bit Troy in the ass, though, so now I get it all,” he said, emphasizing all. “Pretty smart,” Brock chimes in. “Enough talk. Okay, time to climb. Hubby goes first, but don’t try anything. Me and Trice here don’t want to part ways in an unfortunate incident.” He called me Trice?? “I got it,” Brock says, his voice tight. I squint to see Brock scale the vinyl fence, getting a foothold and hoisting himself over it. “Okay, your turn,” he turns to me. I grab hold on one of the posts for support and do the same as Brock, slipping a bit before getting good traction and getting to the top. I then slide down the other side. “You alright?” Brock says, looking down at my leg. “Yeah.” I say and then whisper, “Do you think he’ll kill us?” “Not if we do everything right. Follow my lead.” A minute later, Holder is over the fence, and we walk to the window, the perfect height and width to climb through. Brock slides it open and again follows the same pattern as we did the fence. We get inside and it’s darker than outside. “Vegas, huh?” I throw out, feigning curiosity. His eyes glint, relishing the spotlight. He spins a yarn of shared gambling thrills, of an alliance with Troy that morphed into something more sinister. Each word drips with menace, a twisted confession that hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly, the room feels like a pressure cooker. His hand smacks the couch, jolting me from my mental paralysis. “Time to collect my prize,” he declares, voice like ice cracking. The threat of our neighbors’ home, of Troy’s hidden stash, looms large. My mind scrambles for escape, for some crack in his facade. He shoves us towards the stairs, the cold kiss of metal biting into my back. We have to move, to act before Holder’s impatience boils over. But where do we go? How do we outwit a viper in his own den? The weight of responsibility, of Brock’s life hanging in the balance, threatens to crush me. But I won’t. We won’t. In the suffocating darkness, a spark of defiance ignites. We have each other, and that, somehow, feels like a weapon, a shard of hope against the encroaching darkness. We press on, deeper into the unknown, ready to face whatever awaits together. The harsh glare of the overhead light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding as we blink away the shadows. Holder grins, the glint of metal at my back a chilling reminder of our precarious situation. "Okay, let's get this over with," he growls, shoving the gun barrel harder into my ribs. "Grab the drum, Brock." My husband hesitates, a silent defiance flashing in his eyes before it's swallowed by resignation. He pulls the heavy steel drum out from beneath the workbench, the metal groaning its protest. Each thud feels like a drumbeat against my own racing heart. Holder saunters over, the gun wobbling slightly in his hand. "Let's make sure it's all still there," he sneers. "Open it." Brock's hands tremble as he pries the lid loose. Money spills out, showering the dusty floor in a glittering cascade. Brick-like bags of drugs nestle amidst the bills, a silent testament to Troy's ill-gotten gains. Holder's lips curl into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let's get it through the window. Once it's in my truck, I disappear, and you two can pretend this never happened." As if erasing the past year of nightmares, of fear and paranoia, were as simple as shutting a door. Brock shoves the drum towards the window, muscles straining against the weight. It's too much, the air filling with his ragged breaths. My blood pressure skyrockets, mirroring his struggle. "Seems you need some weight training," I snarl, a bitter joke biting through the tension. His eyes flash towards me, the familiar annoyance at my teasing replaced by a cold, calculating anger. "Now, Trice," he barks, voice dripping with venom, "you go first." My name, twisted on his tongue, feels like a fresh wound. "You don't have the right to call me that," I whisper, defiance blooming in my chest like a poisonous flower. "I'll call you whatever the hell I want," he snarls, the gun barrel nudging me towards the window. Gritting my teeth, I comply, clambering out into the cool night air. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind, amplifies the fear buzzing beneath my skin. I wait, huddled in the shadows, as the drum groans under their combined weight. My breath hangs heavy in the air, punctuated by the tell-tale click of a car door unlocking. Just as my mind teeters on the edge of panic, two figures emerge from the darkness. Gray's silhouette, tall and unwavering, and Officer Lopez, her badge glinting faintly in the moonlight. My chest tightens, hope and fear warring within me. Will the scales of justice finally tip in our favor, or will darkness consume us whole? In the breathless silence, the answer hangs suspended, as fragile as a spiderweb, awaiting the slightest tremor to reveal its true strength. The next few minutes will determine our fate.

After Gray and Holder leave, I look at Brock and smile. “Did you see that excitement, the anticipation in his face? It’s him, Brock.” "It sure seems like it. And he will try and get the stash, if it’s there, before the department does, which means tonight.” “Yes, and Gray is obtaining the warrant to search the basement. It may take him a day, allowing Holder to head him off. We need to talk to the neighbors now and tell them what we and the police, don’t forget about that, suspects. We have them leave for the night, pay for a hotel, and keep a window slightly ajar or easy access for Holder to get in. We plant a tiny camera, like the ones Gray found here, to capture the whole scene.” “The rat gets trapped.” “Follow the smell,” I add a bit snarky. “Yep.” He winks. I contact Gray and tell him of our plan. “I like it. But I want to come with you when you talk to the neighbor. They will take it more seriously if it comes from a police officer.” “Fair enough. But we have to do it this evening.” “I agree. I’ll meet you here at 7:00. They should be home on a school night. Maybe the kids will be in bed or at least in their room. I’m getting a warrant signed soon by the judge.” I get off the phone with Gray. Now, we wait. Since we have hours to wait and I need something to occupy my time, I head out and get some spring plants. I’m still vigilant, checking my rearview and side mirror every minute or so on the way to the nursery. So far, so good. The perfect spring plants for our area are pansies, hyacinths, primrose, and tulips, daffodils, and crocus that come from bulbs. Since I already have a bunch of bulbs starting to come up, I wanted to add some plants as a border in my gardens. I find purple, pink, yellow, white, and peach colors that will complement the bulbs and head home to plant them. The weather is nice and even somewhat warm as it’s close to April. We can still get snow, but I’ll take the warmth. After spending the afternoon planting and taking my mind off tonight, I take some pics and record about 15 minutes of video for my YouTube channel. The colors blend nicely with my bulbs and I can see the gardens come alive. Later that evening after Brock and I have eaten, we wait for Brock. It’s nearing 7:00 and anxiety starts creeping into my stomach. This could go very wrong, but it’s the only way to catch Holder in the act. Gray shows up a little after 7:00 and we invite him in. He takes out a piece of paper. “Here’s the warrant. Are you ready to do this?” “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Brock nods in agreement. “Okay. So, we’ll go over and I’ll present the warrant. Whatever we find, we need to ensure it can be readily available and even seen. The window will be left unlocked. I will plant a tiny camera somewhere inconspicuous and watch the basement at your home via my laptop. If he comes and finds the stash, I will call up Officer Lopez and we will make a quiet raid on him.” I nod, my hands feeling clammy and cold. When I watch this type of thing go down on TV, I know it’s not real, but now that it’s happening next door, it’s a little unnerving. I grab a jacket and bend down and pet Herc, telling him to stay here and watch the house for us. He whines a little but stays back when we open the door. The night air is a little cool but otherwise clear. The sun is going down, a perfect time, as the darker it gets, the more Holder will take advantage of the cover. When we get to the door, Gray knocks and announces his name and rank. The door opens and a woman of about thirty stands with a little boy in her arms. Her brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she looks haggard, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her green eyes match that of her son. “Hi, ma’am, we don’t mean to bother you,” Gray says. “I have a warrant to search the basement.” “My basement?” She looks alarmed. “We have reason to believe that there may be drugs or money stashed in the basement from the previous owner. He was a drug dealer before leaving the home and left some of his stash in your neighbor’s shed.” He motions to Brock and I. “We think he used two places to hide the drugs.” “Seriously?” She looks like she’s done for the day as I heard yelling in the background and saw two other kids running past the hall. “You’d better not be running,” she says over her shoulder. The little boy in her arms starts whimpering. “Oh, not you, too.” She looks as if she’s about to cry. “Cory!” Her husband comes to the door. “What’s up, Camille?” He’s about six inches taller than her, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes. He looks fit, wearing a muscle shirt. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. Gray explains what we’re doing here again. “Damn, seriously? No wonder the price was so cheap." “We didn’t know and still don’t know if drugs are here, just a hunch. If we find them, we believe someone may try and break in to get them.” “What?” Camille’s eyes go wide. “We'll plant a camera where it can’t be seen, and we’ll be next door watching. If he opens up an unlocked window and finds the drugs, we can immediately be here to catch him. If you feel more comfortable leaving for the night, we will understand.” Brock watches their faces. I feel bad that he has to deal with this tonight. “I sure as hell am not staying here if some thug is going to try and steal drugs in the basement. I’ll call my parents and see if we can stay there for the night. They live in Salt Lake City,” Camille says. “How sure are you that drugs are in the basement?” Cory adds. “We aren’t, but why would this person hide drugs in a neighbor’s shed when he had plenty of space in his own basement?” “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Cory says. “Please, come in,” Camille backs up and allows us in. “Let’s just see if the drugs are here before we do anything.” “That’s what we’re here for.” He produces the warrant and shows it to Camille and Cory. “Let me put a video on for the kids and put the baby down,” Camille says. “Cory can show you the basement.” We all follow Cory to the basement. I quickly glance in the foyer and the living room. The house looks very different than what Deanna and Troy had it. They used mainly browns and reds for their furniture with crème throw pillows and taupe walls, while Cory and Camille chose the lighter colors of blues and greens with accents of slate gray and white. Cory gets to the door and flicks on the light, illuminating the stairs - they're carpeted and the walls white. I don't what I'm expecting, but every time I watch a horror flick, the stairs always creak, as if one more person stepping down would collapse them, and the light is dim. We follow Cory down the steps. Deanna said Troy would finish the basement, but that never happened. “We don’t ever come down here. I thought one of these days, I would finish it, but with the way the economy is now, it may not be for years. The two boys sleep in one room, the girl in the other, and we take the third bedroom,” Cory explains as we get to the basement. I scan the area, trying to find a place where Troy would have hidden the drugs. “Well, there’s not much here,” Brock states the obvious. Other than sheetrock and concrete and the furnace and water heater in the corner, I can’t see anywhere else Troy would have stashed drugs. A window at the back catches my attention. It’s large enough for someone to climb through, perfect. Another smaller window in the corner lets in some sunshine and is much smaller. We split up and search the area. It’s good-sized but empty. I suddenly feel like an idiot thinking Troy could hide anything here, let alone drugs and possibly money. Just as I’m about to say something, I notice a cylindrical object tucked under the stairs. I walk over, peer under it, and see a steel drum in the shadows. “Hey, over here,” I wave everyone over. “There,” I point under the stairs. Gray kneels and pulls the drum out. It fit perfectly on its side, and no one would have noticed unless they were practically on their knees searching for it. He dons some gloves and opens the lid as we all look, anticipating what we’ll find. I’m the first one to gasp as I see stacks and stacks of bills piled on each other. And on the sides, little packets taped to the drum with white powder in them. “Jackpot,” Brock says. Cory lets out a small whistle. “You called it Trice, “Gray says. He pulls out his phone and takes snapshots of the drum and then the stash hidden inside. He then punches in a number. “Hey, Lopez, we found it.” He sticks his phone in his back pocket. “She’s dispatching Holder and they’re on their way. You and your family need to stay somewhere else for the night,” he says, turning to Cory. It was at this time that Camille came down the steps. “You found it.” She comes over and sees for herself. “Wow.” “We need to get the kids and head to your mom’s house,” Cory says. “I called and they said to come over.” Camille is still staring into the drum. “Okay, good. We need to make this drum a little more visible but not by much. We want Holder to see it and then gauge his reaction. Watch to see if he scans the area. If it’s him, he will come back later tonight, late, possibly. Keep all lights off and lock the doors so he thinks you’re sleeping. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Get a few things packed and head out.” Cory and Camille rush up the stairs and Gray closes the lid and slides it under the stairs, leaving the drum a little visible. “You two leave now and I’ll meet you at your house after Lopez and Holder have come. I will have Holder take photos and tell both that we’ll get the drug unit out to retrieve the drum in the morning. He will know he has tonight to get the drugs and money.” Brock and I leave while Gray stays, plants the camera, and waits for the officers to come. Camille and Cory are packing the kids in the car when we rush back to the house. The trap has been set.

I motion for her to follow me out back, away from the cameras. Grabbing a lawn chair, I invite her to sit. She slowly eases into the chair. After telling Leah everything I know, she sits speechless for a bit and then speaks. “I just can’t believe this is happening to you. And why would Troy use your shed to hide the drugs when he has a basement he could have hidden them in. And – ” "Hold on. You’re right. He does have a basement. Why would he choose our shed?" I try to wrap my brain around that question. “Could your shed have been a secondary place to stash the drugs and money and his basement the primary place?” My eyes widen in shock but then realize. “Oh my God, Leah. The basement has always been off-limits, Deanna told me. She said Troy was building something that might harm the kids, so he kept the door locked. Even Deanna didn’t have a key, which she thought was odd, she told me, what like 2 years or so ago. I didn’t prod because she was in a hurry – I was coming back from my walk and her to take the kids to school. She kept saying Troy’s been acting weird. Have you noticed? I said I hadn’t, but I also hadn’t seen him very often lately. It was a quick conversation. I think it was close to when the kids were getting out of school.” I wrack my brain for that memory to see if anything else pops out. “Trice, I hate to say this, but I bet the basement is where the rest of the drugs and maybe even money are hidden.” I yank my neck to the east, as if I could see through my walls and into the neighbor’s home. “We have to search it.” “We? Oh no, you’re not roping me into this again, and you shouldn’t do this either. Contact Gray and let the police handle it.” “How do I know I can trust them? Not Gray or Lopez, but Holder. Remember, he could be dirty. If I tell Gray and it somehow gets back to Holder, who's to say he won’t risk it and try to find the drugs himself and then kills us to tie up loose ends. But, no, I wouldn’t involve you. Brock and I will do it.” “How? People live there now. How are you going to get into their basement without getting caught? Trice, this is insane talk. It’s also quite a stretch to think there’s drugs and money stashed away.” I barely hear Leah as I concoct a plan I had to tell Brock about now. “Leah, sorry, but I need to talk to Brock.” “Trice … “came the warning voice. “Please, just don’t utter this to anyone, even Trevor.” “You know I have kept all your secrets, but this is so dangerous.” “I know, but I’m tired of waiting around for justice to make an entrance.” I lay back and close my eyes. “Lee, I want my life back. I want to see my kids and grandkids. I want to go outside and plant some colorful flowers and not be looking over my shoulder, wondering when we’re next, you understand?” She touches my shoulder. “Of course I do. I just worry about you. Please be careful.” “I will – we will. With Brock by my side, I know I’m safe, but should something – “ “Don’t say it.” “It’s a possibility. If it does happen, be our voice. Promise me,” “Trice …” “Promise me, Lee. You know everything. Everyone should know too.” Leah turns and hugs me tightly. “You know I will.” Tears slide down my face, and I hear Leah sniffling, and I know she’s crying too. “Thank you.” As soon as Leah leaves, I wait for Brock to come home from the store so I can tell him my plan. He’ll know if it’s crazy or not. I wait another 30 minutes, and when he walks through the door with the bags, I help him put everything away and then say, “We need to talk.” We go out back where I was talking to Leah. He looks at me and, in his eyes, I see fear. “About what?” I tell him what Leah and I deduced about the neighbor’s basement. “You could be right, but Trice, how are we going to get inside to find out?” “Well, I have a plan.” “Uh huh. I gotta hear this,” he says, folding his arms. “I whip up a batch of brownies and then we go next door when it’s nighttime and when their kids are hopefully in bed. With a plate of brownies in hand, we ring the doorbell, practicing the neighborly art of introduction. Apologies flow for our tardy greeting, and we extend the sweet offering. Once inside, amid casual conversation, I'll strategically ask to use their restroom. That's when I'll discreetly check the basement door, gauging its accessibility. If it's locked, we'll pivot and brainstorm another approach. If it's ajar, I'll seize the opportunity, slipping downstairs to survey the layout and open any windows obstructing our entry. We’ll return later under the cover of night and come through the opened window.” I observe Brock's reaction, awaiting his response. He throws his head back and laughs, and I can't help but roll my eyes. "Trice, I love you, but you watch too many Lifetime mysteries," he teases, and I playfully slug his shoulder. "Okay, hotshot. Come up with your own plan," I challenge. "Why do have to do anything? It’s stupid, risky, and oh, yeah, dangerous. Did I leave anything out?" Brock argues. "Yeah, it’s the only way to see if more drugs have been hidden," I counter. "And what if we find them, then what? We tell Gray we know there’s hidden drugs in our neighbor’s basement. Oh, wait, how do we know? Well, we broke into their home and found them. Is that OK?" Brock says, highlighting the flaws in my scheme. I deflate, realizing he's right. "If I tell Gray of my suspicion, he may laugh at me too." "Or he may believe you and check it out, you know, with a warrant," Brock suggests, seeing my frustration. "Listen, I know you want this to end and for justice to be served. But we have to do it legally." "Brock, what if Holder finds out? I still don’t trust him." "Then, we bait him. Let him find out and then lure him to the basement, all the while Gray is watching. We’ll know if he’s involved if he takes the bait. Remember, the mouse doesn’t go after the food, it goes after the smell." "Your point?" "You’ve heard the saying. 'The smell of money,' right? If Holder is dirty, we bait him with the smell." "And what would that be?" I lean in, intrigued. Brock smirks, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. "We create a scent of opportunity, something that screams wealth. Cash. Stack it up, leave a few bills out where he can see them. Nothing too flashy, just enough to make the air in that basement whisper 'fortune.' It's a universal language, Trice. The scent of green can either make someone's hunger rise or expose their greed. If Holder takes the bait, we'll know we've got him right where we want him." I have to agree; his plan makes more sense than mine. "Okay, it’s time to tell Gray." I pull out my phone and call his private number. It’s his day off, so I’ll probably catch him at home or out with his wife, which is why I sound apologetic when he answers, and I tell him we have to talk, first telling him to bring Holder along so we can gauge his reaction when I discuss the possibility of drugs and money being hidden in our neighbor's basement. “Just finishing up dinner. Give me 20 minutes.” I hear noises in the background and wonder if he’s at a restaurant, which makes me feel even worse that I’m interrupting his one day off. We go back inside and into the foyer to wait. I pace back and forth, peer through the shades, then go back to pacing, waiting for Gray. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Brock pipes up, sitting on the straight-back Victorian peach couch we got from Paris, surfing on his laptop. We hardly ever come in here, and I just notice some of the paint peeled off the front wall. "Now that he’s coming, I’m second-guessing the basement theory," I admit. Brock puts his finger to his lips to shush me. I forget that we can still be recorded. As soon as Gray arrives with Holder, I bite my tongue. This is all part of the plan, I tell myself. They both go through the house, scanning for cameras. They find two more: one in our bedroom hidden under a fan blade by the light and the other in the living room between two portraits partially hidden by the TV. I shiver at the thought of someone watching us in our most intimate room. I steal a glance at Holder, trying to read him. No expression. “So, what’s up?” Gray says. I explain for the second time today. After I finish, Gray rubs his chin while Holder shows, what, a tiny smirk? “Well, I’ve heard of crazier things.” I watch Gray watch Holder, knowing that he’s looking for the same thing I am: a little anxiety or even excitement. Nothing. A little disappointed but not surprised, I turn it over to Brock for the plan. This time, I see something, a glint of anticipation in Holder’s eyes. We got him.

Officer Holder rises from his desk, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Hi, Mrs. Summers. Can I help you?" The audacity. "I'm just meeting Gray here. He had something he needed to talk to me about." I try to act nonchalant, but if he could read my emotions, he'd sense the nerves and anxiety. His demeanor shifts, a hint of annoyance and even anxiety creeps in. "I see. Well, go ahead and wait in his office." I nod, swiftly walking to the office without daring to look behind me. True to his word, Gray appears about 15 minutes later. He strides into the office, shutting the door behind him. He sits down, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, Trice, this theory of yours is razor-thin, but I'm going to hear you out because you've been right about most everything." I want to acknowledge his correctness but don't want to rub it in. "Think about it, Gray. When did Holder show up here?" I say, trying not to talk too loudly. "And, he's had access to our home this whole time. I know it wasn't Officer Lopez who planted a camera in my vase." "Yeah, I know. Holder did get transferred here, about a month after Troy was found. It could be why he volunteered to patrol your home while you were gone, to gain access, plant the camera. He knew when you were here and gone. The only problem is proving it." I fold my arms, anger evident in my voice. "He stood there and greeted me with a smile out there," I say, turning to the window. "We, you, trusted him with your city and everything that has happened on my street." A newfound rage takes over, and I have to ask, "Gray, did he kill Goldie?" Gray closes his eyes, contemplating this very real possibility. "I don't want to admit it, but it makes sense. He had access to a gun, and who knows, he could have bugged her home as well, knew she was leaving and then followed her to Home Depot. He also could have known about the text messages you were sent. Maybe he even knew you met her at the park. She was collateral damage." I feel my fist balling up. "That –" and before I'm able to finish my words, we hear a knock. Gray puts his finger to his lips to hush me. "What is it?" "Chief, sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to you. We just got a call from the prison." Officer Holder's gruff voice comes through the door, and I want to open the door and punch him. Gray backs up his chair. "Stay here. I'll be back." I do as instructed. My knees are shaking, and anxiety rises to my throat. I suddenly feel nauseous. I take some deep breaths and chant, "Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, hold 1, 2, 3, 4, exhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7." After doing this for a minute, I start to calm down. I get up, walk to the window, and stare out. I need some air. After opening the window, getting some fresh air, and closing it again, I hear the doorknob rattle, and I hurry back to my seat. Gray comes in and closes the door. He doesn't return to his seat, just stands at the door. "Well, an inmate murdered Jeff a while ago. They were out in the yard, and someone came up to him and stabbed him in the back. It was quick. No one came to his aid until it was too late." "What?" I jump out of my seat. "And why?" But I already knew. Melanie is picking them off one by one, and we're next. "This isn't just a coincidence…" "Now don't assume something you have no proof of, Trice," he interjects. He knows me all too well. "Come on, Gray. You know it's true. First Troy, then Goldie, Dimitri, and now Jeff. You need to remove the drugs from our property. They won't stop until they get what they want, and I'm tired of being a target." The tears bubble up, and Gray comes over and hugs me. "I'm sorry, Trice, you're right. Tomorrow, first thing, we'll get the drug unit to seize the drugs. We have a secure location to store them while everything gets sorted out. We'll issue a press release, diverting attention away from you. And I'm going to question Holder. Go back home and stay there. I'll text you in the morning. Oh, and there may be more cameras around the house, so be careful. Don't discuss the case or anything related to Jeff's murder. When we come tomorrow, we'll scrutinize the house for any more cameras." I ease out of his embrace. "Yeah, okay. But we can't keep doing this, Gray. I haven't seen my kids or grandkids in almost a year. My best friend's home was vandalized, and we've narrowly escaped death a few times, along with you and Officer Lopez. Please, solve this so we can all return to our normal lives." Desperation colors my voice, but it's been too long. I promised Goldie I would find her killer. I vow to keep my promise, with or without Gray's help. Returning home, I share the events with Brock. He sits on the couch, hands to his face. "I can't believe someone killed Jeff. This whole thing is so damn messed up, Trice." "I know." "The more I think about it, the more I believe Jeff wasn't going to hurt us. When we escaped, he was trying to find us, not kill us. It was his wife – Melanie – who wanted us dead. It still doesn't excuse what Jeff did to Troy, but he didn't deserve to be murdered." He falls silent, tears welling in his eyes. I realize how deeply this is affecting him, and I draw closer, wrapping my arms around him. "I'm sorry, Babe. I know this whole nightmare is taking its toll." He looks pensive, a shadow of sadness passing over him. "The world is so messed up. How did we get caught up in it?" I hang my head down in shame. "It's my fault. If I hadn't answered Goldie's texts—" "No, this is NOT your fault. If you hadn't answered back, we wouldn't have known who killed Troy or what he was caught up in that ultimately led to his death. Goldie would have been killed with or without you. But now, you can avenge her death. I just meant, you know, you never think it's going to happen to you, to your family. A year ago, we were completely oblivious to any of this. It just seems this rollercoaster will never end." "It will, but it may mean we have to end it." I hang my head. Brock lifts my head back up. "Look at me." I meet his eyes. "I will not let anything happen to you. I will go down if it means I can save you." "No, Brock! This isn't a you or I deal. We are going to make it together." We come together and kiss like it's our last day on earth and then go upstairs hand-in-hand. In the morning, I groggily open my eyes to the sun filtering in through the blinds. The days are getting longer, and usually, by this time, I'm planning out my gardens for the season, but I can't even focus on that right now. I glance over at Brock snoring softly and get up, shuffling to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. Herc follows me, wagging his tail. I look in the mirror littered with water droplets and push down under my eyes. I look like the dead. I take out my undereye cream, dab some on, and then brush my hair, smoothing it with a little oil for some needed shine. After getting dressed and feeling more awake, I quietly leave the room with Herc by my side and head downstairs to make some coffee. The sun streams through the windows, and I look out back, scanning from right to left, always aware these days. Relieved I don't see anything, I pour myself a cup and grab a bagel with cream cheese. Walking into the living room, I turn on the TV. Gray said he would be here around 8:00, so I have nearly 80 minutes more to wait. I flip through the channels and settle on a geographical program about ancient Egypt. About an hour later, Brock comes downstairs, yawning but dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. "Hey." "Hey," I say, patting the couch and motioning him to sit down. "Gray should be coming soon. I want these drugs out of our shed now." "Same. And before you say anything, I’m going to ask some of my legal team to dig up some dirt on Petra and Greg. The more we find, the better, you know?" “Brock, no, you could get in real trouble.” “I'll just tell them it’s for a case I’m helping out with. Don’t stress about it. If the cops can’t sort this mess, we will, just like you said.” I did say that. It’s time to put an end to this crazy ride. Almost twenty minutes later, Gray texts saying he’s here. Brock and I spot him, Officer Lopez, and the drug unit hanging out in our driveway, each person clad in white hazmat suits. “Hey, Trice, Brock. We’re going to do this quick and low-key. That's why the drug unit truck is sneakily backed up in your driveway. Let’s grab these canisters out of your shed.” We all head to the backyard fence. Brock opens it, and we stroll into the yard. We slapped a lock on the shed, and it's still holding firm when Brock opens it. In one smooth move, they snatch the blue canisters, toss them in the back of the truck, and slowly drive away, leaving just us, Gray, and Officer Lopez. It took all of 5 minutes or less. “With these substances gone, you should be safer. We’ll set up a press conference saying you found them and we're doing some tests to determine what they are. Who knows? Maybe Troy slipped up, and we can pull some DNA from the cans,” Gray says, nonchalantly shrugging. “It’s a bit of a long shot,” Brock comments, arms folded. “Probably, but you never know,” Gray says. He snaps his fingers, making me jump. “Oh, and we've got some news about Greg and Petra, the other two in Troy’s mess. The gun used to kill Goldie, well, DNA came back saying it's registered to Greg. We’ve got enough to nab him, so I told the squad to quietly get a warrant for his arrest. And Petra's address? She's in Salt Lake City, moved there like nine months ago.” “Right after Troy got dumped,” I say. “Yeah. We can quietly bring them both in, Trice. Once we get solid proof, we can put them away for good,” Gray turns, checking out the surroundings. “What about Holder?” I ask, noting that his name is still the big unknown. “I’ll have a chat with him, but there’s no real evidence he killed Demitri.” I know Gray's got a point, but who else has had easy access to our place? I’m not convinced Holder's in the clear just 'cause he’s a cop. “Well, we’re gonna take off. We'll keep an eye out for a bit, you know, patrol the area, but now that the stuff’s gone, you shouldn’t be a target anymore.” “I won't totally buy that until every person tied to Troy, Goldie, and anyone else’s death is dealt with,” I say, determined. “They will be. We’re putting most of our energy into these cases, Trice. Just hang tight a bit longer.” We say bye to Gray and Officer Lopez and head back inside when my phone buzzes. It’s Leah. “Trice, what the heck is going on at your place? And don’t give me any bull.” “Got time to chat?” “Give me fifteen minutes.” True to her word, Leah swings by, and I invite her in. “Okay, spill it,” she demands, hands on her hips. What do I tell her? If I spill everything, I could drag her into this mess, but if I don’t, and she hears it from someone else, she’ll never let it go. “You better sit down.”

The next couple of days drags on as we wait for information about the gun. All is quiet at the house, but that’s to be expected since the police are back watching it. Brock and I are trying to get back some semblance of a normal life, but every noise startles me. This can’t continue or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. It’s Saturday, the last day of March, and I’m at the grocery store. I’m also headed to the garden nursery to pick up some spring plants. It’s finally Spring, and I need some color in my life. After paying for the groceries, I head out to a sunny and warmish day. It feels about 60, but I’ll take it. After loading the groceries and loving that I got the shopping done in the morning so few people are around, I hear the familiar buzzing of my phone, and my heart leaps. I fumble in my pocket and pick it up. It's Gray. “Do you have some news?” I say, not mincing my words. “Yes, and this is going to shock you. Also, the shooter did wear gloves when he shot Dimitri, but we were able to match the residue from the bullet to the gun and then put that in our gun registration database.” I wait with bated breath. “And …” “The gun belongs to your neighbor three houses to the west of you, Jack Montgomery.” I mentally calculate it and then gasp. “Him?” I’m very shocked, but then I recall when Troy was found, and he had that smirk on his face and the way he looked at me … “Trice, you there?” I snap back to the present, unaware Gray has been talking. “Sorry, yes. I was just thinking back to the day Troy was found. Jack wasn’t upset. In fact, he looked satisfied. I just chalked it up to the fact that he didn’t like him and left it at that, but this doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless … “ And then, as if the world stopped, the pieces start falling into place. “He knew about the drugs.” “Now, we don’t know that. He could have been walking by and saw the shooter on your property or was out on his deck and saw movement in your backyard. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.” “I highly doubt Jack walks anywhere. He’s a truck driver and has been gone three-fourths of the year. When he’s not gone, he’s probably sleeping. Put it this way. I have never seen Jack on a walk in the entire time I’ve lived here, and we both have been here for thirty years.” “Yeah, well, we still don’t want to assume anything until we’ve had a chance to interview him after we take him in. The problem is he’s on a delivery for the next week and won’t be back until then.” “So, we have to wait. I guess at least we know who shot Dimitri and that for the time being, we’re safe, right?” I chew on a nail and force myself to stop the nasty habit I’ve had for decades. “Not necessarily. Your theory that he knew about the drugs could be right, but we have no solid evidence. Again, he could have seen something, and since this street is now infamous for crime, he took it upon himself to get rid of a problem. You do know he was in the military, right? He was in the National Guard.” I didn’t know that, but I’m not entirely surprised. “Yes, so he knows how to handle himself and shoot a gun. Now, if we go with your theory – and it’s just a theory,” he says, emphasizing the word, “Then Jack had to have known that someone was after them –“ “Melanie,” I say, cutting him off. “But how does she know Jack?” “It could be that Jack found out about the affair, either from Troy himself or by accident and was blackmailing Troy when he learned about the drugs. Hell, maybe the two were in on it together and had some sort of deal. Maybe Jack was … “ he stops mid-sentence, and I sense he’s had an epiphany. “Was what, Gray?” “Well, and this sounds insane, but could Jack and Troy have been running a drug operation? It would be easy enough since Jack is a truck driver. They could have hidden the drugs in empty boxes in a large semi. Maybe at some point, it was starting to become too risky or something and so they had to find someplace to hide the drugs in case we came snooping. Or, maybe in one of the states he was delivering, he started getting suspicious about something, and they had to stop. The government has been cracking down hard on fentanyl.” I had to admit it was a strong possibility. But how did Melanie know about all of this unless Troy told her. When Grant killed him, suddenly, the drugs were fair game. I tell Gray about my theory. “If Melanie knows and sent someone, Dimitri, to get the drugs and Jack somehow found out, he was ready to take care of the problem,” I say signaling air quotes. "That makes sense. But I’m still hung up on how Jack knows Melanie sent someone when she did and he just happened to be there to catch him. That part isn’t adding up.” He’s right. We have to find out what Jack knows, but that won’t be for another week. In the meantime, if Melanie finds out Dimitri isn’t coming back with the drugs, will she send someone else? The thought sends shivers through me. Gray promises to call me as soon as they can arrest Jack, and I head to the nursery with too many questions filling my mind. *** I return home after picking out some Spring plants to fill my pots. When we get more freezes, which can happen until Mother’s Day or beyond, it’s easy to move them indoors. But just having some color to adorn our porch and deck gives me hope for a Spring rebirth and an end to one of the hardest and most dangerous years of my life. I grab the groceries from the car and head inside. Brock is in the kitchen making pancakes, and the smell of bacon wafts through the air. I realize I never ate before leaving, just grabbed coffee, and the food looks good. “Hungry?” Brock says, flipping a pancake. He’s wearing his light blue apron one of the grandkids got him for his birthday one year. The words “World’s Greatest Barbeque King” splashed across the front, with a crown on top, matches his baby blue eyes. I grin. “Yes! As soon as I bring in the rest of the groceries and plants, I have some news from Gray, and you’re never going to believe it.” “Really?” Here, let me help you.” He tosses the remaining pancakes onto a plate with the bacon on another one and covers them with a plastic plate. Once everything has been brought in and we’re sitting down to eat, Brock says, “Okay, spill it.” I tell him everything, and he stares at me as if I’m telling him a mesmerizing story. “You’re right, I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew or thought I knew that Jack hated Troy. But maybe that was all a façade. If Jack hadn’t shot Dimitri, he may have never been found out. For someone in the military, he should have known they would match his gun with the bullet found and trace it back to him.” “Yes, but he could use the defense tactic too. He was walking by, saw or heard some commotion and went to investigate. He saw Dimitri in our backyard and there was a struggle and he shot him. Clear self-defense.” Brock nods. “Yes, and I would have argued just that as a defense lawyer. However, if your theory rings true and he murdered Dimitri so he could get the drugs himself, then the self-defense plea won’t work. Gray has to question Melanie. She obviously knows about the drugs.” “Well, maybe, but maybe not. Here’s another theory. What if Dimitri was hired by Jack to get the drugs and he wanted some of the cut, which makes sense, or he would go to the police. So, Jack agrees; however, when Dimitri finds the drugs, he changes his mind or he demands more. Jack goes to confront him and they fight. The gun goes off and Jack kills him. Not wanting to be caught, of course, Jack takes off and leaves Dimitri there.” “Could be. The one thing I’m still hung up on, though, is how this all happened under the cop’s nose. Weren’t they watching the house? How could not one but two people jump our fence with no one seeing or hearing anything?” “Yeah … it just seems odd, right?” I cock my head and look pensive, trying to piece everything together. “I mean, unless a cop is in on it, which seems silly.” “I wouldn’t completely dismiss it, though. There are dirty cops.” “Yeah, but in Grantsville?” “Still, who was on patrol that night?” “Well, Officer Lopez and Holder. She left with Herc and then came back because she forgot his food. By then, the murder already happened.” “So, what if she was in on it with Holder?” “Lopez? No, she wouldn’t do this. I trust her. But, Holder could have. He’s new to the force. Maybe he found out or knew Troy or Jack and he was able to get access since he was watching the house.” Brock snaps his fingers; his eyes grow wide. “Oh my God, Trice. He was patrolling the house when we were gone to New York. Officer Lopez took a few shifts, but while she had Herc, he was here the whole time. Maybe he found out, and Jack told him he would get a cut if he kept quiet. Holder is young, might have debts, who knows? Melanie knew we would be gone and contacted Jack.” "Wait, so you’re saying they all were in on it? I find that hard to believe, Brock. I still don’t get how Melanie knew, unless Troy told her and when he died, well, we hashed that out already. So, Melanie, Jack, Dimitri, and Holder knew about the drugs. Do you think Jeff knew as well?” Brock looks to be pondering my question. “I don’t think he did. I don’t think he poisoned us. Melanie knew we were leaving to go back home, and she couldn’t have that since she still didn’t get the drugs, so she laces our coffee with arsenic, even though I don’t know how she acquired the same poison Grant used to kill Troy. “But, when we escaped and came back home and found the drugs ourselves, Holder was there. Remember, he came when Gray came. He contacted Melanie and Jack. She hires Dimitri to get the drugs, but when the deal goes south, Jack kills him.” An alarming thought enters my mind. “Holder knows Jack killed him and warned Jack to stay away. What if Holder gets the drugs himself? He’s patrolling the house tonight. How easy would it be for him to grab a buddy or give a kid a hundred bucks to help him get the canisters and toss them into the back of the truck? No one would be wiser because he’s a cop.” Brock rubs his forehead and then buries his head into the table. I hate that we have to deal with several murders now, and we still have no idea who murdered Goldie. He abruptly flips his head up. “This means Holder has known about this since day one. How convenient that he happened to be transferred to Grantsville shortly after Troy’s body was found.” As we are talking, I start to feel the hairs on the back of my neck flicker, and a cold feeling washes over me as I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a tiny camera hidden in my vase of artificial flowers. I try not to react. I must get Brock out of the house. “Hey, enough talking about this, or it will drive us both crazy. Come help me get these plants outside,” I say to a very confused Brock. ‘Wait, now?” “Yeah, I need to clear my head and need some help.” I turn the vase around and pretend to be fiddling with the flowers. When the camera is no longer in sight, I grab Brock’s arm and point to the vase and mouth CAMERA. Brock places his palm over his mouth as he looks at the vase and then back at me. “You’re right. We both need some sun and clear air.” We get up and head to the car but don’t say anything until we’re out back. I pull him away from those cameras as well. Who knows if Holder has hacked into our home security system. “I noticed a tiny camera in the vase,” I whisper. “Damn it, we’ve been recorded this whole time.” “That son of a bitch. Trice, we have to call Gray, ” he whispers back. “Hold on. If he did hack into our system and he’s watching us, he will know we’re contacting him. Let’s get the plants in the pots, boring stuff, and then I will mention that I need a few more plants and leave. Instead, I will head for the police station while you go back inside and put away the breakfast stuff and the rest of the groceries.” “Okay, that would work. But be careful and watch for anyone behind you.” “I will. This ain’t my first rodeo, so to speak,” I say and chuckle a little. At these times, you either laugh or cry and I’ve done enough crying to last a lifetime. We finish potting the plants, and I take a few pics and video as I always do for YouTube and Instagram. 30 minutes later, I back out of the driveway and head for the police station. Every minute or so, I glance out my rearview and side mirrors and see that no one is tailing me. I pull into the police station. I had texted Gray before I left, out of earshot of the backyard cameras. He wasn’t at the station but said he would meet me in 15 minutes, which gave me enough time to record my YouTube segment. I park and look around to see if I’ve been followed or if anything suspicious stands out. Finding nothing, I hurry into the police station. What greets me makes my blood boil.

The next morning, Brock and I barely speak. We quickly get breakfast, pack up, and head back to Grantsville for another nightmare that won't end. I don't even care how I look since I didn't sleep much. I'm sure my eyes are bloodshot with purplish bags under them. I hear Brock get up a few times, once he goes into the bathroom and the other time, he leaves our room and doesn't return for a while. I never ask him where he goes. It's close to 9:00 when we get into the city. I don't want to go home and see crime tape strewn across my lawn, but I know that's the scene we will encounter. When we enter our street, I notice a crowd gathering – of course, I know where. Soon, the press will be here, if they aren't already, and questions will begin. "Do you know about the body?"  "It seems odd the police notice it after you leave."  "Where have you been?"  "Another murder on this street?  "Are you involved?" I want to crawl into a hole and not come out until this whole horrible string of events and murders is behind us. However, now, we have a dead body in our backyard, drugs that we found in our shed, no idea who killed Goldie, and who is now targeting us – again. I take a deep breath as we slow up on the crowd, and they start to part, seeing our car. Is it too late to slink down into my seat so no one can see me? I look straight ahead, my heart racing, palms sweaty, and the feeling of dissociation comes on strong. I try taking some deep breaths. I have to face this, and panicking won't help. Brock pulls into the driveway, and I see a few police cars on the curb. I had texted Gray that we would be home around 9:00, and he said he'd meet us there, and he's right. Brock stops the car in the driveway, and at first, I wonder why he doesn't pull into the garage, but then figure police would need easy access to the backyard. "Hi guys," Gray says as we exit the vehicle. He looks somber. "Hey Gray," I say. The morning sun is beating down, and if I'm not just coming home to a crime scene, I would relish the late March day. "Let's go inside. Officer Lopez is in there with Hercules." I nod and follow him in, feeling eyes on us from all angles as the crowd comes back again. "Please, give the Summers some privacy," Gray barks at them. When I step inside, Herc is right there, tail wagging and running circles around me. I bend down and scratch behind his ears. "Hey, buddy," I say, thankful he was with Officer Lopez and not at the house yesterday. He would have for sure heard the commotion and went out and maybe even tried attacking the intruders. Who knows what could have happened to him. I wrap my arms around his neck. "I'm glad you're safe." "Do you want to see where it happened?" Gray says. "The body has been removed," he adds. "I want to see," Brock says. We follow Gray out back, and since it's still too early to mow and it hasn't rained, I can clearly see a bloodstain in the grass. "As I said on the phone last night. Officer Lopez found the male – Dimitri – with a bullet to the chest. It pierced his heart because he bled out on the grass." I feel ill. "He's from New York, Queens. His license shows him with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar running down his left cheek. He's 31 years old. And you've never heard of the name?" "No," I say, as he pulls out what looks to be the man's wallet. He pulls out a New York license. He hands it to me, and I stare at his photo having no idea who it is. I hand it to Brock, and he shakes his head. "I've never seen him before." "Yeah, figures. We have no idea what happened here, and since he's dead, we can't question him. The only one we can question, besides you and Brock, is Jeff. Being from New York himself and this Dimitri also from New York, it can't be a coincidence." "Well, that very well could be. If she knows about the drugs, where they're stored, and Dimitri was staking the house, he would have known when you left, as well as Officer Lopez. He had the perfect opportunity to get the drugs. Of course, he wouldn't have known that we too were waiting for someone to show up. The question is who found him and subsequently shot him?" A shiver runs through me. If Dimitri was after the drugs, who was after Dimitri? Better yet, did they know about the drugs too? Was this a neighbor who heard something and came over to investigate, saw him, and there was a struggle and he was shot? Did they flee because they had just shot and killed someone? Questions swirl in my head, and I try to focus on what Gray is saying. "So, you question Jeff and if he doesn't know who this person is, then what?" Brock folds his arms and stares down at the bloodied grass. Officer Lopez kept Herc inside, or he would have been sniffing and digging around. "Well, we can question Melanie. If she is the one who poisoned you, we have means, motive, and opportunity, but it will be tough getting proof." Gray is right. This seems like a crapshoot. The one person who could spill the beans is dead. "You guys didn't notice anyone suspicious slowly driving by or stopped next door or across the street before you left?" I shake my head. "No one. Of course, I wasn't paying that much attention since I figured no one would come until last night when we were gone." "Whoever shot Dimitri has to be connected with the drugs somehow," Brock says. "What I don't understand is why come in the afternoon and not nighttime when it was dark?" I say. "Lopez said she wasn't gone that long before she forgot to grab Hercule's food, maybe 30 minutes. It was long enough, apparently, but I still can't understand how he got into the backyard without anyone noticing," Gray pivots to the 6-foot-tall vinyl fence. "Not only that, but how did Melanie know where we live?" I say and then realize she could have found us online. "She probably Googled us," Brock answers for me. "Yeah, I realize that now. You can find anyone online," I mutter. "Gray, you said you questioned the neighbors, what did they say?" I completely forgot to ask him about that. "I talked to the neighbor to the east, but she wasn't home, and I couldn't reach the neighbors who now live where Troy and Samantha used to, and the home across the street, Mrs. Baxter, wasn't helpful either as she's an old widow who is legally blind." I knew Mrs. Baxter was mainly a recluse but had no idea she couldn't see. It shows how much I converse with my neighbors. I shuffle uncomfortably, wanting to leave the backyard, suddenly feeling uneasy, as if someone was watching us. "Can we go back inside? It's getting windy, and I need to sit down." I start to head for the sliding glass doors before anyone can object. Back inside, it feels warmer, and I can concentrate on who this person who shot Dimitri is and who Dimitri is connected to. We all sit down in the living room sectional. Gray looks lost in thought and then he pipes up. "Trice, didn't you say Melanie works in New York City?" "Yeah." "Do you know where?" "Um, it was some big ad agency. Let me think." Did Jeff or Melanie mention where she worked? I can't remember and tell this to Gray. "We can always check her social media; she might have it listed on Facebook or Instagram," Brock says, getting out his phone. "True," Gray says. "Okay, see if you can find that out. Trice, can you look up ad agencies in New York? I know it's a long shot since there are probably more than we can fathom, but it's worth a shot." I grab my laptop from the study and flip it open and start searching. Google comes back with a ton in the city. It could be anywhere, but I screenshot the top ten. "There are a ton of ad agencies, so I screenshot the biggest ones since I remember Jeff telling us it was a huge one in the city," I say. "I'll do some research." I start clicking on each one and go through the company bios to see if Melanie shows up in any of them, and then when that doesn't produce results, I enter her name in Google and up comes several Melanie Pattersons. I narrow the search to her name and city, and I see her photo and her title at Top Quality Advertising, not a very unique name. I click on the link which takes me to the website and her photo and bio that mentions she's the Account Executive. The company's in Brooklyn. "I found it. Here's the company she works for, address, and phone number," I say, taking the laptop over to Gray and showing him. He takes the computer. "Brilliant, Trice." I feel my cheeks grow hot. I always felt odd with praise, probably why I don't read my YouTube comments. I also don't like hate or confrontation either. "I found her social media," Brock says a few minutes later. "The last time she posted was late last year, looks like Christmas Eve. Nothing after that." I found that rather odd. Melanie is what I call an attention whore and I can't see her not posting for months. I look myself and see Brock is right, and even photos of her and Troy are gone. It's like she erased anything to do with him. After all, if Jeff's in prison, her lover dead, she could hire someone to find the drugs and get them and no one would know the wiser. She would have paid Dimitri to make it worth his while, but I'm sure his death wasn't part of the deal. "All right, well, this is a good start. Once we get info on the gun used, we might be able to lift prints if the shooter was careless and didn't wear gloves. If he did, it's going to be harder finding out who killed Dimitri." Back to square one. The mystery of Goldie's killer remains unsolved, and now we're faced with another murder to unravel. It feels like the Universe is working against us, and it's a reminder that fate is not to be trifled with. "I'm going to head back to the station and expedite this investigation. The shooter is still at large, and there's a possibility they're waiting for the right moment. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay here for a while. Tonight, Holder will be stationed in his squad car, keeping watch over the house. If this person is aware of the drugs and took out Dimitri, they might attempt to seize them. Maybe not tonight, but when things settle down. I strongly advise you to keep your gun with you at all times." "It's in the safe, but I'll grab it," Brock says, heading upstairs. "I'll inform you as soon as we have any information about the gun," Gray assures. He rises and heads for the door. "You know the drill. Stay vigilant, and if you observe anything unusual or hear any strange sounds, contact me immediately." I am all too familiar with the routine, and it has become wearisome. Shouldn't the forces of good prevail? I'm not so sure anymore.

I'm back writing again after being sick for two weeks. Hope you're enjoying the novel so far. Full disclosure: This is the first novel I have not outlined and fleshed out characters before starting. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the characters tell the story.  Is it perfect? Far from it. I'm still a little rusty from not writing for years, but I love creative writing and crime stories, so if you guys keep reading it, I will keep writing it! This novel has about 60 more pages before I wrap it up, and then I will start on the second one - this time, Patrice will be in an exotic place when the crime(s) take place, and I will change from the present to the past, as it gives me more artistic license with the characters. (this one was a test) The new novel will be Begonias & Belladonna: A Patrice Summers Mystery. Begonias loves warm and humid climates, so join Patrice and me in none other than Greece for the next novel! Thank you to those who have stuck it out and subscribed to my newsletter. I'm always open to feedback and suggestions. Okay, back to the story ... The following day, we head to Salt Lake City. The weather is a bit gloomy, with a chill in the air. Snow might be on the horizon – Northern Utah does that whole snow-in-May thing and warm Decembers. I was hoping for some sunshine, but it doesn't seem likely. Brock pulls up to the Marriot Hotel entrance. It's starting to drizzle, but thankfully, there's an underground parking lot to dodge the rain. Finding a spot is a breeze since it's not exactly peak season. I snap a quick pic of the parking area – gotta outsmart the forgetful parking struggle that comes with age. Brock's more of a wander-around-looking-for-the-car type; I prefer a foolproof strategy. Brock hauls out the luggage, wheels it to the door, and I trail behind. The automatic doors whoosh open, and a blast of warmth hits my face. Maroon flooring clashes with crème-colored walls as we stroll down the hallway under fancy tear-drop chandeliers. Our room's on the third floor, offering a sweet view of the mountains to the east. At the guest desk, a friendly host greets us. She has a long, slicked-back, low ponytail of blonde hair and sports a black blouse and a dark green skirt that matches her eyes. Looks about 30-ish. "Enjoy your stay," she says, handing over our key cards. "Thanks, we will," I respond, while Brock just nods. I'm usually the one who interacts with hosts; Brock is all about getting to the room. We ride the elevator to the third floor, find our room, and Brock swipes the card, opening the door. It's nothing fancy, but it's got two king-size beds with peach comforters and beach scenes framed above them. A large TV sits across from the beds. I head to the bathroom, eyeing the inviting jetted tub for later. "Where do we want to go first?" Brock yells. "Well, museums, lunch, Temple Square, and maybe some shopping at City Creek?" I suggest. Salt Lake, settled by pioneers in 1847, has a rich history centered around Temple Square and City Creek. The story is one of faith and tragedy. "Oh hey, I also want to head up the canyon if there’s not too much snow," Brock adds. "Sure thing. We've got all day. It's only 10:30," I check my watch. Ready to go Brock enters the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair. "Okay, I'm ready," he says. I touch up my hair and lipstick, and we leave the hotel. The cooler air hits me, and we walk a bit before visiting the history museum. I love soaking in history, studying each piece, while Brock opts for a quicker tour, glued to his phone towards the end. "Hungry?" I ask when we reconvene. "Yeah. Let’s grab some food. Johnny Rockets is only a few blocks from here at City Creek. Should we go there?" Brock suggests. "Sounds good to me." As we step outside, rain pours. I open my umbrella, and Brock pulls up his hood. We dash to Johnny's, a place we've frequented in the past few years. It's our go-to lunch spot in Salt Lake and Brock’s when working in the city – evidenced by the friendly workers saying hi to him. When seated, I dive into a juicy Cheddar Bacon Burger and strawberry lemonade. Johnny's, with its 50s throwback vibe, is packed. Somewhat like Daniel’s in Grantsville, however, the décor of Johnny’s is colorful and in your face. Half the walls are a bright peach and halfway down is painted with dark brown stripes intermingled with a light peach. The flooring looks like confetti – no joke – and the booths are crimson red leather, with a white V shape in the middle. The tables are white. A large bar at the back of the restaurant features a stainless-steel counter that wraps all around, with a silver backsplash that travels up to the ceiling. Silver lights that look like small rockets shine down on diners. Old-time red stools stand under the counter to complete the look. You can’t step into a Johnny Rockets and not feel like a kid again. The place was loud, with college kids being the loudest. The University of Utah isn’t too far from here, and this is a popular place to hang out. Brock had told me. Post-lunch, we explore Temple Square, declining an invitation to learn more about the LDS faith from a few nice missionaries who introduced themselves as Sister Carrington from London and Sister Langston from Montana. It wasn’t that we weren’t religious, but Brock said he had his own relationship with God and didn’t need organized religion, especially since so much wrong has been done in the name of religion. Since I’m a Christian but don’t belong to any sect, I took on his religious perspective as well. Still, it’s nice to see the architecture and culture of the LDS faith and what they went through to become a worldwide religion. Back at the hotel around 5:00, I'm exhausted. We decide to rest before dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, for which I've made a 7:00 reservation. The rain has stopped, and the sun had come out when we walked into the hotel. As I relax, my phone buzzes. It's Gray. My heart picks up a bit. "Hey Gray, what’s up?" I answer, pretending it's just a casual chat. "Hi, Trice, how’s Salt Lake?" he greets. Maybe he is just calling to chat. "It’s nice, a little rainy today. Walked around a bunch and heading to dinner in a while." "Good," came the initial response, followed by a pause and a hefty sigh, which wasn't exactly a positive indicator. "Gray, something's up, right?" I query, my tone casual yet tinged with concern. "Yeah, well, there's been a bit of a situation. A dead body was found about an hour ago," Gray revealed. "What?" My disbelief was palpable. "On your property," he adds. My eyes widen, and I shoot up, color draining from my face. "What?" I repeat, urgency creeping into my voice. "How, when, where?" I need answers, pronto. Brock, engrossed in TV, hits pause and turns to me. "Trice, spill. What's happening?" he asks. I shush him. "This morning, an hour after you left. In the backyard. Lopez was waiting for Hercules to finish his business when she heard him suddenly barking like crazy. She went out to see why, and that’s when she saw the body. Hercules kept sniffing, and she had to grapple with him, getting him away. The body was found next to your shed. Trice, he was shot,” Gray explains. “Shot?” I echo back. "Shot?" Brock's eyes widen. "Who got shot?" He almost grabs the phone from me. "Hold on, Gray. Let me catch Brock up." I relay Gray's update to Brock, who has the same questions as I did. "I don't know, but he was shot." "Can I see the phone?" Brock gestures for it. I yank it back, "No, just hang on." "Okay, Gray, putting you on speaker so Brock's in the loop." I activate the speaker icon and put the phone between us. "Go ahead." "Well, as I was saying, Lopez found a dead body in your backyard. Male, recently deceased. Identified as Demitri Ballinger. Any bells ringing?" Gray inquires. Brock and I exchange puzzled looks. I shrug; he shakes his head. "No clue," I admit, wracking my brain to place the name. "He's not local; he's from New York," Gray continues. My heart races. "Connected to Jeff? He's the only one in the mix living there," I speculate. "That's what we're trying to figure out," Gray confirms. "But Jeff's in prison," Brock points out. "True, but he can still communicate. Maybe he knew about the shed and drugs and sent Demitri to get them," I suggest, acknowledging the wildness of the idea. "Possible, but how does Jeff know unless..." Brock starts. "His wife knew," I interject, like I knew all along but didn’t want to believe it. "Could be, but why rat out Troy?" Brock questions. "If she knew, maybe she got Demitri to grab the drugs. Jeff's in prison, money's tight, no job, lawyer fees, living in New York on one income—it adds up," Gray theorizes. "That's what I was thinking. That woman never liked us. Maybe she even spiked our coffee with arsenic, not Jeff. He confessed to protect her," I say, my excitement rising thinking back to that nightmarish day, the poisoning, being tied up, the little girl untying us, escaping, twisting my ankle.  I shiver. "You might be onto something. Revenge, framing Jeff, she gets the drugs, sells them, and makes money. Seen stranger things," Gray adds. "So, she sends a goon to our house, knowing that's where the drugs are. But what's weird is that Demitri gets shot shortly before we leave. Who knew he was there? Did a neighbor hear, investigate, and shoot him in our backyard?" Brock ponders aloud. "That's the big question. I need to quiz the neighbors. Unfortunately, guys, your trip's cut short. We need you back to answer questions. Protocol," Gray informs us, a necessary but unwelcome reality. "Can we at least return in the morning? We're beat," I plead, stifling a yawn. I know Gray is correct, but I’m not ready to come back home and deal with yet another murder, another dead body, and one that is on our property – just yet. "Yeah, tomorrow works. But hustle back. We'll question the neighbors tonight. Text when you're in town," Gray instructs. "Thanks, Gray. Can't believe this isn't over yet." I push end and sit there. A sickening thought crosses my mind. Would Melanie put a hit on us?

Brock first checks the foyer window, with me following, checking myself. A squad car is still there, and I wonder how long he’ll be there until Officer Lopez replaces him. “Okay, the house is still being watched, so we can go out back and check the shed,” Brock says, going back into the living room and to the sliding glass door. Herc is behind us, wagging his tail furiously. I follow Brock outside; the sun is bright, and it feels slightly cool but not bad. Thankfully, no snow has fallen for a few weeks, so no worries about ice. Herc starts growling at the stupid cat in our tree. I swear he lives there. “Shhhh, Herc,” I slightly scold him. I bend down and rub his neck. “It’s just a cat.” Brock opens the door and we both go in. He flips on the light, the one I asked him to replace because it’s dimming. Hopefully, it holds out while we’re here. I wonder if we should tread lightly, but then why? This is property shed. Still, I can’t help but feel a little anxious about what we’ll find. Brock heads to the back, where the large blue canisters stand. The shed is fairly large; Brock built it about 20 years ago, close to when we moved in. The old one was smaller, with the gray paint chipping off. It looked weather-worn, and I wanted a larger area for all my garden stuff. So, he built me a new light crème color shed with two matching window boxes I fill with colorful plants each year. Inside, toward the front, a row of shelves houses my fertilizer, pesticides, and herbicides; underneath, there is a large enough area for soil and mulch. On the back wall, the lawnmower and edger sat. He installed a row of hooks on the east wall to place the shovels, rakes, etc. The two blue canisters fit under the shelves along the west wall. I’m unsure if I should help him open them or let me have a go at it. I scan the yard as he’s pulling them out from underneath so he can grasp the lid of the first one. Herc is still eyeing the cat, sniffing the air. “Okay, you ready?” Brock claps his hands. “No, and yes.” He grabs the lid and starts turning it. Curiosity and all that leads me to watch. My heart is beating fast, and I feel my stomach turning somersaults. Once it’s turned all the way, he opens the canister, and we both stare at gallon-sized white bags of white powder, dozens of the stuff packed in the container. “Oh my God,” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Trice, this has got to be worth a ton of money.” He pulls the other one out and opens it. More drugs in bags are in this one, too. “We can’t touch this and need to contact Gray ” He’s right. This is evidence. He screws both lids back on and pushes them under the shelf. We leave the shed, and this time, Brock locks it, telling me the key is on his keyring. “One thing that still bothers me,” I say. “We were gone for nearly a week. Why didn’t they try and find whatever he stashed then?” “Well, the police were parked on our street every day and night, remember? They would have been caught.” “Ah, true.” When we go back inside, I call Gray and tell him what we discovered. “You’re kidding,” was all he said. He then promised to be over with his officers and the drug unit ASAP. “Stay inside until we arrive.” He ends the call, and Brock and I sit on the couch, both shocked at the discovery that has been in our shed for probably close to a year. “Now, it makes sense,” Brock says. “Yeah. The amount of drugs in those canisters amount to probably a million dollars or more, and it’s all in our backyard shed.” The realization sinks in, and I get why our home and our lives have been targeted. A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door and Gray announcing his arrival. Brock and I rush to the door and let him in. ‘Okay, show me.” Following him are drug-sniffing dogs, two more officers, and another officer in charge of the drug unit. Soon, the street will know something is up. At least four police cruisers and the Canine Unit van are parked on our street. Thankfully, kids are in school at this hour. We all file out back and to the shed. The police officers are stationed on both sides of the yard, watching the area and standing guard. Brock opens the canisters and Gray has the drug-sniffing dog go to work. His tail is wagging hard and Gray says, “It’s definitely drugs.” With his latex-gloved hand, he pulls out a bag, opens it up, and sniffs the contents. “Smells like Coke.” He takes another bag from the second canister and does the same thing. “This smells different. Could be Fentanyl.” I’m dumbfounded. The two most lethal drugs have been sitting in my shed, and my neighbor, whom I mourned and grieved his passing, was dealing drugs and used our property to stash them. The bastard. “So, this is why you two have been targeted for so long. I’m so sorry,” Gray says, shaking his head. “I’m going to take the heat off you. We will have a press conference and announce what we found and that it will be removed and sent to a secure location, so this thug or thugs will have no reason to keep targeting you. I’ll notify the news stations. This will not stand on my watch.” Oh great, now our home will be broadcast to the whole world, but I can’t argue with him; this is the right thing to do. It’s just when it’s removed, what happens then? Will we ever find out who killed Goldie? Will we be back to square one? “If it’s moved, how will you catch the people or person? Wouldn’t it be better to trap them? We know they will try and find the drugs. Maybe we should let them keep trying and then catch them in the act,” Brock says, which does make sense. “If you take it, we may never find out who killed Goldie and is after us.” Gray contemplates Brock’s question as he inhales deeply and puckers his lips. “You have a point. Okay, but you must leave again for a few days or so. If they get wind that you’re leaving the house, they may decide to try and find the drugs. We will stay hidden and have the officers in an unmarked vehicle. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay there at night with your dog, but stay out of sight. You have cameras on the perimeter, right?” “Yeah, two in the front, on each side of the house, and three on the back, one in front of the sliding glass doors and two by the side fences,” Brock says, pointing to the area. “Okay, they will monitor the cameras. If there’s any movement, they will see it. Hopefully, this perp will be caught. When we leave, tell your neighbors you thought you heard someone in your garage, but it was a stray cat.” “What about the Canine unit?” I ask, knowing there will have to be a good reason why the dog is here. Officer Lopez speaks up and says, “Tell them you found a cat who knocked over a bag of white powder in your garage you hadn’t seen before and wanted to know if it was a drug. When the results came back, it was just diatomaceous earth that Brock had bought years ago and put into a box. The cat found its way inside, knocked the box over, and spilled the contents. Enough said.” That would work. “Okay, we’ll go with that plan,” Gray says, seemingly impressed with her clever excuse. “Can you take off again for a few days, say to a Hotel in Salt Lake?” Brock and I look at each other and nod. “Yeah, we can do that,” Brock says. “At this point, I’m willing to do what it takes to put the thugs behind bars.” “Same,” I pipe in. “I just want this nightmare to end.” “Okay, get your reservations for tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. The weekend is a perfect time for them to try again. You’re off for a romantic weekend for an anniversary or something,” Gray says. “My birthday coming up in April,” I announce. “Well, there you go. Brock is taking you away for a birthday weekend celebration in Salt Lake City.” I just remembered that tonight is Garden Club. We are discussing Spring planning. I can’t miss it, as we’ve only held it four or maybe five times in the last year. Two times, I couldn’t meet, and one time, we canceled because only one person was coming. The rest of the time, we dealt with Leah and Trevor’s home being broken into, us being threatened, and others ill or away on vacation. Plus, it’s been winter, and no one really cares about gardening until Spring, which meteorologically begins next week. March is planning month for gardeners, and April and May are typically for buying and planting. I plant all season, though. This is the first time that everyone is supposed to come. I won’t tell anyone of our plan, well, maybe Leah. I’ve hidden so much from her, and we rarely talk now. She’s busy with her new adventure as a vintage boutique shop owner - they opened late last year. She’s there quite often, and when I do talk to her, she seems happy to be busy. I also haven’t released a YouTube garden video in almost a month, and have decreased my marketing consultant business while dealing with this mess. We all file out of the backyard; by now, the street is humming with people gawking and whispering. Our street has had its fair share of shocking events this past year. I wouldn’t be surprised if people started moving out and our property value decreased. “Nothing to see here, folks. Mrs. Summers wanted a box of powder tested a cat had knocked over in the garage. It wasn’t drugs, just some old pesticides,” Gray tells the growing crowd. “I guess that’s what happens when you live with a gardener,” Brock jokes as he grins and shrugs. That gets some laughs, and people start leaving. “Let me know when you two are going to leave tomorrow, and I will get Officer Lopez and Holder here,” Gray says before leaving. We nod, with me feeling guilty they have to leave their families to stay in our home, but Officer Lopez said her boyfriend would take the kids to his parents for the weekend, and Officer Holder is young and unmarried. I still hate that we are once again in danger. But at least now, we know why. After everyone left and Officer Lopez and Holder pledged to be here when we leave tomorrow, Brock and I flopped on the couch, each absorbed in our thoughts. I have to call a Salt Lake hotel and get reservations. We’re supposed to only be gone for a few days, but what if the person targeting us doesn’t show up while we’re gone? Do we stay longer? What if they come back tonight before we leave? Our street was once again center of attention today and will be when the gardening group meets again tonight. “I’ll call Marriott in Salt Lake and see if we can get reservations for tomorrow night and Sunday,” I tell Brock. “Yeah, okay.” As I watch him, I notice he looks more tired than usual. Dark circles look prominent under his eyes, and fine lines are more pronounced. His gray hair is nearly all gray now, and it seems both of us have aged a decade in the last year. I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep all year. After getting our reservations and packing – yet again – I get ready for the gardening group. Since we’re nearing Spring, this is the time to start planning our gardens, but I haven’t had any desire to plan, let alone think of the plants I want to grow this year. My mind keeps wandering to the shed and what is contained in two blue canisters – the amount of drugs is mind-blowing, and no doubt, whoever is after them will go to great lengths to ensure they get them. I look in the hall mirror before opening the door to the first gardening group member. I rub my lips together after putting on some rose lipstick and smoothing my hair, which is nearly to my shoulders now. I lightly pinch my cheeks to bring some color to my cheeks, a trick my mother taught me when I was younger. Squeezing your cheeks lightly brings the blood to the surface so you display a pinkish tint. I think back to the gardening group. If they knew our home had been cased out, broken into, and there were possibly hundreds of pounds of drugs worth a ton of money sitting in our shed, they’d never believe it. Hell, sometimes, I can’t believe what I saw in my own backyard. Officer Lopez was in an unmarked car next door, watching the house. She didn’t like that we were having people over, but I told her this meeting had already been canceled several times. We have to act normal – at least for tonight. “Welcome,” I say, taking the cheese and crackers tray from Roger, a new group member as of a few months ago. He’s wearing light jeans and a black hoodie. His sandy brown hair waves to the side, reminding me of a California surfer, which is apt since he’s from the state. His blue eyes stand out and are a deep hue piercing you when you stare back. He looks about as tall as Brock, around 6’2, and a slight pinkish scar runs down his neck. I wonder about the story surrounding the wound. “Hi Patrice, your home is gorgeous,” he says, his eyes following up and down and around as I lead him to the living room. I place the platter down and motion for him to sit on the sectional and wait for the remaining members. He’s single, says he went through a divorce last year, and is trying to put the pieces of his “dreadful” life back together again. He’s a mechanic and works 10 hours daily to pay for child support for his 8-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter. I feel bad for his situation, especially when he told me his wife had an affair and petitioned for a divorce six months later. What is it with couples having affairs and then divorcing their spouses shortly after? The doorbell rings, and I quickly walk to the door—Herc’s in Brock’s office with him while I host the group. I told Officer Lopez I was planning on seven people tonight and that each person would bring a platter of food, so if anyone showed up without one, she would know to be suspicious. After everyone shows up and the food has been passed around, Leah starts the conversation surrounding today’s police call. “Trice, what was really going on here earlier?” She asks me after taking cheese and crackers. She’s holding a butter knife and waving it around. “I mean, we all know, or should know, you don’t just call the police to check if something is poison or not.” of course, I dread where this is going, and I feel trapped. What can I say? Instead, I tried to make it into nothing. “I didn’t call them; Brock did. A stray cat pulled over a box of some white substance in our garage. We don’t know how the cat got into the garage in the first place, and we were concerned that Herc would mess with it and possibly end up ingesting it or getting into his skin. We had to ensure it was safe, and since I didn’t remember purchasing it, it was better safe than sorry.” And that was that. A few members seemed to buy it, but others still looked at me as if I was telling them a lie, especially Leah and Veronica, my true crime partners. It was nearly 9:30 when the meeting ended. I put away the remainder of the plates and cups and was now reading in my bed. For the most part, the meeting went well. We actually talked about gardening, and by the end, I was getting excited about the plants I would grow this year. For a few hours, chatting about nothing but gardening felt normal. We each had developed our gardening plan, and I was given them so I could “grade” the space, plants, water, fertilizer, soil, etc., to ensure they chose the best garden for their space. Our reservations were for the morning. I told Brock we could spend the day in the city and check in that evening. We would stay until Monday morning – three nights. If whoever was coming to get the drugs did so in that period, Officer Lopez and Holder would be ready. I just pray everything goes as planned. And if it doesn’t … who knows what will happen?