"Sure, I'll have cheddar."

"We don't have cheddar. All we've got is American."

We're in Vermont and you don't have cheddar? Stella thought to herself. "Um, that's okay. I'll pa.s.s."

"I'll pa.s.s too."

"Drinks?"

"Oh, it's been an interesting past two days," Stella prefaced. "I think I'll treat myself to a Cosmopolitan."

The waitress stared blankly.

Nick gestured at their surroundings. Along with the roaring fire, hanging lamps and a few neon beer signs cast a cozy glow over the dining room full of working-cla.s.s couples and families. At the bar, about a half-dozen men in flannel shirts and hunting garb quietly drank their beer and exchanged stories of their latest kill. "I don't think this place goes in for the fancy mixed drinks, honey."

"Oops, sorry! I'll have a gla.s.s of wine, then. Do you have a pinot noir?"

"Nope," the waitress stated flatly. "We have two things: soda and beer."

"Really?" Stella uttered in disbelief.

"Just bring us two bottles of Sam Adams," Nick interceded on his wife's behalf.

"Comin' right up." The waitress nodded in Nick's direction before turning on one heel and heading back behind the bar.

"So," Nick picked up their previous conversation, "if you don't think Reid murdered Weston, who did?"

"I never said that I didn't think Reid did it. I just think we have other equally viable suspects."

"Josh Middleton's definitely on the list. But who else?"

"Alice, of course," said Stella.

"Eh, I'm still not sure Alice makes the cut. Problem is, like I said before, she doesn't have a motive."

"No, not that we know of, but I'm sure she has one. The way she spoke about Weston's business dealings was ..."

"As if she were bitter about something?" asked Nick.

"Yeah, exactly. She sounded bitter, but about what? And why wouldn't she tell us who had done business with Weston? Everyone in town seems to know what's going on with everyone else. Why bother trying to keep it a secret?"

"Because the person who did business with Weston was either close to Alice or Alice herself."

Stella nodded. "Then, like you said, there's Middleton. Aside from having a strong motive and a shaky alibi, his behavior today was rather odd."

"How so?"

"Well, for a kid who claims to have felt so sorry for Hank Reid, he sure was quick to point the finger at him."

"Yeah, he was, wasn't he?" said Nick.

"Mmm-hmm. I have to wonder, was it self-preservation that made him put us on Reid's trail, or something else?"

"By 'something else,' you mean like Middleton discovering that Reid was trained as a government a.s.sa.s.sin during the Cold War and has never been deprogrammed? Because, personally, that's the vibe I get off of Reid. Look at where he lives. The last time that house was decorated, school kids were being taught to duck and cover whenever they saw a flash."

Stella, ignoring her husband's silliness, went on. "Then there's Jake Brunelle ..."

"Brunelle? Why is he on the list?"

"You heard Reid. Weston was ruining Brunelle's business."

"Yeah, but Mills spoke with him this morning at Alma's. Brunelle has an alibi."

"An alibi no one has looked into yet. Besides, Mills didn't even have the coroner's report when he spoke to Brunelle. We can hardly say he's exonerated."

Nick shrugged. "Mills seemed satisfied with Brunelle's response. The two of them are even going hunting next weekend."

"I know he's the sheriff, but until we know more about Mills, I'm not going to take that as a ringing endors.e.m.e.nt. You know how small towns are."

"Wow, cynical much? You're starting to sound like me," Nick said.

"No, I'm not. I'm not saying I think Mills is corrupt. I just think that in a small town where everyone knows each other, it would be difficult to retain a sense of objectivity. If Mills is friends with Jake Brunelle, it would be only natural that Mills would give him the benefit of the doubt."

"I don't know. Mills has been a cop for a while. If he had a problem putting his personal feeling aside in order to enforce the law, he'd have been out of a job a long time ago. If he seems satisfied with Brunelle's alibi, I trust his judgment."

"And I don't blame you for doing so, but I think we need to look at every possibility. Personally, I don't think we know Mills well enough to blindly follow his lead. I mean, he seems like a decent guy, but I'm not convinced he didn't have his own issues with Weston. That goes for Alma too."

"Yeah, I keep thinking about Alma's description of Weston this morning, and Mills's somewhat cryptic comment about him 'taking what he wanted.'"

"I know. Those were some cutting remarks to make about someone they claimed not to know very well."

"You think they know more about him than they let on?"

"I don't know. In a town this small, it's tough to tell. They could have had a run-in with Weston, they could be reacting to something they heard, or we could just be reading too much into it," she admitted. "However, I do think that if Alma was the one with the ax to grind, Mills would go to her defense in a heartbeat."

"Well, if he's trying to get into her-"

Stella shot him a warning glance. "Good graces? Please tell me you were going to say 'good graces.'"

"Um, if he's trying to hook up with Alma, rescuing her at her time of need would be the logical way to do it."

"It would. But, again, this is all conjecture. The only thing we know for certain is that Weston was shot and his body found stuck in our well."

"That's not all. We also know that Weston's truck was missing from the scene."

"You're right. That truck is a real puzzle. Why would it have been at the house while Alice was there in the morning and then disappear later in the day? And where is it now?"

"I have no idea," Nick gazed over Stella's head, toward the bar area. "But here comes Sheriff Mills. Maybe he has some news."

Mills, still in uniform, approached the table with a frosty gla.s.s mug in hand. "Evening. See you took my advice about burger night."

"We figured anyone who goes to Alma's every morning must appreciate good food."

Stella's mention of Alma's name caused the sheriff to clear his throat and stare uncomfortably at his shoes. "Well, it ain't a fancy place, but the people are friendly. Food's basic but good, and you get a lot of it."

"Yeah, it seems great," Nick remarked. "Hey, did you eat yet?"

"Nope, only just started to whet my whistle." Mills held his beer aloft with a grin.

"Then come and join us. We only just ordered, and we've yet to whet our whistles." Nick slid from his side of the booth and took a seat beside his wife.

"I don't want to intrude," Mills said slowly. However, his body language made it clear that he was happy for the invitation.

"You're not," Stella a.s.sured.

Mills slid into the spot recently vacated by Nick. "Thanks. Oh, and don't worry about the beer. Might be in uniform, but I'm off-duty."

"Whew! I know that's a load off my mind. The moment I saw you with that beer, I said to myself, 'Gee, I hope our law enforcement officers don't drink on the job.'"

Mills chuckled quietly and leaned across the table. "Between you and me, Mrs. Buckley, you might be better off if a few of them did."

As the trio laughed, the waitress returned with the Buckleys' beers.

"Oh, hey there, Suzanne," Mills addressed the waitress. "These folks are my guests tonight. Make sure everything goes on my tab, okay?"

"You got it," Suzanne replied over the Buckleys' protests. "Just promise me you won't chew their ears off or get too rowdy."

Mills blushed crimson. "Do my best."

"You didn't have to do that," Nick admonished.

"Yeah, I did. Least I can do for keeping you outta your home."

"That's not your fault. It's police business."

"I know. Can't help feeling kinda bad about it, though. I've been to Ray Johnson's camp before. Seen Sally Ann's with better furniture in them."

"It's not that bad. Still better than trying to sleep in the car."

"It would be better if we had our air mattress, though," Stella added.

"Funny you said that, Mrs. Buckley. After we left Alma's this morning, I gave a call over to Clyde Perkins. You can get one at his store."

"So, I finally get to meet this Clyde character. After everything I've heard, I feel as though I know him," Nick commented. "Where is Perkins, anyway?"

"Just down the street from here. Open 'til eight, so stop in after dinner."

"We'll do that. Maybe they have a flashlight too."

"What happened to your flashlight?"

"Long story," Stella sighed.

"Oh. So, um, what did you want to ask me?"

"Huh?"

"When I was on my way over here, I overheard you saying you needed to ask me something."

"Oh, I was wondering if you had any news on Weston."

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Care to share with us?"

Mills drew a heavy sigh.

"Come on," Stella urged. "You know you can't keep it a secret from us; not in this town, anyway. If it doesn't wind up in tomorrow's paper, someone will eventually blab about it to us-it's inevitable."

"I got the coroner's report," Mills capitulated. "Weston was shot three times in the chest with a .30-06 hunting rifle."

"Does that mean you were right? That it was a hunting accident?"

Mills shook his head. "He was shot from a range of approximately forty to fifty feet. I drew a circle with a fifty-foot radius around your well, and it didn't even come close to making it to the woods. Nope, wherever the shooter was standing, he-or she-had to have seen Weston."

"So the shooter was standing somewhere in the yard or driveway."

"Or inside the house. Part of that circle goes right through your kitchen."

"Meaning that someone-someone who knew Weston would be working on our well-could have been inside the house, waiting. Waiting to kill him."

"That's right."

Stella envisioned a shadowy figure leaning out the kitchen window, hunting rifle c.o.c.ked and at the ready. "Wait one minute; if someone shot him from inside, that means ... oh, no. Don't tell me."

"Yup, it means that you probably won't be able to return to your house for quite a while."

"Is that why you checked on the air mattress for us?"

"Nope, that was just me being neighborly. Didn't get the coroner's report until long after I checked into Perkins, but it is why I'm buying dinner," he added with a quick grin.

"Three bullets at close range," Nick thought aloud. "No wonder there was so much blood."

"Weston bled out, all right, but not all that red water you saw was blood."

"What was it?"

"Neutrichrome red."