"I know. I think I just threw up in my mouth."

Mills wrinkled his nose. "All right, we'll add Reid back to the list of suspects."

"Good call, 'cause I think he's guilty. Guess what, honey, I'm riding the Cheney Train again!"

"The what?"

"Don't mind my husband. His good night's sleep has rendered him completely annoying. Anyway, now that we're all on the same page regarding suspects, there's just one nagging question left, and I'm afraid I might be the only one who can answer it-well, me and Perkins, that is."

"What question is that?"

"Nick, you remember how Bunny rushed out of the store that night?"

"Of course I do. I just about wiped out a shelf of Spam and corned beef hash trying to avoid her crashing into me."

"She was talking about something just before she ran off ... it was you, Sheriff."

"Come on, now," Mills said sharply. "Haven't we already been through this?'

Stella waved a dismissive hand. "No, no, I don't mean it that way. She was talking about you but looking at something behind me. Something she saw or something she was talking about-or a combination of the two-struck a chord somehow. That's when she stopped what she was doing and hurried from the store. I'd like to try and re-create that scene if I could, so I can see exactly what she saw at the time."

"'Fraid you'll have to wait 'til tomorrah. Perkins is closed on Sundays."

"To most of us, perhaps. But I'm sure the Windsor County Sheriff might be able to finagle a special opening."

"Maybe." Mills downed the remainder of his cup and looked at Nick. "Is she always like this?"

Nick looked at the sheriff and replied tiredly, "You have no idea."

CHAPTER.

17.

WEDGED INTO THE cab of Sheriff Mills's pickup, the Buckleys and Mills made a brief stop at the Windsor County Sheriff's Department before making the drive uphill to Weston's house.

Upon reaching the gravel-lined driveway, the trio exited the vehicle and wended their way through the yellow tape to the front door. As he had done the day before, Nick pressed the thumbpiece of the bra.s.s front door handle. This time, however, the door would not budge. "It's locked!"

" 'Course it's locked," Mills affirmed. "Don't want the whole town tramping through here."

"Yeah, but yesterday it was unlocked."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"I don't see how that could be. I know I locked this place up Friday night."

"And I know I left it unlocked yesterday."

"It was unlocked, Sheriff. I even double-checked it," Stella joined in. "We wanted to make sure we left everything the way we found it."

"Then that would mean that someone either broke in ..."

"Or they had a key." Stella made no mention that only two of their suspects could have had such an object.

"Looks like we'd better go over this place with a fine-tooth comb. You see anything out of place, you tell me," the sheriff instructed as he took the house key from his pocket and opened the front door.

Stella and Nick stepped into the cool whiteness of the main foyer and made their way upstairs. Everything, from Weston's impressive collection of audio and visual equipment to his medicine cabinet full of restoratives, curatives, and elixirs, appeared to be intact and untouched. After a thorough exploration of the upstairs guest bedrooms produced the same result, Nick and Stella headed back downstairs to report to Mills.

On the way down, Stella whispered to Nick, "There are only three people who might have a key for this place. Weston's housekeeper, but no one's even mentioned her as a suspect, or if she even had one. Mills is the second, most likely Weston's copy."

"And Weston's girlfriend, i.e., Alma, would have had another. Maybe we should have kept an eye on Mills instead of letting him search alone?"

"It doesn't matter now. The killer was already here-whatever he or she was looking for is probably gone."

"But we haven't noticed anything missing."

"We'll check downstairs."

They walked into the kitchen, where they found Sheriff Mills rummaging through an island of cherry cupboards topped by a slab of dark gray granite. He stood up as they entered the room. "Find anything?"

"No," Nick replied. "Everything seems to be the same as we left it."

"Nothing moved, taken away, or added," Stella clarified. "At least, not that I noticed."

"Didn't see anything down here either. Guess we were wrong about someone having been back here."

"Someone was here, Mills," Nick rationalized. "And they came here for a reason. We might not be able to see what that reason is, but there has to be one."

Her suspicion of Mills renewed, Stella tried to throw him off course. "Probably just Crazy Maggie searching for her treasure."

Mills raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips together to imply that the Maggie scenario was a distinct possibility. "I'll go check the cellar, though, just in case."

As Mills disappeared through an interior door, Stella walked toward the front of the house.

Nick ran after her. "Where are you going? Shouldn't one of us go down there with him?"

"You go; I'll be right back. The ladies' room beckons."

As Nick returned to the kitchen, Stella retraced her steps into the foyer, pausing only to turn into the gray and stainless-steel powder room she had broken into less than twenty-four hours earlier. Closing the door behind her, she flipped on the light switch.

The sight revealed by the soft white glow of the vanity bulbs made Stella freeze in her tracks. "Nick! Sheriff Mills!"

She heard the sound of running footsteps as the two men scrambled out of the kitchen and through the foyer.

The door flew open.

"What is it?" Nick demanded. "Are you okay?"

Stella pointed at the vanity mirror.

Mills, gun drawn, was the first to enter. "What about the mirror?"

"Honey, if this has something to do with you needing a salon appointment-"

"No, it's the frame."

Mills put the safety on the gun and returned it to its holster. "What about the frame?"

"It's completely different than the one that was in here yesterday."

"Are you sure?" Nick asked.

"Positive. The frame in here was Baroque in style, carved wood with silver leaf. Looked to be quite old, too. I took note of it because it was so incongruous with the rest of the room. But this-" She examined the beveled edges and straight lines of the new frame. "This is-"

"Twenty-first century c.r.a.p?"

"Basically. This crackled silver finish? A veneer, and not a very good one either. And the wood beneath it is so soft I can stick my fingernail in it. I'm going to guess it's pine. The mirror hasn't changed; it's attached separately to the wall. But the frame, which was installed as a finishing piece, is entirely different."

Nick stooped down and wiped some plasterboard dust from the floor with his finger. "This house might be new, but it's not that new. Besides, I think Mr. 'Crease in the Pants' Weston would have made sure that was cleaned up."

"Why would someone switch the frame on a bathroom mirror?" Mills pondered aloud.

"And why would they break in to do it?" Nick added.

"Treasure," Stella said in a near-whisper as she stared at the mirror frame.

"You mean that was-?"

"The painting? No, but that never was the real treasure, was it?"

Mills gave her a puzzled look. "I don't follow."

"I know you're not a regular television viewer, Sheriff, but have you ever heard of Antiques Roadshow on PBS?"

"Oh, you mean those fairs where people bring in junk and have it appraised? Yup, I know about those."

"Well, if you've ever seen someone bring in an old painting, then you'll know that very often the frame is worth far more than the item inside it."

"You mean ...?"

"Art and frames aren't my area of expertise, mind you, but I believe the frame I saw in this room yesterday was an original sixteenth-century Rococo."

"How much would that be worth?"

"Given the size, condition, and age, a conservative estimate is anywhere from $15,000 and up. But, again, I'm not an expert."

"$15,000 for a frame?" Mills nearly choked.

"And I low-balled it." Stella pulled a cell phone from the rear pocket of her pants. "But I know a guy who can give us a more exact number."

"You can try and call him, but you're not getting through to anyone on that from here. Only two spots around here where those phones work-one is the area by your house, the other is the sheriff's department."

"Are you serious?" Nick exclaimed. "No wonder I couldn't get a signal outside Alice's."

Stella exhaled noisily. "Well, considering it's Sunday, I'd probably be waiting until tomorrow for a call back anyway."

"Prolly," Mills agreed. "But you don't have to wait to get into Perkins."

"I don't?"

"Nope. While I was at headquarters, I called Clyde and-how do you put it?-hooked you up."

"Sheriff," Nick said with a pat to Mills's back, "this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Standing in the same spot Bunny had occupied two nights earlier, Stella stared silently at the far wall of the Perkins Family Store and tried to make a connection between the woman's strange reaction and the a.s.sortment of items gathered there.

The elderly clerk, whom Mills identified as Clyde Perkins, the store's owner, watched the scene with skepticism. "You had me come down here on a Sunday so that she could stare at a wall?"

"I told you it's police business," Sheriff Mills a.s.sured him.

Nick moved beside his wife. "Do you see anything?"

"I see lots of things, but nothing that makes sense." Her eyes darted from the rack of newspapers and magazines to the shelves of pain medications and first-aid items and then the vintage advertis.e.m.e.nts for Coca-Cola and Jarrett Rifles that hung above them.

"A picture will last longer," Clyde taunted.

"So will we if you're not quiet," Nick retorted.

"Come on, Clyde," Mills interjected. "Just let the lady do what she needs to do, and then you can go home."

"Don't listen to the old man, honey. Just take your time."

Heeding Nick's advice, Stella let her gaze linger on the magazine rack. Bearing periodicals of every sort, the pocket-style stand blocked the cover art of each issue, leaving only their t.i.tles visible. She read the name of each publication intently, but inwardly doubted that Sports Ill.u.s.trated, Good Housekeeping, Yankee, or Country Living would prove of much value to the case.

Moving her focus to the first-aid and toiletries area, she realized that distance prohibited her from actually reading any of the labels. Only through the use of brand recognition was she able to determine the aspirin from the Tylenol and the Crest from the Aquafresh. Even then, she failed to see how adhesive bandages, Pepto Bismol, or Aqua Net hairspray might have incited Bunny to leave as quickly as she did.

Feeling defeated, she shifted her attention to the pair of vintage Coca-Cola advertis.e.m.e.nts that hung on the wall above. Bearing the traditional images of pretty, smiling young women drinking brown carbonated beverages, the first print featured a brunette in a white jacket and purple skirt. Seated at a chrome-trimmed lunch counter, the girl was turned slightly toward the viewer, the seat beside her conveniently empty as if to invite thirsty spectators into the scene. The second ad figured a Marilyn Monroe-esque blond in a white cowboy hat and yellow kerchief posed against a backdrop of mountains and horses. The vignette had been la.s.soed by a white rope that led to the Coca-Cola logo and the words Play Refreshed.

Juxtaposed against these postWorld War II symbols of wholesome femininity hung a retro-style ad for Jarrett Rifles depicting two hunters-one in a suede Western shirt, a blue bandana, and jeans, the other in a green plaid shirt and tan pants-lying in the snow, attempting to shoot a buck in the distance.