“Well, God!” In response, Darby rubbed a foot over the snoozing Zod.

“Couldn’t prove it, but—Lee let me read Clint’s file—he was adamant. So a lot of people didn’t think of Clint kindly, you could say.”

“And your theory is one of them saw him sneaking up here, followed him, took the opportunity to pay him back.”

“That’s one of them.”

“You have another that worries you more.”

“Yeah. Graham Bigelow.”

“He’s locked up.” Alarmed, Darby spoke quickly. “Lee checked. Emily said—”

“Graham’s locked up,” Zane confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a part of this. He’s spent nearly two decades in prison. He knows how the culture works inside. There’s a chance he could have made a deal with another con who was up for release, or knows somebody on the outside. Somebody who’d come here, watch the routine, look for an opening—maybe break into your place and know not to leave prints, not to disturb too much.”

That idea, even as a theory, sent a shiver down her spine. “But … why kill Clint?”

“Stretch the theory. He’s right there. Take him out, cause trouble, upheaval. It took smarts, if we go with straight bad guy, not to take the weapon, not to leave prints again, not to break in and go after us. Smart would know cops would come pretty quick. Smart bides its time, looks for the next opening. If something happened to either of us now, who would Lee have to look at first?”

“The Drapers.”

“You got it. And while he is, whoever did it walks away. I put more into the first theory, but we can’t discount the second.”

“The second’s closer to one of Brody’s.”

Surprised, Zane paused in pouring the last of the wine. “Brody has a theory?”

“A couple, and both slide close to both of yours. Mean doesn’t always need a reason, just an opportunity.”

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.”

She looked toward the western hills, the lowering sun that showered them. “I love this place. I know I haven’t lived here long, but I love it, the look, the feel, the people. I know there’s mean under it, because there’s some mean under anywhere. But the mean’s why the Drapers are the next thing to outcasts here.”

She looked back at Zane, lifted her glass. “We’re going to be all right, Walker. We’ll paint over the mean. We know it’s under there, but we don’t let it win. To prove it, I’m painting my place Tangerine Dream.”

Zane opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t that be orange?”

“It would, and the door and trim? Tango in Teal. Bold, happy, up-yours-mean type colors. What’re you painting, your office building?”

“I bought white. A lot of white.”

“Come on!” She made a dismissive gesture, flicking white away. “You can do better.”

“It’s a law office, darlin’.”

She leaned closer. “Is the law boring?”

“I’m not painting it Tangerine Dream.”

“I was thinking more Nautical Navy, Mystic Gray for the trim and porch. I’ll show you on my paint fan.”

“I bought white.”

“I bet they’ll take it back, exchange it, because white. Take the opportunity mean gave you, Walker, make a statement. I’ll show you,” she said again. “After we take this wine and walk the dog.”

“White’s classy and classic,” he insisted as they got up, and Zod jumped to his feet as if an alarm had sounded.

“Yawn.”

“The painters are starting tomorrow.”

“And I bet they’d agree with me, if they have any taste.” She took his hand in hers.

He had a feeling she was leading him to more than dog walking.

Later, when she showed him her paint fan, as threatened, he saw himself exchanging the damn paint in the morning.

* * *

While they walked the dog, the man who’d come to Lakeview and done murder took himself for a walk as well. As he strolled by Zane’s office building, he made a point to stop, to gape.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?”

As he’d hoped, one of the local yokels stopped to chat.

“Just awful!” He put shock in his voice.

“You visiting?”

“I am, yes.”

“My family lives in Lakeview. I can tell you this isn’t usual.”

“I should hope not.”

“Promise.” She smiled at him, a pretty young thing. Maybe he’d make a point to have a taste or two of Pretty Young Thing. Maybe he’d kill her after.

So many possibilities.

“And actually, I work there. Law offices. I’m an intern. Gretchen Filbert,” she told him, friendly as a puppy.

“Drake Bingley. Nice to meet you. But…” He looked back at the smears of paint, calculated how soon the sun would go all the way down, how long it might take to lure Pretty Young Thing. “Aren’t you worried?”

“I guess I would be, but the man who did it…” He watched her censor herself. “He won’t be back. It’s a nice town, Mr. Bingley. I hope you have a wonderful visit.”

“Oh, I already am. Say, I wonder if you can tell me the best place to have a good steak, a good glass of wine. I’m in the mood.”

“Oh, sure.” She beamed at him, into quiet blue eyes behind scholarly wire-framed glasses.

He knew he looked like a professor, one taking a few summer weeks to work on his novel. He’d spent considerable time cultivating that look—letting his hair grow, adding the professorial (to his mind) goatee.

He wore faded jeans, Birkenstocks, and an ancient Grateful Dead T-shirt he’d picked up at a flea market.

He even had the man purse, holding a well-worn paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath (as if) along with his wallet and false ID, a bandanna, and the 9mm Glock he’d stolen from his brother-in-law’s collection.

“You can’t go wrong with Grandy’s Grill—just down a couple blocks and across the street.”

“Sounds good. Say,” he began again, only to be cut off when another pretty young thing ran toward them.

“Gretch! Sorry, running late. Luca just texted. He and John are already at Ricardo’s, grabbed a booth. Sorry.” Like Gretchen, she gave him an easy smile. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, just letting Mr. Bingley know where Grandy’s is.”

“One day I’ve got to get Lucas to take me there for more than a beer and nachos. We gotta book.”

“Enjoy your steak!” Pretty Young Thing One called back to him as she rushed off with PYT Two.

Opportunity missed, he thought. For now.

Maybe next time.

He continued his stroll, decided he’d go ahead and have that steak. Maybe he’d strike up another conversation, find another pretty young thing.

Even not too young would do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Though he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, Zane exchanged the paint. He worked through the morning while the paint crew covered Clint’s nasty art with primer.