When Lance had finished securing the chickens, he returned to the porch.

“Thank you.” Mr. Jackson went back into the kitchen. He filled a carton with eggs.

“I don’t need payment,” Lance said.

“Give them to Abigail.” Mr. Jackson put the carton in Morgan’s hands. Then he took a piece of paper from a drawer and wrote on it. “This is her address. Tell her I sent you. She’ll be able to tell you more about Crystal.”

“Do you have a phone number?” Lance accepted the paper. “We could call first.”

Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Won’t matter. At this time of day, she’ll be outside working in her garden.” He walked them back to the front door.

Lance and Morgan returned to the Jeep, and Lance headed for the driver’s side. “I’m perfectly calm now. I can drive.”

“All right, but why do you need to drive?” She dropped the keys into his hand.

“I like to be in control,” he admitted.

Which no doubt sprang from having so little of it over his life.

He drove to the address Mr. Jackson had given them. Abigail Wright’s cottage was as perfect as Elijah Jackson’s was dilapidated. A white picket fence enclosed a neat garden rioting with fall blooms. Blue clapboards and white gingerbread trim shone with fresh paint. Purple cabbages lined a brick walkway. Morgan led the way up three wooden steps to the front porch. The wind rocked a white wicker swing on the opposite end of the porch. Two cats ignored them from a sun patch next to the swing.

Holding the carton of eggs, Morgan pressed the doorbell. Standing back, she admired the deep purple of some daisy-type flowers that crowded a flower bed in front of the porch. “These are gorgeous.”

Lance barely glanced at the flowers, but he’d relaxed somewhat since they’d left Mr. Jackson’s house.

No one answered the door, but a red sedan was parked in front of the cottage.

“Let’s try out back. Mr. Jackson said she’d be working outside.” Morgan followed a brick path around the side of the cottage, calling out, “Ms. Wright?”

Lance fell into step beside her.

The late-morning sun took the bite out of the raw wind, warming Morgan’s head and shoulders.

They walked under a trellis. Blue jays splashed in a birdbath next to a stone bench. After the dark and depressing news of the past couple of days, Morgan suppressed the desire to stop, sit, and enjoy the sun on her face for two minutes. They rounded the side of the house and scanned the rear yard for a little old lady.

“Hold it right there!” a voice yelled from a shed fifteen feet away.

Morgan lifted her hands, raising the egg carton in the air. The shed door stood ajar. From the three-inch opening, the double barrel of a shotgun stared them down.

Lance caught Morgan around the waist in a tackle. She hit the ground hard, Lance on top of her, covering her with his larger body. He rolled them behind the stone bench and slid his handgun from its holster.

Chapter Twenty

“Put down the gun!” Lance shouted. He lifted his head, scanning the yard over the bench. He couldn’t see who was inside the shed. The bench was solid and would provide good cover.

Unless the shooter moved . . .

Underneath him, Morgan wheezed. He slid off her body, and she took a deep breath.

The shooting that had ended his police career and almost killed him rushed into his head. Sweat poured from his back and chest, and his heart jumped as if he’d been defibrillated.

Gun in hand, he peered over the stone bench again, his free hand on Morgan’s shoulder, pinning her to the ground. “Keep your head down.”

The sun glinted on the dark metal of the barrel poking out from the slightly open door of the shed.

“Ms. Wright!” Lance shouted. “We just want to talk.”

The shed door opened a few more inches. He caught a glimpse of gray hair.

Morgan grabbed the carton of eggs that had fallen to the ground when Lance tackled her. Golden yolks dripped from the cardboard. She waved the eggs over the top of the bench. “Elijah Jackson sent us with eggs for you.”

The shed door opened, and a small, gray-haired woman stepped out. She wore khaki slacks and rubber boots. Leather gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and a neat bun finished off her outfit. She could have been headed for a garden club meeting, except for the shotgun in her hands.

“Why didn’t you say so?” She tucked the shotgun into the crook of her arm and walked toward them.

“Please set the gun down, Ms. Wright.” Lance got to his feet.

“This is my property, so you put your gun away first, young man.” She chuckled. “I won’t shoot you. You can calm down.”

Lance debated. She didn’t look like a threat. But his pulse was hammering like the bass drum at an Iron Maiden concert. His body remembered what it felt like to be shot, and it wanted no part of a repeat.

Still holding the egg carton, Morgan raised her hands, palms out in the traditional surrender gesture. A glob of egg yolk dripped to the ground.

“Call me Abigail,” Ms. Wright said.

Lance tensed as she walked closer.

She shot him an exasperated look. “Put the gun away.”

Though his instincts screamed otherwise, Lance slid his handgun into his holster.

Abigail approved with a nod. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”

Morgan slowly slid a business card from the side pocket of her tote bag and introduced them. “Mr. Jackson said you could tell us more about Crystal Fox.”

The muzzle of the shotgun tipped to the ground as Abigail reached for the card and inspected it. “I heard Crystal hanged herself.”

In rural areas, gossip spread like fire through straw.

“We’re not sure what happened,” Morgan said. “Did you know her well?”

Abigail turned and headed for the rear porch of the house. “Let’s go inside.”

They followed her into the cottage. The back door opened into a mudroom. She stood her shotgun in the corner and hung her jacket on a hook by the door, then removed her gloves. Abigail led them into what Lance was sure she called the parlor. Flowers covered every surface. They filled vases, dotted the wallpaper, patterned the throw rugs. Flowers were even carved into the wood of the ornate furniture. The room was crowded with knickknacks and fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Lance leaned on the wall, eyeing the fussy camelback sofa as if it would attack. The cluttered decor was claustrophobic.

“Your home is lovely.” Morgan perched on the edge of a blue velvet chair.

“I love flowers.” Abigail sat on the sofa. Her body was nearly hidden by an enormous orange arrangement on the coffee table. “Sorry about the shotgun. I’m a little paranoid since that good-for-nothing grandson of Elijah’s broke in here last month. Caught him halfway out the window with my silver candlesticks in his hand. I sent that little creep running. He was a dozen feet away from a load of birdshot in his butt.”

“That’s awful.” Morgan unbuttoned her coat, set her bag at her feet, and took out her notebook.

“It’s a damned shame. He used to be a cute little kid. You can’t trust anybody once heroin gets its claws into them.” Abigail shook her head and clucked in disgust. “Now what do you want to know about Crystal?”

“How long did she work for you?” Lance stifled a sneeze. The clashing scents of different flowers clogged this throat.

“She cleaned motel rooms for me on and off for more than twenty years.” Abigail folded her hands in her lap. “She’d get better jobs, but she couldn’t hold on to them. She always came back. It’s a dirty job. I have no illusions about my business or my clients.”