Free Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

on the top of my list tonight. No guarantees about tomorrow, though.”
    Zach whistled softly. “I appreciate whatever time you can spare. I do like working with the best. If I’d known you were back from maternity leave, I’d have asked for you by name.”
    “Keep that in mind when you start chewing on me for not getting something from nothing. You know how useless a search based on a single name will be.”
    Zach grunted.
    Jill smothered a laugh. She’d never met Shawna and already liked her.
    “Anything better than Blanchard for me to handle?” the researcher continued.
    “Modesty Breck,” Zach said. “Normal spelling. DOB June 1922, ’23, or ’24, maybe ’25, residence on Breck ranch outside of Blessing, Arizona. Sheriff Ned Purcell, Canyon County, Arizona. Justine née Breck, DOB…”
    Pulled between curiosity and a feeling of unease, Jill listened while Zach ordered up research on her family. She wanted to ask if it was really necessary to pry into the lives of the dead, but didn’t. She’d called for help, and she’d gotten it.
    Now she had to live with it or walk away and go it alone.
    Memories of the death threat, the trashed SUV, and the canvasrags jamming her belly pack along with her sat phone didn’t make being alone look attractive to Jill.
    Nature’s violence was one thing.
    Human violence was quite another.
    “Then look at Ford Hillhouse, Art of the Historic West, Park City, Utah,” Zach said. He knew a lot about Western art, but he’d been out of the art loop too long to take anything for granted. “Ramsey Worthington, Fine Western Arts, Snowbird, Utah. When I get more, you’ll get more.”
    Zach answered a few questions, disconnected, saw his battery wasn’t holding a charge worth a damn, and sighed. He doubted that any small Western towns sold the kind of goods he needed for his sleek sat/cell phone. He’d plug it in overnight and hope for the best.
    He looked at his watch. “Two choices—sleep here or go get the paintings.”
    “Nobody but my great-aunt knows that I use the homestead cabin, so the paintings should be safe there. My mail comes to a P.O. box in Blessing.”
    Since St. Kilda’s researchers hadn’t mentioned the cabin, and it hadn’t burned, Zach figured the art would be good overnight.
    Besides, he’d been told to guard Jill Breck, not a bunch of paintings.
    “I’ll take the foldout bed,” he said, looking at the butt-sprung couch facing the TV.
    “What about my car?”
    “Someone from St. Kilda will handle it. Just like they’ll take care of the Chevelle I was hauling home when they called me.”
    Jill opened her mouth, closed it. “Just like that? They’ll take care of my car?”
    “Is that a problem?”
    “I’m not used to other people taking care of things for me.”
    He smiled slightly. “Get used to it. It’s what St. Kilda Consulting does best.”

16
    RENO, NEVADA
SEPTEMBER 14
8:00 A.M.
    L ee Dunstan hung up the phone with a curse and wished he could have a whiskey with his breakfast eggs.
    Damn doctors. Get a few fast heartbeats and they make you give up everything worth living for.
    “What’s wrong?” Betty asked.
    Ken Dunstan looked at his father with concern. Lee was a stubborn old man who refused to slow down and let his son manage what was left of the family art appraisal/reprographic business. Lee wouldn’t have known an opportunity cost if it crawled up his leg. Hanging on to the Dunstan paintings for an extra quarter century had been foolish.
    And then selling one to a single collector without soliciting other bids had been stupid.
    “Whatever it is,” Ken said, “take it easy. It’s not worth getting a heart attack over.”
    “I’m not having any damn heart attack,” Lee said, ignoring his wife. “You’ll have to wait a long time for your inheritance.”
    Ken looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “Yeah, like I’m counting the days.” And like there will be anything left by then.
    “You should be,” Lee