Free Love Is Murder by Allison Brennan Page A

gun inside her thick ski pants. It wasn’t visible with the bulky clothing, but there was no way she’d be able to hide this .45 on her person once inside, even if she wore an oversized sweater. She’d have to think of something.
    She walked around the barn, looking for anything that didn’t belong. There were a lot of tools, Steve’s truck, a Jeep Cherokee, and a classic Mustang.
    She looked in the glove compartment of the Jeep first. It belonged to Beth—Elizabeth Ann Holbrook. It was registered in San Rafael, California, and Lucy wrote down the address. Beth’s car, like her room, was immaculate. Service records were folded neatly into the pocket on the front of her car manual. The Jeep had been serviced at the same place she’d bought it four years ago. She found a business card holder. Beth had been a manager at a national bank in San Rafael.
    She had the knowledge to embezzle, but what was her motive? Jealous of her sister? Needed the money? Nothing in her bank statements seemed to indicate a need of funds, but Lucy knew she could have hidden accounts, could be in debt, could be involved with something nefarious.
    Nothing else in the car gave Lucy more information. She next went to the Mustang.
    “What can I do?” Kyle asked.
    “Look for anything that seems out of place—something that doesn’t belong in a barn or garage.”
    In the Mustang’s glove box was the registration. Grace Delarosa, at the lodge. Behind it was an older registration. Grace Anderson, Orlando, Florida. She was about to put it back when she saw there were three other papers.
    Grace Ann Summers, Chantilly, Virginia. Grace Brooke Jackson, Monterey, California. The last, Grace Marie Holbrook, with a Phoenix, Arizona, address. That registration had expired nine years ago.
    Phoenix. Vanessa was from Phoenix.
    Heart racing, Lucy wrote down all the names, addresses, and dates and put them back in the glove compartment. She looked the car, but couldn’t get into the trunk, which needed a key because the classic model didn’t have a trunk release.
    “Kyle,” she called.
    “It’s hard to look for something you don’t know what you’re looking for,” he said.
    “I know. I found what I need.”
    “What?”
    “Let’s steer clear of Grace for a while.”
    “You don’t think—”
    “I’m thinking nothing right now except I need more information, and I’d rather not talk to her first.” She also needed to call the sheriff again and give him Grace’s aliases and tell him that she’d lived in the same town as the deceased. Phoenix was a big place, but it was too much of a coincidence.
    Lucy thought back to Vanessa’s message to her brother.
    You were right. We win .
    What did she mean?
    Trevor hadn’t called Vanessa’s brother yet, and Lucy wanted to be there when he did. But if she let on to Trevor that Vanessa’s death was a homicide, she didn’t know what he would do, or if she could control his reaction. It was best to keep the information to themselves.
    Leaving the barn, Lucy looked toward the lodge. Visibility was still poor, but Lucy didn’t see anyone walking around on the porch. The lights in the cottage were off. She turned back to Kyle. “I need you to go back to the house and hang around the porch. Delay anyone coming to the cottage.” She looked at her watch. “I need ten minutes.”
    “You’re going to search that place that fast?”
    “I know what I’m looking for.” Or she had a good idea.
    Kyle reluctantly agreed, and he and Lucy parted ways at the short path—at least, she thought the path was where she turned, buried deep in the snow—that led to the cottage.
    The door was locked, but she opened it with the key she had taken. More silence, though as she listened she heard a ticking grandfather clock. The hum of the refrigerator. The deep drone of the generator.
    She quickly assessed the layout. There were only two bedrooms, no den, and one great room that had a kitchen and dining area attached to