Free Lethally Blond by Kate White

Mountain region, with old-fashioned-sounding towns like Mar-garetville and Loch Sheldrake.
    And then I spotted it. I nearly gulped. A town called
Andes
. Like a flash, I saw in my mind the photo of Tom and his parents, with “Andes” written on the back. Because of their many travels, I’d instantly assumed Peru. But what if it was
this
Andes? According to Chris, the family had a weekend home, and Tom had been in the process of selling it this year. But what if he hadn’t done so yet? The turnoff for Andes was right near Newburgh Junction.
    My salad arrived, and I wolfed it down while I simultaneously phoned the intern ghetto at
Buzz
. I asked the chick who answered to pull up a Web site we used to check property records and told her to find anything belonging to Tom Fain. She promised to call me back in a few minutes.
    “No, I’ll hold,” I told her, totally wired. I could hear the tap of her computer keys as she worked.
    “There are a few Tom Fains,” she said. “I’m not sure—”
    I interrupted, giving her the address on Mercer.
    “Okay, I see it,” she said after an agonizing minute. “There’s another place, too. Do you want it?”
    “Yes!” I nearly screamed.
    “Dabbet Road, Andes, New York.” She pronounced “Andes” like “Ands,” but I forgave her. I couldn’t believe it. Mentally, I calculated how long it would take me to drive there. Just a couple of hours—south and west.
    As I raced along in my Jeep minutes later, I considered the likelihood of Tom going there. Though earlier he had told Chris he was unloading the place, the sale might have fallen through, or he might have changed his mind. This could also explain why he hadn’t made any more phone calls from his cell. Reception might be bad in the mountains, and he could be relying on a landline for any communication. I tried 411 and found a listing for Fain on Dabbet Road, but no one answered when I called it.
Why
would he have gone there? I wondered. Was it to chase the boredom because his weekend plans had fallen through? He’d told Harper that he had work to do. Was he working on the property? Getting it ready for a sale? Then why not return? Or let anyone know his whereabouts? Maybe his real goal had been to place himself far from the madding crowd for an indefinite period of time. Or maybe something had happened to him.
    It was nearly six by the time I arrived in Andes, and the sun was sinking in the sky. Though it was still technically summer, the days seemed so much shorter now. I rolled down my window and felt a blast of cool mountain air. Figuring I’d probably be back in the city by this time, I hadn’t brought along a sweater or jacket.
    The town of Andes was small and charming without trying too hard. Along the main drag were a few little shops, a general store, and a little café where a few people still lounged at tables on the porch. I pulled into a parking spot, looking for someone to ask directions from. A tall older woman, her gray hair pinned up dramatically on top of her head, was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a red-painted antiques shop, with a sign that read NEST OF TREASURES.
    “Excuse me,” I said after climbing out of the Jeep. “Could you please tell me how to get to Dabbet Road?”
    “You’re looking for the Fain house?” she asked in a husky, cultured voice that suggested she might have packed up her life in Manhattan and moved here for a simpler existence.
    “How did you know?”
    “It’s the only house on that road. Are you a potential buyer?”
    “Buyer? No, I’m actually looking for Tom Fain. My name is Bailey Weggins. I’m a friend of a friend of Tom’s.”
    “Oh, I didn’t realize he was up here this week. Okay, then, you’re going to have to head back the way you came and make a left on Harrow. Just before you reach the outskirts of town, you’ll see Dabbet on your left. Tell him Beverly said hi, will you?”
    “Sure thing.”
    My whole body was buzzing as I jumped back into