Free Indian Pipes by Cynthia Riggs Page B

to tell the chief that Dojan and you found the weapon.”
    “She’ll know soon enough. Before they declare Jube’s house a crime scene, we need to look around again. We’re missing something.”
    “You can’t do that, Gram. It’s trespassing or tampering with evidence or something.”
    “It’s not tampering with evidence,” Victoria said. “The police have closed the case. Accidental death. Will you drive me there, or shall I walk?”
    “I’ll drive you,” Elizabeth muttered. She backed out of the parking spot, oyster shells crunching beneath her tires, and retraced the route to Burkhardt’s house.
    “We’ve got to find Hiram,” Victoria said. “And the key to finding him is in that house.”
    The haze thickened as they drove toward Burkhardt’s place. They reached the open grassy area, where his house stood, desolate in the tall grass, and pulled up next to the barn.
    A clammy fog was sifting in from the ocean, bringing with it the sulfurous smell of tidal flats and the iodine smell of seaweed. The windshield was beaded with droplets of mist. Elizabeth put the top back up on her convertible while Victoria walked over to the barn. The door was ajar, the way it had been when she had first seen the motorcycle tracks the day before. She pushed the door open. The hinges shrieked.
    A seagull on the roof of the house raised its wings, opened its bill, and echoed the sound of the door, a long drawn-out mournful cry followed by a series of short calls. It lifted off the roof, followed by six other gulls, ghostly forms that dissolved along with their cries into the thin fog.
    The surf rumbled on the other side of the barrier bar. A fish splashed in the pond. When she opened the barn door, something rushed by her head noiselessly. She had disturbed a barn owl. There were not many places left on the Island where barn owls could nest.
    She looked down at the floor. There, in the dust, was a second set of motorcycle tracks, scuffed over by at least two, possibly three, sets of boot prints.
    “What do you make of that?” Victoria said to Elizabeth, who had come up behind her. “These marks were made sometime after Casey and I were here yesterday afternoon.”
    “Maybe Junior Norton made the prints when he came to check out the stain on the floor?”
    Victoria shook her head. “He came in the police car.”
    “Maybe Burkhardt’s niece and her biker friend?”
    “I don’t know.” Victoria left the barn door ajar so the owl could return. “Let’s go through the house again. There must be a clue as to Hiram’s whereabouts somewhere in there.”
    As they walked across the dry grass, there was an explosive
qwawk
and a rush of wings. A large blue-gray bird materialized out of the mist and flew low over them toward the pond.
    Elizabeth let out a startled cry.
    “Night heron,” Victoria said.
    “This place is bad enough in bright sun.”
    “Wait out here if you want while I go inside.”
    “I’m sticking with you.” Elizabeth trailed after her grandmother, who had opened the entry door and was already inside Burkhardt’s house.
    Elizabeth sniffed. “Stinks in here. How could he stand it?”
    “It’s the humidity,” Victoria said. “It brings out mildew.”
    Something swished past them with small clicking sounds, almost touching Elizabeth’s hair. She screamed.
    Victoria looked around in alarm, then laughed. “A bat. That accounts for the smell. Let’s start at his computer and work back toward the entry.” They threaded their way down the narrow aisle between stacks of Burkhardt’s keepsakes to his desk and table, piled with papers and books. The stain, now dark brown, had a chalk mark around it.
    “I guess Junior took a sample?” Elizabeth said.
    Victoria stopped abruptly and Elizabeth bumped into her. “Something isn’t right.”
    “Nothing is right,” Elizabeth said. “It’s getting dark. Let’s get Casey. We won’t find Hiram this way.”
    “It’s the computer,” Victoria said.