Free Murder in the Devil's Cauldron by Kate Ryan Page A

more
comfortable position as she considered the name issue. Their
biggest handicap was that they weren't sure what the guy's real
name was and what other aliases he might be using. That information
could give her the handle she needed. Especially if he was
operating in this neck of the woods. She could always hope he would
continue using the Ricky Bakken alias, but the files she'd just
read made her fairly certain he mostly used that for some of his
scouting expeditions. Her best guess at this point was that when he
put his latest scam into action, he'd be using one of his other
names.
    The other issue she was examining was the
kind of con he might be running up here. The North Shore was a
fairly unusual place to run a major con, so that might limit the
field a bit. She made a mental note to go through the notes on his
typical cons again to see if she could spot something there.
    Fae sighed as she thought of all the footwork
she was going to have to do. Up here that mean a lot of driving and
long days. It was good to be working on something again, but she
wished more of it could be done on the phone. Before she could
start feeling really sorry for herself, though, Nutmeg jumped up
onto her lap, turned around a couple of times, then settled in for
a nice afternoon catnap. Fae grinned and stroked the calico cat.
The activity was not only soothing, but helped her get out of her
head for a little while. She looked around for Casanova, but didn't
see the chunky marmalade cat. Probably crouching over a gopher hole
waiting for entertainment and a snack. Knowing him and his sixth
sense, though, he'd probably be along shortly to remind her what
was really important - a full food dish and some lap time.
     
     
* * * * *
     
     

Chapter 16
     
    Diana Marshall's mansion on Summit Avenue in
St. Paul was the epitome of everything Fowler had ever wanted. The
huge rooms with high ceilings. The ornate details and expensive
furnishings. The wide, graceful staircase straight out of Gone with
the Wind. Everything spoke of elegance and wealth. It had been
built over a century earlier and contained all the things that the
nineteenth century robber barons considered essential. Summit
Avenue was where James J. Hill and F. Scott Fitzgerald had once
lived. The governor's mansion was there and scores of millionaires
still made their homes there. It was anchored at the St. Paul end
by the cathedral and on the other by St. Thomas University. And,
although ordinary people lived just a few blocks away, there was
nothing ordinary about Summit Avenue.
    These were not just huge homes. They were
truly mansions with all that that implied, with several stories,
numerous rooms, a ballroom, greenhouses and carriage houses. They
didn't have yards, they had grounds. If you could afford to live on
Summit Avenue, you had arrived. Or at least as much as you could
arrive while living in Minnesota.
    Just a drive down the street was a voyage
into the opulent past. In the summer, huge old oaks created a
canopy of green across the wide street. In the winter, icicles
hanging from the carved Victorian gingerbread turned the street
into a winter wonderland.
    When David Fowler met Diana at a charity
event a year earlier, he had known immediately that she was ripe
for plucking. He was gifted that way, but as he had other projects
going at the time, he had done little to cultivate the relationship
except for a few notes to keep his memory fresh in her mind. Then
he found out about her home on Summit Avenue and immediately
rearranged his schedule and stepped up his campaign. As he did his
research, everything else paled in comparison. He knew that this
was the big one - his chance to score on an entirely new level.
    He carefully laid the groundwork, got himself
invited to another charity event she was attending, and managed to
snag a few moments of conversation to whet her interest and
curiosity. A few days later he invited her to the opera. Some
ungodly caterwauling for an