Page 36 of Always Murder

“Please don’t tell me it’s the Turnleys,” I finally said.

“We’ve successfully prosecuted three of them,” Bobby said.“But they’re like cockroaches—turn on the light, and they all scatter.”

I was still trying to make sense of this.“Yeah, but a porch piratefamily?”

“More like a clan, I think.Lots of cousins, and you can never tell who’s related to whom.And it’s not only stealing packages.The juveniles do a lot of shoplifting—and I’m talking alot, Dash.They also hit storage units, warehouses, that kind of thing—anywhere with minimal security but the prospect of high-value items.Around here, that includes vacation homes, rental properties.Remember when you first moved here, and you caught a burglar in the house?At the time, I thought it was one of the Turnleys.”

I nodded—that particular memory was still nice and fresh.It hadn’t been one of the Turnleys, though; it had been Vivienne, and she hadn’t exactly been burgling.All I said, though, was “They sound charming.”

“They’re not.They’re dangerous.One of the dads or uncles—depends on who you’re asking—is in prison for armed robbery, and we’re pretty sure a couple of others held up a bank in Washington five or six years ago.”

“Jeez.”

“If they’re involved—and it sounds like theyareinvolved—this isn’t just asking a few questions to help a friend.This is serious.And it’s dangerous.”

“Butwhyare they involved?”I asked.“I mean, what do they want from Paul?Was he working with them?Does he owe them money?”

“Good questions,” Bobby asked.“Very good questions for the sheriff to ask as soon as this becomes an official investigation.Meanwhile, you can go home and keep working on your book.”

The thought of pounding my head against that particular wall made me shudder.(Why was it so freaking hard to decide where a body might show up in a mystery novel?The wholepointwas for bodies to show up.As frequently as possible, in my opinion.) But I said, “I’m worried about Paul.He’s gone, and nobody knows where he is.Millie’s worried about him too.Even Ryan’s worried about him, and he’s got the brains God gave a chinchilla.”(Apologies to all chinchilla enthusiasts out there.) “I want to talk to the Turnleys.”

Bobby set his jaw.For the first time, I noticed that he looked tired.Of course he did—working double shifts and then coming home and having to deal with my nonsense would do that to anyone.

“Just talk,” I said.“I promise.”

“Just talk,” Bobby said in an unflattering tone.

“I won’t make any wild accusations.If I suddenly make an important breakthrough in the case, I won’t let them know.I won’t reveal anything that would make them want to silence me, probably by killing me and burying my body in a part of the forest no one will ever find.”

Bobby stood there for probably eight or ten seconds, hands still on his hips.And then he reached for his radio.

“If you’re going to have a deputy arrest me, can it please be Dahlberg?Salk is super nice, but I think he’d want to wrestle or something.”

Radio halfway to his mouth, Bobby paused.Probably considering if heshouldhave me locked up.Or if this was yet another sign that a new boyfriend was in the near future.

Then he did the radio clicky thingy and said, “Jaklin, this is Bobby.I’m going to take my lunch now.Over.”

Slightly too long passed before Jaklin said, “Roger that, Bobby.”I got the feeling that Deputy Bobby Mai taking a lunch break was not the norm—and probably something that would be much discussed over the next few weeks.

“Have I ever mentioned you’re the best boyfriend ever?”I said.

Bobby gave me that goofball grin.

Chapter 12

We went in Bobby’s cruiser, and we left Keme to take the Pilot home.I tried to make a bet with Bobby that Keme would immediately go find Millie and show off his new wheels.Bobby said something to the effect that he hadn’t been born yesterday.Then he said I still owed him a hundred million dollars from the time I’d bet him I could eat an entire batch of Indira’s chocolate chip cookies, which goes to show that you can never really trust someone.

It was a quiet drive.The tension from the night before—if it had evenbeentension, and not just Bobby being tired and ready for sleep at the end of a long, hard day—was gone.Bobby put his hand on my leg.I pretended I was a normal human, like this wasn’t one of my favorite things in the whole world.Other people probably got used to it, but I couldn’t imagine ever notlovinghow casually Bobby did it, and the weight of his hand, that feeling of connection.(Plus, I got to watch Bobby drive, his body loose but in control, with that easy, confident way he steered, only one hand on the wheel—look, I like what I like.)

Then we got to the Turnleys.

They lived in what could only appropriately be described as a compound.Think, off-the-grid prepper meets Montana Militia with a dash of cousin-lovin’.The property was located near what had to be the eastern limits of Hastings Rock, and although there was no fence topped by razor wire, it was impossible to miss the boundary: tattered, sun-bleached NO TRESPASSING signs had been stapled to the ragged line of pines that intersected the dirt road.Beyond the trees, several single-story buildings were visible.There wasn’t any sense of order or arrangement; it looked like the structures had gone up wherever it was convenient, and clearly in stages—the newer ones looked like they still possessed some degree of structural integrity, but the older ones had bowed siding and drooping gutters and—most worrisome of all to a homeowner like myself—the sagging roofs that suggested untold amounts of water damage.Algae covered the siding, and moss spider-webbed across the shingles.Strands of Christmas lights glowed wanly in the weak daylight.Somebody had started with big, old-fashioned, multi-colored bulbs.Then they’d switched to the little white ones.And then, halfway along the first house, they’d given up.

It was the kind of place that looked lived-in, and not in a good way.Battered garbage cans, overflowing with black trash bags, lined several of the buildings.It was obvious that raccoons, or some other wildlife, had become accustomed to an easy dinner, because the bags were torn and had spilled garbage across the ground.A four-wheeler was snugged up under the shallow eave of another building, half-covered by a blue tarp that flapped in the wind.Lawn chairs, their polyester webbing disintegrating in the sun, huddled around a firepit that was overflowing with ash and half-burned logs.And there was nobody out and about, which only made the whole thing creepier.

As Bobby drove us onto the property, I said, “When you told me they were more like a clan, I wasn’t expecting—”

“This?”Bobby asked.

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