Page 45 of Forgotten Path
He worked his jaw like a skeleton in a Halloween cartoon. “Uh, dunno.”
“Sure you do.”
Ralph snapped out of his shock. “I don’t even know who you are. For all I know, you’re delusional.” He gripped the baton clipped onto his belt, resolving the question of whether he had a handgun.
Bodhi spoke in a slow, measured tone. “As I said, my name is Bodhi King. I’m a doctor. And like Doctor Ashland, I specialize in forensic pathology.”
“Go on, get out of here. Doc Ashland was a family doctor.”
“Is that the local paper?” He pointed to the folded newspaper draped over the log.
“Yeah, so?”
“I’d wager Joel’s death made the front section, and there’s probably a paragraph about his work as the medical examiner down in Monroe County, in the Keys.”
Ralph pulled his head back like a turtle retreating into its shell. Then his face darkened, and he tightened his hold on the baton. “Go on now, get out of here. Don’t make me call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing.”
Bodhi could’ve stood his ground. He could have pulled out his phone and called Chief Rodman himself. But he didn’t. He suspected he’d gotten the information that Brianna wanted him to know. So, he thanked the man for his time, then turned and walked back through the forest the same way he’d come.
When Bodhi reached the clearing, he looked over his shoulder to see if Ralph had returned to his box scores or perhaps turned to the front page to read the news about Joel’s death. Ralph had done neither—instead, he’d set off toward the lagoon where Joel had found the fish kill.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
The floorboard creaked under Craig’s feet. He froze and hunched his shoulders, waiting to hear Gran call his name. But she didn’t, so after a beat, he crept forward. He felt stupid, sneaking around the house like a teenager trying to come home late at night after curfew without getting caught.
Only he wasn’t a teenager, and it wasn’t late at night. He was a man who needed a solid eight hours of sleep—preferably between the hours of two and ten AM. It was entirely too freaking early to be out of bed. But if he wanted to go through Gran’s purse, he needed to do it before she popped out of bed and started her day at seven sharp.
He didn’twantto go through Gran’s purse. The idea made him queasy, to be honest. But he needed a starting point—something he could work with. He wanted to impress Fred Glazier right from the start. Shoot, he could hardly believe Fred was giving him this opportunity. He couldn’t blow it.
So he tiptoed through the dining room and into the kitchen. Her purse was in the usual spot, slung over the back of the chair near the door, where she sat to pull on her shoes before going outside and where she removed them the second she came in. His heart raced as he eased the strap off the chair and slid the zipper open. Her small calendar was right on top. He removed the laminated datebook and flipped through it until he reached September. He scanned her entries: clinic was written on the square for last Friday—yeah, how’d that turn out? Her Tuesday book club at Mrs. Wolfe’s bed and breakfast—that was a few days ago. This afternoon, she was scheduled to volunteer at the second Friday food pantry.
He nodded to himself. That would work. All her friends, the women who worked behind the scenes to keep this craphole town together with gum, rubber bands, and magic, would be there handing out food, barking orders to the teenagers fulfilling their community service requirement for school, and, without a doubt, yammering about Doc’s death.
The food ministry got nearly as much traffic as the free clinic got. Used to get, he corrected himself. He could remember when Pastor Hamilton had moved the distribution date from the first to the second Friday because everybody was being forced to choose between their bellies and their health.
He didn’t usually go to the pantry with his gran. Too depressing. But she’d be thrilled if he said he wanted to come along. He slid the calendar back into the purse, silently zipped it up, and hung it over the chair without making a sound.
He was puffed up, pleased with himself, and maybe just the slightest bit cocky, when he turned around and found himself nose-to-nose with his enraged grandmother. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her slippered feet were planted at hip distance. If she’d been a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of her ears. In fact, he wasn’t entirely convinced steamwasn’tcoming out of her ears.
She glared at him. “How much did you take?”
He gave her a confused look. “How much what?”
“Money, Craig. How much cash did you take from my pocketbook?”
“You think Istolemoney from your purse?”
“Didn’t you?” Her lips thinned.
“What? No!”
She tapped her foot. “Really? Then what exactly were you doing?”
He stared at her. His brain was locked up. He couldn’t get past the fact that she actually thought he’d steal from her. Sure, he may have snagged a twenty once or twice. But not for years. Well, at least not for months. But how could she think he was capable of stealing her money? He felt two inches tall. His face burned. See, this was why hehadto get in good with Fred. He’d be rolling in dough. He could sneak moneyintoher wallet, not out of it.
“I’m waiting,” she snapped.
He shook his head in an effort to get his brain working again.Think.He cleared his throat and scratched his neck. Then, the perfect lie came to him.
