“I’ve sort of got a plan, but I need Alex’s help.” She turned to Reuben. “So why do you think Divine is so prosperous?”

He said, “Maybe if we answer that, we can explain why people keep getting murdered and/or blown up.”

“Do you think something’s happened to Oliver?” Caleb asked.

“I’ve never met anyone better able to take care of himself than Oliver,” Reuben answered quite truthfully.

At least we can hope, thought Annabelle.

Chapter 68

CHAPTER 68

WHEN SHIRLEY COOMBS left the courthouse it was already seven in the evening and the darkness had fallen solidly on mountain-bound Divine. She stopped at one store, and when she came back out she toted a plastic bag full of wine bottles. She put this in her car and then walked into Rita’s. When she came back out a couple hours later she climbed in her late-model red two-door Infiniti where it was parked behind the courthouse. Apparently so absorbed was the woman in her thoughts that she never saw the white van behind her as she pulled on to the road and sped off.

She arrived home and went inside, staggering slightly.

Caleb pulled the van to a stop a little ways down from the house. Shirley Coombs lived in a one-story vinyl-sided house with a small front porch decorated with tubs of pansies. A gravel drive led to a detached garage. Twenty yards behind the house was thick forest. In a side yard a vegetable garden had been laid out, though the only things planted in it now were a couple of bare and leaning tomato stakes. A pile of rusted lawn chairs and a stack of firewood dominated the small backyard. The lady had no neighbors; hers was the only house down here.

Reuben hunched forward between the two front seats and stared at the house as lights came on inside.

“Do we wait till she passes out and search the place?”

“Why don’t you go and see if you can get a look inside one of the windows,” said Annabelle.

“I’ll go with him,” said Caleb.

“Why?”

“Four eyes are better than two.”

They slipped out of the van and headed to the house, keeping to the tree line until they neared the house. Then the two made a beeline for the back porch.

Five minutes later they were back in the van.

“Talk about your diamonds wrapped up in a tin can,” said Reuben.

“What do you mean?” asked Annabelle.

“What he means is the inside of Shirley Coombs’ humble abode hardly matches the outside. The furniture is all high-end, the paintings on the walls are real oils, a couple by artists I recognized, the rugs are authentic oriental, and she’s got at least one sculpture that is museum quality.”

“Shirley the small-town court clerk is living high on the hog,” added Reuben.