“I want all vehicles except the coroner’s van parked away from the house and barn, too.” But I know the rain has more than likely eradicated any tire tread or footwear imprints.

I hit my lapel mike. “Jodie?”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“Call T.J. and get him out here.”

“Ten four.”

“And run Dale Michaels through LEADS.” I spell the name. “And while you’re at it, pull everything you can find on the Hochstetler case from 1979, will you?”

“Got it.”

Watching the scene apprehensively, Belinda Harrington approaches me. “What’s going on? Did someone shoot my dad?”

I give her a hard look, noticing the boat-size purse at her side, the bulky jacket, and I realize she has plenty of places in which to secrete a weapon. I don’t think she shot her father or wrapped a rope around his neck and strung him up. But I learned a long time ago that taking things at face value is never a good idea when there’s a dead body involved.

“We believe your father may have sustained a gunshot wound shortly before his death,” I tell her.

“What? But … oh my God. He was hanging. Who would do such a thing?”

“Mrs. Harrington, does your father own a handgun?”

“I think so.”

“Do you know what kind?”

“It’s big and black.” She shrugs. “I don’t know anything about guns.”

“Do you own a firearm, ma’am?”

“My husband does.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me that?”

I step closer. “Do you mind if I take a quick look in your purse?”

“What? Why?” But she makes no move to stop me when I reach out and ease the purse from her shoulder.

“Just routine,” I tell her, “since you were first on the scene.” She starts to protest, but I keep her busy with questions while I open the bag and quickly determine there’s no weapon inside and hand it back to her. “Did your father have any recent arguments with anyone, Mrs. Harrington? Did he have any enemies?”

“I don’t know. I mean, not that he mentioned. Most everyone liked my dad.” But her brows go together. “Wait. I think he had some kind of problem with his neighbor. The couple that lives south of here. Their dogs were always loose and getting in my dad’s trash.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It’s been kind of ongoing, I think.”

Taking her arm, I guide her toward the door. “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

“Seymour.”

“Is that a first or last name?”

“I don’t know. He just goes by Seymour and my dad didn’t like him much. That’s all I know.”

I nod. “Did your father have any kind of connection to anyone with the name Hochstetler?”

She looks at me blankly. “Not that I know of.”

“Did he keep money or valuables here at the house?”

“I don’t know. He probably kept some cash on hand. And there are plenty of nice things in the house. He remodeled the place after my mom divorced him.”