He stood, grabbed up the notes from the arsonist, then paused. Sheriff Turner might be over her earlier rampage about the dogs, but he couldn’t gauge her present mood. He took a deep breath and tapped on her office door. “Got a minute?”

The older woman looked up from a stack of paperwork. “Yes, Bram?”

“I think I might have an idea for a new angle on the arson case.” He held up the copies of the notes. “I know we’ve been focusing on fingerprints and bio evidence, but what about the notes themselves? I believe a forensic linguist could—”

“Forensic linguist?”

“A specialist in clues through language. Law enforcement used one with the Unabomber.”

“Do you know where you can find a forensic linguist? I know the state doesn’t have one, and I have no budget left to pay an expert for something that could prove to be a long shot. I need results, especially . . .”

He waited a moment. “I . . . heard about the petition. I’m sorry.”

She looked out the window, eyes unfocused. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said under her breath.

He frowned at her. “Excuse me?”

She shook her head as if waking from a daze, waved him away, and returned to her paperwork.

Bram slowly walked back to his cubicle. Maybe it’s for the best? Sheriff Turner was a good-enough chief, but something was off about this whole arson ordeal. Maybe it was the magnitude of the case. Before scoring the job as sheriff in Fremont County, she’d been deputy sheriff in neighboring Clark County, population 852. With a population of over thirteen thousand, Fremont County had been a dramatic step up for her.

He was about to return the notes to the case file but paused. Sheriff Turner hadn’t exactly said no to the idea of showing the letters to Darby. He stepped over to the copier and made several duplicate sets, then placed two sets into a file. With all the problems at the Mule Shoe, it was only a matter of time before he’d be called in and could see Darby.

Chapter 8

My walk back to my cabin took me past the horse pasture. Several stopped grazing and gave me a curious look. They appeared to be mostly Quarter Horse crosses with a few Appaloosas and a couple of mules.

The events described in Roy’s letter seemed random and not particularly unusual, but the destruction of the art room and the possibility that the bear had been deliberately lured convinced me something was wrong at the resort. Unfortunately, I’d only smelled the fish, and Roy had cleaned up the art room, so I didn’t have tangible evidence. The raccoon incident was up in the air. None of the events I’d witnessed targeted a specific individual.