“All the ones who would have reason to be in the barn.”

“All right. Can you make out a list of your staff? And what about your guests?”

“Of course, although I can’t see any of them messing around in the barn—”

“Riccardo was.”

“So he was,” Roy muttered. “I’ll get you that list. Let me show you where it happened.” In the barn, he led the way to the end of the hall. Bloody hay, medical packaging, and a pair of blankets lay underneath an open trapdoor to the loft. A pitchfork, missing three tines, leaned against the wall.

Squatting down, he shifted the hay, looking for lengths of baling twine. If any had been there, they were gone now.

“Do you think he could have slipped backward off the ladder?” Roy asked.

Bram stood, stepped over the blankets and other debris, grabbed a rung, and climbed to the loft. “The wood has been worn smooth and could possibly be slippery.” He looked down at Roy. “But he would have had to step over the pitchfork and know it was there.” He surveyed the landing area and hall. “There’s a lot more hay directly below here, which makes me think he fell through this opening rather than off the ladder.”

He climbed up another rung and looked for the nails and baling twine thread. The nails were there, but no orange fibers. He took out his phone and snapped a few photographs anyway.

“What are you looking for?” Roy asked.

“At this point, just looking.” He climbed down. “Who handled the pitchfork?”

“The medical staff, of course, when they cut the tines. Wyatt. Um . . . me. Probably all the outside staff at one time or another.”

Interesting. Roy didn’t ask him why he wanted to know.

The older man dry washed his face. “I did it, finally. Took the offer.”

“Offer?”

“To buy the place. Today was the final straw. I think the new owner will keep the staff on. I hope so. I haven’t told anyone so far. I don’t want them to be angry or get their hopes up.”

“Who bought it?”

“I don’t know. Quite frankly, I signed all the paperwork a month ago and left it with the real estate agent. The money’s in escrow. I just had to give the final yes. I just kept hoping things would change, get back to . . . well, you know.”

Bram patted the man on the arm. “You should have a tidy nest egg to retire on.”

“Yeah. Right. Nest egg. More like retire before this place kills me.”

*  *  *

The art room had been neatly placed back into order. A swift look at the backpack in my locker showed my wallet and Shadow Woman’s drawings undisturbed. Five sets of supplies mutely spoke of the absence of the Rinaldis, Mrs. Kendig, and the Easons.

I took my place at a long table.