I couldn’t see her, I could only hear her, and it was terrifying. I was squatting in a muddy ditch, hidden (I hoped) by greenery, with a fast hold on the arm of an old man who was in very poor health, listening to a madwoman try to tempt me to give up the old guy to her not-so-tender mercies. She intended to kill Rusty. But she didn’t yet know that I was not on her side. I could either stay where I was and wait for her to find us—given that she was holding a high-powered rifle I figured I knew the outcome of that scenario—or I could do something about it.

I let go of Rusty, fixed my gaze and pointed my finger at him then at the ground, hoping he’d get that I was telling him to stay put. I crept away from him as quietly as I could until I was behind where I thought Dinah was standing. I sighted Becket crouching nearby, his tail slashing back and forth, his gold eyes fixed on a spot. That had to be where Dinah was. Good cat.

Doing my best to hide, I said, “We can talk, Dinah. But you have to let Rusty go.”

There was a pause; as she tried to figure out where I was? Probably.

Then she said, “I will. I don’t really mean to kill him, you know, just scare him some. I love the old coot.”

And I was a dainty ballerina. “Did you say something about him killing your son?”

She was silent, but after a minute, she said, “Yeah. But . . . but Dinty tackled him, I guess. Poor old Rusty couldn’t help it. Dinty never did like him, so I guess he . . . I don’t know.”

Weak. I would have bet that Dinah sent her son into the bush to kill trusting Rusty, and it went sour somehow. I’d best leave it alone if I wanted her to think I was willing to make a deal. “I am interested in how to make money,” I said, moving slightly to try to see her. I caught sight of her; her back was to me, and she still had that damned rifle up, finger on the trigger, but as I watched, she was honing in on my voice, and turning, scanning the forest with her rifle sight.

I crouched and moved out of range. She had no intention of making a deal with me; she still wanted to shoot me.

“What about Tom Turner?” I asked.

She whirled, her eyes scanning the woods near me. I was wearing a green sweater. Maybe I melted into the background.

And then it came to me, two things at once: Dinah was likely the one Silvio had Tom following, and she had killed him because of it.

Chapter Twenty-five

WHAT HAD HE discovered about her that made him so dangerous? Was it about her enterprises, or Rusty still being alive, or something else?

“What about Tom?” Dinah asked as she turned, looking for a target.

I was not going to oblige by answering. I heard rustling in the bushes, and figured it was likely Becket, up to his stealthy panther moves—“Moves Like Jaguar”—I almost giggled. Old Maroon 5 song references rarely make me laugh, so this was hysteria; not good at that moment. Stifling my laughter, one hand over my mouth, I tried to figure out what to do. Where was Rusty now? Had he managed to gather his courage and get away? How could I handle a sharpshooter with a high-powered rifle using only the strength of my muffin-baking hands?

So many questions, and not a single answer. There was only one chance, I figured, and that was to move back toward the castle, if I could figure how to do that. I knew I should have gone to Girl Scouts, like Grandma wanted me to. Mom opposed it; said they were just a breeding ground for conformist fembots. I squinted and looked up through the glowing-green canopy above. It seemed to me that when I was at the castle watching the sunrise, it was over the arboretum. Since it was still early and still rising, I needed to walk away from the direction of the sunlight to get back there, right?

Made sense to me.

But as I had been pondering, Dinah had not been quiescent. She was gone from her spot, and I didn’t know where. Damn! I could run right into her while trying to escape. How was I going to lead her away from poor old Rusty, and yet stay safe myself?

I had to get moving. I took a deep breath, scanned the forest around me for any revealing blonde, piled-up hair, and began to steal through the forest like a jungle cat. Okay, maybe not like a jungle cat, but I sure hoped not like a charging rhino. It wasn’t going to be easy, because I couldn’t use the path, even if I could have found it. I spotted Becket. He looked tired and cranky, distinctly in a bad mood, and I didn’t blame him. For the first time, it occurred to me that all those times I had caught sight of him, he was trying to get me to follow him. Had he been trying to lead me to Rusty, to get him help? Stranger things had happened.

I was hearing rustling from everywhere, now, and didn’t quite know what to make of the sounds. In the forest with me were Dinah, Rusty, and Becket. The cat I could see, but the two humans eluded me. I hoped that Rusty had either gotten away, or was hunkered down somewhere safe. This was exhausting. I stopped, trying to catch my breath, wishing I had worn yoga pants or anything more forgiving than form-fitting DKNY jeans.

Needing to get the heck out of there so I could call Virgil and tell him about the nutbar in the woods, I put some speed on, and began to climb over fallen branches and crash through foliage at a faster pace. I looked over my shoulder, as I went, fearing the worst, that Dinah, rifle cocked, was following me or drawing a bead, or whatever expert markswomen did.

And that’s probably why I almost ran right into her.

“Stop!” she yelled.

I whirled to find her on the path toward which I was headed, rifle up, aimed right at me. Damn. “Hi, Dinah.” I caught my breath and considered my options. Groveling while begging for my life seemed about the only one.

“You should have taken my deal.”

“I didn’t actually hear a deal,” I said evenly, trying not to let my eye flick behind her, where I saw a figure creeping up on her with all the stealth a seventy-or-so-year-old man can muster. Inside, I was screaming No, Rusty, don’t do it! But I tried not to show it. “Uh, so, I guess it’s silly to even think that you will just leave and let me go?”

Regret in her pale eyes, she shook her head. “No. Can’t do it.”

“The body in the tent is your son, Dinty?”

She nodded, her eyes blurring. “Idiot. I told him to go take care of Rusty, but he must have underestimated the old coot. I’ve been looking for him for months; figured he’d taken off. He’s disappeared on me before.”

She hadn’t known Dinty was dead—or at least hadn’t been sure—until Lizzie and I stumbled over the body. So . . . “Why try to kill Rusty in the first place?”

“I wasn’t ready to leave town yet. I thought there was more I could squeeze out of this operation. It took so much to set it up!” She sighed. “I should have left town a month ago, I guess. Look, Merry, I don’t want to kill you, but you haven’t left me much choice.”

“You have a choice; don’t kill me. Leave town.”

“Not an option,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to do this,” she repeated. “I’m not a killer.”

Rusty was getting closer, a rock in his hand. Damn. What were the chances this would come off okay? Not great. “You keep saying you’re not a killer, but you did kill Tom Turner, and on my property!”

“I had to. He was trying to blackmail me. Once he figured out what I was doing—and that took a while, fortunately, because he was one dumb jerk—he wanted a cut just for keeping his mouth shut. That effing lawyer was figuring things out, and set Tom on my trail.”