Nothing about the “accident” made sense. Lawrence kept repeating it over and over to anyone who would listen. Victor wouldn’t have tried to climb down without him being right there. If he shot a deer, they used walkie-talkies to communicate. Lawrence would have come. If there was an emergency, he had a satellite phone.
Vienna told them all that the ME found it suspicious that the left ring finger had two breaks on it in exactly the same places as the climbers and James Marley. She even had the sheriff come in and take a look. He didn’t seem to think, even with four people having the exact same breaks on the exact same finger, that he could build any kind of a case. Falling from tree stands wasn’t all that uncommon, and when you added multiple sclerosis to the mix, it stood to reason that an accident was an accident. The ME had a drink with Vienna and voiced her concerns. She said four people with exactly the same breaks on exactly the same finger was pushing the boundaries of coincidence for her. When Vienna had pushed her, asking what she was considering, the ME had backed off, shrugging, just shaking her head.
Stella couldn’t blame her. What were the odds of a climbing accident on Mount Whitney, a fishing accident on Sunrise Lake and a hunting accident in the Inyo National Forest being in any way tied together? If the sheriff didn’t think broken fingers were enough to build a case— and she knew he was right— then what was she going to do? Stella didn’t blame him either. Even if he did think there was cause to think Victor’s death wasn’t an accident, there were no witnesses. There was nothing whatsoever, no evidence to suggest a serial killer had murdered him. That was the danger of this killer. Other than his “signature” of the broken finger, there was no way to identify his kills.
Stella cried over the hunter, but she’d all but resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to save him. There just weren’t enough clues to find him in time.
Shabina called and asked if Stella wanted to come for a girls’ night at her place. Sam insisted that she go, that she needed at least a night off before Bailey was back and the killer struck again, as his timetable seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. Sam was afraid that meant he was unraveling.
It felt good to just climb into her favorite pair of leggings and a long shirt, eat pizza and be with her friends. Stella found it strange to be without Bailey, but Shabina’s Dobermans, Raine’s Jack Russell and Harlow’s beagle were all there. Zahra had lost her dog two years earlier and continued to vacillate between getting another dog or a little black kitten. Where she got that idea, no one knew. She’d been heartbroken when she’d lost her beloved rough-coated half–Pyrenean Shepherd and half something no one knew. Her energetic gray, black and white Elara had been twenty pounds of sheer fun. Zahra continued to say if she got another dog, she would get the same combination, although she swore Elara wore her out “forcing” her to take her out for runs a hundred times a day. All of them knew Zahra didn’t like to run. She shared Stella’s view of the pastime. Jogging was okay, but running was just the worst possible thing in the world. For her dog, she sacrificed with much complaining.
Stella sat tailor-fashion on the floor of Shabina’s great room with its luxurious carpet that one could practically swim in. The huge stone fireplace was lit, the flames burning orange and red, casting images on the walls. Instead of sitting on the cozy sofas and chairs, all six women sat on the floor, using the furniture as back supports. Over the last few years, they’d gotten comfortable sitting that way. In the center of their circle were bowls of popcorn and small chocolate bars Shabina had made for the evening.
“I’m going to gain so much weight tonight,” Zahra moaned as she chose another one of the bars. “I wouldn’t eat it, but just looking at it puts weight on my thighs, so I might as well enjoy it.”
“There is this thing called exercise,” Stella said. “Miguel, our personal trainer, is still on speed dial.”
“Don’t speak his name to me,” Zahra sniffed indignantly. “He no longer exists. Not after telling me I have to swipe my badge at the desk if I want in his class.”
The other women burst out laughing. “You never swipe your badge, Zahra,” Harlow pointed out. “In fact, you don’t bring your badge.”
“If he doesn’t know who I am by now, there’s something seriously wrong with him.” Zahra’s dark eyes were passionate as they normally were when she was very serious about a subject. “Miguel Valdez can take his badge swiper he’s so fond of and shove it somewhere he doesn’t want to talk about. Besides, he’s so mean to me when he’s making us do our workouts.”