The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“This young guy...did anything seem off about him?” I say neutrally, trying not to let my suspicions out.

She looks at me slowly. “No, only...when he took a liking to something, he got real excited. He must’ve talked my ear off for almost an hour about all this wheeling and dealing he did with antique furniture and china over in New York City.”

The way my eyebrow quirks must give me away.

“Oh, but I don’t think he’s a suspect!” she adds quickly. “He came off like an upstanding fellow. He even left me thirty dollars to reserve the bookcase so I wouldn’t sell it to anyone else before he had first dibs. That other guy who came the same day in the boots, though...”

“What other guy?” I ask, my attention piqued.

“I mentioned him to Drake. Never seen him around town before, but he said he was with Earhart for the season, working the oil fields. He came clomping around with muddy boots. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just mean-spirited. He picked through some glassware with old beer logos for ten minutes and almost dropped a few dishes. I didn’t like how he was stumbling around and warned him to be careful. He told me to my face he could find better 'junk' at a flea market! Oh, and apparently I was wasting everybody’s time by leaving the nicer stuff in the house. Terribly rude, right?” Her expression sours.

I mumble my agreement, not liking anything I’m hearing.

I want to go tell Weston and Drake everything in case she left out any details, but I wait until the water hisses. After placing the teabag in the cup and filling it with hot water, I carry it to her.

“I’ll go see if Weston or Drake want something to drink, too. Be right back.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, honey. Tell them I have plenty of coffee.”

“I will.”

The guys are in the living room, meticulously picking over the glass box that housed the rifle and discussing the lock. Drake agrees it seems like it’s been picked.

I walk up to Weston, whose face softens when he sees me.

“Hey. I’m not sure how important this might be, but...” I lay a hand on his arm. “So, Faye just told me she posted a few listings for sale on everybody’s favorite old-school classifieds. They’re all pictures she took inside the house.”

His blue eyes ignite, and I know he’s thinking what I am.

Someone obviously saw the gun in one of those pics. And maybe a certain mean, drunk someone with zero manners came by to feel the place out before staging their heist.

“Damn. I didn’t know she knew how to do that,” Weston tells me, shaking his head.

“She said the librarian helped her. If Faye was a little too trusting or just not careful enough, that’s probably how it happened.”

“Almost certainly is,” Drake says, tapping a few notes into his phone before he looks up. “Online listings keep causing more trouble than they’re worth lately between the old anonymous sites and Facebooger’s marketplace. Let’s go verify the information.”

He and Drake share a look, then we all head back into the kitchen together.

“Aunt Faye, you told Rachel about some listings? What’d you post online?” Weston asks gently.

“Oh, mostly just the old furniture we talked about. That bookcase you brought out for me the other day and my grandmother’s old sewing machine. Ah, plus that pie safe over there.” She points to an old punched tin cabinet near the back door. “I think I mentioned a few more odds and ends if I remember right, and I attached plenty of pictures to everything.”

“Can I take a look if they’re still in your email?” he asks.

She points at the counter and asks me, “Shelly, will you please hand him my cellphone? It’s plugged in behind the coffee pot.”

I see the phone and pass it to Weston. He and Drake scan through her pictures in no time before he passes it to me with a frustrated look.

“I don’t see the gun in any of these pics. Have a look, just in case we missed something.”

I scroll through the listings, blowing everything up on the half a dozen ads so I can see better. But I have to agree, I don’t see a single photo with the gun in the background, however small.

“Sorry. It was just a wild guess. I suppose it could explain attracting weirdos, at least. She mentioned the rude muddy boots guy.”

“Thanks, and yeah, she told us about him,” Weston says, nodding angrily.

“No details are too small when it comes to home intrusions. They could still lead us to something concrete,” Drake says. “At this point, we shouldn’t rule out anything. I think you should call Faulk, Weston, and have him install the home security system we perfected last year to help with any future ruckuses in town. Even a simple doorbell camera could work wonders if anyone wants to make a repeat visit to Faye’s house.”