Hot on the Trail. Vicki Tharp

      “Kurt dipped.”

      “Still not a smoking gun.”

      Behind them, the phone beeped as it powered back on. The cord was too short to reach the table, so Quinn took his plate, balanced it on the center divider of the sink, and boosted himself onto the counter.

      The phone beeped a few times as he thumbed through various menus. “Got a piece of paper?”

      Jenna opened a drawer above the cutlery with pens and pencils and rubber bands. In the back of the drawer, she found a partially crumpled envelope. “Go.”

      Quinn gave Jenna three numbers. “Those were the only numbers he called. That last one he called multiple times a day.”

      “When was the last time he called it?”

      Quinn scrolled back through the call list. “Six minutes after seven. Friday night.”

      “That’s the night he died. What about the other numbers?”

      Quinn held half the sandwich between his teeth as he switched the phone from his right hand to his left, then took a bite, hampstering the morsel in his cheek pouch. “The first number he called a couple times, two and three weeks ago. The second, he only called once. A week ago, today.”

      “What about texts?”

      He thumbed to another menu. “All to the most frequently called number.”

      “What do they say?”

      “This is weird. All outgoing. No return texts. Starts out with I’m sorry… please pick up the phone… are you mad… you can’t ignore me… answer me… this isn’t funny… call me… I need to talk to you… I’m getting really worried… and the last one says, I’m coming over.”

      “Wow. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.” How could Jenna have missed that? She started in on the other half of the grilled cheese, since Quinn seemed to have forgotten about it.

      “We don’t know if it’s his girlfriend. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s a girl.”

      “Still, chances are…” She let the sentence dangle.

      Quinn shrugged.

      “Maybe she broke up with him, and he was upset and…” Her heart did a slow barrel roll in her chest like those planes she’d seen at the air shows. “Maybe she’s the reason Kurt…” Jenna couldn’t finish the sentence without losing her composure, so she didn’t try.

      “One way to find out,” he said as he punched the Call button. He put it on speaker, but the phone bleeped three times, and the call died. “No service. Figures. We can try the landline up at the big house.”

      Jenna scrunched up her face. “Yeah…not gonna happen.”

      “Why not?”

      “I’d rather no one knows what we’re doing unless we find something helpful. They’re going to tell us to let the sheriff handle it.”

      “Then let’s drive into Elk Creek. We should have a couple bars of service there.”

      Jenna grabbed the half of the grilled cheese she’d commandeered, as well as the grapes. Quinn swallowed the last of the tea, popped a couple of chips into his mouth, and hopped off the counter, taking the charger with him.

      Jenna palmed the matchbook and card and stuffed them into her back pocket.

      As they headed out, Quinn plucked Kurt’s keys off the hook. Dink hopped off the bed and ran out ahead of them.

      “You sure this wreck will get us there?” Jenna asked as they climbed in the Mustang. A seat spring poked her in the rear, and she slouched to avoid it.

      “It may look a little rough on the outside, but Kurt was a jet mechanic before he became a pilot. Trust me. This baby runs faster than a gazelle through a starving pride of lions.”

      Quinn started the Mustang, the countertorque of the powerful motor twisting the body on the frame as he gassed it, the grumble and rumble settling deep into her marrow.

      In Elk Creek, for lack of a better place to park and make the call, they pulled into the parking lot of the local diner, the sun bouncing off the bright skin of the sleek, converted train car. Jenna pulled down the visor. It fell off in her hand.

      She tossed it onto the cracked dash. “So, who do we call first?”

      Quinn picked up Kurt’s phone. “Let’s start with the number he called just the one time last week.”

      He thumbed to the number, hit Call, and activated the speaker. It rang four times before someone picked up.

      “Kurt, where the hell have you been, man?” There was an urgency in the man’s voice as he whisper-yelled, as if trying not to be overheard.

      In the background, music played, country songs that hadn’t seen the top of the charts in a couple of decades, along with the general din of voices over the occasional tink of glass.

      “Kurt. Quit messing with me.”

      Quinn mouthed the word “matchbook,” and Jenna scrambled to pull it out of her pocket.

      “Is this”—Quinn flattened out the matchbook cover—“Cruisers?”

      No answer. The song ended, and another began.

      “Hello?”

      “Who is this?”

      “A friend,” Quinn said. “Who are you?”

      As George Strait started in on a chorus, the line went dead.

      “Call him back.” Jenna’s palms began to sweat.

      Quinn hit Redial. The phone rang. Disconnected. Didn’t go to voice mail. “Probably shut it off.”

      Jenna’s leg bounced up and down. “What are the chances that guy was at Cruisers?”

      “If I was betting my last dollar in Vegas, I’d take those odds.”

      Jenna pulled the business card out of her pocket. “Ward Holleran—A-Okay Insurance.” She rattled off the number. “Is that one of the numbers Kurt called?”

      “It was the number he called a couple of times shortly after coming up here.”

      “Give me the phone,” she said. “I have an idea.”

      She punched in the number and put it on speaker. When a man answered, she forced a quaver into her voice. “W-Ward Holleran, p-please.”

      Quinn gave Jenna a look.

      “Speaking.”

      She held up a finger, telling Quinn to hang on. “Um, yeah. I-I don’t know if you can help me. My husband was in a horrible accident on Friday night. And now everyone is asking if I have”—Jenna threw in a convincing sob for the added effect—“if my husband had l-life insurance.” She cleared her throat. “I found your card in his wallet. I was hoping he’d gone ahead and gotten insured like I’d been asking him to for ages.”

      “I’m so sorry, ma’am. What did you say the name was?”

      “Kurt. Kurt Kordell.”

      “Kurt K… Oh, um, wow… You said ‘Kordell,’ right?”

      Jenna gripped Quinn’s hand. Maybe they’d found a lead. “Yes, Kordell.”

      A chair squeaked, and there was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kordell, but no, your husband didn’t have a policy with me.”

      Jenna slumped in the front seat. Quinn sat back and rubbed a hand over his face.

      “Can you check your rec—”

      “Ma’am—”

      “Please,