High Desert Detective, A Fiona Marlowe Mystery (Fiona Marlowe Mysteries) by Marjorie Thelen

him. It might have been him. He might
have got lost over there in the East Steens.”
    “This man wasn’t lost,” said Fiona. “He was buried in the bank by
the hot spring.”
    Opal raised her eyebrows, and Jake said, “I agree. He had a sheet
or something wrapped around him.   That to
me means it was pre-meditated. Someone put him there.”
    “Maybe this man who showed up was on the run, and someone was
looking for him,” said Fiona.
    Opal said, “He didn’t look that type. I think I’m a pretty good
judge of people. He seemed very humble and sincere. Maybe he crossed the wrong
people or something. It would be worth asking the sheep ranchers I told him about.”
    Jake shrugged. “Maybe. In any case you should
tell Hoover about him. He can talk to the ranchers in question. We don’t have
to worry about it. I got better things to do, like run a ranch. If you ladies
don’t mind, I’m calling it a day.”
    Opal and Fiona had lingered at the kitchen table after Jake
turned in. “Why don’t you call up those sheep ranchers you mentioned,” Fiona
said.
    “I could. You aren’t going to let this one be, are you, Fiona?”
    She smiled. “I’m just curious. I mean, if you happen to run into
one of those ranchers or maybe have to talk to them, you could ask.”
    Opal nodded. “I could do that.” She rose to leave then hesitated.
“Fiona, you have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to see how much Jake cares for
you. You’re not going to break his heart, are you?”
    Fiona froze, taken off guard.   She cast her eyes around the room, trying not to make eye contact with Opal,
but she knew Opal would not relent. Truth was the only option. She finally met
Opal’s eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel. I like my freedom. He’s a big boy. He
can take care of himself.”
    “Still, I worry about him. He’s sweet, and he’s been hurt bad before.”

 
    * * * * *

 
    Somehow she made it through the night without any ghosts bothering
her. The carpenter arrived late morning. He was going to insulate the walls, cover
them with dry wall, and paint. His name was Brewster, and he seemed decent
enough though a little odd. He was an artist who did house painting and
carpentry to support his artistic habit. His spiked blond hair and earring fit
the image. He was a creative type she could relate to, so they got on well and
spoke the same language. She got his life history in the bargain. He had
discovered Rocky Point several years ago.
    “The town is a well kept secret,” Brewster said, “so don’t tell
anyone else. I like the place as it is. It has a nice little arts community,
and no one pays much attention to the place because it is a long way from
anywhere else. I like it just fine.”
    “I won’t tell a soul,” Fiona said. “Let’s select the interior and
exterior colors of paint.”
    That’s when they got into the argument. Brewster declared he had
an expert eye for color coordination and had even gone to school for it. Fiona
had, too, and considered herself a superb color expert.
She tried to keep an even temper and not lord over him her degree from the Rhode
Island School of Design. Dropping that name had not fazed him. The air got tense
over what color sage was, whether it had more green or more blue. He looked
like he was on the verge of walking out. This had never happened to Fiona. She
had always gotten on well with her contractors, although they could be
undependable, especially when it came to starting and finishing a job on time. She
studied the man.
    “All right,” she said in the interest of keeping on good terms
with him. “We’ll go with your idea of more blue in the sage than green.”
    “You won’t be disappointed. I know my colors,” he said.
    “I’ll leave you to your measurements. You will start the walls today,
won’t you?”
    “Now that you bring it up, I won’t be able to start until next
week.”
    “You said you’d start today.”
    “I said I’d start today if I got this other