St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

naked tails from his left hand.
    “Yuck,” Carly said. “At least mice are cute. Does this happen all the time?”
    “It’s late to be catching rats. Usually they come in after the first hard freeze. They must have been chased out of their digs by the last storm.” He glanced at the computer. “I’ll get rid of these and show you how to use the archive program. Don’t poke around while I’m gone. There are more traps. You could break a finger if you aren’t careful.”
    “Is that why they use live traps at the Quintrell ranch house?”
    “One of Sylvia’s purse pets was maimed in a kill trap a long time ago. Ever since, they’ve used live traps only.”
    “Makes sense. Can I use the computer?”
    “The program you’d be working with is a bitch to learn. Stick with microfilm until you know your way around.”
    She watched him climb easily up the treacherous steps. The dead rats swung in rhythm with his stride.
    “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” she called after him.
    Carly thought she heard him chuckle, then decided it must have been just his boots scuffing over cement. The outer door opened with a groan and a scrape and closed the same way, leaving her alone with the past and a roomful of rattraps.
    Now I know why newspapers call their archives the morgue.
    Rubbing at goose bumps that wouldn’t stay away, she set her jaw and headed for the first cabinet.

QUINTRELL RANCH
MONDAY MORNING
8
    THE WRITING WAS IN THE ERRATIC FAINT SCRAWL OF A MAN AT THE END OF HIS strength.
    Blackmail, Josh.
    One of the charities has to be a front.
    Never found out who. Safer to pay.
    Josh Quintrell wondered who of all the many people the Senator had screwed had finally found a way to get even. Winifred, probably. She heard all the gossip from the hispano community; they feared her as much as they respected her. She’d hated the Senator after she’d found out about his women, and she hadn’t known the half of it.
    Senator, you were a real piece of work. Which of your secrets was it? You had almost as many of them as women.
    Josh didn’t want to read about any of it in the headlines. Not until after he was the surviving candidate in the primaries. Not until after the election itself.
    The Senator’s secrets had been kept for almost a century. Surely Josh could keep them buried for eleven more months.
    He closed the Senator’s private safe without looking at the gun and the cash, but he did remove the kind of evidence of civic corruption that some cops would have loved to have. The dial spun with a vague humming sound. After a glance at the locked door, Josh stood and went to the corner fireplace. There were only a few small pieces of piñon burning, just enough to give the room a scent of resin. He dropped the Senator’s note in, watched it burn, and ground the ash into a smear across the small hearth. He did the same with the other papers.
    Obviously, someone knew too much, which meant he couldn’t trust anyone local. At the same time, he couldn’t afford to make local people suspicious. He’d act like it was business as usual and use an out-of-state accountant to track down the blackmailer.
    Until that happened, he had other problems. Carly May was at the head of the list.
    Josh unlocked the office door and strode quickly to the end of the house everyone called the Sisters’ Suite. He knocked very softly before he opened the door to Sylvia’s room. He didn’t wait for permission to enter; it was his house now.
    As always, Sylvia’s body made a slight mound on the hospital bed. As usual, Winifred’s chair was drawn close and the piñon fire was blazing. Sylvia’s empty black eyes stared into the room from beneath a carefully combed halo of white hair.
    Nothing much changed from visit to visit except the seasons beyond the windows and Sylvia herself, becoming more and more ghostlike, translucent. Every week when the doctor visited, he told Josh that he expected Sylvia to be dead.
    So far no one had been that lucky.
    “Good morning, Aunt Winifred,” he said quietly. “How is Mother today?”
    “Alive.”
    Josh bit back a sigh and a curse. Neither would make a difference. Winifred had never liked him. She would go to her grave that way. “Alma said you weren’t feeling well.”
    “I’ll live.”
    “I’m sure you will. Nothing would be the same without you.”
    Winifred leaned forward, opened a rough pottery jar, and scooped out something that looked—and smelled—like it had been scraped