Stella, Get Your Gun. Nancy Bartholomew

don’t understand,” Detective Poltrone said. “You saw a pair of cowboy boots and assumed from that quick glance that it was Jake Carpenter come to rob your uncle’s estate? Why would he do that?” She had an exasperating habit of flipping her notepad shut whenever she asked me a question, as if she was trying to let me know she wasn’t going to believe my answer or find it worthy of noting in her all-important log of clues.

      I rolled my eyes and made a silent appeal to Detective Slovineck.

      “You think he wanted to steal back a copy of a financial agreement he made with your uncle?” Slovineck asked, knowing full well that was exactly what I thought but saving his partner’s face.

      “Okay,” I said. “Do we not have motive, means and opportunity here? Jake must be in some kind of financial trouble. He cons my uncle out of $260,000. He never intends to make good on the partnership—he just wants the money. That’s why he killed my uncle. When he learns I’ve seen the papers, he tries to steal them back so there’s no proof. He wants it to be my word against his. That’s why he’s desperate enough to make a daytime raid on Uncle Benny’s study.”

      I sat back, waiting for the detectives to respond, and felt sick at my stomach. Granted, Jake was a jerk and a coward, but a murderer, too? How could I have been so wrong about him? How could I have ever loved someone who would coldly plot the murder of my uncle and the destruction of my family? I didn’t want to believe it, but what else could I think?

      “Stella!” Aunt Lucy appeared in the study doorway, Nina peeking over her shoulder and Lloyd at her side.

      The two detectives looked up like startled rabbits and I stood, turning around to reassure my aunt. “It’s all right, Aunt Lucy,” I began. She interrupted me.

      “Honey, this is such a mess! You could’ve just asked me where the will was!”

      “Oh, no, Aunt Lucy, it’s not that…”

      “Besides,” she continued, “Jake would’ve given you a copy.”

      “Jake?” The name squeaked out of my throat like a strangled cough. Behind me I heard Detective Poltrone flip open her notepad and begin scribbling.

      “Oh, yeah, honey,” Aunt Lucy said. “You know, he’s the executor. He has to have a copy. Otherwise how could he administer the trust and run the business?”