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Or, rather, when they were looking, they didn’t know what they were looking at. They did now, and he only hoped that they hadn’t made a grave mistake by chasing after the false lead at the museum.
They made good time, and Sam relaxed slightly as he turned onto the dirt road that led to Grace Herbert-Miller’s farm. As before, the chickens scattered as they pulled up in front, the geese honked, and the few goats that had wandered up to the split-rail fence bleated their arrival.
Sam and Remi walked across the graveled drive to the cottage, their footsteps crunching beneath them. No one was approaching this farm without being noticed, Sam thought as he knocked on the front door.
There was no answer.
He stepped back, glanced up at the chimney. No smoke. “Maybe we should have a look around. Make sure everything’s okay.”
Remi nodded but didn’t comment. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was. Something had happened to the Herbert-Millers.
They walked around to the side, the brick path thick with moss, making it slippery in some areas. Diamond-paned windows reflected the sunlight as they passed, the white lace curtains inside preventing Sam from seeing in. Around back, a well-tended vegetable garden was fenced off, but a few chickens had found their way in, pecking for grubs between rows of carrots and celery.
Two steps led up to the back door, painted forest green, and Sam noticed fresh gouges in the wood near the lock as though someone had recently tried—or managed—to gain entry. “Not what I was hoping to see.”
“Definitely not,” Remi replied.
He was just reaching for the handle when he heard the loud chorus of chickens, geese, and goats out front, followed by the sound of a car’s tires on the gravel drive.
“That,” Remi said, “is one heck of an alarm. Maybe we should look into getting one ourselves.”
“I’m not sure Zoltán could resist the temptation of fresh chicken for lunch.”
“Good point.”
They retraced their steps, Sam taking the lead. At the front of the house, he signaled for Remi to wait as he peaked around the corner. Grace Herbert-Miller was getting out of the front passenger seat of a late-model blue Fiat that had pulled up behind their rental car. Judging from her red and black flowered dress, black wool coat, and the small black hat with red buds decorating one side, she’d just returned from church.
What he didn’t see was her husband.
Not wanting to alarm the woman, he waved Remi forward, and together they walked out to greet her as she said good-bye to the driver.
She saw them and smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I certainly wasn’t expecting you today . . .”
“Mrs. Herbert-Miller,” Sam said, smiling in return. “Sorry to drop in unexpectedly. I was hoping to have a word with you and your husband. Is he home?”
“Unfortunately, no. He left early this morning to visit his brother, who’s been quite under the weather. But do come in.”
She started for the front door. Sam reached out and touched her arm. “Actually,” he said, “I’m a little worried that someone might have broken into your house.”
Surprisingly, she laughed, then started forward again, pulling her keys from her purse. “I doubt that. We’re so far out in the country, who would waste their time? It’s not like there’s anything of value in there.”
“Even so, it looks like someone may have gone in through the back door.”
Together, the three walked around to the back, and Sam pointed out the gouges in the wood by the lock.
“Oh dear.”
He reached out, opened the door. “It was locked, I assume.”
She nodded but said nothing.
“I’m sure they’re gone,” he said. “But, frankly, I’d rather not take any chances.”
“It will take forever before the police arrive. We’re so far out.”
“I can check while you call from Remi’s cell phone.”
“Please.”