Page 7

The gates of Howard Mitchell’s estate opened for Chief Morgan’s SUV, as though acknowledging their authority.

Jenna watched through the passenger window as the sprawling property unfolded before her—manicured lawns stretching toward a mansion with stone columns flanking the entrance and meticulous hedgerows lining a circular driveway.

“Quite the spread,” Jake murmured from the back seat.

Jenna looked around as she and her colleagues stepped out of the car.

It seemed odd that this place, with its perfected appearance, was connected to the bizarre scene they’d left behind in that lonely trailer.

The men who had lived in such contrasting surroundings had shared a common interest in electronics.

Or was it death that had tied these two worlds together?

“His daughter’s managing the estate sale,” Chief Morgan continued as they approached the heavy oak doors. “Been going on for a couple of months now. Mostly specialized collectors. She’ll be expecting us.”

Before they reached the entrance, one of the doors swung open. A man in his fifties, dressed in what Jenna recognized as the uniform of household staff for the wealthy, stood in the doorway. His posture was impeccable, and his expression was professionally neutral despite the circumstances.

“Chief Morgan,” he acknowledged. “Ms. Mitchell mentioned you would be stopping by.”

“Franklin,” Morgan nodded. “Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins from Genesius County, and Colonel Spelling from the State Highway Patrol.”

Franklin’s gaze swept over them, betraying no curiosity about why three law enforcement agencies were at his employer’s doorstep. “Please, come in. Ms. Mitchell is in the main gallery.”

The foyer opened into a two-story entryway with a crystal chandelier hanging from a coffered ceiling.

Jenna noted the tasteful art on the walls—original paintings, not prints.

But what caught her attention wasn’t the wealth on display but the voices echoing from deeper in the house—the murmur of multiple conversations and occasional exclamations of appreciation.

Franklin led them through double doors into what could only be described as a museum. Jenna stopped short, momentarily stunned by the display before her.

The room was massive, easily sixty feet long, with vaulted ceilings and track lighting that illuminated hundreds, perhaps thousands, of audio devices arranged by era.

Glass cases held what appeared to be the oldest pieces: wax cylinders, hand-cranked phonographs with massive horns, ancient-looking record players.

Free-standing displays featured radios from every decade, their wooden cases gleaming under the carefully positioned lights.

“My God,” Jake whispered beside her. “It’s like walking through the entire history of sound.”

About twenty people moved through the space, examining pieces with the reverent attention of true enthusiasts. Jenna watched as a man with wire-rimmed glasses bent to study a 1930s radio, hovering over it without touching anything.

“Mr. Mitchell insisted nothing be kept in storage,” Franklin explained, noticing their reactions. “He believed collections were meant to be displayed, not hidden away.”

Jenna’s gaze traveled along the collection, taking in the progression from primitive technology to more sophisticated equipment.

She stopped when she reached a section dedicated to ham radios—equipment similar to what they’d found at Derrick’s.

Several spaces were empty, and tags indicated items had been sold.

“Ah, there’s Rebecca now,” Chief Morgan said, drawing Jenna’s attention to a woman making her way toward them.

Rebecca Mitchell appeared to be in her early forties, dressed in a simple black dress.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose knot, and though her makeup was understated, Jenna could see the evidence of sleepless nights around her eyes.

As she drew closer, Jenna felt the weight of grief surrounding the woman, not the raw, new anguish of sudden loss, but the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from dealing with death’s aftermath.

It was a feeling Jenna knew intimately from her father’s passing. The decisions no one prepares you to make, the constant platitudes from well-meaning acquaintances—all while trying to process your own grief.

“Hello, Chief Morgan,” she said. “How may I help you?”

Morgan made introductions. “This is Sheriff Jenna Graves from Genesius County, her deputy Jake Hawkins, and Colonel Spelling from the Highway Patrol.”

Rebecca shook each of their hands, her grip firm despite her evident fatigue. “Three different agencies? I’m not sure whether to be intrigued or alarmed.”

“It’s a somewhat unusual situation,” Jenna said, offering a smile meant to reassure. “First, though, I want to express my condolences for your loss. Losing a parent is never easy, regardless of the circumstances.”

Something in Jenna’s tone must have conveyed her genuine understanding, because Rebecca’s professional veneer softened momentarily.

“Thank you. It’s been...challenging. Dad’s heart attack was unexpected, and his will is—” She paused, glancing around at the massive collection.

“Let’s just say he was more organized with his radios than his legal affairs. ”

“I can only imagine,” Jenna said. “My father passed five years ago. The paperwork alone was overwhelming.”

Rebecca nodded, a flash of recognition passing between them—the shared understanding of those who’ve walked similar paths.

“I’ve taken leave from my practice in Connecticut, but I can only stay another week.

Hence the rushed estate sale.” She gestured at the visitors examining the collection.

“I’m trying to be selective about buyers.

Dad would have wanted his pieces to go to people who appreciate them, not just those with the deepest pockets. ”

“That’s very considerate,” Jake said. “Most would just auction everything off to the highest bidder.”

“I’ve had offers.” Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “But these weren’t just possessions to my father. They were his passion. Each piece has a story.”

Chief Morgan cleared his throat. “Rebecca, we’re here about a specific item that may have been sold recently.”

Jenna pulled out her phone and brought up the photo of the ham radio they’d discovered at Derrick’s trailer. She turned the screen toward Rebecca. “We believe this was part of your father’s collection.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened with immediate recognition. “Yes, that’s from Dad’s collection. A 1950s Hallicrafters S-85 with original tubes.” Her finger hovered over the screen, pointing to a small mark on the side. “That scratch on the casing—Dad said it added character.”

“Do you remember who purchased this particular piece?” Jenna asked, watching Rebecca’s face carefully.

“Of course. It was just a few days ago.” Rebecca frowned slightly.

“A man named Derrick, I believe. He was—” She paused, searching for the right word.

“Intense. Particularly about the radio having original vacuum tubes, not transistors or microchips. He asked a lot of technical questions I couldn’t answer. ”

Jenna exchanged glances with Jake. “What else can you tell us about him or the purchase?”

Rebecca led all four investigators to a small sitting area at the side of the gallery, away from the other visitors. They settled into leather armchairs as she continued.

“The man you’re asking about, Mr. Derrick, wasn’t what I’d call a typical collector.

Most of Dad’s enthusiasts are either nostalgic older men or young audiophiles who appreciate analog sound.

He seemed...” She frowned, choosing her words carefully.

“He seemed almost desperate to have that specific radio. When I quoted the price, he wasn’t fazed.

Although he looked rather scruffy, I take it that he’s independently well-off.

I’m sure I could have charged him much more for the radio, but I didn’t. ”

“That was generous of you,” Jenna said.

Rebecca shrugged. “He clearly cared about the technology, not just the acquisition. He kept talking about the ‘purity’ of vacuum tubes versus modern circuitry.” She gave a small smile. “Dad would have approved.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly. “Ms. Mitchell, I’m afraid I have some difficult news. Marcus Derrick was found dead yesterday morning.”

Rebecca’s hand went to her throat. “Dead? How? Was it—” She stopped, visibly processing this information, her legal training perhaps kicking in to prevent her from jumping to conclusions.

“It’s being investigated as a homicide,” Jenna confirmed gently.

“And the radio is connected somehow?” Rebecca asked, her gaze sharpening despite her shock.

“We’re exploring all possibilities,” Jake interjected smoothly. “The radio was found at his residence.”

Colonel Spelling, who had been observing silently, spoke up. “Did Mr. Derrick mention feeling threatened or afraid when he was here?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Not explicitly, no. He certainly seemed paranoid about technology in general, made some comments about government surveillance through modern electronics. But he didn’t mention any specific threats.”

“Was there anyone else who seemed particularly interested in that radio?” Jenna asked. “Anyone who might have been upset that Derrick purchased it?”

The question caused a visible change in Rebecca’s demeanor. Her shoulders tensed, and her expression hardened.

“Actually, yes. There was someone.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “A man named Harris Lynch was very interested in it. He came by multiple times, making increasingly aggressive offers.”

Chief Morgan made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a growl. “Lynch. I might have known.”

Jenna glanced at Morgan. “You know him?”

“Everyone in Pinecrest knows Harris Lynch,” Morgan said with undisguised contempt. “Owns a shop called Golden Legend Treasures. Sells ‘oddities’ and antiques, though half his merchandise is probably something that fell off the back of a truck.”

“I refused to sell to him,” Rebecca stated firmly. “His reputation preceded him, and the way he spoke about the equipment—it was clear he only saw dollar signs, not historical value.”

“You made the right call,” Morgan assured her. “Lynch is a known sleaze who has been cited for harassment more than once. Follows people, makes threats when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“What was his reaction when you sold the radio to Derrick instead?” Jenna asked.

Rebecca’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He was furious. Called me—” She paused, glancing at Colonel Spelling. “Well, his language wasn’t suitable for polite company. Said I was out of my mind for selling such a valuable piece to a ‘well-known crank’ for a much lower price than he was offering.”

“He knew Derrick?” Jake asked, leaning forward.

“He seemed to. Called him the ‘conspiracy nut from out in the sticks.’ I got the impression there was history.”

Jenna tilted her head. “Did Lynch interact with Derrick directly while they were here?”

“Not that I saw. Lynch was here earlier in the day, making another offer I refused. He stormed off but didn’t actually leave the property.

When Derrick arrived later and purchased the radio, Lynch was still lurking near the refreshment table.

” Rebecca hesitated, then added, “Actually, there’s something else.

When Derrick left with his purchase, I saw Lynch go out too.

But we were busy with other customers, and I didn’t think much more about it. ”

The four law enforcement officers exchanged significant looks.

“Ms. Mitchell, is there anything else you can recall about either of them?” Jenna pressed gently. “Anything at all that seemed unusual or noteworthy?”

Rebecca considered for a moment. “Derrick paid in cash—small bills, like he’d been saving up. He was very protective of the radio when he bought it. Insisted on carrying it himself, wouldn’t even let Franklin help him to his car.”

“This has been extremely helpful,” Jenna said, standing and offering her card to Rebecca. “If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant it might seem, please call me directly.”

Rebecca took the card, studying it before slipping it into her pocket. “Of course. I hope you find whoever did this. No one deserves to die over a radio, no matter how valuable.”

As they prepared to leave, Jenna took one more lingering look at the impressive collection. A lifetime of passion and knowledge, now being dispersed. She wondered how many of these pieces held stories as dire as the one they were uncovering.

Outside, the four huddled together.

“Lynch sounds like our guy,” Chief Morgan stated flatly. “He’s got the temper and the motive.”

“And apparently knew Derrick beforehand,” Jake added. “That’s not a coincidence.”

Colonel Spelling nodded curtly. “I agree. Where’s this shop of his located?”

“Downtown Pinecrest,” Morgan replied. “Golden Legend Treasures. Right off Market Street.”

Jenna wasalready moving toward the vehicle, her mind rapidly organizing the new information—the valuable radio, Lynch’s rage at losing it, his history of harassment, and the fact that he’d followed Derrick on his way out. It was far from conclusive, but it was the strongest lead they had.