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Bear couldn’t get away from Firelight Ridge until he’d tackled at least some of the fall tasks that had piled up. He had to finish splitting the rest of the firewood he’d harvested from Esther Holt’s place. Eve Dotterkind asked him to dig up her potato crop before the ground froze. In exchange, she offered up a nice supply of potatoes for the winter. Gunnar needed his help fixing his gas pump before the next fuel delivery, which could very well be the last one before the road closed for the winter.

Then there were the usual winter preps at The Fang. Generator maintenance. A broken window to be replaced. The batteries for his solar system had to be switched out.

Once he’d compiled a worthy enough list, he left the bar in Lila’s hands. He had a roster of part-timers he could call on to fill in, but this time of year, everyone was busy. One more reason to hire a cook—something he’d been thinking about lately. Lila’s sporadic soups were great, but what if they brought on someone consistent, someone who could bake as well?

He found Lila sweeping the floor in preparation for opening. He didn’t always bother with that detail, but she insisted.

“I might have to stay overnight in Blackbear after I meet with Cromwell. Can you close and open again tomorrow? If not, just put up a closed sign. Same goes if you need to skip out of here and do something else at any point.”

“Of course. You can count on me.”

But he caught a wistful look in her eyes. “Need anything from town?”

She paused and folded her hands on the broom handle. “I wouldn’t mind a mocha latte with chocolate sprinkles.”

“Uh…I was thinking more like, winter boots, or long underwear. You know, winter survival kind of thing.”

“Bear.” She shook her head at him. “There’s more to life than surviving. I miss my lattes! Now that Billy Jack closed down the breakfast bus for the winter, there’s nowhere to pick up a foamy drink. It’s a tragic loss for our community.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” he said dryly. “One mocha latte. Right between a new lithium iron battery and sheets of foam insulation for the shed.”

She gave him a sunny smile, refusing to take his bait. “Thank you very kindly. And don’t forget the sprinkles.”

He took one last glance at her before he pushed out the door. Sometimes it seemed surreal that this fascinating fairy-like woman had landed in his bar and apparently wanted to stay. Lila reminded him of a monarch butterfly that had landed on his shoulder while he was deer-hunting. He’d stopped in his tracks and watched it from the corner of his eye until he got a crick in his neck from the awkward angle. A Sitka deer had wandered past, not fifty yards away, and still he hadn’t moved. Nothing had mattered except giving that butterfly the rest and safety it needed in that moment.

Eventually it had flitted away, leaving him with the sense of having been blessed.

The same thing would happen with Lila, sooner or later. She’d flutter off to somewhere warmer, somewhere easier. In the meantime, whatever she needed, he would provide for her.

When he reached the Blackbear police station three hours later, Officer Cromwell was none too happy to see him. “Starting to think you want your old job back, ex-Officer Davis.”

“Just trying to help you with yours, Officer Cromwell. But if you’re not interested in a potential clue, it’s all good.”

“Hand it over.” With a weary sigh, he accepted the Zip-loc bag containing the nylon sheath.

“We found it in the woods by Snow River. I can give you GPS coordinates of the location.”

“You and that witchy girl?”

“Your best quality has always been your professionalism,” Bear deadpanned.

“I call it as a I see it. Why should I have to pussyfoot around? Just saying. I’d watch yourself if I was you. I know a wacko when I see one.” While Bear’s blood boiled at Cromwell’s disrespect, the officer turned the sheath this way and that, examining it through the plastic. “Looks like about the right size. The coroner said the blade was mostly likely a six-inch-er.”

“You might be able to trace that sheath, but it’s a pretty common type.”

“The location might help. What’s near there?”

“Nothing much. Woods, the river. A couple miles up Snow River there’s some fancy cabins that used to be used for retreats. They might be abandoned. Can’t say for sure, but I can check them out if you want.”

Cromwell shrugged. “If you get a chance, sure. But it’s looking like a domestic situation. Knife stabbings usually are.”

Bear jumped at the opportunity to follow up on Lila’s intuition.

“You think someone was with her? It would be unusual for a woman to hike in alone, especially in bear season. There’s warnings posted everywhere.”

“Sure, but you know these tourists. They think it’s all a game. Get a selfie with a bear, post it on Instagram. That’s all they want. Just like the kid who thought he could survive a winter in that bus.”

Bear tuned out the rest of that rant, which he’d heard before from Cromwell and other locals. The whole story had been told in a book, and then a movie—a young man had hiked out to a school bus abandoned in the wilderness past Healy. There he’d stayed, eating the plants he found and even trying to dry moose meat for the winter. But something had gone wrong, and he’d been found dead, poisoned by a misidentified plant, perhaps, which locals took as a warning that Alaska was not to be messed around with.

Bear didn’t disagree—survival was tough out here, and the truth was, it was even tougher alone, no matter who you were or how much experience you had. Survival required other people. It required a community. Even Officer Cromwell, an expert shot and experienced fisherman, would have trouble cut off from his gas-guzzling Tahoe with its seat-warmers and engine-block heater.

But he kept that opinion to himself.

“Good point, good point.” He nodded along as Cromwell wrapped up his rant. “So she didn’t go in alone, did she?”

“No. She was staying at the Wagon Wheel before leaving with her backpack for a three-day camping trip. She told the clerk she was meeting someone, but he didn’t have any details.”

Bear could think of several follow-up questions. “That’s all you know? Was it a boyfriend? A guide?”

“Get on out of here.” Cromwell waved him away. “Of all the people I don’t answer to, a rogue ex-cop is right at the top.”

And things had been going so well.

Without another word, Bear turned to go. No sense in sharing space with someone so intent on being a jackass.

“Hey, Bear,” Cromwell called after him. “If you find any more leads, don’t be shy.”

Bear ignored him and hurried out of the station to his truck. Dealing with Cromwell and other members of law enforcement who knew his history—or what they’d heard of it—sucked. It was something he had to endure, like a cold snap or a spring flood. Crappy but inevitable.

He drove to the Wagon Wheel Inn, where he happened to know the housekeeping manager, Shawna. Rather, they’d had a brief fling a few years ago. After their time together, she’d gotten promoted to manager, then met a local carpenter and gotten married. For some reason, she liked to claim that he’d sparked all that good change in her life.

Shawna hugged him tightly, then showed off her pregnant belly. “More good luck, thanks to you!” she crowed.

He snorted. “So long as your husband knows I had nothing to do with that.”

“He loves me. He knows. What do you need, Bear?” She swatted him on the arm. “You look different. What’s happened?”

“Same old. I need to ask you?—”

“Not same old. You look different. New woman? I hope you’re in love this time!”

“Shawna. Please. There was a woman staying here a couple of weeks back.”

Immediately her expression switched to serious. “The dead woman. You want to know about her?”

So Cromwell had beaten him to the punch. He should have figured; the guy wasn’t a bad detective. “The police already talked to you?”

“Me? No.” She sniffed. “They think I know nothing. I don’t know very much,” she admitted. “She was a nice lady. She left a big tip when she checked out. She even left a watercolor.”

“Do you still have it?”

“It’s in the laundry room. We hung it up there. We never got a painting from a guest before! You want to come see it? Not too many men come to our laundry room.” He followed her through the carpeted hallway to a large room filled with washers and dryers and shelves stacked with bedding. The scent of detergent and clean clothes made the space more inviting than he would have thought.

Maybe he should add laundry to the services offered at The Fang, he mused. Lord knew some of his customers could use it. Of course he’d have to run that by Lila. It was one thing to pour shots of rum, another to make change for a washing machine.

Lila will be gone before too long, he reminded himself. No sense making plans based around her.

The watercolor had been taped to the wall over a white plastic table meant for folding laundry. It depicted a lovely forest with a river flowing through it. A couple perched on a rock at the river’s edge. The artist’s perspective was from behind their heads. The woman could have been Rita—her hair was long and dark. The man wore a floppy fishing hat and a jacket rendered in watery swaths of green and black.

He pointed at the man. “Does he look familiar to you?”

Shanna nodded. “Her hookup.”

“How do you know that?”

“Housekeeping knows.” Shanna gave him a wink. “Condom in the trash.”

That was interesting. “I don’t suppose?—”

“Did we save the condom? No, it’s in the trash compactor by now. But he’s a sweet guy. Real smart. He’s no murderer.”

That was what people always said, even about the most heinous killers. Psychopaths and sociopaths were experts at appearing normal.

“Is he from around here? Or did he have his own room?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know where he’s from, but it’s not here. He wasn’t staying here, either. He’d come and hang out sometimes.”

“Have you seen him around since then?”

“No.”

Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck. This “hookup” seemed like a solid lead, but there was nothing to follow up on. He took a shot of the watercolor, just in case. But he couldn’t do much more than that. If he trespassed on Cromwell’s turf too much, there would be hell to pay.

Then something occurred to him. According to Cromwell, the Wagon Wheel clerk had said that Rita was meeting someone, and that she’d been wearing her backpack. Had that person picked her up outside the hotel?

“The Wagon Wheel doesn’t have security cameras, does it?”

“Security cameras?” Shawna hooted with laughter. “We don’t even have an ice machine.”

But there was a bank across the street, he remembered. Maybe one of their cameras pointed in a helpful direction. Had Cromwell checked it? Was there a way he could ask to view their footage without claiming to be a police officer?

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a legitimate approach. Banks tended to be particular when it came to cooperating with investigations.

Unless…there was always the damsel-in-distress angle. If only Lila was here. She was impossible to resist, at least for him.

He eyed Shawna and her rounded belly. Who could say no to a pregnant woman? What was a little deception when it came to tracking down a murderer?

“Want to take a break and pretend your purse got stolen two weeks ago shortly after checkout time?”