Page 85 of High Frequency

It’s a can of red spray paint.

For marking livestock.

Son of a bitch.

The vandalism to the house had kind of slipped down my list of priorities these past few days with so much else going on. I guess this is as good a time as any to confirm my suspicions.

Holding the can between my thumb and index finger, I carry it to my truck and find the Ziploc bag Isobel’s muffins had been in, and drop the paint can inside. I toss it on the passenger seat before returning to the house to make sure everything is closed and locked up. Then I get behind the wheel and head into town.

She’s behind the register cashing out a customer when I enter the store.

The moment she sees me walking up, she goes rigid. The customer says something to her as he grabs the bag of feed off the counter and flips it on his shoulder. Then he walks out the door and it’s just her and me.

“What can I do for you?” she asks through clenched teeth.

Yep. She’s still angry.

Her eyes drop down to the plastic bag in my hand and stay fixed there, a flush almost instantly appearing on her face. It speaks volumes, and is enough of a confession for me.

“Do you carry this brand, Shelby?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you mind checking for me?”

Right then Bill Vandermeer comes walking out of the warehouse in the back. He looks at his daughter and then at me.

“Is there a problem?”

“Shelby didn’t recognize this brand, so I asked her to check,” I explain, noticing Shelby squirm a little.

“Raidex Red?” he asks, noting the brand of the can in my hand. Then he turns to his daughter. “You just stocked the shelves in the warehouse with that stuff last week. Remember we got that shipment in right before the weekend?”

Shelby’s face is now beet red, as she presses her lips together. Her father shakes his head at her before turning back to me.

“I’ll grab ’em for you, how many cans do you need?”

I hadn’t really planned on what I would do once I confirmed my suspicions—maybe go to the police—but now I’m thinking perhaps her father can keep his daughter in check.

“Actually, I just wanted to see if the can came from here,” I tell him.

“I haven’t sold any yet. You, Shel?” he asks his daughter, before catching himself. “Never mind, of course you haven’t or you would’ve remembered we carry it.”

“Could you check to make sure?” I press.

“Sure. I ordered twenty-four of the red, so it’ll be easy to see. One sec.”

He pokes his head back into the warehouse, and I glance at Shelby, who stays silent but is shooting daggers at me.

“I’ll be damned. I’ve got two missing.” Bill points at the can in my hand. “Where’d you get that?”

“I found it under my porch this afternoon. I’m building a log home just east of High Meadow along the Fisher River. Sometime during the night from Sunday to Monday, someone spray painted the inside and outside of my house with red paint.” I hold up the plastic bag. “This red paint.”

“What the hell?”

Bill seems genuinely baffled as he turns to his daughter and catches her glaring at me.

“I’m not sure what’s going on here.”

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