Page 88 of Building What's Meant to Be

I meet his gaze on the wall then shake my head as I get up and try to remove the painting above the mantle. It’s on there good. I lift the left corner, but it doesn’t budge. I try the right and the painting swings on a hinge, opening to a safe.

“Bingo.” Anticipation rushes through me as I try the numbers from the cat’s collar. The thing doesn’t open. I try them again and a third time. Maybe it’s reversed. Nope.

I go to the car, open the trunk and flinch at the sight of Murder Doll before retrieving my tools. Cracking my knuckles,I go to work, breaking into the safe. It’s a long and arduous process, but with each click, my anticipation builds.

When I finally get it open, all I find is a scrapbook filled with photos of Stoll and a woman.

I take it, close the safe, and return to the office. I’m about to go upstairs when I pause and head into the bookstore instead.

Aggie greets me. “You have a puzzled look on your face.”

“I could go for a piece of pie.” Instead, I show her the scrapbook with several pictures torn out.

She pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and handles it the way a forensic technician would. My prints are already all over it. “Looks like Gatlin Stoll was married, went on a honeymoon to Hawaii, and several cruises, along with the usual shots of a couple—” She gasps. “Look at who is in the background of this shot.”

I peer over Aggie’s shoulder to see a cat lounging on the couch behind Gatlin and the woman who’re clinking glasses together.

“Also, if you notice, of the photos that remain, not one of them offers a clear depiction or portrait style image of her.”

“But now we know the cat is connected. But who and where is Mrs. Stoll?”

I do the obvious and review records of all known associates, but a Mrs. Stoll doesn’t come up. I can’t do a facial recognition match because, as Aggie pointed out, none of the pictures show her face clearly. This could be the reason some of the photos are missing.

Apart from my inability to comprehend how someone could marry Gatlin Stoll, my mind floats with thoughts of marriage and what I’d be like as a husband—if someone, namely a woman with long blonde hair, big brown eyes, and a slight gap between her two front teeth would want to say,I doto a guy like me.

The next day, when I pick Tinsley up from Sweethearts before we head over to Bubba’s, she exits the boutique instead of the bakery. She carries a very large dog in her arms.

I leap out of the car and move to take Brave from her, but she twists away from me.

“I got him. Carrying those bags of cement for the porch footings over at Bubba’s really built up my strength.”

“Why are you carrying the dog?”

“It finally stopped raining and the pavement is hot.”

“Brave is a dog.”

“Who has sensitive toe beans.”

“Toe what?”

“Footpads. I need to get him those little paw protectors.”

I press my hand to my eyes. “Don’t listen to her, buddy. You have strong, tough, manly dog feet.”

She giggles and her phone beeps. She struggles to adjust her bag on her shoulder with the dog in her arms.

“Want help?”

“Nah. Just ignore it.”

She ignores her phone a lot lately. When she first came to Butterbury, she was plastered to the thing and looking at social media. Now, she rarely goes on her device, but she’s been receiving tons of texts.

It beeps again and the screen illuminates. Nestled toward the top of her purse, it draws my eyes. The word DELETE scrolls across the screen. The other day, I noticed it said IGNORE. Before that, it said DO NOT CALL.

My investigative senses go off. Seems strange, but Tinsley doesn’t look at her phone, and I can’t make sense of the various contact names.

We get into the car. Brave rides in the back of the Maybach like a furry prince.

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