Page 24 of Conrad

“Fascinating take!” Penelope said. “Witness protection is a twist I hadn’t considered. Thanks for your thoughts!”

Another telephone ring.

“Caller two, hit me with your theory.”

This one could be a podcaster, with her conspiratorial tone. “Hey, Penelope, here’s what I think: aliens. Yes, aliens are using real estate to infiltrate our society. Maybe Sarah caught on to their plans!”

“Okay, caller two. Our armchair PIs never disappoint with their creativity. Thanks for adding some extraterrestrial intrigue to the mix.”

She’d cued up two more calls.

“Hi, Penny, love the show. Here’s my theory: what if this whole thing is a cover-up for a bigger scandal? Maybe Sarah discovered fraudulent activities tied to the real estate market, involving not just Walsh and Swindle but higher-ups in the industry. Her computer might have had evidence that could bring down a lot of powerful people!”

This one she liked, a lot. Had already jotted that angle down for more investigation. “Oh, a classic corruption angle—nothing like financial scandal to stir the pot. Thanks for weighing in with that sharp insight! And our final caller for tonight . . .”

“Hey, Penny, I’ve been thinking—what if it’s all about personal vendettas? Maybe someone from the apartment-complex fire saw something—even Sarah at the scene—and thought she had something to do with it through her connection to Walsh. Perhaps they sought revenge not just on her but on everyone close to her, like Kyle and Tommy. Remember, ‘If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.’”

An Agatha Christie quote—she’d heard it before from this caller. But this theory stilled her. She hadn’t considered that Sarah might have been complicit in a crime that had led to her murder. “Revenge—a motive as old as time itself. That’s a chilling but entirely possible scenario. Thank you for your thoughtful contribution.”

Two interesting theories, at least.

She didn’t have time for the last one, but it also sat in her brain.“Hi there, Penny! Here’s a wild card: what if Sarah was part of an undercover investigation? Maybe she was working with the police or a private detective to expose illegal activities in the real estate business and her cover was blown.”

Penelope needed to recover the information from Kyle’s jump drive, or sussing out the theories would be like herding cats.

She cued her transition music. “Keep these theories coming, folks. Every angle provides a new piece of the puzzle in unraveling the secrets of Sarah Livingston. Call and leave a message, and let’s unravel this mystery together onPenny for Your Thoughts. In a world full of puzzles, your thoughts might just be the missing piece. See you next time—toodles!”

She hit her outro, a mix of jazz music, and then stopped recording. Saving it to the cloud, she sent her producer a message, then picked up her phone.

A text. And no, she didn’t expect Conrad to text her—after all, she’d been the one to shut him down. But she couldn’t deny the craziest, unmerited disappointment that Lucas Reid, newly promoted PR director for the Pepper Foundation, had sent her a digital reminder to BE AT THE NORTH STAR ARENA BY FOUR P.M., all caps.

Sheesh, calm down.She closed her computer, then slid the barn door open and headed through her finished basement to the upstairs, through the open great room/kitchen, to her second-floor bedroom, the entire top level, with a master bathroom that overlooked the river. After changing into yoga pants and an oversized EmPowerPlay sweatshirt, she pulled back her long hair, added a white furry headband, then headed downstairs, donned her UGGs, grabbed her keys, and was out the door.

See.She could be on time.

She headed west on Highway 7, out past Waconia, listening to a murder mystery on tape—a book about an art thief in Boston.

She finally pulled up to the North Star Arena, a massive steel building just east of Duck Lake, with a star on the apex of the building and trucks and SUVs filling the lot.

Hopefully Lucas would be here with his iPhone, or whatever he planned on taking pictures with, and she could buzz in, buzz out, get on with her day.

Not that she had any plans beyond a bubble bath and the rest of her audiobook.

The icy air met her as she walked inside, shouts echoing along with the crisp shots of pucks and the swish of skates. She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes late. Practically fashionable.

A smattering of parents sat in the bleachers, watching, a few shouting encouragement and bleacher advice to the coach.

She spotted Lucas sitting on a bench a couple rows up from the entrance. He waved to her—nice-looking guy, late twenties, clean-shaven, wearing glasses, his dark hair behind his ears, a little of a renegade aura despite his suit pants and puffer jacket.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“They started early,” he said. “Apparently the new coach changed the time.” He gestured to a couple of guys across the ice. One of them Simon, whom she recognized when he skated nearer to the edge, blowing his whistle.

The kids—a motley crew dressed in worn jerseys, a few in jeans—what?—passed pucks to each other in pairs as they raced down the ice.

The other coach worked with a group of players, crouching down as he talked with them, his back to her.

“They’re not bad. They were pretty unorganized when I got here, but that coach stepped in and they did a three-puck relay.”

---