Poisoned Ground Read Free

of the dog’s collar, Tom moved around Marie’s body and mounted the steps. Through the screen door he saw a burner on the electric range glowing red hot beneath a saucepan. A plume of dark smoke rose from the pan.
    Tom yanked open the door and crossed to the range in five strides. He grabbed a pot holder from the counter and slid the saucepan away from the heat with one hand as he switched off the burner with the other.
    The liquid in the pan had evaporated, and heat had welded chunks of vegetables to the bottom. Assembled on the counter next to the stove were a loaf of homemade bread, a head of leaf lettuce, and two knives. Marie must have been starting preparations for an early dinner when the killer showed up. Did she hear shots from the yard, run out to help her husband, and get hit before she could reach him? Was she murdered only because she could identify the attacker, or had the killer come here intending to shoot both the Kellys?
    And why? Why in God’s name would anybody kill these people?
    Tom set the pan in the sink and found a plate in a cupboard to cover the top and contain the smoke and odor.
    He yanked a dog leash off a hook by the back door, but before he took it outside he glanced around for signs of a disturbance that would point to a robbery. The kitchen had an old-fashioned, homey look, a perfectly preserved artifact of the mid-twentieth century. The only thing that caught Tom’s attention was a file folder open on the table, exposing a printed document. In the center of the document, a butcher knife stood straight up, its tip penetrating the paper and the red gingham oilcloth, and anchored in the wooden tabletop.
    Tom stepped over to examine the document. The first page bore the logo of Packard Resorts, stylized type bordered by graphics of a bikini-clad woman on water skis and a man skiing down a snow-covered slope. Skimming the boilerplate language that laid out Packard’s plans for an elaborate rural resort in Mason County, he found a clause stating that all offers were contingent on the company obtaining every plot of land necessary for completion of the project.
    Without disturbing the knife, Tom used the tip of one gloved finger to lift the first sheet. On the second page, he found the amount of Packard’s offer for the Kellys’ land. He gave a low whistle. Almost two million for twenty acres of pasture, apple trees, and cornfields. The company must badly want the land to offer this kind of money.
    He caught a movement from the corner of his eye and jerked away from the table, a hand going to his pistol. The intruder, a black-and-white rabbit, bigger and plumper than any wild rabbit he’d ever seen, hopped past Tom as if indifferent to his presence. It made its way to a feeding station in a corner of the kitchen and settled into crunching green pellets heaped in a bowl. A second rabbit, pure white, hopped into the room, freezing for a second when it saw Tom. Then it took a wide detour around him on its way to the food.
    Great. He had to do something about these rabbits as well as the dog and a yard full of chickens. As long as they had food and water, the chickens could stay where they were until the Kellys’ son and daughter decided what to do with them. But the rabbits and dog couldn’t be left here.
    In the yard, the dog began to howl, a mournful, bewildered cry.
    “Sheriff?” Brandon called. “You inside?”
    Stepping over to the screened door, Tom said, “I’m going to do a walk-through, then I’ll be out.” He tossed the dog leash to Brandon, who caught it before it could land on Marie Kelly’s back.
    Nothing appeared amiss in any of the downstairs rooms. Every piece of furniture and every rug looked old, not shabby so much as well-used. Upstairs, Tom found all three bedrooms neat and undisturbed. The son’s and daughter’s rooms looked as if they were still occupied by teenagers, with Redskins pennants and posters of motorcycles on Ronan Kelly’s walls, and framed photos