Chapter 46 Avery
AVERY
Clouds had moved in front of the sun, the breeze turned cooler by the time I reached the edge of Walter’s farm. It had been warm when I’d left the house with Beck that morning, but now I wished I’d brought a sweater.
The lake looked gray under the cloudy skies, and for the first time since I’d come to Blackwell Hollow, I didn’t see any boats skimming along its surface or bobbing in the waves.
The smallest hints of a warning settled into my stomach: it was more deserted down by the lake than I remembered.
Then again, it was probably just because the last two times I’d been here the sun had been shining in a cloudless sky, Blackwell Hollow’s residents out and about around the lake.
Oh well. I wouldn’t be long anyway.
This time Walter was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well. I wasn’t scared of him exactly — he was pretty old — but there was no reason to cause unnecessary trouble before Sheriff Crowe decided how to handle the evidence I’d brought her about Harold.
Howard’s cottage looked almost desolate standing between the empty lot to the right and the water to the left, a cluster of ducks making their way to the lake the only sound other than the clang of metal as boats in the marina bobbed in the increasingly choppy water.
I walked a bit past the house, craned my neck to look at the smaller covered structures I’d thought were coops, and stepped hesitantly onto the grass. I’d only gone a few feet when I sank deeper into the ground, and I lifted my foot and looked at the bottom of my white sneakers.
Mud.
It was wetter here, which made sense since it was so close to the lake.
I kept going, working my way closer to the coops, grimacing as I tried to avoid the duck poop that seemed to multiply as I got closer to the enclosures.
Bags of birdseed were stacked next to the coops, and behind the gates, flocks of ducks waddled and quacked, pecking birdseed off the ground and dipping their beaks into a trough of water, lifting their heads in curiosity as I approached.
Next to the fence, I crouched down, peering at the birdseed scattered in the mud, and remembered the drying mud on Harold’s pants. It had looked grainy, and at the time I’d thought it was just because it was almost dry.
But no, it had been mixed with birdseed, the mud drying because Harold had walked from Walter Finch’s duck farm to Aunt Evelyn’s house.
I reached for the latch on the gate and stepped inside. It would only take a second to get a sample for Sheriff Crowe. Then she could have forensics or whoever test it to see if it matched what had been on Harold’s pants.
I was in a shed-like room, nesting boxes arranged on wooden shelves, that led to the open areas where the ducks had been pecking at the feed, and the ducks squeaked their alarm as I stepped toward the open area where the birdseed was scattered.
Unfortunately that wasn’t the only thing scattered across the mud: it was mixed with more slimy duck poop.
Gross.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice sounded behind me.
“Wasn’t expecting company.”
I turned to find Walter Finch, standing in the coop’s doorway in work boots and overalls.
And for the first time since I’d decided to come to the farm, I felt afraid.