Dead for the Money by Peg Herring

everything.
    Pushing aside her dislike of deputies, Brodie thought about what this one suspected. Bud wanted to sell the company. Buyers did not wait around forever; even she knew that. So if he’d wanted it badly enough, might Bud have done something terrible?
    She hoped not. Gramps had loved Bud better than anyone else in the world. He had trusted him completely, and she had never seen evidence that those feelings were not mutual. So could Bud, a guy who had always been around, a guy she was sort of related to, be a murderer? It was a lot to think about. Brodie decided an informed decision required more information.
     
     
    S EAMUS LEFT WITH R EINER , gathering a sense of local geography as they drove. The house—it probably deserved a more impressive word like mansion —sat back from the beach about fifty feet. Bluffs rose on either side, although the southern one was softer and lower than the one he’d come down earlier as Brodie’s unwitting guest. Around the house were several out-buildings: a large garage, some sheds, a barn, and a boathouse, all in the same Edwardian style as the house. Behind them, a stretch of flat land spread in both directions before turning to deep woods.
    Reiner rolled the windows of his patrol car down for a few minutes, letting the heat dissipate in order to give the AC a chance. The smell of clover gave way to pine when they entered the cooler, darker section. They traveled for some time before the driveway rose sharply and ended, meeting the county road that paralleled the lakeshore. Reiner turned right, and they drove along the shoreline.
    They traveled southward, passing several impressive homes, a golf course, and a yacht club. Finally they descended a winding, tree-lined street to the town of Frankfort, which lay between Lake Michigan and a much smaller lake, which he learned from a sign was called Betsie. The town was not large, and the marina dominated everything. There were boats everywhere. Sunlight sparkled off the clear water and off the metallic bits of every sort of watercraft. Expensive yachts dwarfed tiny one-person sailboats, and clunky rowboats shared space with sleek cruisers sporting massive double motors.
    Seamus did not approve of any of them.
    Reiner drove through Frankfort slowly, watching for signs of trouble. He cruised a few side streets, checked some motel parking lots for a car they’d been asked to locate that morning, and drove by some of the places the kids liked to hang, making his presence known and watching for infractions of the law, major or minor. Finding none, he took Highway 115, which inclined its way out of town. Seamus learned from his host’s thoughts that the sheriff’s department was headquartered in the nearby town of Beulah.
    When they arrived there, it was almost four o’clock. The sheriff’s department was quiet, the few people around busy with their work. Reiner stuck his head into the sheriff’s office, which smelled of coffee left too long on the warmer. “Done for the day, boss. Pretty quiet out there.”
    The sheriff looked up from the report he was reading. Leaning against the wall behind him was the cane he used since his knee replacement two months ago, which did not appear to be coming along well. Seamus heard Reiner’s thought: Lose fifty pounds. That might take the pressure off.
    “You went out to Dunbar’s?”
    Reiner’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Checked to see if they were doing okay.”
    “And?”
    He shrugged. “Seems like it. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
    The sheriff regarded his deputy’s eager face. “Are you going? Getting out to the cemetery isn’t easy with that.” He waved resentfully at the cane.
    “Sure, I can go.”
    “They’re pretty important people in this county.”
    They’re rich , Reiner thought . That isn’t the same as important. He rubbed his nose with a knuckle. “You don’t think we should look at this some more? See if it was really an accident?”
    The sheriff’s expression indicated