Mesozoic Murder by Christine Gentry

nose. Soot coated the inside, and a charred mass rolled around the bottom. She took a picture of the can, then tossed it on the newspapers.
    A sound outside the room caused her to freeze, blood throbbing in her ears. She listened, hardly breathing. Then she knew. A door lock was opening.
    Ansel jumped to her feet and grabbed her camera. The front door closed with a thud. The fear of discovery gave her the presence of mind to swing the workroom door quietly closed. She left a crack between the edge and the doorjamb so she could hear.
    Her mind raced to form plausible excuses why she was hiding in the office like a thief should she be found by the landlord. Or Dorbandt. It could also be somebody dangerous, Ansel realized. Nick’s killer was at large.
    As she concentrated on listening, sweat coursed down her rib cage beneath the leather jacket. She heard footsteps traversing the foyer. Several gut-wrenching seconds of silence passed, followed by squeaking hinges. The curio door.
    Ansel listened as objects clinked against the tempered glass shelving. The magnetic door closures snapped loudly. Silence. Then the front door slammed. She bolted out the door and down the hallway into the living room. Breathing hard, she grabbed a drapery panel across the picture window and pulled it back a few inches.
    Ansel recognized the plum-colored Eclipse with a rear wing spoiler. It was parked in front of the garage. Slack-jawed, she watched as the driver disappeared inside the car. In seconds the vehicle backed down the carport and sped away.
    She went straight to the dining room and re-shot pictures of every curio shelf. Comparing the before-and-after photos at home would be a cinch.
    Then she’d pay Evelyn Benchley a visit and ask her why she had a key to Nick’s apartment.
    ***
    The knock on her trailer door surprised her. She was just gathering her fanny pack and sunglasses before heading to the Roosevelt Museum where Evelyn worked as a preparator. For the last hour, she’d been comparing the digital photos downloaded to her computer. Ansel rushed to the door and opened it to a thick vapor of heat. Tim Shanks’ lithe form took up most of the doorway, and she stared at him blankly.
    â€œHello, Miss Phoenix,” he said with a winsome smile even warmer than the simmering air around them. In his hands he held a bulky, brown grocery bag crimped at the top.
    â€œHi, Tim,” she managed to say. Why was he here? If she didn’t get on the road, she’d never reach Fort Peck before the museum closed.
    Tim’s grin melted. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
    â€œForgot what?”
    â€œThat I had an appointment to come and talk to you about my major.” He watched her with his beautiful hazel eyes, irises exactly matching the color of his tee shirt. “Can I come in?”
    â€œYou’re right, I did forget, Tim. I’m sorry. Have a seat.”
    Tim stepped into the trailer and waited until she closed the door before handing her the bag. “I brought you some Valencia oranges from California. Sort of a thank you present. My uncle sent them. Taking Vitamin C is a really good stress prevention, too. I figured you’d need it after what happened this weekend. It was pretty wild.”
    Ansel took the bag and peeked inside. The tangy sweet smell of citrus filled the air. Vibrant orange balls were nestled inside the sack. Since Montana had no citrus groves, this was a rare treat. She set the package on the kitchen pass-through.
    â€œThat’s really sweet of you, Tim. No pun intended. I’ll have some fresh orange juice for breakfast. Unfortunately, we’ll have to make this quick. I’ve got to leave in a few minutes. Another appointment I can’t miss.” She sat on the rocker.
    Tim took a seat on the sofa and brushed a hand through his blond curls. “No problem. Guess nobody’s found the person who killed your friend yet, huh?”
    â€œNot yet, but they