Page 102 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

Carver sees it too. “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“That isn’t what your face says,” I tell her.

She exhales and looks toward the dark lodge. “Owen Mercer.”

The name means nothing to me. Carver, however, becomes still.

“You should have mentioned him earlier,” he says.

“I haven’t seen Owen in almost a year.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“He was our assistant operations manager for three festivals. He handled vendors, parking assignments, storage, maintenance schedules—whatever needed to be done.”

“He had keys.”

“To everything.”

“Why was he fired?”

Her fingers tighten around the clipboard. “Vendor deposits went missing last year. At first, we thought there was a bookkeeping error. Then several vendors arrived and learned their booths had never been reserved, even though they had paid cash directly to Owen.”

“How much?” Carver asks.

“Almost fourteen thousand dollars.”

Loralee stands beside my truck, close enough to hear. I see recognition settle over her face.

“He felt exposed,” she says.

The coordinator turns toward her.

“When I sensed the man who left the Tower, humiliation was stronger than fear. He believes someone took something from him.”

“I didn’t take anything from Owen,” the coordinator says. “He stole from the festival.”

“That distinction may not matter to him.”

Carver makes a call to dispatch, requesting Owen’s address, vehicle information, and criminal history. I return my attention to the lodge. The red banner is visible through the glass even from here.

“Was he charged?” I ask.

“Yes, but the investigation became public before he was arrested. His wife left. His landscaping business lost customers. He blamed me for all of it.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Her hesitation gives me the answer.

“He said I’d destroyed his life.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“That I had brought everything down around him.” She looks at Loralee. “He said one day he would do the same to me.”

The Tower.