Page 167 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Tom photographs it before anyone speaks.

“Do we have that name in the festival vendor records?” Wes asks.

“I’ll call it in.” Tom steps into the walkway.

The wait feels longer in the shed.

Wes stands behind Scarlet again, his body sheltering hers from the open rear door.

I move in front of her and pull the blanket more securely around her shoulders. “You’re cold.”

She looks at me. Her expression softens, and she leans forward until her forehead rests against my chest. I stroke her hair while Wes rubs slow warmth into her upper arms through the blanket.

No one in the shed looks at us strangely. Perhaps they have finally learned better.

“Six days before the museum reported the Love Stone missing,” Scarlet says after a while. Her voice is muffled against my shirt.

Wes studies the date on the fragment. “The same day the sealed container left storage.”

The museum director has followed us as far as the walkway. His expression changes. “Mercer Transport,” he says.

Tom turns back. “You recognize it?”

“They handle overflow equipment: refrigeration trailers, fencing, heavy display frames.”

“Full name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Tom calls again. The answer takes several minutes.

During them, Scarlet remains against me while Wes watches every person moving near the service lane.

The deputy finally responds through Tom’s phone. “Sullivan Mercer owns Mercer Transport. Active Month of Heart contract. Three equipment pickups scheduled through Heritage Hall. We’re pulling invoices now.”

Scarlet looks from the pickup form to the waste bin. “So Rusk handled the deliveries. Mercer Transport moved the equipment. And whoever was using Heritage Hall supplied the records and access.”

“That’s what the evidence says so far,” I tell her.

Tom relays the information to the outside analyst.

The technician removes a second folder from the waste bin. Inside is a Heritage Hall pickup form.

Carrier: Mercer Transport.

Destination: Old Cypress Refrigeration Annex.

Scarlet straightens. “So, the container from Heritage Hall was moved through Sullivan’s company to the annex.”

I look at the route fragment. “And the annex is south of the public path.”

“Near where my grandmother’s missing correction begins.”

A metallic crash echoes inside the museum.

Every head turns.

The fire alarm blares before anyone speaks. Smoke pushes through the rear doorway, carrying scorched plastic and the bitter chemical bite of burning wire.