Chapter 18
Cinnamon’s black bowl turned out to be a portable charcoal grill, familiar because I’d seen a very similar object resting beneath an out-of-season scarecrow near the second crime scene. This particular incarnation of the device had been tossed over the hillside beside our parking area, the hot coals sizzling into the snow and not quite managing to set the forest alight in the process.
“I tried it out,” the twin noted. “Look.”
By way of demonstration, he fell back to the ground on four paws and trotted a short distance away through unsullied snow. Tiny specks of black rested in his first few prints, but the more important point was what was missing—any olfactory indication of Cinnamon’s passing whatsoever.
I doubted the trick would have stood up to the heat of summer, but dry
