Scene Of The Crime: Means And Motive

When they’d left Kansas City the ground had been winter brown and the temperature had been a balmy forty-five. Unfortunately, as they approached the Branson airport, the temperature had dropped into the teens and four inches of snow had fallen in the small vacation destination overnight.

As the helicopter circled for the landing, visions of a beach with a bright sun, a chaise lounge and a fruity alcoholic drink flirted in Jordon’s head. She’d booked a long-awaited vacation in Florida for the end of next week. Hopefully, this mess in Branson could be cleaned up soon enough that she wouldn’t have to postpone the long-awaited vacation.

She was here only in an advisory position as a favor between her FBI director and the Branson mayor. All she knew was that there had been three murders in as many months committed in a popular bed-and-breakfast. The latest murder victim had been stabbed to death and discovered by a maid in her room the day before.

Jordon played nice with others when it was absolutely necessary, but she preferred to work alone. She had a feeling that Director Tom Langford had tapped her for this job, knowing that she would have to try to work with a police chief who probably didn’t want her here.

“It builds character to step out of your comfort zone.” She wished she had a dime for every time Tom had said that to her in the last couple of years. “Don’t be a cowboy, Jordon. That’s what nearly got you killed a year ago,” he’d reminded her right before she’d left.

The heart-shaped pattern of cigarette-burn scars on her left hip itched as memories of an old cellar and a serial killer named Ralph Hicks flashed in her head.

It had been nearly a year since she’d almost become the sixth victim of the man who had tortured and killed five other women over a six-month period in the Kansas City area. Thankfully, she had been the one who had walked out of that dank, terrifying cellar and Ralph Hicks had come out in a body bag.

The bump of the helicopter touching down snapped her back to the here and now. Jordon thanked the pilot, grabbed her two bags and climbed down to the tarmac, where a uniformed police officer greeted her.

“Agent James, I’m Lieutenant Mark Johnson.” He shouted above the whoop whoop of the helicopter blades as the aircraft took off once again.

He grabbed her bags from her. “Good to have you here. My car is parked over here.” He turned and headed for the parking lot in the distance. An icy gust of wind half stole her breath away as she quickly followed behind him.

Within minutes they were in his patrol car with a steady flow of heated air blowing in her face. “Have you been to Branson before?” he asked when they pulled away from the airport.

“Never, although I’ve certainly heard a lot about it from coworkers who have been here,” she replied. She held her hands up to the air vents and squinted against the late-afternoon sunshine that glared off the snow cover.

At least the highway they traveled had been cleared, but as he turned onto a narrow snowpacked street that headed straight downhill, her breath caught in the back of her throat.

They had gone from city highway to thick woods and a precarious country road with a simple right-hand turn. “Diamond Cove is down this way,” Mark said. “Chief of Police Gabriel Walters is waiting for you there.” He eased up on the gas as the back end of the car slid ominously to the left.

Every muscle in Jordon’s body tensed and didn’t relax again until they had turned into a driveway in front of a cozy-looking log cabin. He parked next to a police car that was already there and shut off the engine.

“Welcome to Diamond Cove Bed-and-Breakfast,” Mark said. “This is the main office and dining area.” He pointed to the right. “As you can see through the trees up on the ridge there are four cabins that hold two suites each. The latest victim, Sandy Peters, was found in her bed in unit three yesterday morning by one of the housekeeping staff.”

Jordon gazed at the four small log cabins with front porches. With the lack of leaves on the trees they were easily visible. Outside each doorway were two rocking chairs for the guests’ pleasure.

In the spring and summer the thick woods that surrounded the cabins would hide them from view. The air would be filled with birdsong and squirrels would provide comic relief with their antics. Those rocking chairs would make perfect perches to nature-watch.

On the surface, the Diamond Cove resort appeared to be nestled on a secluded mountainside and promised peace and seclusion for the city-weary. But the peace had been shattered by three horrendous murders.

Mark opened his car door and Jordon did the same. A gust of frigid air greeted her and snow crunched underfoot as she got out of the car. Once again she thought of the beach and released a frosty, deep sigh.

“Follow me,” he said after grabbing her bags from the backseat.

He bypassed the front door and instead led her around the building on a wraparound porch. They passed a beautiful waterfall that was obviously heated as the water trickled merrily over rocks and into a small pond despite the below-freezing temperature.

They entered the building and stepped into the main dining room. The air smelled of a hint of cinnamon, wood smoke and rich, freshly brewed coffee.

It was a small, cozy area with two long tables draped in elegant white cloths. Fat white candles and crystal salt and pepper shakers marked the center of each table. A bookcase holding preserves, jellies and cookbooks for sale was against one wall, and a fireplace with two chairs added to the homey atmosphere.

Jordon took all of this in with a single glance, for it was the man seated in one of the chairs by the fireplace that captured her full attention.

Chief of Police Gabriel Walters held a cup of coffee in his hand and stared into the flames of the crackling fire. He was apparently so deep in thought he hadn’t even heard them come in.

His black hair was neatly cut and broad shoulders filled out the dark blue uniform shirt. His profile indicated a strong jawline and a perfectly straight nose.

“Chief?” Mark said hesitantly.

He shot up out of the chair and a touch of annoyance flashed across his handsome features. It was there only a moment and then covered by a smile that warmed Jordon right down to her frozen toes.

He might not mean the smile, but it didn’t matter. He wore the gesture well even though it didn’t quite light up the depths of his intense blue eyes.

“Special Agent James... I’m Chief Walters,” he said and took her hand for a firm, no-nonsense shake.

“Please, make it Jordon,” she replied.

He nodded and released her hand. “Jordon it is. Please, have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“That would be great,” she replied. She unzipped her coat, shrugged it off and sat in the chair next to his in front of the fireplace.

He walked over to Mark and spoke so softly to the man that Jordon couldn’t hear. Mark nodded a goodbye to Jordon and left the way they had come.

She watched as Gabriel moved over to a small table that held a coffeemaker and all the accoutrements for all tastes. “Cream? Sugar?” he asked.

“Black is fine,” she replied. The man was definitely hot. He boasted not only wonderfully broad shoulders, but also slim hips and a stomach that didn’t appear to hold an ounce of body fat.

He hadn’t offered her the choice of calling him by his given name and that alone told her he might not be happy to see her. She’d seen him for only a minute and already she had him pegged as intense and probably uptight and rigid.

His physical attractiveness definitely stirred a little fire of heat in the pit of her stomach, but if her suspicions about his personality were right, then she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she might want to pinch his head off. Time would tell.

He held the coffee cup out to her and she took it with a murmured thanks. Then he returned to the chair next to her. “I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on here.”

“No real specifics. I was only told that there have been three murders here, the most recent victim discovered yesterday morning.”

He nodded. “Sandy Peters. She was thirty-four years old and a mystery writer. According to the owners of the resort, she came here every year in January to spend a couple of weeks holed up and writing.”

“Married? Divorced?”

“Single, and according to everyone I spoke to yesterday who was close to her, she wasn’t dating anyone,” he replied. “Besides, she was killed in the same manner as the other two victims.”

“Stabbed to death,” Jordon said.

“That’s right. My investigation hasn’t turned up anything the three victims have in common other than they were all guests here at Diamond Cove at the time of their deaths. In fact, they were the only guests here at the time when they were killed.”

Jordon took a sip of the coffee and leaned back in the chair. The warmth and scent of the fire combined with the deep smooth tone of his voice would make it easy to be lulled into a semicoma if they weren’t talking about murder.

She leaned forward and caught a whiff of his pleasant, woodsy-scented cologne. “So, this doesn’t sound like it’s about any specific victimology, but tell me about the other victims anyway.”

“The first one was twenty-five-year-old Samantha Kent. She and her husband had rented a suite just before Thanksgiving to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. She was stabbed to death on a trail near their cabin on a Tuesday morning.”

He grimaced and then continued. “The second victim, Rick Sanders, booked a room a week before Christmas. He was found stabbed in the guest shed. Samantha was a schoolteacher from Kansas City. Rick was a restaurant owner from Dallas who had come here to check out some of the local food. Sandy was from St. Louis.”