Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake

Kansas City...the Regent Motel. He muttered a curse as he saw the time. Six-thirty, and if he remembered right, Agent Uptight’s last words to him after dropping him off the night before were that she’d be here to pick him up at seven.

Coffee. He needed coffee to take away the lingering taste of the nightmares that had chased through his sleep. He spied a small coffeemaker on the vanity and waited for it to brew the single cup. While the coffee was brewing, he unlocked his motel room door just in case Marjorie showed up early.

Once the coffee was ready, he took a big swallow and then carried the cup into the bathroom and set it on the counter while he got into the shower.

He knew Marjorie was angry that he had called a halt to the night before, but he’d also known that he wouldn’t be any real asset to her unless he took the night to catch up on some sleep. The case in Bachelor Moon had nearly drained him dry, both physically and mentally, and he’d needed last night to transition, to prepare himself for this new investigation.

At least she’d been right—while the motel wasn’t five stars, it was adequate and there was a decent restaurant next door. He’d walked there last night and had enjoyed his first taste of Kansas City barbecue...a pulled-pork sandwich and the best onion rings he’d ever tasted.

Maybe it was the sweet, tangy sauce that had given him the nightmares, he thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the enclosure.

His dreams had been haunted by Sam Connelly, his wife, Daniella, and their little girl, Macy—the missing family from Bachelor Moon, who had yet to be found. Dashing around the edges of the darkness had been two more figures who he knew in his dream were Cole Caldwell and his wife, Amberly. And then there had been his father.

Jerrod Revannaugh had no place in his dreams, just as he had no place in Jackson’s life. The bond between father and son had been fractured long ago and finally completely broken just a little over five years ago.

He shoved away any lingering thoughts of nightmares, especially images of the man who had raised him, and instead wrapped a towel around his waist and got out his shaving kit.

Jackson knew he was a handsome man. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, just a fact he saw when he looked in a mirror. He was simply the product of good genes.

He also knew he had a charm about him that drew women to him, and though he enjoyed an occasional liaison with a sophisticated woman who knew the score, he made certain they also knew he was merely after a brief encounter and not interested in matters of the heart.

He was definitely not his father’s son. He might look like Jerrod Revannaugh, and the two men might share the Revannaugh ability to charm, but Jackson would never be the coldhearted bastard that his father had been. He always made sure his partner knew the score, unlike his father who had spent his life taking advantage of naïve women.

While he found his new partner hot to look at, she had a prickly exterior that he had no interest in digging beneath. Besides, it wasn’t as if he anticipated Agent Marjorie Clinton jumping his bones. She’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t particularly like him and would tolerate him only in order to further the investigation.

He’d managed to razor off the shaving cream on half of his face when he heard a firm knock on his door. A glance at the clock by the nightstand showed him it was ten until seven. He knew she was the type to be early.

“Come on in,” he shouted, and heard the door open. He leaned out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside the door. “You’re early.”

She shot ramrod straight. Her eyes widened and then her gaze instantly dropped to the carpeting, as if unable to look at him. “And it appears that you’re going to be late. I’ll just wait for you out in the car.”

She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.

He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.

He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.

It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.

“Stuff it, Rhett. I’m uncharmable and you might as well stop trying.” She started the car and pulled out of the parking space in front of his unit.

“Why, Scarlett, I haven’t even begun to attempt to charm you yet,” he replied with his trademark lazy grin.

She frowned. “We have a busy day ahead. We checked all the hospitals last night both here in Kansas City and in Mystic Lake. Cole and Amberly aren’t in any of them. I’ve set up an interview with John Merriweather, Amberly’s ex-husband, after nine. He didn’t want us at his place until after Max had left for school. I’ve also directed a couple of agents to check what cases Amberly was working on, and the same with Cole. There are also some other people we need to interview before the day is done. I have a list in my briefcase.”

“Wow, you’ve been a busy little bee while I was getting my beauty sleep.”

She ignored his comment and continued, “The crime scene unit worked all night at Cole’s house and basically came up with nothing. No fingerprints other than Cole’s and Amberly’s, and no evidence that anyone else had been in the house.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Any chance of breakfast before we get started on this long day you have planned?”

She picked up a white paper bag that was between them on the console and tossed it into his lap. “Two bagels, one blueberry and one cinnamon raisin. I had a feeling you’d ask.”

“Gee, I didn’t know you cared.” He opened up the bag to discover not only the two bagels, but also two small cups of cream cheese and a plastic knife.

“I don’t,” she replied. “But it appears that your creature comforts are very important to you.”

“And your comforts aren’t important to you?” he asked as he spread cream cheese over half of the cinnamon raisin bagel.

“Of course they are, but not so much when I’m working on a hot, active case.”

“This is already at best a lukewarm case,” he replied.

As she had yesterday, she wore a white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and sensible shoes. Her hair was a spill of strawberry silk across her shoulders and she smelled of fresh vanilla and sweet flowers.

She appeared not to be wearing a bit of makeup, but that did nothing to detract from Jackson’s physical attraction to her. Chemistry... It was a whimsical animal that usually made a fool out of somebody.

He ate the bagel in four quick bites and wished for another cup of coffee to chase it down. But there was no way he intended to ask her to drive through the nearest coffee shop. He wasn’t about to push his luck.

“Last night was more about my survival than creature comforts,” he said soberly. “I’d been working nonstop on the case in Louisiana. Yesterday I’d had a plane ride from hell, no food to speak of all day and not enough brain power left to be adequate at my job. This could either be a sprint or a marathon, and I’m betting on a marathon, and so I needed last night to prepare myself for the long haul. Not that I owe you any explanations of my working habits or methods.”

He settled back in his seat and stared out the passenger window. “Now, tell me about this John Merriweather,” he said, deciding he was far better to focus on solving this crime than imagine what his partner might look like without her clothes.

* * *

MARJORIE STOOD JUST INSIDE Amberly’s living room, a homey space decorated with pottery and bright colors and woven rugs celebrating her Native American heritage.

The room smelled of sage and sunshine, and it was obvious that a little boy resided here. The bookcases held not only pottery, but also puzzles and children’s books about horses and dinosaurs. A large plastic dump truck sat next to the coffee table, the bed filled with tiny army men.

Jackson prowled the room like a well-educated burglar, with booties and gloves to leave no evidence that he’d ever been here. As he moved, she tried not to think about that moment when she’d walked into his motel room and he’d leaned out of the bathroom with just the thin white towel hanging low on his slim hips.

His bare chest, sleekly muscled and bronzed, had been more than magnificent. As she’d gotten that glimpse of it, for a long moment she’d forgotten how to breathe, and she hadn’t been able to get the unwanted image out of her head.

He stopped and stared at the large painting above the fireplace. It depicted Amberly as an Indian princess on horseback. Her long dark hair emphasized doe eyes and high cheekbones. She was wild beauty captured on canvas.

Jackson turned to look at Marjorie at the same time she self-consciously shoved a strand of her hair behind an ear. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said, and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But I much prefer blondes with just a hint of strawberry in their hair.”

“Does it just come naturally to you? Kind of like breathing?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, just like breathing,” he replied with a genuine grin that warmed her despite her aggravation with him. He turned back to the painting. “Painted by her ex-husband?”

“Yes, John painted it.” She’d already told him that John Merriweather was a famous painter who was known for Western settings and beautiful Native American portraits. Most of the Native women he painted looked like his ex-wife. She’d read an article in some magazine where John had talked about how Amberly was his muse.

“How did John take their divorce?” Jackson turned back to look at her.

She shrugged. “According to the local gossip, initially he took it rather hard. But I think they had become more like friends than husband and wife. Amberly once mentioned to me that John’s greatest passion was his painting.”

Jackson frowned. “I love my work, but I save my passion for living, breathing people.”