Trace Evidence

“That’s the difference between a cop and an artist. A cop sees isolated, an artist sees secluded.”

Despite the irritation that had filled him earlier, he felt himself relax a bit, as if the pleasant sound of her laughter had worked like a balm on a sore wound. “A cop sees lots of hiding places. I suppose you see lots of things to paint, Ms. Greystone.”

“Exactly, and please call me Tamara.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open. “Welcome to my secluded little cabin in the woods.”

He stepped into the door and felt as if he’d been swept into a different world, a different universe. The room was a visual wonderland filled with shapes and colors.

The beige sofa held an array of throw pillows in a variety of colors. Paintings covered the walls and a half-finished one rested on an easel in front of a side window that would catch the morning light.

Roughhewn shelves held pottery and woven baskets in all shapes and sizes and a collection of hummingbirds set on top of the fireplace mantle. Fresh wildflowers were in vases everywhere and the room was scented with their sweet fragrance.

The total effect should have been chaotic and cluttered, but instead the room radiated a sense of balance and serenity.

As he looked around, taking it all in, he felt some of the day’s pressures easing. His shoulder muscles seemed to unkink a little and the burn that had smoldered in the pit of his stomach for the last month dissipated somewhat.

“Please, come on into the kitchen and I’ll put the coffee on.”

He followed her into a cozy kitchen as colorful and unique as the living room. She gestured him to a small wooden table, then busied herself with the coffeemaker.

He noticed a shelf above the kitchen sink filled with healthy plants of various types. “You must have quite a green thumb,” he said.

“I like growing things.”

He leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair and viewed her from top to bottom, taking in the length of her slender back and the curve of shapely hips beneath the dress. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

She turned from the coffeepot and flashed him a grin. “I try not to run into the police, Officer James.”

“Call me Clay,” he said. “Whenever you say Mr. or Officer James, I think you’re talking to my father.”

“All right, then Clay it is. And I don’t go into town very often, just when I need groceries or art supplies and occasionally to visit with Alyssa at the Redbud.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You know my cousin Alyssa?”

“She and I have become good friends recently, since I moved back from New York. I try to have her to dinner out here at least once every couple of weeks.”

“That’s nice. Alyssa could use more friends. So, you didn’t like the Big Apple?”

She hesitated a moment before replying. “No…it wasn’t my cup of tea.” There was something in her tone that forbid him to ask any more questions on that particular topic.

“But you’re originally from Cherokee Corners?” He was aware that he was talking more to her than he’d talked to anyone in the last several weeks, but she was easy to talk to. Something about her soft, seemingly accepting demeanor invited conversation.

“Born and raised here. You were several years older than me, so we didn’t run in the same crowd.”

“What’s with the hummingbirds?” he asked, noting that several glass figurines hung at the window over the sink.

“The hummingbird is one of my totem animals.”

He was grateful when she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to hear about totems and spirituality, about old Cherokee ways and the voice of the elders. It was these kinds of things that he’d fought about with his mother just before she’d disappeared.

He was suddenly sorry he’d followed his impulse to come inside, but now that the coffee was finished brewing, he wasn’t sure how to leave gracefully. Just one fast cup, then I’m out of here, he thought.

As she reached up high in a cabinet to pull down two stoneware mugs, he couldn’t help but notice the slender curve of her calves beneath the length of her dress.

Although he’d tried his best to immerse himself in his work as he’d taken samples and photographed her classroom, he’d been acutely conscious of her presence the entire time. Not only had her exotic fragrance gone directly to his head, but he’d been impressed by her quiet and calm in the face of such devastation.

“I appreciate you not being one of those hysterical women,” he said as she sat a mug of steaming coffee before him.

“Cream or sugar?” He shook his head negatively and she joined him at the table. “What’s to be hysterical about? What’s done is done. My screaming and yelling wouldn’t have put the classroom back in order. I’m just sorry so many of the books appeared to have been torn up. It will be months before we can get more books and then only if extra money can be squeezed out of the budget.”

He took a sip of the coffee. It was good—hot and strong the way he liked it. “You said you watched a lot of television, but I noticed there wasn’t a TV in the living room.”

She smiled and the beauty of that smile hit him square in the pit of his stomach. “Ah, you’ve discovered my guilty pleasure. I have a little ten-inch set in my bedroom and am notorious for watching it for a couple of hours before I fall asleep.” Her dark eyes gazed at him for a long moment. “But I’m sure you’ve been far too busy lately to even think about television programming.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long six weeks.”

“Any breaks in your mother’s disappearance?”

“Not really, although my sister Savannah found two cases in Oklahoma that are so similar it’s eerie.”

“Really?” She leaned forward and he caught another whiff of her scent.

“In fact, one of those cases is what brought Savannah and her fiancé, Riley, together.” He took another sip of his coffee, wishing she’d lean back in her chair so he couldn’t smell her, so he couldn’t see the dark length of her eyelashes, the dewy moisture of her lips.

What on earth was wrong with him? Why was Tamara Greystone making him think of things he hadn’t thought of in a very long time…like hot, eager kisses and silky hair tangled around his fingers, and warm, slender curves pressed against his body? Why was he talking so much when normally he had nothing much to say to anyone?

For just a moment, as he’d looked into her large, dark gray eyes, the pain, the anger, the uncertainty that had ruled his life for so long had momentarily ebbed. He reached for it now, the pain chasing away any inexplicable desire he might feel for Tamara.

“Two years ago Riley Frazier’s mother disappeared under the same kind of circumstances as my mother. Riley’s father had been hit over the head. Unfortunately, he was killed. Riley’s mother was nowhere to be found. Some of her clothing was missing and the police assumed she was responsible for Riley’s father’s death.”

“Sounds exactly like what happened to your parents, although thankfully your father wasn’t killed.”

Clay nodded, and swallowed hard against the knot of emotion that twisted in him at thoughts of his mother. He remembered that night almost six weeks ago when he’d been called to his parents’ ranch. His father had been taken away in an ambulance and his mother hadn’t been anywhere to be found. He’d known then that something terrible had happened not only to his father, but to his mother as well.

“True, although he’s still recuperating. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember anything about that night. Anyway, Riley’s mother’s body was found a week ago in Sycamore Ridge on some property he was excavating for building a home.”

“How tragic,” Tamara replied. “Did anyone find out what had happened to her?”

“According to the medical examiner, she’d been dead for about four months.”

“Four months…but didn’t you say she went missing two years ago?”

Clay nodded. “We don’t know what happened to her between the time of her disappearance and the time of her murder.”

“Murder?” Tamara’s voice was a soft whisper.

“Yeah, her skull was smashed in, just like her husband’s had been two years before.”

Tamara wrapped her fingers around her mug. He noticed that her fingers were long and slender, and her nails just long enough to be completely feminine. “You said three cases. What’s the third?”