Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake

They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.

As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.

He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.

She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.

By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”

“Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”

He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”

“Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women were they? What did they like to do in their spare time?”

He knew what she was attempting to do—she was hoping to find a connection between the three women, a connection that might lead them to the killer, a connection he had yet to make.

“First victim, Gretchen Johnson, worked as a bartender at a place at the edge of town called Bledsoe’s. She was tough, had been around the block a few times and lived in an apartment behind the bar. Mary Mathis was a hairdresser at the beauty shop, lived at home with her parents and was dating Craig Brown at the time of her death,” he began. “She liked to gossip, loved to shop and seemed well liked by everyone.”

“Either of the other two victims go to that beauty shop?” she asked.

“According to the owner of the salon, neither Gretchen nor Barbara got their hair done there.”

“So, we can mark that off as a potential connection for the victims.”

He nodded, wishing he’d chosen the other side of the table to sit, where he wouldn’t be so close to her. She wore no wedding ring, although he supposed there were plenty of married women around who didn’t wear a ring.

He frowned and refocused. “I’ve tried to connect their lives, but these three women didn’t know each other well. They didn’t socialize together, they weren’t involved in the same activities and hobbies. Mary was a chatty hairdresser, Barbara was a shy teacher’s aide and Gretchen was a bartender at a rough-and-tumble place on the north edge of town. I can’t find where their lives intersected.”

“If these are just random victims, then it’s going to make our job that much more difficult,” she replied as she stared at the board.

Our job.

She’d already taken half possession of the crime. He tried to be angry about it, but the truth of the matter was he wanted this killer caught before he killed again, and if it took Agent Amberly Nightsong’s help to accomplish that, then he’d accept it. The stakes were too high to get into a territorial dispute.

“They might be random, but they have their approximate ages in common. However, Mary had light brown hair, Gretchen was dark haired and, as you know, Barbara was a blonde. So, at this point, we don’t know that he has a specific type of woman, other than that they were all around the same age.”

She pulled her braid over the front of her shoulder and toyed with the end of it, a gesture he found ridiculously sensual, as he could imagine the spill of that thick, shiny hair across his bare chest.

He jumped out of his chair, nearly upending his cup of coffee in the process. “I need to get out on the streets and check in with some of the townspeople. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you want.”

“I’d much prefer to go with you,” she said as she also rose from the table. She grabbed her purse, pulled the strap over her shoulder and then looked at him expectantly.

He’d be a total tool to insist she stay here. Besides, he had to stop fighting the fact that, at least for now, she was part of his team.

“Suit yourself,” he replied. “I usually walk Main Street about this time of day. It’s more important than ever this morning. Everyone will want to give me their take on the murder, and somewhere in the minutia of their gossip, I might glean a clue.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. “And maybe by the time we get back here, your deputies will have some more interviews for us to go over.”

“I’ve got a meeting set up with everyone at one this afternoon so we can sort through all the information that’s been gathered,” he replied.

They stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, and Cole felt the tension that had ridden his shoulders since she’d first walked into his office finally begin to ease.

He’d worked most of the night, making notification to Barbara’s family, seeking out potential witnesses and then studying the photos that had been taken at the scene.

Maybe it was because he was tired that he seemed so acutely aware of Amberly, not just as an FBI agent but as a beautiful woman. As he drew in a lungful of fresh air, he centered himself, pulling his mind from her and instead focusing on connecting with the people he served and trying to gain any information that might help him catch the killer who had struck not just once, but three times.

The sheriff’s office was located smack-dab in the middle of the main drag of the small town. It was just before ten o’clock, and the stores were preparing to open.

He’d come back to Mystic Lake to escape his pain, and he’d found a home among good people who seemed to genuinely care about each other.

“It’s a nice town,” she observed after they’d walked a little ways.

“You hadn’t been here before yesterday?” he asked.

“Never, although I’ve heard about the cool antique and craft shops. Some of my friends have gotten terrific stuff from here at great prices.”

“And you aren’t an antique bargain hunter?” He slid her a quick sideways glance.

“It seems like for the last four years I’ve been putting together a house where the most important room’s décor has gone from dinosaurs to stars and planets and now to all things law enforcement. My living room is still half-done, my bedroom has nothing more than a bed and a dresser, but Max has the room that every six-year-old boy dreams about.”

“What about your husband?” He couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.

“Ex-husband. John is an artist. He does quite well painting Western pictures that sell for obscene amounts of money. He lives close to me, and we’ve remained friends, hoping that the divorce won’t leave too many scars on Max.”

“John Merriweather?”

She looked at him in surprise. “You know his work?”

He nodded. “I like his work. I just can’t afford it.” He paused as Bill Walton, who owned an old-fashioned barbershop, stepped outside his shop’s door and motioned to him.

“’Morning, Bill,” he said to the thin, middle-aged man with a glorious mane of golden hair.

“Sheriff… Ma’am.” His gaze lingered a moment on Amberly and then snapped back to Cole.

“Heard about Barbara Tillman. You got a suspect in these murders yet?”

“Yeah, and you’re right on the top of the list,” Cole said wryly.

Bill snorted. “Right. As if Erin would ever let me out at night to wander around for anything, and I guess by your answer that you don’t have anyone on the suspect list.” His gaze slid back to Amberly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand. “Bill Walton, the one and only barber in town.”

“Amberly Nightsong,” she replied as she shook his hand and then released it.

“Amberly is with the FBI. She’s helping me with the case,” Cole said.

“Lucky you,” Bill exclaimed. “Getting to hang around with a gorgeous woman all day. All I get is old men with hairy heads and ears.”

Amberly smiled. “I’m just here to help Sheriff Caldwell solve the crimes.”