Bogeyman

She stepped past him, once again aware of him physically. Of his size. Of the faint aroma of soap or aftershave that seemed to cling to his body along with the scent of laundered cotton.

She wondered who did his laundry. Maybe he had a wife, someone who had taken the time to lovingly put that knife-edge crease into the khaki pants.

Then, concentrating on what she’d come here for, she determinedly banished any thought of Cade Jackson, the man. He was simply the current sheriff of Davis County.

That was the only role she was now interested in having him play in her life. She had long ago outgrown the other.

His office was small, but neat. There were only two chairs, a battered leather swivel on the far side of the desk—obviously Cade’s—and a straight-back wooden one, very like the chairs in the library, on the other. Blythe waited until he entered behind her, leaving the door open. She watched as he crossed the room to stand behind his desk. He gestured, indicating that she should sit down.

“Jerrod said you want to get in touch with Hoyt Lee.” He had waited until she was seated before he settled into his own chair. “That doesn’t seem such a strange request to me, although I would think Miz Ruth would have been able to help with that.”

“Actually, I didn’t realize he wasn’t sheriff anymore. I came here thinking I could talk to him.”

“Would you like for me to call him? Set up an appointment?”

“No. You’re right. My grandmother will have Hoyt’s number. Actually…” She was repeating herself, she realized. Of course, she’d never been very good at prevaricating. “I do freelance articles for magazines,” she began again. “At least I did.”

“And you want to write an article about Hoyt?”

Cade’s elbows were on the arms of the chair, long brown fingers tented so that their joined tips touched the slight depression in the middle of his chin. It wasn’t deep enough to be classified as a cleft, but it had always fascinated her. It was a little disconcerting to realize that it still did.

She wondered if she should just tell Cade the truth. Wouldn’t he be bound by his office to keep anything she told him confidential? If she’d been willing to confide in Hoyt, why not in the current sheriff of Davis County?

“My grandmother suggested that doing so again might provide…a source of income.”

His brows lifted slightly. “And…”

“I’ve spent the afternoon researching the town’s history. Reading back through the old issues of the Herald, trying to find something that might be interesting to the outside world.”

“Did you?”

“Ada reminded me of the Comstock murder. And that it’s still unsolved.”

“That’s right.”

Judging by the shortness of his answer, she wondered if Cade disapproved of what she said she’d come here to do. Again she fought the urge to tell him the truth. He might believe she was an idiot, but at least he wouldn’t think her a ghoul.

“Was that a case where the police knew the killer, but couldn’t prove it?”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Then you’ve read the file?”

“I read through all the unsolved cases when I took office.”

The sheriff of Davis County was an elected official. Blythe wondered what credentials Cade had brought to the job other than some long ago prowess on the football field. Of course, in this state that might have been recommendation enough.

“May I look at it?”

“Why?”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me.” He lowered his hands, resting them on the edge of his desk. “Now I’d really like to know why you’re so interested in a murder that happened twenty-five years ago.”

“Cold cases catch the public’s attention,” she said, repeating Ada’s words. “And maybe editors’.”

“So you’re thinking of a book deal?”

“I really haven’t gotten that far. Besides, there may be nothing there—”

“There’s plenty there. For the curious. There’s just no evidence. Certainly not enough to lead to an indictment. And no way you’re going to be able to come up with the murderer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What kind of story would you have without a conclusion?”

She relaxed a little, believing that she understood his objection. “I’m not trying to solve the case, Sheriff Jackson. I don’t have the skills to do that. I assure you I’m interested in doing exactly what I said. Writing an article. Preferably one I can sell,” she added.

There was another of those thoughtful silences. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

When Cade began the sentence, she had believed he was about to apologize for giving her a hard time. By the time he finished it, she realized that he had connected John’s death with the article. He obviously believed she needed the money. Which was the truth, she acknowledged.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have Jerrod get you the file. There’s an office across the hall you can use. I can’t let you take anything out of course, but there’s a copier in the reception area.”

Cade stood, indicating that their conversation was over. Except she hadn’t asked him anything she’d come here to find out. She had been morbidly fascinated by the Comstock murder, and it had provided an excuse for her research, but what she really needed to know…

“Are there any other…” She hesitated, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

“Murders as gruesome as Sarah’s?”

Again she sensed his disapproval. “Acts of violence,” she said, finishing her interrupted question. “Other incidents of violent death.”

“A few brawls and farm accidents. Are those the kinds of things you’re looking for?”

“Not really. Someone mentioned that something violent had happened in the house I’m renting. It’s the two-story frame house at the end of Wheeler Road.”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of. However, your grandmother or Hoyt would be a better source for that kind of information than I am. Both have lived here all their lives.”

“You’re right,” she said, finally getting to her feet. “I’ll check with them. Thank you for your time.”

She turned and walked through the door of his office, aware that he was following her. The kid watched as they came into the reception area. She smiled at him as she passed the desk.

“Jerrod, would you get Ms. Wyndham the file on Sarah Comstock, please?”

Realizing that she had been about to walk out without looking at the material she had professed to want to see, Blythe turned, making a point of glancing down at her watch. “Actually…” Again. “Would it be all right if I come back another day and read through the material? I’m late picking up my daughter. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”