Marked for Murder

“Go ahead.”

“I know how important this is to you. But I also know how you act when you get up a full head of steam. Especially when you know you’re right. Promise me that you’ll remember you’re only consulting. I don’t want you trampling some very competent officers on your way to an arrest.”

From the expression on his face, he knew she was referring to his clash with John Wilcox.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll deal only with you, and you’ll call the shots.” Sending her an overly polite smile, he turned to leave. “It’ll be your way or the highway.”

It was a clichéd, overused quip, but it was also a subtle nod to their past. At least he hadn’t added, You know. The way it’s always been.

Margo said good-night and closed the door. So much for her hope that they could let sleeping dogs lie.

The dogs were up and they were barking up a storm.

By 5:00 a.m., after four hours of tossing and turning and hearing every chirping bird in the neighborhood greet the dawn, Margo showered and drove to the station. Steve O’Dell was just climbing into the prowl car, preparing to make his final rounds before his shift ended.

“You’re here early,” he said through the open car door.

“I know. I couldn’t sleep.” Margo ascended the three concrete steps to the door and found the office key on her crowded ring. “How’d it go with the PSP? Any problems?”

“Nope.”

“Good.” She unlocked the door. “Any coffee left?”

His blue gaze turned to ice. So did his tone. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”

Margo hesitated for several seconds, wondering if this was about bringing Cole into the investigation, or something else. Steve could be testy, but the two of them had always had a good working relationship. Then again, maybe he was as tired and wired as she was, and thought—rightly so—that coffee wasn’t a priority. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll make us a fresh pot. See you when you get back.”

“Yeah. See you in a little while.”

Margo waved as he drove off, then let herself inside, dropped her shoulder bag on her desk and went to work. She crossed to the bank of filing cabinets and pulled out the Kennicott, Morgan and Hudson folders, then headed for the copy machine at the rear of the office. Feelings of disloyalty dogged her steps as she wondered how everyone else would feel about Cole’s inclusion. But they needed to find a killer before he struck again.

Twenty minutes later, copies of the old and new Gold Star files were in an oversize envelope in her cruiser. She was ready to leave again when Steve returned at 6:10.

“I have to step out for a half hour or so,” she said, “but I glanced at your notes. Dusting the door was a waste of time, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He went to the coffeemaker and filled his cup. “The area on and around the latch was full of prints, but they were smeared and I’m guessing that most of them were ours. As for the rest… Sorry, boss, there was nothing on the door where I found the note. Not even a smudge.”

Boss? Margo stilled. He’d called her boss. Maybe she’d been too quick to dismiss the chilly look he’d sent her. Maybe it had nothing to do with being tired, or with Cole. Maybe it had more to do with pecking order. O’Dell was forty—eight years older than she was—but he didn’t have as many years in law enforcement. Still, if he felt he deserved the acting-chief position, that could account for his testiness. She decided that now wasn’t the best time to mention that she’d copied a set of files for Cole.

Resting her hand on the doorknob, she spoke quietly. “Steve, I know things have changed around here, but I’m still Margo. Please don’t call me boss.” Until John’s death, even though she’d been the senior officer, she, Steve, Brett and part-timers Charlie Banks and “Fish” Troutman had pretty much worked at the same level and shared the same jobs. Sure, there’d been a few disagreements, but they’d been minor and easily smoothed over. Things were different now, however, and suddenly she wasn’t sure how everyone felt about it.

He seemed to read her mind. “Worried about a mutiny?” he asked, stirring cream into his coffee.

She took a second to answer. “Should I be?”

Smiling, he waved off her concerns. “Nah. We’re a team, right? Someone has to answer to the mayor and the media. You’re the senior officer. I’m just glad it’s not me.”

“You’re sure? Because if there’s a problem we need to talk about it.”

“I’m positive. Relax. We’re good.”

“Whew,” she replied jokingly, then opened the door. “Put your feet up and veg for a while. I’ll be back before Sarah and Brett come in.”

Still, that niggling feeling that things weren’t as okay as he said stayed with her.

The Blackberry Hill B&B was a busy place at 6:20 a.m. A smiling older couple was just getting into their car, while on the wraparound porch, two women sat flipping though travel brochures and sipping coffee. Margo strode inside and made her way through the hardwood foyer to the dining room.

Jenna Harper was clearing away place settings on two of her four lace-and-glass-covered round tables, the chink of silverware and the wonderful aromas of coffee and blueberry muffins riding the air.

Lovely rose swags and a variety of Victorian prints adorned the cream-and-roses wallpaper, while doilies, dolls and antiques added warmth and charm to the room.

Jenna’s welcoming smile fell like a stone. Setting a creamer down, she crossed the floor to Margo. “Are you all right?”

Jenna was five feet, seven inches of dark blond class with a slender figure, a light garden tan and—usually—a warm smile. Today, she wore white slacks topped by a white gauze tunic and turquoise-and-coral beads.

Margo winced. “Do I look that bad?”

“No, but your dark circles are getting dark circles. Let me get you some breakfast. Some coffee, at least.”

“Thanks, but I’m really pressed for time this morning. I need to see one of your guests.”

Jenna tipped her head curiously. “Well, since you had to have passed four of them on your way in, and I only had five guests last night, I guess you mean your ex.”

When Jenna had returned to Charity eight months ago, they’d each shared bits of their pasts, but she’d never shown Jenna a snapshot of Cole, and she doubted she’d ever mentioned his last name. Then again, as she and Cole had agreed yesterday, people in small towns loved to talk.

“How did you—”

“Easy. How many Cole Blackburns could there possibly be? Especially one who looks like he does. Besides…” she said with a touch of worried hesitance, “you know how I feel about renting to single men. No references, no room. He had a good one.”

“Me.”

“Yes.” Folding her arms across her chest, Jenna went on quietly. “So, are you two on again?”

Margo expelled a flat laugh. “No. Not the way you mean, anyhow. As they say in every film I’ve seen lately, it’s complicated. Can you buzz his room?”

“I could, but he wouldn’t answer. He left a few minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on the way.”

“Oh? Did he say where he was going?”

“Yes, back to his place.”

Margo felt her jaw drop. After all his persistence— “He went back to Pittsburgh?”

“Yes, but only to grab fresh clothes and finish up some work.”

“Then…you’re holding his room?”

“Uh-huh. He asked about WiFi, and I told him that yes, we’re set up for the Internet, so I guess he’s planning to do some work from here.” Jenna paused, her head tilting curiously. “You’re disappointed.”