Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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for joining a party where she was, in effect, an uninvited and unwanted guest.
“The willow tree bends but rarely breaks in the force of a gale.” It was Granny Nightsong’s voice that whispered through her head. Amberly smiled, the warmth of her memory tempered by grief.
Granny Nightsong had been a curious blend of Cherokee and flat-out crazy. Although she’d passed some of the traditions of her heritage to Amberly, Granny was also prone to making up legends and old, wise sayings to fit the circumstance. When Granny had taught Amberly the Stomp Dance of their people, Amberly had recognized more than a little bit of jitterbug in it.
Granny Nightsong fled from her mind as she looked down a side street and spied what appeared to be the city park. As she turned and headed in that direction, she knew she was right. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung from one tree to another, and several official cars were parked in the graveled lot.
She pulled up next to them and got out of her car, immediately halted by a stern-faced young deputy. “Crime scene working, nobody is allowed in this area,” he said.
She flashed her badge and continued forward. As she got closer to the scene, her mind processed several things at one time…the victim, a pretty, blond-haired young woman, lay beneath the overhanging branches of a tree, and in the tree limb above her head was a bright red-and-yellow dream catcher…and Sheriff Cole Caldwell was a tall, dark-haired hottie without a belly bulge in sight as he leaned closer to the dream catcher for a better look.
He suddenly snapped his head around as if he’d somehow sensed her approach. She had one instant of noticing strong, handsome features before they twisted with anger and the blue of his eyes went icy cold as he straightened to his full height.
“Lady, can’t you see this is a crime scene? Deputy Walkins, escort this woman away from here.” His voice was deep, authoritative, as if he was accustomed to people jumping immediately to obey his orders.
Amberly held up a hand to stop the deputy, who moved toward her with a sense of purpose. She showed her identification and flashed the sheriff a bright smile. “Don’t worry, I might look like a Native American, but actually I’m the Cavalry sent to save the day.”
It was at that moment that she realized Sheriff Cole Caldwell had absolutely no sense of humor.
“I DIDN’T CALL FOR FBI assistance,” Cole said. Cole hadn’t been fond of the FBI since they’d botched a kidnapping job eight years ago that had resulted in the murder of his wife. “It was our mayor who called.” And that call had held up the entire process while they all stood around and waited for Ms. I’m-Going-To-Fix-Your-Work-FBI-Agent to arrive.
“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly expecting the welcome wagon to be drawn up for me,” she replied dryly. “Agent Amberly Nightsong,” she said and held out a hand to him.
“Sheriff Cole Caldwell.” Her skin was soft, but her handshake was firm.
One thing was clear: the FBI agents of his memory were nothing like the stunning woman standing before him. It was obvious she was Native American. Her skin was a dusty bronze, and her cheekbones were high and well-defined.
She had doe eyes, round and dark and long lashed, and her hair was a rich, deep black that was captured in a braid that fell down the length of her back.
Worn jeans hugged long legs, and the bright yellow T-shirt she wore seemed to make her eyes darker and her skin glow with an inner light.
She took a step closer to the victim, and he watched her through narrowed eyes. “First of all, I’m not sure what your thinking is, but no self-respecting Native American would have done this and left those cheap Made In China dream catchers at the scene,” she said.
In truth, he’d wondered if perhaps the perp was a Native American, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “You have an ID?” she asked.
“Victim is twenty-seven-year-old Barbara Tillman.”
“A local?” she asked.
Cole nodded. “She worked as a teacher’s aide at the grade school and lived in an apartment complex just off Main Street.”
“And there have been two others before her?”
A fire of frustration burned in Cole’s gut as he nodded once again. “Twenty-six-year-old Gretchen Johnson was found in front of a trash can next to a pizza place, and twenty-five-year-old Mary Mathis was found in front of the library.”
“And dream catchers were hung at all three scenes?”
“Yes. When Gretchen Johnson was found, my first suspect was her boyfriend, but I couldn’t break his alibi for the time of death. Then Mary showed up. Both women had been stabbed multiple times at some unknown location, then left at the sites, and the dream catchers were hung at both scenes. Both bodies had Taser marks and indications that they’d been bound and gagged.”
“So, he Tasers them to incapacitate them and then ties them up and takes them someplace else, where he stabs them and then stages the dump scene with the dream catchers.” She frowned thoughtfully. “And how long has it been since Mary’s murder?”
“Two weeks. And it was four weeks between Gretchen’s and Mary’s murders. Have you seen enough? I’d like to start processing the scene. We haven’t even allowed the coroner in yet.”
“Knock yourself out,” she said with a step backward.
As the coroner, a fat, balding man named George Thompson, moved in to assess time and method of death, Cole called to the three deputies who he’d meticulously trained in crime-scene procedure.
He gathered them in a group just far enough from where Agent Nightsong stood that he hoped she wouldn’t hear the conversation. “Do your jobs and do them well,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want any mistakes.” Especially with the eyes of the FBI watching…judging their every move.
Once the coroner was finished with his examination of the body, he announced that he believed the murder had occurred at some point the night before, probably between the hours of midnight and three. Method of death was obvious, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He then stepped back to allow the deputies to begin their work.
Cole moved to stand next to Agent Nightsong. Beneath the odor of death that hung in the still air, he could smell the faint scent of her, a welcome smell of blooming exotic flowers.
The scent, so distinctly feminine and wafting from such a beautiful woman, stirred him on a base level that made him slightly uncomfortable.
“I suppose you already have a profile of the killer, neatly tied up with a bow,” he said, vaguely aware that he sounded a bit surly.
She turned to look at him, her eyes filled with an edge of amusement. “You aren’t the vision of a small-town sheriff that I had in mind while I was driving here, and hopefully you’ll discover I’m not the uptight, upright FBI agent that you assume I am.”
He narrowed his gaze as he stared at her. “And what vision did you entertain of me on your drive here?”
“Definitely shorter and rounder.” She turned her attention to his men, meticulously moving around the crime scene with evidence bags and tweezers, their feet covered in booties. “I anticipated nobody who knew the first clue about a murder investigation, because I doubt if you see much of this kind of crime in this size of town, but it looks like your men all know what they’re doing.”
He didn’t know if she expected him to be pleased about her assessment of him or his men’s work. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t much give a good damn about what she thought.
“And no,” she continued, “I don’t have a profile all neatly tied up with a bow in my head. It’s far too early in the game for a full profile. Once this scene has been processed, I’d like copies of the files of the other two murders.”
“Once we’re finished up here, you can follow me to the office,