Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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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.”
Cole noted that her cheeks held a heightened color as if the compliment had embarrassed her. That single fact made her more human, and he felt a bit more of the tension around his shoulders slip away.
They moved on from the barbershop, talking to people and shopkeepers they met along the way. The topic of conversation was always the murder the night before.
Cole listened to their impressions and theories about the murders—and everyone had their own theory.
By the time they’d finished their walk down Main, it was close to noon. “I usually eat lunch at the café,” he said and pointed down the street to a red awning. “Want to join me?”
“Sure. To be honest, I’m running strictly on coffee this morning and could definitely use something more substantial.”
Within minutes, they were seated at a booth in the busy café, waiting for their orders to arrive. “I especially like the theory that it is space aliens coming into town to commit the murders and hang the dream catchers,” she said, repeating what Wilma Townsend had said as they’d stopped at her craft store.
Cole smiled. “Every town has a resident kook, and Wilma is ours.” His smile lasted only a moment. “What bothers me is that it’s possible we spoke to the killer this morning, that he greeted us with a smile on his face.”
“It’s also possible he isn’t a local,” she replied. “You get a lot of transient traffic through town because of the unique shops and restaurants.” He tried not to notice how the sunshine drifting through the window caught and gleamed on her hair. “We often find that the first victim holds most of the clues as to what drives the perp. You mentioned that Gretchen Johnson had a boyfriend?”
“Jeff Maynard. A hothead with a