Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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inside since you left,” he said to Marjorie, as if assuring her he’d done his job properly.
He was one of the first locals Marjorie had met when she’d arrived on scene, and he’d instantly impressed her with his earnest face and professional attitude.
Marjorie nodded and grabbed a pair of booties from a box sitting on the front porch. As she pulled them on over her black sneakers, she noticed Jackson doing the same over his expensive-looking leather shoes. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves, his easy smile gone and his mouth set in a grim line instead.
So, there was another side to the hot Mr. Southern Charm, she thought. She frowned as she realized she’d just thought of Jackson Revannaugh as hot.
Of course, she was certain most women would find him a hunk, with his slightly long, slightly curly black hair and blue eyes, with chiseled features and a mouth that looked soft and pliable. She stifled a yelp as the latex of her glove snapped her wrist.
“Shall we?” she said to the tall, broad-shouldered man who was her temporary partner. She gestured to the closed front door.
“After you, darlin’,” he replied, and then winced. “I didn’t mean that.... Force of habit.”
The front door opened into a small formal living room. The only pieces of furniture were a couple of end tables and a stack of large boxes. Jackson stopped just inside the door behind Marjorie.
His dark blue eyes narrowed and he lifted his head, like a wild animal sniffing the air for prey. “No evidence that anything happened in this room?”
“Nothing,” she replied. The small formal living room opened into a large great-room/kitchen area. Here was the evidence that something unusual had taken place.
She followed Jackson’s gaze as it traveled around the room, taking in the oversize pillows on the floor in front of a coffee table that held two half-empty wineglasses and a platter of hardened, too-yellow cheddar cheese, crackers, and grapes starting to wither and emanate a slightly spoiled scent.
Jackson picked up one of the long-stem glasses and sniffed the contents. “Fruity... I smell a touch of cherry and plum and a faint dash of damp leather. Pinot noir would be my guess.” He set the glass back on the table as Marjorie stared at him in astonishment.
“There’s a bottle of pinot noir open on the kitchen counter,” she replied in surprise.
Jackson nodded. “Like a good Southern gentleman, I know my wines, although I definitely prefer a good glass of bourbon or brandy, and preferably with a lovely lady by my side.”
“But, of course,” she replied dryly.
He frowned at the coffee table. “So, it appears our two missing souls were seated here sharing what appears to be cocktail time together.”
“And something happened to interrupt their intimate little party,” Marjorie said.
“So it seems.” Jackson turned away from the coffee table and his gaze swept around the room. “No sign of a struggle. What have we here?” Nearly hidden at the edge of one of the pillows was a small black purse. He opened it and pulled out a cell phone, a wallet and a tube of lipstick.
Marjorie’s heart tumbled a little lower in her chest as she watched him open up the slender wallet. Inside was Amberly’s identification, thirty-two dollars and two credit cards.
“If somebody came in here to confront the two, it wasn’t anybody with robbery on their mind,” he said, his voice that low Southern drawl that Marjorie found both irritating and evocatively inviting at the same time.
He placed the items back in the purse. “We’ll take that phone to your techies at the bureau and see if they can find anything useful. Maybe somebody called and the two of them rushed out of here on an emergency.”
“Amberly would have let John know,” Marjorie replied with conviction.
He walked from the coffee table toward the kitchen area, his footsteps surprisingly heavy for a man who appeared so physically fit and agile.
She followed him into the kitchen, where she knew he would find nothing suspicious, nothing that might indicate what exactly had happened to Cole and Amberly.
She leaned a slender hip against the cabinet and watched as he checked the back door, opened drawers and cabinets that were mostly empty. He pulled a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his pristine white shirt and took some notes.
He might be an arrogant, smooth-talking pain in her butt, but he also appeared to be thorough and detail driven, and that was the only thing important to her in this case. Nothing else mattered, as long as he was as good at his job as he looked in his expensive white shirt and the tailored black slacks that fit him to perfection. He wore his gun and holster on a sleek leather belt around his waist, looking both lethal and sexy at the same time.
From the minute she had joined the FBI, nothing had mattered but the job and caretaking for her mother. This particular case hit too close to home, with a fellow FBI agent gone missing.
“Let’s take a look at the rest of the house,” he finally said when he’d finished checking out the kitchen.
“There isn’t much here. Two bedrooms have already been emptied of all the furniture, and there’s just a bed and a dresser left in the master suite.”
His footsteps thundered down the hallway, and he peeked into each room as they passed, finally stopping just inside the master bedroom.
“Smart man,” he said as he gazed at the bed with the navy bedspread. “He’s moved most of the furniture out but left a spot for foreplay in the family room and the bed to complete the night.” He turned to look at Marjorie and she was horrified to feel a warmth steal into her cheeks. Thank goodness he didn’t mention it.
“So, Amberly and Cole came here Friday night to pack things away, and Monday afternoon she didn’t show up to pick up her kid from school,” he continued. “Do you know if anyone spoke to either of them between those times?” he asked.
“When I left here to pick you up at the airport I had a couple of deputies and another FBI agent canvassing the neighborhood to find out the last time either of them was seen.”
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in a number. “Adam. Any news?” She listened to the report, acutely aware of Jackson’s gaze taking her in from head to toe.
The temperature inside the house was a comfortable one for the heat of the night, but as her new partner’s gaze slid down the length of her, she felt the atmosphere in the room climb at least ten degrees warmer.
“Thanks,” she said to FBI agent Adam Forest, and then hung up. “According to what the officers have been able to find out for now, the next-door neighbor, Charles Baker, saw Cole and Amberly arrive here just after five on Friday night. About seven that same night he saw Cole again when he mowed the lawn. Nobody saw either of them after that...at least that we’ve talked to so far.”
She watched him open the top drawer of the dresser. She hadn’t had a chance to check things out this thoroughly before leaving the scene earlier to pick him up at the airport.
“Unless Sheriff Cole Caldwell is an unusual man for a sheriff, he didn’t leave here of his own volition.” He pulled a handgun from the drawer, along with a gold badge. “No sheriff I know would take off without his weapon and the very thing that defines him.”
Every muscle in Marjorie’s body tensed at the sight of the items. She’d hoped that this was all some kind of a mistake, that little Max and his father had somehow misunderstood, and Cole and Amberly had gone off for a mini-honeymoon.
“So, is this like what you were working on in Bachelor Moon?” she asked Jackson.
“Too early for me to make that jump.” He left the bedroom and she hurried after him. He walked back into the great room and stared at the coffee table and the oversize pillows. “On the surface things look very similar