Deputy Defender. Cindi Myers
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know I’ll find out eventually. If anyone links the information back to you, you can tell them I was doing a background check prior to taking him on as a volunteer. That’s not unreasonable.”
“All right.” He leaned back against the counter facing her. “He got into trouble with drugs, got popped for some petty theft, then a burglary charge. He did a little jail time, then went into rehab and had a chance at a deferred sentence.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means if he keeps his nose clean, his record will be expunged. I take it he came to live with Paige after he got out of rehab to get away from old friends and, hopefully, bad habits. And I hope he does that. That doesn’t mean I think it’s the best idea in the world for you to spend time alone with him, or leave him alone with anything around here that’s valuable.”
“Do you think he might have sent the note?”
He frowned. “It doesn’t fit any pattern of behavior he’s shown before—at least that I know of. But I can look into it. I will look into it.”
“I can’t think of anyone who would do something like that,” she said. “I mean, anonymous notes—it’s so, well, sleazy. And over a stupid book.”
“Show me the book.”
“It’s back here.” She led the way into the workroom, to a file drawer in the back corner. She had placed The Secret History of Rayford County, Colorado inside an acid-free cardboard box. She opened the box and handed the book to Dwight.
He read the title on the front, then opened it and flipped through it, stopped and read a few lines. “It’s a little dry,” he said.
“Some parts are better than others,” she said. “Collectors are mainly interested because of the subject matter and its rarity.”
He returned the book to her. “Maybe someone is upset that this top-secret information has been leaked,” he said.
“The whole thing happened seventy years ago,” she said. “As far as I can determine, most of the details about the project are declassified, and all the people who took part are long dead.”
“A relative who’s especially touchy about the family name?” Dwight speculated. “Someone related to the author?” He examined the spine of the book. “S. Smith.”
“The research I did indicated the name is probably a pseudonym,” Brenda said. “In any case, since the author was supposedly part of the project, he would most likely be dead by now. Since his real identity has never been made public, what is there for the family to be upset about?”
“Someone else, then,” Dwight said.
“Are there any new suspicious people hanging around town?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one who stands out.”
“Except Parker,” she said.
“I’ll check into his background a little more, see if I can find a connection,” he said. He turned to survey the long table that took up much of the room. “Are these the items for the auction?”
“Everything I’ve collected so far,” she said. “I still have a few more things people have promised.”
He picked up a set of hand-braided reins and a silver-trimmed bridle. “You’ve got a lot of nice things. Should net you a good bit of money.”
“I hope it’s enough,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have any hope of finding Henry Hake alive and well and enjoying an island vacation, have you? He was our biggest donor.”
Dwight shook his head. “I don’t expect any of us will be seeing Henry Hake again,” he said. “At least not alive.”
“I figured as much. So all we need is another wealthy benefactor. I’m hoping that rare book will attract someone like that—someone with money to spare, who might enjoy getting credit for pulling us out of the red.”
“What will happen if that benefactor doesn’t materialize?” he asked.
She straightened her shoulders and put on her brave face—one she had had plenty of practice assuming since Andy’s death. “I’ll have to find another job. And this town will lose one of its real assets.”
“I hope we won’t lose you, too,” he said.
The intensity of his gaze unsettled her. She looked away. “Sometimes I think leaving and starting over would be a good idea,” she said. “But I love Eagle Mountain. This is my home, and I’m not too anxious to find another one.”
“Then I hope you never have to.”
The silence stretched between them. She could feel his eyes still on her. Time to change the subject. “Lacy was telling me Eddie Carstairs has been mouthing off to people about his getting fired, trying to stir up trouble.”
“Eddie’s sore about losing his job, but Travis did the right thing, firing him. Any other department would have done the same. The fact that he’s making such a fuss about something that was his own fault shows he doesn’t have the right temperament for the job. You can’t be hotheaded and impulsive and last long in law enforcement.”
Dwight had never been hotheaded or impulsive. He was the epitome of the cool, deliberate, hardworking cowboy. She replaced the book in the box and fit the lid on it. “I don’t want to keep you any longer. I’ll close a little early for lunch and you can follow me to the house—though that probably isn’t necessary.”
“No harm in taking precautions.” He followed her into the front room, where she collected her purse, turned down the lights, then turned the sign on the front door to Closed. “After we secure the book in your safe, maybe I could take you to lunch,” he said.
The invitation surprised her so much she almost dropped the book. Was Dwight asking her out on a date? You’re not in high school anymore, she reminded herself. He was probably just being friendly. Her first instinct was to turn him down. She had too much to do. She wasn’t ready to go out with another man.
Andy’s been dead three and a half years. When are you going to be ready?
“Thanks,” she said. “That would be nice.”
He walked her to her car, and when his arm brushed hers briefly as he reached out to open the door for her, a tremor went through her. Why was she acting like this? She wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore, swooning over a crush—but that’s what being with Dwight made her feel like all of a sudden.
She murmured, “Thanks,” as she slid past him into the driver’s seat and drove, sedately, toward her home. She laughed at herself, being so careful to keep under the speed limit. Did she really think Dwight would suddenly switch on his lights and siren and give her a ticket?
The house she and Andy had purchased when they moved back to Eagle Mountain had undergone extensive remodeling, expanding from a tiny clapboard-sided bungalow to a larger cottage trimmed in native rock and including a detached two-car garage with an apartment above. Only recently, Brenda had learned that those renovations had been financed not by Andy’s law practice, as she had thought, but with money he received from people he blackmailed, including her former boss, Jan Selkirk. The knowledge had made her feel so ashamed, but people had been surprisingly kind. No one had suggested—at least to her face—that she had been guilty of anything except being naive about her husband’s activities.
She pulled into the driveway that ran between the house and the garage and Dwight parked the sheriff’s department SUV behind her. That would no doubt raise some eyebrows among any neighbors who might be watching. Then again, considering all that had happened in the past three and a half years, from Andy’s murder to the revelations about his blackmail and Jan’s attempts to steal back evidence of her involvement in the blackmail, everyone in town was probably used to seeing the cops at Brenda’s place.
Dwight