been reading from the quarries that had provided client lists, then left the small building that was an appendage to the back of the police station.
It had been six years ago, when Clay’s father, Thomas, had been chief of police that Thomas had decided the small town needed its own crime-scene investigators and crime lab.
Thomas had been not only a great chief of police, but also a fine politician, who’d convinced the town of the need and had actively gone after private donations to get what he wanted.
One of the biggest donations had come from Jacob Kincaid, owner of American Bank, the only bank in Cherokee Corners, and a good friend of Clay’s parents.
In fact, Jacob was like an uncle to Clay and as he stepped onto the hot concrete of the sidewalk, he realized it had been too long since he and Jacob had talked.
Clay walked toward the café in the Center Square. It was a favorite eating establishment in town. Huge portions, reasonable prices and run by a woman named Ruby who claimed to be a descendent of the woman who’d run the first, most successful brothel in the state.
Lots of the cops ate there, but Clay definitely wasn’t in the mood for company. The brief conversation with Savannah had stirred his guilt and the hundreds of regrets he’d lived with since the night of his mother’s disappearance.
He just wanted to eat, then get back to the lab where work was piled up awaiting his attention. He already knew it was going to take hours to go over those lists from the quarries to find out who had ordered loads of that particular decorative rock.
The sun was hot on his shoulders, and the air smelled of city heat—smoked tires, hot oil and a faint overlay of spoiling garbage.
Clay hated summer, when tempers flared more quickly and crime rose drastically. He hated the dry hot wind that scorched the earth, then blew the ashes of dust everywhere.
He’d never felt a real connection to Cherokee Corners, except for that of his family. Even with them he felt a distance.
They were all into their own lives, with families and loved ones and they all worked at the Cherokee Cultural Center in their spare time, a place Clay hadn’t been to since he was thirteen.
It had been that fact that he and his mother had fought about the day before she’d disappeared. At the end of the summer, the cultural center always held a huge celebration where the entire town was invited. Rita had told him she wanted him to be a part of the ceremonies, that it was past time he took his place as a member of the Cherokee nation.
He had responded angrily with words that now he wished desperately he could take back.
By the time he reached the café his mood had turned darker than usual. It was just after four and he knew there wouldn’t be much of a crowd in the café. It was too late for the lunch bunch and too early for the dinner crowd.
That was fine with him. All he wanted was a booth to himself, a good hot meal and a moment of peace to enjoy it.
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite CSI hunk,” Ruby greeted him as he walked through the door. Ruby Majors was a big woman with a bleached blond bouffant that spoke of a different era.
“Hey, Ruby. What’s good today?” he asked as he stopped by the register where she was seated.
“Randy’s having a creative day. I’d stay away from the chicken surprise and the meat loaf medley. Anything else on the menu is great.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’m just going to grab a booth in the back.”
“Your cousin Alyssa is back there with that painter woman,” Ruby said.
Tamara Greystone. He hesitated, unsure whether to go forward or just take a seat at the counter where he knew he would eat in solitude.
The decision was taken out of his hand. Alyssa spied him and stood up and waved. He loved his cousin, who he believed was the only person in town who had a soul more tortured than his own.
Even though he wasn’t in the mood to socialize, he drew a deep breath and ambled toward the booth where Alyssa and Tamara were having lunch.
“Clay.” Alyssa rose and gave him a hug. “Please, join us.” She sat back down and scooted over to give him room next to her.
“I was just going to grab something quick, then get back to work.” He turned his attention to Tamara. “Hello, Tamara. Have you spoken with Officer Rogers today?” He slid into the booth next to Alyssa.
“No, should I have?”
She looked as pretty today as she had the night before. Today she was clad in a sleeveless yellow dress that set off the bronze tones of her skin and made her hair look like a black curtain of silk.
He’d had trouble sleeping last night because he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He didn’t like it and he didn’t have time for it. “This morning I tested the blood from those claw marks that were in your classroom. Ed…I mean, Officer Rogers was supposed to get in touch with you and let you know it wasn’t human blood. It was animal blood, probably deer.”
“Well, that’s a relief, I guess. I mean, I’m grateful it wasn’t human, but I would have much preferred it to be ketchup.”
“I haven’t had a chance to check on the fur I found. Hopefully I can get to it in the next day or two,” he said. He’d thought her eyes had looked pretty last night, but today they appeared even more gray, a startling but attractive foil to her dark hair and cinnamon skin. He started to stand. “And now I’ll just let you two ladies finish your lunches.”
Alyssa caught his arm and kept him from rising. “Don’t run off. You might as well sit here and eat your meal with us instead of sitting all alone.”
He could smell Tamara’s perfume wafting in the air, the same subtle mysterious scent he’d found disturbing the night before. He didn’t want to sit with them, but before he could think up any kind of an excuse, the waitress arrived to take his order.
“How’s the case going?” Alyssa asked once the waitress had left the table.
“Which one? I’m working the serial case and, of course Mom’s case and the usual other cases that come in. And now, the vandalism evidence from Tamara’s classroom,” he replied.
“I hope you aren’t taking away time from the other two cases to worry about mine,” Tamara said.
He didn’t want to look at her because he liked looking at her. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of a woman as he was her. “I try to work every case as if it’s top priority,” he replied and gazed at a picture on the wall just over the top of her head.
“Anything new on your mom?” Alyssa asked.
He turned his focus on her. “Not really.” He had told nobody but the chief of police that he’d discovered the same type of decorative pebbles around where his father had been hit and around where Riley Frazier’s father had been killed. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any helpful thoughts,” he asked pointedly.
Alyssa smiled. “Tamara knows about my visions, and unfortunately no, I haven’t had any more about Aunt Rita other than the one I’ve told you about.”
