blinked and stared in horror. She was going to kill Meg. Why hadn’t she thought of some excuse to introduce him to her younger, single sister? At the very least, how could she have failed to mention, if only in passing, that Detective Shea was a spectacular man? Mr. January. No, Mr. Calendar Cover himself. Six-two or three, straight dark hair, cool gray eyes and a strong, impassive face.
And she was both sweaty and filthy. Her hair must be lank, her mascara dripping down her cheeks; she could taste grit.
Oh, yeah. Meg was going to pay.
If he’d smirked, Abby would have killed him, too.
His gaze flicked over her in a lightning-quick assessment, but his mouth formed no smile. “Marshal Patton?”
“That’s right.” Her voice sounded gritty. She cleared her throat. “Detective Shea?”
“Ben.” He held out a hand, which she took; his enveloped hers.
Abby would have given anything to be...well, herself. Made up, hair smooth, smile saucy. To be together. She liked his big warm hand, his strong clasp. She wanted to see interest spark in those cool eyes.
“Abby,” she said with a wry smile.
He dropped her hand with unflattering speed. “Let’s take a look,” he said, and he wasn’t talking about her. Unfortunately.
She trailed behind as he strolled to the pickup, pulled on a latex glove and fingered the upholstery fabric as she’d done.
“Run the plates?” he asked without looking over his shoulder.
“Yes. Do you know my sister, Renee?”
That earned her a startled glance. “Yeah.”
“These plates should be on her mother-in-law’s car. I know Shirley is over in Portland visiting her daughter and grandson. Which means her car is most likely garaged at the Triple B.”
Shea swore softly and moved away from the pickup. “Funny coincidence. I mean, you being the one finding out.”
“There are only two arson investigators in Elk Springs.” Facts were facts. Today, she didn’t like this one. It fed that uneasy feeling this pickup had been waiting for her. “Even if you didn’t know our schedules, chances would be fifty-fifty I’d be the one to check out this fire. Actually, John is always off on Mondays.”
Ben Shea’s gray eyes narrowed for a moment. “You don’t think it is coincidence.”
“No.” Okay, there it was, right out in the open. “The thing is, this pickup is the exact model and color of my father’s. We sold it after he died three years ago.”
The detective muttered an obscenity. “Vehicle ID number?”
“Haven’t checked yet.”
He turned and stared at the pickup. “Goddamn.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m being paranoid. That coincidences happen.”
“Coincidences happen,” Shea said automatically. He didn’t have to add that he didn’t mean it. “Better make sure, first of all, that Renee’s mother-in-law made it to Portland.”
“Oh, my God,” Abby said, already backing away. Fear had leaped into her throat, nearly gagging her. She liked Shirley Barnard. “I didn’t think of that. I should have. All that blood...”
At her car, she grabbed her cell phone rather than her radio.
“Triple B.” A male voice picked up.
“Daniel Barnard,” Abby said peremptorily.
“He’s riding, I think. No.” She heard laughter in the background. “You’re in luck. Who’s calling?”
She told him; a moment later she was talking to her brother-in-law with the blue eyes to-die-for.
Poor choice of words, Abby thought with a lurch.
“Daniel, we just found a pickup with stolen plates. They belong on Shirley’s Lumina.”
“What the hell?”
“It gets worse,” she warned. “The seat of the pickup is drenched in blood.” Into the silence, she asked quietly, “Daniel, have you talked to your mother? You’re sure she got to Portland okay?”
He swore, which he seldom did. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, she called last night. But I’ll phone right now. And go check her car. Where are you?”
She gave him her cell phone number so he didn’t have to hunt for it. “You’ll get right back to me?”
“Count on it.” He sounded grim.
She flipped her telephone closed and, still sitting in her car with the door open, looked up to find Ben Shea leaning against the left fender of her car, arms crossed. Even through her haze of anxiety, Abby had a fleeting twinge of awareness. His strong body filled out his uniform very nicely.
“Daniel talked to his mother last night,” she said.
Glance razor-sharp, Shea remarked, “Blood’s fresh.”
“But she was in Portland. Do you really think somebody went over there and kidnapped her, murdered her and abandoned the pickup here?”
He frowned at her. “No. But it seems as if you were meant to think that.”
“You really don’t believe I’m imagining things,” Abby said hollowly.
“Nah.” His mouth twisted. “This looks real personal to me.”
“Aimed at me? Or Shirley?”
“There’s a question.” With a sigh he straightened. “You take your own pictures?”
“Usually. But if this might be a murder scene...”
“I’ll call for the techs,” he agreed.
While he was doing that, her phone rang.
“Shirley’s fine,” Daniel said without preamble. “The garage was still locked, but damned if the license plates on her car aren’t missing.”
“I’ll send someone out to fingerprint, just in case this guy got sloppy.”
“What the hell is going on?” Daniel asked, tone baffled.
“I don’t know.” She couldn’t lie and tell him it had nothing to do with his family, because it did. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to steal those plates from Shirley Barnard’s garaged Chevy. The Triple B, where she lived in the original farmhouse, was isolated. A cutting horse operation, the ranch employed a dozen or more stable hands and trainers. You didn’t just drive up, hop out, break into the garage, unscrew the plates, then depart without somebody noticing.
“Keep me informed,” he said.
“Will
