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 nasty reputation. They worked together at the bar, and the night of Gretchen’s death, had a public fight before leaving work. I was so sure he was my man, but several of his friends swear that they all left work together and played poker until near dawn.”
“Are these men who would lie for him?”
“Absolutely, but I haven’t been able to break one of them. Then when Mary showed up dead, I couldn’t find any connection between her and Jeff Maynard.”
She frowned thoughtfully and took a sip of her water. As she placed the glass down, her gaze met and captured his. He’d never been a fan of brown eyes before, but hers seemed to draw him in. “Is it possible Jeff killed Gretchen, and then feeling the heat of your investigation and being your main suspect, he killed the other two to take the heat off him?”
Cole shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible at this point.”
“I’d like to talk to Jeff. Can you make that happen?”
“Jeff kind of drifts during the week. He spends time staying at different friends’ places, both here and in Kansas City. The best time to catch up with him is on a Friday or Saturday night at Bledsoe’s, the bar where he works.”
“Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll plan on heading to the bar around ten. In my experience, nothing much happens before that time in bars.”
“Why don’t you meet me at my house and we’ll go together?” he suggested.
“That isn’t necessary,” she protested.
“Oh, but it is. A beautiful woman like you would be eaten alive in that dive.”
She leaned forward and gave him a smile that torched through him. “Have you forgotten, Sheriff Caldwell, I’m an FBI agent and I carry a gun?”
“And might I remind you that you don’t know the players, you won’t know who else
