with Henri Coque about procedure—Sloan had been the one to call Logan to ask for a forensic artist and Logan had sent her. He’d trusted Logan to send him a good artist, but he was also aware that Logan was a different kind of lawman.
Sloan was, too.
He and Logan had shared secrets that they hadn’t let on to others. Working cases together, they’d both had occasion to follow leads because they’d spoken to the dead.
Sloan didn’t walk around interacting with spirits all the time. But there’d been occasions... He and Logan had recognized the ability in each other. And they’d been good partners.
True, he sometimes argued that the dead he saw were his particular form of talking to himself. And while it might seem that talking to the dead should solve everything, it didn’t work that way. But now Logan wasn’t a Ranger anymore; he was a fed. And he was the head of a unit. A special unit that was informally called the Texas Krewe.
Jane Everett was part of that Krewe. Did that mean she shared Logan’s secrets? Or that she knew about Sloan? He doubted it. Logan never spoke to anyone about anyone else’s business. But, somehow, Jane Everett made him uneasy.
Was he worried that she was only an artist—and not really much of a law enforcement agent?
Or was he worried that she was an artist and an agent and might find him incompetent?
He’d just had an odd feeling that they needed to get the skull out of Lily. It was almost as if the skull could be a catalyst for bad things to come.
Ridiculous, he told himself. Still, he didn’t like it.
But he’d been the one to call Logan Raintree.
In keeping with what Sloan knew about his old friend, he wasn’t surprised, when he’d looked up his recent work, that Logan’s Krewe worked with strange, supernatural cases.
In fact, it was one reason he’d decided to approach him.
Because there’s more to this than meets the eye and it may be important—but do I really want to know? he asked himself. He’d called Logan because he wondered if they might need help from the dead while not wanting it to be true.
“Yes, I’m here for Agent Everett,” he told Jennie.
“Come in,” she said. “The cast is down by the stage apron. She’s been meeting them all.”
“Sure.” Thankfully, there weren’t any other pressing issues in Lily at the moment.
He followed Jennie into the theater.
The group had gathered around the stage. Valerie Mystro, who had found the skull, was leaning casually against the show’s hero, Cy Tyburn, a tall, blond, all-American-looking actor from Kansas. Alice Horton, dark-haired, dark-eyed, sultry and buxom, the show’s vamp, was seated on the stage next to Brian Highsmith. Brian was dark-haired, as well; his green eyes bright against the near-black of his hair. Smiling, he appeared to be totally nonevil, although he played the show’s villain. Henri looked happy, standing in front of the newcomer, Jane Everett, who was seated next to Alice.
Even in the group of beautiful twenty-to-thirty-year-old actors, Jane Everett stood out. She was seated, so he couldn’t judge her height, and she was wearing a typical pantsuit—one he might expect to see on a working federal agent. The slight bulge was apparent at her rib cage; she was wearing a shoulder holster and carrying her weapon, which was probably just as regulation as her black pantsuit and white shirt. But she wore her hair loose and it was a striking shade, the deepest auburn he’d ever seen. And when she looked up at his arrival, he saw that she had the most unusual eyes he had ever seen, as well. They were amber. Not brown. Not hazel. Amber.
As he entered, she stood. Whatever they’d been discussing, they’d all gone quiet as he walked in.
“Sloan! We’ve just met Jane,” Valerie said happily. She giggled. “I told her how terrified I was when I found the skull, but then, she’s an FBI agent—I’m sure she would have behaved perfectly normally.”
“Maybe not. A skull can startle anyone,” Jane Everett said.
“Oh, you haven’t met yet!” Valerie said. “I’ll introduce you. Agent Jane Everett, meet our town’s sheriff, Sloan Trent. Sloan, this is Agent Everett.”
“It’s Jane, please,” Jane said, standing to shake his hand. She was on the tall side, he noted. Probably about five-nine, since she was wearing neat low pumps and seemed about five-ten or so against his six-three frame. She had a beautiful face, absolutely elegant and classical. He imagined that once they were gone, the show’s leading ladies would be discussing her...assets. She appeared to be lean and trim, but even in her regulation attire, she seemed to have the curves to suggest a well-honed body.
So this was the artist Logan had sent to sketch his skull?
It wasn’t his skull, he reminded himself. But the skull had belonged to a living, breathing human being and it was part of his town’s history. As far as he knew, anyway. And if it wasn’t—if Jane Everett’s rendering of the long-dead woman couldn’t be identified—someone had dug it up from somewhere to play a gruesome prank on the show’s cast or crew.
It just should have gone to Washington or a museum, he thought again.
He understood why Henri had insisted it stay in Lily. He wanted to know who’d gotten hold of the skull—and who’d put it in the basement storage room of the Gilded Lily.
“Sheriff Sloan Trent,” he said, accepting her hand and nodding to the others in acknowledgment. They all greeted him in turn, either as Sloan or as Sheriff—as if that was his given name. There wasn’t a lot of formality in Lily.
“I’m here to take you to our offices. We have a room prepared for you to work in. I hope you’ll find everything you need.”
She nodded. “I bring most of my own supplies,” she said, patting the black case she carried over her shoulder. “We should be fine. Thank you, Sheriff.”
“My pleasure, Agent Everett. You ready?”
“I am.”
There was a chorus of “lovely to meet you” and “nice to make your acquaintance” and other cordial statements as they left the stage area and headed out, along with “See you later, Sloan!”
He led the way to his SUV—then hesitated. He’d been raised to open doors for ladies, but wasn’t sure what the protocol was with an agent. He decided he’d be damned if he was going to change. He opened the passenger door. She thanked him as she slid in.
An awkward silence followed as he drove down Main Street, then along the paved road that passed by a smattering of houses and ranches on small plots, and finally larger tracts as he traveled the six miles from the heart of Lily to the modern “downtown” area of town.
She broke the silence.
“So, Logan said he sometimes worked with you in Texas. But you’re from Lily?” she asked.
“I am,” he told her.
“It’s really remarkable,” she said. Her voice seemed strained; she was obviously trying to be pleasant
