inside to a warm shower. The day was off to a good start. She could hardly wait to see how the rest of it went.
“I don’t believe it. Miss Martel?” Holt Tanner said when Chelsea related her findings.
“Nevertheless, it’s true.”
“Four months,” he repeated. “Who was the father?”
“He didn’t leave a calling card.”
Pierce shot a warning glance at her flippant remark. He still wasn’t very happy with her. Fine. She could live with that. In fact, it made things easier. There would be no more dreams of hot kisses and roaming hands—
“And you can definitely rule out suicide?”
She nodded to the lawman.
Holt paced to the window. “I don’t want the news of a pregnancy to get out. It’s the only thing we know that the killer also knows. Maybe he’ll slip up sooner or later.”
Chelsea was pleased that the deputy was on the same mental track with her. “He’s local.”
“Yeah, I realized that as soon as you said she was pregnant. Do you think she was blackmailing him—demanding money for her silence?” The lawman stared into the middle distance, deep in thought.
“Or demanding marriage,” Pierce suggested. He rubbed a hand over his face. “What else don’t we know about the mysterious Miss Martel, gruff and reclusive librarian that she was?”
Holt turned a chair around and straddled it, his forearms crossed over the back. “I’ve been checking her records and accounts. By Rumor standards, she was rich.”
“Harriet Martel?” Pierce was obviously startled at this new disclosure.
Holt nodded. “She’d been investing her money for years. There’s a sizable inheritance.”
“Who gets it?”
“I don’t know if there’s a will. The only relatives are her sister, Louise Holmes, and Louise’s son, Colby. Gossip has it that Colby is denying his aunt would have killed herself.” Holt frowned. “The thought of murder makes people nervous.”
“It could scare off the tourists, too. The city council is planning another event after the success of the Crazy Moon Festival last month. It’ll be a bust if no one shows up for it.”
Chelsea listened quietly as the men discussed the case and the consequences for the small town that depended on tourist dollars for cash flow. Murder spread a wide ripple across a narrow pond in a community such as Rumor.
Holt snapped his fingers. “In a murder case in one town, they tested every male’s DNA. We could do that.”
Chelsea grimaced. “The perp paid another man to take the test for him, so the results didn’t do any good.”
“Not until the man’s conscience finally got the better of him and he confessed. The perp was then tested and found to be guilty,” Holt reminded her.
Pierce dismissed the idea. “The court would have to agree it was necessary, too, else it’s an invasion of privacy. I don’t think a judge in the county would condone widespread testing.”
The men were silent as they sought another avenue to pinpoint the murderer.
“Chelsea, can you help out?” Pierce asked.
“Of course. What do you have in mind?”
“Holt, do you mind if Chelsea looks over all the evidence? I can vouch for her discretion,” he added when the lawman shot her a troubled glance. “You can take her out to Harriet’s house and let her poke around. Maybe she’ll find an angle we’ve overlooked.” He smiled grimly. “Harriet was murdered on Saturday night, during the last weekend of the festival. Six days ago. We need this case wrapped up.”
Holt stood. “Are you available now? I’m free this morning, but I have to present evidence at a hearing this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she said.
Pierce rose when she did. He glanced at his watch. “I have a council meeting shortly. Chelsea, can you join me for lunch at twelve sharp?”
Confused by the invitation, which sounded more like a command, she agreed to meet him. “Here?”
“At my place. I want to discuss your findings in private.” He turned to the deputy. “Have you turned in Chelsea’s report to the sheriff?”
“Not yet. I’ll be seeing him at five.”
“Tell him I’ll be at home this evening if he wants to come out and discuss it. I’d rather not say anything on the phone, especially a cell phone.”
The hair crept up on Chelsea’s neck at Pierce’s ominous tone. Noting his deep frown as she and Holt left his office, she realized he was worried about the town and its citizens. As mayor, he had to be. There was a killer loose in their midst, and right now, only the three of them knew it, plus one other….
Ten minutes later, the lawman muttered an expletive when he turned into a narrow drive on a quiet side street. Another vehicle was parked next to the white cottage with its dark green shutters and colorful flower boxes and yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front porch.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“The nephew. Colby Holmes. I’ll wring his neck if he’s touched anything.”
The door was unlocked, eliciting another curse. Chelsea followed Holt inside. “Colby,” he yelled.
“In here,” a male voice called out.
Chelsea entered a room that was more an alcove than a full-size room, Holt on her heels. Bay windows let in the morning sunlight. Bookshelves lined every available wall, and a desk occupied the rest of the space.
A young man in his mid-to late-twenties sat on the floor in front of a bookcase. With brown eyes and hair and a restlessness that spoke of contained energy, the former rodeo star was attractive and determined as he returned the deputy’s glare.
“What the hell are you doing, crossing a police line and messing around in here?” Holt demanded.
“Looking,” came the reply.
“For what?”
“Proof that Aunt Harriet didn’t commit suicide.”
“Who said she did?”
The nephew narrowed his eyes at the deputy. “That’s the rumor flying around town. It’s a lie. My aunt may have been a recluse, but she wasn’t a wimp who couldn’t face life.”
“So what’s your theory?” the deputy challenged.
“She was murdered.” The younger man finished flipping through the book, put it on the shelf and stood. His eyes cut to Chelsea. “Who’s she?”
“Dr.
