Buried Sins. Marta Perry

telling her family she was married, let alone that her husband died. The sort of odd story that made a curious cop want to know what lay behind it.

      He’d poked a bit, when he’d called the Santa Fe PD back to let them know that the lost sheep was fine. The officer he’d spoken with had been guarded, which just increased his curiosity.

      It might have been the city cop’s natural derision for a rural cop, or something more. In any event, the man had said that there was no reason to think the death of Tony Gibson was anything but an accident.

      And that way of phrasing it said to him that someone, at least, had wondered.

      He slowed, noticing the red compact pulled to the curb, then a quick figure sliding out. Caroline Hampton was headed into Snyder’s Grocery. Maybe it was time for his morning cup of coffee. He pulled into the gravel lot next to the store.

      When he got inside, Etta Snyder gave him a wave from behind the counter. “Usual coffee, Chief?”

      “Sounds good.”

      Caroline’s face had been animated in conversation, but he saw that by-now-familiar jolt of something that might have been fear at the sight of him. It could be dislike, but he had the feeling it went deeper than that.

      She cut off something she was saying to the only other customer in the shop—tall guy, midthirties, chinos and windbreaker, slung round with cameras. He’d peg him as a tourist, except that tourists didn’t usually travel in the single-male variety, and the cameras looked a little too professional for amateur snapshots.

      “Here’s the person who can answer your questions,” she said, taking a step toward the counter. “Chief Burkhalter knows all about everything when it comes to his township.”

      He decided to ignore the probable sarcasm in the comment, turning to the stranger. “Something I can help you with?”

      The guy looked as if he found him a poor substitute for a gorgeous redhead, but he rallied. “Jason Tenley, Chief. I was just wondering what the etiquette is for getting photos of the Amish. I’m working on a magazine photo story, and—”

      “There isn’t any,” he said bluntly. He’d think any professional photographer would have found that out before coming. “Adult Amish don’t want their photographs taken, and it would be an invasion of privacy to do so.”

      “What about from behind? Or from a distance?”

      The guy was certainly enthusiastic enough. “You can ask, but the answer may still be no. Sometimes they’ll allow pictures of the children, but again, you’ll have to ask.”

      “And you’d better listen, or the chief might have to give you a ticket.” Caroline, turning toward them, seemed to have regained her spunk along with her purchases.

      “That’s only for speeding,” he said gravely. “Although I’ve been known to ticket for blocking public access, when some outsider tried to take photos of an Amish funeral.”

      “I’ll remember that.” The photographer didn’t act as if the prospect was going to deter him.

      Caroline seemed ready to leave, but they stood in front of the doorway, and he suspected she didn’t want to have to ask him to move. Instead she sauntered to the bulletin board and stood staring at it.

      “Well, thanks for your help.” Tenley glanced at Caroline hopefully. “Goodbye, Ms. Hampton. I hope I’ll see you again while I’m here.”

      She gave him a noncommittal nod, her attention still focused on the bulletin board.

      Tenley went out, the bell jingling, and Zach moved over to stand behind Caroline at the bulletin board.

      “What are you looking for? The mixed-breed puppies, or that convertible sofa bed? I should warn you that the puppies’ parentage is very uncertain, and the sofa bed is one that the Muller kid had at his college apartment.”

      “You really do know everything about everyone, don’t you?” That didn’t sound as if she found it admirable. “Neither, but I’ve found something else I need.” She tore off a strip of paper with information about the upcoming craft show at the grange hall.

      She turned to go, and he stopped her with a light touch on her arm. She froze.

      “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for bringing up your husband’s death in front of your grandmother. I shouldn’t have assumed she already knew about it.”

      “It doesn’t matter.” She seemed to force the words out. “I was about to tell her, anyway. If you’ll excuse me—” She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm.

      He let go, stepping back. What would you do if I asked you why you’re so afraid of me, Caroline? How would you answer that?

      It wasn’t a question he could ask, but he wondered. He really did wonder.

      Caroline drove straight to the barn by way of the narrow lane that ran along the hedgerow. She pulled up to the gravel parking space near the apartment door and began to unload. She would put her own perishables away before running the vanilla and cinnamon over to Rachel at the house. Maybe by then she’d have controlled her temper at running into Chief Burkhalter once again.

      Arms filled with grocery bags, she shoved the car door shut with her hip. And turned at the sound of another vehicle coming up the lane behind her.

      It was with a sense almost of resignation that she saw the township police car driving toward her. Resignation was dangerous, though. This persistence of Burkhalter’s was unsettling and unwelcome. She’d dealt with enough lately, and she didn’t want to have to cope with an overly inquisitive country cop.

      She leaned against the car, clutching the grocery bags, and waited while he pulled up behind her, got out and walked toward her with that deceptively easy stride of his. If he were anyone else, she might enjoy watching that lean, long-limbed grace. But he wasn’t just anyone. He was a cop who’d been spending far too much time snooping into her business.

      Her fingers tightened on the bags. “Why are you following me around? Police harassment—”

      His eyebrows, a shade darker than his sandy hair, lifted slightly. “Etta Snyder would be surprised at the accusation, since she sent me after you.” He held up the tin of cinnamon. “She thought you might need this.”

      Her cheeks were probably as red as her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Well, maybe it was better not to go into what she’d thought. “Thank you. That’s for my sister, and she’ll appreciate it.” She hesitated, realizing that probably wasn’t enough of an apology. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you.”

      Those gray eyes of his didn’t give anything away. “No problem. Let me give you a hand with the bags.”

      Before she could object, he’d taken the grocery bags from her. Snatching them back would only make her look foolish, so instead she fished in her purse for the key.

      She was very aware of him following her to the door. Knowing his gaze was on her. The combination of cop and attractive, confident male was disturbing.

      “Does Etta often turn you into a grocery deliveryman? I’d think police work would be enough to keep you busy, even in a quiet place like this.”

      “You haven’t been here on a busy Saturday in tourist season if you find it quiet,” he said. “Dropping off something you forgot at the store is just being neighborly.”

      Neighborly. She didn’t think she was destined to be neighborly with the local cop. She reached the door, key extended. The door stood ajar. Panic froze her to the spot.

      “What is it?” His tone was sharp.

      She gestured mutely toward the door. “I locked it when I left.” Her voice was breathless. “Someone’s in there.”

      “It doesn’t look as if it was broken into. Anyone else have