Her Montana Man. Laurie Paige

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. Kearns. The medical examiner sent down from Billings.”

      “Mom said the cops had ordered an autopsy. Have you done it yet?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well?” he said impatiently.

      Chelsea held her temper with an effort. The men she’d met thus far in Rumor were an autocratic bunch. When she’d arrived Monday evening after working in Billings all day, the deputy had wanted her to start that night.

      She’d refused. However, she’d spent all day Tuesday and most of Wednesday in the morgue. She’d checked and rechecked the evidence, which was in short supply. She’d promptly written up her report. Did that satisfy them? No way.

      First the mayor, then the deputy had demanded firsthand information on the case. Now a third male was demanding to know her findings. She was tired of demands.

      “Check with the sheriff,” she advised.

      “No information is going out until we finish investigating the case,” Holt told the younger man. “If you’ve destroyed any evidence, I’ll have your hide in jail so fast it’ll make you dizzy. Stay out of it, Colby.”

      “Then find out the truth.” He strode toward the door. “My aunt didn’t commit suicide.”

      Chelsea and the lawman watched the nephew leave, then they turned back to the crime scene. “Where was her body found?” Chelsea asked.

      For the next two hours they went over the cottage for any missed evidence. Chelsea noted the librarian had few personal effects in the neat little house. Other than a couple of pictures of Colby, plus one of his mother and the deceased woman, there was an absence of knickknacks.

      However, there were plenty of books. Naturally. A librarian would have a passion for books. And for the man who’d killed her and the unborn child?

      “Was the child his?” she murmured aloud. “Or had she gone to someone else, and that’s what made him so furious?”

      “Good question.” Holt wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked tired and irritated. The temperature was in the nineties as predicted. He continued his inspection of the chair where Harriet Martel had died. It had already been combed for fibers and hairs.

      On the table next to the chair was a novel. Chelsea read the title: Dangerous Liaisons. A bookmark near the end indicated the woman had been reading it prior to the murder.

      An apt selection. The librarian’s liaison had proved very dangerous.

      Chelsea reached for the book, then stopped. She wasn’t wearing latex gloves, so she was hesitant to touch anything. “Has everything been dusted for prints?”

      Holt was now on his haunches studying the carpet. “Yeah. We didn’t find many, and what few we did find belonged to Harriet or her family. A few others were too smudged to reveal anything. The whole place was wiped down before the perp left.”

      “Did you check the drains for hair? Are there any toothbrushes that are different?”

      “We did all that.”

      Chelsea stepped nearer the chair. A sense of intense cold caused her to shiver.

      The times when she was requested to attend a murder scene bothered her for days afterward. Maybe it was imagination, but she seemed to feel the anger and the agony, the tragic death scene that had resulted from uncontrolled emotion. A psychic she’d once met on a case had assured her it was real, that the energy caused by strife and grief lingered long after the deed.

      Chelsea felt it now—the hot fury, then the cold, calculating anger, the sudden fear of the woman, the need to protect the child—

      “It was for the child,” she said. “Whatever started the conflict, it was for the child. The victim wanted to protect her baby.”

      “From what?” Holt asked, giving her a curious look.

      “Scandal, perhaps. Or maybe he wanted her to get rid of it and she refused.”

      As soon as Chelsea said the words, she knew they were true. The cold in the room drove right down to her soul. It lingered near the chair where the librarian had died, like a ghost hovering there, silently imploring them to discover the truth and thus find her killer.

      She stared at the worn chair. For a wealthy person the woman had lived very simply. The chair, table and lamp indicated this was her favorite reading spot.

      A small stain marred the upholstery, but that was the only evidence of the violence that had taken place. Since the bullet hadn’t exited, there was little bleeding and no splatter on the walls and floor.

      A very neat murder with a small-caliber weapon such as a woman might have in the house to protect herself from intruders. The man would have known about the gun. Maybe he gave it to her.

      “You ready to go?” the deputy asked.

      Wrapping her arms across her chest, she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

      The return trip was short. The deputy parked on Main Street in front of the sheriff’s office. After he went inside, she realized she had a half hour before she met with Pierce. Seeing a diner up the street, she went there and ordered a cup of coffee.

      A newspaper had been left on a chair at the table. She picked it up and read the headline: Suicide in Rumor.

      The story recounted Harriet Martel’s life in the town and how she’d transformed the library into a quiet oasis of learning. She’d instituted several story hours for different age groups and arranged for tutoring sessions between volunteers and students who needed help.

      All in all she appeared to have been a good person, apparently dedicated to her job. Who had made her forget her basic values? Who was the man she had so foolishly loved?

      Colby Holmes slid into the chair opposite her. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

      “Mr. Holmes, you have my sympathy about your aunt, but the work I do in a case like this is strictly confidential. You’ll have to ask the sheriff—”

      “In a case like what?” he interrupted.

      She gazed at him without answering.

      “If it was suicide, why all the secrecy? Coffee,” he practically snarled at the teenage waitress, who scurried off in the face of his anger. He turned back to