Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy

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 in the bar might be carrying, and as a responsible member of the law enforcement of this town, I can’t allow you to go in there alone.” There was more than a hint of steel in his deep voice.

       He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He hadn’t wanted her here in the first place, he didn’t like the way she made him feel, and yet here he was, insisting he go with her to a rowdy bar on a Friday night.

       He told himself he’d use her to help solve the crime and that was all he wanted from her, but even as this thought shot through his mind, it battled with the question of what her lips would feel like beneath his own.