Michele Hauf - Storm Warning

Reaching for her backpack, Yvette shuffled it on over her arms. Ready to head out so quickly? She still had half a sandwich on the plate. He couldn’t let her leave. Not until he’d learned more, like where she was staying, and did she have a significant other? And did her hair actually gleam when it spilled across her shoulders?

Briefly, Jason frowned as memories of his early morning stop resurfaced. The deceased had long black hair and a beautiful face.

At that moment, his cell phone buzzed with a text. Elaine had ID’d the victim as Yvette Pearson.

“Yvette,” he muttered and wrinkled a brow. That was a weird coincidence.

“Yes?”

He looked up and was met with a wondering blue gaze. He’d once fallen for a pair of blue eyes and a foreign accent—and life had changed drastically for him because of that distraction.

“You said my name?” she prompted.

“Huh? Oh. No. I mean, yes. Not you. It’s a text.” He quickly typed, Thanks for the info. Forward the final report to me and Ryan Bay. He tucked away the phone and said to the very much alive Yvette, “It’s a case. Not you. Sorry. Police business.”

She nodded. “Yvette is a common French name.”

“You betcha. Lot of French Canadians living up in these parts.”

“These parts.” With a sigh, she glanced out the front window.

Jason noticed she eyed the black SUV parked across the street. The one that hailed from Duluth.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, with a nod out the window.

“You mean the owner of that SUV?” She shook her head. “Despite my sparkling personality, and a desperate desire for good conversation, I don’t have any friends in this town. Other than Colette at the market. She’s the only French-speaking person I’ve run into.”

“You speak French? I was wondering about your accent.”

“I’m from Lyon.”

Lyon, eh? That was a major city in France.

“So, what is there to do in this town that is more interesting than Friday night at the Laundromat slash grocery store?” Yvette asked.

“Let’s see...” Jason rubbed his jaw. “A guy could nosh on some of the amazing desserts they have here at The Moose. I have to admit, I’m a big fan of their pie. You want a slice before you rush off?”

“Much as I would love to, I’ll have to pass. Wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.” She pushed the plate forward to indicate she was finished. “But I won’t rule out pie in my future,” she said with a teasing tone. “What else you got?”

“Well, there is Netflix and chill,” Jason suggested slyly.

“I don’t understand.”

“It means...uh...” A blush heated Jason’s cheeks. Since when had his flirtation skills become so damned rusty? And awkward. Mercy, he was out of practice.

“More coffee, Jason?” the waitress asked.

Saved by the steamy brew. “No, thanks, I should get going. Marjorie is waiting for me back at the office to sign off on some...paperwork.”

The last thing he wanted to do was let the cat out of the bag that a body had been found so close to town. On the other hand, he expected when Susan Olson next went on shift at the back of the diner, it wouldn’t take long for word to spread.

He pulled out a twenty and laid it on the counter. “That should cover both our bills.”

Yvette zipped up her jacket. “Thank you, Chief Cash. I’m going to look up Netflix and chill when I get home.”

“You do that,” he said. And when she learned it meant watching Netflix together, then making out? “I’m down the street at the redbrick building if you ever need me. Used to be a bustling station house, but now it’s just me and dispatch.”

“Keeping an eye on the Peanut Gang.”

“You betcha.”

He walked her to the restaurant door, and she pointed across the street where a snowmobile was parked before Olson’s Oasis. It was an older model, similar to the one he’d once torn through ditches on when he was a teenager.

“That’s me,” she said.

“How far out do you live?” he asked.

“I’m renting. Here for a short stay. It’s a cabin about five miles east. Lots of birch trees. Very secluded.”

“Everything around here is secluded. You step out of town, you’re in no-man’s land. That’s what I love about this place. And lots of powder.”

“Powder?”

“Snow. When I’m not working, I spend my time on the cat, zooming through the powder. Er, cat is what some locals call the snowmobile. At least, those of us with an inclination to Arctic Cat sleds and racing.”

“Ah, a thrill seeker?”

“You nailed it. You must be staying at the Birch Bower cabin?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Jason nodded. The owners rented the place out in the winter months while they vacationed in their Athens home. Nice place, Greece. Beautiful blue waters. Fascinating local culture. Ouzo in abundance. He’d nearly taken a bullet to the stomach there a few years ago. Good times.

“Thanks again,” Yvette called as she walked away.

Feeling as though he wanted to give Yvette his phone number, Jason also suspected that would not be cool. Not yet. They’d only chatted ten minutes. So instead he watched her turn on her snowmobile and head off with a smile and a wave.

Besides, he knew where to find her now if he wanted to.

A glance to the SUV found it was still parked. Exhaust fumes indicated the engine was running. Hmm...

Jason strode across Main Street toward the SUV, boots crunching the snowpack. The vehicle shifted into gear and drove past him. It slowed at the stop sign at the east edge of town. And sat there. Yvette had crossed to the town’s edge and taken a packed trail hugged by tall birch trees.

The thunder of Jason’s heartbeats would not allow him to dismiss the SUV. It was almost as if the driver had been parked there, watching... Yvette?

He looked at his cell phone. Elaine’s message read, Yvette Pearson.

As the very much alive Yvette LaSalle had said, it was a common French name. But two Yvettes in one small town? Both, apparently, visiting. And one of them dead?

Unable to shake the itchy feeling riding his spine, Jason returned to his snowmobile and pulled on his helmet. By the time he’d fired up the engine and headed down Main Street, the SUV had slowly moved toward the birch-lined road heading east. Yvette’s direction.

Jason pulled up alongside the SUV, switched on the police flasher lights and signaled the driver to pull over. He did so and rolled down his window. The thirtysomething male wearing a tight gray skullcap and sunglasses tugged up a black turtleneck as the brisk air swept into the truck cab.

“Chief Jason Cash,” Jason said as he approached the vehicle. A nine-millimeter Glock hugged his hip, but he didn’t sense a need for it. Nor did he ever draw for a routine traffic stop. Not that this was a traffic stop.

“Hello, Officer,” the man said with an obvious accent. Texan? A Southern drawl twanged his voice. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I’ve not seen you in Frost Falls before, and it is a small town. Like to introduce myself.” He tugged off a glove and offered his hand to the man. The driver twisted and leaned out the window to shake his hand. A calm movement. Warm hand. But Jason couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses. “Your name?”

“Smith,” he said easily. Which was the name Jason had gotten from the plate check. “I’m visiting the Boundary Waters tourist area. Just out for a drive. Beautiful day with the sunshine, yes?”

“You betcha.”

Definitely a Texan accent. Fresh out of high school, Jason had served three years in the marines alongside a trio of Texans who had extolled their love for hot sauce whenever they were bored.