Carol Ericson - The Sheriff of Silverhill

Rafe placed the frame back in its place, and Dana let out a slow breath. She needed time to tell him about his daughter, safely at home in Denver with Dana’s cousin. She’d wait until the investigation ended because once he found out she’d been keeping this secret for ten years, they’d never be able to work together.

Raising his brows, Rafe glanced at Auntie Mary and she rolled her eyes and said, “You know Dana. Prompt. Punctual.”

“Just like you taught me.” Dana grabbed her coat from the closet. She had to propel Rafe out of this house—away from the photos, away from the memories.

Rafe turned his back on the fireplace and Kelsey. Dropping an arm around Auntie Mary’s shoulders, he bent to kiss her cheek. “We’ll catch up another time.”

Two circles of color dotted Auntie Mary’s cheeks as she smiled up at Rafe. Dana shook her head. Rafe’s easy charm affected all women, young and old. She’d figured out later, after a few psych classes, that the abandonment of his mother drove him to conquer every woman he met.

Did her desertion of Rafe after high school really hurt him like Auntie Mary suggested? He sure seemed to move on quickly.

“Ready?” Dana shrugged into her coat and shrugged off the memories.

Rafe tossed his keys in the air while they walked toward his patrol car. “Do you want to drive over to the Thompson place or walk?”

Normally, she enjoyed a nice, brisk walk, but if Rafe left his car here, they’d have to come back for it and he’d have another excuse to get inside Auntie Mary’s house. Dana couldn’t allow that. Not with those pictures of Kelsey adorning the mantel.

“It’s too cold for a walk.” She rubbed her hands together. “And I’m wearing high heels.”

“Good point.” He jabbed at his remote and opened the passenger door for her, placing his hand on the small of her back. Through her coat, suit jacket and blouse, the man’s touch scorched her. When he shut the door, she dragged in a deep breath and whispered, “Get a grip.”

He slid onto the driver’s seat and cranked on the engine. “Emmett told me one of his guys canvassed the area here this morning but didn’t find anything from the attack last night. Have you had any more trouble?”

“No. Emmett had Jimmy patrolling the reservation last night, and I think he made lots of loops around Auntie Mary’s place.”

“Good. I’m hoping that was our killer. It shows he’s cocky, too self-assured. That’s going to land him in trouble.”

“And if it was the killer who attacked me, he didn’t have murder on his mind. So even though I’m half Southern Ute, I don’t fit his profile for whatever reason.”

“The first two victims were full-blooded Ute.”

“The first two, but not Holly.” Dana chewed her bottom lip. “There has to be some other connection.”

A few minutes later, Rafe pulled his patrol car in front of the Thompson house. Dana shoved open the car door, grateful for the biting chill in the air. Sitting in close confinement with Rafe did a number on her senses. He didn’t even have to turn on the charm for her, his very presence, the timbre of his voice and his clean, masculine scent made her knees weak.

Weak knees—just what she needed for a serial murder investigation.

Rafe pushed open the gate in the front and it banged closed behind them, its latch broken. They climbed up the two steps to the sagging porch and Rafe rapped on the screen door since two pieces of dirty tape crisscrossed the doorbell. Louella Thompson obviously hadn’t used the money from the oil wells for home repair.

The door creaked open, and a tall woman, clutching a glass in her hand, peered at them through the screen door. “Sheriff McClintock? I thought the FBI was coming.”

“Afternoon, ma’am. One of the agents got sick. I’m his replacement, but I’m with the other agent. Do you remember Dana Croft? Mary Redbird’s great-niece?”

“Sure.” Mrs. Thompson clicked open the screen door. “I’d heard you were with the FBI, Dana.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thompson. May we come in and ask you a few questions about Holly?”

Mrs. Thompson nodded and held open the door, ushering them inside. The smell of booze hit Dana like a sledgehammer. It rolled off Mrs. Thompson in waves. She gestured toward a small, plaid sofa. “Have a seat. Do you want a drink?”

Rafe held up a hand. “We’re officially on duty, Mrs. Thompson, but thanks anyway.”

Dana shooed an orange tabby from the sofa and sank onto the soft, worn cushion. Rafe perched on the edge next to her and swept off his hat.

Mrs. Thompson laughed, a hoarse sound, as if that laugh had been a long time coming. “I’m not offering you the bourbon, Sheriff. That’s all mine. I need it now more than ever. Would you like some coffee or water? That’s about all I got. How about some hot tea? I have that tea Auntie Mary likes, Dana.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Dana replied, “I’ll have some tea.”

Mrs. Thompson lurched toward the kitchen, and Dana pushed up from the sofa. “I’ll help.”

“You sit down. I need something to keep me busy.”

Dana exchanged a look with Rafe. As she settled back on the sofa, she whispered, “Do you think we should come back later? How much help will she be in this condition?”

“Maybe this is the only condition she has. Besides, the alcohol might loosen her tongue, bring down her guard.”

Mrs. Thompson appeared in the kitchen doorway, propping her shoulder against the frame. “The kettle’s on. What do you want to know about Holly?”

Dana cleared her throat. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

“Holly liked boys…maybe too much.” Mrs. Thompson swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “But she didn’t have one boy in particular. She dated around like a lot of twenty-one year old girls. Even dated that young sheriff’s deputy you have working for you.”

A muscle in Rafe’s jaw twitched, the only sign that this bit of information surprised him. His stoicism, the mark of a good cop, impressed Dana.

Rafe fished a notepad out of his breast pocket along with a pencil. “Can you give us a list of the guys Holly was seeing, including Brice Kellog? Any of them upset about not having an exclusive relationship with her?”

“Not that I know of.”

The teakettle whistled and Mrs. Thompson disappeared back into the kitchen. She called out, “Do you want any sugar?”

“No, thanks.” Dana mumbled to Rafe, “I’d better help her with that.”

She met Mrs. Thompson at the kitchen door and took the saucer from her unsteady hand. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Thompson? Sheriff McClintock left a piece of paper on the table for you to jot down Holly’s male friends.”

She helped Mrs. Thompson take a seat, placing her glass of liquid comfort on the table in front of her. Balancing her cup and saucer, Dana settled next to Rafe again. She inhaled the fragrant tea before taking a sip. Mrs. Thompson must have gotten the tea from Auntie Mary because it tasted and smelled like her own special blend.

Rafe asked, “Did your daughter seem worried about anything the past few weeks? Did she complain about anyone following or harassing her?”

“My Holly never worried about a thing. She was a high-spirited girl who liked to have fun.” Mrs. Thompson sniffled and took another gulp of bourbon.

“Did she keep a diary? Have a computer? Send e-mails to friends?”

“She spent a lot of time on the computer. Would you like to see it? It’s in her room.”

They followed Mrs. Thompson as she weaved down the short hallway, the cat threading between her ankles. She threw open the door to a small room, crowded with furniture and plastered with posters of tattooed singers and grungy-looking bands.