Barb Han - Murder And Mistletoe

“I appreciate what you’re going through and how personal this may seem, but I can’t let you walk onto my crime scene and destroy evidence.” The middle-aged man looked like he hadn’t slept in months. His eyes had the white outline of sunglasses on tanned, wrinkled skin. Hard brackets bordered his mouth and deep grooves lined his forehead. The tight grip he had on his coffee mug outlined the man’s stress level. He was on high alert and had been since Maverick Mike’s murder, a high-profile case he had yet to solve.

“Tell me what happened.” Dalton needed to know everything.

“We haven’t established cause of death.”

Most of his family might get along with the sheriff now but Dalton would never forget the way he’d been treated after Alexandria Miller’s death. He’d barely been seventeen when he’d been picked up in the middle of the night and hauled to the sheriff’s office. Sawmill had spent the next twenty-two hours interrogating Dalton, suspecting him of murder and treating him like a criminal.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you found her hanging from that tree.” Dalton bit back the frustration that was still so ready, so available. He’d go through it all again willingly if Alexandria’s murderer would be brought to justice. If her family could have answers. If there could be closure.

Sawmill tilted his head. “Doesn’t mean it was the cause of death, and I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian and you know it.”

“Who is she?” Dalton asked anyway.

“I didn’t say the victim is a woman.” The sheriff was trying to sell the idea that this had no connection to the past. Without proof, Dalton wasn’t buying it.

“No. You didn’t. She’s a girl, not a woman.” Déjà vu struck as Dalton glanced at his watch. At around the same time fourteen years ago, Alexandria was being cut down from that exact tree.

“Out of respect for you and your family, for what you’re going through, I won’t threaten to arrest you, Dalton. But make no mistake that you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation and I can’t allow that, either,” the sheriff warned.

Again, Dalton noticed the sheriff’s word choice. He didn’t mention murder.

“Another suicide in that tree fourteen years to the day and around the same time?” Dalton folded his arms and planted his boots in the unforgiving earth. “What are the odds?”

“They’re high, actually.” The sheriff blew out a sharp breath and threw his hands up. “All these reporters drudging up the past, digging into everyone’s personal lives. Every story they run increases the odds of a copycat from some crime in the past.” There hadn’t been many criminal acts in Cattle Barge leading up to this past summer. “There’s no respect for the families involved. The people who suffered through losing a loved one and now are being forced to relive the pain as news is being blasted across the internet. They deserve peace, not this.”

“There can be no peace without justice. I think we both know that,” Dalton shot back. From his peripheral, he saw a woman stalking toward them, so he turned to look. Her face was set with determination, her gaze intent on the sheriff. She had on dark jeans and a blazer. She was tall and beautiful with chestnut wavy hair loosely pulled back in a ponytail that swished back and forth as she walked. An inappropriate stir of attraction struck. Dalton shoved it to the back burner. Charging toward them, she took the kind of breath meant to steel nerves. She clutched something tightly in her left hand as her right fisted and released a couple of times. She was young, early thirties if Dalton had to guess. As she neared, he could see concern lines ridging her forehead.

The sheriff followed Dalton’s gaze, which admittedly had been held a few seconds too long toward the object of his attention.

Sheriff Sawmill immediately spun around to address the stalking female, who was only a couple of feet away from them by now. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is a restricted area. Only law enforcement personnel are allowed beyond—”

The woman cut him off by holding up the item clenched in her left fist, a badge.

“My name’s Detective Leanne West. Tell me exactly what went down here, Sheriff,” she demanded, with an intensity that made Dalton believe her interest in this case extended beyond official duty. She wore a white button-down oxford shirt under the blue blazer and low heels, which also told him that she wasn’t from around these parts. The butt of a gun peeked out from her shoulder holster. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a SIG Sauer. His first thought would’ve been FBI if she hadn’t already identified herself.

“I’ll have my secretary issue a full report to your supervising officer when we’ve concluded our investigation.” Sheriff Sawmill crossed his arms and dug his heels in the hard dirt.

“My SO? Why not tell me? I’m standing here in front of you—he’s not.” Her determined voice had a musical quality to it that reached inside Dalton. This wasn’t the time to get inside his head about why. He wanted information as badly as she did and, at least for now, nothing was more important. If he had a chance to put his demons to rest and give peace to the Miller family, there were no walls too high to climb.

She was getting further with Sawmill than he had been, so, if necessary, he would be her shadow from now on.

With the sheriff’s back to Dalton as he was being distracted by the detective, Dalton turned toward the hanging rope and palmed his phone. He angled his cell toward the rope as anger stirred in his gut, remembering the specific knot used in Alexandria’s hanging, The trucker’s knot. Alexandria would have had no idea what that knot was. She hadn’t had a brother or male cousin who she spent time with and she wore more skirts than jeans. Furthermore, every Boy Scout knew that the whole conglomeration could be untied with only four pulls in the right places, meaning she could’ve freed herself at any time if she’d known. And anyone who knew how to use the knot would know how it worked.

With a quick swipe across the screen, Dalton blew up the focal point, zeroed in on the spot and snapped a pic. The knot could tell him a lot about whether these two crimes were related. All his warning flares were firing, but he couldn’t ignore the sheriff’s argument. A lot of time had passed. News stories had been drudging up the past. There was a possibility that this incident wasn’t related, other than someone being a copycat or inspiring a young person to imitate what she thought was a suicide in the same spot.

“Because I’m not ready to risk details of this case leaving this lot and being broadcast across the state.” Sawmill’s normally steady-as-steel tone was laced with frustration. “In case you haven’t noticed, this town has had its fair share of exploitation for the sake of ratings in the past three months.”

“I can assure you that won’t happen.” The detective’s shoulders straightened and her chest puffed out a little at the suggestion she’d bring in the media. The words had the sharp edge of a professional jab.

Sawmill tipped his head to one side. “Forgive my being blunt, but so can I.”

* * *

LEANNE WOULD’VE HANDCUFFED the good-looking cowboy for taking a picture of the hangman’s rope herself if the sheriff was cooperating. Since he wasn’t and she figured the two were in the same boat with Sawmill, she’d let it slide and figure out a way to find out what he was so interested in.

The cowboy was hard to miss at six-four and he was using her as a distraction, which had her mind spinning with even more questions. Did the man, who was professional-athlete tall with a muscular build and grace to back it up, know Clara? His hair was a light brown with blond mixed in and his eyes were a serious blue. Under different circumstances, she’d have enjoyed the view. But her niece had been taken down from that tree...