Debra Webb - In Self Defence

Tucking her clutch bag under her arm, Audrey palmed her cell phone and shoved the car door shut with her hip. The four-inch heels she had chosen to wear to the Chamber of Commerce Business Awards Banquet dug into the gravel with each step she made. She sighed. Sacrifices were a part of getting the story. What was the loss of a pair of shoes if there was a nice spike in subscriptions?

For a newspaper, circulation—whether print or online—was everything.

She might be the owner, but she also had the most investigative experience, which meant she had to get out in the field—had to get her hands dirty. How else was she going to turn the Winchester Gazette around? She not only had to get the story, she had to uncover the story no one else unearthed. It helped considerably that her family had deep roots in Franklin County, knew God and everyone who lived within a fifty-mile radius of her hometown. More important, the sitting sheriff—his white cowboy hat came into view even as she thought of him—really did owe her.

He owed her big-time, and she intended to see that he never forgot.

She reached for the yellow crime scene tape draped from bare crepe myrtle to crepe myrtle along the front of the yard, raised it and ducked under it. As if he’d sensed the interloper at his crime scene, Sheriff Colton Tanner turned to watch her stride up the driveway, the headlights from the cluster of vehicles illuminating her path. It wasn’t necessary to see his eyes to know his gaze roamed from the top of her blond head down the peach-colored silk blouse and classic broomstick skirt she wore all the way to the sleek matching high heels that would be ruined after this outing. As if to confirm her assumption, he shook his head and cut off the deputy who had headed Audrey’s way, no doubt to inform her that she needed to stay outside the yellow tape perimeter.

Colt double-timed it down the steps and strode toward her. “Rey, you know you cannot be here.”

Rey . From the day she was brought home from the hospital everyone around here had called her Rey. That was the way of things in the South. Your name was either chopped in half for a nickname or you were called by both your first and middle. No one seemed capable of simply using a person’s given name.

“You have a body,” Audrey announced, one hand on her cocked hip as she peered up at the man who had shattered her naive heart at the ripe old age of seventeen. “I have a newspaper. Alone, neither one is particularly noteworthy. But the story of what actually happened can mean the difference between merely dead and murdered and, in the case of my newspaper, staying in business or going bankrupt. So, like you, Sheriff, I’m here for the story either way.”

His gray eyes filled with confusion that quickly morphed into sympathy. Audrey wanted to shake him and tell him she didn’t need his pity. She just needed the story. The old saying “if it bleeds, it leads” was far too true. Except right now she would take sympathy or whatever else it took to get the story. She was just as ruthless as any other reporter.

“Well.” He heaved out a breath and braced his hands on his lean hips, matching her stance. “Be that as it may, this is a crime scene, Rey. Police business.”

He shrugged those broad shoulders and flared his wide hands. Why oh why had she noticed his lean hips or his long legs or his broad shoulders? Or any of those other utterly masculine assets before recovering control of her wayward thoughts? Dear God, she was hopeless. Or maybe simply desperate. She’d been back in Winchester for over six months and she hadn’t had a single date. Hadn’t had one for as many months or more before the big move. Quite possibly the only thing wrong with her was nothing more than basic human need.

Whatever the case, she would not be fulfilling that need with this gorgeous cowboy. Not now or ever. They were over. All she needed was information and perhaps a look at the crime scene.

“I’m a reporter,” she argued. “I have an obligation to keep the community informed.”

“I understand that.” He raised a hand before she could interrupt his rebuttal. “But you can’t go showing up like this and crossing the perimeter—”

“Please.” She reached into her bag and retrieved disposable gloves. “I know my way around a crime scene better than a single one of your deputies. I daresay,” she added as she met his weary gaze, “better than you.”

Audrey started forward once more. Her destination was the porch. Once she was on the porch she would pull on protective footwear and go right on inside. The door was open. The body was in there and most likely so was the person who pulled the trigger.

“All that research you’ve done as a big-city crime reporter is not impressing me here,” he protested, catching up to her after hesitating five or so seconds—no doubt just so he could watch her walk away. Some things never changed. “This is official police business, Rey. As much as I’d like to do you a favor, you cannot go in there.”

She stopped at the bottom of the wooden porch steps. “Are you saying you don’t trust me, Colt?”

The pained expression that pinched his handsome face gave her immense pleasure. It really was bad form to enjoy a little payback after all these years, but no one was perfect. When it came to Colt, she knew exactly which buttons to push. Though she’d only been back home for six months, she’d deduced very quickly where she stood with anyone important to her goal of saving the family newspaper. The sheriff was in the top five of that short list. Thankfully, their shared history made him a little easier to handle.

“Rey, you know that’s not it. We have official procedures about this sort of thing. I let you in there, evidence could be considered contaminated and my case would be jeopardized.”

She sighed as if the idea hadn’t once occurred to her. Rules of evidence, something else she knew very, very well. “Then tell me what’s going on and I’ll be more than happy to get out of your way.”

He issued another of those frustrated exhales as he glanced across the yard at the deputy who was supposed to be guarding the perimeter. Audrey suspected the poor guy was in for a dressing-down. Truth was, Colt didn’t have even one deputy who would deny her entrance onto any crime scene. Of course, this was the first shooting since she’d taken over the paper.

Not just a shooting; there was a deceased victim. Possibly a homicide.

“Sarah Sauder—she’s Melvin Yoder’s daughter,” Colt said with just enough reluctance to remind her she had forced him to make this confession, “shot and killed a man who broke into her house.”

“A robbery attempt?” The idea didn’t make a whole lot of sense considering the Mennonites weren’t exactly known for keeping valuable items that might be easily pawned or readily sold lying around the house.

Colt shrugged. “We don’t know anything yet. Burt’s having a look at the body now. You understand that part takes time. It might be a while before the body can be moved, and we’re collecting evidence in there.” He gestured toward the house as if she might not be following all he’d told her. “Maybe by noon or so tomorrow we’ll have some idea what happened here tonight.”

Burt Johnston was the county coroner and nearing eighty. Audrey seriously doubted he would take a minute longer than necessary, especially at this hour. Considering his age, getting a call at this time of night wouldn’t be something that prompted him to dally. As for the evidence, she had no intention of waiting for forensic reports. Absolutely not. Her goal was to splash this story on the front page of tomorrow morning’s edition.

“Why the delay in moving the body?” Usually the police liked getting the body out of the way once the scene was properly photographed and drawn. No need to keep the deceased—the key piece of evidence that deteriorated every second it remained at room temperature or exposed to the elements—amid the fray of fully processing a scene.