Julie Lindsey - Deadly Cover-Up

Wyatt took his leave of yet another uncooperative group and headed back onto the street. He spun his key ring around one finger and took a long look in both directions. Where to next?

A sheriff’s cruiser slid against the curb before he’d had time to decide. The cruiser’s lights flashed. No siren. The man who climbed out was nearing fifty with narrow shoulders and a shiny star on his chest.

Wyatt tipped his hat and stepped aside, allowing the local sheriff room to pass on the narrow sidewalk. The town was a modern-day Rockwell portrait waiting to happen. So what had brought the sheriff and his flashers out? Wyatt paused, waiting to see where the local lawman would go. Had there been another “accident” like Mrs. Ames’s? Or perhaps the bar patrons had reanimated and grown rowdy in Wyatt’s absence.

The sheriff stopped in front of Wyatt and rested a palm on the butt of his sidearm. “Are you the stranger going door-to-door and making folks nervous?”

Wyatt glanced over his shoulder in search of a shady, bothersome guy.

No one was behind him. The sheriff was definitely talking to Wyatt.

“I don’t think so, sir,” Wyatt said. “I’ve been out enjoying your lovely town. Meeting folks. That’s all.”

The sheriff gave a long, assessing look. “Where did you come from?”

“Lexington,” Wyatt answered, this time returning the scrutiny. Irritated, he crossed his arms and widened his stance. “You been sheriff long?”

“Long enough.”

Wyatt smiled. “Someone reported me for being friendly?” He’d love to know who, but didn’t have to ask to know the sheriff wasn’t telling. Too bad, because whoever had made the complaint might also be the one with something to hide. A recent B and E for example, or maybe an assault on an old lady. “Is that a crime in this town?” Wyatt had spoken to a dozen locals, but he’d been careful not to ask anything too pointed. He’d asked if anyone knew Mrs. Ames, if they’d heard about her fall, and where he might get a good locksmith after the break-in. He’d already changed the locks, of course, but he’d hoped to read folks’ expressions. See who was shocked by the news of a burglary and who already knew. Problem was that no one had paid any attention to him at all.

The sheriff sucked his teeth and grimaced. His stance was rigid, defiant, not at all welcoming or pleasantly confident. Wyatt pegged him for a bully. “What business brings you to River Gorge?”

“I’m visiting.”

“Who?”

Wyatt homed in on the sheriff’s features, the beating pulse in his throat, the dilation of his pupils. “Gladys Ames. Do you know her?”

The sheriff nodded. “I know everyone, but I’ve never seen you. Are you a relative?”

“No. Mrs. Ames is my girlfriend’s grandma,” he improvised. “I came to watch over her while she’s here. Seems there was a break-in last night. You were there, right?” Hadn’t Violet said it was a Sheriff Masterson whose cruiser had forced his truck into the grass on the narrow gravel road? “Got any idea who would’ve done something like that?”

A pinch of guilt tugged in his mind for announcing Violet as his girlfriend, but Wyatt wasn’t about to tell the sheriff who he really was or why he’d come to River Gorge. Not considering the inquisition he was getting just for speaking to locals. For all Wyatt knew, the sheriff could be the reason Mrs. Ames needed his help in the first place. She certainly could have chosen to talk to the sheriff instead. And if he was being honest, the idea of being Violet’s boyfriend wasn’t a bad one. Which was confusing all by itself, because Wyatt didn’t do relationships.

Sheriff Masterson cocked his hip. “Funny. Violet didn’t say anything about a boyfriend when I spoke to her last night. She surely didn’t mention anything about a man coming here to stay with her.”

“Can you blame me? She was attacked inside her grandma’s home. I couldn’t stay away after that. Turns out I’m the overprotective sort.” He straightened to his full height and locked his jaw, an intentional reminder that Sheriff Masterson might have the star, but Wyatt was there to protect Violet and Maggie. Anyone with different plans would have to go through him, and no one ever had. “Any leads on the break-in? Seems strange, doesn’t it? Someone busts into an old lady’s house, tears it up but takes nothing. She lives on a widow’s pension. What was there to take? And the crime occurred on the same day she allegedly fell from a ladder.” Wyatt furrowed his brow. “As the sheriff, that must send up some red flags.”

“Crime happens everywhere. I’m looking into the break-in, but old ladies fall all the time.” He gave Wyatt a more thorough look then, trailing him head to toe, lingering on his jacket, sides and ankles. Looking for signs of a weapon? If he had anything to say about the gun nestled against his back, or knife in his boot, Wyatt had a permit to carry concealed firearms and more training than the good sheriff could fathom for the knife. “Military?” he asked.

“Ranger.”

The sheriff nodded; a rueful smile budded on his lips. “Violet know about that?” He snorted, clearly laughing at Wyatt. For his service? For his doomed pretend relationship?

Wyatt bristled.

A pair of women in fitted running gear came into view behind the sheriff, having rounded the corner from the direction of the local park. The taller, blonder one locked eyes with Wyatt. A coy smile curled the corner of her mouth. The petite redhead followed suit a moment later.

Wyatt smiled back.

Sheriff Masterson turned on his shiny shoes to follow Wyatt’s gaze. He tapped the brim of his hat and smiled at the women. “Afternoon, Maisey, Jenna.”

The ladies slowed to a stop, still smiling at Wyatt. The blonde outright ogled him. Her hand bobbed up for a shake. “Jenna Jones,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wyatt answered, taking her thin hand in his. “I was just asking the sheriff if he’d heard anything new about Mrs. Ames. She fell yesterday, then her house was broken into.”

“No,” the ladies gasped.

The blonde, Jenna, stepped closer, still holding his hand. “Mrs. Ames is the sweetest woman. I’ve known her all my life. Is she okay? I didn’t hear about the fall.”

The redhead looked at the sheriff. “Did he say someone broke into her house? Why would anyone do that? Do you have a suspect?”

Wyatt rocked back on his heels. Apparently his usual stops were all wrong in River Gorge. Normally, men spoke easily to him. Wyatt would break the ice on topics like sports, cars and military, then ask the things he really wanted to know. Around here that hadn’t been the case. Maybe he should’ve simply gone jogging.

Jenna joined her friend then, turning to stare at the sheriff. “Are you going to answer her?” The tone was harsh and familiar. Wyatt doubted Jenna was related to the man; more likely they’d been former lovers or shared another form of history. Either way, she looked like she’d like to punch his face, and he looked like it wouldn’t surprise him if she tried.

The sheriff sniffed. “I’m looking into it.”

“Well, when you’re done with that,” she said, “maybe you could spend some time patrolling our streets. We just watched a demolition derby car run a hatchback right off the road by Devil’s Curve. When are you going to do something about the morons using the county route as some kind of playground for their stupidity?”

Wyatt’s heart seemed to stop. “What kind of hatchback?”

“Small,” the redhead said. “Yellow, I think.”

Wyatt’s feet were in motion, pulling him away from the trio and toward his truck parked down the street. He turned to jog backward, needing to know but also needing to go. “Was anyone hurt?” He freed his phone and dialed Violet while he waited for the answer.