Kelsey Roberts - Landry's Law

Seth locked his hands behind his head and squeezed his weary eyes closed. Save for the lack of the weapon and other evidence, Savannah was the only logical suspect. Then why do I feel like I’m putting together a jigsaw puzzle with one piece missing?

“Uh, Sheriff?” J.D. hesitantly questioned from the doorway.

Seth let out a breath and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “What!”

J.D. jumped a bit at Seth’s harsh tone.

“I mean,” Seth began more amicably, “What do you have?”

“The matron didn’t find any gems during the search. She suggested we take her to get an X ray in case she swallowed them. There was nothing at the hotel. We didn’t find the suspect’s fingerprints in the room. Just the dead guy and a partial thumbprint on the door.”

“Which one?”

“The main door,” J.D. answered.

“Great,” Seth groused. “Who knows how long that’s been there? Send it to the state police and ask them to run it.”

“Yes, sir.” J.D. turned to leave.

“And while you’re at it, ask them when I can expect the background reports on Fowler and Whitlock. Ask them to start the drill on Bill Grayson, too. Maybe he didn’t have a million dollars worth of gems, which would explain why we can’t find them.”

“Okay. You look tired,” J.D. observed.

“Beat,” Seth concurred. “But since I just awakened Judge Duckett for a search warrant for Savannah’s home and workplace, my night isn’t over yet.” Seth slipped on his department-issue parka and started toward the door. He hesitated briefly at the top of the stairs leading to the cells below. He was secretly glad Mable hadn’t found the gems.

Who was he kidding? He wasn’t standing there thinking about gems. He was thinking about the necessary invasive procedure that had been done to Savannah. He was remembering the look of unbridled hate in her multicolored eyes when he was performing the paraffin test. For some reason, her hatred cut to the bone.

Just like the frigid January air that battered him as he walked the few steps to his Bronco. He’d have to drive an hour into Helena to get the warrant, then two hours to Savannah’s cabin. He decided to stop at the Cowboy Café off Jasper Park to have Ruthie fill him a thermos of coffee. It was going to be a long night.

The parking lot was filled with pickups and semis. No matter what time of day you went in, the place smelled of bacon and coffee. He sauntered up to the chipped Formica counter, squeezing between two turquoise Naugahyde stools. One of the stool cushions was being held together with a worn, curled piece of duct tape.

Ruthie greeted him immediately. She was an attractive redhead, divorced, with a thirteen-year-old who was working real hard on finding his way into juvenile detention. It wasn’t that Ruthie was a bad mother to Cal. Quite the opposite. It was just that Ruthie was forced to work nights to keep them in their modest mobile home, which meant Cal was basically without supervision. Too bad, too, since the kid was as smart as all hell. During his minor brushes with Seth, Cal had impressed him with his intelligence. Too bad he had a chip the size of Glacier National Park on his shoulder. Intelligence and bad attitude could be a deadly combination.

“Hi, there,” Ruthie said, leaning half across the counter so that Seth could—had he wanted to—look directly down the front of her tight blue waitress’s uniform. He smiled and passed on the opportunity yet again. Their relationship had ended more than two years ago. And he knew her flirtations were harmless, kind of her way of thanking him for keeping watch over Cal. Unfortunately, her actions fed the speculation of the town. Nearly everyone thought he was still involved with Ruthie. They wouldn’t even listen to his explanation that they were just good friends.

“I need a thermos to go.”

Ruthie’s green eyes grew wide. “Is it true? Did the Black Widow strike again?”

“Haven’t seen any black widows in these parts this time of year.”

Ruthie pouted. “You know who I mean. That snooty woman who won’t tell no one where she’s from ’cept ‘back East.’”

“If you’re talking about Miss Wyatt, then I have no comment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ruthie demanded as she passed him a full thermos.

“It means I can’t discuss an open investigation.”

Ruthie smirked. “Then it’s true! She killed old Billy Grayson for them jewels he was always bringing to Angelica. She’s another snooty one, by the way.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Seth said, tossing a few dollars on the counter. Ruthie made sure she had his attention as she slipped the bills not into the register, but into her lacy brassiere.

As he drove northwest in the blackness, Seth was perplexed. He always flirted with Ruthie. It was like a ritual. So why tonight had he found her so…so…brazen? Because Savannah wouldn’t bare her bosom for a dollar tip. How in the hell had Savannah gotten under his skin like this? Cripe! She was a suspect, not a potential bride.

“Damn!” Seth spilled hot coffee on his hand at the mere thought of the word bride. Until just then, he didn’t think the word was in his vocabulary. He loved women, all women. But never just one woman. Especially not the only woman currently sitting in one of his jail cells.

IT WAS NEARLY three in the morning when Seth arrived at Savannah’s cabin. Using the keys from the evidence bag collected at the Mountainview Inn, he let himself inside.

Almost instantly he was assaulted with all kinds of feminine scents. He could make out jasmine, gardenia and lilac. He realized the odors were from the scented candles that she had everywhere. But there was a subtler scent under all the florals. It was the faint shadow of her perfume.

I’m here to search, not get aroused, he warned himself.

By the light of the half-moon, Seth went over to a floor lamp and pulled on the fringed tassel to turn it on. It was truly an eclectic room.

The red sofa was at an angle, a corner cabinet placed behind it. The coffee table sat on some faux fur rug and he found a footstool covered in the same faux fur. There was a white-and-green chair by the mason fireplace. There must have been fifty pillows of assorted sizes and shapes on the furniture and tossed around the room. She also had an odd collection of old hatboxes mixed with some large wooden boxes off in one corner. He decided to start there.

As he reached for the first hatbox, he noticed the walls. They were painted a muted green, and someone—Savannah was his guess—had taken the time to stencil a border of red-and-white flowers with green vines all around the room. Above the floor lamp illuminating the room, he discovered that she had stenciled a birdcage, complete with bird. It was so real, he half expected it to break into song at any moment.

Though Seth had managed to keep it out of the papers, the killer had taken trophies from each victim. According to Fowler’s family, he always wore a silver pendant around his neck. Because of his work with his church, he had a Saint Barnabas medal on his person at all times. Except when his body had been fished from the freezing waters of Brock Creek behind the Mountainview Inn.

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