A look of mock innocence crossed Chris’ face. “Oh, we don’t hate you. We love to make your life hell. There’s a difference.”
Claire wanted to smack her head on the desk. Or, better yet, his head. “So what did she say??
??
“Mom took it very well, I think. She said some words I didn’t even know she knew. She and Pop are steering the RV out of Texas and back home to support the sweet baby of the family. So, if Pop maintains his cruising speed of forty-five miles per hour, they should be here in about three years.” He didn’t even try to hide the grin.
His sarcasm made her laugh. Tension drained away and her shoulder muscles loosened. Maybe all she needed to do to find the phone and flash drive was stop searching for them. That always worked when it came to finding her car keys. A quick cup of java downstairs and the answer would magically burst out of her subconscious. It would work. It had to.
“That’s my Chris, always looking on the bright side. Come on, let’s go downstairs and get some coffee.”
“Yeah, about downstairs…” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the pine floor.
Her trouble meter flashed out a warning, sending heat streaming through her body. On edge, she gave her brother the stink eye. Chris’ tone meant it could be anything from a coyote trapped in the kitchen to an angry mob protesting in front of the restaurant. Either way, it was bad news and she’d have to take care of it pronto.
“There’s a dude downstairs sniffing around about what happened last night, and even if he is…”
Who in the hell would be digging up dirt? Sure, gossip was the lifeblood of a small town, but still, there was a dead girl involved and even the most callous rumormonger would wait a few days out of respect for the dead.
Maybe it wasn’t someone local. It could be a reporter. The girl could have been a student at Cather College. You had to be pretty well-to-do to afford the small, private school’s tuition. Maybe a reporter was hoping for a story that would boost his career to the big leagues.
A hot flash seared her skin. Maybe it was the Voice of Doom.
Panic danced on the edge of her thoughts. He’d said he’d call. Maybe the bastard had changed his mind? She opened her mouth to tell Chris, but a small voice warned her against it. What if it wasn’t the killer?
There was only one way to find out. Claire marched out the door, intent on protecting her family.
The upstairs dining room’s wall of windows had a great view of the revitalized downtown, including a 1940s-era movie theater. Usually Claire would slow down to admire the sight. Not today. She didn’t even pause when she whacked her hip on a table. Swallowing a yelp of pain, she quick-stepped down the wide staircase, rubbing her aching hip.
Chris followed a few steps behind. “Claire, this guy is—”
“I’m about to find out exactly who he is.”
A smattering of customers munched away at the round tables on the first floor. She didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Well, except for the sudden drop in conversation followed by an immediate rise in the whispering.
Yeah, finding a dead body in your Dumpster will make people do that.
“Where is he?” Claire asked no one in particular.
Celestine Arthur, one of the regulars, pointed a bony finger toward the bar off to the side of the dining room. A malicious glow lit up the old crone’s face.
“Enjoy the show, Celestine.” Claire marched toward the side room, Chris hot on her heels.
Suzie, the bartender, stood behind the bar polishing it. Today, she had only one customer.
Target acquired.
Claire zoned in on the guy facing her at the opposite end of the bar. Steam floated up from the dusky orange coffee cup he palmed in his large hands.
He took a slow sip and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Now that is a good cup of coffee, Suzie. Thank you.”
His low voice slid over Claire’s skin, caressing her hidden pleasure zones as strongly as if he had touched her. Unless he was a master at impersonations, there was no way last night’s nasal-toned threats had come from the fine male specimen relaxing at her bar.
He must have felt the weight of her gaze because he raised his head.
Her breath caught. Damn, he was magnificent. He had close-cropped dark, almost black hair. She’d bet today’s receipts that the small scar on his cheek was all that had kept his face from being plastered on billboards in Times Square. A small dimple in his chin punctuated his chiseled jaw. Only his full lips, almost feminine in appearance, balanced out the all-encompassing masculinity of the rest of his face.
He had trouble written all over him, the kind that made women of all ages yearn for a nearby bed. She licked her dry lips and stood as tall as she could.