The Snow Man Page 7

  “Thank you for that brilliant observation, Mr. Blake.”

  There was a soft chuckle before she shut the door behind her.

  * * *

  She soaked in a hot tub of water, groaning at the protesting muscles. She hadn’t ridden in a long time. She knew the cowboys were probably out there with the so-superior Dal Blake laughing their heads off at their tenderfoot boss. Clearly, a few more YouTube videos were going to be necessary for her to learn anything about the ranch. Maybe one or two on horse riding and how to handle a runaway. But not tonight. She had a date!

  * * *

  Jeff gave her a grin when he saw the way she was walking. She wore a simple gray pantsuit tonight, with a pink camisole underneath, and wool-lined leather boots with her Berber coat. One thing she had learned was how to dress for the cold.

  Jeff was wearing a heavy coat, too, over jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. They’d agreed that it was going to be an informal evening. Meadow was grateful. Her legs were still killing her.

  “I hear you had an adventure today,” he remarked when they were walking through the line past all the delicious food that servers were putting on plates for them.

  She grimaced. “I guess Dal told you.”

  “He said a horse ran away with you,” he replied. He wasn’t going to add that his best friend sounded worried about her, or that his concern had shown. “You need riding lessons. It’s been a long time since you’ve been on horseback, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it has,” she said reluctantly. “All I could do was hang on. I jerked the bridle. Apparently the horse is high strung. I should have picked a gentler one.”

  “Need to let your men do that for you,” he said.

  “I know. I was in a hurry. I just picked a horse and told them to saddle it. Ted tried to argue with me, but . . .” She grimaced. “I was bullheaded. I’m like my dad, I guess.”

  He laughed. “Nothing wrong with being stubborn sometimes. It’s what leads to solving cold cases.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Legs sore?”

  She laughed. “Does it show?”

  “Well, you’re pretty much walking like a senior citizen,” he added when they’d gone through the line and were sitting in a booth.

  “I’d forgotten how sore it could make you,” she confessed. “I always liked to ride, but I’ve never been good at it. I’m afraid of horses,” she added, lowering her voice. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had one run away with me. The last time ended badly. It stopped suddenly and I went over its head into a shallow stream. Hit my head.” She frowned. “I was sixteen. I’d forgotten.”

  “Your dad took you to a doctor, didn’t he?”

  “I was riding with my mother, in Mississippi. Our cousin has a big farm there, and he keeps quarter horses that he’d let us ride on his place.” She hesitated. “Mom took me to the doctor, but he didn’t do tests. He checked me out and said I had a mild concussion. I wasn’t ever in real danger.”

  “I see.”

  “But it sort of put me off horseback riding, if you get my drift.” She laughed.

  “I can see why!”

  “This is really good,” she exclaimed, having tasted the rare steak she’d ordered.

  “They use a lot of spices,” he said. “It brings out the flavor.” He closed his eyes as he chewed and moaned softly. “Gosh, this is great!”

  She laughed. “Now I understand why the place is so crowded. It’s just . . .” She stopped, looking past him, and ground her teeth.

  He gave her a curious look before his head turned. He saw the reason for her consternation. There was Dal Blake with the florist, attentive and smiling as they headed for a booth right beside Jeff and Meadow’s.

  “Well, what a coincidence,” Dal exclaimed, putting down his plate to shake hands with Jeff. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Eating,” Meadow said without cracking a smile.

  Dal chuckled. “Somebody’s in a sour mood. Maybe that dessert will sweeten you up.”

  She just glared at him before she turned her attention to the florist. She forced a smile. “Nice to see you again, Miss Conyers.”

  Dana smiled back. “Good to see you, too, Miss Dawson. This is our favorite hangout on the weekends,” she added with an adoring glance at Dal, who frowned and looked briefly irritated.

  “It’s one of several we go to,” he amended. He studied Meadow in her pantsuit. “No dress?” he commented.

  She pushed back her long blond hair. “It’s casual Saturday,” she said.

  Dal looked pointedly at Dana in her brief red and white dress with ruffles at the neckline and long sleeves. She had pretty legs that were on display, discreetly enhanced by tight-fitting black hose.

  “I like women in dresses,” he said, and smiled as Dana flushed with pleasure at the remark.

  “You just like looking at Dana’s fabulous legs,” Jeff chided, and then seemed to bite his tongue at the remark.

  Dana’s eyes brightened and she laughed. “Thanks, Jeff. That was sweet.”

  “She does have fabulous legs,” Dal agreed, studying them with male appreciation.

  Meadow did her best to ignore him, busily munching mashed potatoes with gravy.

  “Obviously, Miss Dawson doesn’t like having hers on display,” Dal said with dripping sarcasm.

  “Mine don’t go all the way up, so I have to conceal them in pants,” Meadow said without looking at him.

  There was muffled laughter from Jeff.

  Dana laughed.

  “These potatoes are awesome,” Meadow told Jeff. “I don’t usually like garlic, but they do add a lot to the taste.”

  “Hard on amorous men, however,” Dal said deliberately. “Right, Jeff?” he chided.

  Jeff looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “I like garlic.”

  Meadow hated having her boss embarrassed. She glared up at Dal. “I like garlic, too. I’m somewhat less impressed by overbearing male pigs.”

  Dal’s eyes twinkled. “Seen any around?”

  “I’m staring right at one,” she shot back.

  “Uh, Dal, shouldn’t we get to our food? The movie starts in an hour . . .”

  “Absolutely,” he told Dana, smiling as he eased her into the booth and slid in across from her.

  Meadow looked at Jeff and rolled her eyes comically. He chuckled, relieved at the interruption.

  All through the lovely meal, it was impossible not to overhear Dal’s deep, drawling voice complimenting Dana on her appearance and referring to other dates, and places they’d been, and people they’d met.

  By the time Meadow finished the last of her dessert and her now-cold coffee, she was more than ready to get out of the restaurant by the quickest possible method.

  “Are you ready to go?” she asked Jeff hopefully.

  He was staring sadly toward the back of Dana’s head. He caught himself and smiled. “Of course.”

  Jeff left a tip under his tray and nodded toward the couple behind them. He didn’t say good-bye. Neither did Meadow.

  Jeff caught Meadow’s hand in his as they walked out of the restaurant. He seemed to do that deliberately, so that Dana would see. Meadow was getting a definite suspicion that Jeff had a case on the pretty florist.

  Good luck to him, she thought, because Dal Blake was formidable competition, and he obviously liked the woman. God knew why.

  “It was a lovely meal,” she said when they were back in the car.

  “There are a couple of good movies on at the cinema. Want to see one?” Jeff asked.

  Meadow remembered that Dana had mentioned they were going there after they ate. “No, I don’t think so, thanks,” she said abruptly.

  He chuckled. “Me neither. Dal might think we are following them around. He’s possessive of Dana,” he added with a bite in his tone.

  “He’s got no staying power,” she said when they were standing on her porch. “He plays the field. If she’s not careful, he’ll break her heart. Dad said on
ce that he was a real rounder.”

  He glanced at her, surprised by the venom in her tone. “You don’t like him at all, do you?”

  “No,” she said shortly. “He’s like a tray of hors d’oeuvres that’s been passed around too much at a party. Not my sort of man. Not at all.”

  He sighed. “I’m sort of the opposite. I don’t get out much.”

  She laughed. “Neither do I.”

  “So we might stick together, just for survival, like Chris Pratt said in that movie, Jurassic World,” he teased.

  “Not a bad idea,” she agreed. “You know, you’re a nice boss. And I like going places with you.”

  “I like going places with you, too, Meadow.” He drew her to him, bent, and kissed her very gently.

  She smiled. He smiled. He kissed her again, a little harder. But there was no spark. Not for either of them. And it was painfully obvious.

  “Well, I’ll get to sleep. See you at church tomorrow,” she added, because they both attended services at the local Methodist church.

  “Count on it. See you there.”

  “Thanks. I had fun.”

  “Me too!”

  She waved him off and went back inside.

  Chapter Five

  Jeff’s undersheriff, Gil Barnes, was working on a cold case that had ties to the theft of the Victorian lamp that Meadow was investigating.

  He was a little taller than Jeff, built like a rodeo cowboy, with blond-streaked brown hair and black liquid eyes and a somber expression.

  “This pipe organ that was stolen suddenly showed up in an antique catalog online at an auction house in New York City,” Gil told her. “I think it’s tied to the lamp theft.”

  “It’s possible,” she had to agree. “But it’s been, what, four years since the theft?” she added.

  He nodded. “Probably the thief fenced it,” he said sadly. “But it might be possible to trace it. I’m going to see if the sheriff will let me fly back east and interrogate some people.”

  “It would be nice if you could find a link to the lamp. Do you think it might turn up at the same auction house?” she added.

  “It would be a long shot,” he said. “But we might get lucky.”

  “I still have some contacts in the Bureau, if you need them,” she added. She smiled sheepishly. “Well, I have at least one who might contact me if he didn’t recognize my name. I sort of messed up.”

  He frowned. “How?”

  She drew in a breath. “Tripped over my own feet and discharged a weapon into the windshield of a bucar while chasing a suspect.” The reference she used was what agents called an FBI vehicle—a bucar.

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. “First case I ever worked, we’d had an ice storm and I was chasing a suspect down a long hill. Long story short, I went sideways in a skid, forgot to correct, and ended up in the river.”

  “Oh, gosh!” she said. “Did you get frostbite?”

  He laughed. “You’re the first person who was more concerned with my welfare than the car’s.”

  She shrugged. “You can replace cars. People, not so much.”

  “I knew I liked you,” he said softly.

  She flushed. “Thanks. You’re nice, too.”

  “And now that we’ve worked that out, how about getting down to business?” Jeff asked, lounging against the door facing.

  “Can I have a plane ticket to New York?” Gil asked abruptly.

  Jeff’s eyebrows arched. “I’m not that mad.”

  Gil chuckled. “It’s about that pipe organ cold case I’m working.”

  Jeff grimaced. “While I applaud your enthusiasm, I can just see myself standing in front of the county commission trying to explain why I funded a trip to New York over a pipe organ theft.”

  Gil drew in a breath. “It was worth a try. Okay, I’ll see what I can do with the computer and Skype.”

  “Now that’s a good idea,” Jeff said.

  “The plane ticket would have been a better one,” the undersheriff retorted before he retreated to his desk.

  “I’m still looking for the Victorian lamp,” Meadow told the sheriff. “I just have a hunch that it’s connected to the pipe organ cold case. Both valuable antiques, both stolen locally.”

  “There’s a definite pattern,” Jeff admitted. “But they’re minor cases,” he pointed out. “We have five assaults, four burglaries of jewels and cash, three attempted robberies, two forged checks . . .”

  “And a partridge in a pear tree,” Meadow blurted out, flushed, and then laughed as Jeff started chuckling. “In my defense, it’s almost Christmas,” she pointed out.

  “So it is. There’s a Christmas party at the civic center next Saturday. Will you go with me?”

  She hesitated. “Is it formal?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “If it is, I can’t go,” she said sadly. “I only own one dress. I’d be embarrassed to wear it twice in a row.”

  His eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Why?”

  “I wear . . . I wore . . . pantsuits to work.” She glowered at him. “Well, it’s not dignified to chase fugitives wearing short skirts and tights and high heels. It’s not very efficient, either.”

  He cocked his head and studied her. She was wearing yet another pantsuit, this one in dark blue with a simple white blouse. She looked oddly elegant in it, but less feminine than Dana Conyers, whom he’d taken to the dance last year—before they argued. Dana wore sexy things. He loved the way she looked in them. He frowned as he thought about the way they’d argued. Dana would be at the party, he was certain of it, and with Dal.

  “Do I look that bad?” Meadow asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re glaring at me.”

  “I was thinking about Dana,” he blurted out. “We went to the dance together last year. We had sort of an argument, and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  “An argument?” she prodded.

  He moved restively. “I thought her clothes were too seductive and I said so. She said how she dressed was none of my business and asked what century I lived in.”

  Meadow moved closer. “I used to wear sexy things, too,” she said. “Well, not really sexy, but more revealing than what I wear now. I had to interview a prisoner in a jail outside St. Louis. The prisoner seemed very nice and quiet, so I had them uncuff him while we talked. I even had them bring him coffee.” Her expression hardened. “It was a sexual assault case. I asked him a question that set him off. He said that I dressed like a woman who really wanted it bad, and he came at me. When I fought, he beat me up.” She swallowed hard. The memory was painful. “I never wore revealing things again.” She looked up at him, reading the sympathy in his hard face. “I guess Dana has been very lucky. Or maybe I’m just in the wrong sort of profession.” She smiled. “Maybe I should hit Dana up for a job selling flowers.” She laughed. “If I’m not armed, I’m not really a danger to the public.”

  “You’re not a danger to anything,” he said softly. “You had a bad experience, several of them, and you’ve lost your self-confidence. I’m going to help you get it back. I promise.”

  Her expression was revealing. “What if I’m not cut out for law enforcement after all? You know, when I was with the police department, all I did was paperwork. They let me train under a patrol officer, but I heard later that he said I’d be a disaster if they turned me loose in a car.” She shrugged. “He was right. I wrecked a patrol car. After that, I did mostly investigative work and searched down leads. The Bureau took me on faith, but I think they were sorry about it afterward. The agent who recruited me was a friend of my father’s. He helped me get into the academy.”

  “None of us start out well in law enforcement,” he said, but he was thinking she might be right about her choice of professions. He wasn’t going to put her in the line of fire, that was for sure.

  “Do you want me to keep on the lamp case, or . . . ?”

  “I’d like you to run down these forged checks,
if you don’t mind. You can speak to the security chief at the bank. His name is Tom Jones. He’ll help.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look. “He didn’t retire from a singing career ... ?”

  “Get out of here,” Jeff shot at her.

  “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone . . .” She warbled on the way out.

  “If you sing that song to him, wear track shoes!” he called after her. “You can take it from me that he has absolutely no sense of humor!”

  She just laughed.

  She realized that he wasn’t giving her cases that would put her in the path of violent men. She was grateful in one way and sad in another. He didn’t trust her not to mess up. He was probably right. It hurt, just the same.

  But it was her job to follow orders. So she did.

  * * *

  Tom Jones looked nothing like the famous singing star. He was big and stocky and had thick black hair and hands the size of plates. He didn’t smile. His dark eyes narrowed on her face, as if he was assessing her.

  “The sheriff sent me over to ask you about some forged checks,” she began.

  “Come into my office and we’ll talk.”

  He led the way into a glass-fronted office, offered her a padded leather chair, and sank into the leather of his own desk chair. “One of those suspects has done time already,” he told her. “And both of them do private duty as caretakers for the elderly in our community. They stole checks from their employers and learned to forge the names. We were fortunate that both their clients noticed the erroneous charge on their bank statements and called us. We discovered the thefts pretty quickly.”

  “Nice work.”

  He smiled, if that faint drawing up of one side of his mouth could be called a smile. He laced his fingers on his chest. “The other suspect is a friend of the one we fingered,” he added. “He only got a couple of thousand. His friend, the one with the rap sheet, stole thirty thousand from his client. We can put together all the information you need to prosecute them, and I’ll testify in court if you need me to.”

  “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “I’ll get back to you on that. Right now, I have to do some interrogations.”

  “The first suspect, Russell Harris, served time for assault,” he returned. “If you interview him, don’t go alone. The victim was a woman.”