Small-Town Secrets. Linda Randall Wisdom
waited until she ate her last bite before he spoke. “Tell me something, Bree. Have you ever thought an accident or suicide could have been a homicide? Did you go even further and try to prove it?”
She looked intrigued by his question. “Any reason for asking?”
“Curiosity.”
Bree silently regarded him. He kept his expression blank.
“There have been times when something hasn’t seemed what it is,” she said finally.
“What if you were the only one who saw it? How do you handle that kind of situation? Do you go along with what’s already been determined, or try to make things right?”
Her expression tightened. “What’s important about any case is that it’s closed properly. I do whatever it takes. So why don’t you tell me exactly why you’re asking me this?”
Now it was Cole’s turn to regard her. “Some people get lost in the cracks.”
“Only if the investigator hasn’t done his or her job,” she retorted. “You’ve got sixty seconds to tell me exactly why you’re asking me these questions before I get up and walk out.”
Cole waited fifty-nine of those seconds before he leaned down and reached into his battered briefcase, which lay at his booted feet. He pulled out several sheets of paper and pushed them across the table.
“I’m trusting you with something I wouldn’t like to have get out, Detective,” he said quietly.
Bree picked them up and began reading. She noted the neatly aligned columns that listed names, dates and cause of death.
“Not very informative for an obituary,” she commented.
“These aren’t obits. These are not accidents or deaths by natural causes, either,” he said quietly, tapping the papers with his forefinger. “These are all murders.”
Chapter 2
Bree scanned the contents, then looked back up at Cole.
“What makes you think foul play?” she asked. She leaned slightly forward. “What you have listed here are traffic accidents, accidents in the home and death by natural causes. Considering the average age of people in this county, it’s expected.”
“Then can you give a good reason why the death toll has risen twenty-four percent in the past two years?” he challenged her.
He noticed she again placed her hand against the back of her neck, as if something bothered her. Maybe the same something that bothered him when he realized the death toll was just a little too high?
Bree shrugged her shoulders. “It still goes with the population growth. More senior citizens are moving here because of the temperate climate, affordable housing and low crime. When the median age is high, you have to expect more deaths.”
Cole shook his head. “The percentage still shouldn’t have risen that much.”
“Are you thinking you’ll discover some heinous plot directed toward the elderly?” she asked. “That you’ll write your way to a Pulitzer Prize?”
“There’s more involved here than some damn prize,” he said without heat, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his voice. “Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to cause these deaths. And usually everything boils down to money.”
She glanced down at the papers again. “Do you know if any of these people had extraordinary amounts of insurance?”
Cole shook his head. “We’re not talking millions.”
Bree gazed off into the distance. “I’ll look into it.” She held her hand up to indicate he should remain silent. “There’s probably not anything to this, but I will do some checking,” she announced, sliding out of the booth. “Thanks for lunch, Becker. Hope you got enough for your article.” She sounded as if she couldn’t care less.
“I’m not going to apologize, Fitzpatrick. I wanted a professional opinion,” he told her. Then he added, “You free sometime for dinner?”
Bree laughed softly and shook her head. “In your dreams, Becker.” She walked away.
“Shot you down but good, big fella,” Annie said, as she collected the plates.
Cole shook his head as he watched Bree walk past the front window. “Naw, she’s just playing hard to get.”
Bree couldn’t stop thinking about Cole Becker’s real reason for seeing her.
It wasn’t the first time someone had sought her detecting skills for an alleged crime, and it wouldn’t be the last.
He’s a good-looking man, a little voice whispered in her ear.
“I had a good-looking man,” she muttered to herself. “I don’t need another one.”
Fitz wouldn’t want you to be alone.
“Like I’m ever alone. Jinx sleeps in my room and he snores worse than Fitz ever did.” She waited for the faint ache that happened each time she invoked her husband’s name to settle deep within her body. “Oh, Fitz.” His name came out on a soft sigh. “Damn you for leaving me.”
The ache was still there. Not as strong as it had been in the past. But instead of Fitz’s face swimming in front of her, Cole Becker’s rugged features appeared.
She hastened back to the office and walked around to the rear, where Jinx’s kennel was set up. The German shepherd was ecstatic to be let out.
“Heel,” Bree ordered. The dog obediently fell into step by her left side as she entered the building. She stopped at the call board that indicated which deputies and detectives were on duty, and marked herself in.
“Fitzpatrick! You want to come in here, please?” Roy appeared in his office doorway. Assured he’d gotten her attention, he turned around and disappeared back into the room.
“Boss man yells, we jump,” Irene murmured as she walked past Bree.
“I haven’t been here long enough to have done anything wrong,” Bree mumbled, thinking of a past superior who believed the louder the voice, the faster the response from his people. It generally proved to be true. She parked Jinx at her desk and walked back to Roy’s office.
By the time she stepped inside, he was already seated behind his desk.
“I have to report to the courthouse in an hour regarding a case,” he announced, looking up at her. “Seems it got moved up at the last minute. Probably something to do with that idiot of a defense attorney,” he grumbled. “The thing is, I’d promised to give a safety lecture at the senior center this afternoon.”
That area in the back of Bree’s neck was now tingling like crazy. The chance to meet some of the town’s senior citizens was too good a chance to pass up. “Okay,” she said, easily guessing the direction he was taking.
“Glad to hear you’re volunteering for the job.” He grinned.
“I did?” She pretended surprise. Why did a boss always try to make it sound as if you were volunteering for the last possible job you’d want, when in actuality you were being volunteered? With no way to get out of it.
“Sure, you did.” He tossed a sheet of paper across the desk. “Speaking to the group will give you a chance to get to know some of the county residents. And for them to get to know you in a more relaxed atmosphere than you showing up at their door because you’re investigating a crime. The talk is the usual—street smarts and not letting yourself look like a victim. You’ve probably given your share in the past.”
She picked up the paper and read. The block letters announced a safety lecture to be given by Sheriff Roy Holloway at two o’clock in the sunroom at the Warm Springs Senior Center. All were encouraged to attend this informative talk on how