as well as Pert’s. Suffice it to say that the really big stuff is still tied up with Pert’s holdings. After that, my lips are sealed.”
He mimicked turning a key, a gesture from childhood that was our special sign for locked lips and guarded secrets. That small memory pummeled my heart like a mallet, transporting me to a time long ago when Deming, his twin sister CeCe, and I romped through my parents’ yard, acting out childhood fantasies. Now she was gone and so was my innocence. I fought back tears and reached for my sunglasses.
“Hey.” Deming’s voice was a soft caress. “Don’t cry. I miss her too. Every day.” He touched my cheek, blotting an errant tear. “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. Not CeCe.”
I knew she was still with us, watching, giggling, and doing all the things that made her who she was. Deming wouldn’t agree. His views on the hereafter differed radically from mine, straddling the thin line between occasional heresy and Agnosticism. A strange thought suddenly flashed through my mind: Merlot Brownne would understand. She might be a charlatan, but there was something otherworldly about her.
“You know,” Deming said, “I can’t divulge any client information, but Aunt Pert has copies of all these documents. She might share them with you since you’re her very own detective.”
He buried his head in my hair. “Private detective—that suits you somehow. Famous writer suits you even better.”
“You’re laughing at me. I get it.” I checked my watch. “You know, I can walk to Raylan’s office by myself. It’s only a couple of blocks from here.”
“Oh, Raylan, is it? Pretty chummy for just one meeting.”
I could play along too. It might be fun to indulge Deming’s jealousy, just a little. Fun for me at least. “It was an encounter, not a meeting. Besides, I really liked him.”
Before Deming responded, his iPhone buzzed angrily. He frowned and held his hand up to forestall any objections.
“Swann, here.”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Deming grimaced, disconnected, and told me he had a client with a big problem that couldn’t wait.
“I’ll drop you off at Smith’s office. Call me when you’re finished, and watch your step, Eja. I mean it.” His voice was sharp and unforgiving. “I know he’s a cop but remember this: if Dario was murdered, everyone in this town is a suspect. Smith’s title is chief, not saint. You’ve heard the rumblings about an Indian casino around here. Development is the name of the game, and a guy like him might decide to eliminate any obstacles. If Dario stood in the way, who knows?”
RAYLAN SMITH LOOKED good in his uniform. Better than good. Those khakis hugged his muscular frame in all the right places, stirring thoughts in me that a practically married woman should never entertain. Lust ended when I spied the big ugly gun holstered at his side.
Guns scare me, even though I’ve gone with Anika for firearms training. She was a pro who knew the business end of weapons and wasn’t afraid to use them. I was a wuss cocooned in the safety of my office crafting antiseptic murders. The anonymity of a computer suited me. It was easy to ignore the realities of death and sweep aside unpleasantness by pressing the delete key.
“Ms. Kane, welcome.”
Raylan’s engaging grin beamed sunshine across his face. As he waved me toward a chair, I studied the décor. Furnishings were Spartan. Functional enough to get the job done with no excess, much like the man who used them. A nondescript couch, four beige chairs, and a round table littered with law enforcement paraphernalia filled the room. I’d never seen a neater desk. Raylan Smith was either underutilized or compulsively tidy.
“Learn anything?” he asked, widening that grin a touch. “Please excuse the mess.”
I’m used to teasing, especially by men. I’ve learned to deflect it with humor, my weapon of choice.
“Your website is very informative,”
He mimicked turning a key, a gesture from childhood that was our special sign for locked lips and guarded secrets. That small memory pummeled my heart like a mallet, transporting me to a time long ago when Deming, his twin sister CeCe, and I romped through my parents’ yard, acting out childhood fantasies. Now she was gone and so was my innocence. I fought back tears and reached for my sunglasses.
“Hey.” Deming’s voice was a soft caress. “Don’t cry. I miss her too. Every day.” He touched my cheek, blotting an errant tear. “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. Not CeCe.”
I knew she was still with us, watching, giggling, and doing all the things that made her who she was. Deming wouldn’t agree. His views on the hereafter differed radically from mine, straddling the thin line between occasional heresy and Agnosticism. A strange thought suddenly flashed through my mind: Merlot Brownne would understand. She might be a charlatan, but there was something otherworldly about her.
“You know,” Deming said, “I can’t divulge any client information, but Aunt Pert has copies of all these documents. She might share them with you since you’re her very own detective.”
He buried his head in my hair. “Private detective—that suits you somehow. Famous writer suits you even better.”
“You’re laughing at me. I get it.” I checked my watch. “You know, I can walk to Raylan’s office by myself. It’s only a couple of blocks from here.”
“Oh, Raylan, is it? Pretty chummy for just one meeting.”
I could play along too. It might be fun to indulge Deming’s jealousy, just a little. Fun for me at least. “It was an encounter, not a meeting. Besides, I really liked him.”
Before Deming responded, his iPhone buzzed angrily. He frowned and held his hand up to forestall any objections.
“Swann, here.”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Deming grimaced, disconnected, and told me he had a client with a big problem that couldn’t wait.
“I’ll drop you off at Smith’s office. Call me when you’re finished, and watch your step, Eja. I mean it.” His voice was sharp and unforgiving. “I know he’s a cop but remember this: if Dario was murdered, everyone in this town is a suspect. Smith’s title is chief, not saint. You’ve heard the rumblings about an Indian casino around here. Development is the name of the game, and a guy like him might decide to eliminate any obstacles. If Dario stood in the way, who knows?”
RAYLAN SMITH LOOKED good in his uniform. Better than good. Those khakis hugged his muscular frame in all the right places, stirring thoughts in me that a practically married woman should never entertain. Lust ended when I spied the big ugly gun holstered at his side.
Guns scare me, even though I’ve gone with Anika for firearms training. She was a pro who knew the business end of weapons and wasn’t afraid to use them. I was a wuss cocooned in the safety of my office crafting antiseptic murders. The anonymity of a computer suited me. It was easy to ignore the realities of death and sweep aside unpleasantness by pressing the delete key.
“Ms. Kane, welcome.”
Raylan’s engaging grin beamed sunshine across his face. As he waved me toward a chair, I studied the décor. Furnishings were Spartan. Functional enough to get the job done with no excess, much like the man who used them. A nondescript couch, four beige chairs, and a round table littered with law enforcement paraphernalia filled the room. I’d never seen a neater desk. Raylan Smith was either underutilized or compulsively tidy.
“Learn anything?” he asked, widening that grin a touch. “Please excuse the mess.”
I’m used to teasing, especially by men. I’ve learned to deflect it with humor, my weapon of choice.
“Your website is very informative,”
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