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“Boone. Boone.”
He sighed and shut his eyes, silently cursing in his head. MaryJane Abbott, the woman who made it a habit of getting into people’s business. “Good afternoon, MaryJane,” he said, turning to her with a smile.
“It is not a good afternoon at all,” MaryJane said. She was all curly purple hair, bright red lipstick, and wrinkles. “This murder is just awful.” She leaned in and said, “It’s that new girl, isn’t it? Peyton, that’s her name.”
“No, ma’am,” Boone countered, understanding that her worry came from fear. “Peyton is a lovely woman. She’s not involved in any way with this murder. Besides that, the shop belongs to her.” Of course, Boone only suspected the murder had nothing to do with Peyton, but he’d bet all he had that Peyton didn’t have a bad bone in her sexy as hell body. Besides, if Peyton’s image needed protecting, it was from MaryJane. The woman would crush Peyton with gossip.
MaryJane frowned. “This is just terrible, so bad for our community.”
“You don’t need to worry.” Boone cupped her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. “You’re safe. We’re on the case and we’ll solve it as quick as we can. You can trust in that, can’t you?”
“Yes.” MaryJane nodded. “Yes, of course.” She reached into her huge purse and took out a container. “I made cookies and wanted to drop them by for all the hard work you boys do. You’ll bring them in?”
“That’s awfully kind of you, ma’am.” He took the container. “Thank you. The guys will sure appreciate it.”
“Okay, yes, work hard, then. Goodbye.” She turned and used her walker to cross the street as efficiently as she stopped Boone to get her questions answered.
Now with cookies in addition to the coffees, Boone hurried toward the station, not wanting to get stopped again. In a few long strides, he entered Stoney Creek Police Department. The interior of the station lacked the warmth found outside with its historic architecture. The walls were a pale blue, and the air was stuffy and dry. Cubicles were to the left and right with two jail cells and the processing unit at the back of the building. Stoney Creek PD was used primarily as a drunk tank, or if anyone needed time to cool off before being sent on their way. Anything more serious, they booked the criminal and sent him or her to Whitby Falls, the neighboring city with the larger jail, to await his or her time before the judge. Offices lined the outside walls. One of those belonged to Boone, with Asher’s and Rhett’s offices on either side of his. But Boone turned left and headed into the command center, where any complex investigation happened.
When he entered the long rectangular room, Asher had already set up the whiteboards for photographic evidence. On the top of the whiteboard read: LAUREN FRANCIS. Standing alongside Asher was Stoney Creek’s chief of police, and Boone’s father, Hank Knight. His father had the Knights’ signature blue eyes that most times looked gray, brown hair cut military style, and wide shoulders.
“Is that our victim?” Boone asked, gesturing at the board.
Asher reached for one of the coffees. “Yeah, we heard from her employer today that her parents had called them looking for her.” He pointed at the container. “What’s that?”
“Cookies from MaryJane for our hard work.” Boone set them down on the meeting room table.
“She might be nosy as hell, but she can bake a mean cookie,” his father said, opening the container to take one.
Asher grabbed one too and then he opened the flip on his coffee cup. “Back to the victim, she’s twenty-five years old. New resident. She’s lived here six months, renting one of the condos not far from the lingerie shop.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee, then handed Boone a photograph. “Notice anything?”
Boone leaned against the table and examined the photograph and then he blinked to ensure he was seeing things correctly. Sadly, he was. “She looks like Peyton.” He handed the photo to his father.
“My thoughts exactly,” said Asher. “Could be a coincidence, but—”
“We hate coincidences,” Boone finished, not liking that particular thought.
“What do we know about Peyton?” Hank asked, reaching for another cookie. His father wasn’t working the case, but as the leader of their small station, he’d want to stay in the know. “Other than that she’s from Seattle, of course.”
“That’s about as much as I know,” Boone stated. And he hated that fact too. He wanted to find out all the places that made her squirm.
Hank cocked his head, examining Boone in a fatherly way. “I thought you two had something going on.”
Boone hadn’t been quiet about his intent toward Peyton. He let both Rhett and Asher know to keep their hands off her that night he met her in Kinsley’s bar. His father must have heard the guys razzing him at the station for the past month about her shutting him out. Or Kinsley told him. Either way, Boone said, “That’s not relevant toward this case.” He turned to Asher, ignoring his father’s chuckle, and asked, “Did Peyton give you anything when you interviewed her?”
Asher slowly shook his head, then pinned the victim’s photograph onto the whiteboard. “Negative. She knew nothing of the victim or about the victim.”
Soon this board would be filled with crime scene photos and suspects. “And you believed her?” Hank asked.
“Yeah,” Asher said. “My gut tells me she’s not involved in any way.”
Sure, Boone felt that way, but his lines were blurred when it came to that woman. He knew that. And that’s why he also knew he wouldn’t take lead on this case.
“All right then,” said Hank, crossing his arms over his plaid button-up, tapping his boot-covered foot against the hard floor. His tell for deep thinking. “What else have we got so far?”
Asher handed the thin file to Hank. “Absolute shit. I couldn’t find much about our victim. She grew up here, moved away, and then came back. Been working as a cleaning lady since she moved back into town because a friend of her parents owns the business. Rhett’s there with her family now, delivering the news to them.”
Rhett always delivered the news. Rhett could be hard when needed. So could Boone. Didn’t mean the process wasn’t shit.
