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Tick, tock.
Now wasn’t the time for theories. Jane upended the contents of the bag and hastily collected more pictures. Cherry flavored lip balm. A notepad with a list of numbered nicknames, maybe. A pen with “Manor on Prospect Street” etched into its side. A plastic bag filled with small “cold brew” coffee pods. A small golden shovel with a jagged end, the words “Digging for Gold” stamped on the bottom. A car keypad. A book from the Yellow Brick Abode Library titled All Write Already. Three ketchup packets from Old School Burgers. A pair of lacy black underwear in a plastic bag the same size and brand as the other. A melted chocolate bar. A coupon for a “super duper discount” at the Très Chic Consignment. A ticket to the Gold Rush Museum. A mini hammer with FD branded in the handle. And six barrettes.
No cell phone?
Had the killer used the journalist’s pale blue Volkswagen Beetle to drop her off? Or was she driven here and killed upon arrival? The automobile could be parked anywhere from the lot to the former office building on the other side of the property. Jane made a mental note to check the security feed. Wait. Security—
Gravel crunched, signaling the approach of a vehicle. Uh-oh. Using her forearm, she swiped everything into Ana’s purse and repositioned it exactly how she’d found it. Then, Jane straightened. Nothing to see here.
The cleaning gloves! She ripped off and stuffed the latex in her pocket just as Sheriff Moore cut the engine and emerged from his sedan. The soon-to-retire (single) grandfather of eight possessed a thick silver beard, broad shoulders, and a barrel chest. His bald head glistened in the sunlight.
Fiona crushed on him so hard.
He marched over, his eyes narrowing on Ana before zooming to Jane. “You draw trouble like a magnet. You know that, right?”
She heaved a sigh. “If I didn’t before, I do now.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Love. Only faster.”
Romance, Arkansas - Bachelor Buffet
3 Matches Made
Within the hour, policemen, firemen, first responders, the coroner, and special agents overran the Garden of Memories. A familiar situation. Crime scene tape blocked one side of the porch, ruining the country-chic aesthetic.
Jane offered everyone coffee and cream, iced water, sweet tea, and fresh squeezed orange juice. Even the firemen—but they didn’t get a smile of welcome with their drink. Her ex-boyfriend was among their number, and whatever he’d said about her ensured no one had the courage to meet her gaze. Not that she cared. Not even a little.
Hours passed. Finally, one group after another took off, until only a single team of expert investigators remained. But they stayed forever. All day, in fact. They traipsed all over, snagging pictures and samples of everything. Sometimes, someone knocked on the door to ask her questions. So many questions she couldn’t remember them all. Or even one. At some point, they asked to see her hands.
Conrad never showed. By late afternoon, she grew worried about him. Whenever her confusion, concern or frustration ballooned, she ventured outside to offer more refreshments and slip in a query of her own. Namely where Special Agent Ryan happened to be. Each time, she received the same, non-helpful response.
“I’m not sure, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ma’am. As if she sported mom jeans or something.
The agents left shortly after midnight. Still, she received no calls, texts, or visits from Conrad. Beau and Fiona called and texted a thousand times, checking on her. Apparently, Conrad had called them and commanded them to stay away from the cemetery until tomorrow. Which meant, yes, Jane worried throughout the night, alone save for Rolex, tossing and turning.
Just as the sun dawned, both Beau and Fiona arrived. Thank goodness! The handsome former soldier dazzled in a plain white T-shirt and worn jeans. Fiona wore her usual fare: a blouse with a dizzying array of colors, loose slacks that never matched, and a chunky necklace made by her daughter.
“Have you heard anything else from Conrad?” she asked as they settled on opposite sides of the couch.
“Not a peep,” Fiona replied. At the same time, Beau shook his head and announced, “Nope.”
Jane’s frustration transformed into irritation. Wringing her hands, she paced in her living room. Was Conrad okay? Had something happened to him? To ignore her like this, after what had transpired… He better be dead!
Rolex perched on the coffee table in front of Beau, hissing periodically. Every so often, he glanced up from his cell phone to acknowledge her cat’s efforts to terrify him with a muttered, “Keep trying. I almost trembled that time.”
Rolex hated all males, but he despised Conrad most of all. Her sweet, adorable little feline protector dreamed of clawing her smoldering, kinda sorta still-in-negotiations-about-it boyfriend. He must fear Conrad would win her heart, displacing him.
Well, Conrad would not be winning anything. First of all, nothing and no one could steal her affections from her fur-baby. Second, Jane wasn’t interested in loving and losing the agent. He was lucky she’d let herself fall into like with him.
