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Childhood memories assaulted him. His mother had always made the family home a dazzling wonderland for as long as he could remember. As a kid, he’d been warned countless times never to touch anything, and he’d sometimes wondered if the candlelit splendor she re-created was meant only to impress those who attended her Women’s Auxiliary Christmas tea.
Once inside the small brick building, he rolled the tension out of his shoulders, picked up the scattering of mail beneath the slot next to the door, and strode to his office in the back.
The place was blessedly quiet—Ollie worked only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Friday mornings—though a red blinking light indicated there were phone messages to check, and a few new faxes waited in the tray of the machine.
He had no doubt that his e-mail held even more communications he needed to check,
Nothing urgent in either case, he knew. All 911 calls in Aspen County were routed through the sheriff’s office in Hawthorne, and both his two-way radio and the pager on his belt had been relatively quiet all morning.
Lifting the faxes, he thumbed through them for new Crime Alert Network notices. A couple of liquor stores had been hit in the next county, a runaway, a stolen Ford pickup down in Fergus Falls, some lakeshore cabins had been burglarized over in Detroit Lakes...
Still studying the notices, he settled into his chair and hit the answering machine button.
Yvonne’s voice cut through the silence. “Just wanted you to know that we’re still hoping you’ll chair the—”
He hit the erase button.
“Hi, dear, this is your mother. We’re leaving for Florida tomorrow and hoped we might see you tonight at supper. Six o’clock.”
Hitting the erase button again, he sighed. She’d already asked him, and he’d already agreed to be there, barring any emergency calls, but why she still invited him so often wasn’t entirely clear. Neither she nor his father seemed particularly pleased when he showed up.
These dinners were inevitably chilly affairs, his father shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his mother making awkward attempts at conversation.
Neither Patrick nor Elena Roswell had forgiven their son for turning down a position in one of the family companies, and neither one had given up hope that he would come to his senses and return.
And when his sister Meredith was there, it was painfully clear that she feared he might succumb to their wishes someday and undermine her own position of power.
Which would happen when cows flew.
Only Ruth, the housekeeper, seemed genuinely glad to see him, and for her wonderful cooking and heartfelt hugs he would have driven to the far side of the Dakotas.
He listened to the rest of the messages, jotting notes in his planner, returned several calls, then started on his IRC’s—initial complaint reports—that still had to be written for each of his call-outs on the previous day.
At the sound of the front door opening, he glanced up to find Yvonne Weatherfield approaching with a sultry sway of her hips and an assessing gleam in her eye. Her soft ivory sweater clung tightly to her curves; the matching skirt ended at mid-thigh. In all of Ryansville, there didn’t exist a more determined woman.
“I’m so glad I caught you, Nathan,” she murmured, her full lips curving into a pout. “We so wanted you at our meeting to help us decide just what to do.”
“I’m working today, Yvonne. Sorry.”
She smiled brightly. “It’s not too late, really. I have to head up the entertainment committee. Would you be willing to help me, just a little?”
The walls of the office seemed to close in on him as he imagined the meetings, the endless phone calls. The very thought made him shudder. “I’m sorry. Another time maybe, but not this year.” He stood up and grabbed his keys from the desk. “I’m afraid I have to leave. Good luck pulling a team together. I know you’ll do a great job as always.”
He ushered her to the door, then closed it behind him and locked it.
“But, Nathan—”
“I really have to go, Yvonne.” He strode to his cruiser, unlocked the door, and settled behind the wheel.
Across the street, Sara Hanrahan jogged up the steep incline with her dog at her side. In black leggings and an old Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, her hair hidden by a ball cap, she couldn’t have looked more different from Yvonne, yet there was something about her that made him stare. Her easy grace, maybe, or her obvious disregard for what anyone thought.
Such a shame about her dad. He’d read through those newspapers out of curiosity, and the case seemed as clear as Clay had said. Murder, followed by a jail-cell suicide.
She spared his car a brief look, glanced at Yvonne, and kept going without a break in stride, but he could have sworn that her mouth curved into a faint smile.
* * * *
JOSH DRAGGED HIS FEET up the steep slope on Poplar, his gaze fastened on the cracked cement sidewalk and his heart heavy as lead. The voices of Thad and Ricky Weatherfield still rang in his ears. Yeah, right, Shueller, like anyone would choose you. For a Planet of the Apes, maybe. Or Return of the Dead.
