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Marked for Murder
Lauren Nichols


The Gold Star serial killer is back…And this time, ex-cop or not, private investigator Cole Blackburn isn't letting the psychopath get away with murder. Two years ago the case cost him his job and the love of Margo McBride, his former fiancée. But when Cole returns to the small town to solve the case and move on with his life, Margo is the new chief of police. She claims she doesn't need his help. Until the killer sends her a chilling note and Margo is marked for murder. Cole won't let anything–or anyone–make him lose her again.









BACK OFF, LADY, OR YOU’RE NEXT.


Shock and anger splintered through Cole as words in colorful crayon leaped from the piece of paper left on Margo’s door. It was signed with a gold star. The killer’s signature.

Cole’s gaze darted to Margo again. She still looked detached and unaffected—just a police officer assessing evidence. But at the base of her throat, her pulse was throbbing. “Let me help, Margo. I can do it under the radar so I don’t offend your staff.”

“Cole, we’ve been through this. This case doesn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It’s mine now.”

He expelled a frustrated blast of air. “At least admit you’re scared. Don’t pretend with me.”

His statement seemed to release a rash of goose bumps, and Margo rubbed her arms to dispel them. “Okay, I’m a little unnerved. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t. But give up the case? No.”

He had his in. He was taking it.




LAUREN NICHOLS


From the time Waldenbooks bestselling author Lauren Nichols was able to read, there was a book in her hand—then later, in her mind. Happily, her first attempt at romantic fiction was a finalist in RWA’s Golden Heart Contest, and though she didn’t win, she’s been blessed to sell eight romantic suspense novels, and dozens of romance, mystery and science fiction short stories to national magazines. This is her first Christian romantic suspense novel for Steeple Hill Books.

When Lauren isn’t working on a project or hanging out with her family and friends, she enjoys gardening, geocaching and traveling anywhere with her very best friend, husband Mike. Lauren loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at lauren_nich@yahoo.com or through her Web site, www.laurennichols.com.




Marked for Murder

Lauren Nichols





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Be gentle and ready to forgive; never hold grudges. Remember, the Lord forgave you so you must forgive others.

—Colossians 3:13


For Mike.

I love our life.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




ONE


“Yes, I know it’ll be difficult to go back to your apartment, Ms. Cortino, but you could have information that we need. I’ve advised one of my officers that you’re on your way home now. He’ll meet you there. You have our deepest sympathies on the loss of your roommate.”

Margo McBride hung up the phone for what had to be the tenth time since their dispatcher went to the diner for takeout, then propped her elbows on her desk and massaged the tension headache over her eyebrows. She was about to reach for her cold coffee when the door to the Charity, Pennsylvania, police department opened…and an awkward, uncomfortable pall fell over the room. Her side of it, at least.

The tall, broad-shouldered man wearing jeans and a collarless white knit shirt didn’t seem uneasy at all. He was through the low, spindled gate dividing the reception area from the office proper before Margo could blink away a sting of tears.

Cole Blackburn’s wind-tossed brown hair topped rugged features and dark eyes that wanted answers.

Why today, God? Margo thought, feeling her heart break all over again. Why today, when she’d been up since 3:00 a.m. and her nerves were already raw? Then she remembered that she and God were no longer speaking, and braced herself for what was coming.

She knew why her ex-fiancé had come back.

And it wasn’t for her.

Cole crossed to the gray steel desk where she’d been scanning the old Gold Star files, and spoke grimly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I know it’s been a long time since we spoke, but you had to realize I’d want to know about this. Why did I have to hear it on the morning news?”

Events she’d prayed would never be repeated moved through his dark eyes…a time of tragic crime photos, tearful parents and two-inch-high headlines.

“The reporter was careful not to utter the words ‘serial killer,’” Cole went on, “but gold stars and strangulation tells me it’s the same freak. There was a silk scarf around her neck, wasn’t there? But it wasn’t hers.”

With a squeak of wheels, Margo rolled her swivel chair away from the desk and stood. She worked to keep her voice even and polite. “You know I can’t talk about an active investigation.”

“Yes, I do. But in a town of barely six thousand people, I only have to walk into the diner across the street or the convenience store down the block and I’ll hear everything. Gossip flows like water around here. Unfortunately, the facts would be distorted—unintentionally, but distorted just the same. I’d rather hear the truth from you.”

Maybe it was lack of sleep, or last night’s horror, or his seemingly unaffected demeanor that shoved professionalism to the side. Or maybe she just needed to remind him that he wasn’t the only one who’d been hurt eleven months ago. For whatever reason, she said softly, but pointedly, “And if I told you the truth? Today you’d believe me?”

Everything in Cole seemed to still as memories of their last day together stretched between them like a damaged bridge too fragile to cross. It all came back to Margo now…the bone-deep sorrow and futility of that day, the angry words. The love she’d tried so hard to preserve until she’d finally realized that the best thing she could do for the two of them was give back his ring.

Cole broke their eye contact first. Then he sighed, jammed his hands in his pockets and wandered a few feet away to regroup. His gaze skipped from the white floor tiles, to the filing cabinets and office machines, to the barely audible TV and wood-paneled walls. Margo knew what he saw there: more memories. The Officer Bill and D.A.R.E. posters taped to the paneling had hung there when Cole was part of their tiny police force. Then his dark gaze rested on the second desk in the room, and Margo felt that clawing hurt again. Once they’d shared that desk, some days sharing secret smiles, other days poring over files and desperately looking for anything that would lead them to a killer.

It hurt him to look at it, too. She could see it. But not because he missed those days with her. It hurt because the job wasn’t his anymore.

Ambling back to her, he broke the heavy silence. “Who was she, Margo?” he asked quietly. “Is there someone I need to see? Someone who’d expect my condolences? I made some friends while I lived here.”

Yes, he had, and she’d been one of them. His best friend, he used to say. Reluctantly, Margo walked around the desk to him. The sooner she answered his questions and he left, the sooner she could get on with the business of patching the new hole in her heart. She would not think about summer nights sitting on the tailgate of his truck, picking out constellations, or sack races at the department’s picnics, or weekends cuddled together naming the babies they hoped to have one day. The past was the past. The tenderness in his dark eyes was for someone else now.

“You didn’t know her. Her name was Leanne Hudson, and she was walking home from a volleyball game at the park when it happened. She was a med student who’d recently moved here with her family…small, blonde and pretty, just like the first two girls. And yes,” she said, since practically every detail of the murders was already out, thanks to the teenage boys who found the body. “There was a scarf around her neck.”

“But it was window dressing, wasn’t it? He used his hands. And there were no defensive wounds, which suggests—as we’d thought with the other girls—that she knew her attacker or for some reason wasn’t afraid of him.”

“That I can’t discuss.” Margo drew a breath, then let it out. “There is something I can tell you, though, since you’ll hear it on the street anyway. There were four gold stars on her forehead.”

Shock splintered through his rugged features. “Four? There was no report of a third murder. I would’ve heard.”

“There was no third murder. Not in this jurisdiction, anyway. We’re scouring all the databases for number three, but so far—nothing.”

The phone rang, and Margo murmured a polite, “Sorry, I have to take this,” before she picked up the receiver.

Cole moved away to give her some privacy, his obsession with the case and his raw emotions both urgently vying for his attention. It was a close contest, but raw emotion won out. He knew it would be uncomfortable seeing her again, but he hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond that. He’d been wrong. From the moment he’d walked in, memories had flown at him from every corner, making him tense and short and loading him up with guilt when he didn’t have any reason to feel that way. She was the one who’d pulled the plug on their relationship, not him, and he refused to take the blame for it.

Cole forced himself to shift his focus—center on the killer he hadn’t been able to stop, and the high-school girls who’d lost their lives in Woodland Park two years ago. Trista Morgan had been marked with one star; Missy Kennicott, two. Now he could add a third name: Leanne Hudson.

Twenty-four months ago, they’d done everything they could to nail the star-flinging freak, but with the department’s limited resources, the case had dragged on for months. He’d argued repeatedly with Chief of Police John Wilcox that they needed to look elsewhere for the killer—not center solely on two carnival workers. They’d questioned and released the carneys so many times it had bordered on police harassment. But Wilcox had refused and, finally—against Margo’s nervous insistence that Cole back off—he’d told Wilcox to holster his ego and bring in the Pennsylvania State Police.

Cole felt a nerve leap in his jaw and his stomach clenched. Three days later, Wilcox—with the mayor and town council’s blessing—had dismissed him for insubordination, and blackballed him in surrounding counties.

Losing his job had been humiliating—life changing. Somehow he’d known even then that there would be a domino effect of trouble ahead. That’s when he’d asked God to make things right again. He was the son of a deeply Christian mother and not-quite-devout dad who, nevertheless, kept a St. Michael medal on his key ring— St. Michael, patron saint of cops. But he’d been more like his dad in his beliefs, and apparently the Lord had picked up on that. It had taken him a long time to realize that he couldn’t keep treating God like some benevolent Santa Claus when he needed a favor, then basically ignore His existence until he needed Him again.

“So where’s Wilcox?” he asked, making his way back to Margo when she’d hung up the phone. He had a hard time keeping the disdain out of his voice. “Out glad-handing everybody? Assuring them that he’s only minutes away from an arrest?”

He regretted his sarcasm the moment Margo’s features softened and her gaze slid away. He knew that look. Something had happened.

“No,” she replied. “John died eight days ago of a massive heart attack.”

Despite the bad blood between them, once John had been a friend. Before the murders, he’d even been a good cop. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cole said honestly. “How’s Adam doing?”

“As well as can be expected for a kid who just lost his only remaining parent. I told him to contact me if he needed anything.” She nodded at the ceramic Hail to the Chief coffee mug on the desk, jammed with pens and pencils. “I still have to box up his dad’s personal things and take them to the house. I’m hoping he’ll want to go back to school soon. Classes started a few days ago for the fall term. But…”

“Yeah. College has to be the last thing on his mind right now.” Cole nodded at the seat she’d vacated—John Wilcox’s padded leather chair. “You’re the senior officer. I guess you’re the acting chief?”

“Yes.”

Then the investigation was her headache now.

Cole released a ragged breath, finally noticing that her black-and-gray uniform was slightly rumpled, finally realizing that the wispy bangs and auburn tendrils that had escaped her loose bun weren’t an attempt at fashion. Finally seeing the weary circles under her beautiful green eyes.

He was about to ask if she’d requested help from the state guys when Sarah French bustled inside, her bright red pageboy frizzing from the late-August humidity. The plump middle-aged dispatcher wore a short-sleeved, neon-green pantsuit and looked as frazzled as her hairdo.

“Margo, there’s a—” She stopped abruptly, and a smile stretched her chubby cheeks. “Cole! You’re back!”

Before he could offer a greeting or say he wouldn’t be staying, Sarah dropped a takeout bag on her desk, raised a just-a-minute index finger and addressed Margo again. “I was leaving the diner when I saw the van pull in, so I hotfooted it over here before they barged inside. I told them to stay right where they were.”

Margo sighed. “Now who’s out there?”

“Channel 29 News from Johnstown—a cameraman and a pushy woman reporter.”

Cole walked to the room divider. “She got pushy with you?”

Sarah slid a funky giraffe-head purse off her shoulder and set it beside her lunch. “Well…maybe I just didn’t like her black eyeliner.” She reached across the low barrier to hug him. “Good to see you again, honey.”

“You, too, Sarah,” he said, returning her hug. She’d been a staunch supporter and voice of outrage when Wilcox had fired him. He’d always appreciated that.

Sarah released him and stood back, beaming. “How’s the P.I. business?”

“Like anything else. Hectic one day, slow the next.”

“Which means?”

He shrugged. “It’s a paycheck.”

“A paycheck’s good,” she returned, clearly annoyed. “But you should be earning it here.”

“Thanks, but it was time for me to move on.”

The air beside him stirred as Margo strode past him, tucking those wispy strays back into her bun on her way to the door. Suddenly he found himself feeling sorry for her—another wrinkle he hadn’t expected. And for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he wanted to help. “Want me to tell them you’ll have a statement later?”

She registered surprise, but only for an instant. “Thanks, but they’re just doing their jobs. Every newspaper, radio and TV station within a two-hundred-mile radius has called this morning. It was only a matter of time before the vans showed up.”

The phone rang again. Snatching up the receiver, Sarah spoke in a melodic singsong. “Charity Police Department. How can I direct your call?”

“Lousy way to start a new job,” Cole said in an undertone.

“Yes,” Margo replied.

Sarah raised a hand to stop Margo from leaving, then thanked the caller and hung up. “C.O.D.’s official,” she said somberly. “The Hudson girl’s hyoid bone was broken. Death by asphyxiation.”

“Thanks, Sarah,” Margo murmured.

Then Cole watched her square her shoulders, take a breath and go out to meet her interrogators.



Margo barely had time to adjust to the bright sunlight before a reporter in crisp white slacks and a navy blazer thrust a microphone at her. The woman’s smooth chin-length hair was as black as her eyeliner.

“Chief McBride? Nancy Talbot, Channel 29 News. What can you tell us about the murder? Are there any leads?”

“First of all, it’s still Officer McBride. Second, this investigation is in its infancy. It’s too early for me to comment on anything. We’ve contacted the Pennsylvania State Police, and they’re handling the evidence we’ve collected.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Evidence it wouldn’t be prudent to share at this time.”

Talbot pressed on, her voice rising. Sarah’s “pushy” comment had been right on the money. “The teenage boys who found the body in the park said the victim had been strangled with a scarf. They also said there were four gold stars on her forehead. Two years ago, two young women were killed in the same park in the same way, and marked with one, then two gold stars. Does that tell us there was a third murder? Are you looking for a serial killer, ma’am?”

Great. It wasn’t bad enough that the kids had blabbed; they’d blabbed to a reporter. “As I said, I’m not at liberty to answer your questions right now. I’ll be releasing a statement later today.”

“I appreciate your position, but the public does need answers—if for no other reason than to maintain their own safety. Some of the young women we’ve interviewed are frightened. The earlier victims, Missy Kennicott and Trista Morgan, were both blondes. Leanne Hudson was blonde. Shouldn’t you be warning young blonde women to be extremely cautious when they walk your streets?” She thrust the mic at Margo again.

A thin crowd had begun to form outside the stone-and-timber police station, interested onlookers who’d been attracted by the news van. Across the street near the diner and municipal parking lot, people were taking their time getting into their cars.

“Ms. Talbot, we’re cautioning all women who travel the streets after dark to be cautious. We’ve suggested that they walk with a friend until the situation’s resolved.”

“Of course,” she said, quickly pressing on. “You mentioned that you’ve asked the Pennsylvania State Police for assistance?”

“That’s correct.”

She jumped on Margo’s answer with both feet. “You say that as though it’s standard procedure. Yet former Chief Wilcox chose to go it alone when the other two murders occurred. Should he have brought in the PSP two years ago?”

Margo didn’t realize Cole had followed her outside until she felt his weighty stare and spotted him standing in the shallow crowd. He, too, appeared to be waiting for her answer.

Regret tightened her chest.

It would be so easy to say no, John Wilcox hadn’t acted responsibly. Moreover, she suspected that some grudging part of Cole wanted her to state that publicly. The investigation and Cole’s dismissal had marked the beginning of the end of their relationship. But answering that way would denigrate her boss’s memory and cause undue pain to the families of those first two girls. With a polite smile, Margo ended the interview.

“My apologies, Ms. Talbot, but I have work to do. I can tell you that my department and I have made this a top priority. In fact—”

Shifting her gaze to the camera, she spoke clearly and succinctly. “If the man—or woman—who took Leanne Hudson’s life is watching, I have a message for you. We will find you. And when we do, I will personally do what ever it takes to see that you’re prosecuted to the full extent of the law. There’ll be no deals. You’re going to pay.”



“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Cole said gravely as they went back inside the station. They passed Sarah, who was on the phone again, scribbling something on a long pink notepad, a half-eaten sandwich and takeout drink at her elbow.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that little speech of yours,” Cole said. “You made it too personal.”

“Because it is personal. Someone took the life of a girl this department was sworn to protect, then made sure he’d get a wagonload of publicity by mimicking an unsolved case.”

She was keenly aware of him following her toward the desk she’d inherited, so close she could feel his warmth. She glanced at him briefly, thinking that conversation between them was a lot less strained when they were talking about someone or something else. “Did you see the look on that reporter’s face? She found the whole thing tantalizing. She’s not going to file a tragic story, she’s going to sensationalize it, and we’re going to have so many curiosity seekers driving through town, I’ll have to deputize Sarah to keep traffic flowing.”

“I don’t care about that reporter. I care that you might’ve just made yourself a target. If the same person killed all three girls, he obviously despises women. What if he hates women in authority even more?”

“And what if Leanne Hudson’s death had nothing to do with the previous murders?”

Irritation entered his tone. “I’d still tell you that coming on like Dirty Harriet was a mistake.” He fell silent for several seconds, and she could almost hear the thoughts clicking through his mind. “Are you saying you think this murder could be a copycat?”

“I don’t know. We’re looking at it both ways. And I wasn’t trying to be Dirty Harriet.”

“No?”

“No.” She sank into her chair, transferred the Kennicott and Morgan homicide files to a drawer, then leaned her weary back into soft leather and met Cole’s eyes. Suddenly, she was so exhausted, all she wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sleep for a year. “Cole, I don’t have the energy to fight with you today.”

“I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m merely saying that you don’t have to put yourself out there the way you just did.”

“Look. I don’t think you understand my position. A woman at the helm of an investigation like this has to show strength. The public—especially the parents and families of those dead girls—needs to know that I’m dedicated to finding whoever did this to them. I don’t want them to doubt my commitment for a second.”

She was about to go on when she suddenly looked at him—really looked—and realized that beneath his brusque delivery and despite their rocky past, he did care about her, just a little. It was her undoing.

Margo felt the old knocking in her heart, and an emotional lump rose in her throat. “My heart aches for these people, Cole. That’s why I’m going to use every tool at my disposal and everything I’ve ever learned to do my best for them. But the truth is…” She drew a breath. “The truth is, it should be you sitting in this chair. You were right. John was wrong.”

For a time, the only sounds in the room were the whir of the air conditioner and the sounds of their own memories. Then the phone rang again, jarring them both.

Turning around, Sarah excused herself for interrupting. “Margo, Brett’s on line one. The Hudson girl’s roommate never showed up at their apartment. He wants to know if he should stick around for a while or head back here.”

It took her a moment to reply. “Tell him to wait. I’ll join him there in a few minutes.” She looked up at Cole. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

“No problem,” he said, unreadable thoughts clouding his eyes. “You have things to do. Maybe I’ll drop by your place later.”

Stunned, not sure why he’d do that—or if she could even handle another meeting—Margo swallowed and moistened her lips. “You’re not driving back to Pittsburgh?”

“No.” There was no explanation attached to the word, and she didn’t think she could ask for one. Instead, she watched him leave—watched him bump knuckles with Sarah, then step into the late-August sunshine and close the door behind him.

What little energy she had left drizzled away. Why was he thinking about coming by later? What did they have to talk about? They’d said all that needed to be said eleven months ago when she’d broken their engagement. They were over.

Weren’t they?

Pushing away from her desk, she said goodbye to Sarah and headed out the side door, where one of the department’s two black-and-white prowl cars waited. She slipped inside, fastened her seat belt. She couldn’t think about Cole anymore—couldn’t open herself up to what-ifs and maybes. Letting herself think there was hope for them would destroy her this time if it failed to happen. For her own sanity, she needed to concentrate on her job and try to ignore the nervous beating of her heart.




TWO


It was 8:20 p.m., and Margo had been running on coffee and adrenaline for seventeen hours. Pulling into her driveway, she parked the prowl car near the kitchen entry to her white cottage and sank back in her seat. She was in no hurry to get out. As she’d driven home, she’d noticed the soft lights glowing in some of the homes she’d passed, and suddenly, entering her dark, empty house wasn’t very appealing.

She was thirty-two years old. She should’ve been married by now, maybe even had a baby on the way. She loved police work. She did. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t enough. Recently, her mom had begun to guiltily suggest that it was time to let a good man into her life again. Someone like Margo’s dad, who’d died after a massive stroke last year. But the truth was, no man had ever made her as happy, then as miserable, as Cole had. As for her mother… Charlotte McBride was coping better with her husband’s loss now. In fact, she’d left Sunday for North Carolina to spend time with a friend who’d also been widowed. Margo found comfort in that. A year ago, her mom had been a grieving puddle of nerves, frightened of living alone, fearful of money matters, only held together with meds, her faith in God…and her only child.

Two light knocks at her car window nearly catapulted Margo through the roof. She jerked her head to the left—and her spirits fell a little further.

Cole backed up to let her out of the car. “Sorry I startled you.”

“No problem,” she murmured, deciding that God was just as mad at her as she was at Him. There was no other reason she could think of for Cole’s wretched timing. She shut the cruiser’s door and glanced around. His black Silverado was nowhere in sight. “Where did you park?”

He nodded toward the lovely Victorian bed-and-breakfast fifty yards from Margo’s tiny front porch. “I walked. I’m staying at the Blackberry.”

Situated on a slight hill on the opposite side of the street, it was the last building on the block before thick woods and highway asphalt took over. In the near twilight, electric candles burned in the windows of Jenna Harper’s Blackberry Hill B&B, its pink shingles and white gingerbread aglow in the lamppost and landscape lighting.

Margo held back a groan. What was Jenna thinking? It was downright traitorous for a good friend to rent to another good friend’s ex. Especially when it put the couple in uneasy proximity.

“You wish I were staying somewhere else,” he guessed when she failed to reply.

“No, not at all,” she fibbed. “I’m just…surprised.”

“Good. Because I might be here for a few days. It depends.”

Margo felt her nerve endings curl into little knots. “It depends on what?”

“Things,” he answered cryptically, then lifted a plastic grocery bag she’d failed to notice. “Have you had dinner?”

“Yes. I had a bagel a little while ago.”

His rugged features lined. “A bagel isn’t dinner. You never did eat enough to keep a bird alive. Do you have eggs?”

“Cole—why do you need to know that?”

“Because I picked up a few things—ham, cheese, a green pepper. I thought if you hadn’t eaten, I’d make us a couple of omelets, then we could talk about things.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

Margo met his eyes. Because every time they talked she ended up hurting. “Because I’ve been awake since three a.m., and I can barely think. I’m tired, Cole. Too tired to fill our awkward pauses and silences. I need a shower, and I need some sleep.”

“I’m only asking for a few minutes,” he said. “I can have the omelets on the table by the time you’re out of the shower.”

She shook her head wearily. “No, you can’t.”

“Okay, it might take a bit longer—and you don’t have to say a word. I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is nod or shake your head no.” He lowered his voice, his dark eyes gentle on hers. “Please. This is important to me.”

Finally, Margo nodded. He’d said please. He’d said it was important. She couldn’t refuse. “Can you say what you need to say in thirty minutes?”

“Yes.”

Good, because that’s about all she could manage.

Ten minutes later, feeling human again, Margo padded barefoot across the blue braided rug in her small living room, following the sound of music from a country station. She’d added the plants, wall hangings and other warm touches to the room. But Cole had helped her pick out her country-blue sofa and love seat, tables and lamps after she’d accepted his proposal. It was furniture she’d insisted that she pay for—furniture that would eventually grace the home he’d begun to build.

Months later, the only thing they’d done together was argue.

Drawing a guarded breath, Margo stepped into the kitchen. He’d said she didn’t have to say a word, but that wasn’t realistic. If he needed to talk, as long as he didn’t bring up the past or assess blame, she’d talk back.

“You’re moving right along,” she said.

Cole glanced around briefly from the charcoal-gray countertop where he was adding chopped green pepper to the diced ham, onions and shredded cheese on the plate beside him. He stepped to the left and put the cutting board in the sink. “Hunger’s a great motivator. I stopped at the diner a little before seven, but they were already closed. I hope Aggie’s okay.”

Normal conversation. So far so good.

“She’s fine. She helps out with bingo at the church every other Wednesday night.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, taking the eggs from the fridge and setting them on the counter. He pulled a clear glass bowl from the cupboard. “I like what you’ve done with your kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Eleven months ago it had been a bright, sunny yellow. Now her oak cabinets and appliances stretched along one white wall with a burgundy-roses border. A few steps away in the dining area, a ruffled burgundy valance topped the oversize window that looked out onto her deck and the woods below. The centerpiece of burgundy silk roses, greens and baby’s breath set on a doily in the middle of her round table, was her own creation.

Updating her kitchen had been therapy. She’d needed something to fill her free time after Cole left—something besides caring for her mother.

Margo stared at his broad shoulders and tapering back as he cracked eggs into the bowl and set the shells aside. And a poignant rush of déjà vu threatened to crush her heart and lungs. Once in a while after church on Sundays, they’d skip breakfast at the diner and make brunch here together. It had been quite an adventure, with both of them sidestepping and bumping into each other as they worked. He used to laugh that he couldn’t wait until they moved into their dream home where they’d be cooking in a kitchen larger than a postage stamp. So much for dreams.

Cole turned around, breaking her thoughts and wiping his hands on a dish towel. His dark brown hair was longer now that he didn’t have to comply with department policy. But if anything, the slightly shaggy look made him even more attractive.

“Okay, everything’s ready for the pan, and your tea’s decaf.” He nodded at the steaming stoneware mug on the counter. “It won’t keep you up.”

No, but having him back in town would. “Great. Can I help?”

“Sure. Want to sauté the vegetables?”

The way she once did? Yes, she would.

The theme from an old TV detective series pounded from the cell phone clipped to Cole’s belt. Pulling it from its case, he checked the number and frowned. “Sorry. I need a few minutes. It’s a callback from a new client.”

She hesitated. “A new client? Sounds like things are going well at Sharp.”

“Well enough,” he replied quietly.

They both knew what she’d meant. Are you happy there? Is the work satisfying? Do you still think about returning to your old precinct in Manhattan?

Henry Mancini’s Peter Gunn theme continued to play in Cole’s hand. “I’d better get this,” he said. Then he flipped open his phone and went into the living room, his low baritone fading. “Mrs. Farley. Yes, I did call. Thanks for getting back to me.”

Margo moved to the range, adjusted the flame under the skillet, added a little butter and olive oil and then tossed in the crisp vegetables.

Was he happy at Sharp Investigations? Could he be happy doing anything but police work? He’d come from a long line of tough city cops. His dad, uncles and grand-dad had all served, and from them had sprung a handful of rowdy cop cousins—incurable jokesters who loved saying that Cole had shed his Andy Sipowicz image to be Charity’s Barney Fife.

She’d known his history when they’d fallen in love and he’d chosen to move here. She just hadn’t known that being a cop was such a large part of who he was as a man. She heard his voice again, as clearly as if their first real disagreement had happened only days ago.

“You know Wilcox was wrong,” he’d said. “I can’t believe you want to stay. Is that the kind of man you want to work for?”

“Yes, he was wrong,” she’d returned. “He should’ve asked for help from the state guys before the case went cold. But it doesn’t make any sense for both of us to be without jobs. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you know this was the first time John made a misstep.”

“Yeah, John’s a saint,” he’d snapped, shutting her down.

After a thoughtful moment, he’d said quietly, “I spoke with my precinct captain yesterday. I can have my old job back if I want it. All I have to do is say the word.”

Fear had nearly taken her breath away. “In Manhattan. Constantly putting your life on the line.”

“I’d be a cop again.”

“And I’d be terrified every time you walked out the door.”

The nerve in his jaw worked. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re building a home we already love. And I’m saying we want children. Cole, I don’t want to raise them in a city.”

“I need to work, Margo. I can’t go on like this in definitely.”

“I know,” she’d whispered. “I’m so sorry.”



They might’ve been able to get past that, Margo thought, pushing the ham and veggies around in the pan. But he’d grown up in a household with old-fashioned parents with old-fashioned values. The Blackburn code was simple: the husband provided for his family. Any man who couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain wasn’t worthy of the name.

Despite her prayers that God would send an answer, no help came, and they began to argue about everything. By the time he was offered a job with Sharp Investigations in Pittsburgh and started talking about buying a home there, she was so afraid of being uprooted and jobless if their upcoming marriage failed, she balked. Though it broke her heart, she said no again. For the time being, she would stay in Charity. She saw it as logical. He saw it as betrayal.

“It would only be temporary,” she’d said. “Just until you’re sure that P.I. work is what you want to do.”

He’d kept tossing clothes into a suitcase. “We can’t fix what’s wrong between us, living apart. Whatever happened to whither thou goest, Margo?”

“We wouldn’t be apart that often,” she’d insisted. “A lot of P.I. work is done on the phone and Internet these days, and Pittsburgh is only two hours away. You could drive back any night you wanted to, and I could visit you on my days off.”

That’s when he’d turned around, met her eyes and said, “Fine. If you want to stay, stay. I just have one question.”

“What?” she’d replied on a nervous breath.

“Are we still getting married or not?”



Blinking away the sting in her eyes, Margo moved the ham and vegetables to a plate, then slid the bowl of eggs closer, grabbed a wire whisk and put it to work.

If only he’d listened to her, and not gone head-to-head with John.

If only he’d been able to find more police work in the area.

If only her father hadn’t died, leaving behind a grief-stricken wife who couldn’t cope.

If only the God she’d loved and revered since her childhood hadn’t ignored her prayers.

When Cole finally returned, the omelets were done—and her round resin table outside was set. “Everything’s ready,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we’d eat on the deck.”

Cole glanced through the window, his gaze narrowing. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“I know. But it’s pretty outside, and the mosquitoes haven’t shown up yet.” She couldn’t very well say she felt his presence so acutely that if they ate in her tiny kitchen she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite. Outside in the evening air, she at least had a chance.

“Okay,” he said amiably. “The deck it is.”

The blue sky was darkening as they settled at the table and pulled in their chairs, while above the trees, a white smudge of a moon had appeared. Cole picked up the lighter she’d left on the table, lit the citronella candle between them, then set the lighter aside.

Eleven months ago, Margo with her deep connection to God, and Cole with his lukewarm faith would’ve joined hands and asked the blessing on their meal. Now, after too many unanswered prayers and too many losses, they simply ate, while Cole kept the conversation going and they avoided anything that approached real eye contact.

She was still picking at her food when Cole pushed his plate back, drained the last of his milk and spoke. If they’d been at a Renaissance fair, blaring trumpets would’ve announced to one and all that something important was coming.

His gaze drifted briefly over her damp, shoulder-length hair, gray sweats and pink T-shirt. “So, how did it go with the victim’s roommate today?” he asked. “Was she helpful?”

The question was so pointed that, after their casual discussions about Charity’s suddenly bustling lumber business and the friends they had in common, Margo did make real eye contact. That was when she saw the intense interest on his face. He wasn’t just making idle chitchat. The Hudson girl’s death was the main thing on his mind right now. That’s what he wanted to talk about. That’s why they were having omelets. His visit had nothing to do with the two of them. It was all about the case.

Slowly, she pushed her plate aside, too. “We talked about this earlier. I can’t discuss it.”

His earnest gaze held hers. “You can discuss it with me. I worked the case two years ago, remember?”

Of course she remembered. How could she forget? Seeing his name on the old reports she’d pulled out today had made dealing with the current case even more difficult. The files had been riddled with Cole’s thoughts. Cole’s handwriting. Cole’s presence.

“Two years ago, I could’ve shared every detail with you,” she said as kindly as she could. “You were on the force then.”

If the reminder hurt, he didn’t show it. “I won’t say a word about anything you tell me. Not to anyone.”

“I know that. Your discretion and integrity are two of your best qualities. You don’t betray confidences.”

“Then why can’t we talk about this?”

“Because it’s against department policy. Please don’t put me on the spot.” And please don’t tell me you’re not surprised that I said no yet again.

There was no missing the frustration in his eyes, but after a moment, he nodded.

They didn’t speak for a while, just sat there listening to the sounds of night approaching. Crickets chirped beneath the deck. A slight breeze lifted the pine boughs and ruffled the maples. Peepers in the creek below sang backup to Carrie Underwood as that Louisville Slugger song drifted through the kitchen screen.

The song was nearly over when Cole eased forward, stirred a half teaspoon of sugar into her tea, then slid it toward her. “I can help you with this case, Margo. Bring me in on a consulting basis.”

As much as she hated to do it, she had to shake her head. “You know what our budget’s like. We’re smaller than small potatoes. There’s no money. Even if there were a few dollars earmarked for consultant fees, I’d have to clear it with the mayor and town council.”

His expression cooled as he asked about the man who’d officially dismissed him. “Is Hank Keller still the mayor?”

Margo shook her head again. “No, Bernice Marshall is.”

“Good, then we have a shot. Tell her I’ll do it for nothing. That should make her decision a lot easier.”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached across the table and laced his fingers through hers. Margo felt the gentle contact all the way to that place in her heart and mind where treasured memories were stored.

His low voice pulled at her emotions. “This case cost both of us in ways I’ll never forget, Margo. I need to be a part of it so I can finally close the door on that chapter of my life and move on.”

He could do that? How fortunate for him. She’d never be able to close that door completely.

“Maybe you could remind Bernice that you’re undermanned. With Wilcox gone, besides yourself you only have two full-time guys and two part-timers, one of whom is retirement age. We both know that some of the day-to-day work—important work—will be back-burnered while they’re chasing down leads.” His voice dropped a little more. “I can help, Margo.”

He was right. Everything he’d said made perfect sense. He had more experience than any other officer on the force, her included, and his instincts were spot-on. If he hadn’t lost his temper with John and been dismissed, he’d be leading this investigation. She’d be taking her orders from him.

“Will you do it?”

She nodded reluctantly. Including him was a perfect solution to a lot of their problems. But there was no way the butterflies beating the walls of her stomach would agree. If this was approved, and she had no reason to think it wouldn’t, they’d be working together again. Side by side. Day and night.

Cole’s smile of appreciation faltered as he seemed to sense her doubts. “It’ll be okay,” he vowed. “We’re both professionals. What we had is over. There’s no reason why it has to get in the way of the work.” He squeezed her hand, then withdrew his. “We got through dinner without a nuclear meltdown, didn’t we?”

Yes, they had—on the surface, anyway. But they’d both steered clear of anything that could become inflammatory. That could change if emotions ran high and they started in on each other again. The answer came from a tiny voice in the back of her mind. Then you’ll have to see that that doesn’t happen, won’t you?

“Okay,” she said after drawing a deep breath. “I’ll call the mayor first thing in the morning, and ask her to contact the council members. Considering the gravity of the situation, I doubt they’ll have to meet formally. A few phone calls should do it.”

Determination lined his face. “Good. I’d like to look at the Hudson file as soon as I can. The old files, too.” He checked his wristwatch. “Thirty minutes. My time’s up.” Rising, he stacked their plates and flatware on the tray she’d left on the seat beside him, and put their condiments and napkins back in the woven-straw basket.

“Leave them. You’ve done enough tonight.” Had he ever.

“At least let me do the dishes. You need to sleep.”

“Yes, I do. That’s why you’re leaving, and why I’ll clean up in the morning.” She nodded toward the steps leading to her driveway. “Go. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s not a done deal.” But she was ninety-percent sure that it would be.

“Good night, Margo. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Good night.”

Tears welled in her eyes as Margo watched him leave. Then she finished clearing the table, blew out the candle and looked toward Jenna’s B&B. In the fall, when the maples and oaks lost their leaves, she had a clear view of the Blackberry’s steep roofs and pretty turret. Now, with the trees fully leafed, she could barely see a few tiny lights on the second floor. That’s where all the rooms were.

That’s where Cole’s room would be.

Suddenly, the fear that working with him again would send her running for a good counselor and a bottle of antacids froze her to the deck boards. She was positively certifiable. What on earth had she been thinking when she agreed to this?

You know, that tiny voice in her head whispered. You know, and you don’t want to admit it.



She was still upset twenty minutes later when the cordless phone on her nightstand shrilled. Margo bolted upright in bed.

Quickly clicking on her lamp, she grabbed the phone and hoped with all her heart that it wasn’t more bad news. Then she checked the caller ID and stilled. It wasn’t Steve O’Dell at the station. Cole’s cell phone number glowed in the display window.

Taking a deep breath, then clearing her throat, she said hello.

“It’s me,” he said.

“I know. Caller ID. Did you forget something?”

“Yes and no. I’ve been thinking about that interview of yours. You threw down the gauntlet today—practically issued a challenge to the killer. I just want to remind you to be more aware of your surroundings. I was standing outside your car for at least ten seconds before I rapped at your window, but you didn’t know I was there.”

What did she say to that? It was your fault because I was thinking about you? That wouldn’t be wise. “I was distracted.”

“I could see that. But from now on, you can’t afford to be.” He hesitated again. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will. Thanks for calling.”

He waited on the line through the uncomfortable pause, then said, “Well…good night again.”

“Good night,” she returned quietly.

Margo replaced the handset in its cradle, then, after a longing look at the Bible beside the phone, flopped back on her pillow. Tomorrow would be another difficult day, and she needed to be clearheaded to deal with it. She needed to sleep. More than that, she needed to forget about the tall, tanned, dark-haired man who’d suddenly dropped back into her life. As if that was an option.

She started to turn off her bedside lamp again, then paused to look at the clock. She knew Bernice Marshall, knew she generally stayed up to watch the late news. Sighing, she picked up the phone again.

“Bernice?” she said when the woman answered. “It’s Margo. Are you wearing your mayor’s hat? I need a favor.”



He squatted in the ferns and pine needles, breathing in the fecund scents of pine, damp earth and blackberries. The remaining berries were on their way to wine now, but the tangy-sweet scent still lingered. He glared at the house—felt the hatred bubble up inside of him as he watched a light go off again upstairs.

She thought she was hot stuff. Thought she was so superior. Thought she could scare him with threats and warnings, and that utterly pathetic impression of a steely-eyed stare. He fingered the folded sheet of paper in his pocket, although he couldn’t really feel it. Not through the plastic bag and his latex gloves.

Satisfied that no one could see him, he sprang nimbly to his feet, then made his way through the thick firs and maples toward the creek that bisected the town. It was time he issued a warning.

Stupid woman.

She had no idea who she was playing with.




THREE


Cole Blackburn sat in the dark on the second-floor turret porch, listening to the party going on a quarter mile away in a clearing local teens had named and claimed. The inn was the last building on the block, so he could even see the faint glow of a fire against the night sky. When he’d worn a badge here, he’d shagged kids out of the “party place” on more than one occasion.

But that wasn’t the reason he couldn’t sleep tonight.

His gut clenched as his thoughts spun back to Margo. She was a good cop, and more than qualified to handle the top position. But she was a woman, and no matter how Stone Age his thinking was, he didn’t want her involved in this mess. Not that he was still in love with her. She’d taken a veritable scalpel to that emotion when she’d given back his ring.

Frowning, he sipped from a bottle of cranberry something-or-other that he’d found in the small fridge in his room.

He’d known she’d needed to be with her mother after her dad died. That was a given; she was a devoted daughter—probably because Frank and Charlotte McBride had been one of the most devoted couples he’d ever met. Love grows from love. Frank had been the head of the family, making decisions, taking care of the bills, single-handedly managing their finances. Charlotte had created a warm, loving home. When Frank’s death threw her into a world she wasn’t prepared for, Margo became her fiscal and emotional lifeline. He’d understood and agreed to postpone their wedding and Margo’s move to Pittsburgh until Charlotte had a handle on her grief.

Cole stared out at the dark sky alive with stars.

But when months passed with Charlotte making no attempt to stand on her own two feet, he’d had to say something. He’d done it badly, but the words had had to be said.

He’d told Margo she was enabling her mother, and nothing was going to change until she stopped being a crutch. He’d wanted to can the big, fancy wedding, find Reverend Landers and start their married life together. He was tired of being last on her list. First she chose to stay on the job, then she balked at the move to Pittsburgh, then her dad died and she wanted to postpone the wedding again. He deserved better, he’d told her. She’d cried and handed back his ring. That’s when he found out what all the excuses and delays really meant.

Cole took a long swig of his cranberry-whatever to combat the dull ache in his chest.

She’d wanted out.

Down the road, heavy metal gave way to moody saxophone tones and stirring lyrics. And against Cole’s will, Richard Marx’s “Endless Summer Nights” took him back to another night like this one. One clear, moonlit mid-July night, after he’d moved to Charity. They’d gone to Payton’s Rocks, a huge tumble of boulders and high grasses two miles from the town limits.

Far from the lights of town, they’d sat on his truck’s tailgate, and gazed in awe at the heavens. He’d never seen stars like that before—billions upon billions of them shimmering in an ink-black sky that stretched farther than his mind could ever comprehend. He’d felt small and insignificant that night, humbled in the presence of God’s universe.

That’s how large his love for her had been back then. Back when he was first in her life, not last in a long string of other people and other commitments.

Suddenly a police cruiser with lights flashing sped up the street and appeared to swerve into Margo’s driveway down the block. Bolting to his feet, Cole craned his neck past the weeping willow tree in the B&B’s front yard to be certain. His heartbeat skyrocketed. An officer was getting out of the prowl car and rushing up Margo’s front steps.

Her motion lights went on, followed by her porch light.

There was only one reason for a patrolman with lights flashing to go to his chief in the middle of the night, and it wasn’t because a bunch of kids were partying. There’d been more trouble.

Cole flew pell-mell downstairs and out the door. He raced for that porch light, glad he’d had the presence of mind to pack a small duffel. If he looked like an idiot wearing gray sweats with cowboy boots, he didn’t care.

He could see the two of them now, through the screen door. The interior door had been left open.

He slowed as he reached the sidewalk, knowing that Margo wasn’t going to like this, knowing that he was overstepping. But the need to know what had happened was strong, and he climbed the porch steps. Hopefully by midday tomorrow, he’d have official standing in the investigation.

His leather soles scraped on the gritty concrete. Apparently, they heard it, too.

Margo’s eyes widened for a second and then, lips thinning, she excused herself and stepped out on the porch. She spoke in an undertone. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me how you knew about this.”

“Are you asking me to leave?” he replied in the same low voice.

“No, but you need to give me a few minutes.” She nodded at the padded redwood chairs on her lattice-trimmed porch. “Pick one.”

Then she went back inside and shut both doors.

They opened again a few minutes later, and she beckoned him inside. The familiar second set of eyes he encountered didn’t look pleased to see him.

“Steve,” she said to her officer, “I think you remember Cole.”

O’Dell should remember him, Cole thought, though they’d never been formally introduced. O’Dell had taken his place two years ago, after Wilcox gave him the ax.

The husky patrolman with the ruddy complexion nodded, but the lips beneath his red brush of a mustache didn’t smile, even when he offered his hand.

Cole shook it, guessing O’Dell’s age at somewhere around forty. He had a strong grip and thick fingers, and though his stiff expression had cracked a little, Cole knew he and O’Dell weren’t going to hit it off—probably because he saw Cole as the intruder he was.

If Margo had picked up on the tension, she didn’t react to it. “Since Cole worked the original Gold Star case, he’ll be coming aboard tomorrow as a consultant. I spoke to Bernice a little while ago,” she added when Cole raised a questioning brow. “She doesn’t see a problem.”

She turned to O’Dell again. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s back up and start again for Cole’s benefit.”

O’Dell pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. It contained a folded sheet of typing paper with a piece of masking tape attached to it.

“As I said, I’d just finished some paperwork and was heading out to shut down the party place when I saw the note. Charlie had told the kids earlier that it was lights and fire out by midnight.” He indicated the evidence bag. “Someone taped it to the door while I was occupied.” O’Dell’s lips thinned. “Looks like it was meant for you.”

Cole studied Margo’s face. She never flinched. She just led them to the kitchen table, opened the bag, grasped the note by the very tip of one corner and eased it out. She shook it open on the table.

Shock and anger splintered through him as words in colorful crayon leaped from the page.



BACK OFF, LADY, OR YOU’RE NEXT.



It was signed with a gold star.

Cole’s gaze darted to Margo again. She still looked detached and unaffected—just a police officer assessing evidence. But at the base of her throat, her pulse was throbbing.

She tucked the note back in the evidence bag just as cautiously as she’d retrieved it, then turned to O’Dell. “Okay. Photograph it, make a detailed note for our files, then run this over to the state-police barracks. Their lab will take it from here.”

Cole trailed behind them as she walked O’Dell to the front door. “He probably wore gloves when he wrote it, but if we’re lucky, maybe he got sloppy and left a print on the masking tape. Did you dust the door?”

“I will when I get back. I thought it was more important to get this to you.”

She nodded. “I’ll call and let them know you’re coming. See you in a few hours.”

When the prowl car had pulled out and Margo had spoken to the PSP, she hung up the phone and walked back to Cole. She was dressed in her sweats and pink T-shirt again, and that pulse in her throat was still moving along at a steady clip. Her hair hung long and silky around her shoulders.

“Now,” she said wearily. “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?”

He guessed that depended on her definition of stalking. He preferred to think of it as watching over her. “No, I was sitting on the porch when O’Dell flew up the road and pulled into your driveway. Obviously, there’d been some trouble.”

He tried to ignore the ball of fear in his stomach. “That was pretty bold of our friend, taping that note to the door. You need to take a few precautions. Is there a chance Sarah could move in with you for a while?”

She looked at him as though he’d suddenly grown two heads. “I’m not going to ask Sarah to move in. I’m a police officer and I carry a gun. Guns trump scarves. I don’t need a babysitter, Cole.”

“All right, but at least admit you’re scared. Don’t pretend with me.”

His statement seemed to release a rash of goose bumps, and Margo chafed her hands over her arms. “Okay, I’m a little unnerved. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t. But I’m not going to run around like Henny Penny screaming that the sky is falling. Besides,” she went on, “there’s a chance that note could be a prank. From the level of news coverage we’ve been getting, half the state knows what’s going on here.”

She locked her pretty green gaze on his. “But if the note was from the killer, he might’ve given us a partial print or enough DNA evidence for an arrest. In fact,” she said, her voice gaining conviction, “if I press the issue he might get ticked off enough to write again. We both know that an angry criminal is a careless criminal.”

Frustrated, Cole released a blast of air. “Are you listening to yourself? Putting yourself at risk to prove you can do the job just as well as a man—”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Aren’t you? It sure looks that way to me.”

They glared through a dozen ticks of the living room’s wall clock, both of them refusing to look away. Then something unfathomable happened. The room seemed to shrink, and the air in it seemed to thin, taking Cole to the point of light-headedness. Memories he’d been trying to keep at bay filled his mind and heart. And if his cop’s instincts were working even a little, he saw those same memories cloud Margo’s eyes.

Lifting his hand, he moved a long auburn strand that had become caught in her eyelashes…tucked it aside. Then his voice dropped so low he barely recognized it. “I know I don’t always choose my words wisely. But we meant something to each other once, Margo. Even though we messed it up, that still counts with me. I’m afraid for you. Can’t you see that?”

“Yes,” she returned in a whisper that just about put him away. “Yes, I can.”

“Then you’re not mad?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not mad.”

And they were lost.

The kiss was warm and soft and bittersweet, and so full of memories and yearning for what might’ve been that it broke Margo’s heart. Once they’d had a love so special, her every prayer had included her thanks to God for bringing them together. Back then there had been no sadness in their kisses, only love, and laughter and a boundless faith in their future. But as the kiss went on, a smidgen of hope filtered through the hopelessness, and Margo’s rock-bottom spirits began to lift a little. Maybe it wasn’t too late for them. Maybe he was ready to forgive—

Cole broke the kiss and retreated to the opposite corner of her tiny living room, his expression a mixture of self-derision and apology. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I guess we’re both a little unhinged tonight.”

Margo fought for balance, fought to hide her disappointment, grappled for her dignity. It took her a full moment to speak. The warm sensation of his lips on hers was fading now, replaced by cool air and regret.

“It’s just the case,” she replied quietly. “Apparently, old habits do die hard.” She took them back to the conversation that had precipitated that kiss. “Thank you for caring, though. I won’t hire a nanny, but I will be cautious.”

Cole’s somber reply made her feel even worse. “I’ve always cared, Margo.”

Maybe he had, she thought. He just hadn’t cared enough. If he had, he would’ve believed her when she’d told him she loved him.

“Well,” he said, casting about before turning toward the door. “I’d better get back and let you get some sleep. Are your doors and windows locked?”

She nodded. All except the inside and screen doors, and they soon would be. How quickly they’d leaped from tenderness to all-business again.

“He won’t bother me tonight. He wants me to think about the note for a while, otherwise it defeats the purpose of sending it. What I don’t understand is, why did he write it? Do I make him nervous? Do I have information I’m not aware of?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Cole stepped out on the porch, where a squadron of moths bumped and fluttered against her porch light. “I won’t go to the station in the morning. I know you’ll need time to let everyone know I’m coming aboard. But I’d appreciate sitting down with you soon, so you can fill me in.”

She eased against the door frame. “We’ll do it tomorrow.” But there was something she needed to get straight with him. Steve O’Dell had accepted the fact that an ex-officer with more experience than he had would be helping out. But he wasn’t happy. “Cole, I need to say something, and I hope you won’t misunderstand.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know how important this is to you. But I also know how you act when you get up a full head of steam. Especially when you know you’re right. Promise me that you’ll remember you’re only consulting. I don’t want you trampling some very competent officers on your way to an arrest.”

From the expression on his face, he knew she was referring to his clash with John Wilcox.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll deal only with you, and you’ll call the shots.” Sending her an overly polite smile, he turned to leave. “It’ll be your way or the highway.”

It was a clichéd, overused quip, but it was also a subtle nod to their past. At least he hadn’t added, You know. The way it’s always been.

Margo said good-night and closed the door. So much for her hope that they could let sleeping dogs lie.

The dogs were up and they were barking up a storm.



By 5:00 a.m., after four hours of tossing and turning and hearing every chirping bird in the neighborhood greet the dawn, Margo showered and drove to the station. Steve O’Dell was just climbing into the prowl car, preparing to make his final rounds before his shift ended.

“You’re here early,” he said through the open car door.

“I know. I couldn’t sleep.” Margo ascended the three concrete steps to the door and found the office key on her crowded ring. “How’d it go with the PSP? Any problems?”

“Nope.”

“Good.” She unlocked the door. “Any coffee left?”

His blue gaze turned to ice. So did his tone. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”

Margo hesitated for several seconds, wondering if this was about bringing Cole into the investigation, or something else. Steve could be testy, but the two of them had always had a good working relationship. Then again, maybe he was as tired and wired as she was, and thought—rightly so—that coffee wasn’t a priority. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll make us a fresh pot. See you when you get back.”

“Yeah. See you in a little while.”

Margo waved as he drove off, then let herself inside, dropped her shoulder bag on her desk and went to work. She crossed to the bank of filing cabinets and pulled out the Kennicott, Morgan and Hudson folders, then headed for the copy machine at the rear of the office. Feelings of disloyalty dogged her steps as she wondered how everyone else would feel about Cole’s inclusion. But they needed to find a killer before he struck again.

Twenty minutes later, copies of the old and new Gold Star files were in an oversize envelope in her cruiser. She was ready to leave again when Steve returned at 6:10.

“I have to step out for a half hour or so,” she said, “but I glanced at your notes. Dusting the door was a waste of time, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He went to the coffeemaker and filled his cup. “The area on and around the latch was full of prints, but they were smeared and I’m guessing that most of them were ours. As for the rest… Sorry, boss, there was nothing on the door where I found the note. Not even a smudge.”

Boss? Margo stilled. He’d called her boss. Maybe she’d been too quick to dismiss the chilly look he’d sent her. Maybe it had nothing to do with being tired, or with Cole. Maybe it had more to do with pecking order. O’Dell was forty—eight years older than she was—but he didn’t have as many years in law enforcement. Still, if he felt he deserved the acting-chief position, that could account for his testiness. She decided that now wasn’t the best time to mention that she’d copied a set of files for Cole.

Resting her hand on the doorknob, she spoke quietly. “Steve, I know things have changed around here, but I’m still Margo. Please don’t call me boss.” Until John’s death, even though she’d been the senior officer, she, Steve, Brett and part-timers Charlie Banks and “Fish” Troutman had pretty much worked at the same level and shared the same jobs. Sure, there’d been a few disagreements, but they’d been minor and easily smoothed over. Things were different now, however, and suddenly she wasn’t sure how everyone felt about it.

He seemed to read her mind. “Worried about a mutiny?” he asked, stirring cream into his coffee.

She took a second to answer. “Should I be?”

Smiling, he waved off her concerns. “Nah. We’re a team, right? Someone has to answer to the mayor and the media. You’re the senior officer. I’m just glad it’s not me.”

“You’re sure? Because if there’s a problem we need to talk about it.”

“I’m positive. Relax. We’re good.”

“Whew,” she replied jokingly, then opened the door. “Put your feet up and veg for a while. I’ll be back before Sarah and Brett come in.”

Still, that niggling feeling that things weren’t as okay as he said stayed with her.



The Blackberry Hill B&B was a busy place at 6:20 a.m. A smiling older couple was just getting into their car, while on the wraparound porch, two women sat flipping though travel brochures and sipping coffee. Margo strode inside and made her way through the hardwood foyer to the dining room.

Jenna Harper was clearing away place settings on two of her four lace-and-glass-covered round tables, the chink of silverware and the wonderful aromas of coffee and blueberry muffins riding the air.

Lovely rose swags and a variety of Victorian prints adorned the cream-and-roses wallpaper, while doilies, dolls and antiques added warmth and charm to the room.

Jenna’s welcoming smile fell like a stone. Setting a creamer down, she crossed the floor to Margo. “Are you all right?”

Jenna was five feet, seven inches of dark blond class with a slender figure, a light garden tan and—usually—a warm smile. Today, she wore white slacks topped by a white gauze tunic and turquoise-and-coral beads.

Margo winced. “Do I look that bad?”

“No, but your dark circles are getting dark circles. Let me get you some breakfast. Some coffee, at least.”

“Thanks, but I’m really pressed for time this morning. I need to see one of your guests.”

Jenna tipped her head curiously. “Well, since you had to have passed four of them on your way in, and I only had five guests last night, I guess you mean your ex.”

When Jenna had returned to Charity eight months ago, they’d each shared bits of their pasts, but she’d never shown Jenna a snapshot of Cole, and she doubted she’d ever mentioned his last name. Then again, as she and Cole had agreed yesterday, people in small towns loved to talk.

“How did you—”

“Easy. How many Cole Blackburns could there possibly be? Especially one who looks like he does. Besides…” she said with a touch of worried hesitance, “you know how I feel about renting to single men. No references, no room. He had a good one.”

“Me.”

“Yes.” Folding her arms across her chest, Jenna went on quietly. “So, are you two on again?”

Margo expelled a flat laugh. “No. Not the way you mean, anyhow. As they say in every film I’ve seen lately, it’s complicated. Can you buzz his room?”

“I could, but he wouldn’t answer. He left a few minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on the way.”

“Oh? Did he say where he was going?”

“Yes, back to his place.”

Margo felt her jaw drop. After all his persistence— “He went back to Pittsburgh?”

“Yes, but only to grab fresh clothes and finish up some work.”

“Then…you’re holding his room?”

“Uh-huh. He asked about WiFi, and I told him that yes, we’re set up for the Internet, so I guess he’s planning to do some work from here.” Jenna paused, her head tilting curiously. “You’re disappointed.”

“No, not really. I’m just—” Margo released a breath, frustrated. “The truth is, I have no idea how I feel, and right now I don’t have time to sort it out.”

Jenna snagged Margo’s hand and led her to a corner table where white carafes and pots of strawberry and peach preserves were clustered. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Margo shook her head. “You don’t know how badly I want to, but I have to go.”

“Not until seven, which means you can stay for at least a half hour. Three of my guests are gone, and the two women on the porch have already eaten. If they want croissants or more coffee, there’s a cordial table out there.”

“I really can’t,” Margo returned. “It would take me a week to explain, and unfortunately… Well, you know what’s going on.”

Jenna spoke softly. “The Hudson girl. How tragic.”

“Yes. Can we get together in a day or two? Hopefully, I’ll have some time by then.”

“Of course,” Jenna replied, her concern deepening. “Just give me a call. Or show up. I’m always here.”

Yes, she was—day in, night out. “We need to talk about that, too, sometime. You should get out more.”

“I do. I go to the grocery store, I go to church and occasionally I even have lunch with my good friend Margo or take in a movie.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Margo returned gently.

Jenna smiled. “I know. But it’s all I can handle right now.”

They were a pair, Margo thought as she left that manila envelope in Cole’s room, then drove off. If things didn’t change, neither of them would ever again have a life that included the male of the species.



Seven hours later, she’d finished an enlightening phone conversation with an officer from a neighboring county, and was preparing to leave when Cole strode into the office. He was all broad shoulders and narrow hips in faded jeans and a navy polo shirt. Margo drew a stabilizing breath.

“Can you get away for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m on my way out the door right now,” she replied. Part-timer Charlie Banks, who was now racking up full-time hours, was talking on the phone trying to track down a man Leanne Hudson had been seeing, but so far, no luck. Chase Merritt—whom Hudson’s roommate, Ellie Cortino, had identified—seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. They’d questioned the volleyball team yesterday, and now Brett was at the park, interviewing two teenage employees who’d been out of town when the murder occurred. And dear Sarah was handling yet another call from the media. The office was covered.

Margo came around her desk. “You found my gift?” Everyone knew about Cole’s involvement now. And like always, supportive Sarah, Charlie and Brett, who’d also worked with him, were all for it.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Just let me grab my sunglasses and let the troops know where I’ll be for the next few hours. Then I’ll see you outside.”

Cole narrowed his gaze. “Where will you be?”

She started to say she’d tell him later when the door opened again and an angry young man blew inside.




FOUR


Cole stepped to the side as Adam Wilcox stormed past Sarah’s desk, came through the spindled gate and made a beeline for Margo’s desk. He’d changed since he’d gone to college, filled out. The thin boy with acne and glasses was gone, replaced by a good-looking kid in a red T-shirt and khakis. His light brown hair was streaked with blond now, and contact lenses made his eyes appear bluer than usual. Cole had considered seeing Adam sometime today to offer his condolences, but he wasn’t sure his sympathies would be welcomed.

The kid’s churning gaze bounced off Cole as he approached Margo, but he didn’t smile and he didn’t acknowledge Cole’s nod.

“Thanks a lot, Margo,” he said, locking his eyes on hers. “Thanks a whole lot.”

Cole watched Margo’s expression move from surprise to confusion. “Adam,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

His anger was nearly palpable, but so was his grief. His voice rose. “What’s wrong? I just saw the interview you gave that Johnstown reporter. I was talking to an insurance guy on the phone, and all of a sudden, there you were on TV practically saying my dad bungled the first Gold Star murders. How could you do that to him? How could you do it to me?”

It was Cole’s turn to be confused. Margo had been nothing but diplomatic and respectful. He saw Sarah turn in her chair, saw portly Charlie Banks hang up the phone and stand sentinel, ready to help if things got sticky. Still, the shaggy gray brows above his blue eyes had dipped low in sympathy.

“Adam,” Margo said, “I would never insult or disrespect your father. You must have misunderstood.”

“I didn’t misunderstand anything. You should’ve told that woman flat out that my dad didn’t need to call in the state police. He knew who killed those girls. He just couldn’t put him away. You made him look clueless.”

Cole watched Margo move closer, her tone gentle and sincere. “Adam, your dad was a great cop. I would never say or do anything to denigrate his memory. If it sounded that way, I’m deeply sorry.” She signaled Sarah. “Let me get you some coffee or a soft drink, then we can go back to the interrogation room, sit down and talk this through. Okay?”

He shook his head no. Then tears welled in his eyes and he blinked and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a lousy week.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“I’m alone now.”

Sarah’s pudgy face lined in sympathy, then following Charlie’s lead, she went back to work. Cole walked to Charlie’s desk, a desk he’d used frequently, giving Adam and Margo some space to talk quietly.

Banks was a heavyset, grandfatherly man with rimless bifocals, a gray walrus mustache and a heart of gold, but the trademark gruffness in his voice always made him sound as if he was half ticked off. He stood to shake Cole’s hand.

“Hey, Charlie,” Cole said. “You’re looking well.”

Charlie gripped his hand hard and long. “You too, Cole. Good to see you. Sarah said you came in yesterday.”

“Yeah. I heard one of the initial reports and got interested.”

“I’m not surprised. You doin’ okay in Pittsburgh?”

“Fair to middling, as they say. How’s your family?”

“Good. Doris and I got another grandbaby on the way. Real quick now—just a matter of days. Sad thing is, it’s our Ginny’s first, and her husband’s over there in Afghanistan.” He nodded a few times. “But we’re here for her. We’ll help her get this baby born.”

“You’re good parents,” Cole said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. We try.” Charlie’s gaze shifted to the conversation going on near Margo’s desk. “That’s a bad situation over there,” he said quietly. “Young kid, both parents gone, no sisters or brothers. John’s sister and her husband want the boy to move in with them, but Adam’s of age now, and he wants to stay at the house.”

“It’s his home,” Cole said, a shrug in his voice. “I don’t know about you, but I’d feel the same way. His life’s already been turned upside down.” He watched Margo dump the pencils and pens out of that Hail to the Chief mug and hand it to Adam. Watched the kid hug her for a long time. Then, surprising Cole at the brevity of their conversation, Margo walked him through the gate and out the door.

When she came back inside a minute later, she ex haled, spoke to Sarah, then crossed to Cole where he stood with Charlie. “I’ll see you outside. I need to talk to Charlie before I leave.”

Presently, with Charlie and Sarah apprised of her plans, Margo descended the steps, and crossed the sidewalk to Cole where he waited beside his parked truck. High above them, the midday sun shone down, baking the concrete beneath their feet. The August air was stone still, heavy with humidity.

Cole pushed away from the side of his truck. “Are you all right? Your talk with Adam got a little intense.”

“I’m fine. I just wish he was.” She brushed a few wispy strands back from her face. “I just hope he’ll go back to school. He said there’s a special girl there, and friends. He needs them now.”

“He’s decided against it for certain?”

“No, but he’s leaning toward skipping this semester and enrolling for the spring term.”

He nodded. “You were good with him in there.”

“Thanks, I tried.” She drew a breath and changed the subject. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”

“Just that Burgess and Tate Amusements is back in the area. They’re only forty-five miles away at—”

“—the Laurel Banks carnival grounds,” Margo finished. “I know. I just got off the phone with the Laurel Banks P.D.”

Cole’s brow lined. “Trouble?”

“Not so far, but they generally check out licenses and pay a few courtesy calls when carnivals and other amusements come to town. Guess what? The men we questioned two years ago are still working for them.” Margo slipped on her sunglasses. “And of course, they’re both still pillars of the community. One just served time for aggravated assault and the other’s behind in his child support payments. How did you find out they were nearby?”

“By accident,” he said wryly. “You know, the way all good investigative work is done. When I was driving back from Pittsburgh, I stopped for coffee at a convenience store and saw a carnival poster. It wasn’t the Burgess and Tate company, but it made me think that a higher power wanted me to see that sign. I looked up B and T’s home-base phone number on the Internet and got their summer route and hours.”

She had to grin. “The man’s a detective.”

He grinned back. “Duly licensed and everything.” Their gazes held for a few seconds, fond memories seeming to float between them. Then Cole glanced away and went on. “Anyway, even though we didn’t like them for the first two murders, it’s a pretty big coincidence when the ride jockeys show up again just as another young woman is killed.”




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