Strike two. Constance mulled it over for a second, then nodded. She preferred grapefruit and would normally just skip juice if it wasn’t available, but she also knew her kidneys were probably screaming for something besides coffee and cola. “Okay. Cranberry will work. And a large water.”
“Okay. I’ll have that out in just a couple of minutes.”
Once Stella had started toward the doors at the back of the lunch counter, Constance set about doctoring her java. Two sugars, one creamer, as usual, unless Ben was responsible for making it, of course. You simply couldn’t resuscitate his coffee, no matter what you dumped into it. She’d already tried more time than she could count. It was a lost cause.
She glanced at her watch. Almost 8:30. Ben had been planning to take the day off since they were supposed to be spending it together. She’d try him after breakfast. Maybe he could help her with that bizarre holiday riddle, and a friendly voice definitely wouldn’t be unwelcome either.
The murmur of unintelligible conversations between patrons provided a dull base rhythm for the kitchen noises issuing at odd intervals from beyond the cafe doors at the back of the small restaurant. Punctuating the muddy soundtrack came the sudden clang and grind of an old, mechanical cash register. Constance looked up to see a diner paying his bill, and after he exchanged a pleasantry or two with Stella he waved to some of the other customers and started for the door. When he hooked around the end of the counter he glanced at Constance, his lips stitched together in a thin frown. When their eyes accidentally met, he gave her a curt nod. The motion was tense, as if it was something he didn’t want to do, but because custom dictated it so, he had no choice. She returned the gesture and focused her attention back on her coffee.
A moment later, a bell pealed out a metallic jangle, and a stiff blast of icy wind immediately groped at her back. She could feel the uncomfortable massage of its chilled fingers even through her heavy sweatshirt and the insulated crew top she was wearing underneath.
She gave a slight shudder as she hunched forward, trying to escape the gust, then finished stirring her coffee and laid the spoon aside on a napkin. She cupped her hands around the mug and huddled over it, allowing its warmth to soak into her palms. The brass bell finally rattled a second time as the door swung shut, ending the unwanted touch of Old Man Winter.
However, the reprieve didn’t seem to last.
She didn’t hear the man at first. In fact, she felt his presence and then she smelled him. A deep chill was radiating outward from his coat, just as it would from a block of dry ice. It expanded through the air between them and brushed against her cheek. With it came the unmistakable scent of spicy aftershave. It reminded her of something she used to give to her grandfathers for Christmas when she was a little girl.
She had just lifted her cup and was taking a sip of her coffee when the man slipped onto the stool at her right side. Even though there were several others available, he had chosen the one immediately next to hers. She heard him shifting on his seat, and then his upper arm briefly pressed against her own. However, it was not as if it were an accidental brush. It lingered there just long enough that it seemed almost deliberate.
She immediately tensed and her mind began ticking through the options.
Her first inclination was to fire off a sarcastic volley, asking if she was in his way. However, she thought better of it before the words escaped. She needed to keep her foul mood contained, especially given her pariah status among the people of Hulis already. Barking at one of them certainly wouldn’t gain her any friends.
Of course, since she was an outsider, that also narrowed the field a bit too. The only person she could think of off the top of her head who would purposely sit next to her was Sheriff Carmichael. Since the sheriff’s department was across the street, he seemed a likely candidate. All except for the fact that he was a cop and an unnaturally observant one at that. She was absolutely certain he would realize that placing himself in such close proximity on the side she carried her weapon would make her painfully uneasy. She couldn’t fathom him doing such a thing, unless for some odd reason making her uncomfortable was his intent.
No. It probably wasn’t the sheriff. The reality was that not everyone had social skills. The clod next to her was probably completely oblivious to his faux pas, and she was just letting the grumpiness and paranoia override her brain.
She finished sipping and lowered the mug back to the counter, then swiveled the stool a few inches while carefully repositioning herself to the left side of the seat. She finally stole a quick glance at the man, and as she had surmised, he was not Sheriff Carmichael. However, his face was vaguely familiar. She just couldn’t immediately place where she had seen it.
He looked to be approximately the same age as the sheriff, maybe a few years older, but it was hard to tell. He was gaunt, clean-shaven and had angular features. Wire rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His hair was trimmed short in an outdated style that reminded her of pictures she had seen of her father when he was a boy. It was predominantly gray, although dark brown strands were still visible throughout.
The man was tastefully attired in a dark, heavy topcoat over a starched white shirt, tie, and what appeared to be a charcoal gray suit. As far as appearances went, he looked harmless enough. However, looks aren’t everything, and she knew it.
After several heartbeats, he said quietly, “Good morning, Special Agent Mandalay.”
Constance hated surprises. In fact, they were one of the very reasons she hated sitting with her back to the door.
CHAPTER 18
Constance didn’t recognize his voice.
It actually sounded deeper than she would have expected based on her quick glance at him, but not unnaturally so. In a very real sense it came across as calm and soothing, carrying with it the underlying strength and even tone of a practiced orator. However, while the words were clearly audible to her, he was keeping his volume low. It was apparent that he wasn’t interested in being overheard by anyone else in the establishment.
She forced herself not to outwardly react. His address made it plain that he knew exactly who she was, which put her at a disadvantage. Of course, this was a small town, and word traveled fast, especially where it concerned her. She’d already witnessed the grapevine in action more than once.
She turned her gaze back in his direction, this time allowing it to linger. She noticed immediately that he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his attention seemed fully occupied by his own hands. His eyes remained fixed on the counter in front of him where he was carefully sorting the blue, yellow, and pink artificial sweetener packets that were nestled in a rectangular plastic container.
Never breaking his focus on the compulsive task he added, “It’s particularly cold out there today, isn’t it?”
Obviously he was intent on starting a conversation with her. Playing along for the moment, without missing a beat she replied. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“Unfortunate that Arthur is such a miser when it comes to the motel,” he continued, voice still low. “In this weather I’m sure that was an unpleasant walk for you.”
A hot flush of alarm washed over Constance. She was willing to accept that he might know her name and recognize her on sight based on town gossip. However, that last comment was a different story entirely. While it could simply be an assumption based on the motel owner’s reputation, it had been delivered with too much confidence and familiarity for her liking.
Holding her ground, keeping her voice steady and matching his volume, she decided to do a bit of fishing. “Who told you I walked?”
“Nobody, Special Agent,” he replied; then with a matter-of-fact shrug added, “I’ve been watching you ever since you arrived in town.”
When she dropped her line in the water, she hadn’t really expected to get a strike that hard or that quickly. As signs go, she wasn’t sure whether to consider that one good or bad.
Feigning nonchalance, she slipped her coat from her lap and laid it across the stool to her left, freeing up her legs in the event she needed to move quickly.
Slowly, she pivoted the rotating seat a little more, angling her knees toward him and bringing her sidearm farther away. She had no idea what was going on here, but she knew for sure she didn’t like what his admission
