“We’re trying, little bit. We’re trying.”
That evening, Jake drove his truck slowly into Bear Flat, trying to decide whether a bribe of chocolate would help sweeten Kallie’s temper. Flowers wouldn’t get him far with his macho sprite, but she’d had chocolate ice cream in her grocery basket a couple of weeks ago. He glanced at the dashboard clock. The grocery store kept tourist-season hours and would remain open for another hour or so. He turned toward downtown.
Whipple and the delivery guy stood talking on the boardwalk. The soda truck blocked the spot in front of the store. Jake U-turned, parked across the street in front of the police station, and stepped out of his pickup. Whipple did a double take and scowled. Jake snorted. If the grocer’s glare were an M16, Jake’s body would be spattered all over the concrete.
As he started across the street, he heard, “Hunt, hold up a minute.” Masterson stood in the doorway of the station. “I need to talk with you.”
The guy looked like he’d aged a decade in two days. I need to talk to your cousin, not you, Jake thought, but he didn’t want to piss off Kallie’s relatives more than they already were. “There a problem?”
“In a way. Let’s walk.” The cop wasn’t in uniform, and as he started off down the boardwalk, he stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Spit it out, Masterson. I have things to do.” Like getting some food to go with the ice cream. Having a picnic with Kallie. He hadn’t eaten all day; had his sprite?
“Then listen up.” Masterson started talking, and within five minutes, Jake’s appetite disappeared completely. Their boots thudded on the wooden planks of the boardwalk as he tried to take it in.
“Yeah. I warned Kallie to stay close to home.”
At the thought of Kallie in danger, Jake froze in place. But she’d take precautions. Wouldn’t she? He’d damn well ensure she did.
“If she-” He realized Masterson’s eyes had filled with pity.
“We think your…friend…Mimi Cavanaugh, might have been one of the first.”
The words floated past him and then rebounded, hitting him right in the gut. “Mimi.” His voice went hoarse. “Murdered? She didn’t kill herself?”
Virgil’s attention turned to the street as they crossed to the other side. His jaw tensed for a moment. “Her death fits the pattern. I’m sorry, Jake.”
Mimi. Soft brown eyes, high, light voice, so very sweet. Some bastard had hurt her? Rage welled up inside like a forest fire, and Jake fought it back. The sun burned his shoulders, but the sweat trickling down his back felt cold. “You got any suspects or leads or whatever?”
“The sheriff’s office is working the information and narrowing the list. It’s pretty much a given that he’ll be a single, white male who lives in the area. Since serial killers often begin with friends or family before escalating, they’re looking at the earliest victims and their relationships.”
Relationships. “You telling me that I’m a suspect?” No real surprise; cops didn’t like the notion of BDSM. He stepped up onto the boardwalk on the other side of the street.
“How’s it hanging, Hunt?” The old geezer who warmed the bench by the feed store gave a token salute.
“Good enough,” Jake answered.
Masterson nodded at the old man as they walked past, and continued, “No, you’re off the suspect list. Last year there was a murder in early spring; you and Logan weren’t even in the country. In fact, that one eliminated most of the seasonal workers.”
“Seems like there’d be far too many suspects.”
“God, yes.” Virgil rubbed his face. “Our station is interviewing the ones around here. If we get any dings, we’ll pitch it to the county detectives-or the FBI, who’ll probably descend like a bunch of locusts.”
“Ah-huh.” Cops shared their territory about as well as schoolchildren with candy, and they sure didn’t hand out information for fun. “What do you want from me?”
“Cynical bastard, aren’t you?”
“Realistic.”
“The chief needs to interview you about Mimi’s death. What was going on, who was around…that sort of thing.” The cop glanced across the street at his station. “He’s got interviews lined up for most of today, but I figured knowing ahead of time might let you give it some thought first.”
And would let him get over the shock of hearing about Mimi. A good notion. And he appreciated the news from someone who wasn’t a stranger. “Got it. And thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Hi, boys.” Mrs. Reed smiled, then resumed snipping dead blossoms off the yellow flowers in the half-barrel planter. She and Vanessa of Vanessa’s Antiques kept the boardwalk barrels filled with blooms all summer.
“Mrs. Reed.” Jake nodded, then stopped in front of the grocery. Should he still go see Kallie?
Masterson halted also, and the assessing gaze he gave the store startled Jake.
“You can’t possibly believe Whipple is a killer.”
The cop didn’t answer.
“Why the hell would you think that?”
“He dated her before you. Apparently smacked her around?”
Jake nodded. Searching for a dom without knowing it, Mimi had confused violence with dominance. Jake had taught her that submission didn’t have to involve getting the crap beat out of her. “He was pissed off when she broke up with him.”
“He’s been busted twice for drugs. Then again, he’s only one of far too many possibles.” Masterson shot him a dark look. “But when you’re thinking back, try to remember anything your girlfriend said about Whipple.”
“I’ll do that.” Nonetheless, he couldn’t quite visualize the geeky Whipple in the role of murderer. As Masterson turned away, Jake grasped the knob of the grocery store and saw a CLOSED sign in the window.
“He’s closed,” Mrs. Reed said, looking up from her flowers.
“I didn’t think he ever shut down early.”
Mrs. Reed pressed the dirt around a small plant. “Never happened before.”
Whipple hadn’t locked the door, so Jake stepped inside. Maybe he could grab some ice cream and leave a few bills on the counter. Most of the lights were off, and Jake paused to let his eyes adjust. Someone taller than Whipple was stocking the shelves at the far end with soft drinks.
The man straightened. “Store’s closed.”
A shaft of light tinted his hair red, and Jake recognized the delivery guy who supplied the lodge. “Hey, Secrist. Where’s Whipple?”
“Dunno. He took off a bit ago like a cat with its tail on fire.”
Masterson blotted out the light from the door as he came in. “Was there an emergency?” the cop asked.
“Naw. We’d been talking outside.” Secrist hitched up his camo pants. “He was
