Ice Cold Killer. Cindi Myers

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      “Can you think of anyone at all she might have argued with recently—an unhappy client, perhaps?”

      Darcy shook her head. “No. We’ve only been open a few months—less than four. So far all our interactions with clients have been good ones. I know, realistically, that won’t last. You can’t please everyone. But it’s been a good experience so far. Well, except for Dr. Nichols.” She made a face.

      “Ed Nichols, the other vet in town?”

      “Yes.” She sighed. “He wasn’t happy about our coming here. He said there wasn’t enough business in a town this small for one vet, much less three. He accused us of undercutting his prices, and then I heard from some patients that he’s been bad-mouthing us around town. But he never threatened us or anything like that. I mean, I can’t believe he would want to kill one of us.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.

      “Where were you this morning, from nine to one?” Ryder asked.

      “Is that when she died? I was here, seeing patients. We open at eight o’clock.”

      “Did you go out for lunch?”

      “No. We had an emergency call—a dog that had tangled with a porcupine. I had to sedate the poor guy to get the quills out. I ended up eating a granola bar at my desk about one o’clock.”

      “So you usually spend all day at the office here?”

      She shook her head. “Not always. One of us is usually here, but we also treat large animals—horses and cows, mostly, but we see the occasional llama or donkey. Sometimes it’s easier to go out to the animal than to have them brought here. That was something else Dr. Nichols didn’t like—that we would do house calls like that. He said it set a bad precedent.”

      “Was Kelly dating anyone?” Ryder asked.

      “She dated a lot of people, but no one seriously. She was pretty and outgoing and popular.”

      “Did she ever mention a man she didn’t get along with? A relationship that didn’t end well—either here or where you were before?”

      “We were in Fort Collins. And no. Kelly got along with everyone.” She made dating look easy, and had sometimes teased Darcy—though gently—about her reluctance to get involved.

      “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

      “No.” What did that have to do with Kelly? But before she could ask, Ryder stood. He towered over her—maybe six feet four inches tall, with broad shoulders and muscular thighs. She shrank back from his presence, an involuntary action she hated, but couldn’t seem to control.

      “Can I call someone for you?” he asked. “A friend or relative?”

      “No.” She grabbed a tissue and pressed it to her eyes. “I need to call Kelly’s parents. They’ll be devastated.”

      “Give me their contact information and I’ll do that,” he said. “It’s part of my job. You can call and talk to them later.”

      “All right.” She went to the office, grateful for something to do, and pulled up Kelly’s information on the computer. “I’ll go over to her house and get her cats,” she said. “Is it okay if I do that? I have a key.” Kelly had a key to Darcy’s place, too. The two looked after each other’s pets and were always in and out of each other’s homes.

      “Yes. I already stopped by her place with an evidence team from the sheriff’s department. That’s how we found your contact information.”

      She handed him a piece of paper on which she’d written the names and numbers for Kelly’s parents. He took it and gave her a business card. “I wrote my cell number on there,” he said. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us. Even something small could be the key to finding out what happened to her.”

      She stared at the card, her vision blurring, then tucked it in the front pocket of her slacks. “Thank you.”

      “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked.

      No. How could she be okay again, with her best friend dead? And not just dead—murdered. She shook her head but said, “I’ll be all right. I’m used to looking after myself.”

      The intensity in his gaze unnerved her. He seemed genuinely concerned, but she wasn’t always good at reading people. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “And I’ll call you if I think of anything.”

      He left and she went through the motions of closing up. The two cats and a dog in hospital cages were doing well. The dog—the porcupine victim—would be able to go home in the morning, and one of the cats, as well. The other cat, who had had surgery to remove a tumor, was also looking better and should be home by the weekend. She shut down the computer and set the alarm, then locked up behind her.

      Outside it was growing dark, snow swirling over the asphalt of the parking lot, the pine trees across the street dusted with snow. The scene might have been one from a Christmas card, but Darcy felt none of the peace she would have before Ryder’s visit. Who would want to hurt Kelly? Eagle Mountain had seemed such an idyllic town—a place where a single woman could walk down the street after dark and never feel threatened, where most people didn’t bother to lock their doors, where children walked to school without fear. After only four months she knew more people here than she had in six years in Fort Collins. Kelly had made friends with almost everyone.

      Was her killer one of those friends? Or a random stranger she had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with? That sort of thing was supposed to happen in cities, not way out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe Eagle Mountain was just another ugly place in a pretty package, and the peace she had thought she had found was just a lie.

       Chapter Two

      A half mile from the veterinary clinic, Ryder almost turned around and went back. Leaving Darcy Marsh alone hadn’t felt right, despite all her insisting that he go. But what was he going to do for her in her grief? He’d be better off using his time to interview Ed Nichols. Maybe he would call Darcy later and check that she was okay. She was so quiet. So self-contained. He was like that himself, but there was something else going on with her. She hadn’t been afraid of him, but he had sensed her discomfort with him. Something more than her grief was bothering her. Was it because he was law enforcement? Because he was a man? Something else?

      He didn’t like unanswered questions. It was one of the things that made him a good investigator. He liked figuring people out—why they acted the way they did. If he hadn’t been a law enforcement officer, he might have gone into psychology, except that sitting in an office all day would have driven him batty. He needed to be active and doing.

      Ed Nichols lived in a small, ranch-style home with dark green cedar siding and brick-red trim. Giant blue spruce trees at the corners dwarfed the dwelling, and must have cast it in perpetual shadow. In the winter twilight, lights glowed from every window as if determined to dispel the gloom. Ryder parked his Chevy Tahoe at the curb and strode up the walk. Somewhere inside the house, a dog barked. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and a man in his midfifties, thick blond hair fading to white, answered the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

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