The Lawman. Martha Shields

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      “Other than the morning when you went out to check on her, had you ever been at Harriet’s house before?”

      Her lips firmed. He waited, wondering if she’d have the nerve to lie, even though her face plainly showed it when she did. “Yes,” she finally said.

      “How many times?”

      Her shoulders shifted. “I don’t know.”

      “When?”

      “Just after I moved here.”

      “Why?”

      “To go over some details.”

      “Personal details?”

      “No!” She wouldn’t look at him. “About the job at the library.”

      “How did you get the job?”

      “Harriet offered it to me.”

      “After you’d been banished to Rumor?”

      “I wasn’t banished! Rumor is a haven, not a prison.” She’d jumped to her feet again.

      A haven from what? “So you applied for the job after you moved here?”

      “No.”

      “Then how did you get it? Apply by mail, phone, fax, email?”

      “I met Harriet at a conference and she offered me the job.”

      “Just like that.”

      Her teeth were clenched. “Just like that.”

      “So, at this conference, did you two hang out together? Hit happy hour with the rest of the ladies?”

      “I didn’t hang out with Harriet. And I seriously doubt she ever once went out to a happy hour.”

      He sat back, hitching his ankle up to his knee and lazily tapped the notepad on his bent leg. “Why?”

      “She wasn’t like that.”

      Frankly, based on his brief encounters with Harriet Martel before her death, he had a hard time seeing her as a barfly. She’d been brusque, albeit helpful enough, when he’d gone into the library for some reference material. Not until she’d died and he’d begun investigating her murder had stories of her quiet, kindhearted actions come to light to help counteract the image of the solitary woman. In her mid-forties, Harriet had been strong-willed, opinionated and not immediately personable, though she’d done a lot of kind things for other people.

      “How do you know she wasn’t like that?”

      “I worked with her!”

      “Yes, you did,” he agreed softly. “Yet you expect me to believe that you and the victim didn’t once have any kind of conversation that verged on personal matters. That she never confided in you, that you never overheard her confide in someone else. Come on, Molly, the library isn’t that large. Your office even connected with hers.”

      She looked away, her jaw set. But it was too late; he’d already seen the sheen in her eyes that turned them from barely there blue to glistening aquamarine. He pushed to his feet and moved around until he could see her face.

      Between him, the two chairs and little table and the rail around the porch, she had no place to go, and he instinctively kept from crowding her any more than necessary. “What are you afraid of, Molly? Do you suspect someone yourself? Just tell me. I’ll protect you.”

      Her head suddenly went back, and the part of him inside that hadn’t turned to stone long ago went cold at the expression in her eyes.

      “The last thing I need is a cop vowing protection.” Scorn practically dripped from her tense body.

      “Are you saying that you do know something? Molly, you can voluntarily help me or not. Either way, I’ll get at the truth. Whatever you’re hiding will come out.”

      “Don’t threaten me.”

      “That’s no threat.” He lifted his hand, narrowing his eyes a little when she jerked back. He continued the movement, swiping away the spider that was busily spinning a line of web straight toward her shoulder. “I always find my man. Or my woman.”

      Her lips parted. “Is that some sort of, of, suggestion that I had something to do with Harriet’s death?” Her voice rose a little.

      “You did get a promotion.” He waited a long beat, letting it sink in. “People have killed for less.”

      “You’re vile.”

      “I’m a deputy sheriff, ma’am,” he said flatly. “And there could well be a murderer right here in Rumor among us. If your sensibilities are offended, that’s just too damn bad. Murder is a vile business.” And if it took manipulating the jumpy, sexy woman into finding the murderer, then that was also too damn bad. There wasn’t much that Holt believed in anymore. But he did believe in justice.

      She moved suddenly, brushing past him despite the lack of space. It left him feeling even more scorched than from the afternoon heat. “You are just as hateful as every other cop it’s been my misfortune to know.” She shoved open her door and disappeared inside.

      The door slammed shut so hard the glasses on the little table rattled right along with the windows in their panes.

      He picked up his glass and sucked down the lone, remaining ice cube as he studied the other glass. The one she’d used. It was still more than half-full.

      There was a small, faint pink glisten smudged on the rim of the glass. She’d put gloss on her lips before she’d come out with the lemonade.

      How many other cops have you known, Molly Brewster? And why?

      He didn’t believe for one minute that she was guilty of murdering her boss, or even conspiring to have her killed. He did know, right down to his bones, though, that she was hiding something.

      And he needed to know what it was in case it had some bearing on the investigation.

      Right now, the only strong suspects they had were Lenny Hostetler, whose whereabouts where unknown, and the father of Harriet’s baby, whose complete identity was unknown.

      Lenny had cause to be angry with Harriet because she’d helped his wife and children escape his abuse, and Darla Hostetler, said now-ex-wife, had strongly confirmed her belief that Lenny was more than capable of murder.

      And the father of Harriet’s baby? Who knew what kind of motive he might have had, if any. Maybe Tessa had been right, and the guy wanted Harriet to end the pregnancy. Maybe he’d been so desperate for that to happen that he’d been willing to kill the mother in the process.

      Holt sighed and set down his glass. Without second-guessing his reasons, barely touching the rim of Molly’s glass, he scooted it to the edge of the table. Then, with one finger at the bottom edge, and the other on the top rim, he smoothly tipped the lemonade into his empty glass.

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