Return of the Lawman

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“She’s not been ragging on you since you got back,” Lindsey grumbled. Then she shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I have other suspects. You have to see that my mother isn’t the only one. And besides, the developer—”

“I really don’t consider him a suspect,” Dylan cut in.

“You don’t?”

He leaned around her, grabbed the coffee pot and splashed some more dark liquid into his mug. She smelled of cinnamon and burning leaves. He took a deep breath, then quickly drew back. The soft purr of a car engine distracted him. Probably Mr. Smithers. He was the closest neighbor. “What?”

“You don’t consider the developer a suspect?”

He shook his head. “No. He would have bought off someone like Chet, not killed him.”

“Maybe he tried and Chet refused the money.”

“A man who sold babies would refuse money for a zoning vote?”

“We haven’t proved he sold babies. My mother has never been the most reliable source of information, you know.”

“She told your father about the adoption when they first met. She didn’t have any episodes until after several miscarriages following your birth.”

She straightened from the sink and paced around his kitchen. “You’ve been checking out my mother?”

“That’s pretty much common knowledge, Lindsey,” he said softly, and caught her on her next circuit around the kitchen table. Her shoulder tensed beneath his hand, and he could trace the bones. She was more fragile than she liked to appear.

“This damn town and its gossips.” Her breath hitched, and her lids dropped over her dark, sad eyes. When she opened them again, the sadness was gone. She shrugged off his hand.

“Lindsey, how do you feel about having a brother? Do you think it’s true?”

“I don’t know. If it isn’t, my mother has no motive for murder. If it is, I have a brother.” She lifted her arms and dropped them back to her sides. “I don’t know what to think, let alone what to feel.”

He under stood. Separating thinking and feeling kept him sane. Perhaps Lindsey had a degree of detachment, too. “Let’s find out what the truth is. I talked to Chet’s nephew, who took over Chet’s practice after his retirement. A few months ago, the office was broken into and some old files stolen. Chet was quite upset about it when Art Oliver told him.”

Lindsey didn’t look surprised. “You knew that,” he guessed.

She nodded. “I went to school with Art Oliver. So there’s no record of those adoptions?”

“The sanatorium is looking for the old records from when it was the home for unwed mothers.”

“I hate the way that sounds. That alone had to be quite a stigma for any girl who was sent there.” Lindsey ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, and Dylan suspected she thought of her mother’s embarrassment and pain.

“I sense another story.” Absently he noted the grind of an engine starting.

She sighed. “Yeah, one I should have been more interested in long ago. Maybe I would have known the truth then.”

Dylan dragged in a deep breath and caught a whiff of gasoline. Had she fueled her tank before stopping by? Was it on her hands or did the rusty tank leak? She loved that Jeep because her dad had given it to her. “Are you talking to your dad yet?” She’d been so angry over her father’s silence.

“Yeah. I’ve never been able to stop talking to my dad, but he knows I’m not happy with him.” She sloshed some more coffee into her cup. A few droplets ran over the back of her hand.

He grabbed her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “Did you burn yourself?”

She shook her head. “Naw, coffee’s getting cold. Your pot is ancient.”

He licked the droplets from her skin. “You’re right. It is cold. Your hands are always cold.”

She pulled her hand from his. “You know what they say. Cold hands, warm heart.” She rubbed at her eyes.

Dylan smelled it then, the acrid smell of burning leaves and wood. “Smoke?”

“Someone must have been burning leaves around here. There was smoke when I drove up.” Lindsey coughed. “But it’s getting worse.”

Dylan strode to the kitchen door to peer out. Flames had eaten the scraggly grass close to the house, forming a three-foot-high wall at his back door. His heart slammed into his ribs.

He grabbed the phone, but there was no dial tone. “Go out the front door, Lindsey. I’m going to grab the cell phone from my bedroom.”

“Phone line’s dead?” She rifled through her leather backpack and flipped open a cell phone. “Use mine.”

“Outside. Use the front door.” He didn’t wait for her compliance but wrapped his hand around her elbow and ushered her through the living room.

The snap and crackle of the fire in creased with their steps. He let out a ragged breath at the sight of the smoke billowing under the front door.