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DEPUTY DWIGHT PRENTICE would rather face down an irate motorist or break up a bar fight than deal with the stack of forms and reports in his inbox. But duty—and the occasional nagging from office manager Adelaide Kincaid—forced him to tackle the paperwork. That didn’t stop him from resenting the task that kept him behind his desk when Indian summer offered up one of the last shirtsleeve days of fall, the whole world outside bathed in a soft golden light that made the white LED glare of his office seem like a special kind of torture.
As he put the finishing touches on yet another report, he wished for an urgent call he would have to respond to—or at least some kind of distraction. So when the buzzer sounded that signaled the front door opening, he sat back in his chair and listened.
“I need to speak with Travis.”
The woman’s soft, familiar voice made Dwight slide back his chair, then glance at the window to his left to check that the persistent cowlick in his hair wasn’t standing up in back.
“Sheriff Walker is away at training.” Adelaide spoke in what Dwight thought of as her schoolmarm voice—very precise and a little chiding.
“Could I speak to one of the deputies, then?”
“What is this about?”
“I’d prefer to discuss that with the deputy.”
Dwight rose and hurried to head off Adelaide’s further attempts to determine the woman’s business at the sheriff’s department. The older woman was a first-class administrator, but also known as one of the biggest gossips in town.
“Hello, Brenda.” Dwight stepped into the small reception area and nodded to the pretty blonde in front of Adelaide’s desk. “Can I help you with something?”
“Mrs. Stenson wants to speak to a deputy,” Adelaide said.
“That would be me.” Dwight indicated the hallway he had just moved down. “Why don’t you come into my office?”
As he escorted her down the hall, Dwight checked her out, without being too obvious. Brenda had been a pretty girl when they knew each other in high school, but she had matured into a beautiful woman. She had cut a few inches off her hair recently and styled it in soft layers. The look was more sophisticated and suited her. He had noticed her smiling more lately, too. Maybe she was finally getting past the grief for her murdered husband.
She wasn’t smiling now, however. In his office, she took a seat in the chair Dwight indicated and he shut the door, then slid behind his desk. “You look upset,” he said. “What’s happened?”
In answer, she opened her purse, took out a bright yellow envelope, and slid it across the desk to him.
He looked down at the envelope. BRENDA was written across the front in bold black letters, all caps. “Before I open it, tell me your impression of what’s in it,” he said.
“I don’t know if it’s some kind of sick joke, or what,” she said, staring at the envelope as if it were a coiled snake. “But I think it might be a threat.” She knotted her hands on the edge of the desk. “My fingerprints are probably all over it. I wasn’t thinking...”
“That’s all right.” Dwight opened the top desk drawer and took out a pair of nitrile gloves and put them on. Then he turned the envelope over, lifted the flap and slid out the single sheet of folded paper.
The capital letters of the message on the paper were drawn with the same bold black marker as the writing on the envelope. BURN THAT BOOK OR YOU WILL DIE.
“What book?” he asked.
“I can’t be sure, but I think whoever wrote that note is referring to the rare book that’s part of the auction to raise funds for the museum. It’s an obscure, self-published volume purportedly giving an insider’s experiences with a top-secret project to manufacture biological weapons for use in World War II. The project was apparently financed by the US government and took place in Rayford County. I found it in Andy’s belongings, mixed in with some historical law books. I have no idea how he came to have it, but apparently it’s an item that’s really prized by some collectors—because it’s rare, I guess. And maybe because of the nature of the subject matter.”
Dwight grabbed a legal pad and began making notes. Later, he would review them. And he would need them for the inevitable report. “Who knew about this book?” he asked.
“Lots of people,” she said. “There was an article in the Examiner.”
“The issue that came out Thursday?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He riffled through a stack of documents on his desk until he found the copy of the newspaper. The article was on the front page. Rare Book to Head Up Auction Items to Benefit Museum—accompanied by a picture of Brenda holding a slim blue volume, the title, The Secret History of Rayford County, Colorado, in silver lettering on the front. “How much is the book worth?” he asked.
“A dealer I contacted estimated we could expect to receive thirty to fifty thousand dollars at a well-advertised auction,” she said. “I thought that in addition to the money, the auction would generate a lot of publicity for the museum and maybe attract more donors.”
“People will pay that much money for a book?” Dwight didn’t try to hide his amazement.
“I was shocked, too. But apparently, it’s very rare, and there’s the whole top-secret government plot angle that collectors like.”
“But this note wasn’t written by a collector,” he said. “A collector wouldn’t want you to burn the book.”
“I know.” She leaned toward him. “That’s why I’m wondering if the whole thing is some kind of twisted joke. I mean—that cheerful yellow paper...” Her voice trailed away as they both stared at the note.
“Maybe it’s a joke,” he said. “But we can’t assume anything. Has anyone said anything to you about the book since this article ran?” He tapped the newspaper. “Anything that struck you as odd or ‘off’?”
“No. The only thing anyone has said is they hope we get a lot of money for the museum. A couple of people said they couldn’t imagine who would pay so much for a book, and one or two have said the subject matter sounded interesting. But no one has seemed upset or negative about it at all.”
“Where is the book now?” he asked.
“It’s at the museum.”
The old-house-turned-museum wasn’t the most secure property, from what Dwight could remember about it. “Do you have a security system there—alarms, cameras?”
She shook her head. “We’ve never had the budget for that kind of thing. And we’ve never needed it. We just have regular door locks with dead bolts, and we keep the most valuable items in our collection in locked cases. But we don’t really have much that most people would find valuable. I mean, antiques and historical artifacts aren’t the kind of thing a person could easily sell for quick cash.”
“But this book is different,” Dwight said. “It’s worth a lot of money. I think you had better put it somewhere else for now. Somewhere more secure.”
“I was thinking of moving it to a safe at my house.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” He stood. “Let’s go do that now.”
“Oh.” She rose, clearly flustered. “You don’t have to do that. I can—”
“I’d like to see this book, anyway.” He gestured to the door, and she moved toward it.
“I’ll meet you at the museum,” he said when they reached the parking lot.
She nodded and fished her car keys out of her purse, then looked at him again, fear in her hazel eyes, though he could tell she was trying hard to hide it. “Do you think I’m really in danger?” she asked.
He put a hand on her arm, a brief gesture of reassurance. “Maybe not. But there’s no harm in being extra careful.”
She nodded, then moved to her car. He waited until she was in the driver’s seat before he got into his SUV, suppressing the urge to call her back, to insist that she ride with him and not move out of his sight until he had tracked down the person who threatened her. He slid behind the wheel and blew out his breath. This was going to be a tough one—not because they had so little to go on to track down the person who had made the threat, but because he was going to have to work hard to keep his emotions out of the case.
He started the vehicle and pulled out onto the street behind Brenda’s Subaru. He could do this. He could investigate the case and protect Brenda Stenson without her finding out he’d been hopelessly in love with her since they were both seventeen.
Chapter Two (#ubcc0dd40-8b26-5323-8cf0-fdbaeabcaf0b)
Brenda had come so close to asking Dwight if he would drive her to the history museum in the sheriff’s department SUV. She felt too vulnerable in her own car, aware that the person who wrote that awful note might be watching her, maybe even waiting to make good on his threat. She shuddered and pushed the thought away. She was overreacting. Dwight hadn’t seemed that upset about the note. And really, who could take it seriously, with the yellow paper and cartoon flowers?
She had always admired Dwight’s steadiness. When they had been in high school, he was one of the stars on the basketball team. As a cheerleader, she had attended every game and watched him lope up and down the gym on his long legs. She had watched all the players, of course, but especially him. He had thick chestnut hair and eyes the color of the Colorado sky in a ruggedly handsome face. There was something so steady about him, even then. Like many of her classmates, he was the son of a local rancher. He wore jeans and boots and Western shirts and walked with the swaggering gait that came from spending so much time on horseback.
A town girl, she didn’t have much in common with him, and was too shy to do more than smile at him in the hall. He always returned the greeting, but that was as far as it went. He’d never asked her out, and after graduation, they’d both left for college. She had returned to town five years later as a newlywed, her husband, Andy, anxious to set up his practice in the small town he had fallen in love with on visits to meet her family. Dwight returned a year later, fresh from military service in Afghanistan. Brenda would have predicted he would go to work on the family ranch—the choice of law enforcement surprised her. But the job suited him—the steadiness and thoughtfulness she had glimpsed as a teen made him a good cop. One she was depending on to help her through this latest crisis.
When they entered the history museum, Lacy was talking to a wiry young man with buzzed hair and tattoos covering both forearms. “Brenda!” Lacy greeted them, then her eyebrows rose as Dwight stepped in behind her. “And Dwight. Hello.” She turned to the young man. “Brenda is the person you need to talk to.”
“Hello, Parker,” Dwight said.
“Deputy.” The young man nodded, his expression guarded.
“This is Parker Riddell,” Lacy said. “Paige Riddell’s brother. Parker, this is Brenda Stenson, the museum’s director.”
Paige ran the local bed-and-breakfast and headed up the environmental group that had stopped Henry Hake’s development. Brenda couldn’t recall her ever mentioning a brother. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “How can I help you?”
Parker hesitated, then took it. “I was wanting to volunteer here,” he said.
“Are you interested in history?” Brenda asked.
“Yeah. And my sister said you could use some help, so...” He shrugged.
“Well, yes. I can always use help. But now isn’t really a good time. Could you come back tomorrow?”
“I guess so.” Parker cut his eyes to Dwight. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Deputy Prentice is here to discuss security for our auction.” Brenda forced a smile. That sounded like a reasonable explanation for Dwight’s presence, didn’t it? And not that far from the truth.
“Okay, I guess I’ll come back tomorrow.” Keeping his gaze on Dwight, he sidled past and left, the doorbells clanging behind him.
“What was that about?” Lacy asked Dwight. “He was looking at you like you were a snake he was afraid would strike—or a bug he wanted to stomp on.”
“Let’s just say Parker has a rocky history with law enforcement. I’d be careful about taking him on as a volunteer.”
He sounded so serious. “Do you think he’s dangerous?” Brenda asked.
Dwight shifted his weight. “I just think he’s someone who should be watched closely.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Brenda turned to Lacy. “Thanks for looking after things here while I was gone. You can go home now. I’m going to go over some things with Dwight, then close up for lunch.”
Lacy gave her a speculative look, but said nothing. “We’ll talk later,” she said, then collected her purse and left.
Brenda crossed her arms and faced Dwight. “What’s the story on Parker Riddell?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
“This is a very small town—you know I’ll find out eventually. If anyone links the information back to you, you can tell them I was doing a background check prior to taking him on as a volunteer. That’s not unreasonable.”
“All right.” He leaned back against the counter facing her. “He got into trouble with drugs, got popped for some petty theft, then a burglary charge. He did a little jail time, then went into rehab and had a chance at a deferred sentence.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means if he keeps his nose clean, his record will be expunged. I take it he came to live with Paige after he got out of rehab to get away from old friends and, hopefully, bad habits. And I hope he does that. That doesn’t mean I think it’s the best idea in the world for you to spend time alone with him, or leave him alone with anything around here that’s valuable.”
“Do you think he might have sent the note?”
He frowned. “It doesn’t fit any pattern of behavior he’s shown before—at least that I know of. But I can look into it. I will look into it.”
“I can’t think of anyone who would do something like that,” she said. “I mean, anonymous notes—it’s so, well, sleazy. And over a stupid book.”
“Show me the book.”
“It’s back here.” She led the way into the workroom, to a file drawer in the back corner. She had placed The Secret History of Rayford County, Colorado inside an acid-free cardboard box. She opened the box and handed the book to Dwight.
He read the title on the front, then opened it and flipped through it, stopped and read a few lines. “It’s a little dry,” he said.
“Some parts are better than others,” she said. “Collectors are mainly interested because of the subject matter and its rarity.”
He returned the book to her. “Maybe someone is upset that this top-secret information has been leaked,” he said.
“The whole thing happened seventy years ago,” she said. “As far as I can determine, most of the details about the project are declassified, and all the people who took part are long dead.”
“A relative who’s especially touchy about the family name?” Dwight speculated. “Someone related to the author?” He examined the spine of the book. “S. Smith.”
“The research I did indicated the name is probably a pseudonym,” Brenda said. “In any case, since the author was supposedly part of the project, he would most likely be dead by now. Since his real identity has never been made public, what is there for the family to be upset about?”
“Someone else, then,” Dwight said.
“Are there any new suspicious people hanging around town?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No one who stands out.”
“Except Parker,” she said.
“I’ll check into his background a little more, see if I can find a connection,” he said. He turned to survey the long table that took up much of the room. “Are these the items for the auction?”
“Everything I’ve collected so far,” she said. “I still have a few more things people have promised.”
He picked up a set of hand-braided reins and a silver-trimmed bridle. “You’ve got a lot of nice things. Should net you a good bit of money.”
“I hope it’s enough,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have any hope of finding Henry Hake alive and well and enjoying an island vacation, have you? He was our biggest donor.”
Dwight shook his head. “I don’t expect any of us will be seeing Henry Hake again,” he said. “At least not alive.”
“I figured as much. So all we need is another wealthy benefactor. I’m hoping that rare book will attract someone like that—someone with money to spare, who might enjoy getting credit for pulling us out of the red.”
“What will happen if that benefactor doesn’t materialize?” he asked.
She straightened her shoulders and put on her brave face—one she had had plenty of practice assuming since Andy’s death. “I’ll have to find another job. And this town will lose one of its real assets.”
“I hope we won’t lose you, too,” he said.
