TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  He grabbed his kit and walked toward where she stood in the doorway. "You shouldn't believe everything you see on TV."

  He turned off the light in the room and watched as she locked the door. "I have a spare key." She fumbled with her key chain until she worked a key off the ring. She held it out to him. "This way if you need to get back inside, day or night, you have access as long as somebody can unlock the front school door for you."

  He took the key from her and slid it into the back pocket of his tight jeans. Together they walked down the silent hallway toward the stairs. Ed and Burt had both stuck their heads in the classroom earlier to tell Clay they'd questioned Vernon and they were leaving.

  Vernon Colby was waiting for them by the front door. "Damn fool kids … nothing but meanness in them nowadays," he muttered as he unlocked the door for Clay and Tamara to exit.

  Night had fallen outside and overhead the bright, sparkly stars were companions to a three-quarter moon. Parked in the lot were two vehicles, the van that Clay had driven and the rusted-out pickup that belonged to Vernon.

  "Where's your car?" he asked.

  "I don't drive to school," she replied. "I always walk to and from work. It's just a little over a mile walk."

  He raked a hand through his thick hair and stared out into the darkness of the night. "I'll drive you home." It was obvious it wasn't something he particularly looked forward to doing.

  "That isn't necessary," she demurred. "I'm used to walking home and the darkness doesn't frighten me."

  "It should," he snapped. "You should be afraid of what the darkness holds. People can be perfectly safe in their own homes one minute, then dead or missing in the next."

  She knew that he was talking about what happened to his parents and her heart went out to him. But she had a feeling that Clay James was a man who didn't appreciate empty platitudes.

  "Thank you, I'll accept the offer of a ride home," she said.

  He opened the passenger door for her and she slid inside. The interior of the van smelled like him, a combination of clean-scented cologne and breath mints.

  He got in and started the van. "Which way?"

  She pointed to the left. "Go down the road about a half a mile. There's a dirt road. Turn right there and I'm at the end of the road."

  He didn't speak again until they turned on the dirt road where thick trees crowded in from either side. "I didn't even know this was here," he said.

  "Most people don't. I found it two years ago when I returned to Cherokee Corners from New York. I like the woods and the solitude."

  He slowed as they came to the end of the road, and his headlights shone on the little cabin she called home. A faint light shone from behind the living room curtains.

  "I know it doesn't look like much," she said. "But it's a perfect artist retreat, an adequate home and holds a sense of spiritual peace that is comforting."

  "You don't have to apologize to me for your living conditions," he said as he pulled to a halt before the place.

  "On the contrary, Officer James, I wasn't apologizing. I was merely trying to make pleasant conversation."

  She hesitated a moment, then continued. "I'm sure you've put in a long day. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?" She wasn't sure what had prompted the invitation. He certainly hadn't been overly sociable and there was no reason for any further contact with him.

  He stared at the cabin for a long moment, then, to her surprise shut off his van engine and turned to look at her. "A cup of coffee sounds good."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  He had no idea why he'd agreed to go inside her home and drink a cup of coffee. Maybe because he didn't want to go back to the lab just yet. Maybe because he didn't want to go to his own home, which would be far too silent and allow him far too many thoughts and recriminations.

  "It's pretty isolated out here," he observed as they walked up the three steps that led to a long front porch. The small cabin was in the center of a copse of thick trees and brush.

  She laughed, the sound echoing like birdsong in the air.

  "That's the difference between a cop and an artist. A cop sees isolated, an artist sees secluded."

  Despite the irritation that had filled him earlier, he felt himself relax a bit, as if the pleasant sound of her laughter had worked like a balm on a sore wound. "A cop sees lots of hiding places. I suppose you see lots of things to paint, Ms. Greystone."

  "Exactly, and please call me Tamara." She unlocked her door and pushed it open. "Welcome to my secluded little cabin in the woods."

  He stepped into the door and felt as if he'd been swept into a different world, a different universe. The room was a visual wonderland filled with shapes and colors.

  The beige sofa held an array of throw pillows in a variety of colors. Paintings covered the walls and a half-finished one rested on an easel in front of a side window that would catch the morning light.

  Roughhewn shelves held pottery and woven baskets in all shapes and sizes and a collection of hummingbirds set on top of the fireplace mantle. Fresh wildflowers were in vases everywhere and the room was scented with their sweet fragrance.

  The total effect should have been chaotic and cluttered, but instead the room radiated a sense of balance and serenity.

  As he looked around, taking it all in, he felt some of the day's pressures easing. His shoulder muscles seemed to unkink a little and the burn that had smoldered in the pit of his stomach for the last month dissipated somewhat.

  "Please, come on into the kitchen and I'll put the coffee on."

  He followed her into a cozy kitchen as colorful and unique as the living room. She gestured him to a small wooden table, then busied herself with the coffeemaker.

  He noticed a shelf above the kitchen sink filled with healthy plants of various types. "You must have quite a green thumb," he said.

  "I like growing things."

  He leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair and viewed her from top to bottom, taking in the length of her slender back and the curve of shapely hips beneath the dress. "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other before now."

  She turned from the coffeepot and flashed him a grin. "I try not to run into the police, Officer James."

  "Call me Clay," he said. "Whenever you say Mr. or Officer James, I think you're talking to my father."

  "All right, then Clay it is. And I don't go into town very often, just when I need groceries or art supplies and occasionally to visit with Alyssa at the Redbud."

  He looked at her in surprise. "You know my cousin Alyssa?"

  "She and I have become good friends recently, since I moved back from New York. I try to have her to dinner out here at least once every couple of weeks."

  "That's nice. Alyssa could use more friends. So, you didn't like the Big Apple?"

  She hesitated a moment before replying. "No … it wasn't my cup of tea." There was something in her tone that forbid him to ask any more questions on that particular topic.

  "But you're originally from Cherokee Corners?" He was aware that he was talking more to her than he'd talked to anyone in the last several weeks, but she was easy to talk to. Something about her soft, seemingly accepting demeanor invited conversation.

  "Born and raised here. You were several years older than me, so we didn't run in the same crowd."

  "What's with the hummingbirds?" he asked, noting that several glass figurines hung at the window over the sink.

  "The hummingbird is one of my totem animals."

  He was grateful when she didn't elaborate. He didn't want to hear about totems and spirituality, about old Cherokee ways and the voice of the elders. It was these kinds of things that he'd fought about with his mother just before she'd disappeared.

  He was suddenly sorry he'd followed his impulse to come inside, but now that the coffee was finished brewing, he wasn't sure how to leave gracefully. Just one fast cup, then I'm out of here, he thought.

&n
bsp; As she reached up high in a cabinet to pull down two stoneware mugs, he couldn't help but notice the slender curve of her calves beneath the length of her dress.

  Although he'd tried his best to immerse himself in his work as he'd taken samples and photographed her classroom, he'd been acutely conscious of her presence the entire time. Not only had her exotic fragrance gone directly to his head, but he'd been impressed by her quiet and calm in the face of such devastation.

  "I appreciate you not being one of those hysterical women," he said as she sat a mug of steaming coffee before him.

  "Cream or sugar?" He shook his head negatively and she joined him at the table. "What's to be hysterical about? What's done is done. My screaming and yelling wouldn't have put the classroom back in order. I'm just sorry so many of the books appeared to have been torn up. It will be months before we can get more books and then only if extra money can be squeezed out of the budget."

  He took a sip of the coffee. It was good—hot and strong the way he liked it. "You said you watched a lot of television, but I noticed there wasn't a TV in the living room."

  She smiled and the beauty of that smile hit him square in the pit of his stomach. "Ah, you've discovered my guilty pleasure. I have a little ten-inch set in my bedroom and am notorious for watching it for a couple of hours before I fall asleep." Her dark eyes gazed at him for a long moment. "But I'm sure you've been far too busy lately to even think about television programming."

  "Yeah, it's been a long six weeks."

  "Any breaks in your mother's disappearance?"

  "Not really, although my sister Savannah found two cases in Oklahoma that are so similar it's eerie."

  "Really?" She leaned forward and he caught another whiff of her scent.

  "In fact, one of those cases is what brought Savannah and her fiancé, Riley, together." He took another sip of his coffee, wishing she'd lean back in her chair so he couldn't smell her, so he couldn't see the dark length of her eyelashes, the dewy moisture of her lips.

  What on earth was wrong with him? Why was Tamara Greystone making him think of things he hadn't thought of in a very long time … like hot, eager kisses and silky hair tangled around his fingers, and warm, slender curves pressed against his body? Why was he talking so much when normally he had nothing much to say to anyone?

  For just a moment, as he'd looked into her large, dark gray eyes, the pain, the anger, the uncertainty that had ruled his life for so long had momentarily ebbed. He reached for it now, the pain chasing away any inexplicable desire he might feel for Tamara.

  "Two years ago Riley Frazier's mother disappeared under the same kind of circumstances as my mother. Riley's father had been hit over the head. Unfortunately, he was killed. Riley's mother was nowhere to be found. Some of her clothing was missing and the police assumed she was responsible for Riley's father's death."

  "Sounds exactly like what happened to your parents, although thankfully your father wasn't killed."

  Clay nodded, and swallowed hard against the knot of emotion that twisted in him at thoughts of his mother. He remembered that night almost six weeks ago when he'd been called to his parents' ranch. His father had been taken away in an ambulance and his mother hadn't been anywhere to be found. He'd known then that something terrible had happened not only to his father, but to his mother as well.

  "True, although he's still recuperating. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember anything about that night. Anyway, Riley's mother's body was found a week ago in Sycamore Ridge on some property he was excavating for building a home."

  "How tragic," Tamara replied. "Did anyone find out what had happened to her?"

  "According to the medical examiner, she'd been dead for about four months."

  "Four months … but didn't you say she went missing two years ago?"

  Clay nodded. "We don't know what happened to her between the time of her disappearance and the time of her murder."

  "Murder?" Tamara's voice was a soft whisper.

  "Yeah, her skull was smashed in, just like her husband's had been two years before."

  Tamara wrapped her fingers around her mug. He noticed that her fingers were long and slender, and her nails just long enough to be completely feminine. "You said three cases. What's the third?"

  "Two years before Riley Frazier's mother went missing a woman in Sequoia Falls also disappeared under the same exact circumstances. The husband was hit over the head and killed, and she was gone, along with some of her personal belongings. She still hasn't been found."

  "So, maybe she's still alive. Just like it's possible your mother is still alive." Her voice rang with hope that he desperately wanted to grab on to.

  "That's the only thought that keeps me getting up in the morning." He took another drink of the coffee, then continued, "I feel like I'm working against a bomb with a ticking clock, but the problem is I don't know who set the timer, or how much time is left. I just feel so damned helpless." Again, he felt a ball of emotion pressing tight against his chest.

  She reached across the table and lightly touched one of his hands. "You'll find her, Clay."

  He pulled his hand from her touch, finding it not only distracting, but disturbing as well. The touch had been too warm, too soft.

  He took a drink of his coffee, his thoughts returning to his mother. Yes, eventually he'd find her, but would he find her in time? Would he find her dead or alive?

  And what in the hell was he doing here sipping coffee and baring his soul to a woman he didn't know at all?

  * * *

  Tamara could tell the exact moment he turned off. His black eyes went blank and his jaw muscles tightened and she knew their conversation had come to a halt. Sure enough, he downed the last drop of coffee from his mug and stood.

  "Thanks for the coffee," he said. "I've got to get going."

  She followed him to the front door. Even his walk looked uptight despite the fact that she couldn't help but notice that his jeans fit quite nicely on his long legs and rear end.

  "One of the other officers will be in touch with you when they have anything on the vandalism."

  "Thank you, Clay, for all your help."

  "Just doing my job," he replied as he stepped out of the door. "Good night, Tamara."

  "Good night, Clay."

  She stood on her front porch long after his van had disappeared from sight.

  It had been a long time since she'd felt a spark of physical attraction toward a man. But the moment Clay had stepped into the classroom and introduced himself, she'd felt a definite spark of warmth deep in the pit of her stomach.

  The last time she'd found herself physically attracted to a man she'd allowed herself to be swept into a relationship that had not only ended in heartache, but had also left her questioning her values and the very essence of who she was.

  She looked up at the moon peeping through the branches of the ancient trees. Good old Maxwell Bishop. He'd been her agent for six months before they had become lovers. He'd done amazing things for her career as an artist, but in the four months they had been a couple, he'd nearly destroyed her self-identity.

  According to everything she'd heard about Clay, he'd be a danger to her in much the same way. This was one particular spark she intended to ignore.

  Not that it mattered. Clay had made it quite clear that others would handle her case from here on out. Cherokee Corners wasn't that small a town. The odds of her and Clay running into each other again were minimal.

  Reluctantly, she left the night air and went back inside the cabin. She had just finished washing the coffee mugs to put back in the cabinet when the phone rang.

  She hurried from the kitchen to the sofa and picked up the cordless from the end table. "Hello?"

  "Are you all right?" Alyssa Whitefeather's voice filled the line.

  "Bad news travels fast in this town," Tamara replied. "How did you hear about it?"

  "I heard between a hot fudge sundae and a banana split." Alyssa owned the Redbud Bed and Breakfast.
The top two floors of her establishment were guest rooms and the bottom floor was Alyssa's living quarters and an ice cream parlor. "Burt Creighton stopped in for a cup of coffee and was talking about the mess in your classroom."

  "It was a mess," Tamara agreed.

  "You must have been terrified when you saw it."

  Tamara thought of that moment when she'd first viewed the vandalized room. "Actually, it didn't scare me at all," she said. "Mostly I just felt sad for whomever had done such a terrible thing."

  "Well, it frightened me when I heard about it," Alyssa replied.

  There was something in her friend's voice that sent a flutter of disquiet through Tamara. "Why? Have you seen something, Alyssa?"

  Alyssa laughed, the laughter sounding forced. "Oh, you know me. I'm the local nutcase in town. I'm always seeing things that aren't there, having visions that don't make sense. I should probably be on medication."

  "Having a pity party, are we?"

  This time Alyssa's laugh was genuine. "Maybe a little one," she admitted. "It's just been a bad week," she added.

  Tamara heard the weariness in her friend's voice. Over the course of their friendship Alyssa had confided in Tamara that she'd always suffered visions. Since Rita James's disappearance the visions had increased in frequency and intensity.

  "I'll tell you what I think you need," Tamara said. "You need dinner tomorrow night with a friend."

  "I can't do that," Alyssa protested. "Friday nights are the busiest of the week in the ice cream parlor."

  Tamara frowned thoughtfully. She knew there was no way she could talk Alyssa into closing up shop on a Friday night. "Okay, then how about we meet at the café about four. You can get back to work by five or five-thirty when your Friday night rush usually begins."

  "That sounds good," Alyssa replied after a moment of hesitation. "I could use a little break. So, I'll see you tomorrow about four. And Tamara, do me a favor and be extra careful."

  "Don't you worry about me. I'm fine."

  With a murmur of goodbyes, the two hung up. It was getting late enough Tamara knew she should go to bed, but her head was too filled with thoughts to allow sleep.