Conard County--Traces of Murder

by Rachel Lee

  She nearly laughed despite the serious fears they had just discussed. “It sounds like home.”

  “Even better then. A fire, a drink...” He trailed off for a few seconds. “You know, I think Brigid and Allan kept some brandy for special occasions. You like brandy?”

  “Very much, for sipping.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t toss it off like a shot. What a waste.”

  There was a woodpile out back, and Hillary helped Trace carry in some logs and kindling. She left the building of the fire to him while she went to change into her thermal undergarment with a sweater over it and pulled on some socks. If they were going to be cozy, then she was going all the way.

  When the fire started crackling and flames began to leap, Trace went to a cabinet on the far side of the living room and squatted, giving her a nice view of his backside in stretched denim. “I knew it,” he said shortly. “But it’s brandy and Bénédictine, if that’s okay.”

  “More than okay. I prefer it.”

  He also discovered some snifters and after wiping them out, he offered her a drink. She sipped with approval as she curled up on one end of the sofa.

  “You don’t mind taking some time off?” he asked as he settled into the recliner.

  “I believe we have both earned it.” Very much so. “I think your phrase is ‘beating our heads on a wall.’”

  A snort escaped him. “Just slightly.” He stirred in his chair. “I feel like I’m desecrating space. This used to be Brigid’s chair.”

  She pointed to the end of the sofa. “Then sit here.”

  “It’s a stupid feeling.”

  “No. It’s not. Now move.”

  He half smiled. “Orders again?”

  “If they’re needed.” She sipped more liqueur. “This is quite pleasant with the fire.”

  At last he moved, sitting on the other end of the sofa. He lifted the brandy snifter to his lips. “You know the story of B and B?”

  “I never looked.”

  “It’s amusing in a way. A liqueur maker claimed he’d found the recipe in a destroyed Benedictine Abbey, then added the letters DOM for Deo Optimo Maximo, or ‘God is great.’ I guess it worked.”

  Hillary smiled. “The results hardly need the letters.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Quiet ensued, filled only by the crackling of the fire. Firelight danced over the wall, counterpointed by shadows. Slowly a realization began to creep through Hillary. She was feeling lonely. Lonely in a way she hadn’t felt since leaving home for the army.

  She guessed she needed her friends, her organization. Those who would understand and share with her. People she knew from the years behind her.

  Trace was new, too new to reach that level of understanding, although he was slowly getting there when they talked.

  She realized something else, too. It had been a long time since she’d had her arms around a man, or a man’s arms around her. Her entire body had begun to ache for that intimacy, for the mindless pleasure sex could bring. She had been missing it for too long.

  She had seen the reflection of desire in Trace’s gaze from time to time, and Hillary was not one to hesitate once she had defined a need.

  She set aside her snifter and scooted down the couch until she leaned against Trace. Hot, warm, hard. Their eyes met, his appearing surprised.

  “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “Hell no.” He followed the declaration by putting his arm around her shoulders. “Get comfortable.”

  She did precisely that, leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Male aromas reached her, enticing her further.

  But she let it rest for the moment. Let matters follow their own pace. Take care she didn’t intrude too far. Didn’t demand what he might not be willing to give. Attraction was one thing. Following through was another.

  He twisted a bit, drawing her into a more comfortable embrace. Her head slid down from his shoulder to his chest. His steady heartbeat filled her ear. She let her arm find its way around his narrow, hard waist.

  The fire continued to burn, throwing orange light around the room, promising heat. Her heart sped up a bit, and her body began to ache all over with hunger. She wanted more from Trace than this exhausting, probably hopeless quest.

  He had so much to offer, despite his nearly compulsive drive to save Allan’s reputation. To end his own doubts. She had caught glimpses of the man behind the immediate problem, and she liked him. She wished she could know him even better.

  “Hills?” he said, unwittingly shortening her name to the nickname many of her friends used.

  “Hmm?”

  “Is this what I think it is? Or do you just want comfort?”

  She turned her head a bit as he looked down at her and met his gaze. “Comfort, of course. But this is exactly what you think it is.”

  “Well, hot damn,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” he promised.

  Then, before she could draw another breath, he twisted more and kissed her on her lips. Her immediate response startled her. Warmth became a blaze hotter than the fire nearby. Until that moment she hadn’t realized just how much she’d been longing for this. For Trace.

  His arm tightened around her shoulders. She tightened her hold on his waist. He tasted of brandy, but she did, too, and as their tongues dueled, it became the last bit of the old reality and gave way to a whole new world.

  He whispered her name, then pulled her sweater away from her throat, kissing and lightly licking her neck just below the ear. A delicious shiver ran through her, and her impatience grew as quickly as the heat.

  She didn’t want slow. She didn’t want the teasing and tormenting. She wanted rough and ready and swift, an answer to hungers that were threatening to rip her apart with need.

  She sat up, pulling her sweater over her head. “These thermals might be good for cold, but they’re a nuisance now.”

  A laugh escaped him. “Sometimes all clothes are a nuisance.”

  * * *

  TRACE WAS CHARMED. Enchanted. Never had he met a woman so bold, so immediately honest about her desire. Decisive.

  No playing around with her, at least not this time. He joined her in pulling off their clothes as fast as they could. Hands and fingers tangled at times, drawing breathless laughs from them.

  Then at last they were naked in the glow of firelight, but before he had time to really appreciate her beauty, she straddled him and claimed him.

  Ah yes, he could get used to this. It was his last coherent thought as the pressure of need drove them hard, pushing them upward until they reached the peak together.

  The explosion that ripped through him left him drained.

  Hillary apparently felt the same way. She collapsed on his chest, their bodies melting into one another. Neither of them moved for a long time.

  * * *

  HILLARY STARTED DRESSING, a chill reaching her despite the fire. Trace looked at her.

  “You’re wrapping up too fast,” he said. “I want to admire you.”

  “Nothing unusual about me. You can look later if you still want to, but now I’m hungry.”

  He laughed. Hillary. She was unusual in every way. “You’re a piece of work, Valkyrie.”

  She grinned. “I hope that is a good thing.”

  “Trust me, it’s good.”

  He watched her stride toward the kitchen and enjoyed the view. Those thermals concealed very little, and she had a toned, fit body with long legs, just enough of a curve on her hips and rump.

  And she was totally unselfconscious.

  Smiling, he dragged on his own clothes, just well-worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that had probably seen its best days fifteen years ago. But that was the thing about his career. Civilian clothes lasted damn near forever.

 
; He discovered her scooping their leftovers onto plates and warming them in the microwave.

  “Microwaves,” she announced, “are transnational, unlike measuring spoons.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. He used metric measurements all the time on duty, but in a kitchen? “Maybe we should get you a set.”

  She glanced wryly over her shoulder. “I will not be doing that much cooking.”

  “I should bake those brownies,” he remarked. “Chocolate would be the perfect topper right now.”

  After they had eaten the remains of the leftovers, Trace took over. The only hindrance was finding his way around the unfamiliar kitchen. At last he discovered the measuring cup and held it up to her.

  “Look at that, Hills. Both English and metric measurements.”

  “It must be an error.”

  God, he was feeling good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good. There was something to be said for a decisive Valkyrie.

  He did manage to follow the admittedly simple directions and get all the batter into a glass baking dish. When he put it in the oven, Hillary took over the washing up. He caught her licking some batter off her finger.

  “Tsk, Hillary. Raw egg.”

  She flashed a smile. “I think I’m immune to anything that goes in my mouth.”

  She might be right, given where they’d been. “Well, the batter is almost always the best part.”

  “When I was a young child, I would beg to lick the spoon. I believe many children do that.”

  “I would have if we’d ever made brownies.”

  Her expression saddened. “Your childhood must have been difficult.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t think so at the time. I just built my life differently. But I told you that.”

  “Children adapt well.”

  Too well, he thought, as images came to mind, images he preferred not to recall. Lives he could not change.

  They sat over coffee while the mouthwatering aroma of brownies filled the kitchen. He wanted to reach out to her, to at least hold her hand, but he didn’t yet know where the lines were. Maybe she was done now. She’d satisfied her urge and needed no more from him.

  He didn’t want to be the creep a woman couldn’t shake off.

  He also didn’t want her to shake him off. That would come soon enough.

  “What about your friends?” he asked as the thought occurred to him. “Do they know you’re staying here?”

  “I called my first night and said I might be staying with Brigid’s family for a while.”

  Brigid’s family. The description pleased him. “So you think I’m her family?”

  “Brigid would think so, I’m sure. As would Allan. And...” she shrugged. “Brigid was my sister.”

  “Hold on now, this is getting incestuous.”

  She appeared startled, then laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

  Damn, he loved the sound of her laugh. He needed to make her laugh more often.

  “What did you think of England?” he asked.

  “Well, like many places, it depends on where you are. My mother is very upper class. She speaks like the queen.”

  Now he laughed. “A very particular accent?”

  “Very. Go away from the palace, and there are accents I still don’t understand. But we have dialects in Norway as well. I would say Britain has many dialects.”

  The timer dinged, and Trace went to pull the brownies out of the oven. “Was there anything you liked about your visits there?”

  “The old castles. Everyone likes those. But I was amazed to learn that the queen owns all the muted swans on open water. Every year a tally is taken.”

  “That’s wild.” He couldn’t imagine it.

  “Some things began so long ago, when only a few owned everything. At least the swans are protected.”

  “There is that.”

  * * *

  TRACE WENT TO check on the fire. Hillary wondered if he would add more fuel or if this period of rest was over. He must be feeling the pressure to get back to their task. She was beginning to feel it as well.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the memory of her sex with Trace. Swift. Hot. So satisfying. How good it had felt when he held her. Upon occasion she liked to feel soft. Womanly. Those desires hadn’t been scrubbed out of her.

  She wanted more. A lot more. A chance to admire him, to explore him. A chance for him to explore her. Long, lazy, slow.

  But not now. Clearly not now. They faced something so enormous that neither of them could let go, not unless they could find nothing useful at all. Then they would have no choice.

  Her thoughts drifted back to that man who seemed to have been watching them. Probably nothing, but along the back of her neck, she felt a prickle of apprehension. A sense she had learned ages ago not to ignore.

  But one man? After they had begun to wonder about the scope of what Brigid may have discovered? One man seemed like a small response that resulted in two killings. Were there more that they hadn’t noticed yet?

  Their respite was over. She felt it in her bones. Time to get back to it.

  She thought of Brigid. Of the bright light that had been snuffed out. Of the fact that it may not have been an accident of war at all. Of Trace’s conviction that Allan had not killed himself.

  Her own growing conviction that the two deaths were linked.

  Trace returned and went to the sink to wash his hands. “Time to get back to it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He pulled two small plates from the cupboard and put large squares of the brownies on them. “Coffee?”

  “Of course. Need you ask?”

  His smile reached only half-mast as he started another pot. “We’ll take this into the office. I need to find some paper napkins or we’ll get too sticky.”

  Hillary knew where they were, having seen them during her hunt for cooking utensils. She pulled out a drawer and helped herself to a few of them.

  Minutes later, coffee and brownies in hand, they returned to the office. There had to be an answer of some kind in there. Even Brigid and Allan couldn’t read each other’s minds.

  As they sat and bit into brownies, Trace spoke. “If this is as ugly as it’s beginning to appear, we might be next on the killer’s list.”

  “It’s possible.” The idea didn’t disturb her. She’d been in situations where dozens of people had wanted to kill her. She wanted to live, but she didn’t fear death. It often came swiftly and easily. She feared only surviving such an attack with her life in ruins.

  “However,” she said as she finished her brownie and wiped her hands thoroughly, “I cannot imagine that anyone is watching Allan’s computer. Can you?”

  Trace paused, then reached around and pulled a cable. “Not now for sure.”

  She shook her head slightly, then smiled. “If we’d found anything yet, that might matter.”

  “If we do find something, it won’t matter.”

  No, it wouldn’t. Not now. But the idea that someone might be monitoring Allan’s computer didn’t seem far-fetched. Not if someone had monitored communications when Brigid had been overseas.

  Or maybe they were just turning into conspiracy theorists. That was possible, too.

  * * *

  STAN WITHERSPOON WATCHED from outside again, ignoring the icy night, ignoring the whipping snow. His cheeks stung, and even his gloves couldn’t keep his fingers warm. He shoved them into his jacket pockets.

  What was going on in there? Through a crack in one of the curtains, firelight was visible. A love nest?

  Maybe so. Maybe he was worrying over nothing. The two of them might just be involved in the early stages of a romance.

  Entirely possible, given that woman’s beauty. Given that she was probably one of the few people in this county who
could run with Mullen.

  Hell. Double hell.

  He should leave now. No one here would find him, not after all this time.

  But fear held him rooted. Fear that they were looking for something. Fear that they might find something.

  Fear of what his boss would do if those two learned something and passed it along.

  No, he couldn’t leave. He didn’t want to die. That hadn’t been part of his bargain with the devil. But secrecy had been.

  Secrecy. God, what a mess.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning seemed to arrive too early, although a leaden darkness shrouded the land. The snow had lightened, but a look out the windows told a story from the night: it had been a heavy snow, drifting everywhere it could find a nook.

  The sight pleased Hillary. The beginnings of winter always sheltered the world in a silence muffled in white.

  Trace was annoyed. “I need a run. And I hope we have enough hanging around in this kitchen to make breakfast. Of course, I could always walk to Maude’s. She’ll make sure we’re provisioned for a week.”

  Hillary stretched and yawned. “A walk would be nice. I’ll go with you.”

  They dressed for the weather, locked up and set out. The air held that unique crisp smell of a first snowfall. Hillary had never found words to describe it, but she always liked it. Not only did the snow dampen sounds, but it dampened all the other odors of life as well.

  Smoke drifted out of many chimneys. No one was about except an occasional patrol car with a plow on the front of it. Their own cars were under a blanket deep enough that only bits could be seen.

  A perfect pure world. Right then, anyway.

  Trace spoke. “We don’t usually see this much snow, at least not this early.”

  “Climate chaos,” she replied.

  “Not climate change?”

  She glanced at him, feeling a bit impish. “Look around you. This weather the world over is chaotic.” She paused. “The glaciers on the mountaintops at home have begun to melt.”