Still Waters33

by Tami Hoag

  “Help yourself to any food you find that doesn’t look like a science experiment. Chee-tos is probably the best you’re gonna do. I hope you don’t have anything against artificial colors and preservatives, ’cause that’s about all we live on. I’d burn you some toast, but I’ve got to make a couple of calls, then I’m off to look for truth and justice.”

  “And what will you do with it when you find it?” a low, soft male voice said in a tone laced with sardonic amusement.

  Elizabeth swung around toward the back door, her heart jamming up in her throat. Dane Jantzen stood leaning against her refrigerator, as if he had much more important things to save his energy for besides good posture. He was in uniform—or as near to it as he probably ever came—pleated black trousers and a tailored khaki shirt and tie, badge and name tag pinned to his wide chest.

  “I’ll tell the world,” she said, annoyed with herself for taking the time to stare at him.

  “And make a buck off it,” he commented mildly.

  Elizabeth reined in her temper as she lifted her chin and crossed her arms defensively. “That’s right, Sheriff. It’s called free enterprise.”

  He gave a little snort and straightened away from the refrigerator to wander the kitchen, his narrow gaze scanning the cluttered countertop. “That’s what you call it.”

  She sucked in a breath to tell him off, but bit her tongue before the words could come spewing out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait. He enjoyed it too much, the arrogant jerk. She watched him for a minute as he browsed the contents of a doorless cupboard as if the brand of canned vegetables she bought might give him a vital clue.

  “Alphabet soup,” he said, flashing a nasty smile as he fingered the Campbell’s can. “Boning up on your spelling skills?”

  “Do you have a warrant?” she snapped, leaning toward him.

  “Do I have reason to need one?” he asked quietly.

  Elizabeth ground her teeth. “What you need is a personality transplant.”

  Dane chuckled. “Have a donor in mind?”

  “Attila the Hun would be an improvement, but I’m not fussy.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  The words cut. Dane cursed himself for caring, but he couldn’t help it. He enjoyed sparring with Elizabeth Stuart. She had a sassy tongue and a sharp wit. But he didn’t enjoy seeing the sudden flash of hurt in her eyes, and he wasn’t proud of himself for being the cause. Dammit, he had expected her to sling another barb back at him; he hadn’t expected her to retreat. He would have thought her skin was thicker than that for all the papers had said about her during the divorce.

  Don’t believe everything you read, sugar. Her words echoed back to him, though he didn’t care to hear them, didn’t care to hear the truth in them. She backed away from him, her expression carefully closed, precisely arranged to reveal none of the emotions that had flashed automatically across her face seconds before. The need to apologize rose up inside him, but the words all jammed at the back of his throat and he couldn’t seem to force them past his tongue. Apologizing wasn’t something he did well or often.

  “Wie gehts, Dane Jantzen.”

  Dane’s attention went for the first time to Aaron Hauer. He had been aware of the Amishman’s presence, had seen the horse and buggy in the yard, had seen Aaron himself working on a cupboard door, but his focus had homed in on Elizabeth, his senses tuned into her, intensely aware and wary.

  “Good morning, Aaron.” He nodded at the cupboards, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning a hip against the counter. “I’d say you’ve got your work cut out for you here.”

  Aaron lifted a door down, carefully scrutinizing the edge. It was too warped to plane. He would have to replace it. “Ya,” he said after a few moments. “Plenty of good needs doing here.”

  The censure in his voice was so subtle, Dane almost dismissed it as a figment of his guilty conscience. Aaron watched him a second longer, his gaze somber and steady, before turning back to his work. Dane rolled his shoulders, shrugging off the feeling of being accused, and stepped back into the role he was comfortable with, the one that went along with the badge he was wearing.

  “Plenty of bad going on around here last night,” he said. “You didn’t happen to see anything, did you?”

  The Amishman selected a pair of pliers from his carpenter’s box as carefully as a dentist selecting the proper tool for extracting a tooth. He turned back to the cupboard and set to work removing the broken latch. “No.”

  Dane drew in a long, slow breath, willing patience. The Amish adhered to a strict hear-no-evil see-no-evil speak-no-evil policy that could be infuriating to an officer of the law. They bore no witness to anyone but God Himself. Even when violence was directed at them they simply turned the other cheek and went on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Aaron was a perfect example.

  “A man was killed. Murdered,” Dane said, trying to impart the gravity of the situation and knowing it probably wouldn’t make any difference. Aaron went on working as if he hadn’t understood a word. “This is serious stuff, Aaron. Jarrold Jarvis got his throat cut last night. If you saw anything—a man, a car, anything—I need to know.”

  Aaron winced a little, though whether it was the image of a man being murdered that pained him or the fact that the cupboard latch had cracked between the teeth of the pliers, Dane couldn’t tell.

  “I cannot help you, Dane Jantzen,” he said, frowning at the broken latch before he tossed it away into the plastic dish Elizabeth had been using for an ashtray.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  He heaved a weary sigh and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “There was no car,” he said, looking down at the cupboard door. “There was no man.”

  Dane’s gaze sharpened. “How about a woman?”

  Elizabeth’s patience snapped. “Oh, for pity’s sake, all right, I confess,” she said. “I snuck up on a two-hundred-sixty-pound man, got him in a choke hold, and, for no earthly reason, did him in with my fingernail file. You see,” she went on, digging out a second cigarette and tossing the pack back onto the table, “what y’all don’t know is that I’ve been trying to treat my PMS with steroids and it’s just made me plumb crazy. I’m fixing to plead insanity due to hormones as my defense.”

  “Careful, Miss Stuart,” Dane warned with a smile. “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  She tipped her head back and fired a stream of smoke into his face. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “All right.” He nodded. “You’re coming with me.”

  Elizabeth took a step back, her bravado vaporizing as her imagination ran rampant. She was a stranger here, a woman with a reputation, a woman without an alibi. She had been at the scene of the crime, had the victim’s blood on her shoes, and Dane Jantzen was a county sheriff in a county where two bums pissing in the street was a crime wave. Visions of women-in-prison movies flashed through her head. Mother Mary on a motorcycle, talk about life going from bad to worse.

  Dane wagged his head in disgust. Every time he thought he had this woman pegged as tough, her armor cracked. She was looking up at him as if he’d just told her he sacrificed children on a daily basis. He plucked the microwave tray off the counter and stuck it under her smoldering cigarette before the inch of ash dropped off.

  “You need a ride to town,” he reminded her with no small amount of exasperation. “As I recall, you managed to drive that battleship you call a car off a perfectly straight road and, unless those steroids you’re taking have given you Herculean strength and you’ve pulled it out of the ditch with your lovely bare hands, it’s still sitting there.”

  “Here I thought you stopped by just to satisfy your daily requirement for harassing people. I wouldn’t have suspected you had a big capacity for common courtesy.”

  “It’s damage control,” Dane corrected her. “The press conference starts at nine. I want to know where your mouth is.”

  Eliz
abeth narrowed her eyes. “Well, it won’t be kissing your ass. I can get my own ride, thank you very much.”

  She turned with a toss of her aching head, bent on making a grand exit if it killed her, but a hand closed on her elbow and swung her back around. She was a hairbreadth from his chest, her gaze almost level with the polished brass nameplate that read SHERIFF JANTZEN in bold black letters. Slowly, defiantly, she raised her head and stared up at him, and the world tilted a little on its axis.

  She told herself it was a combination of her hangover and his height in cowboy boots, but the little voice of truth inside her clucked its tongue. The fact of the matter was he was too damn close and too damn male. The effect was unsetting in the extreme. She wished with all her heart to be anywhere else with anyone else.

  “It wasn’t an offer,” he said, his voice silky soft. “It was an order. You’re coming with me. Now.”

  Chapter Eight

  GOD ALMIGHTY, YOU HAVE JUST CORNERED THE market on charm, haven’t you?” Elizabeth shot her most scathing glare across the cab of the Bronco as it rumbled down the gravel road. She suspected it had no effect at all, it being hidden behind the lenses of her Ray-Bans, but the intent was there, burning in the air between them.

  Dane bared his teeth. “Charm is my middle name.”

  “Really? I would have thought it was something that started with an A.”

  “Admirable?”

  “Arrogant. Annoying. Ass—”

  “Tut-tut, Ms. Stuart,” he clucked in mock affront. “Such language is unbecoming to a lady of your quality.”

  Elizabeth snarled at him. “You wouldn’t know quality if it spit in your face.”

  She dug through her purse—the one item she had managed to grab as Dane had all but dragged her out of the house—and pulled out her compact and a tube of Passion Poppy lipstick. Snapping open the mirror, she watched her reflection bob up and down as she tried to put some color on her lips. “You could have given me ten minutes to change and put on a little makeup—”

  “I’ve never known a woman who could make up her mind in ten minutes, let alone her face—”

  “—but no, you’ve got to play Mr. Macho and drag me off at the crack of dawn for a press conference that doesn’t start for hours. You know, you’d’a been a real hit in Nazi Germany. You could have been the poster boy for the SS.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he grumbled. “I don’t think denying you the time to put on mascara constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “No, that part comes now,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Having to suffer your delightful company all the way to town, riding in this lumber wagon while I shove my best tube of Estée Lauder lipstick up my nose.”

  Dane hit the brakes and sent the Bronco skidding to a halt. A little yelp of surprise escaped from Elizabeth as her purse went flying and her body hurtled toward the dash. She stuck out a hand to save herself, broke a nail, and thumped her head on the windshield just the same.

  “Dammit to Hades, I spent ten dollars on these nails!” She shoved her sunglasses up on top of her head and examined the broken fingernail, running her thumb over its jagged edge.

  Her nails were the one indulgence she allowed herself these days. She had always seen a good manicure as the mark of a true lady, and she clung to that symbol now that she couldn’t afford any of the other trappings of sophistication. She had skipped lunch three times in the last week so she could have Ingrid Syverson at the Fashion-Aire Beauty Salon put on a triple coat of Vivacious Red. Now the whole effect was ruined.

  “I told you to wear a seat belt,” Dane growled.

  And she had refused just to irk him.

  “You’re a maniac, that’s what you are,” she grumbled, picking up her slim gold compact and checking her reflection before stuffing it back into her purse along with a handful of junk that had flown out onto the floor. Lighter, tampons, coupons for frozen pizza at the Piggly Wiggly, five loose Junior Mints, and eighty-three cents.

  “No,” Dane corrected her, the muscles in his jaw working as tension clenched his teeth together. “What I am is dead tired. I got an hour’s sleep last night. I got to go home long enough to make sure some lunatic with a knife hadn’t added my daughter to his list of things to do, then I spent the rest of the night at the station being hounded by reporters and racking my brain over who would have wanted to make Jarrold Jarvis shorter by a head.” He turned toward Elizabeth with a look that had her unconsciously bracing herself against the door. “I’m a man whose patience is running seriously in the red, and the last thing I need is some southern belle whining to me about her goddamn fingernails.”

  Elizabeth straightened her sunglasses and primly resettled herself on the seat, smoothing her old UTEP T-shirt as if it were her finest designer blouse. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, collecting her poise as silence settled like dust in the cab of the truck.

  “I do not whine,” she said stiffly, presenting him with her profile. “I pout.”

  “Pouting is generally a silent endeavor,” Dane remarked. He slid the stick back into gear and the Bronco began to roll forward once more. “Maybe you’re out of practice.”

  Damn but if she didn’t have to give him the last word. Why couldn’t he have sent Deputy Kaufman to pick her up? That sweet little puppy-eyed man would have let her change clothes. Shoot, she probably could have shampooed her hair and shaved her legs too, for that matter. He would have inquired after her feelings instead of laying into her with fangs bared, like a bad-tempered wolf.

  She snuck a glance at Dane out of the corner of her eye. He did look tired. His face was drawn, the skin stretched taut over the bones. He had shaved, but there wasn’t much to be done about the lines of tension digging in around his mouth and eyes. A little trickle of sympathy leaked through Elizabeth. She supposed he had reason to be churlish. The weight of what had happened rested squarely on his shoulders, and, while they certainly looked strong enough to carry a load, that didn’t make it fun.

  “Did your daughter make it in all right?” She kicked herself for asking, but the words had snuck out of her mouth without permission. She had told herself she didn’t want to know anything about his personal life, didn’t want to draw any parallels between her life and his, but the horse was out of the barn now.

  He shot her a suspicious look, like a wild dog wary of a handout from a stranger. “Yeah, fine.”

  “She lives out of state, I guess.”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “That’s a long way. Must be hard,” she murmured. Distance had never been a problem for Bobby Lee, she mused bitterly. He had never made any attempt to see Trace after she had moved out. But then, she doubted Bobby Lee kept a picture of their son in a frame on his desk either. Just that one little sign of fatherly caring put Dane Jantzen in a whole different league for her. She might have thought he was a jerk deluxe in every other way, but she couldn’t help admiring a man who cared about his daughter.

  “Yeah,” Dane admitted reluctantly. “It’s tough. I don’t get to spend much time with her as it is. Now I’ve got this murder—”

  He checked himself abruptly. The last thing he needed to do was confide in this woman. Christ, what was he thinking? That she might sympathize because she was a single parent too? Fat chance that she would side with him. She was a mother, not a father. She had custody, not visitation. If there were comparisons to be drawn between his situation and hers, then surely she had more in common with Tricia than she did with him.

  “Any leads on a suspect yet?” she asked.

  He was glad for the change in subject. “Trying to get a scoop for the Clarion?”

  “I’m trying to make conversation.”

  “I thought you were going to pout. I’d really prefer if you pouted, actually.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head to one side. “Well, we’re not big on courting to each other’s preferences, you and I, now, are we?”

  Dane gave a snort. “Not so far.”

  She studied him
quietly for a moment, reflecting with some wonder on the antagonism that had instantly sprung up between them. She generally got on famously with men—as long as she wasn’t married to them. A smile, a batted lash, a flirtatious word and she had the garden-variety man eating out of her hand. This one was more liable to bite her hand off. Her fingers curled protectively into fists against the soft leather of her Gucci bag.

  “I’m not asking anything you won’t tell at the press conference,” she said. “And I sure as hell can’t run off and print it anywhere right now, can I?” She glanced around the Bronco, which was outfitted with all the paraphernalia of a standard police cruiser, including the wire-mesh barrier between the front- and backseats. “I’m what you might call a captive audience.”