His gaze flicked over, weighing, measuring her. He must have been doing something in his official capacity, but she didn’t care what. Sometimes they went weeks without crossing paths, but every time the encounter arced between them like a chemical adhesion, the two parts of epoxy that did fine until combined, then interacted toxically.
“People who know sun-dried tomatoes will expect that flavor.” She spoke to Piper, but her eyes were locked with Jonah’s.
“I’m sure you’re right.” He held the pastry out.
“No.” Tia raised her hands. “By all means, finish it.” She backed into the shop and closed and locked the door, returning to complacent tapers that had forgotten the burn of the wax.
Jonah winced at the sharp report of the door. Tia. Turning, he caught the look of surprise on the young blonde. He had no intention of explaining. “Here.” He tried to return the croissant, but Piper shook her head.
“Do you like it? Would you buy it?”
“You can’t sell—”
“If you like it, you could tell Sarge. Maybe he’d let me try a different thing or two.”
Now he placed her—Sarge’s new baker. No wonder she had the look of a puppy afraid of getting her nose swatted but wanting to please all the same. “Okay.” He started past.
“So, hey. Are you a cop?”
“Chief of police. Can I help you?”
“Who’s responsible for dead things?”
Caught unprepared, his adrenaline surged.
“There’s something on the path between Tia’s house and shop. Who’s responsible for cleaning it up?”
Something, not someone. His chest eased. “I’ll take a look.”
Most days he battled the boredom of policing Redford. This wasn’t most days. He turned off the street and cut over to the path. Realizing he still held the croissant, he folded the tissue around it and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then turned upslope until he found what she was talking about by smell before sight.
A raucous white and iridescent blue-black magpie flew up as he stopped several feet from the carcass. A raccoon. But then he realized there were two, only … they weren’t.
Annoyed when Piper tapped once more, Tia opened the door less magnanimously.
“Oh … my … gosh.” Piper all but quivered. “Who is he?”
“Jonah Westfall.”
Piper searched her face. “What—did he arrest you or something?”
“Don’t be silly.” No surprise Piper had picked up on it. His mere presence had curdled her mood.
“There are cute guys in town, but he’s smokin’.”
No way was she having this discussion. “Does Sarge know you’re out here? I can’t give you the room for free, so I suggest you don’t get fired.” Tia started back to her candles.
“Oh, he threatens, but he won’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Sarge has never allowed anyone in his kitchen before.”
“I know.” Piper followed her. “He’s told me about a thousand times. But about Jonah—”
“I have four orders to fill before I open shop.”
“Come on, Tia. Tell me.”
Tia felt the tapers, then lowered and lifted them once more. “This is a delicate process.” One she had done so often she could do it comatose. A bachelor of science and a master’s degree, and here she was dipping candles.
Piper watched, then surveyed the workshop as she always did, her gaze roving over the shelves of glass bottles with herbs in oils, dried fruits and berries, blocks of wax and bolts of wick. “This is great. You must love what you do.”
“I enjoy it. I wouldn’t say love.”
“Well, what do you love?” Piper peaked her eyebrows like an imp. “A certain rugged lawman?”
Once again it surprised her how freely Piper barged in. They’d known each other what, three weeks? “You’ve gone from silly to ridiculous.”
Piper leaned her palms on the table. “Why? Is he married?”
Tia slid her a dark glance. “Did he look married?”
“Good point.”
Tia straightened. “Now I need to work. And you need to get back before Sarge declares you AWOL.”
“I’m going.” Piper pressed open the back door but called, “To be continued.”
“Or not,” Tia called after her.
Two
In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus one equals nothing.
—MIGNON MCLAUGHLIN
Breathing through his mouth, Jonah deposited the plastic-wrapped animals into the back of his Bronco. Department of Wildlife dealt with off-season poaching and protected species. Raccoons were neither, and if he’d left them, coyotes or cougars would have made quick work of them. Lucky the girl had seen them as soon as she had.
He closed the hatch and entered the side of the municipal building that was the police station. They had one interrogation room, one holding