Scene of the Crime Mystic Lake - By Carla Cassidy Page 0,2

here, someplace outside the city limits, where Max could have room to maybe have a horse, but she couldn’t discount the convenience of having John living a mere three blocks from the small house where she and Max now lived.

As she turned onto Main Street of Mystic Lake she wondered where, exactly, the city park might be. As she looked up and down each side street she passed, she steeled herself for joining a party where she was, in effect, an uninvited and unwanted guest.

“The willow tree bends but rarely breaks in the force of a gale.” It was Granny Nightsong’s voice that whispered through her head. Amberly smiled, the warmth of her memory tempered by grief.

Granny Nightsong had been a curious blend of Cherokee and flat-out crazy. Although she’d passed some of the traditions of her heritage to Amberly, Granny was also prone to making up legends and old, wise sayings to fit the circumstance. When Granny had taught Amberly the Stomp Dance of their people, Amberly had recognized more than a little bit of jitterbug in it.

Granny Nightsong fled from her mind as she looked down a side street and spied what appeared to be the city park. As she turned and headed in that direction, she knew she was right. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung from one tree to another, and several official cars were parked in the graveled lot.

She pulled up next to them and got out of her car, immediately halted by a stern-faced young deputy. “Crime scene working, nobody is allowed in this area,” he said.

She flashed her badge and continued forward. As she got closer to the scene, her mind processed several things at one time…the victim, a pretty, blond-haired young woman, lay beneath the overhanging branches of a tree, and in the tree limb above her head was a bright red-and-yellow dream catcher…and Sheriff Cole Caldwell was a tall, dark-haired hottie without a belly bulge in sight as he leaned closer to the dream catcher for a better look.

He suddenly snapped his head around as if he’d somehow sensed her approach. She had one instant of noticing strong, handsome features before they twisted with anger and the blue of his eyes went icy cold as he straightened to his full height.

“Lady, can’t you see this is a crime scene? Deputy Walkins, escort this woman away from here.” His voice was deep, authoritative, as if he was accustomed to people jumping immediately to obey his orders.

Amberly held up a hand to stop the deputy, who moved toward her with a sense of purpose. She showed her identification and flashed the sheriff a bright smile. “Don’t worry, I might look like a Native American, but actually I’m the Cavalry sent to save the day.”

It was at that moment that she realized Sheriff Cole Caldwell had absolutely no sense of humor.

“I DIDN’T CALL FOR FBI assistance,” Cole said. Cole hadn’t been fond of the FBI since they’d botched a kidnapping job eight years ago that had resulted in the murder of his wife. “It was our mayor who called.” And that call had held up the entire process while they all stood around and waited for Ms. I’m-Going-To-Fix-Your-Work-FBI-Agent to arrive.

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly expecting the welcome wagon to be drawn up for me,” she replied dryly. “Agent Amberly Nightsong,” she said and held out a hand to him.

“Sheriff Cole Caldwell.” Her skin was soft, but her handshake was firm.

One thing was clear: the FBI agents of his memory were nothing like the stunning woman standing before him. It was obvious she was Native American. Her skin was a dusty bronze, and her cheekbones were high and well-defined.

She had doe eyes, round and dark and long lashed, and her hair was a rich, deep black that was captured in a braid that fell down the length of her back.

Worn jeans hugged long legs, and the bright yellow T-shirt she wore seemed to make her eyes darker and her skin glow with an inner light.

She took a step closer to the victim, and he watched her through narrowed eyes. “First of all, I’m not sure what your thinking is, but no self-respecting Native American would have done this and left those cheap Made In China dream catchers at the scene,” she said.

In truth, he’d wondered if perhaps the perp was a Native American, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “You have an ID?” she asked.

“Victim is twenty-seven-year-old Barbara Tillman.”

“A local?” she asked.

Cole nodded. “She