Still Waters (3 page)

And now she was here, in Still Creek, Minnesota, tangled up in the first murder they'd had in thirty-three years. Christ.

“Sheriff”—Kaufman cleared his throat nervously as he led her up by the elbow—“this is Miss—er, Mrs.—um—”

Elizabeth took pity on the deputy. When he'd shown up at her house to pick her up, he'd been tongue-tied the instant he'd set eyes on her. He looked at her now with a shy, lovesick kind of smile, his eyes shining like a spaniel's. Men, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She offered her hand to the sheriff. “Elizabeth Stuart, Sheriff Jantzen. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but the circumstances aren't exactly ideal, now, are they?”

Her voice was dark and sultry, Dane thought, warm, a little rough. Smoke and heat. Satin and sex.

She stared up at him with gray eyes fringed by thick black lashes. The spotlight behind her backlit her wild black mane like a holy aura and made her skin look so pale that her mouth stood out like a cherry in the snow. A tiny scar hooked downward from the left corner, tempting a man to trace it with the tip of his finger or the tip of his tongue.

Damn, he thought, no wonder Brock Stuart had fallen for her. He let his gaze wash down over the rest of Elizabeth Stuart with insulting insolence.

A Nikon camera hung on a thick leather strap around her neck, the weight of it pressing her oversize turquoise T-shirt to her full breasts. The jeans she wore were tight and faded. A small waist was accented by a tooled leather belt and a big silver buckle depicting a barrel racer. Gently flared hips met long, long legs. The jeans were tucked into a pair of slightly battered, obviously expensive black cowboy boots that rose nearly to her knees.

“Have you about looked your fill, Sheriff?” Elizabeth drawled sarcastically.

She'd been ogled plenty in her thirty-four years, but it had never unnerved her quite as much as it was doing now. She put it down to the circumstances and stubbornly dismissed the fact that Sheriff Jantzen was a prime example of the male of the species. He had what she called the “lean and hungry look”—a tough athleticism, a certain predatory animal magnetism that radiated from the hard planes of his face and the angular lines of his body, and charged the air around him. He didn't much look the part of a sheriff in his pleated tan Dockers and lavender polo shirt, but there was no mistaking the air of authority. Uniform or no, he was the man in charge, the dominant male.

He lifted his gaze to hers and gave her a long, level stare that told her nothing she could say would embarrass him into behaving if he didn't want to. He had eyes like those of an Arctic wolf—cool blue and keenly watchful. They were set deep beneath a straight brow line that only enhanced his predatory expression. She had the disconcerting feeling that he could see right past her shield of bravado, that he could see clear into her soul if he wanted to. That made him one dangerous man.

“What time did you find the body?” he asked, his voice at once loud enough for her to hear clearly but quiet enough so his words wouldn't reach beyond the deputies.

“I—I don't know,” she stammered. “I wasn't wearing a watch.”

She could have added that her Rolex was reposing in a pawnshop in Atlanta, but she doubted the man in front of her would have cared. He didn't strike her as the sympathetic sort. His face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed.

“We figure it must have been about eight-thirty,” Deputy Kaufman said, recovering from the speechlessness Elizabeth had inspired in him.

“That was more than two hours ago,” Dane said sharply.

Kaufman rushed to the lady's defense. “She had to get a buggy ride from the Hauers' to her place to use the phone. You know how Aaron Hauer is about getting involved with outsiders. I don't imagine he hurried any. And then we had to wait for you. . . .” The deputy's explanation trailed off pathetically as his boss fixed him with a steely glare.

Dane turned that same look on Elizabeth. “Did you see who killed him?”

“No. I didn't see anybody, except . . .” Her voice faded away as her gaze flicked toward Jarvis. She rubbed a hand across her mouth.

“He was like that when you found him?”

“No. He was inside the car. I opened the door to talk to him and he—”

She pressed her lips together and gagged down the lump of fear and revulsion that clogged her throat. She couldn't stop the tremor that rattled through her body or the image that flashed through her head—Jarvis falling dead at her feet.
On
her feet, to be precise. His head had landed smack on her toes. The blood from his wound had colored her feet so that she hadn't been able to distinguish her skin from the straps of her red sandals. Bile rose in her throat, and she shivered again.

“So he looked just like this when you left here?” Jantzen asked, all business, no compassion.

She forced herself to glance again at the dead man, expecting to see his glassy eyes staring at her in surprised disbelief, but all that met her gaze was a helmet of oily red hair. “No. That's not how he looked.”

Dane turned to his chief deputy. “Who moved the body?” he demanded in a tone that did not invite confession.

Kaufman shuffled his feet on the gravel and cracked his knuckles. “Jeez, Dane, you didn't see him,” he mumbled. “We couldn't leave him that way; it wasn't decent.”

“Decent?” Dane questioned, his voice deadly calm.

The deputy swallowed hard. “We just turned him over, is all. Hell, it wasn't as if the killer had left him right there.”

Dane arched a brow, his temper in grave danger of boiling over. His voice grew even softer. “No? How do we know that, Mark?”

Kaufman closed his eyes, wincing. All his explanations stuck in his throat.

Dane turned on his heel and started to walk back toward the Lincoln.

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open as Jantzen's words sank in. Furious, she bolted forward.

“Just what do you mean by that crack?” she said, impulsively grabbing hold of his arm as she caught up with him.

He looked down at her with disdain, his gaze lingering on her hand, pale and perfectly manicured against his tan skin. Elizabeth felt a shudder of awareness shake her. As casually as she could manage, she removed her hand from his arm and took a half-step away from him. The word “dangerous” drifted through her mind again. She lifted her chin and matched him regal look for regal look.

“Are you implying I had something to do with Jarvis's death?”

“I'm inferring that you may not be telling us the truth,” he said. “We won't know for certain until we question you.”

Anger flashed in her eyes like quicksilver, and she took a deep breath, obviously intending to tell him just what she thought of him and his theory. Dane casually turned away and motioned for Kenny Spencer to join them. He smiled a nasty smile as he heard the woman behind him choke on her rebuttal. He doubted she had much experience with men turning their backs on her. It gave him tremendous satisfaction to think he might have been the first.

“Kenny, take Ms. Stuart back to the station and wait for me there in my office.”

“Yes, sir.” The young deputy turned toward Elizabeth expectantly. “Ma'am?”

Elizabeth ignored him. She wheeled on Dane, grabbing his arm again as he started to walk away from her. “Are you arresting me, Sheriff?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then I should be able to come in on my own, later,” she argued. “I heard you called in the boys from the state crime lab. I'd like to stay and see them in action. I do have a job to do here, you know.”

“I don't give a rat's ass about your job.”

“You have no right—”

“I have every right, Mrs. Stuart.” He leaned over her, trying to intimidate her with his height and his scowl. “You're a witness in a murder investigation.”

“I'm also a member of the press.”

“I'll try not to hold that against you.”

Thinking of her struggling new business, Elizabeth swung an arm in the direction of the small crowd waiting at the perimeter of the area that had been cordoned off by the deputies. “I have as much right to stay here as the rest of them.”

She didn't like the idea of making money off a man's death, but then, that was the news. Nothing on God's green earth was going to bring Jarrold Jarvis back to life, but Jarrold could still help her pay her bills and put food on the table for herself and her son. She wasn't going to let Dane Jantzen take that chance away from her without a fight.

Dane flicked a glance at the reporters and photographers who were waiting like hyenas at the site of a lion's kill. They watched for the opportunity to break past the deputies and snatch a juicy tidbit for their papers or news programs. They listened for every scrap of information they could catch. He could single out the ones who had come down from Minneapolis and St. Paul. They had a certain look—hungry, aggressive, clever. Their eyes gleamed with the same kind of excitement Ann Markham's had at the prospect of fast, hard sex. The others, from the smaller stations and papers in Rochester, Austin, and Winona, would be less assertive but no less persistent in their quest for dirt. That was the pecking order of the press. As far as Dane was concerned, none of them had any right to be here. A man had been killed. It was a tragedy, not a photo opportunity.

Without looking at Elizabeth he gave a curt nod toward the nearest cruiser. “Take her, Kenny.”

“No!” Elizabeth whispered furiously, no more eager to be overheard by her colleagues than Dane was. She leaned up toward him until they were nearly nose to nose. “
I
found him—”

“Finders keepers?” Dane snorted, his eyes narrowing in derision. God, she was a cold-blooded bitch, eager to make a nickel off a man any way she could. It didn't even seem to matter to her whether the poor bastard was alive or dead.

He thought of the men she had loved and left, of the way she had tried to milk gold from Brock Stuart. He thought of Tricia trading him in for a younger, more ambitious man and the L.A. press lapping up the story like greedy cats at spilled cream. The reins on his temper slipped a little farther through his hands.

“You think you deserve an exclusive, Mrs. Stuart?” His mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Fine.”

Elizabeth gasped as his hand closed around her upper arm. He set off once again toward the body, this time towing her in his wake as though she were a child's pull toy. He stopped, kneeling beside Jarvis and jerking her down with him so violently that she had to let go of her camera and grab the open car door with her free hand to keep from falling on Jarvis. The camera bounced hard off her sternum and the gravel of the drive dug into her knees as she settled with a grunt beside the body.

“You want an exclusive, Mrs. Stuart?” He reached down and rolled the body over without looking at it, his gaze riveted to Elizabeth's face. “Here's a Kodak moment for you, Liz. Snap a few shots for the old scrapbook while you're at it. Be sure to get that charming smile—the one below his second chin.”

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes as she relived the horror of what she had discovered two long hours before. She choked them back with an effort and glared at Dane Jantzen, in that moment hating him about as much as she hated anything. “Jesus Christ, you're a bastard,” she spat out.

“Don't you forget it, honey.” He rose, pulling her up with him, and turned to hand her over to Spencer, but Kenny had inadvertently gotten an eyeful of Jarvis and was leaning on the trunk of the Lincoln throwing up on his boots.

“Ellstrom!” Dane barked at the deputy, who stood staring blankly down at the body. “Take Mrs. Stuart to the station and make her comfortable. She'll be giving us a statement later on.”

Ellstrom pulled his gaze away from Jarvis. A worry line creased up between his brows. “But the lab guys—”

“Will muddle through without your expert supervision,” Dane said dryly, handling Elizabeth over by the elbow.

“I'll give you a statement all right, Sheriff.” She jerked her arm free of Ellstrom's clammy grasp and took an aggressive step toward Jantzen. A particularly insulting and vulgar suggestion sprang to mind, but she couldn't get the words past her tongue as she stared up at him. The expression in his eyes was too mocking, too amused. He would undoubtedly laugh at her if she lost control and smirk at her if she backed down. It was a no-win situation. The thing she longed to do most was kick him, but she didn't need to add assaulting an officer to everything else that had gone wrong today.

“At a loss for words, Mrs. Stuart?” he asked, arching a brow.

“No,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “I just can't seem to find one bad enough to call you.”

“There's a thesaurus on my desk. Feel free to use it.”

“Don't tempt me, sugar,” she said as she took a step back toward the waiting deputy. “What I'd like to do with it wouldn't exactly be good for the binding.”

Dane chuckled in spite of the fact that he disliked her. She had a lot of sass . . . and a backside that could make a man's palms sweat, he observed as she sauntered away with Ellstrom. She moved like sin. And the way she filled out a pair of jeans was enough to make Levi Strauss rise from the dead.

It was too damn bad she was nothing but trouble.

FOUR

B
OYD ELLSTROM PILOTED THE CRUISER DOWN THE
drive, away from the resort and the swarm of reporters that had attempted to descend on the car. That son of a bitch Jantzen would grab what glory he could with the press, but Boyd was the one escorting the star witness away from the crime scene. More than one camera had captured that on film and videotape. He made a mental note to get as many copies of the photos as he could. They would come in handy when the next election rolled around.

Yessirree, the way he saw it, nothing but good could come from old Jarrold biting the big one. Dying was probably the only thing the old fart had ever done that would benefit others more than it did himself. Jarrold wasn't going to get anything out of it but a chance to rot in the ground. Boyd, on the other hand, was looking at a much rosier future—provided he found a certain IOU before anyone else stumbled onto it.

The idea of that damned note floating around had his bowels twisting like a snake in its death throes. He wished for a Tums.

Jarvis had always kept to himself the names of the people who owed him money and favors. As much as he had enjoyed publicly lording it over other people, he had gotten off just as much on the feeling of playing God, manipulating with unseen hands, giving and taking at will. He had kept all the damning evidence hidden away somewhere, producing it like an evil magician when he wanted to apply a little pressure—as he had with Boyd earlier that day.

The fat toad had been walking around town all day with that damned note in his pants pocket.
Boyd Ellstrom: $18,700
. He'd slipped it out and set it on the table at the Coffee Cup just that morning while pretending to hunt for change for a tip. Boyd had just about died at the sight. For the minute and a half that slip of paper had lain on the table, in plain sight of half the town, he had seen his whole cursed life pass before his eyes and swirl right down the toilet. If anyone in Still Creek got wind of him owing Jarvis—or, more important,
why
he owed Jarvis—he could just bend over and kiss his political ass good-bye. Jarvis had merely smiled at him over the rim of his coffee cup, the pig.

Well, he'd died like a pig too, hadn't he? Boyd thought. Like a pig at the slaughterhouse. Poetic justice, that's what that was.

Elizabeth studied the deputy from the corner of her eye, not liking what she could see of his face in the light from the dashboard instruments. He kind of favored Fred Flintstone with his big square head and droopy shoulders. He had the look of a bully about him, the kind of man who sought out positions of authority to give him a sense of power over other people.

She had learned early on in her life to be a quick and shrewd judge of character. It had been essential to her survival as she'd come of age around Bardette, a dusty, hopeless place where the honky-tonk and whorehouse were the only thriving businesses and most of the men were meaner than the rattlesnakes that coiled behind every rock. She had learned to size up a man at glance. Deputy Ellstrom fit into the same category as Jarrold Jarvis had.

The image of Dane Jantzen filled her head in Technicolor memory—handsome, predatory, churlish. What category did he fit into? One all his own, she thought, doing her best
to ignore the disturbing shift of feelings inside her—heat and uneasiness, wariness and anger. The last thing she needed right now was to run afoul of a man like Dane
Jantzen.

She had come to Still Creek to start her life over, to build up a business and her self-respect and her relationship with her son. They hadn't been here three weeks and she was embroiled in a murder investigation and on the bad side of the sheriff. Pure damn wonderful.

“Did you know him?” she said abruptly, needing to break the silence and her train of thought.

Ellstrom jerked his head in her direction as if he'd forgotten she was sitting there. “Jarrold? Sure I knew him. Everybody did.” He said it almost defiantly, daring her to dispute the fact that the dead man had been well known if not well loved.

“This is quite a shock, I guess,” she said, intrigued.

He shifted on the seat and mumbled something under his breath as he adjusted the volume control on the police radio. The crackle of static rose like the noise from one of those mechanical ocean wave sound devices guaranteed in the backs of cheap magazines to put people to sleep. It put Elizabeth's teeth on edge. She flinched at the discordant screeching but tuned in automatically when word of the BCA mobile lab's imminent arrival came across the airwaves.

Ellstrom chewed on a swear word, clenching his jaw, his hands on the steering wheel.

“I take it you don't approve,” Elizabeth commented, turning sideways on the seat so she could better gauge his responses.

“We could handle this ourselves,” he said, still defensive. “Jantzen brings in those city boys and we'll be nothing but gofers. We don't need a bunch of college dickheads poking around.”

A sly smile tugged at one corner of Elizabeth's mouth. Dissension among the ranks. She knew without having to ask, Jantzen would hate it. He had the air of the absolute ruler about him.

“Can I quote you on that, Deputy?” she asked, her tone curling automatically into honey and smoke. She wasn't above the prudent use of feminine wiles, as long as she didn't compromise herself. A girl had to use what tools she had at her disposal. If batting a lash or two would loosen a man's tongue, she figured that was his problem, not hers.

An even nastier smile turned the corners of Ellstrom's lips as he considered the ramifications of having Elizabeth Stuart quote him in the
Clarion
. Jantzen would shit a brick. That alone made it worth his while.

He shot her a sideways glance, taking in the big silver eyes and ripe mouth. He'd seen her around town. She had a body that could give a man a fever. He couldn't make up his mind which he would grab first if he got the chance, tits or ass. Either way, a man was guaranteed a good time. It wouldn't hurt him a bit to do her a favor or two, he thought, shifting a little in his seat as the crotch of his pants tightened up, making him forget about his intestinal distress for a moment. Rumor had it she'd be willing to return a man's favor—on her back. His dick twitched at the thought.

“Yeah, sure. Why not.” He straightened up behind the wheel, puffing his chest out with self-importance. “Like I said, Jantzen's blowing this investigation calling in outsiders. We can take care of our own in Tyler County.”

“My, you certainly do sound like the voice of authority, Deputy,” Elizabeth murmured, glad for the poor light so he couldn't see her roll her eyes.

Ellstrom sniffed and nodded. “Yeah, well, I should have beat Jantzen in the last election, you know.”

“Is that a fact?”

“He only won because he used to play pro football. Big fucking deal.”

Elizabeth's imagination instantly conjured up a picture of Jantzen in full football regalia—pads accenting his shoulders, tight little spandex britches hugging his behind. She cursed herself for having a natural weakness for big, strapping athletic men. Her life would have been a whole hell of a lot tamer if she had been attracted to the anemic, balding, bookish type.

The headlights of the cruiser spotlighted her Eldorado hanging off the south side of the road, abandoned like a beached whale, and she heaved a sigh. Damn car. If it hadn't been for the fact that the Caddy had an undercarriage lower than a sow's belly, she would have driven right on past Still Waters and been home now, blissfully ignorant of Jarrold Jarvis's murder and blissfully ignorant of Dane Jantzen.

Ellstrom slowed the cruiser and gave the car a suspicious glance, showing off his miraculous cop instincts. “That yours?”

“Yep.” Elizabeth's heart sank a little as they rolled past the car. She couldn't bring herself to be mad at it. It was the '76 model, a sleek cherry-red boat designed before the days of fuel economy and aerodynamics. The last of the GM ragtops of its day, the Eldorado had held the dubious distinction of being the world's biggest automobile that model year. It sucked gas by the gallon and used oil with the abandon of a Saudi sheikh, but Elizabeth loved every gaudy inch of it. It reminded her of Texas and money, things she had left behind.

“What happened?” Ellstrom asked, an extra touch of male arrogance sneaking into his voice. “Run out of gas?”

“No. It just sort of . . . acts up every once in a while,” Elizabeth hedged. Bone-headed male smugness was something she could do without tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough when she went in search of someone to tow the car back up onto the road. It would be a man, and he would pat her on the head and snicker to himself. In her opinion, the Lord had not seen fit to create nearly enough female tow-truck drivers. But then, he was a man.

“Have any ideas on who might have killed him?” she asked, steering the conversation back on track.

“Do you?” Ellstrom's eyes darted her way. “You're the witness.”

“Me? Sugar, I didn't witness much more than my own regurgitated Snickers bar. The place could have been crawling with killers. I sure as hell didn't stick around to see. And I'm not long on theories either. Don't know anyone round here well enough to say whether or not they might kill someone. How about you? You being the man who should have won the election and all, you must know somebody who'd want old Jarrold dead and gone.”

Ellstrom's face set into a scowl. Ignoring her, he reached for the microphone of the radio and called in to tell someone named Lorraine that he was bringing in an important witness and she had better have everything ready. Elizabeth settled back in her seat. Deputy Ellstrom's loquaciousness was apparently not going to extend beyond bad-mouthing his boss. Figured. If he spouted theories on suspects, he might actually have to back them up with something other than hot air.

Still Creek had closed up for the night. The imitation gaslights that lined Main Street cast a hazy pinkish glow on the shop fronts that shouldered up against one another on either side of the wide main street. The ornate facades of the buildings that had been constructed in the early 1880s stood like silent sentinels, dark windows staring blankly as the police car cruised past.

A tidy little town, Still Creek was kept spit-and-polish clean out of midwestern habit and for the benefit of the tourists being lured to take in the bucolic scenery and the sights of the many Amish farms in the area. There was no trash in the gutters, no shop fronts in need of paint. Wooden tubs of geraniums sat curbside at regular intervals. The occasional spiffy red park bench tucked up against a building offered respite for those weary of walking from gift shop to gift shop. Windows were decorated either with austere Amish artifacts and quilts that were like works of graphic art or with gaudy Scandinavian rosemaling painted on the window glass in colorful curlicues like frosting on a bakery cake. A banner had been strung up above Main Street advertising the annual Horse and Buggy Days festival that would begin in one week.

The cruiser rolled slowly past the old building that housed the Still Creek
Clarion
. Like its neighbors to the north and south, it was built of dark brick two stories high with fancy dentils and cornices along the front belying the fact that it was really just a plain old square commercial building with a wet basement and dry rot in the floors. The gold letters arching across the wide first-floor window had been there for ninety-two years, proclaiming to one and all that the
Clarion
printed the truth.

Elizabeth thought of the hours she would put in the next day working on the story of what had happened to her that night. The truth. Looking around her at the sleeping town, she knew instinctively that the truth was going to go far beyond the death of Jarrold Jarvis, and Still Creek would never be the same. But the truth was what she had come here to print. The truth, unadorned and unadulterated.

The courthouse squatted like an enormous toadstool smack in the center of town, surrounded on three sides by Keillor Park. Built in 1882, the year the railroad had come through and Still Creek had won the title of Tyler County seat, it was constructed of native limestone, big square blocks of it stacked stone upon stone by Norwegian and German immigrants whose descendants still lived here. The old-time town square had forced Main Street to skirt around it and, while it was a picturesque arrangement, it wasn't conducive to traffic flow, explaining why the state highway had swung off to the west, missing the heart of Still Creek altogether.

Ellstrom pulled the cruiser into the parking lot and nosed it into a slot up against the side of the building that was marked
SHERIFF JANTZEN
. Elizabeth felt a smile threaten, but she ironed it out. Whatever this antagonism was between the sheriff and his deputy, it wasn't cute. The gleam in Ellstrom's eye was too malicious to be mistaken for cute.

He led the way into the building through a side door marked
TYLER COUNTY LAW ENFORCEMENT CENTER
and down a set of marble stairs and a cool white hall glaring with bare fluorescent overhead lighting. Elizabeth followed him along the corridor and to the right, the heels of her cowboy boots thumping dully against the smooth, hard floor. She wondered what would come next and how long it would take. Trace was supposed to be home by eleven. The large round clock mounted above the dispatcher's station already showed eleven-ten.

“Lorraine,” Ellstrom said in a tone of voice that rang with phony authority, “this is Miss Stuart. She's the one found Jarrold. Dane wants her to wait in his office. I have to get back out there and help secure the crime scene.” He hitched up his pants and puffed out his chest. Macho and tough, the man in command.

Behind her big U-shaped fake birch desk, Lorraine Worth gave him the cold, hard look of a woman who wasn't fooled by much and certainly wasn't fooled by him. The dispatcher-cum-secretary sat at her post with schoolmarm posture and pinched lips, dressed in something June Cleaver would have worn around the house with a string of pearls at her throat. Her hair rose up an impressive height in a cast-iron bouffant the color of gunmetal. Her eyebrows were penciled on, thick, dark lines drawn in a style intended to make her look stern and to minimize the motherly quality of her eyes. She stared at Ellstrom from behind rhinestone-studded glasses that pinched up on the outside corners like cat's eyes, and somehow managed to look down her straight, long nose at him, even though he towered over her desk.