“Deputy Director McCromby’s Office,” Jackie said.
“Sorry you’re working on a Sunday, Jackie,” Laurel said. “Could I please speak to the deputy director? I’ll be quick.” She’d learned early that promising brevity gained the desired results.
“Hold, please,” Jackie said, and Tchaikovsky’sSerenade to Stringswafted through the line.
The music cut off. “Snow? How bad is it?” George asked.
“At least ten dead females, all with common characteristics,” Laurel answered. “We’re dealing with a serial, and I want the case. It looks like Fish and Wildlife is taking the lead, so we need to either pull rank or insist on a task force that includes the FBI. The bodies were found on federal land—it’s ours.” She had to protect her uncle.
George groaned. “The Seattle field office is underwater right now. I can’t spare a team.”
“What can you do with Fish and Wildlife?” she asked.
George was silent for a moment. “Fish and Wildlife in Washington are state officers, fully commissioned. They’re qualified to handle this, but I can get you on the team. Let me make a call.” He clicked off, and Schubert’sSymphony Number Eightplayed quietly.
The sizzle of eggs filled the peaceful kitchen.
The music ended and George returned. “I just talked to the governor, and she’s going to take care of the situation and have Fish and Wildlife request your assistance as a consultant. If that doesn’t work out, I told her we’d take jurisdiction from them, and since she’s running for office on a public safety platform next year, she wants the case.”
Laurel bit her lip. “Thank you. What do I have for a support team here?” Fish and Wildlife wasn’t going to like the situation; she required her own base.
“You have your terrifying brain and country-girl good looks,” George retorted.
Laurel rolled her eyes. “I need a temporary office with at least a small support staff.”
“I’ll have Jackie send you a budget, but you’re on your own with staff. That’s the best I can do right now.” George ended the call, obviously not interested in arguing about it.
Laurel set her phone down. “Mom? How well do you know Kate Vuittron?”
“Not well,” Deidre said, dishing up the eggs. “She applied for a job with Pure Heart Tea, but I can’t justify taking on another employee. Her husband, the rat bastard, left her for his dental hygienist, who’s in her early twenties. I saw those two galivanting around town like Christmas arrived early.”
Laurel paused. “That’s terrible. When did it happen?”
“Oh, early in the spring, I think. He and the chickie moved here, and Kate did the same so the girls could be closer to their father, but she needs a job.” Deidre clucked her tongue. “Can you hire her?”
“Yes,” Laurel said, making a quick decision. “I need her phone number.”
“I have it somewhere.” Deidre motioned toward a pile of papers, sticky notes, and napkins in the corner. She brought over the plates of eggs, her brow furrowed. “This situation has set my instincts on fire. We need to do a reading and possibly an immersion with the moon’s energy. I have a feeling—a strong one. Life is coming for you, Laurel Mary Snow.”
The statement ought to sound exciting, or at least amusing. Instead, a clump of ice descended into Laurel’s stomach.
Chapter Seven
Monday morning arrived, and Laurel had a plan at least.
“I’ll rent a car later today,” she said as Kate narrowly missed hitting a snowplow. “You shouldn’t have to drive me around.” Plus, Laurel wanted to live to see her thirtieth year, and she had nine months to go.
“I appreciate the job.” Kate honked at a light blue Buick and then zipped around the elderly lady driving it. “Now that my oldest can drive, it helps with all the carpooling. In Seattle, the girls played every sport you can think of when they weren’t participating in all of the other school activities. Hopefully they’ll join activities here.” Her voice dropped, and she drove around two trucks that were probably going the speed limit.
Laurel pressed both feet against the floor in an instinctive move, even though the brakes were nowhere near her. “I’m sure they will,” she croaked.
Kate gripped the steering wheel. “I hope so. How was your first real night home?”
“Good, thanks,” Laurel said. “My mom made veggie lasagna, read my cards, and sent me to bed. I slept better than I have in months.” Perhaps longer than that.
Kate flicked a glance her way. “You believe in tarot cards?”
“No.” Laurel gripped the door handle. “My mom believes, and I enjoy her readings. It’s a useful tool for figuring out what’s going on in your own mind, I think.”
