She searched his eyes for one long, pulse-pounding moment. “All right. We’ll play this your way. Since,” she qualified, “we’re on the same side.”
The muscle in his jaw throbbed from the hard set of his teeth. Stay cool. Don’t let her get to you. He gestured to his Jeep. “Why don’t we take my vehicle?” He patently scrutinized her midsize sedan. “I think you’ll find that four-wheel drive comes in handy around here.” Although the temperature was fairly mild, they still had upward of twofeet of snow on the ground. Last night’s misforecast storm had dropped six inches instead of two. The snowplows had been out in earnest this morning, ensuring the roads were cleared.
“Good point.” She gifted him with one of those looks that said he’d earned a measly point; then she did an about-face and hustled back to her rental car.
She grabbed the key fob from the console and a black shoulder bag before locking the doors. The bag was nearly as big as she was. With her back still turned, she draped it over her head, allowing the strap to fall onto one shoulder while the bulky bag settled against her opposite hip. A good stiff breeze and she’d surely topple over.
No question the lady was from New York. Black coat, bag, and cap. His gaze traveled down the slim-fitting black jeans. Judging by her shapely legs, he would wager she had one hell of a great backside.
“I know.”
His head snapped up. Busted. He was supposed to be representing the Village of Youngstown. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of pervert scoping out her assets.
“I was supposed to bring snow boots, but I forgot.”
He glanced down at the black Converse sneakers. She turned her palms up in a what-can-I-say gesture as she backed toward his Jeep. “I’ll pick up a pair while I’m here.”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.” He’d dodged the bullet on that one. She didn’t strike him as the type who wanted to be looked at. At least, not that way.
He rounded the hood and climbed into his Jeep. As determined as she was to stick to her own agenda and methods, she seemed reasonable enough. She had agreed to ride with him. That was a step in the right direction. “You might want to get gloves, too.”
She made an agreeable sound as she settled into the passenger seat. “Definitely. Forgot those, too.”
“We’ve set a record for snowfall this winter.” He started the engine, turned up the heat, and snapped his seat belt into place. Backing outof the slot, he added, “Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the next few days.”
No comment.
“Lucky for us, last night’s snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way.”
Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.
He was done making attempts at conversation for now. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind. For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment. Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown’s thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor. Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street. Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.
“The candles in the windows,” she said, breaking her silence. “Are those for the missing girl?”
Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.
“Some,” he said in answer to her question. “Others are always there in the winter.” He made brief eye contact. “A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It’s tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course,” he added.
“To keep evil away while they’re gone.”
And so it began.
“I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return.”
“The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?” She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they’d passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, “And the glass bottles hanging from trees.”
He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. “The family with the ornamental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don’t folks down there consider that art?” He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.
“The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes.”
Hadn’t they decided to call each other by their first names? “Don’t you have wind chimes in New York?” Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn’t mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.
“Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits.”
“I guess you don’t have those in New York, either.” He wasn’t going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He just didn’t want her ridiculing the town and the people he loved in her heartless magazine. She hadn’t been here twenty minutes and she was already looking for ways to twist that history and tradition into something sinister and simpleminded.
Case in point, she didn’t say a word about all the yellow ribbons. Folks had started putting those up the very next day after Valerie Gerard’s disappearance. No, that was too normal to mention.
