May stood frozen for half a heartbeat before pushing the door shut and locking it. Only then did she sag back against the wood, pulse thundering, lips tingling, thoughts spinning.
What had she just done?
Chapter Five
Ace sucked down another cup of coffee at Amka’s bar, reading the open ledgers in front of him. Morning light spilled through the windows in that soft, washed-out Alaskan way, which was more suggestion than brightness. Especially since thunder had rolled overhead a couple of times. A summer storm was on the way. His phone buzzed, and he answered it. “Osprey.”
“Hi Ace. It’s Phyllis Bluetown.”
“Hi Phyllis,” he said to the widow who used to be the librarian in town. “What’s up?”
The sound of a parrot came over the line. “Are you working yet?”
“Not yet, ma’am.” He kept his tone level. “Do you need something?”
“I do. When you get the chance, I need my garden tended sometime in the next couple of weeks. No hurry. I can pay five dollars an hour,” she said.
He sighed but kept the sound from transferring over the phone. “I’ll be happy to help, and you don’t need to pay me.” He didn’t need the money and would help her any time. “You call if you need anything else before next week, okay?”
“Yes, dear. You let me know if you gain employment.” She clicked off.
Maybe he should get a job. He looked around, more comfortable at Sam’s than anywhere else right now. The place smelled like coffee and citrus.
Across the bar, Amka finished shaking a Bloody Mary, the ice clattering before she strained it into a tall glass. She carried it to a waiting group of tourists and then quickly returned, slipping back behind the counter. “I’m telling you, we’ve got extra money, and the tourists are really finding the town. They need transportation to those far out places.” Her eyes were light, earnest. Hopeful.
Ace didn’t want to disappoint her. He traced a thumb along the edge of the paper. “I ain’t flying.”
“Oh, come on.” She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking. “Fine. Then I still think we could use another motel. Maybe closer to the waterfront on the Dalika River to the east? We could compete with North Reach Alcoves.” The naturally created slough from the Dalika River had several houses, high-end cabins really, circling it. They were mainly used as rentals for the rich during tourist season.
Ace grimaced. The idea made his gut cramp. More tourists. More strangers. More noise. “Might be a moneymaker,” he admitted. “But do you really want to run a motel? Deal with that many people?”
Amka shrugged. “People pay.”
Ace glanced over his shoulder. Brock sat at a table with Ophelia, both of them bent over breakfast and what looked like case files. Brock’s posture was rigid as ever. Ophelia’s was relaxed but focused, FBI intensity never fully off-duty.
“Hey, Olly,” Ace rumbled. “Don’t you have a federal pension? Amka needs a partner for a hotel.”
Ophelia looked up, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. “I do have a pension, but I don’t want to own a motel. That’s a lot of people to deal with on a rotating basis.”
Ace snorted. “That’s what I said.”
Brock took a slow drink of his coffee. He had dark hair, a square jaw, and the Osprey family familiar green eyes. His were darker than Ace’s but not quite as dark as Damian’s. His expression stayed firmly unimpressed. “Why don’t you start a tourist company? You could fly people to fish and hunt. Don’t you think it’s about time?” Not even a flicker of humor showed on his face. He was serious. As usual.
Brock had always leaned cranky, though falling for Ophelia had taken off some of the hard edge. Some.
“Nah,” Ace said easily. “I’d rather sit here and watch you be sheriff.”
Brock’s frown deepened. The town had elected him by accident, more or less. He’d skipped one annual meeting and somehow ended up stuck with the badge. No escape since. Still, he was good at it.
Ace figured Brock would be sheriff until he was ancient and terrifying at a hundred years old. He turned on his stool to face them. “Olly, when are you gonna quit the feds and start working for the sheriff?”
Ophelia glanced sideways at Brock. “I don’t know that us working together is a great idea.”
Brock threw back his head and laughed. “You just don’t want to take orders from me.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes, stretching in her chair. She was tall and in excellent shape, all clean lines and quiet strength. She could probably give Brock a decent run for his money. Although he was a former Navy SEAL, so maybe not. That kind of training didn’t exactly fade.
“Well,” Ophelia said, closing the file halfway, “right now I’m working this case with the Alaska Wildlife Troopers, since several of the murders occurred on federal land. So the FBI is happy to have me stationed here, and I don’t need to worry about changing jobs. For a while, anyway.” She huffed. “The media in Anchorage caught the story and is calling the killer the Glacier Butcher.”
