more than I bargained for, all right. That bogus Cold Case Chronicles show is out here nosing around.”
Mick sucked in a breath. “Beth St. Regis is there, in Timberline?”
“Yeah.” Mick knew a little about the drama that had gone on between him and Beth...but not all of it.
Mick whistled. “That makes total sense now.”
“It does?” Duke clenched his jaw. “Are they promo-ing the segment already? She doesn’t even have her crew out here.”
“No. It makes sense that Beth’s doing a show about the Timberline Trio because someone sent us an email about her yesterday.”
Duke’s pulse skipped a beat. “About Beth? What’d it say?”
“The email, untraceable of course, said ‘Stop Beth St. Regis.’”
Beth parked her rental car in the public parking lot on the main drag of Timberline and flicked the keys in the ignition. Why did Duke Harper have to be here mucking up her investigation?
She chewed her bottom lip. He’d been sent out on a cold case because of what had happened in Chicago. She’d read all about the botched kidnapping negotiation that had ended in the death of Duke’s partner, a fellow FBI agent. But Duke had rescued the child.
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Duke had a thing about rescuing children...but he couldn’t save them all.
She plucked the keys from the ignition and shoved open the car door. She couldn’t get hung up on Duke again. This story had presented her with the opportunity to get to the bottom of her identity, and she didn’t plan on letting tall, dark and handsome get in her way.
She locked the car with the key fob and dropped it in her purse. The chill in the autumn air had her hunching into her jacket as she walked toward the lit windows lining the main street.
If she recalled from the TV news story on the kidnappings, the tourist shop was located between an ice-cream place and a real-estate office. She started at the end of the block and passed a few restaurants just getting ready for the dinner crowd, a quiet bar and a coffee place emitting a heavenly aroma of the dark brew she’d sworn off to avoid the caffeine jitters. The Pacific Northwest was probably not the best place to swear off coffee.
A neon ice-cream cone blinking in a window across the street caught her attention. She waited for a car to pass and then headed toward the light as if it were a beacon.
The tourist shop, Timberline Treasures, with the same frog in the window, nestled beside the ice-cream place, and Beth yanked open the door, sending the little warning bell into a frenzy.
A couple studying a rack of Native American dream catchers glanced at her as she entered the store.
“Hello.” A clerk popped up from behind the counter. “Looking for something in particular?”
“I am.” Beth gripped the strap of her purse, slung across her body, as she scanned the shelves and displays inside the store. “I’m interested in that frog in the window.”
“The Pacific Chorus frog.” The woman smiled and nodded. “Timberline’s mascot.”
Beth’s gaze tripped across a small display of the frogs in one corner. “There they are.”
The clerk came out from behind the counter and smoothed one hand across a stuffed frog, his little miner’s hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “They’re quite popular and these are originals.”
Beth joined her at the display and reached for a frog, her fingers trembling. “Originals?”
“These are handmade by a local resident.” She tapped a bucket filled with more stuffed frogs. “These are mass-produced but we still carry the local version.”
“Is there a noticeable difference between them?” Beth held the handmade frog to her cheek, the plush fur soft against her skin.
The clerk picked up a frog from the barrel. “The easiest way to tell is the tag on the mass-produced version. It’s from a toy company, made in China.”
“The color is slightly different, too.” Beth turned over the frog in her hand and ran a thumb across his green belly. She hooked a finger in the cloth tag attached to his leg and said the words before she even read the label. “Libby Love.”
“That’s the other way to tell.” The clerk lifted her glasses attached to the chain around her neck. “Every handmade frog has that tag on it.”
“What does it mean?” Beth fingered the white tag with the lettering in gold thread. “Libby Love?”
“It’s the name of the artist, or at least her mother—Elizabeth Love. Libby’s daughter, Vanessa, makes the frogs now.”
Beth took a steadying breath. She’d already figured her childhood frog had come from Timberline, but now she had the proof. “When did her mother start making the frogs?”
“Libby started making those frogs over forty years ago when Timberline still had mining.” The woman dropped her glasses when the browsing couple approached the counter. “Are you ready?”
While the clerk rang up the tourists’ purchases, Beth studied both frogs. Now what? Even if she’d had a frog from Timberline, it hadn’t necessarily come from this store. And if it had come from this store, any records from twenty-five years ago would be long gone.
The clerk returned with her head tilted to one side. “Can I help you with anything else? Answer any more questions?”
“So, these frogs—” Beth dangled one in front of her by his leg “—this is the only place to buy them?”
“The Libby Love frogs are available only in Timberline, although Vanessa sells them online now.”
“How long has she been selling them online?” Beth held her breath. Surely, not twenty-five years ago.
The woman tapped her chin. “Maybe ten years now?”
“Is this the only store in Timberline that sells the Libby Love frogs?”
“Oh, no. All the tourist shops have them and even a few of the restaurants.” The woman narrowed her eyes. “They all sell for the same price.”
“Oh, I’ll buy one from you.” Beth studied the woman’s pleasant face with its soft lines and had an urge to confess everything. “I...I had a toy like this frog when I was a child.”
“Oh? Did your parents visit Timberline or get it from someone else?”
“I’m not sure.” Her adoptive parents could’ve passed through Timberline and picked up the frog, but their taste in travel didn’t include road trips through rural America.
“It’s always nice to reconnect with your childhood. Can I ring that up for you now or would you like to continue looking around?” She glanced at her watch. “I do close in a half hour.”
Sensing a sale, the clerk didn’t want her to walk out of there without that frog tucked under her arm. She didn’t have to worry. Beth had no intention of walking out of there without the frog.
“I’ll look around for a bit.” Who knew what else she’d discover in there? With her heart pounding, she wandered around the store. She felt close to something, on the verge of discovery.
Maybe in a week or two she’d be ready to track down the Brices and present herself to them as their long-lost daughter who had been kidnapped from Timberline twenty-five years ago. It would be a helluva story for the show, too.
She couldn’t forget about the show—she never did. Being the host of that show had given her the recognition and attention she’d missed from her parents. How