Jason’s cheeks. Since when had his flirtation skills become so damned rusty? And awkward. Mercy, he was out of practice.
“More coffee, Jason?” the waitress asked.
Saved by the steamy brew. “No, thanks, I should get going. Marjorie is waiting for me back at the office to sign off on some...paperwork.”
The last thing he wanted to do was let the cat out of the bag that a body had been found so close to town. On the other hand, he expected when Susan Olson next went on shift at the back of the diner, it wouldn’t take long for word to spread.
He pulled out a twenty and laid it on the counter. “That should cover both our bills.”
Yvette zipped up her jacket. “Thank you, Chief Cash. I’m going to look up Netflix and chill when I get home.”
“You do that,” he said. And when she learned it meant watching Netflix together, then making out? “I’m down the street at the redbrick building if you ever need me. Used to be a bustling station house, but now it’s just me and dispatch.”
“Keeping an eye on the Peanut Gang.”
“You betcha.”
He walked her to the restaurant door, and she pointed across the street where a snowmobile was parked before Olson’s Oasis. It was an older model, similar to the one he’d once torn through ditches on when he was a teenager.
“That’s me,” she said.
“How far out do you live?” he asked.
“I’m renting. Here for a short stay. It’s a cabin about five miles east. Lots of birch trees. Very secluded.”
“Everything around here is secluded. You step out of town, you’re in no-man’s land. That’s what I love about this place. And lots of powder.”
“Powder?”
“Snow. When I’m not working, I spend my time on the cat, zooming through the powder. Er, cat is what some locals call the snowmobile. At least, those of us with an inclination to Arctic Cat sleds and racing.”
“Ah, a thrill seeker?”
“You nailed it. You must be staying at the Birch Bower cabin?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Jason nodded. The owners rented the place out in the winter months while they vacationed in their Athens home. Nice place, Greece. Beautiful blue waters. Fascinating local culture. Ouzo in abundance. He’d nearly taken a bullet to the stomach there a few years ago. Good times.
“Thanks again,” Yvette called as she walked away.
Feeling as though he wanted to give Yvette his phone number, Jason also suspected that would not be cool. Not yet. They’d only chatted ten minutes. So instead he watched her turn on her snowmobile and head off with a smile and a wave.
Besides, he knew where to find her now if he wanted to.
A glance to the SUV found it was still parked. Exhaust fumes indicated the engine was running. Hmm...
Jason strode across Main Street toward the SUV, boots crunching the snowpack. The vehicle shifted into gear and drove past him. It slowed at the stop sign at the east edge of town. And sat there. Yvette had crossed to the town’s edge and taken a packed trail hugged by tall birch trees.
The thunder of Jason’s heartbeats would not allow him to dismiss the SUV. It was almost as if the driver had been parked there, watching... Yvette?
He looked at his cell phone. Elaine’s message read, Yvette Pearson.
As the very much alive Yvette LaSalle had said, it was a common French name. But two Yvettes in one small town? Both, apparently, visiting. And one of them dead?
Unable to shake the itchy feeling riding his spine, Jason returned to his snowmobile and pulled on his helmet. By the time he’d fired up the engine and headed down Main Street, the SUV had slowly moved toward the birch-lined road heading east. Yvette’s direction.
Jason pulled up alongside the SUV, switched on the police flasher lights and signaled the driver to pull over. He did so and rolled down his window. The thirtysomething male wearing a tight gray skullcap and sunglasses tugged up a black turtleneck as the brisk air swept into the truck cab.
“Chief Jason Cash,” Jason said as he approached the vehicle. A nine-millimeter Glock hugged his hip, but he didn’t sense a need for it. Nor did he ever draw for a routine traffic stop. Not that this was a traffic stop.
“Hello, Officer,” the man said with an obvious accent. Texan? A Southern drawl twanged his voice. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem. I’ve not seen you in Frost Falls before, and it is a small town. Like to introduce myself.” He tugged off a glove and offered his hand to the man. The driver twisted and leaned out the window to shake his hand. A calm movement. Warm hand. But Jason couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses. “Your name?”
“Smith,” he said easily. Which was the name Jason had gotten from the plate check. “I’m visiting the Boundary Waters tourist area. Just out for a drive. Beautiful day with the sunshine, yes?”
“You betcha.”
Definitely a Texan accent. Fresh out of high school, Jason had served three years in the marines alongside a trio of Texans who had extolled their love for hot sauce whenever they were bored.
“You got some ID and vehicle registration, Smith?”
The man reached down beside him. Jason’s hackles tightened. He placed a hand over his gun handle. Smith produced a driver’s license and, opening the glove compartment, shuffled around for a paper. He handed both over.
Hiding his relief that he hadn’t had to draw against a dangerous suspect, Jason took the items and looked them over. It was a Minnesota license, not Texas, but people moved all the time. The name and address matched the vehicle registration. It also matched the info he’d gotten earlier. Thirty-seven years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Donor. A Duluth address. Hair was longer in the photo, but the man looked like he’d recently had a clipper cut.
“You a recent move to Minnesota?”
“Why do you ask?”
“There’s not a lot of uff da in your accent.”
The man chuckled. “Born and raised in Dallas. But I do enjoy the winters here.”
“I gotta agree with you there. You must enjoy outdoor sports.”
“Mostly taking in the sights.”
“Uh-huh. You got the day off from work?” Jason asked.
“You bet.”
“Duluth, eh?” Jason handed back the license. “Where do you work?”
“Perkins. Just off Highway 35 west.”
Jason had eaten at that location before. So that checked out, too. In town to take in the scenery?
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. You should turn around here before the road gets too narrow,” he said. “It’s not for tourism. And it’s also not a through road.”
“I had no idea, Officer.”
“That’s part of my job. Making sure everyone stays on the straight and narrow.”
The man furrowed his brows. And the fact he’d misnamed the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness gave Jason another prickle down his spine. A strange mistake for someone who should be familiar with the area.
“The Moose serves up some tasty meat loaf with buttered carrots,” Jason offered. “Stop in before you head out of town.”
“Thank you, Officer. I will. Is there anything else?”
“No. You can go ahead and turn