Silent Night (2 page)

C
HIEF
T
UCKER
A
MBROSE
unzipped his jacket and pushed his radio back into its holster. Despite the snow flurries screwing up his crime scene, anger prevented him from being the least bit cold. He squatted by the garish red stains and ran his gaze along the dots splattering the nearby brick exterior of the Christmas Public Library. Because of the snowfall, it was impossible to see which direction this gory mess had begun or ended. Hell, it was impossible to tell much of anything. And worse, what the snow didn’t cover now, the water would wash away once it melted.

It looked like something had been slaughtered, but there was no sign of anything wounded . . .

It reminded him of things he’d seen on the job in Chicago. Scenes that had driven him to give up the city life seven years ago for small-town living. And for seven years, he had. Stolen bicycles were the bane of his existence here. Not bloody crime scenes.

Bloody,
bodiless
scenes.

It had to be a prank.

“Make sure you get Mrs. Perry’s statement,” he muttered, even though he knew it would be a waste of paper. The only useful thing the old librarian had done tonight was call in the scene. She’d seen nothing, heard nothing, and remembered nothing out of the ordinary. Just the bloody mess she’d found when she’d taken out the last of the night’s trash. “The woman can remember the time and date Lisa checked out
Moby Dick
in the seventh grade, but can’t remember what time the last person left the library tonight.”

He watched his lieutenant, Andy Bowen, carefully push a trash can away from the exit door with the toe of his boot, and upon finding nothing, turn the beam of his flashlight toward the two circular windows overhead. Tucker returned to the bloody snow and swiped the tip of his glove through some of the red. It was still tacky. Not that old. He frowned. An animal maybe? It wasn’t uncommon for tourist kids, bored with their serene family vacation, to find creative ways to entertain themselves.

Tucker had been patrolling the parallel street during the parade. Had stood at the end of this alleyway just a short time ago. How close had he come to catching the pranksters in the act?

He strode to the Dumpster the library shared with the antique shop next door and carefully lifted the lid with his gloved thumb. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he’d have someone comb the contents anyway.

Andy moved to the far corner of the alley, his flashlight beam the only thing marking his location. They worked at separate ends of the scene for nearly an hour until they were sure they’d gone over every inch. Tucker sighed and threw his tools into the trunk of his cruiser. They didn’t have CSI detail in Christmas to do his job for him, and he wanted to send this blood off to the lab to find out if it was human.

It damned well better not be human
.

Not that he wanted to find some wounded animal somewhere, but the other possibility was worse. This was a quiet town, one where no one but him locked their doors because they had no reason to. Tourists and townies seemed to understand that, once they crossed into the town’s borders, even fistfights weren’t tolerated.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He and Andy had been on duty for nearly eighteen hours, at work before dawn setting up crowd control for that night’s parade. If they continued to push themselves, they’d end up missing something that could be important. Better to get fresh eyes here for now.

“Call Jim and Darren,” he said to Andy. “They’ve had most of the night off and can finish up here. Make sure they comb the Dumpster, see if they spot anything we might have overlooked. Think I took all the photos we need, and for Christ’s sake, remind them to rope the area off this time, will you?”

Andy scowled. “If they even know where to find the tape.”

The last time Sergeant Jim Franks had been in charge of roping something off, it had been an open manhole and a twelve-year-old kid had ended up riding his skateboard right into it. They were lucky the parents hadn’t sued the entire town. Mayor Levi had been dogging Tucker’s ass about such safety matters since.

Nice, normal problems.

“Just make sure they have the tape before they get here.” He removed his hat and set it on the car’s hood as he rubbed the back of his neck, chafing his skin with his rough gloves. “I’ll wait for them to get here and you can call it a night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Doubt they’re asleep yet,” Andy said. “Shouldn’t take more than thirty for one of them to get here. You go on home. I don’t mind waiting. This is probably nothing more than a firecracker up a cat’s ass or something, anyway.”

“Only if the whole damned thing exploded.” And no guts to be seen. No matted animal fur. No little furry body. Tucker sighed. “Make sure the blood is sent in.”

He grabbed his hat off the hood of the car and dropped it back on his head. “Gotta love tourist season in Christmas.”

M
IRANDA
H
ARLEY PULLED
the large black Range Rover into Peggy Jo’s Café parking lot and let it idle as she worked the stiff muscles in her neck, shoulders, and back. She’d driven more than five hours to this little town, and she was exhausted, her bones sounding like a box of Rice Krispies with every movement. She had to meet her new landlord, and then, hopefully, she’d be on her way to a warm, soft bed.

A woman passed in front of the lot, adjusting the droopy garland hanging over the diner’s welcome sign. Quaint town. Nothing at all like Dayton.

Miranda’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She double-checked the cash in her wallet. Barely enough to get her through a few weeks. Good thing the cottage was cheap when rented on a weekly basis. Killing the engine, she grabbed her duffel from the passenger seat and exited the Rover.

“Try the beef stew! No one does it like we do!” the garland woman shouted, offering a wave.

Miranda gave a nod of thanks and pushed open the heavy doors. She glanced around the dinner crowd, looking for anyone who appeared to be waiting for her.

A woman with high, nearly bouffant hair greeted her. “Have a seat. Anywhere you’d like.”

Miranda smiled. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. A, um, Taylor? Trevor?” She fished in her purse for his information while she talked. “He owns the Nativity Cottages near the river?”

“You mean Tucker?”

She stopped fishing. “Yes, that’s it. Is he here?”

“No, but I’ll make sure he finds you when he shows up.”

Miranda thanked her and chose a booth near the door. She’d barely scooted in when the bouffant woman tossed a menu onto the table.

“Specials are on the board.” She pointed to the chalkboard with the neon script detailing the nightly deals. “Be back in a moment to take your order. Anything to drink in the meantime?”

Miranda wanted wine. Desperately. But she was driving. “Water. With lemon please.”

She glanced over the menu, settled on the stew, and closed her eyes. A gust of cold from outside pulled her lids open again, and she found herself watching a tall man built like a quarterback stepping through the tinkling doors. Miranda swallowed, hating herself for even noticing how appealing he was. But who could blame her? She’d been so consumed with other things lately . . . getting laid had fallen so far down on her to-do list that she couldn’t even find it anymore. A man like that could spark even the deadest libido back to life.

The waitress led him to Miranda and grinned. “Here he is.”

The man smiled down at her. “Miranda, right?”

He eyed her, and she squirmed a little. The term
landlord
had conjured an image of an old man with glasses. This guy certainly didn’t fill that bill.

“Yeah, hi.” She thrust out her hand awkwardly and shivered as his warm one engulfed her fingers. It took her a moment longer than it should have to let go. “Tucker?”

“That’s me. Mind if I sit? I have some paperwork for you to fill out and then we can get you settled in.”

“Sure. I was about to order something. I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. It was a long drive.”

“Not at all. I could do with something myself.” He handed her a small stack of papers. “Have a look over those while I decide what I’m in the mood for and I can answer any questions you have.”

Occasionally, his gaze met hers over his menu and she looked away, embarrassed that her sixteen months of celibacy were catching up to her. She hadn’t come to this town for romance or sex. God, she needed her life back. Needed to get laid. Needed to be anywhere but here.

She leaned back as Bouffant slid a glass of water in front of her. Miranda glanced up to see the name badge that proclaimed her
the
Peggy Jo.

“What’s it going to be?”

“I’ll have the beef stew.”

Her new landlord flashed a grin that revealed two perfect dimples. Of course he had dimples. No Superman was created without them. “Coffee. Meat loaf. And your amazing cornbread.”

When Peggy Jo walked away, he turned those dimples toward Miranda. “The stew is great, but she tends to run out during dinner rush. Figured I’d leave some for you tourists to sample.”

She turned her attention to the papers in front of her and pulled a pen from her purse. “This is for weekly rentals, right? I’m not sure how long I’ll need the place and want to make sure I can renew without someone else’s reservation knocking me out of a place to sleep.”

“I block off the cabins a week in advance. If you think it might be longer, let me know before checkout on Sunday. The sooner the better each week.” He leaned back and Peggy Jo slid a coffee in front of him.

Miranda watched him, her pen hovering over the agreement. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of renters. I saw the property on my way in. It’s nice.”

And a landlord like Tucker would draw women from all over for a nice stay in town. She wondered how many he looked at the way he was looking at her right now. Eyes slightly shielded by heavy lids and long, dark lashes. Sleepy-looking with a hint of no-nonsense.

“I do. But out of the five cottages, I try to keep two freed up for the week-by-week renters like you.”

She smiled. “Are you always this accommodating?”

“I try.” He flashed those dimples again. “So, what brings you to Christmas?”

She sipped her water. Why she was here mattered only to her right now. “Why does anybody come here? Christmas in Christmas. Quaint.”

“Yes. Families usually. Did you come to get away from yours?”

Miranda squeezed the wedge of lemon into her water and studied him. He had a friendly smile that caused little lines to crinkle around his eyes. Despite the warmth in those eyes, she had no desire to open up and spill her story to him. “Don’t have much left.”

Just her brother. And she certainly couldn’t spend the holiday with him.

She could all but see the gears turning in Tucker’s head as he tried to figure her out. His gaze dropped to her ringless left hand. She glanced at his, in turn, and found it as naked as her own.

Why did that make her smile?

Peggy Jo set their meals in front of them and pointed her pen at Tucker. “Let me know when you want dessert. Just pulled an apple cobbler from the oven.”

“Best cobbler in three counties,” Tucker said, digging into his meat loaf.

Miranda was content to watch him eat. She’d been around all walks of life and had learned to tell a lot about a person by the way he ate. The poor families she’d worked with in South America had scarfed down their food, their bowls held close to their chests for fear of someone taking them away. Busy people tended to share the same mannerisms, barely breathing between bites so they could suck down some nourishment before the next work-related emergency struck.

But it was kids she liked to watch the most. Their sheer enjoyment over something as simple as macaroni and cheese always brought a smile to her face. They were the ones she tried to emulate with each and every meal, never forgetting to take pleasure in a hot bite of something rich and creamy. Especially now, when she had to pick and choose which meals she could afford to eat.

Tucker was none of these types, though. He sat straight, one hand beneath the table, the other holding his fork lightly. Impeccable manners. Good upbringing. He reached for his coffee, and her gaze dropped to the Rolex on his wrist.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

As if on cue, her stomach grumbled. Tucker laughed. The richness of the sound washed over her. She shivered, her empty stomach quivering for something more than food.

“Go on, dig in.”

She took a spoonful and moaned with delight. The garland lady had been right. Miranda had never tasted anything so rich and flavorful in her life. She’d existed on fast food and gas station junk for months. In contrast to that, this was like eating at a four-star restaurant.

She looked up to find Tucker watching her. His lids were at half-mast again. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he worked to swallow his meat loaf. “Sorry, it’s just really good,” she said around another spoonful.

“No need to apologize.” He slid the plate of cornbread closer to her. “Wait until you try that. Better than cake.”

He wasn’t wrong. Miranda swallowed the moist, sweet bread and chased it with a gulp of water to keep herself from finishing it off. They were halfway through their meal when his cell phone rang. He set his fork on the edge of his plate and sipped his coffee.

She eyed the lit-up phone at the edge of the table. “Aren’t you going to get that?”

“Everyone’s entitled to an uninterrupted meal now and then. Including me.” The chirping silenced and he dug back into his food.

As Miranda finished filling out the agreement, Peggy Jo returned with two bowls of hot cobbler with a large dollop of cream on top and coffee. “Hope you saved room.”

She hadn’t, but she took a little bite, licking the cream from her spoon. She caught him staring and quickly tucked her tongue back where it belonged.

When was the last time someone had looked at her like that? She sighed. This guy was a charmer. Trouble with a capital T.