Page 8 of Seducing the Sheriff
I made a mean chicken casserole myself. Not that it was relevant.
“Let me check in with my officer and I’ll leave you to it,” I said.
Rayne nodded. “Thank you, sheriff.”
I jogged back to Malloy and Greg. “Officer Malloy, please escort Mr. Harding to the motel out on the highway when he’s done here.”
“Are you going?” Now Greg sounded concerned.
“I am, but Officer Malloy will make sure you get to the motel. They won’t take long with you. They’ll get a statement, then you can go.”
He didn’t seem all that happy about me leaving him, but then a uniformed officer approached. He had to be fresh out of the academy. He made me feel old. He didn’t look happy at interrupting us and I guess he’d drawn the short straw.
“Sheriff, we’ve got more vehicles arriving. Do you want to move your cruiser before you get blocked in.”
A tactful way of telling me to get lost.
“Sure,’ I agreed, and I swear he breathed for the first time.
I turned to Greg. “I’ll catch up with you later, Mr. Harding.”
He seemed to relax too. At least someone wanted me around.
I left then, before I really annoyed Sergeant Rayne. As I drove down the drive, I caught sight of Greg Harding sitting on the stoop as I’d first seen him, and I swear his eyes were fixed on my taillights.
Chapter Three
Greg
I couldn’t believe I was stuck in a motel—especially since I had so much work to do in my new home. Idle hands and whiling away the time with no particular goal made me twitchy. Not that I couldn’t relax with a couple of beers and watch the game, or even the occasional movie. But those times were for special occasions, like when I used to visit my dad. These days, it was only when I was so beat I could barely stand. Otherwise, solo recreation wasn’t that much fun.
A wave of melancholy washed over me, the vision of the shriveled-up corpse assailing me the way it had the night before when sleep wouldn’t find me. What had happened to them? The idea that they might have been walled in under my stairs while they were still alive made me shudder. What a gruesome fate. In essence, it made me the owner of a crypt.
Groaning at the morbid thought, I whipped the thin blanket aside and rolled out of bed. I then padded my way into the bathroom so I could get ready to face the day. Maintaining a schedule was my happy place, and this awful development had thrown a wrench in my plans.
When I stepped inside the bathroom that hadn’t been blessed with a remodel since some time before Armstrong set foot on the moon, I grabbed a face towel from the rack. I squinted my eyes at the reflection staring back at me. A turquoise-colored porcelain sink with hairline cracks stood beneath a medicine cabinet featuring a slightly warped mirror. While I was certain that the weary person I saw was due to a lack of sleep, the old glass wasn’t doing me any favors either.
With a sigh, I finished washing my face and brushing my teeth before heading back into the small bedroom. My eyes wandered to the tiny, single-cup coffee maker on a plastic tray adorned with saguaro cacti. The Roadrunner motel’s logo was emblazoned on a diner-style mug, and a plastic packet containing sugar, powdered creamer, and a stirrer was conveniently tucked inside.
I picked up the cup, heavy in my hand, and pondered. I gazed at the chip and realized why the officer I was supposed to follow into town had insisted I stay at the motel chain instead of this kitschy place. When I’d driven to my new home the first time, I’d caught sight of the vintage motel, and it intrigued me. I was such a sucker for anything historic. Every time I passed it, the compulsion to stop and take a peek gripped me.
I set down the mug. Curiosity satisfied. Now it was time to go into town and grab some real coffee. After that? If I still wasn’t allowed back to the house, an exploration of the area would be excellent. I’d been back and forth between my property and Charming several times, but I didn’t know much else about the locale. Perhaps I could also find a source for fresh wool until I was ready to house sheep of my own.
After I finished getting ready for the day, I headed out, smiling and waving to the older man in the motel office as I passed. While climbing into the truck, I racked my brain, trying to remember the guy’s name. What the lodging lacked in charm, it made up for in how friendly and helpful the owner was.
I started up the engine, then snapped my fingers. Bob. Taking off down the road toward town, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. It shamed me to admit that I’d never been good with names. My attitude was that I would only be around long enough to flip a house, then be moving on to parts unknown. What was the point in developing attachments?
However, those days were gone. Everybody already seemed to know everyone in Charming, so it was on me to catch up.
My thoughts drifted to the rather attractive sheriff. He was new, too. Hmmm… I filed that morsel of info away for later. Baby steps. Working on my social skills was a positive development. However, bursting out of the gate at full speed wasn’t necessary.
I passed the turn-off to a town called Bobcat Stump. The first time I’d taken this road, the name had struck me as a place that might be interesting. As usual, my curiosity was piqued.
What I’d discovered about the town on Google had been limited to the population being shy of the five-hundred mark, a tiny local history museum open Thursday through Saturday from noon to four, and a diner that boasted it made the best homemade pies in all of New Mexico.
Suddenly, a piece of homemade pie sounded like it would really hit the spot. I pulled over in a small dirt turnout, checked for nonexistent traffic, then made a U-turn. If I were really lucky, they’d have Dutch apple.
As I traveled down the bumpy road featuring multiple potholes in the worn asphalt, I was treated to the sight of more than one decrepit roadside billboard. Other than the one advertising the coffee shop, the others were the type I’d become familiar with as a lifetime resident of the Southwest. Wooden, low to the ground, with peeling paint from back in the day.
