In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [51]
She did know—now. It was cold and it was also raining. “Feels to me like there could be snow flurries,” she muttered, half asleep, and he sighed. She was a true Californian, despite her southern background. Come to think of it, that was another good reason she was with him on this investigation. That good ol’ boy southern accent might go down a sight better with the locals than his own Bronx twang. Of course it wasn’t the only good reason she was here, and he knew it.
It was late, but as a kind of penance, instead of driving straight to the inn, where he had been looking forward to a leisurely dinner with her, he drove to the local sheriff’s station.
Redbrick low-rise with a dark slate roof, it sat squarely on the corner of Main Street, immediately opposite the grandiose town hall, the white-columned portico of which was trimmed with red, white, and blue bunting, topped with a medallion showing a man’s head in silhouette. The name MICHAEL HAINS was strung in separate scarlet letters over the lofty double doors.
“No doubt who owns this town,” Camelia said dryly to Mel, who by now was sitting up and taking notice.
It was a small town of flower-filled window boxes and white picket fences; of stern warnings against littering and don’t even think of parking here and of the need to clean up after your dog, with the mention of substantial fines for violators. The streetlights were copies of iron-filigree lamps from the turn of the century, a time when, Mel suspected, this had still been a one-street town with wooden sidewalks, and the only lighting had been the moon. Bedding plants were laid out in perfect circles on the velvet lawn outside the town hall. There were white-painted store-fronts with cute Dutch doors, and the immaculate redbrick-and-white-clapboard houses had gingham café curtains on gleaming brass rods at their windows. And though it was only 9:00 P.M., there wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Oh, my God, it’s Stepford,” Mel whispered, awed.
“Or Disneyland.” Camelia was already out of the car and striding toward the sheriff’s station. She hurried after him.
There were two guys manning the station, both big burly fellows, both wearing cream Stetsons with their sand-colored uniforms, even though they were indoors, and both drinking coffee out of mugs with Michael Hains’s silhouette on them. They glanced up in surprise as Camelia swung through the door. They took in his smart gray suit, his silver tie, and his big-city look. An expression of distaste spread over both their faces, followed by matching false smiles.
“How can I help ya?” the taller one asked, without getting up. “Sir,” he added, with a knowing smirk.
Camelia got the feeling that if you didn’t come from Hainsville, you didn’t count. Then Mel raced into the room, and he heard the squeak of chair legs on wood floors as the two beefy red-necks lumbered to their feet. She might be different, but Mel was all woman, and even these lurches recognized it.
He flashed his NYPD badge and saw them take a mental step backward. “Detective Marco Camelia,” he said smoothly, knowing he had thrown them for a loop. NYPD was light-years away from the Hainsville cop department. “And this is Ms. Melba Merrydew, my . . . er, my assistant.”
Mel flashed him an amazed glance that he deliberately ignored. Getting the message, she stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket and tried to look as butch and cop-like as she could, though remembering poor little pink-cheeked, carrot-haired Brotski, who looked as though he were still in high school, she had to hold back a giggle.
“Yeah, er, well . . . and what can we do for you, Detective?” They shook hands cautiously across the counter.
“A quiet night here, huh?” Camelia glanced around the immaculate room, nothing out of place, no teetering piles of paperwork on scuffed-up desks, no Styrofoam cups of cold coffee, no Krispy Kreme crumbs. And not a sound to disturb the silence, except his own voice.
“Hainsville’s a quiet place.”
“Law-abiding, huh?”
“Yes, sir. And proud of it.”
The redneck’s steely blues met