“Ginny and Brandi were lost souls,” Lorraine said. “Those girls up at Alastair’s place are lost, too, but they’re getting back on track.”

“Alastair? So he’s the—?”

The door banged open. In strode a man of about sixty, rail-thin but walking like a man twice his weight. He wore a uniform and his gaze was fixed on me.

I slid off my stool, hand extended. “Chief Bruyn. I’m—”

“Savannah Levine,” he said with a scowl. “Private investigator.”

Heads whipped my way. Lorraine stepped back fast, distancing herself. Bill scowled at me. Jacob looked confused, like a dog getting a kick after a treat.

“That’s right,” I said. “I left my card at the station. I wanted to let you know I’m here before I started investigating.”

“If you start investigating,” Bruyn said.

Actually, there was nothing he could do to stop me, but I kept my mouth shut.

“Well, you’re off to a hell of a start, Miss Levine, bothering these people.”

“She wasn’t bothering anyone, Chris,” said Jacob. “Just asking about Claire.”

“Oh, was she? Miss Levine? Come with me, please. You and I need to have a talk.”

six

As Bruyn marched me down Main Street, people gawked through windows, some even stepping outside for a better look. I might as well have been in handcuffs—and I was sure, in more than a few recountings of this story, I would be.

Now, as for why the local police chief was involved in an investigation that should have been handled by the county sheriff’s department, Jesse had said the county was officially investigating, but when the local leads went cold, they’d backed off and now the town looked to Bruyn for answers. Or something like that. It’d been a long explanation and I hadn’t paid much attention. All that mattered to me was that Bruyn was the guy I needed to impress. And I was doing a bang-up job of it so far.

When we reached the station, Bruyn ushered me inside.

“Beth?” he said to the receptionist.

Her white head popped up from behind the desk and she smiled.

“Is anyone else here?” he asked.

“No, dear. I mean, sir.”

“Good. I need you to walk up to the grocer and buy some coffee. We’re low on cream, too. Take your time.”

“But—”

He stepped up to the desk, lowering his voice. “We talked about this when I gave you the job, Mom.”

Mom? He was kidding, right? I looked from him to the old woman. Nope. Not kidding.

“There are some things you can’t be a part of,” he said. “We discussed that.”

She shot an anxious glance my way.

“I need you to leave,” Bruyn said. “Can you do that?”

She nodded and scooped up her purse. As she passed, she gave me a look that was almost pitying.

A million stories about small-town cops ran through my mind, images of pistol-whippings and broken fingers. Granted, 99.9 percent of those images came from movies and TV, but still, every now and then I’d hear a story that suggested some of that shit happened in real life.

With a binding spell at the ready, I followed him into his office.

He kicked out a chair. “Sit.”

I did.

He walked to the window, looked out, and nodded as the tiny figure of his mother headed downtown. Then he filled two mugs from the pot on his desk.

“What do you take?”

“Um, black ...”

“Tough girl, huh?”

I braced myself, but when he turned, he was smiling. He handed me the mug and started adding cream and sugar to his own.

“Little young to be a private eye, aren’t you? I’ve got a grandnephew at Everest about your age.”

“I’ve been with my firm for five years.”

“Firm?” He took my card from his pocket. “Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations. Out of Portland.”

I nodded. “We have a staff of four investigators with over thirty years’ experience among them. On this particular case we’re working in conjunction with a Seattle firm. Their lead investigator will be joining me soon. My primary job here is information gathering.”

He nodded, then perched on the edge of his desk. “So who hired you?”

“Claire Kennedy’s mother.”

“I can check that, you know.”

“Please do. The lead investigator is Jesse Aanes, from the Seattle firm I mentioned. Here’s his card.” I passed it over.

He took it. “So Mrs. Kennedy doesn’t think small-town cops are up to the job?”

I struggled to remember the line Lucas always used. “No, she just hoped a private investigator might be able to ... cut corners.” Not exactly what Lucas would say, but I was improvising. “Go where the law can’t.”

“Huh.”

He held my gaze. I probably should have dropped it, acted deferential, but it took everything I had just to hold it, calmly, not challenging.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Miss Levine. Maybe you talked Mrs. Kennedy into hiring you, but I know who called you first. It was Paula, wasn’t it?”

“Paula?”

His face darkened. “You really think I’m an idiot, don’t you? Small-town cop doesn’t know his elbow from his asshole. Paula Thompson called you because she doesn’t think I give a shit about what happened to her druggie daughter. She can’t afford to hire a PI, though, so she gets you to hit up Claire Kennedy’s rich parents. Am I right?”

I looked him in the eye. “No.”

He glowered at me and held my gaze. Did Lucas and Paige have to go through this crap every time they spoke to local law enforcement? I was tempted to walk out and dare him to do anything about it. I was even more tempted to practice my new persuasion spell. Memory loss in the recipient was the most common side effect. I could live with that, but there was also the possibility of a three-day power outage for the caster. I’d have to be in serious shit to risk that.

“Look,” I said. “Paula Thompson has nothing to do with me being here, but I can tell that you don’t believe me. So let’s cut to the chase. You think Paula hired me to embarrass you, correct?”

“Correct.”

“To do that, presumably I’d need to solve the case and make an ass out of you.”