Close Enough to Kill by Beverly Barton Page A

have written, not a boy. A worldly man, with the heart of a poet. Or an artist?
    What if Brandon Kelley had written it? What if this was his way of wooing her?
    Thomasina held the note to her breast and smiled.

    After just one bite of the peach cobbler, Jim understood why Bernie and the others had raved about it. Without a doubt, it was the best he’d ever eaten—even better than his mother’s, and she’d been a great cook. If he ate many lunches like the one he’d eaten today, he’d either have to work out more or he’d wind up putting on ten pounds his first month in Adams County.
    “Amy’s going to want to have you over for dinner one night,” Jerry Dale said. “She’ll be calling you. She’s a wonderful little cook.”
    How did he get out of such a gracious invitation? “That’s awfully nice of—”
    Jerry Dale laughed. “Nothing nice about it. That wife of mine is a matchmaker. She’ll probably invite one of her unmarried friends to dinner the same night. Just warning you ahead of time. And she won’t take no for an answer.”
    Jim swallowed. “I don’t suppose there’s some courteous way to say no thanks, is there?”
    “Not with my Amy. She’s a little velvet steamroller.”
    “When Amy calls you, why don’t you suggest that you come for dinner one evening when your son is visiting,” Bernie said. “Tell Amy you’d like Kevin to meet some of the kids here in Adams Landing and he could start with Anna Leigh and J.D.”
    Jim released a silent sigh. Once again, his boss had come to his rescue. Was that just her nature? he wondered. Was she the caretaker type who was always looking out for others?
    Suddenly Ron Hensley’s cell phone rang—a distinct, loud ring, no catchy tune. He eased the phone from the belt clip, hit the ON button and said, “Lieutenant Hensley.”
    Jim studied the deputy’s facial expressions and figured something was wrong, bad wrong, before Hensley said, “Goddamn it. Who found her? I see. Yeah, we’ll be out there as soon as we can. Just don’t let anybody touch anything and keep them as far away from the crime scene as possible.”
    The minute Hensley finished his conversation, Bernie asked, “What was that about?”
    “Earl Wheeler found a woman’s body lying in the middle of a dirt road leading into one of his soybean fields,” Hensley said. “That was John. He’s on his way to the scene now.”
    “Any idea who—” Bernie didn’t get her sentence finished.
    “Earl told John that he’s pretty sure the woman is Stephanie Preston. Said she looked like the woman in the newspaper and on TV who’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”

Chapter 4
    When they arrived at the crime scene, a small crowd had already formed along the roadside and the rutted lane leading into farmer Earl Wheeler’s soybean fields. Jim had seen this happen all too often, thanks to citizens in possession of police scanners. Although several deputies had beaten them there and were doing their best to keep the spectators at bay, Lieutenant Downs was sweating profusely, apparently concerned about keeping the scene secured.
    “Look at them,” Hensley said. “Swarming like maggots. Why is it that people are so damn fascinated by murder and mayhem?”
    Neither Jim nor Bernie replied since the deputy’s question was obviously rhetorical.
    Bernie parked her Jeep just short of the yellow tape marking the scene, opened the driver’s door and hopped out, with Hensley on her heels. She gave the bystanders a hard glare and ordered everyone to keep their distance, then met Downs as he came toward her. Jim, who’d been sitting in the backseat, didn’t rush, allowing the sheriff to take the lead. After all, when it came time to speak to the press, she’d be the one to take the heat. And when the case was solved, it was her right to take most, if not all, the glory. As the new chief investigator, this should be his case, but he wasn’t about to inform either the sheriff or Hensley of that