

HEAD

in a

Haymow

Dairyland Murders Book 1

by Chris Seaton Copyright 2010

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy and find other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Acknowledgments and Dedications:

Thank you to Debbie and Elaine for their editing efforts. I dedicate this book and series to all the strong, opinionated, and funny women I've had the privilege to know

(and all the handsome oblivious men they inevitably put up with).

Please Note:

_All the characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual person or persons is completely coincidental. Furthermore, all representations of government officials and offices are fabricated by the author and bear no resemblance whatsoever to actual public employees, their duties, or their places of employment. No offense or malice of any kind was intended in regards to said persons_.

_Chapter_ **1**

"Somethin' don't smell right."

That was the exact thought that went through Jarvis Lutz' mind when he walked past the south end of the barn that morning.

Not that there was anything unusual about smells emanating from his barn; it was a barn after all. It was full of all sorts of odors. He ticked a list of them off in his head as he sniffed around for the odd one out.

Into the milk house: _It's not sour milk, not mold, or mildew_. Into the calf pen: _Nothin' trampled in here, just the same ol' calf shit._ Up and down the walkway of the dairy barn: _It's not cat shit, not dog shit. Nothin' puked up or pissed out wrong._

When he went to take a shortcut through the feed area, that's when he figured it out but not without help.

Over his head was the chute for the haymow, and along with a pungent renewal of the "incorrect" smell came a cacophony of buzzing flies.

That duo of smell and sound tripped a trigger in a forgotten part of his brain. It brought with it an instantaneous response of horror and fright.

Jarvis swallowed hard as he left the barn. He viciously cursed himself into a very bad mood by the time he stomped his way to the tractor waiting in the driveway.

He took his mood out on the unwitting teenager texting in the driver's seat. "God Damn it, Kevin! Stop phone fuckin' your girlfriend and call the sheriff! Now, boy!"

Never in all her life did Darlene ever have to wait to cross the road to get her mail, but there's a first time for everything and what an exciting wait it was.

She quickly trotted back down the dirt driveway as fast as her old gardening bra would allow. She waved and hollered to Bernice out in the strawberries. "Did ya see 'em? Ha? Oh My Lord, it was like convoy!"

Bernice stood up and stretched her aching back. Her knees were stained in bruising shades of red, brown, and green. She gave Darlene a look of bizarre amusement. "I swear Darlene, you keep runnin' like that and you're liable to knock yourself out with your own tits."

"Never mind my tits," Darlene returned crankily. "Did you see 'em or not?"

Bernice, clearly unimpressed, calmly picked up her recycled ice cream bucket. She turned her head toward the dusty apparitions hanging in the air in front of their driveway. "Nope, didn't see 'em. Who was it? Publisher's Clearing House?"

"You know, you're such a spoil-sport I shouldn't even tell you."

Bernice squinted her eyes at Darlene and chuckled with good humor. "Okay, I give. Who drove by?"

Darlene pouted, but relented anyway. "News vans."

Her curiosity piqued, Bernice started walking in the direction of the driveway. "News vans? Like TV news vans?"

Now that she held her audience in fixed attention, Darlene performed with relish. "KYBT, INEWS, Channel 12, and Action 18, all from the Cities and all roaring by like a bat outta hell to get to the German Farm."

As they approached the edge of the driveway, Bernice's healthy skepticism reared its logical head. "You know, they could just be lost. One van follows the wrong, screwed up GPS, and they're all lost following him."

Darlene's excited face flopped like a bad soufflé. "Don't you dare ruin this for me, Bernice. Just once before I die, I want to be part of something exciting."

Bernice frowned at her aunt. "If the news vans are all the way out here for a actual story, it's probably not a happy one."

"You don't know any more than I do, Miss Smarty Pants, so there."

It was then that the speed of sound caught up to the speed of the ominous black station wagon as it swished past. It spit dust all over them and Bernice's freshly picked strawberries. The long obvious sticker identifying the vehicle as belonging to the "Medical Examiner" stared back at them from the top of its trunk.

They watched the car retreat quickly down the road past the orchards, woods, and fields that made up their farm, Lollygagger's Acres. It turned into the wooded driveway that led to the German Farm. Bernice felt a bad feeling creeping on.

"Well Darlene, I guess we're both right."

It seemed like a good idea at the time. However, as they threaded along the century-old cow path that ran between their two farms, Bernice was having misgivings. She wasn't so sure she wanted to find out who was dead at the end of their journey at least not first hand. Nevertheless, Darlene was persistent despite the fact that she whined the whole way there.

"We would have been there in no time if we'd just drove the damn truck down. But no! You need to take the scenic route through Tick Paradise."

"Jarvis is gonna have enough cars in his yard without us parking another one," Bernice argued back.

"Well! If I get Lyme Disease and end up debilitated in my bed, you will not hear the end of it."

Bernice's patience was reaching a breaking point. "So the only difference between then and now is you'd be bed ridden?"

Darlene gave her niece a venomous scowl and quickened her pace to be a good three steps ahead of Bernice. She threw a parting comment behind her as she went. "I wouldn't want to be seen walking in with you anyway. You look like hell."

Bernice sighed as she guiltily watched her aunt's generous backside sway ahead of her with its impertinence. She glanced down at herself. Her brown cargo pants were still stained in strawberries. It adequately complimented her men's oversized t-shirt and ancient Birkenstocks. Her unmade face and blonde ponytail completed the ensemble. "It's probably just cops and reporters. No one in that crowd I care to impress."

"Well, if lackluster was the look you were after, I believe you succeeded." With that Darlene broke into the clearing and disappeared around the corner, but she didn't get far.

As Bernice went to follow, she almost knocked Darlene over. Bernice was waiting for a biting jibe in response but received none. Darlene was in obvious shock.

From their position in the clearing they were still a good hundred yards away, but they were close enough to see the circus unfolding before them.

The four vans that had passed their place earlier had been joined by two more from sister stations up in Duluth and down in Eau Claire. They were all parked in succession along the dusty driveway like a caravan. Several official looking sedans were cluttered amongst them, representing both county and state. The lone station wagon was seated at the head of the armada. It was near the barn that was completely encased in yellow barrier tape.

A cluster of cops inhabited the front lawn and gawked at the reporters. The only cast members missing from this performance were the residents of the farm. That was what disturbed Bernice more than anything.

"Holy Crap!" Darlene's voice was pitched like she was witnessing lions devouring a carcass on the Serengeti.

Bernice forced herself to move forward into the carnage. "Come on, Miss Glenwood, time for your close up."

At Bernice's insistence they started toward the house. "We're here as neighbors not looky-loos," she grumbled obstinately. "Best to separate ourselves from the cannibals."

Suddenly a call was sent in their direction. It came from one of the news vans.

"Bernice?"

Bernice ducked her head in defeat and grumbled, "Shit."

She was going to keep walking. If they kept walking, maybe that person would think they were mistaken. Unfortunately, Darlene had other plans.

"Look! It's your old friend, Cameron, by the Action 18 van." Darlene stopped and waved at him, hollering, "Woo Hoo! Hi, Cameron!"

Darlene began to walk in the direction of the vans, smoothing her hair and straightening her top as she went. She shot a look back at a very disgruntled Bernice, scolding, "No need to be rude, dear. Cannibals need love too."

To call Cameron Sparks a veteran camera-man was a gross understatement. In Twin Cities media circles he was a freakin' legend. He had crawled up the ranks for the last thirty-plus years with heavy equipment on his shoulder and a lens constantly affixed to his retina.

His linebacker figure and the fact that he was black had always kept him working in the background when he was younger. Even as times changed, he stayed there because that was the way he liked it.

Now Cameron was supervising interns. Smart phones and laptops were a lot lighter, but Bernice noticed he still carried himself leaning slightly to one side. She guessed he always would.

Cameron left his leaning position at the back of the van and walked out into the field to join them. He put out a welcoming hand to Darlene. "Well, if it isn't Darlene Glenwood?"

Darlene gushed at the remembrance of her name. "Oh Cameron, how could I forget you?" She accepted his hand.

Instead of shaking it, he gallantly brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, winking at her mischievously.

As Darlene giggled like a teenager, Bernice made her way into the area.

Cameron watched Bernice warily. His greeting was friendly but cautious. "Hey, Kid. Still playing Caddy Woodlawn, I see."

"Still trying to make out with my aunt, I see."

Cameron sent a set of bedroom eyes at the still simpering Darlene. "What can I say? She's like forbidden fruit."

Bernice let out an exasperated breath and looked beyond him through the cracks of the van line. The other side of the driveway faced west out of the morning sun. There were rolling fields and grazing dairy cows in the background.

A couple of well groomed reporters were taking advantage of the serene backdrop. They juxtaposed it to whatever gruesome tale they were weaving to everyone within a 300 mile radius. The other reporters had apparently finished their journalistic duty. They were taking a moment to check their phones, smoke, or drink their coffee, looking properly bored in the process.

"You miss it, don't you?"

Bernice gave Cameron a wry grin. "Like crack."

Cameron chuckled and pulled Bernice into a reluctant bear hug. "Same old cantankerous Bernice."

She took advantage of the close proximity and sucker punched him in his doughy physique. He released her, grunting but grinning.

Darlene broke the reunion with a very obvious question. "So, you gonna tell us what's goin' on?"

Cameron's humor evaporated once he realized his old friends were actually these people's neighbors. "Shit. You don't know, do you?"

Bernice pointed in the direction of their farm. "You guys passed by our place down the road there, quickly followed by the ME. That's all we know. What you got?"

Cameron could see the dread building in Bernice's eyes. "Jesus, Honey, all we know is what we picked up on the scanners this morning. Someone reported a dead body in that barn. The local PD hasn't said or done shit to tell us otherwise."

Bernice nodded to him. She was clearly disappointed. She spoke to no one in particular. "Well, I'm going up to the house, see if anyone needs anything."

She looked back at Cameron. They shared a moment of regret neither thought would be repeated again. She gave him a polite smirk and waved before she turned and walked away.

Cameron echoed what Darlene was thinking. "She's never going to get over it, is she?"

Darlene reluctantly followed. She turned and looked at Cameron. Her flirtatious attitude was replaced with sadness. "Probably not."

Bernice didn't get as far as she wanted. A Wisconsin state trooper met her about ten feet from the house, demanding, "Ma'am, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

Bernice made a very unflattering face. "I don't have a press pass if that's what you're asking for," she replied. "I'm a neighbor."

The trooper held his ground. "Immediate family members only. Please leave this area."

Darlene came up behind Bernice, scanning the windows of the house. She grinned and pointed. "Hey, Marsha's waving from the kitchen window, and she doesn't look one bit upset." Darlene frantically waved back, grinning like she just won the lottery.

The trooper was not pleased. "Ma'am, please don't make a scene. This is a very serious situation. I need you vacate this area immediately or I will have to restrain you."

Marsha Lutz popped out onto the porch. As she wiped her well-worn hands on her apron, she made her way down the steps. She didn't look one bit upset. She looked relieved. "Thank the Lord for friendly faces at last."

The trooper shot a stern glare over his shoulder. "Ma'am, this is a crime scene, not a social engagement."

Marsha admonished him with the smooth but stern tone that she reserved for naughty children and patronizing men. "This is my property and these are my friends. They belong here a damn sight more than you do, so kindly step aside."

The trooper gave them all one last officially hostile perusal before he pivoted on his heal and quickly removed himself.

Marsha watched him leave as she grumbled with disgust, "Those damn flatfoots trampling my lawn and spreading cigarette butts hither and yon, that's the real crime scene, you ask me."

Bernice couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed Marsha's arm. "Is everyone okay?"

Marsha peered over at Bernice with bemusement. "Well yah, except poor Jarvis of course." The realization of her comment hit home in Bernice's reaction of alarm. She immediately corrected herself. "Oh no, he's fine too. We're all fine. It's just...he's the one that found it."

Darlene chimed in with undisguised excitement. "You mean the body?"

"Body? Oh no. It wasn't a whole body. Just the head."

_Chapter_ **2**

Bernice couldn't make herself sit still for all the tea in China. That seemed to be what Marsha so graciously set out, along with delicate butter cookies, club crackers, and three kinds of cheeses. She observed that the immaculate kitchen had recently been remodeled. The trendy walnut cabinets and mushroom quartz counter tops gave it more of a showroom feel than the old-fashioned country kitchen it had replaced.

Bernice bobbed her teabag in the hot water while she paced in front of the window and absorbed the conversation going on at the kitchen table.

"I wanted to call you the second I found out what was up," Marsha apologized, "but those cops said we couldn't talk to anyone until they were done. It's just so odd. One minute we're just minding our own business, and then all holy hell breaks loose."

A small boy wandered into the kitchen and grabbed for a cookie. Marsha immediately swatted his hand. The cookie broke in half on impact with the plate. "That's for company, Michael," she admonished. "Lunch'll be ready in an hour."

Michael stood and pouted. Marsha swatted his butt. He gaped at her in surprise.

"Go watch the movie with Kevin or you'll get another one."

Michael folded his arms defiantly but only after moving out of spanking range. "The movie's boring," he whined. "I want to go see the head."

"Michael, you set one toe out of this house and I will tell all those policemen that you stole that gum from the store and they will throw you in jail and I won't come to get you back out."

Michael disappeared from the kitchen like he was never there.

Marsha glanced over in the direction of his disappearance. "That boy'd conduct the autopsy if I let him," she remarked. "I blame it on all the TV his mother let him watch." Marsha said _mother_ with a slight hint of bitterness.

Darlene empathized with her. "It must be hard to be a parent again."

Marsha dutifully accepted her role as martyr with a heavy sigh. "Well, someone needs to step up. This farm is the only home these kids got now. Better here than getting into drugs and gangs in the Cities with _her_ parents."

Marsha glanced over at Bernice and mumbled a poor excuse for an apology. "No offense, Bernice."

Bernice waved it off. Being a recent transplant from the Metro Area, she was used to the locals assuming that crossing the St. Croix River into Minnesota was tantamount to entering the den of iniquity. Bernice also knew there were ulterior motives behind all the sacrifice. She carefully asked, "Where do the Marines have your daughter-in-law stationed now?"

Marsha mulled over her answer as she removed the tainted cookie from the plate and discretely folded it into her napkin. "Germany, thank God," she replied. "Nowhere near where we lost Jason." Her voice drifted as she continued. "You know, even now, watching those two in the other room grow like weeds, I still can't believe it's been seven years. Funny how time plays tricks on a person."

Darlene saw the painful grief creep into her friend's demeanor and wisely changed the subject. "So how did you know it was only a head?" She asked.

Marsha recovered from her melancholy. "Oh that," she responded. "Well, Jarvis smelled something off and didn't know what to make of it until he heard the flies."

Darlene cringed appropriately. "And that's when he found it?"

Marsha gaped at her in shock. "Oh no," she corrected, "Jarvis wouldn't go anywhere near it. He just knew from the smell and flies that something was bad was up there. He had Kevin call the sheriff. Sheriff's the one that told him it was just a head."

"Up where?"

Marsha almost forgot Bernice was in the room. "What, Dear?" she asked.

"You said Jarvis smelled something bad 'up there'. Where exactly was the head?"

Marsha's gaze wandered past Bernice to the doorway that led into the basement. "They found it in the haymow."

Bernice looked at the doorway then too. "Think he'd mind some company?"

Marsha scoffed and poured herself another cup of tea. "Not unless you're drinkin'."

Bernice set down her untouched tea on the counter, remarking, "Not a problem." She promptly descended the stairs.

After decades of toiling in cow shit Jarvis had earned himself a cave worthy of the manliest man. He had a zone for everything. There was Packer Central decked out with dark green leather recliners, matching brass end tables, and a huge TV. Next to that was the Sportsman's Corner. It held an ornately carved, leaded glass gun cabinet that was surrounded by trophies of deer antlers and walleye mounts.

And then there was the bar. Clad in custom ordered mahogany, the granite for the counter was especially chosen for the perfect shade of blue. It matched the blue in the tri-folded American flag displayed on the wall next to all of Jason's pictures and military effects. Jason's shrine overshadowed the miniscule amount of mementos from an older war that was hung in an old shadow box off to the side.

Nevertheless, that was what Old Jarvis was glaring at through bloodshot eyes as he forced down another sip of whiskey. Lost in his own thoughts, he almost scared himself off of his stool at the sound of Bernice's voice. "This seat taken?"

"As long as you're not another fuckin' cop," he responded caustically.

Bernice walked around behind the bar and bent over to inspect the squat beverage fridge. She stood back up with a long neck bottle in her hand and swiftly twisted it open as she made her way back to the empty bar stool.

They both sat quietly for a while, just drinking.

Finally, Bernice broke the silence by gesturing to the shadowbox with her bottle. "Remind me how you got that star again," she casually requested.

Jarvis examined the bottom of his high ball before answering. "Took out a sniper."

Bernice nodded and drank a few more swigs of beer, letting the subject marinate. Jarvis was not one to be rushed. "That was in '67, right?"

"Yep."

"Hmm," she mused, "sniper must have caused some damage."

Jarvis said nothing. He drained his highball instead.

Bernice set down her bottle. "You know," she observed, "I've heard that story a hundred times, always the same: The rain, the burnt-out helicopter, the young kid who was so scared shitless he barely aimed his rifle in time to save his own ass..." Jarvis' hand started to shake as he picked up the large square bottle. Bernice stopped him. "It's a great story," she noted, "but you always choose to leave out what happened after you actually got into the village."

She took the bottle and poured two fingers worth of booze into the highball. Jarvis held the glass with both hands as he concentrated on the blue granite counter top.

Bernice stood up and walked around to the server side of the bar. After setting her half full bottle in the sink, she pulled out a shot glass and poured a whiskey for herself. Beer just wasn't cutting it anymore. "You don't have to give me the details, Jarvis. It may have been forty-some years ago, but I can see the nineteen-year-old sitting in front of me right now. He's the one who figured out what was in the haymow this morning."

Jarvis granted her his full attention then. What he saw in her eyes gave him pause.

Bernice wasn't looking at Jarvis anymore. She was watching the liquid move around in her shot glass. "Seeing death like that, it changes a person. You realize that nature has no respect for the soul in that body... It just keeps on rollin'."

She recovered herself as she looked at Jarvis and immediately changed her tone to one of hopefulness. "We're still alive, Jarvis," she reminded him. "All we can do is make the best of that and try to move on." Bernice hovered her shot glass near Jarvis' highball. "To life," she toasted.

Jarvis lifted his glass to hers. They toasted in silence. Jarvis spoke first. "All this shit is gonna really fuck up my hayin' schedule."

Bernice nodded with a smirk as she silently heralded the return of the Old Jarvis.

Then they heard a deep judgmental voice. "A little early for cocktails, isn't it, Mr. Lutz?"

Jarvis observed the regulation blue suit and flashing badge with undisguised distaste. "Ah, hell, not another one."

"I'm Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation." His demeanor was as crisp as his suit.

Jarvis did not get up from his chair. "Yah?" he drawled.

The man remained standing in the doorway. When it became obvious that his explanation of title caused no further action, he continued, "I understand that you discovered the victim on your property."

Jarvis looked at him and breathed deeply, attempting to inhale more patience out of thin air. "I already told the sheriff, deputy sheriff, and state trooper all I know, which ain't a whole hell of a lot. I watched every one of them write down what I said..."

In an effort to prove his point, he held up the whiskey bottle, continuing, "...and that was a good half bottle of Jack ago. So, _Sir_ , you'd be better off tracking one of those sons-o-bitches down and leave a poor man in peace."

Jarvis was going to pour himself another drink, but Bernice put her hand on the bottle. They exchanged a look that was not lost on the agent.

"That may have been the case, Mr. Lutz, but I have my own questions." He gestured toward to open basement door as he continued. "I would appreciate it if you would accompany me up to the crime scene."

Jarvis gaped at the agent. "No fucking way!" he ground out with conviction.

The agent flinched slightly at the offense but held his ground, stating, "As you are the only witness, Mr. Lutz, I'm afraid I must insist." Then he addressed Bernice in a polite but completely impersonal manner. "If you will excuse us, ma'am."

Jarvis grabbed on to Bernice's arm like a drowning man to a buoy. "If I go, she goes."

Bernice stared at Jarvis on the verge of protesting. His look of sheer desperation stopped her. She pushed an exasperated sigh through her nostrils and nodded slightly.

"This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Lutz. I don't even know who this woman is-"

"Bernice Hordstrom is my neighbor and my friend," Jarvis announced. "I trust her a hell of a lot more than you overpaid flatfoots so let's get this shit done with."

Jarvis heaved himself off his bar stool, tested his balance and continued when he found it to his satisfaction. He walked past the agent with barely a glance and made his way up the stairs.

Bernice and the agent remained awkwardly alone in the basement. The agent finally gestured to the open doorway. His sarcasm was barely hidden in his polite address. "Ladies first."

Bernice ignored the obvious slight and went on ahead of him.

Darlene and Marsha stared with obvious curiosity as the couple emerged into the kitchen. Jarvis was by the door waiting for them.

Bernice's voice conveyed more courage than she felt. "Darlene, I'm going out to the barn with Jarvis and this police officer-"

"Special Agent in Charge," was the abrupt correction.

Bernice regarded him over her shoulder with irritation. "Yah, so I'll be right back then."

Jarvis was out the door first with the agent and Bernice in tow.

Darlene and Marsha returned to their polite ladies tea and conversation.

"Wonder why she's going out with them?" started Marsha.

"Maybe that agent guy thinks she can help."

"Did you see how handsome he is?"

"I sense some chemistry with him and Bernice, don't you?"

"I just wish she'd take a little more care of her appearance."

"You're preachin' to the choir."

Jarvis stomped with obvious irritation past all the law enforcement occupying his yard. He was several paces ahead of Bernice and the agent.

"You know," she commented, "It's kind of embarrassing that the media beat you here." Bernice took her impending dread out on the closest target.

"I came up from Madison," the agent responded simply.

The local cops parted as he approached and gawked at him in his wake. Bernice observed the phenomenon with curiosity. She assessed the back of his carefully groomed head as they neared the barn and the unhappy Jarvis leaning in the doorway.

"You got a title that's a tad bit shorter than Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal-?"

"Wyatt," was his pert response. The agent gave her one sidelong glance before walking in. "Agent Wyatt will do fine."

Bernice made a face at his backside. She turned to Jarvis, who wore a look somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

"Now's not the time for flirting, Bernice," he commented dryly and went into the barn.

Bernice shook her head and grumbled to herself, "If you think that's flirting, Old Man, you've been married too damn long."

A person would have thought she was at a family picnic. With her county-issued wind breaker spread out on a square bale of hay, Dr. Melanie Hildigaard ME was casually lounging, sipping from her travel mug, and perusing the apps on her smart phone. She seemed completely oblivious to the horrid stench and annoying buzzing coming from a scant ten feet away.

Agent Wyatt approached her with an outstretched hand and spoke with authority. "I'm SAC Wyatt from DCI. Can you tell me-?"

"Hang on," Melanie ordered as she delicately moved her index finger around the screen. After a few more actions she carefully set the phone away. She looked up at Agent Wyatt, commenting, "'Bout time you got here. State budget so tight you had to take the bus?"

Agent Wyatt forced a tight smirk. "Sorry," he apologized. "It's a long drive from Madison."

Melanie seemed to take on the persona of a jilted date as she rose from her seat. "You could have called," she scolded him.

Bernice watched with amusement as the two officials sized each other up.

"My service went out in Menomonie," he explained through his irritation.

Melanie opened her CSI bag and pulled out her digital camera. "Figures," she grumbled. "Well, at least now I got company that isn't covered in flies."

Melanie glanced over at Bernice and Jarvis. They were still by the opening of the haymow, staying well away from the offending "victim". She waved them in like grandma inviting visitors for dinner. "Come on over," she beckoned. "He ain't gonna bite." She stood up next to Agent Wyatt and leaned in, joking, "Couldn't if he wanted to. The jaw's ripped off."

Agent Wyatt moved away from Melanie, clearly ignoring her. He set his own coat on top of hers and rolled up his sleeves. He looked around him, questioning, "What's the temperature in here?"

Jarvis stomped over to a far wall and eyeballed an ancient thermometer that was nailed permanently to a timber. "Looks to be about eighty-five," he yelled back.

Agent Wyatt gestured to Melanie for the camera. She handed it to him. "You figure Time of Death during your preliminary?" he asked.

"Funny you should ask." Melanie pulled out a clipboard from her bag and handed it over. She watched Agent Wyatt's face as he read it. His look of absurdity clearly made her day. "I know, right? This nasty noggin just got interesting."

Agent Wyatt refrained from comment. He handed the clipboard back and approached the head.

Bernice had her nose stuffed inside the crew neck of her t-shirt. She glanced in the direction of the work. Aside from the swarm of insects all she could make out was a lump on the floor matted with straw.

Agent Wyatt began to shoot pictures. He stopped and looked around him before demanding, "Mr. Lutz, would you come over here, please?"

Bernice and Jarvis shot each other looks of alarm. Bernice shook her head harshly inside her shirt collar. Jarvis pleaded to her silently with his age-ravaged features.

Agent Wyatt observed the two, clearly growing impatient. He called over to Bernice. "Ma'am, you are the one who chose to inject yourself into my investigation. Please cooperate."

Bernice glared at him, but slowly shuffled her way over to where he was standing. The heat and the constant buzzing were giving her the makings of a migraine. She shot another glare over at Jarvis.

He scowled at her in return and began to stomp in their direction. "I'm comin'," he grumbled.

Bernice turned to Melanie and enunciated through her shirt as best she could. "So you're certain the head was from a man?"

Melanie looked up in surprise. "Ha? Oh yah, pretty sure," she answered.

Bernice reluctantly glanced down at the buzzing lump of straw. "How could you tell?"

Melanie turned to Agent Wyatt, who was busy taking pictures. "May I have my camera back quick?" she requested.

Conveying his irritation at the inconvenience, he handed back the camera. He then turned his attention to Jarvis, who was keeping very much to himself in the background. "Mr. Lutz, there seem to be some other items gathered over here."

Jarvis peered around the agent cautiously before stepping closer. Agent Wyatt pointed for him.

In a haphazard pile partially obscured by flies Jarvis could make out a deer leg, a large twisted log, the remains of a painted turtle shell, and a picked-clean calf skull. His face registered a sad recognition. "Jesus, looks like it was Bear," Jarvis said with a disheartened groan.

Agent Wyatt straightened up smartly at the response. "Sir, are you saying a black bear was in your barn?"

Jarvis chose not to comment and simply looked ornery.

Bernice corrected for him. "Bear is the name of his dog. He's a Mastiff."

Agent Wyatt frowned at the pile with obvious irritation, announcing, "Mr. Lutz, I'm going to need to examine your dog."

Jarvis immediately came to the dog's defense. "But Bear wouldn't hurt a fly," he whined. "He just likes to chew on things. He keeps his toys up here so the other dog don't get em'."

"Well, one of his toys turned out to be a human head, Mr. Lutz, and we need to examine your dog to figure out where he got it."

"There!" exclaimed Melanie, finally getting the camera to the shot she was looking for. She showed it to Bernice. Bernice quickly winced and brought her face a safe distance from the offending image. "The head was fairly clean during the preliminary," she explained. "As you can see from the short hair and prominent bone structure, it's most likely a man."

Jarvis made the mistake of looking too curiously at the digital camera. Melanie immediately moved the image closer to him. "See?" she pointed out.

Jarvis looked away angry at first but opened his closest eye to the camera. Then he looked closer as his fear gave way to something else.

Bernice cocked her head at Jarvis with curiosity. "What?"

Jarvis squinted at the small LCD screen while the squirrels in his brain ran faster and faster. They came to a screeching halt and Jarvis opened his mouth and gasped. Then he promptly gagged on the stray fly that got sucked in.

Agent Wyatt smacked him on the back. It was the first time the man showed any sense of humor during the entire ordeal. "You all right, Mr. Lutz?" he asked.

Jarvis coughed as he bent over and hung onto Agent Wyatt's arm. He croaked out a rather harsh sound. "Herb!"

They all looked at him with confusion. Bernice bent over and peered into his face. "What was that, Jarvis?"

Jarvis breathed heavily for a moment. "I know who that is. That's Herb," he croaked. He stood back up and addressed Agent Wyatt. "That's Herbert Abernathy," he testified more clearly. "I'd know that son-of-a-bitch anywhere."

_Chapter_ **3**

It may have never graced the cover of a design magazine, but the eat-in kitchen at Lollygagger's Acres was neither short on charm nor hospitality. Except for updated electric and newer appliances (at Bernice's insistence), the kitchen remained in almost museum-like condition since its construction in 1940.

This included the enameled cook stove that imposed itself at the head of the room. At the moment it stood silent in the warm, spring evening. It was covered in trays of pint jars and freezer containers that were waiting for the June crop of strawberries.

Bernice and Darlene were hulling those very strawberries as they shared their vintage, chrome table and homemade wine with Cameron Sparks.

Despite the years worth of stories that needed to be caught up on, the main subject of conversation inevitably revolved around the bizarre events of the day.

"So Jarvis knew the guy outright?" Cameron asked.

"Oh yeah, and he was pissed about it too. Almost forgot his fear of seeing the severed head." Bernice brandished the squat, paring knife and removed the fruit from its stem.

"Can you blame him?" Darlene chimed in. "The bastard owed him 600 bucks." She flicked the green crown off her own knife onto the open newspaper in the center of the table. "No way he's gettin' it back now."

Cameron sipped his wine and plucked a cleaned strawberry out of the colander closest to him. He speculated, "Wouldn't that be motive to murder him?"

Bernice sent a dirty look across the table. "Why would Jarvis report the dead body of a man that he had murdered?"

Cameron grinned like the devil's advocate before tossing the fruit into his mouth. He spoke through his chewing. "Drama?"

"Doubtful," Bernice replied dryly. She stopped her work to swirl and sip her wine. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Then she turned her attention to Darlene. "I didn't recognize the man at all. Why is that?"

"Oh, well, I guess you wouldn't." Darlene stood up and gathered the newspaper into a wadded ball. "Herb left these parts years ago." She walked over to the screen door and tossed the package into a waiting compost container.

Bernice and Cameron exchanged a strange look. Cameron asked what they were both pondering. "How many years ago?"

Darlene spread out a fresh pile of newspaper before taking her place at the table. She poured herself another glass of wine. "Let's see," she thought aloud, "I'd have to say a good five years, he's been gone now." The realization of her mistake occurred to her just then. She bashfully corrected herself. "But I guess he's not really gone anymore, is he?"

"So this poses another question," Cameron observed, eyeing both woman mysteriously. "What has the infamous Herb been doing with himself all this time?"

Their musings were interrupted by a knock on the ancient, wooden screen door. They all looked up to find Agent Wyatt standing on the front porch.

Darlene immediately rose and opened the door, smiling and babbling, "Agent Wyatt, what a pleasant surprise. Won't you come in and have a seat? Can I get you a glass of wine, or are you still on duty? Can I dig out a Dr. Pepper for ya?"

Bernice rose warily from the table. "I don't think Agent Wyatt dropped by for a social call, Darlene."

Darlene whispered harshly over her shoulder, "You don't know that." She turned back to address the obviously uncomfortable captive in the doorway. "You'll have to excuse Bernice. A few years out here on the farm and she seems to have completely forgotten her manners." Darlene then added, not so casually, "It's hard to believe she used to be on TV for goodness sake."

"Darlene!" Bernice turned a bright crimson. She approached the door and shooed Darlene back to her seat. "I'll take care of this. Finish hulling those strawberries before we end up freezing mush."

Darlene sneaked in one more conspiratorial comment before getting physically shoved aside. "Get her all cleaned up, and she's quite the looker."

Bernice walked out onto the porch and shut the front door behind her. She silently counted to three in her head before she turned and faced him. Despite herself, she couldn't help but notice he had a very nice smile. She ducked her head. "Sorry about Darlene. I blame the wine."

"Drinking seems to be the pastime of choice up here." His smile didn't waver as he scanned the farm from the vicinity of the front porch.

"Well, what can I say?" She shrugged. "The Packers are in their off season and the TV is in rerun mode. Gotta fill the time somehow." Bernice's line of vision landed on his collar. She caught herself pondering on how quickly the dark stubble had filled itself in along his jaw line during the course of the day.

He turned suddenly and looked into her face with equal curiosity. "So you were on TV?" he asked rather skeptically. "Really?

Bernice defiantly turned up her chin. "So this is a social call?"

Agent Wyatt's face eroded to its original stoic expression. "No," he answered. "Unfortunately, new evidence requires that you continue to be involved with my investigation."

"Really? How's that?"

"Trace on the dog's fur indicates that he was recently on your property."

Bernice complained, "Agent Wyatt, the Lutzes are my neighbors. Bear is always wondering around our farm. That so-called trace could be weeks old. Besides, how could you tell it came specifically from here?"

He took one more look around the property then suddenly left the front porch, heading in the direction of the barn.

Bernice took off after him. "Just what in the heck are you looking for?"

He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and started scanning around his feet. "Do you own a donkey, Ms. Hordstrom?"

Bernice did not like the accusatory tone in his voice and let him know it. "Do you have a search warrant, Agent Wyatt?" she returned acidly.

He stopped and stiffened his back to her. She heard him sigh and expected to be reprimanded in his infuriating, business-like manner. Instead, he turned around and smiled again. "You know, I'm not a bad guy when you get to know me. Some might even say I'm downright charming."

Agent Wyatt put away his flashlight and approached Bernice, stopping just inches from her in the encroaching darkness. His voice was low, quiet. Bernice had to turn her face up to look past his Adam's apple. "If I gave you the impression that I'm callous about my job," he continued, "I apologize. The fact of the matter is I probably care too much. A life was taken, and I need to figure out why."

The heat and sweat he had accumulated from the day's labors made themselves apparent to Bernice's senses in the close proximity. She swallowed convulsively.

"I think I'm safe in saying that we both made a bad first impression earlier," Agent Wyatt concluded. "I had hoped to fix that, but I can see it's not easy to earn your trust. Maybe after a good night's sleep you and I'll get off on the right foot." And with that he walked away speaking over his shoulder, "I'll be back at 9am sharp with a deputy and your search warrant."

It wasn't until he backed his cruiser out of the driveway that Bernice allowed herself to take a full breath. "How long," she asked the night air, "since I've been so close to a man like that?"

"Too long," was the answer. It came from an ache deep down in the form of a hunger no amount of stupid strawberries was going to fill.

She marched back into the house. Cameron and Darlene looked at her expectantly.

"Well?" Darlene asked.

"Cops are going to be back in the morning." Bernice grabbed her keys from the hook by the door.

"But why?" Darlene's face registered concern.

"Apparently, Agent Wyatt's under the impression that a headless corpse is buried in our donkey shit. Given that information, I have decided that I need something stronger to drink than wine."

She looked back at the couple and smiled. "You kids have fun. Don't wait up."

The Den was not a bar to be entered by just anyone. There were rules at play depending on the season. If you were anything but a Packer fan, it was unwise to announce as much between September and January. The original name had been the Lion's Den, that is until the locals got it in into their heads that the owner was a closet Detroit fan and promptly tossed him out of his own bar. Suffice to say, the name was shortened.

When Bernice decided to stop in at the Den, it was mid June. That's when it essentially turned into a biker bar for the duration of the warm weather. Big shiny Harleys were parked in a long line up front. Their chrome gleamed in the yard lights and put the shabby facade of the bar to shame.

Bernice entered the nondescript door with confidence and conviction. Her nostrils were immediately accosted by the mixture of stale cigarettes and pungent air from too many bodies occupying the same space. She ignored the offenses and made her way down to her usual stool. Once seated, she pivoted out to survey her surroundings.

Leather clad folks spread out in patches around small round tables and happily cavorted amongst themselves. The usual locals were taking their shots at the dart boards and pool tables.

Everyone was ignoring the wide-screen TV hanging on the wall. Bernice was thankful it had been muted. She silently watched the snippets of the German Farm flit across the screen replied before the local news broadcast cut to commercial.

"So what's a lady like you doin' in a dump like this?"

Bernice smiled and looked up at the young brunette beauty grinning at her from the other side of the counter. Decked out in a camo tank and sprouting various tattoos like weeds, she would have looked right at home if it weren't for the unmistakable freshness in her face.

"You better watch your mouth with your dad around, Brooke," Bernice chided her. "This dump is putting you through college."

The grinning continued as Brooke popped open a root beer and split the contents of the can between two glasses. "I'm not worried," she responded. "He's so hell bent on finally beating Pete and Repeat over there, a twister could come through and he wouldn't notice."

They turned their attention to the card game commencing quietly in the darkest corner of the bar. A solitary stained-glass lamp hovered over a felted octagon table. Two older men, obviously farmers with disturbingly similar features, were staring blankly at... well... pretty much everything. A slightly younger man sat with them. He slouched his back and broad shoulders over the table with intense concentration on his task.

Bernice sipped her pop as she watched and started small talk with her present companion. "So, how'd finals go?"

"I kicked ass as usual, but Mr. Stickler over there is still getting up in my shit about studying abroad next fall," Brooke spat out bitterly. "I don't see what the big deal is. It's Belgium for Christ's sake. It can't be any more dangerous than working here."

Bernice glanced over by the door and commented, "Maybe if you spring to take Paul with you, he'd reconsider." She nodded toward a large balding man in a tight t-shirt with bulging biceps and unfortunate acne. Arms crossed, Paul was keeping hostile vigil over the noisy bikers. Paul caught her nod and nodded back.

"You know, you're almost as mean as he is."

Bernice looked up to find the young woman pouting at her. She smiled despite herself. "Okay. I'll see what I can do," she consoled, "but pouting about it is not going to convince your dad that you're a grownup."

Brooke put her hand over Bernice's and spoke with meaning. "We've missed you, you know."

Bernice glowered at her. "You know damn well you are welcome to visit anytime. I'm just over the hill from here."

"And Dad?"

Bernice smiled mischievously. "Now, Darlene promised me if he can make it into the house before she gets the shotgun loaded, he's home free."

Their shared giggle was interrupted by vicious cursing.

"God damn it!"

The man in question tossed down his cards on the table and glared with suspicion at the other men who blankly stared back at him. He breathed in some civility and proceeded to congratulate his opponents. "Well, you got me again, Guys. Well played."

He rose and nodded his salutations, "Harlan...Harlo."

As he left, the two brothers looked at each other and grinned. It was the only recognizable expression they had made all night.

Bernice absorbed the sight of the man in her peripheral vision. Knowing how his pitched, casual swagger always disarmed her so completely; she tried to never look directly at him. She half suspected he did it on purpose.

He slumped leisurely into the stool next to her and released an exasperated growl. "They've got no tell, neither of 'em," he groused. "It's like playing poker with a couple of stumps." He looked back at Harlan and Harlo. "Two stumps who are making off with fifty bucks of my hard earned money."

He continued his slouch and looked Bernice over. "Well, Ms. Hordstrom, what has prompted your luscious ass to darken my doorstep?"

Brooke scoffed at her father's uncouth behavior and walked two pitchers of beer out to the pool tables.

Bernice fidgeted with the swizzle stick in her glass. "She's right, you know," she reprimanded him. "That's no way to talk to a paying customer, Roger."

"Oh come on, it was a compliment. Besides," he commented as he snatched up her glass, "I don't see any cash on the counter." He drained most of its contents then cringed with distaste and inspected his stolen drink more closely. "Not that I'd pay good money for this swill anyway."

Bernice smirked at him. Their game of nonchalance was all part of the seduction, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. "I happen to like that so-called swill, but if you have a better suggestion, I might be open to hear it."

Roger swiveled his stool out and rested his elbows on the counter. He looked around at everything except Bernice with complete disinterest. "I don't know there, Bernice," he remarked. "I'm not really the sodie-pop type. My indulgences tend to be more of the adult persuasion." He gave her a sidelong glance.

Bernice took full advantage of the attention. She straightened up in her stool, stuck out her assets for proper appreciation and coyly chewed on her swizzle stick as she looked him over with unabashed appreciation. "I'm an adult," she said.

Their show abruptly ended when Brooke returned with a tray full of dirty glasses. She made quick use of them, rinsing and placing the glasses in the dishwasher with practiced precision.

When she glanced over at the couple, she suppressed a smirk. Roger and Bernice looked like scheming teenagers on the verge of some criminal act and trying their damnedest not to get caught.

Apparently, it was Brooke who was going to have to be the real grownup. "You know Dad, you're really cramping my style," she complained.

Roger swiveled to an upright position and presented Brooke with the "crabby father" face. "Well, that's just too damn bad, isn't it? I am your dad, and that's my job."

Brooke crossed her arms in defiance. "Well, my job tonight is to manage the bar. So why don't you get the hell out of here and let me do my job?"

The obviously staged detente was really a grant of permission. Roger frowned a little more and then relented with a sigh. "Fine, you win. But Paul stays past closing, and if there is any trouble, push that button under the counter."

Brooke replied sarcastically, "Jesus, Dad, why don't you act like I've never been here before?" She turned her attention to Bernice and commented with disgust. "Frankly, I don't know how you manage to put up with him."

Bernice responded with a shrug as they got up to leave. "He ain't my daddy."

Roger left first. Brooke silently mouthed and gestured to Bernice behind his back to talk to him about Belgium. Bernice gestured and nodded back covertly as she walked away.

Roger growled softly to Bernice when she approached. "Not your daddy, ha?" The blue-eyed devil cast her the leer of a predator. "We'll see about that."

Bernice traced one of the ornate carvings on the four poster bed with her big toe. She smiled to herself, imagining Roger picking the bed out in the crowded Caribbean market. She could picture him surrounded by seaside breezes and steel drum music, dragging a little Brooke along by the hand as she tried with all her might to break free and go exploring. Some things never changed.

She reached over the side of the bed to retrieve her t-shirt from the floor. She pulled it on over her naked body and looked around her. Roger's bedroom felt almost as familiar as her own. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd been there. She could count on one hand the number of times she actually slept.

She shuffled through the cramped kitchen and glanced over at the pair of tulip shaped glasses on the Formica table. They were filled ever so slightly with deep amber liquid. Bernice stopped at the aluminum screen door and peeked outside.

On the corner post of the covered porch leaned her lover, Roger Bellamy. Unabashedly shirtless, he was all full of vainly-maintained muscle. Delicious waves of course body hair wove their way around his torso and disappeared into the waist band of his ancient sweatpants.

His form was illuminated only by what was filtering through the kitchen window and the ember from his lit cigarette. She knew he was only sneaking one because his daughter wasn't home. He gazed out at the starry night with a look that was miles away. To Bernice he resembled a very naughty Marlboro Man.

She announced herself as she creaked open the door. "That cognac looks gorgeous."

Roger quickly snubbed out his smoke and flicked the butt into the yard. "For 350 a bottle, it better be."

She sauntered up next to him, leaned over the railing and looked out into the night. "Knowing you, I bet that was a deal."

"What can I say?" The stars suddenly lost their appeal to Roger. He was too occupied watching Bernice's butt cheeks play peek-a-boo out of the bottom of her t-shirt. "I know a guy." He reached over and pulled a frayed afghan off a nearby lawn chair. He spread it out in front of him and growled, "Come here before you get yourself full skeeter bites."

Bernice ducked her head with a quick grin and walked into his waiting arms. She wrapped herself possessively around his corded neck as he draped her bottom half in knotted yarn. They looked into each other's eyes, saying nothing. It was a lover's version of playing chicken.

Bernice was the first to concede. She buried her face in his collarbone instead. "How come you're not worried about the skeeters?" she questioned gruffly, nuzzling his neck.

"Well, you're all sweetness, see? Where I'm bitter and hard." Bernice nipped playfully at his earlobe and wiggled into him, causing a low grunt as he responded, "And getting harder by the second." Roger turned his head and captured Bernice's lips in a possessive kiss. He opened his eyes and noticed the unappetizing face she quickly made. He lifted his head and inquired, "Cigarette?"

She nodded against his chest. "I thought you quit."

Roger sighed and plopped his chin on her head. "That one after sex is really hard to give up." He paused. "I haven't had one since the last time you were here."

Bernice peered up at him with a queer expression. "Roger, that was three months ago."

"I know. There was still snow on the ground."

Bernice released him and gathered the afghan around her as she walked back to her original position. Roger didn't appreciate losing her from his embrace or the new scrutiny he was receiving.

"Don't look at me like that, Bernice. I'm no fucking saint." He turned away from her gaze before he continued. "I had quite the hot piece of ass here not two weeks ago. I showed her that very cognac breathing in the kitchen. You know what she said?" Bernice just looked at him. "She asked me if that was the same stuff Kanye West drinks."

He shook his head at his own foolishness. "I tell ya, it sucks getting old."

She gathered the afghan closer in her discomfort and met his gaze with one of concern and confusion. "I don't know what to say," she mumbled.

"Well, how about you?" He asked. "Anybody else since...last time?"

Bernice mutely shook her head.

"But you were thinking about someone else...tonight, I mean."

The way her head jerked back answered his question for him.

"I could tell, that's all," Roger confessed in the darkness. "There was a...determination there, almost anger."

She turned away with a hurt look that cut him to the quick.

"Oh, honey, don't be like that," he pleaded. "I'm not upset. It wasn't like I didn't enjoy it."

Roger could tell his comment was in no way comforting. He gathered her back into his arms. His voice was soothing. "Why don't we go back in? We'll enjoy that overpriced hooch and talk about the demons that brought you back to my bed."

"Herb's dead, ha? Well, that's too bad." Roger swirled his cognac thoughtfully.

"So you were friends with him?" Bernice asked.

He stopped swirling and sent Bernice a dirty look. "Hell no, the jackass owed me money."

A miniature wagon wheel clock resided on the wall. It displayed ten minutes past one in the morning. Both were dressed again in a vain attempt at propriety. They sat at opposite ends of an old sofa as they drank and talked.

Bernice twisted her mouth into an amused smirk. "Seems like this guy owed a lot of people money."

"Yah, Herb was all big promises and mediocre returns. The consummate salesman, you could say."

Bernice was confused. "If that's the case," she reasoned, "I'm surprised anyone, especially you, would lend him money."

"Well, toward the end there, it looked like old Herb had finally made good."

Despite herself, she was intrigued. "Darlene figures he left town about five years ago. That sound about right to you?"

Roger let the warm liquid lay in his mouth for a moment. He swallowed slowly and thoughtfully. He answered, "Yah, around then was the last time he came into the Den."

Bernice started to sound like a professional questioner. "So what do you remember about that night?" she asked offhandedly.

"Well," he began. "I remember Herb poppin' into the Den all grins and grand gestures. He bought the whole bar a round of drinks. Then he interrupted my poker game by slapping a wad of twenties on the table and demanding to be in on the next hand."

The slightly interrogative tone continued. "Was Jarvis in on that game?"

Roger registered surprise at Bernice's accuracy but answered. "Jarvis was a regular back then. He stopped coming after they got Jason's kids."

Bernice nodded. "Go on."

"The thing you got to know about Herb was he loved to gamble but he wasn't good at it. He was down-right horseshit at poker. He burned through that first couple hundred in no time flat. We all figured he was done, but he just went up to the ATM and took out another hundred."

"And that didn't raise any suspicion?" Bernice responded with disbelief.

"Of course it did." he corrected her. "We were cooking up all kinds of theories during the game and giving him plenty of grief for it. 'Did you knock off a bank today?' we asked him. 'Make friends with a Prince from Nigeria?' That kind of thing."

"What was his explanation?" she prodded.

Roger shifted his butt on the well worn sofa. "He claimed a friend of his gave him some good advice on an investment, and it was finally paying off."

"Did he tell you who that friend or investment was?"

Roger assessed Bernice warily. "You know, hon, what started out as me consoling you is turning into you interrogating me. What gives?"

Bernice downed the last sip of her cognac, swallowing painfully. "If the cops find the rest of Herb in my back forty," she stated, "I want to have some perspective as to why." She shut her eyes to absorb the burning sensation before starting again. "If Herb was flush with money that night, why did he end up owing you guys anything?"

"That's the problem with bad gamblers. They don't know when to quit. Herb injected so much cash into the game, we inherited more players, and the game went on longer. So his three hundred soon turned into five, then a grand. Herb drained the limit on his ATM card and had to start asking for markers."

Roger set his empty glass on the coffee table. "He left at closing owing a lot of guys money." He sat up and addressed his knees. "We all thought he skipped town and squelched on his debt."

Bernice felt her back starting to dislike her spot on the couch as well. She sat up and arched it, speculating, "So what do you think brought him back after five years?"

Roger stood up and cleared the glasses. He spoke to her on his short walk to the kitchen. "Hard to say. You leave your whole life behind like that, you usually don't come back without a damn good reason."

She recognized the bitterness that ended his statement and knew he was no longer referring to Herb. She gingerly entered the kitchen.

Roger was washing the glasses with a sponge. He rinsed them and set them on a waiting towel to dry. He stood over the sink and looked out the window into the darkness. "You staying the night?"

Bernice approached him and wrapped her arms around his middle. She rested her head on his back. "You want me to?"

Roger chuckled at the sink. He pulled her hands to his lips and kissed them before answering, "Well, not really. You hog the covers."

She playfully bit his back through his shirt. "You hog the bed."

He turned around, corrected their embrace, and sighed. "Then I guess it's hopeless."

Bernice gathered his handsome face into her hands. There was significance in her gaze. "I hope not," she replied.

_Chapter_ **4**

"We're still rolling, Bernice." Cameron's deep disembodied voice seemed to echo like distant thunder.

Bernice found herself in a small patch of woods. She tiptoed cautiously. She was careful not to get her high heels stuck in the tree roots as she avoided the mine fields of carelessly tossed garbage. She scanned her surroundings with desperation.

"Still rolling," Cameron repeated in the fading daylight. The trees took on sinister forms with their increasing shadows. The garbage piles were getting bigger. The edge of the woods was disappearing. Bernice searched with increased intensity. Her gut was feeling heavy. Hope was starting to fade.

"I need more time," she pleaded. Her silk jacket got caught on a branch. She pulled it free. Another branch snatched at her perfect hair.

Branches seemed to be encroaching on her from everywhere. She batted at them helplessly. She became frantic and started to run, still looking around her in vain.

"Where's the story, Bernice?" Cameron asked in a far away sing-song voice.

"I can't find her!" Bernice whispered back harshly. She lost one shoe as she ran, then tripped on the increasing amount of roots and lost the other. She fell to the ground.

The branches started to cover her. She kicked her tight linen skirt out of her way and began to crawl through the leaf litter and garbage. Beer cans, candy wrappers, and chip bags buried her hands and her progress. The dim light ahead of her was almost completely obscured by the trees.

"Where is she, Ms. Hordstrom?" demanded a different voice. It was authoritative and harsh in its judgment.

Bernice started to sink into the ground. Her crawling turned into clawing. Her panic increased with the black greasy dirt working into her manicured fingernails.

As her line of sight became level with the garbage, she was forced to stare into a familiar face. The eyes were clouded over in a hideous gray, and flies protruded from the nostrils. It was the last thing she saw before her final descent into the ground. Her scream filled with dirt...

Bernice flinched sharply in her bed. She stared around her with stunned disbelief. She was in her own room. There was no dirt, no garbage, just soothing cream-colored walls and lovingly reupholstered furniture.

Having not quite adjusted to reality, she jumped instinctively at the sudden screeching coming from her alarm clock. It displayed 8am sharp. The sun sneaked a shaft of bright light through a sliver in her curtains.

Bernice shook herself to regain her senses and shut off the alarm. She rubbed her tired eyes, stepped into her slippers, and she padded off into the hallway.

After a quick check to see if the coast was clear, she shuffled over to the house's solitary bathroom, but only after tossing a passing glance into the guest room. The vintage quilt was still immaculately made.

"Hmm," Bernice commented to herself. "I'm guessing Darlene'll be in a better mood today." She shut the bathroom door behind her.

Making her way down the stairs into the kitchen, Bernice inhaled the sweet heavy aromas of a high calorie breakfast. The sight she beheld upon entering the kitchen caused her to pause. "Oh my," she breathed with amusement.

That Cameron was working his magic at the stove was in itself a spectacle to witness. Watching him do so in Darlene's spare apron brought it up to a whole new level.

Darlene swished back in from the front porch, carrying a new batch of eggs in her own apron. She grinned at Cameron's back side, then noticed Bernice on the stairs and stopped. She walked past her with an aloofness that was poorly staged.

"'Bout time you pulled your sorry ass out of bed. Poor Cameron's been slaving over the stove all morning." Darlene gently laid the eggs in a waiting water bath in the kitchen sink and proceeded to grab the carafe from the coffee maker. She topped off Cameron's coffee with flourish as the two exchanged covert glances.

Cameron looked over his shoulder at Bernice and gave her a hearty grin. "Glad to see you're up and about, Kid. Hope you're hungry." He ladled out more batter from the glass mixing bowl and stated rather shyly, "Darlene was kind enough to let me mess with her cakes this morning."

"No comment," was Bernice's response. She made a beeline for the coffee.

Darlene almost elbowed the cup out of her hand, whispering harshly, "Don't think I don't know what you were up to last night."

Bernice let her gaze wander over to Cameron. "Don't be throwing stones at me, Miss Self Righteous. I can see your glass house from here."

Darlene huffed as her face flushed with blood and she walked away. Somehow, she managed to force a backhanded compliment in her departure. "Well, at least you look decent for a change."

Bernice smiled into her coffee and took her usual spot at the table. Her threadbare jeans and faded Guns N Roses t-shirt were anything but fancy. She wore her still-damp hair up in a favorite clip, deemed so because it was worn so often half of the teeth were gone. Her face was moisturized, but makeup was still not on her to-do list for the day. And her feet were bare. The Birkenstocks waited on the porch for the morning's escapades.

"So when are the cops showing up?" Cameron plopped a hot pancake on her plate.

Bernice slathered butter on the top and stabbed a sausage link off a nearby serving platter. She glanced up at the clock as she measured out a generous helping of syrup. "Any time now, I'd say." She sucked in some coffee and butchered the cake up into an edible pie chart.

Darlene joined Bernice at the table. Cameron smiled sweetly at her, adding two cakes to her plate. Darlene smiled sweetly back. Bernice ignored them both and concentrated on her assembly line of cake, sausage, and syrup.

Darlene stabbed a sausage and asked Bernice, "Aren't you worried about what they might find?"

Bernice shrugged. "Not really," she mumbled through her chewing. She took another swallow of coffee to wash it down then made her point. "If Agent Wyatt feels the need to justify his pay grade by tramping around our pastures looking for the rest of Herb, far be it for me to tell him otherwise."

The mention of his name brought forth the unfortunate events of the previous evening. She waved away a second pancake and washed the regret back with another swig of hot coffee. "In fact," she added, "if he actually shows up today with a search warrant like he promised, he can get one of those big ol' gloves and search Phyllis' nether-regions for all I care."

"See, I knew I forgot something," announced the deep crisp voice that Bernice was learning to hate.

She looked up to see Agent Wyatt on the porch again. This time he was fanning a standard size envelope in front of him. His self-satisfied smirk only enhanced his good looks. Bernice's good mood was turning south fast.

She wiped the embarrassment and syrup from her mouth and rose to greet him. She opened the door to let him in, stating bluntly, "You solidify out of thin air? I didn't hear your car pull in."

"Bernice!" scolded Darlene. "That is no way to greet a guest in our home."

Bernice was already out on the porch, viciously pulling on her shoes. "When a guest shows up with a search warrant, I tend to forgo the pleasantries."

Darlene hostilely glared at Bernice through the screen door, then smiled angelically up at Agent Wyatt. "Can we offer you anything to eat or drink this morning?"

Agent Wyatt eyed the freshly cooked pancakes beginning to pile on a platter on the table, but reluctantly passed. "I would love to," he politely admitted, "but I'm afraid I have already indulged in an egg-white omelet at Judge Conner's house this morning."

Cameron made an unappealing face as he finally sat to enjoy his labors. "Lucky you," he grumbled and proceeded to flop several pancakes on his waiting plate.

Darlene squealed with delight and inquired, "You were at Judge Conner's house? I heard they have marble statues in the foyer. Is that true?"

Agent Wyatt smiled indulgently. "Well, ma'am, I didn't see any statues per se, but I did notice some lovely marble flooring by the front door."

"I knew it!" Darlene announced victoriously. "Wait 'til I tell Marsha."

There was an obnoxious clearing of the throat coming from the vicinity of the front porch. "We're burnin' daylight here!" Bernice griped.

Agent Wyatt acknowledged the couple at the table, saying, "Enjoy your breakfast."

Bernice waited for him in the driveway. "So where's your car?" She repeated.

"I came from Mr. Lutz's farm through the back end of your two properties," he answered. "I tried to retrace the dog's steps." He wrinkled his nose at a wood tick he found crawling up his arm. He pulled it off and flicked it out onto the ground. Pointing north he continued, "The deputy is waiting for us in your field back there."

Bernice nodded and started to walk in that direction. Agent Wyatt took up pace next to her. He commented, "You look nice today."

She sent him a sideways dirty look but politely answered, "Thanks."

"Can I ask you a question?"

Bernice shrugged indifferently. "You can try."

"Well, you can't be more than, what? Thirty-six?"

Bernice frowned as he overshot her actual age by a couple of years. "Is that your question?" she asked with little amusement.

"I'm just wondering how someone so young get's a crazy old lady's name like _Bernice_." Agent Wyatt tilted his head at her in curiosity.

Bernice raised her eyebrows at the bizarre question. "She gets named after a crazy old lady, I guess." Shaking her head, she let out a breath. "And just to clarify for your records or something, I'm thirty-four."

Agent Wyatt grinned at the ground. "Good to know. I'm thirty-seven."

"Uh huh," Bernice mumbled an acknowledgement back.

They had rounded the pond at this point. Bernice's mood perked up slightly with the breeze that blew in the smell of fresh cut hay from a neighbor's field. She also took quiet delight in the lovely irises that were swaying on slender green spikes at the edge of the water. Maybe it was her contented smile that prompted Agent Wyatt to make a second attempt at what he seemed to think was small talk.

"So, I complimented your appearance like a gentlemen. How do you think I look?"

Bernice glanced over at him with annoyance and answered, "Like a shiny new penny."

Agent Wyatt's regulation blue suit was replaced with a dapper polo shirt and khaki slacks. Bernice thought to herself that he actually looked like someone who would be at home eating egg-whites with a judge. Then she smiled again. Whatever web of attraction he had her in the night before was gone. Her mood was heading back north for the moment.

He caught her smile and ran with it. "So this casual look appeals more to you than what I had on yesterday?"

Bernice couldn't help herself. The sarcasm just came out. "Well, I suppose if I were into butt-kissing cops with obvious political intentions, you would do in a pinch." Bernice walked ahead of him almost feeling bad about her comment but not quite.

Agent Wyatt soon caught up with her again. He observed her with silent interest for a moment before inquiring bluntly, "Is this because you've been in lock-up?"

Bernice stopped and faced him, more intrigued than angry. "You had me checked out last night, didn't you?"

Agent Wyatt could have put Harlan and Harlo to shame with his poker face.

Bernice just looked at him and started to chuckle. She shook her head at the absurdity of the situation and continued walking, her laughter increasing.

He followed behind her carefully, watching her as if she were somehow unstable. "Did I say something funny?"

She stopped laughing and sighed. "No, not really. It's just that I find this entire conversation to be ridiculous."

"You still didn't answer my question," he pointed out.

Bernice's humor evaporated. She stopped again. Agent Wyatt watched her features harden. "With a few noble exceptions," she explained, "most of my interaction with law enforcement has consisted of dealing with the lazy, the intimating, and the blood-thirsty."

She walked on with an assertive step. Agent Wyatt, unperturbed by her comments, trotted back up next to her. "But I'm not any of those things."

Bernice concentrated on the terrain ahead of her. "No, Agent Wyatt, you're worse. You're the opportunist." She looked up at the sky. "Kinda like those turkey vultures circling my back forty." She turned to him, suspicious. "So there is a body on my land?"

Agent Wyatt continued forward. His good mood was gone as well. "Why don't you come find out?"

Lollygagger's Acres was originally eighty acres in total. Bernice's grandparents had inherited forty of it from her great grandfather. The rest of his land had been sold off to cover debt incurred during the Great Depression. Jarvis Lutz's father had been the purchaser.

Shortly after the US entered the Second World War, the Lutzes were interned in a German immigrant camp in Texas. Their farm was confiscated by the Federal Government. After the war the Lutzes sued to have their citizenship reinstated and property returned. They won. After Vietnam Jarvis inherited the homestead. By then it had aptly been named the German Farm.

About half of the forty acres in question was found to be rocky and inconsistent, so Jarvis let it go into conservancy and left it as a scrubby cow pasture. Sometime later, Bernice tested the soil and found the acidity to her liking. She immediately took the useless land off of Jarvis' hands and promptly started the berry orchard.

In their third year the berry bushes were just finishing up their blooming with tiny green fruit beginning to sprout. Around the orchard was an eight-foot high electric fence to keep out the large beasts. Inside were the fixings for some netting to cover the fruit and keep out the small flying beasts.

Not far from the fence was a dung pile. It was ripening in the mid-morning sun in all of its smelly splendor.

"This pile is resting," Bernice explained. "It'll be ready next spring."

Agent Wyatt picked up a stray twig. He scraped it along the side of the pile and held it up for Bernice. "Donkey dung and pine needles?"

Bernice nodded. "And this is what you found on Bear?"

"Along with some blood," he answered and walked out toward the woods to the waiting deputy.

Bernice stayed where she was. Her nightmare from the morning was still fresh on her mind.

Agent Wyatt looked back at her and waved her in with a look of impatience.

"Well," she grumbled, "at least with the head gone, there won't be a face." And she took the short walk to the body.

Well, she was wrong. The corpse did have a face. It just wasn't human.

The huge bloated gut of the coyote stood out in stark contrast to the desiccated head. Everything else was covered in half-inch long black beetles. They were weaving their way in and out of eye sockets, ears and the mouth. Moving in a blurring wave of activity, they caused the dead coyote to ripple in macabre animation.

That was it for Bernice. She could feel her mouth fill up with saliva in conjunction with the rolling heaving of her gut.

Agent Wyatt pointed away from them to a clearing and commanded, "Go puke over there." As she ran, he yelled after her, "I don't want you compromising my crime scene."

Her yummy breakfast made a much less appealing comeback when mixed with bile and coffee. Bent over, she spit the offending taste from her mouth and inhaled carefully to stave off the dry heaves.

Bernice heard the grass crunch behind her and saw a hand come into view shaking a clear plastic container of bright red Tic Tacs. Bernice opened her hand to receive a small amount. She tossed them into her mouth and moved them around quickly with her tongue. Soon the strong taste of cinnamon masked everything else.

She looked up at Agent Wyatt but not to thank him. "You could have warned me," she hissed with open contempt.

"You compared me to a vulture," he stated simply. "Now we're even." He tossed a couple of candies in his mouth, smiled at her, and walked away.

Bernice stood up and watched him leave. She hated him at that moment. Catching herself admiring his efficiently tight butt in those khakis, she hated herself more.

He waited over by the carcass with a look of amusement that Bernice was just itching to slap right off of him. This time she stayed a step back.

"You 'bout done?" he asked dryly.

She knew from his patronizing tone that he was referring to her abuse upon him rather than the puking. She gave as good as she got, answering, "For now."

He changed his demeanor when speaking to the deputy. Bernice observed the young officer looked less than thrilled with his morning's duties. "Anything other than beetles yet?"

The deputy wore a deadpan expression. "Nope," was his short reply.

Agent Wyatt nodded to the young man as a signal to depart. The deputy did so addressing Bernice. "Have a nice day, ma'am."

Bernice nodded and smiled at him.

When the deputy was out of earshot, Agent Wyatt commented, "So which is he, lazy-ass, bully, or killer?"

Bernice knew better than to continue the mental fencing. She changed the subject instead. "What's the significance of the beetles?"

After a beat of silence to accept his small victory Agent Wyatt answered her question. "It's called Forensic Entomology," he explained. "The time line when different insects invade a decomposing body is so fixed, it can accurately determine the time of death." He pointed at the beetles. "In this environment Beetles infest a corpse 24 to 36 hours after it has died."

"First come the flies a few hours after death and lay their eggs. Maggots show up 12 hours later then the beetles. After the beetles the millipedes and spiders move in and finish up. Given a good few days in the summer sun, a typical corpse is all but turned to compost, just like your dung heap over there."

"So you're theorizing," She reasoned, "that Bear was patrolling back here, caught the coyote with the head, and killed him about a day to a day and a half ago?"

"Look at those gashes," Agent Wyatt pointed to answer. "Those are bite marks. I'm guessing the Mastiff picked the coyote up by the neck and shook him. Then he took off with his trophy."

"Hmm," was Bernice's reaction to the hypothesis. She abruptly walked away from the coyote and Agent Wyatt, heading into the woods.

"What?" he asked and followed.

"Be more specific with your 'what!'" she yelled over her shoulder. "Is it about my answer or my destination?"

"Both." His reply came up swiftly from behind and startled her with its closeness in the quiet woods.

Bernice looked around at the trees in trepidation. Still too much like that bad dream, she secretly wanted to hang onto Agent Wyatt's arm for comfort. Instead, she set her jaw in rigid determination and scolded herself not to be such a pussy.

"These woods border county land," she relayed. "They get logged out every few years so there are access roads back here. A body is not going to be carried very far before it's dumped. Therefore, we find the access road with recent tracks, we find the dumping ground."

"And the reason for your 'hmm'?" There was still a patronizing tone to his voice that was irritating to Bernice.

She squelched her urge to berate him and took a breath. "The flies come to the body first, right? Then the beetles?"

"Right."

"Well, Herb was dead before the coyote, and Herb's head was still in the fly process. So I don't get it."

"Part of the discrepancy is because the head was moved at least twice, limiting the access for specific insects to do their work." Agent Wyatt watched his feet, careful to mind any fallen logs.

"Okay, I'll buy that," Bernice countered. She hopped up on an old stump and balanced with a tree branch before making her way back down. "But even so, that would put the death of the coyote and Bear putting the head in the haymow to within hours of each other. There were flies on the head, but I didn't see any maggots, so explain that." She flung a branch out of her way.

"That's easy." Agent Wyatt caught the branch and sent her a dirty look.

She smiled back. "Why is it easy?"

"The head was frozen." He tossed the absurd explanation out like it was the most logical thing in the world. It threw Bernice off her game, literally.

"What in the hell-"

"Careful," he interrupted her.

"What?" she repeated.

And that's the last thing she said before falling into the hole.

Bernice's fall consisted of a backwards somersault with a very poor landing on her back over a freshly accumulated pile of reddish-brown dirt.

Agent Wyatt walked into her view. "You all right?" he yelled from above.

Bernice blinked and breathed in an effort to gain some perspective. She started laughing at herself as she mentally played the fall back in her head. "Yah," she managed. "The phrase 'ass over tea kettle' mean anything to you?"

She was waiting for a low manly chuckle. She didn't get it. She looked up inquiring, "Did you hear what I said?"

She was flabbergasted. The unflappable Agent Wyatt was thoroughly flapped. It would have been downright comical if he hadn't looked so freaked out. And if his eyes weren't staring with such concentration at her feet.

She watched his Adam's apple speak to her. "Ms. Hordstrom?" He said her name in that slow careful way a hostage negotiator bargains with a psychopath. "I need you to carefully sit up and put out your hand." She watched him get down on his knees at the mouth of the hole.

Bernice nodded like a zombie and slowly started to pull her torso up. She stretched out her arms. Underneath her she could feel her butt starting to shift on the dirt pile. She looked from Agent Wyatt's neck to his face to gauge his reaction and she didn't like it. Her eyes grew wide with panic.

He tossed a leg into the hole to increase his reach. Their fingers were almost touching. "Almost there," he said slowly, reassuringly.

Bernice would have happily suspended all belief that anything was wrong. That she had just fallen into an ordinary hole and the nice man was gallantly helping her out. But her brain temporarily lost focus, and her eyes drifted just past his feet.

And there were the beetles, thousands of them, everywhere. The ground was moving and so was the pile she was sitting on.

And unearthly yowl erupted from deep down in the heebee-geebees of her soul and propelled Bernice out of that hole like her ass was on fire. She barely acknowledged the hand Agent Wyatt held out to her and frantically grabbed at whatever root or branch she could get a hold of to pull herself forward and away.

She knew he was telling her to "Calm down", but her amygdala, the lizard part of her brain, was not speaking English at the moment. All she understood was "fight or flight" and flight was winning.

"Hang on!" Agent Wyatt demanded testily. She basically crawled right over him with a look that was anything but coherent. "Where are you going? Hey!" He grabbed onto her ankle and inevitably started pulling her back.

_OH SHIT_ , went the lizard in her brain. It was her morning's nightmare all over again. Her crawling had turned into clawing; the trees, the hole, the dirt... _OH SHIT_ , it went again.

Bernice increased her efforts, grunting and whimpering at the same time. She kicked at Agent Wyatt and pulled with all her might, desperate to get away.

He finally had to tackle her. She cried in horrid defeat. Her hair was covered in leaf mold and her precious clip became lost somewhere in the struggle.

He grunted as her forced her over on her back and snatched her brutally to his chest. He held her tight, more to keep her from hitting him than anything else.

He needn't have bothered. The initial contact with his warm chest brought Bernice the comfort and security she was seeking. She grabbed at his shirt with clenched fists and buried her face in it. Her crying ceased in a painful moan.

"Shh," he whispered, cradling her head with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. "You're all right. It's okay now. Nothing's going to hurt you."

They were both breathing heavily from the struggle. Bernice could feel the condensation form on Agent Wyatt's shirt and consequently her face. She started to pull away.

He held her where she was and looked into her eyes. "It's all right," he repeated again, searching for some sort of acknowledgment. "I'm right here," he reassured her.

His breath and his sweat radiated heat from his body and filled her nostrils with musk and man. They were having a profound effect on her senses. Her lizard brain shifted the primitive emotions from fear to something much more pleasant.

Agent Wyatt seemed to read her thoughts. He became very still holding her and waited for Bernice to give him a signal as to what would happen next.

_Chapter_ **5**

She thought about it. She looked at his mouth parted slightly in anticipation. She could just make out the tip of his tongue hiding in wait; that sharp silver bastard who had been snipping at her all morning. She could kiss the hell out of him right now and give that tongue something new to do.

But...therein lies the pitfall of thinking too much. The brain starts to conjure up "what if" scenarios. Seconds slowed to a crawl as Bernice looked at Agent Wyatt's handsome face, so close and so accessible.

_So I kiss him_ , her frontal cortex speculated. _Then what? We make out in the dirt next to a hole full of decomposing Herb parts? Not exactly romantic_.

_But he feels so good_ , her amygdala countered. _He's so solid and warm. Just a few more centimeters...He wants to kiss me_.

_Does he?_ her frontal cortex returned. _Really? I just had a panic attack. How do I know this isn't just pity?_

But her amygdala was winning. She looked into his eyes. The deep brown irises were close to black in the shaded canopy of the woods. She could just make out the flecks of amber and gold breaking out in slivers behind his pupils. The concern was gone. His eyelids were hooded. Very unprofessional intentions were swirling behind them. Bernice's lips parted at the thought.

Agent Wyatt buried his hand in her hair. He began to lower his head.

At the last possible moment her frontal cortex reminded her, _Didn't you just throw up?_

Bernice turned her head. Agent Wyatt raised his. They both let out a heavy breath.

Bernice gazed past her feet to survey the damage her little episode had caused. She whistled. "Boy," she exclaimed, "talk about compromising a crime scene."

The moment had passed but it was not forgotten. He was still holding her. She wagered a quick glance and realized her mistake. His features were still dark and dangerous.

"We could have done much worse." The implication of that husky reply hung in the thick air between them like an unfulfilled promise.

She didn't dare look at him again. "You can release me now," she informed the bush directly beside her. "I'm done having a fit."

He did as she asked. Bernice rolled onto her knees and rose up in a quick jerky motion. Crossing her arms defensively, she avoided looking at the hole and Agent Wyatt. She heard him shift in the leaves and get up. She could feel his gaze upon her and squelched the shame building up inside.

She made her pronouncement a little more loudly than necessary. "Well, we apparently found the dumping ground."

"Yep," he replied curtly.

Bernice carefully kept her line of sight above the beetles and scanned the area around the mouth of the hole. She pointed and observed, "The brush over there looks pretty matted down. You think that's where the murderer did the dumping?"

He briskly walked toward the area where she was pointing. He looked down then further into the woods. He was all business again.

Bernice breathed in some relief along with a little regret.

"Looks like we need to head this way," he said. Agent Wyatt looked back at her. His poker face had returned. "You coming?" he asked.

Bernice picked up her clip and used it as a comb to quickly fix her hair. In an attempt to regain her composure, she raised her chin and marched past him. "Try and stop me," she challenged, then cursed herself for such a reckless comment.

"No thanks," she heard him grumble behind her. She just kept walking.

After a good thirty feet they were able to make out the sandy rutted trail that masqueraded as the lumber truck road.

"Those tire tracks look almost pristine in spots," Agent Wyatt commented upon their approach. "I'm surprised there was no effort to cover them up."

"I doubt they figured anyone would be out here until deer season. That's plenty of time for a good rain to wash those tracks all out." She looked down the road. "See how the tires were spinning out up there? That's a driver who is unfamiliar with this road and was probably in panic mode when they left."

Agent Wyatt used his considerable height and jumped over the tracks. They walked on opposite sides of the sandy road and concentrated on the tracks instead of each other.

Agent Wyatt pointed down and made his observations. "Small tire width, probably front wheel drive." He stopped and concentrated on one set really hard like he was trying to decipher hieroglyphs.

Bernice was looking too but she couldn't tell what caught his eye. "Don't tell me you have tire treads memorized?"

Agent Wyatt frowned at her. "It's not the type," he corrected. "It's the quality."

When Bernice looked back down, she finally figured it out. "Oh," she exclaimed with a smile. "Someone got new tires."

The two miles worth of tracks that they followed before reaching blacktop took the better part of the rest of the morning. Agent Wyatt spent the majority of his time talking to various law enforcement on Bernice's phone, since his phone still lacked any discernible reception in their neck of the woods.

Bernice would have gladly just taken the shortcut back to her own property. Unfortunately, Agent Wyatt was insistent that the whole area around Herb's remains could be a potential crime scene. He didn't want her big clumsy feet trampling any more evidence. Not that he actually used that particular insult. Bernice's active imagination was simply filling in the chilly silence she was receiving from the man since they had started walking.

When they were met at the blacktop by various squad cars, she thought she was free. Agent Wyatt revealed otherwise as he barked orders to the officers that approached him. "Follow these tracks on foot back to where they stop, then secure a hundred yard perimeter around that spot, going south into the woods. I got DNR coming to identify the various animal tracks in the crime scene, so tread very carefully. Also I want the entrance of this lumber road closed to any unauthorized vehicles." He finished with a glance at Bernice over his shoulder, stating, "I'll be back after I drop off Ms. Hordstrom at her residence."

A deputy obediently tossed over Agent Wyatt's keys and pointed to his sedan on the shoulder. Bernice stalked off to the vehicle in question without another look back. She opened the passenger door and stepped inside, securing her seat belt and looking straight ahead. She listened to Agent Wyatt's footsteps on the gravel shoulder and stiffened as she heard the door open and the man climb in. He started the engine and made a u-turn to head the vehicle south.

"You'll let me know when we need to turn," he commanded gruffly, his eyes fixed to the road.

"Okay," Bernice grumbled with a nod. She let out a breath, frustrated with the whole situation. She tried carefully to change the subject. "So there's probably a dozen different tire places in the area. It wouldn't be that hard to make a few phone calls."

Agent Wyatt let out a breath on the steering wheel. "Ms. Hordstrom, I appreciate your willingness to help, but I'm afraid you are no longer needed. I can take it from here." He looked back out at the road.

"Turn up there," Bernice ordered with more forcefulness than she intended. She paused to calm herself before continuing in a controlled voice, "My name is Bernice, Agent Wyatt, and I was only making a suggestion. I'm not trying to intrude-"

"You've done nothing but intrude, and when I did need your help, you demanded a search warrant." Agent Wyatt's tolerance was beginning to erode. The sedan screeched in response as he took the turn. He ignored it, adding, "You're not a reporter anymore, Bernice. Stay out of my investigation."

If there was anything that he could have said to piss her off more, Bernice couldn't think of it.

"Well, thank you, Agent," she spat, "for reminding me exactly why I am no longer a reporter." The cauldron of forgotten resentment was boiling over. "So I can avoid pompous... dictating...bureaucratic assholes like you." She unhooked her seat belt, demanding, "Let me out. I'll walk. We're done here."

To her surprise the automatic door latch locked. She quickly turned to find Agent Wyatt's face a fury of determined anger. He roughly turned the vehicle, braking onto the meager shoulder in a noisy pile of displaced gravel.

"We're done," he viciously ground out, shoving the gears into park, "when I say we're done."

Before Bernice could process what was happening, Agent Wyatt grabbed both her upper arms in a brutal embrace and pulled her painfully over the armrest, grinding his mouth against hers. Her involuntary gasp only gave him opportunity to deepen the kiss and squelch any chance of Bernice complaining.

The more she resisted, the more he worked his mouth, sucking and tasting, negating any resistance with firm sensual measure.

She pushed hard against his chest, her eyes wide with righteous indignation at the assault. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but notice, he was a great kisser. She slowly closed her eyes. Her hands relaxed. A plaintive sigh escaped from her throat as she gave in.

And that was when he shoved her back into her own seat.

"There!" he announced angrily. "Now shut up and let me drive you home like a god damn gentleman!"

Bernice was too shocked to argue with him. She simply turned away, scrunched her body as close to the door as possible and watched out the window.

She heard the transmission kick into drive and the car return to the road. She felt like a deflated balloon. All she wanted to do was go home and start over.

As they pulled into the driveway, she realized with spiraling disappointment that God had other plans.

Leaning on his old pickup and sharing an apparently amusing conversation with Cameron was Roger. He turned to look at the sedan. His features changed when he saw her. It wasn't pleasant.

Bernice sent rapid and urgent telepathic messages to Agent Wyatt. _Just stay in the car. Just let me out and drive away. Just stay in the car_.

He pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, unlocked the doors, and got out of the car.

_Shit_ , her brain silently cursed in failure.

Slowly getting out, Bernice made herself witness the interaction of the two men she had just sucked face with in the last 12 hours.

Agent Wyatt put out his hand. "I'm Agent Wyatt from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation."

Cameron returned the gesture right away. Roger looked at the hand for a second before shaking it. He commented, "I know Agent Determyer from the Eau Claire office. He helped me with a meth lab that was found at one of my rental properties." Roger let his accusatory statement hang in the air.

"Determyer's working a task force with the La Crosse, so I was asked to cover for him," Agent Wyatt responded with unnecessary defense.

Bernice carefully approached. Roger and Cameron both began to notice that she and Agent Wyatt were filthy and bedraggled. The implication of their perusal was undeniable, but Bernice tried anyway. "I fell in a hole," she lamely offered. "Agent Wyatt tried to pull me out, and I'm afraid I made a mess of him." She pinched her lips in abject guilt. She gauged the hard set expression on Roger's face. He didn't completely buy what she was selling.

"Bernice has really been a big help," Agent Wyatt defended her.

Bernice rubbernecked at him in complete disbelief. His face gave nothing away.

"She found the original crime scene and possibly the tire tracks left by the suspect," he continued.

Cameron gave Bernice a big grin. "Yeah, she's quite the detective when she puts her mind to something."

Bernice smiled back at Cameron, her trepidation starting to wane.

Not so fast.

"I didn't catch your name, Mr...?"Agent Wyatt was addressing Roger.

"Roger Bellamy," Roger shook his hand again. "I own a bar down the road."

Agent Wyatt's demeanor grew somewhat hostile. "That wouldn't be the Den by chance?"

"Yes it would," Roger answered, erecting himself slightly taller against the fender of his truck. He waited.

"Well, it's just that I've heard from certain people that unsanctioned gambling might be taking place on your premises."

Bernice sent a glare at Agent Wyatt that would have melted skin. Cameron carefully put a hand on her arm. She turned to him and caught a look of caution that kept her quiet.

Roger shifted ever so casually on the fender. "If by certain people you are referring to the honorable Judge Conner, then I guess I'm not surprised. He seems to be under the false impression that if I lose my liquor license, I'm going to sell him my property so he can put up some stuffy golf course." He leveled a steady and unnerving gaze at the agent.

It was returned in kind. "Nevertheless," Agent Wyatt continued undaunted, "if my present investigation should produce evidence that such activities are taking place, it will be my duty to uphold the law."

Roger simply shrugged. "Hey, I totally understand. If you can actually produce any witnesses who will corroborate these accusations, then I will gladly surrender myself to the great state of Wisconsin."

The two men stared each other down. Their indiscernible features said nothing and everything.

Finally Agent Wyatt relented. "If you all will excuse me, I'm expected back." He nodded good bye to them all, lingering on Bernice. "Ma'am," was all he said. He returned to his car.

They all looked everywhere but at each other while they waited for the car to leave.

Then Bernice laid into Roger. "Seriously? Are you checking up on me?"

"I was worried about you," Roger shot back, "but apparently you were in capable hands."

"You know, I think I'll go see if Darlene needs anything." Cameron excused himself with barely any acknowledgment from his companions.

Roger looked out onto the empty driveway before acidly adding, "So that's my competition."

Bernice burned with embarrassment. "Not that I knew you were even competing, but I happen to find that man so infuriating he makes my skin crawl."

"Hmm," Roger grunted with obvious skepticism.

"What's that suppose to mean?" she questioned irritated.

"I'm just recalling that first night in the parking lot." Roger looked a defiant Bernice over. "What was it you called me again?"

She clamped her jaw shut and crossed her arms, remaining silent.

"Oh yeah, I remember," he answered himself. "You called me a perverted, self indulgent man-child." Roger grinned despite himself. "See, the problem, Bernice, is when you're good and mad, you are downright irresistible."

Bernice's features changed from irritation to confusion at the backhanded compliment.

Roger turned from her piercing gaze to contemplate the empty driveway. "I gotta tell you though; you sure know how to pick 'em." Roger's smile was sad. It accompanied a nod of good bye. He climbed into his truck and backed out of the driveway.

_Chapter_ **6**

The pure violence and anger that Bernice unleashed on the poor dirty goat barn was a painful sight to behold. She cursed in spastic contempt as she mucked out the stinky stalls with her pitchfork. "Fucking men," she hissed, bringing the fork down and out in harsh sequence.

She looked up at the cat. He was watching her from the rafters in the thick hanging cobwebs. "You know, spiders have the right idea," she told him. "They eat their mates." She produced a maniacal grin at the thought. "Sex and dinner. Fuck 'em and eat 'em. No fuss. No muss." She viciously kicked a stubborn pile of crap out of her way. "No depressing breakups that leave you bawling at Sandra Bullock movies while you inhale ice cream."

The cat blinked at her and closed his eyes.

"What do you care? You're neutered." She released an exasperated sigh and wiped the accumulating sweat from her forehead. She looked up to see Cameron watching her. "How come you're the only man in the whole world who's not an asshole?"

Cameron smiled. "You give me too much credit, kid. We all have our moments."

Bernice saw the duffel bag at his feet. She wiped her hands down on her shirt and approached him. "You taking off?" she asked.

Cameron looked back at the house to answer her. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Bernice smiled through her confusion. "What is it?"

Cameron shifted his feet, looking bashful. "I want to take Darlene back with me for the weekend." He returned his attention to Bernice hopefully.

Bernice grinned with genuine amusement and caring. "Are you asking my permission, old man?"

Cameron chuckled at the reference. "Kinda," he answered, "but more like Darlene wants me to ask your permission."

"Oh," she realized. "Mother hen's afraid the sky's gonna fall on me while she's gone."

"Well, she's worried about all this murder business." Cameron met her gaze evenly.

Bernice recognized the look and shook it off. "I did my duty to neighbor and state. I'm done. Unlike Darlene I've had enough excitement for one lifetime. I prefer quiet and predictable now."

If Cameron was skeptical about Bernice's life proclamation, he kept it to himself. Instead he admitted, "Your aunt's been such a good hostess to me, I just want to return the favor."

Bernice set the pitchfork aside, saving the snide, _I bet you do_ , for her own thoughts. "I'll just head up and talk to her then." They shared a quick hug, and she was off.

Bernice found Darlene at the kitchen table. Her suitcase, a dark green Samsonite circa 1975, was waiting patiently at the door. Darlene was busy writing on a piece of paper.

"I hope that's not my Dear John letter," teased Bernice.

"No, smart ass, it's your to do list." She concentrated on her writing. "Don't think, 'cause I'm not here to keep an eye on ya, you get to lay around and let the place fall apart."

Bernice glanced at the increasingly long list and groused, "Hey, you're only going away for the weekend. That's a lot of shit to get through in 72 hours."

"Then you better get started." Darlene handed off the list, stating, "Farmer's market deposits need to go in today." She looked up at the wall clock. "You've got three hours to get to town before the bank closes." In a rush of awkward sentiment Darlene suddenly threw her generous proportions upon the unsuspecting Bernice in a sloppy hug. "Stay out of trouble. I love you."

Bernice hugged her aunt back, teasing, "I love you too. Now go paint the town red, you big hussy."

Darlene smacked Bernice on the shoulder and grabbed her gorilla-proof suitcase, crabbing, "Leave it to you to spoil the moment." She walked out the door.

Bernice waved to them from the front porch as Cameron's rental car left the driveway. She returned to the kitchen after they left, looking around. The solitude should have been a relief. Instead it felt lonely. She snatched up the list as a handy distraction.

"Mucked out goat barn, check," she recited to herself. "Now a quick cleanup and off to the bank." She sighed.. "Yep, quiet and predictable, just like I like it." Bernice trudged upstairs.

As was typical with Friday afternoon, the line to the solitary teller at the bank was long and slow. Similar to the DMV, it was a great equalizer for the different stations of the American social class system.

You could observe the Goth teenager standing in front of the haggard soccer mom, standing in front of the small business owner. All were checking the clock. All were hoping they could get through the line before the lobby closed. Otherwise, they would be forced out into the street to wait in drive-through with the cars like animals.

Bernice had all her cash and checks in her neat little pouch. She was truly minding her own business this time. She wasn't trying to get involved with anything.

She didn't mean to make direct eye contact with the mousey woman carrying papers in the office area of the bank. She honestly was going to ignore the red-rimmed eyes, the lowered head, and the rest of the dejected body language.

Soccer Mom finished scolding someone through clenched teeth before clicking her cell phone shut. She attempted to present the teller with a face that was almost normal. Bernice was right behind her.

She watched the mousy woman leave the office again and start heading back to where she came from. She avoided Bernice's gaze this time, lowering her head like a beaten dog.

It caused in Bernice a reaction that felt very much like the one she got when she accidentally watched an ASPCA ad on TV. Bernice's heart ached to fix whatever was making this pitiful stranger cry.

"Fuck it," Bernice proclaimed under her breath and left the line. The four people behind her watched her walk away from eminent freedom like she had just lost her mind.

Bernice stood in the way of the mousy woman's path. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'm just wondering... Are you all right?"

The woman looked up at her in surprise, her red rimmed eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're upset and, well," Bernice jabbered quickly, "is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," the woman answered, "there's nothing anybody can do."

"Oh come on now," Bernice scolded softly, "even if you just need someone to talk to?"

The woman was about to speak when a teller came up from behind and glared at Bernice. "I'm sorry ma'am, but the lobby is closing," she said with a politeness that was not conveyed in her face.

"Thank you," Bernice stiffly replied and pointedly stared down the teller until she huffed and walked away. She looked back at the woman who smiled slightly now, clearly amused with the exchange. "Well, at least I brightened your day a little bit."

Bernice looked out the window to the drive through outside. "As for me, I must walk the line of the damned and be waited on by a teller who really doesn't like me right now."

"Are you just making a deposit?" the mousy woman asked with a little more bravado than before.

"Uh, yah," Bernice answered.

She held her hands out for Bernice's pouch. "Meet me out front in two minutes. I'll bring your deposit slip out with me when I leave."

Bernice warily handed over her hard earned money to a virtual stranger. "Well, okay. I'll meet you out front then. Thanks, Ms..."

"Abernathy," came her shy reply. She cradled the pouch in her arms. "My name is Margie."

While being sequestered like a virtual hermit on the farm for the last few years, Bernice forgot the cardinal rule: "There is no smaller world than a small town." That rule hit home as she stood out in the parking lot and chatted with the widow of Herb's head.

The weird thing about it was how normal it felt. Margie was a part time teller at the bank and also worked for the local insurance guy just down the street. She had three children, two grown and one a senior in high school. And her passion was gardening.

After noting the funny name on Bernice's checks, they got into commenting about the current growing season. That turned into a discussion about the nature of edible gardening versus ornamental gardening, which earned Bernice a visit to Margie's house to have coffee and look at her various flower beds.

Bernice acknowledged somewhere in the back of her mind that the visit was just as much about creepy curiosity as it was about admiring Margie's hollyhocks. But instead of dwelling on the guilt, she decided to forgive herself for being human. She rationalized that if somehow she could make this sad person feel better, then her visit would cause more good than harm.

Besides, Margie's flower beds were stunning.

Darlene had always insisted on simple tried and true perennials at the farm. They held their own year in and year out and if they happened to bloom, so be it.

Simple didn't enter the equation in Margie's yard.

Her typical 1960's ranch house was made extraordinary with mixtures of lovingly pruned shrubs and trees of complimenting sizes, shapes, and textures. All were surrounded by mounds of leafy ground covers and sprays of wispy flower heads that bobbed at will in the afternoon breeze.

Bernice was so impressed, she forgot her manners. Margie must have been holding the front door open for some time before she resorted to clearing her throat.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Bernice ducked her head in embarrassment.

No apology was necessary. Margie was beaming. "Tell you what? I'll put on the coffee and we can go drink it on the back deck."

Bernice nodded and walked into Margie's dining room. Slightly shabby but clean and maintained, the decor in the house was dated and provincial. It was quite clear that the priorities of its owner lay outside. The only exception was the huge bay window that was completely congested with shelves of house plants; some so exotic they seemed other-worldly.

"You do houseplants too?" exclaimed Bernice with a mixture of admiration and jealousy.

"Got to do something in the winter," Margie remarked from the kitchen. She walked back out carrying an opened bag of store-bought cookies. "Coffee will be done in a couple of minutes."

Bernice followed Margie down a hallway and out the door to the back deck and more flowers. Different containers of every size and color littered the edges of the deck, bursting with plants and blooms.

Margie set the half eaten container of cookies on the patio table, mumbling, "I hope these cookies are all right. I'm not much of a baker."

"When would you have the time?" Bernice asked with amazement. "The garden of Eden isn't going to weed itself." Margie laughed. It sounded like music to Bernice's ears. _Maybe I did the right thing coming here_ , she thought.

"I'll be right back with the coffee," Margie announced, then paused at the screen door. "How do you take it?" she asked.

"Black," Bernice responded before inquiring, "you mind if I wander out in the yard until you get back?"

"Not at all, enjoy."

Bernice slowly made her way down the short flight of steps. She admired each different container until her eyes were released into the expanse of the yard.

Unlike the cornucopia of plant groupings in the front yard, the beds in the back were rigorously regimented for color and species. There was a shade garden that only bloomed in white. Next to that was a part shade garden that only bloomed in yellows. One garden had nothing but Asiatic lilies. Another garden featured more cultivars of coral bells than Bernice knew existed.

But the most glamorous arrangement, the true showpiece in Bernice's opinion, was the rose bed. Its star-shaped arrangement caught your eye first with an abundant shrub rose at each spire. In between were immaculately pruned hybrid teas with mini teas tucked in here and there for height interest. And at the center was a glorious wrought iron arbor. It was smothered in thick and thorny vines of trailing and climbing roses, three different varieties in all, intertwining like lovers.

"That your favorite one?" Margie yelled from the deck.

"Yah, I think so," Bernice answered, still staring at all the pretty rose blooms. She pulled her gaze away and politely walked back to the deck.

"It's one of my favorites too," Margie seconded as Bernice took her seat. "It's also the one that's the fussiest in terms of soil and moisture. It needs constant monitoring."

"It's simply lovely," Bernice complimented. She paused when she saw Margie's face looking very sad and alone again like at the bank.

"That's Herb's bed," Margie stated bluntly, sipping her coffee.

"Herb was a gardener too?" Bernice asked softly.

"No. He bought me a dozen long stemmed roses for every anniversary." Margie looked pointedly at Bernice. "You know what happened, don't you, from watching the news?"

"Actually," Bernice admitted, "my neighbor is the farmer that...was on the news."

Margie held her mug with both hands and slowly lowered it to the table. Her eyes remained there as silence filled the deck.

Bernice felt shame burn her throat with the hot coffee. "I don't want to pry, Margie. If you don't want to talk about it, it's okay."

"No," she gave her resolute response. "I don't mind, really. The truth of the matter is I stopped grieving for Herb a long time ago... when he took off and left me." She pulled a chalky chocolate cookie out of the cellophane bag, more for something to fidget with than anything else.

"I'm so sorry." Bernice grabbed a cookie in commiseration. "How long has he been gone?"

"Almost five years now, but seeing him..." Margie stopped talking for a second. She wiped a teardrop from her eye. "Well, it's all coming back like it was yesterday." Strangely, she suddenly put her hand forward and rested it on Bernice's wrist. "You ever try with all your might to be what someone wants, but it's never enough? You're never enough?"

Bernice nodded in acute understanding. Margie self-consciously removed her hand and returned it to the security of her mug. She took another sip and swallowed thoughtfully. "The kicker was I don't think it was ever about me. Herb was just so unhappy with his lot in life, and I was a part of that."

She gazed back out at the rose garden. "Herb wanted the world. He wanted to travel and gamble and live like a big shot. Instead, he got saddled with a family and responsibilities before he was really ready for it. I tried to make everything around him as convenient as possible, but I think in the end he just couldn't live the lie anymore."

"So he just left you?" Bernice asked.

"Right after our sixteenth wedding anniversary." She nodded to the rose garden to make her point. "Red hybrid teas are the only rose I refuse to grow in that garden. I can't stand the sight of them anymore."

"Wait," Bernice interjected, "no letter, no phone calls, nothing? He just left? What did you do?"

"I didn't know for a good week that anything was even wrong," Margie reflected. "You see, Herb was big into those wealth gurus, like you always see on TV? Every chance he got, he was off traveling to some hotel to attend one of their seminars. He'd be gone for days." Margie pulled out another cookie and broke it in half. "I called the police when a week turned into two, but deep down I knew he was never coming back." She dunked part of the cookie into her coffee. "He was free."

"Wow," Bernice breathed. "I gotta say, Margie, you're a lot more pragmatic about the whole thing than I would be."

"Well," she remarked, "you gain a lot of perspective over five years, and it wasn't like he didn't try. He worked for my father at the garage even though he hated it. He always provided for me and the kids. And even though I didn't make him happy, he was a loving husband...you know, for as long as he could be." She dunked the other piece of cookie in her coffee. "It was just time for him to go."

Bernice hated herself for having to bring it up, but she felt compelled. "Margie," she attempted, "why do you think he came back?"

Margie rose from the table at that point. "I have no idea," she stated rather aloofly. "He never came to see me or anyone that I know, or I would have heard about it." She gathered the empty cup from Bernice and snatched up the bag of cookies, releasing a sigh. "He should have stayed where he was at. Then none of this would have happened." With that she went into the house.

"I hope I'm not prying if I ask this." Bernice followed her into the kitchen. It was cute and dated like the rest of the house with dark walnut cabinets and Formica counter tops. "Did Herb leave you with any... money problems when he left?"

Margie gave her an odd frown. "Come again?" she asked.

"It's just," Bernice continued flustered, "my neighbor said Herb owed him money."

"Actually," Margie confessed, "quite the opposite. I think it was out of guilt, but right after Herb disappeared, the bank called me and said that our mortgage was paid in full." She stashed away the cookies in a cupboard and stacked the dirty mugs into the harvest gold dishwasher.

Bernice was amazed. "Really?" she remarked. "I'm impressed."

Margie walked Bernice outside. "Like I said, he tried."

Bernice was turning to say thank you when she noticed something. It surprised her that she had missed it earlier, but she had been distracted by all the beauty in the yard. Set back away from the house, a broken weeping willow lay half dead over the remains of a garage. "Holy crap, what happened there?" Bernice asked as she pointed.

Margie released a breath of disgust. "That storm we had a few days ago," she explained. "I would have taken it down by now, but the adjustor hasn't made it out yet. Go figure, I work for the insurance agency and even I don't get special treatment."

Bernice studied the garage. It looked like it had seen better days. She related as much to Margie. "Kind of looks like the tree did you a favor."

"Yah," she admitted, "that was Herb's garage. I couldn't bring myself to go in there much after he left." She sighed sadly. "Yah," Margie repeated and looked at Bernice with glassy eyes. "For as long as he could be, Herb was a good husband."

_Chapter_ **7**

"Herb was a shitty husband."

That was Roger's emphatic conclusion to Bernice's story as he up-righted chairs and bar stools in preparation for the Den's Friday night Happy Hour.

"Bad gamblers are not necessarily bad husbands." Bernice set out napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers in his wake.

"And cheating husbands are not necessarily bad gamblers." Roger frowned as he shook a crooked table then bent down on one knee to level the foot. "Herb was both."

"You know this for a fact?" Bernice questioned him skeptically.

Roger gave her a dirty look as he grunted and pulled himself back up. "There are in my opinion three kinds of husbands who frequent bars: Ones who always come in alone because they're closet alcoholics, ones who come in with their wives because they're social alcoholics, and the ones who come in alone but leave with women who are not their wives."

"Well, that's too bad then," Bernice remarked. "You think he left town with one of those women?"

"Hard to say," Roger answered indifferently. He moved behind the counter and pulled out an industrial size bag of pretzels.

"You think maybe the 'friend' he got the investment advice from was actually his mistress?"

Roger paused in his actions. "Did you say 'mistress'? How 1950's of you," he teased.

Bernice didn't notice. She was on a roll. She absentmindedly lined up snack bowls on the counter for him as she speculated. "Margie agreed with you about Herb wanting the life of a big shot. Who's to say he didn't hook up with a woman who had the same ambition that he did?"

Roger scoffed at Bernice's theory. He embraced the heavy bag with one hand and filled the bowls with the other. "Having ambition is one thing. Having the smarts and resources to see them through is another. The women Herb escorted out of this joint had the scheming capacity of Scooby Doo and without the charming accent."

Bernice smirked at his joke and began to distribute the snack bowls to the tables. "You know, not all the women who patronize your bar are stupid."

"No, some are just plain dangerous," Roger remarked, meeting her challenging gaze with one of his own. "Like my too-big-for-her-britches daughter."

Bernice's flirtatious mood evaporated. "No," she groaned, "what did you do this time?"

Roger scowled defensively. "Why would you automatically assume I did something wrong?"

"Because Brooke is a wonderful young woman, and you are a cranky old tyrant."

Roger's mouth hung open. Stunned, he asked, "What? Are you coaching her now? That's almost word for word what she said right before she stormed out of the house."

Bernice grabbed some more bowls, broaching, "this wouldn't happen to be about Belgium, would it?"

Roger pointed at her with a pretzel. "Not you too," he implored.

Bernice continued her task in silence for about four seconds. "It's just such a great opportunity."

"Bernice," Roger warned as he put away the big bag.

"But she would be shadowing at the European freakin' Union for Christ's sake. Why would you deny her that?" She stopped and looked at him.

Roger rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes as if in pain. When he spoke, it was as an old man. "Why did she have to grow up so damn fast? One minute I'm changing diapers and the next I'm taking the trainers off her bike. Now I'm arguing with my baby not to run off to Europe and leave me."

Bernice came around the counter. "She's not leaving you, Roger. She's just growing up. She's not like her mother."

"You know, she looks more like Pamela every day."

"That's not what I see," Bernice countered quietly. "She looks more like you." Bernice reached up and cradled his face.

He held her hand there, changing the painful subject. "How come you're over here anyway? You buttering me up for something?"

Bernice smiled. "Kinda," she answered. "Darlene went away for the weekend. I thought I would have you and Big Britches over for a nice dinner. Pay you back for that overpriced hooch I drank."

"Well, as luck would have it, the wonderful young woman in question took off for the night and left me here to do her work and mine. So sorry, but no can do for dinner."

Bernice watched him carefully as she continued. "I wouldn't say no to a really early breakfast."

Roger brought her hand to his lips, kissing the soft fleshy area between the thumb and forefinger. Then he shook his head and placed her hand on her chest. "Out of all the women to ever walk into this dump, you're the most dangerous."

"I didn't think it was possible for me to feel sorry for the Wicked Witch of the West," Darlene expounded with awe at the musical she had just finished experiencing. "I'll never be able to watch the Wizard of Oz the same way again."

Bernice grunted, "Uh huh," with love and amusement as she talked on the phone and stirred the small sauce pan on the stove.

"And the food! Oh my word! And Cameron picked out the perfect wine from this huge menu. It makes me kind of feel bad that we fed him that homemade stuff."

"I don't recall him complaining," Bernice corrected and shut off the burner. She walked to the fridge. "How was your steak?"

"Like butter. It barely needed chewing."

From somewhere in the background, a baritone voice blurted out, "Hey, kid."

"Oh, and Cameron says hi," Darlene added. "We're in the car. He's taking me to some club for drinks." Darlene moved her head away from the phone. Bernice could barely make out, "Where are we going again?" Darlene was back. "It's called the Dakota. I guess they do jazz there."

Bernice smiled at Darlene's naivety. "They do very good jazz there," she corrected her. Then she scolded, "I hope you're not getting too worn out."

"Good God, Bernice, I'm not elderly. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain tomorrow."

Bernice pulled a jug of milk out of the fridge. "And what's on your itinerary tomorrow, Ms. Glenwood?"

Darlene released the giggle of a woman half her age. "Cameron won't tell me." Then she whispered into the phone, "He calls me his captive audience. Isn't that cute?"

"Ew," Bernice responded, "but I'm glad you're having a good time."

"Did you find the hotdish I left for you in the fridge?"

Bernice set the jug on the counter and stuck her head back in the fringe. She pulled out a seasoned casserole dish and cringed at the heavy solid substance inside. "Found it," she announced with fake enthusiasm.

"Good." Darlene went away from the phone again. When she came back, she said, "We're here. Gotta go."

"Have fun, Cinderelly," and Bernice hung up the phone. She looked down at the hotdish, a plan forming in her head.

She grabbed a big spoon, walked out to the front porch and shoveled a decent sized portion into the compost bin. She kicked the bin with her foot to cover up the evidence and smiled victoriously as she marched back into the house and replaced the casserole dish into the fridge.

She grabbed the sauce pan of macaroni and cheese from the stove. Shoving a fork into it, she grabbed her glass of milk and moved into the living room.

Bernice took her place in the recliner and made herself at home. Her sole companion for the evening was the DVR, and her favorite cop show was backed up for almost a whole season just for such an occasion. "Darlene's not the only one getting steak," Bernice proclaimed and triumphantly hoisted up her newly purchased bag of beef jerky. With all her delicacies in place she snuggled in and turned on the TV.

Her second bite of cheesy goodness was interrupted by a rude banging on her kitchen screen door. Bernice grumbled, displaced her dinner and got up.

There was Agent Wyatt, shining under her yard light like a bad penny.

Bernice glared at him through the screen door. "I thought we were done," she stated.

After receiving his rude greeting, Agent Wyatt opened the door himself and stalked in, stating bluntly through his teeth, "You owe me an explanation."

"Well, come on in, why don't you?" Bernice waved her hand with flourish, her sarcasm adding to the tension in the country kitchen.

Agent Wyatt turned abruptly and bore down on her. "I swear, Bernice, you ask me for another warrant, and I'm hauling your ass down to county lockup for obstruction."

Bernice's eyes went wide in confusion, but she held her ground. "I have no idea what's gotten your dander up, but I've in no way, shape, or form obstructed you from anything." She caught the heated gaze in response to her unfortunate choice of words. She carefully corrected herself, "I have done as you asked and stayed out of your investigation."

"Bullshit," he returned caustically. He began to pace the small space between the door and the table, looking more like he was having a fight with himself than with her.

His bizarre behavior was almost funny. Bernice had to work her mouth to keep from smirking. "Just tell me why you're here," she requested.

Agent Wyatt stopped. He stared her down and enunciated with venom, "Margaret Abernathy."

Bernice's jaw fell open on its own. She just stood there. This caused Agent Wyatt to produce a rather ugly smile. "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" he ground out, satisfied and disappointed at the same time. "You just had to stick your nose in and make more work for me."

"All I did was console a grieving widow. I didn't even know who she was until we had already struck up a conversation." Bernice crossed her arms defensively.

"And yet you still went out to her house." Agent Wyatt narrowed his eyes, suspicious of her good intentions.

"What in the hell did you want me to do? Treat her like a pariah because she's part of your precious murder investigation?"

"I want you to mind your own business," he demanded. "Mrs. Abernathy is a stranger to you."

"Not anymore," Bernice shot back. "She's my friend now, and frankly she needs someone to look after her interests for a change."

"I bet your so called friend wouldn't be so anxious to have you back if she knew you were using her," Agent Wyatt countered wickedly.

"You bastard," Bernice hissed. "I did no such thing."

"Really?" His superior demeanor was infuriating her. "So you didn't check her tires before you left?"

Bernice said nothing. She simply returned his gaze with blatant hostility.

Now it was Agent Wyatt's turn to cross his arms. He leaned on a hip and assessed Bernice like a suspect. "Well?" he asked simply.

Bernice's body literally vibrated with frustration. "Go to hell," she spat and walked out of the room, leaving him to stew in the kitchen.

"Just as soon as you answer my question!" he yelled after her.

Bernice returned with her barely touched meal. She viciously beat her cold macaroni and cheese into the compost bin and dumped her milk down the sink.

"Bernice," Agent Wyatt demanded, refusing to be ignored.

"No," she denied him. "You're the one using me to find out what I learned from Margie, and she deserves better than that." Bernice set her pan noisily in the sink and filled it up with water. "You can stomp all over this kitchen like some big sanctimonious bear, but that's why you're really here, and I'm saying, no."

That poor saucepan was quickly scrubbed within an inch of its life before Bernice mercilessly rinsed it out and tossed it into the dish drain. Then she dropped the milk glass into the dishwasher and slammed the door shut.

With Agent Wyatt's silence she thought she had made her point. Instead he came up behind her. She stood her ground quietly, but her irritation did nothing to hide how his nearness affected her.

"Damn you," she whispered. His hands were on her shoulders. He held them there. The heat radiated off of his palms and into her skin.

"I already am," he whispered back. She heard him step closer. "Where's your aunt?" he asked. She could feel his hot breath in her hair.

"Out," she said then cursed to herself. He took the answer as an invitation. His fingers started moving, the firm pads massaging the tense muscles above her collarbones. It felt fantastic.

Her thoughts were witnessing in awe that quick change from anger to lust. Roger's prophetic observation of Bernice when it came to men and attraction reared its ugly head.

More importantly, she remembered the look on Roger's face when he said it. The memory replaced whatever pleasure she was gleaning from the stolen moment with guilt and betrayal.

"What else are you saying 'no' to, Bernice?" His soft low growl had moved to her cheek. One hand worked up into her neck and rotated deliciously under her ear lobe.

"I can't." Her voice broke a little and she stepped away from his embrace. She leaned in the doorway facing the TV in the living room. She distractedly noticed the show was half over. Her favorite character was lying bleeding on the sidewalk, and she didn't know why. Her shame for not ending it sooner got the best of her. "Margie drives a 1990's minivan, and the tires are older than I am," Bernice spoke over her shoulder.

"Her father owns West Side Auto. She had access to a different vehicle at anytime," Agent Wyatt countered. His official tone had returned.

Bernice turned around. "So would anyone else there that worked with Herb," She challenged but her body language showed defeat.

Agent Wyatt's wasn't much better. He slumped in his stance. "I'm beginning to think that Herb's been on ice all this time. If that's the case, there's a good chance Mrs. Abernathy was the last one to see him alive." He shoved his hands defensively in his pockets. "If you want to be her friend, Bernice, you would do her better justice by letting me eliminate her as a suspect."

Bernice watched him walk out.

The sun bathed the little farmer's market pavilion in blinding brilliance. Bernice would usually look upon such a morning as a blessing. Instead, she buried her tired face in the mouth of her coffee mug and pretended she didn't exist.

After Agent Wyatt had left, she tried re-watching her recorded show and taking meager comfort in her bag of jerky, but the moment had passed. Her thoughts refused to let her enjoy any amount of peace. Without Darlene's constant chatter as a distraction, Bernice was left thinking more than she had allowed herself to do in a long time.

Knowing sleep was simply not going to happen without help, she gave in to a last resort. Out in the old milkhouse was a forgotten floor drain. It was the one place on the farm that Darlene did not frequent and a perfect hiding spot for Bernice's Grey Goose Vodka. A splash of cranberry juice and the red devil did its duty to dull her senses, but it took a while. Bernice was still left with plenty of conscious time for soul searching before the alcohol allowed her to drift off.

Once again, the intellectual and emotional parts of her brain were at odds. Intellectually she knew she should avoid anything to do with Agent Wyatt and Herb's murder, including Margie Abernathy. Intellectually she knew she should decide to either shit or get off the pot when it came to Roger. And intellectually she understood her reason for even living on a farm was to get away from the drama she used to professionally perpetuate in her old life.

However, emotionally she acknowledged the return of the old itch to find out the truth behind the tragedy. Emotionally she resented Roger's mid-life crisis being the catalyst that made him see her as more than a pleasant distraction. And deep down she felt emotions for Agent Wyatt that were dark, naughty, and undeniably tempting. It was that last admission that required the extra alcohol.

In the morning she woke up in the recliner with a nasty case of cotton mouth and splitting headache. And, unlike her former life where she could spend a Saturday cocooned in a dark corner like some hibernating skunk, there on the farm shit still had to get done. Animals still had to be fed or milked or both. Eggs still had to be collected. And the very perishable produce still needed to be brought to market.

To avoid actual public interaction that fine morning, Bernice placed all of her plastic baskets of goodies on the tailgate, clearly displayed and marked. Along with them she set out a handy self pay coffee can. The extra measures allowed her to retreat to the nook in the back of her pickup box. There she wallowed in her own misery mostly undisturbed.

Not for long. Up from the side of her truck came a hand that held a neatly wrapped parcel. Then a familiar masculine voice said, "Here, believe it or not, this will help."

Bernice lifted one eyeball from her precious coffee to glare at Bernardo Mescualez and the spicy smelling bundle he presented to her. "Smells like a burrito, Bernardo," she commented, not moving.

"Best cure for a hangover, Bernice." He flashed his signature smile, made so because his teeth shone a brilliant white against his caramel skin and constant black stubble.

Bernice had her doubts but accepted the offering. "Thanks, man." She attempted a smile.

He handed her a water bottle. "It's spicy," he commented. "You'll need this."

Bernice breathed patiently and took the bottle too. Realizing that she had to be social, she set down her mug and popped open the water bottle. She took a swig and pointed with her head to his stand a couple of spaces down.

"How's your salsa selling today?" she asked politely.

"Slow," Bernardo admitted. "That's why were handing out samples." He gestured to wrapped burrito still in her lap. "Tell me what you think."

Bernice grimaced but recapped her water and did as she was told. The fresh tortilla steamed with fragrant goodness. She bit gingerly at first and then took a larger hunk once her salivary glands succumbed to the inevitable. She chewed carefully, letting some of the hot steam escape her mouth. "Mmm," she mumbled genuinely through her chewing.

"That's just shredded chicken and a little queso fresco with our salsa," Bernardo commented loud enough to attract the attention of the few customers who dared to wander over to Bernice's stand.

"It's milder than I would have expected," she observed and nonchalantly wiped her mouth on the inside of her shirt collar. "Is this the batch from last fall?"

"That was a cold and rainy growing season," Bernardo nodded in agreement. "The peppers and chilies will be hotter this year." He smiled broadly at the curious people meandering by. "Free samples at that minivan down there," he chimed and pointed.

As she watched her customers trot away like livestock late to the feeding trough, she frowned at Bernardo. "Gonna make me work today, aren't you?"

Bernardo simply smirked. "Darlene'll be pissed if you come home with an empty coffee can."

Bernice relented and began to worm her butt toward the front of the truck box, carefully cradling her new gifts. "Tell you what," she bargained as she went. "You don't let it slip to Darlene that I was hung over today, and I don't tell your lovely wife down there that you put Thai peppers in her heirloom salsa."

Bernardo lifted his bushy eyebrows in genuine surprise, but he grinned and relented to his fate. "Deal," he agreed.

Bernice smiled but quickly cringed when her movements caused a very nasty creak to emanate from the undercarriage of her truck.

Bernardo immediately squatted down and looked for the origination of the noise. "Looks like you maybe got a strut going," he remarked to her.

"Yah, we've been meaning to get that looked at," Bernice grumbled. "Just haven't gotten around to it."

"Why don't you bring it down to my work?" he offered upon rising. "It's slow right now. Boss might throw in a discount for a first time customer."

Bernice talked through another bite of burrito. "You fix cars too? Do wonders never cease?"

Bernardo gestured to his gorgeous raven haired bride. "With a new baby on the way, the wonders better keep on coming." His face shined with obvious pride.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Mescualez!" Bernice yelled and waved to Bernardo's wife. She smiled and waved back then looked pointedly at her husband as people started lining up for free samples.

"Better get back," he said bashfully and started walking off.

"Wait," Bernice beckoned. "Where do you work?"

"West Side Auto!" he yelled back before joining his wife.

The recognition of that name chimed through her head with vengeance just as her headache was starting to subside. She made a very unflattering face and pulled the small bottle of aspirin from her pants pocket.

"Figures."

_Chapter_ **8**

Agent Wyatt was fit to be tied on the beautiful Saturday morning, but he didn't think so. DCI regulation required him to " _dress appropriately when on official business_." He usually liked the propriety of his suit, but today it was feeling especially constricting.

He yanked at his tie like an ornery dog with a bothersome leash and approached Dr. Hildigaard's office. He practically snarled at the "be right back" sign flourished with an obnoxious happy face and resigned himself to the metal folding chair that sat outside.

There in the nondescript hallway he was left with nothing to do but think. He was damn tired of doing so because it always led to that insufferable blonde who had infected his brain like a poison.

Problem was she was becoming addictive. Even with his investigation getting more complicated, Agent Wyatt caught himself fixating on the ex-reporter from Minneapolis. He just couldn't wrap his head around why she was trying to pass herself off as just another dumb hick and failing miserably. Against his better judgment he was using his security clearance to find out more about Bernice. He justified it as being pertinent to the murder, but he knew it wasn't.

He secretly acknowledged that she was none of his business. If she wasn't officially taken, that Roger guy made it clear he wanted her to be. Yet whenever he held her, touched her, kissed her, there was an undeniable heat between them that wasn't just in his head. Despite every lick of sense he possessed, he really wanted to find out what that was all about.

His thoughts were mercifully interrupted by the squeak of shoes on the shiny gray floor. He looked up to see Melanie Hildigaard approaching with a bulging white bag and large paper cup.

"I got a craving and popped over to the store," she announced brightly. "Hope you like doughnuts." She shook the bag as an invitation.

"No thanks," Agent Wyatt answered with attempted politeness. "I wouldn't turn down a coffee though," he added with a glimmer of hope.

Melanie's face became slightly possessive as she glanced at her coffee. "Sorry," she cringed, "but there's a machine down the hall if you'd like."

Taking notice that the vending machine coffee was not good enough for the resident ME, Agent Wyatt chose not to point out the obvious and simply stated, "That's okay, I'm good."

Melanie nodded, jostled her precious packages and somehow managed to fish out her keys.

"Sorry to drag you in on a Saturday," he apologized as he watched her jimmy the lock and turn the knob.

"That's all right," she replied.

They entered the office. It was brightly lit by the morning sun, but Melanie flipped on the overhead fluorescents anyway. "Although I won't have a whole lot more to tell you until Wausau gets back to me with Tox on the remains." She plopped the bag on the desk and settled into her chair, inhaling the mountain fresh aroma from her cup with unabashed delight.

Agent Wyatt swallowed his irritation. He smiled instead. "But you can tell me what you found."

Melanie looked up from her coffee. "Oh yah, no problem there." She nodded to the generic manila folder sitting in at the edge of her desk. "Take a seat," she requested.

Ironically, the folding chair sitting opposite the ME's desk was identical to the one he had just vacated in the hallway. Agent Wyatt sat with a scrape of metal, scooted up, and slouched over his side of the desk. He popped open the folder and silently perused as Melanie made a noisy display of removing a white frosted bismark from her goodie bag.

He quickly skimmed through the first couple of pages, finding nothing new with them. He slowed down on the third page, going more carefully.

Melanie took notice. She chewed too quickly to actually taste the bismark and gulped a sip of coffee. "Good work on finding more of the remains," she complimented him.

Agent Wyatt looked up with slight annoyance at being interrupted but acknowledged with a pert "thanks." He turned to the last page, reading more carefully again. Melanie filled the silence in the room with chewing and slurping.

He went through the meager contents of the folder one more time, then folded it up and turned his attention out the window directly behind Melanie's head. There was nothing to see except an almost empty parking lot and trees, but his brain was in a completely different time and place.

Melanie simply chewed and watched him. She wiped sticky raspberry filling from her mouth and took another swig of coffee before noisily wadding the empty wax paper into a ball and tossing it in the trash can at her feet. She stashed the other roll in her file cabinet for later and reclined in her chair, waiting for further instructions.

"The machine marks on the joint bones were definitely from a reciprocal saw?" he questioned, finally acknowledging her once again.

Agent Wyatt found her amused smirk confusing until she confessed, "I had a couple of deputies try out different tools on some cow femurs from the butcher shop." The overlooked dollop of red filling on her cheek lent a morbid air to her admission. "Reciprocating saw was the best match."

"And the ligature marks?"

"Based on the meager patch of skin I had to work with," Melanie stated, "I would say, he was strangled from behind with something thin but strong."

"But not a rope." Agent Wyatt was looking outside again, knowingly repeating what he had just read. "And not with bare hands."

"Correct," Melanie answered. She nodded to the folder, slightly annoyed she had to recite her work. "In my professional opinion the weapon had a considerable length and decent width but a very thin profile." She looked pointedly at Agent Wyatt. "Similar to your tie," she finished.

He looked back at her and didn't like the way she was observing his throat. He picked up the folder as he stood and held out his hand in a gesture of camaraderie, despite whatever evil fantasy the ME might be playing out in her head. "Thanks for your help." He shook her slightly sticky hand. "Please leave a message on my cell and at the motel when the Tox comes in."

Melanie registered surprise at his statement. "I figured you'd head back to Mad Town until I heard from Wausau."

"There's too many people to question," he reasoned, "starting with Abernathy's father-in-law and co-workers over at West Side Auto."

Agent Wyatt nodded a salutation and let himself out.

After checking messages, getting mail, and refilling her water bottle from the tap, Bernice decided to get it over with and head over to West Side Auto with the truck.

She knew going anywhere near that place was going to get her in trouble, but with the mood she was in she just didn't give a shit anymore. It was starting to look like you couldn't whip a dead cat without hitting someone who had a beef with old Herb.

It kind of reminded her of Agatha Christie's book, _Murder on the Orient Express_ , where it was revealed that everyone had motive to kill the victim. In fact, as she made her way down the long dirt driveway that led to the garage & salvage yard, Bernice was wondering who else in her life would kill Herb.

How about her dental hygienist? She seemed clueless enough to be one of Herb's pickups from the bar, and she scraped on people's gums for a living, so you knew she had a mean streak.

The unmistakable sedan with the state law enforcement plates waited like a bad omen by the office door. Bernice parked in front of one of the large open garage doors instead and turned off the engine. She jumped out and walked directly into the garage. She saw the lift, piles of new tires, boxes of various filters and parts, but no human beings to speak of. She didn't have to guess where they all were. She could hear Agent Wyatt's low crisp voice through the walls.

So she hopped back into the open cab of her truck, sipped at her water bottle and waited.

Sooner rather than later, they all emerged from the office side door into the garage. An older man came out first. Bernice guessed he'd be Margie's dad. Agent Wyatt followed him, and a very young man came out along with Bernardo at the last.

She watched Agent Wyatt stop in his tracks and stare her down like an angry rhino. She didn't flinch. _Give it your best shot_ , she thought.

He actually had to audacity to shake his finger at her. He stated rather crossly, "I'll deal with you in a minute."

Bernice couldn't help but smirk at this display. "Take your time," she offered and shrugged, which only made him glare even more. He followed the older man out the back door.

Bernardo walked up to her truck as Bernice jumped back down. "You know that guy?" he asked concerned.

Bernice waved him off, mumbling, "Long story." She handed him her keys.

Bernardo tossed to keys to the young man. "Set the truck up on the first lift and check the struts." The young man nodded as he shyly glanced at Bernice and climbed into her truck.

"Who's the kid?" she asked as they walked out into the sun.

"That's Chet's grandkid. He's been working here summers and weekends for the last few years." Bernardo watched the kid maneuver the truck onto the lift and commented with pride, "You're in good hands. He's a heck of a mechanic."

Bernice decided to broach. "So that's Herb and Margie's youngest?"

Bernardo regarded her with more caution as he nodded. "You know about Herb?"

She watched Agent Wyatt re-enter the garage before commenting, "More than I want to, believe me."

The young man came back, wiping the grease from his hands. "Definitely a strut," he told Bernardo.

Bernardo made proper introductions. "Mark, this is Bernice."

Mark bashfully put out his hand. "Hi," he mumbled.

Bernice shook his hand and smiled. "So how long you thinkin', Mark?"

Mark looked back at the truck as he answered. "I think we got that make and year in the back somewhere. Might take some time to get it out though." He looked at her feet as he continued. "Maybe by four or five?" He looked up at Bernardo, questioning.

"Sounds about right," Bernardo agreed then asked Bernice, "You need a loaner for the day?"

Bernice started to nod when she was interrupted.

"That won't be necessary." Bernice turned around, intent on giving Agent Wyatt a review of the meaning of sexism, but she found he had already dismissed her and was talking to Chet. "I'll be back this afternoon to drop off Ms. Hordstrom. Please have those lists ready for me."

Chet nodded with undisguised distrust and hostility. In fact, all three men looked like they wouldn't offer him water if he was burning alive. Agent Wyatt ignored them and gestured to Bernice to accompany him to his car.

Bernice stood her ground for about three seconds then finally rolled her eyes at him and relented. "Thanks, guys," she yelled over her shoulder and got in the car.

The three men stood in the dirt driveway and watched them leave. Bernice wondered what they were thinking.

A good minute passed in the car with neither of them offering anything that resembled a conversation. Finally Agent Wyatt asked, "You hungry?"

Bernice couldn't help herself. "Not for egg whites," she answered her window.

"Fine," he grumbled to the windshield, "you pick then."

"Oh, I get a choice now?" she asked sarcastically. "Then I want to go home."

"Your aunt there yet?" he quietly inquired.

"No. So what?"

"Then no," he stated flatly.

Bernice turned to him. "Why the hell not?"

Agent Wyatt carefully pulled up to the stop sign before turning to her. There was no illusion to his demeanor. "Because if I spend any more time alone with you, I will not be held responsible for my actions." He gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on his lap. "Pick," he demanded.

"Dottie's out on the highway. Take a left," Bernice told him, and then looked away. They didn't make any more eye contact until Agent Wyatt pulled into the busy parking lot a short time later.

Dottie's was a sprawling complex that consisted of two large pole structures sutured together. Doing so combined the butcher shop with the gift shop, convenience store, and restaurant. Dottie was the name of the owner's first and favorite cow. Legend has it, when she "passed on", the family would cry at the dinner table every time they had beef.

Agent Wyatt and Bernice were seated in a booth under an obnoxious print of the _Moona Lisa_ hanging on the wall, judging their conversation with her bovine but coquettish smile.

Bernice buried her face in the laminated menu and ignored her lunch companion.

He wasn't having it. "What's good here?" Agent Wyatt wondered aloud, leaving his menu untouched on the table. He watched Bernice instead.

"Everything but the salad," she snidely answered him.

Their grey-haired waitress returned with their mandatory glasses of ice water. Bernice finally set down her menu and smiled up at her. Upon spying the Guest Check pad in the woman's hand, she dutifully recited, "Bacon cheese burger, well done, a slice of coconut cream pie, and a glass of milk."

"Onions?" the waitress asked.

"No thanks," Bernice answered.

The waitress nodded to her then looked at Agent Wyatt with her pen poised.

"How are the pork chops?" he asked vaguely.

The waitress gave him a queer once over. "They butchered three hogs this morning," was her idea of an answer. For some reason it wasn't whetting his appetite.

"I'll have what she's having," he relented.

The waitress scribbled once more on her notepad and gathered the menus. She sent a suspicious glance at Agent Wyatt and walked away.

"Their pork chops are tasty," Bernice commented softly as she arranged her silverware. "You should have taken a chance."

Agent Wyatt assessed her as he asked, "You eat here often?"

"I've been here a few times," was her vague disinterested answer.

"With Roger?"

He got her attention that time. "What?" She looked up, clearly annoyed.

"Have you had a dinner date here with Roger?" he repeated.

"No," Bernice enunciated with feeling.

"Then where do you eat with Roger?" he continued.

"We don't," she countered.

"You don't eat?" He questioned, confused.

"We don't date," she hissed, slouching in her seat.

"I don't understand," Agent Wyatt remarked. "Are you two seeing each other or not?"

Bernice was glaring then, her arms crossed defensively. "Is he a suspect?" she asked.

"Not yet," he answered evenly.

She shrunk away uncomfortably from the scrutiny. "Then why are you asking?"

"Because I need to know."

His request was released in a husky voice that brought her back to his attention. She searched his face, recognizing the need but feeling helpless as to what to do about it.

"Here's your pie," the waitress barked, setting two heaping plates on the table along with their glasses of milk. "The burgers will be up shortly." She walked away.

Nothing more was said even after the waitress came back with the burgers. However, they soon realized that didn't help. Too much meaning could be conveyed in the mere looks that were exchanged across the table.

Bernice finished her first bite of burger and washed it down with a gulp of milk. After swallowing, she remarked, "He didn't do it, you know."

"Who are you talking about?" Agent Wyatt asked, chopping his pie into little pieces.

Bernice eyeballed him. "Bernardo. Just because he's got a record, it doesn't mean he killed Herb."

He gestured with his fork, questioning, "You know about his record?"

Bernice shrugged like it was nothing. "He showed me his prison tats one day at the farmer's market. He mugged a woman in East St. Paul when he was a gang banger, but that was a long time ago."

Agent Wyatt lifted his eyebrows in an air of skepticism. "And now you believe he's a changed man?"

Bernice was losing her patience again. "I believe human beings have an innate ability to adapt to their surroundings, good or bad."

"And Herb was bad, right?" He hit a nerve with her and decided to see where it would go. "He cheated on his wife, he owed people money, he embezzled from his boss."

Bernice poised her fork in mid-air, stunned. "What?" she cried.

"Mr. Torrensen found out Herb had been skimming the till for years before he disappeared. It tore him up, knowing his own son-in-law was stealing from him." Agent Wyatt scoffed bitterly at the absurd look on her face. "And your good buddy Bernardo kept his mouth shut because Herb threatened to frame him for it, and he didn't want to go back to jail."

He looked at his burger but shoved the plate away, losing his appetite. "This case is getting more snarled than a damn rats nest. Herb was apparently such an ass that I have more suspects and motives than...well..."

"Than you can whip a dead cat at?" Bernice smirked into her milk.

Agent Wyatt smiled back but there was a perplexity with it. He brought up what was eating at him.

"Why'd you give it up?"

Bernice knew what he was talking about but pretended not to. "What?"

"Oh, come on," he goaded. "You already know I checked up on you. You were a TV news reporter in Minneapolis."

Bernice concentrated really hard at dissecting the coconut filling from the shortbread crust of her pie. "Sometimes you just gotta know when to quit," she offered up lamely.

"You broke one of the biggest stories wide open. I bet you were getting phone calls from the network. That doesn't sound like the time to quit to me." Agent Wyatt's voice stayed level, but his curiosity was eating him alive. "I just don't understand."

Bernice's phone rang obnoxiously. "And that's probably why I'm not telling you." She ended the subject and answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Mark got your strut in but says your joints need greasing and your oil looks like molasses. You want us to take care of that for you?" Bernardo didn't bother identifying himself.

"Well," Bernice hemmed and hawed, "Darlene would kick my ass if she knew I was paying someone to change the oil, but she's not here so what the hell. Tell the kid to have at it."

"Great, okay then, Bernice, we'll get that done for ya."

"Hey Bernardo," Bernice stopped him, "I was wondering something, if you don't mind me askin'."

There was some hesitation on the line, but Bernardo relented. "Shoot," he said.

"Did you ever happen to see someone come into the shop just to see Herb. You know...of the female persuasion? Maybe kind of classy, out of place?"

"You mean, like a lady?" he inquired.

Agent Wyatt was sending her dirty looks as he made quick use of his burger. She turned away from his scrutiny and continued her phone conversation. "Yah, really dolled up, you know, maybe driving something foreign?"

There was hesitation on the other end of the line then the sound of a file cabinet and papers. Bernardo made a low raunchy whistle. It kind of took Bernice by surprise.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I almost forgot about her," Bernardo revealed. "She was a real number. Looked you over like she knew what she was doing, you know?" That was emphasized by a nasty snicker.

Bernice cringed. "You got a name, Bernardo?"

"Jessica," was his answer, "like the cartoon character with red hair and everything. She came in one day on route with a flat tire, and Herb took care of her after that." There was a knowing pause. "I think he was giving her the company discount, if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I do," she remarked, flatly. "So whatever happened to her? She been back recently?"

"Nope. She kind of left when Herb did."

"Hmm." Bernice's brain started buzzing like those flies around Herb's head.

From her phone she heard, "Are we done?" She could tell Bernardo was tired of the reminiscing.

"You dug out her invoice, right?" Bernice glanced back up at Agent Wyatt. He acted engrossed in his pie pieces, but she could tell he was listening.

"It won't do you any good. It's only got her first name, and she billed the only invoice we ever had to some company. Herb covered her every time after that."

"And the name of the company?" Bernice stole Agent Wyatt's unused napkin and poked him, mouthing for a pen. He looked really irritated but managed to produce one from his coat pocket.

"It's really weird," Bernardo continued. "She put down The Wheel of Life." He chuckled at this. "Sounds like a fancy way of saying, 'manure spreader', you ask me."

Bernice snorted but killed her good humor when Agent Wyatt cleared his throat obnoxiously. "You're probably right. Thanks, Bernardo. Why don't you go ahead, rotate the tires and top off the fluids while you're at it. We'll see you at five." She hung up the phone and scribbled on the napkin.

As she offered back Agent Wyatt's pen, she was presented with a tall sitting man with crossed arms looking very vexed at her. She put the pen on the table and stuck her tongue out at him, just as the waitress was coming with their check. "Ma'am," Bernice asked on impulse, "you got a yellow pages we could borrow quick?"

"Yah, I'll be right back." The waitress looked less than thrilled to be waiting on either one of them at the moment.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a rude dining companion?" Agent Wyatt still looked vexed.

The waitress plopped the heavy yellow tome on the table. She scooped up Agent Wyatt's credit card and left.

"Darlene would be in absolute agreement with you," was Bernice's only explanation. She flung the flimsy pages of the phone book with intense concentration.

Just as Agent Wyatt was about to replace his pen, Bernice snapped it up from the table and scribbled more on his napkin. He huffed at her in abject disgust.

The waitress delivered the credit card and receipt and retrieved the phone book in the process.

Despite Agent Wyatt's lack of good humor, Bernice smiled oh so sweetly and presented his pen.

"This day is just getting better and better," he grumbled, snatching it back.

She continued to smile and even cooed at him, teasing, "You know what you need?"

The loaded question only darkened his features as he watched her and waited.

She held up the scribbled napkin and displayed it like a map to a buried treasure. "You need a day at the spa."

_Chapter_ **9**

Bernice had really hoped that filling him in on their way to the Wheel of Life Wellness Center would remove the unattractive scowl that clung stubbornly to Agent Wyatt's face. If only things came that easily.

"So we're on this ridiculous errand because you somehow believe that this Jessica was a business partner with Herb?"

"Oh, I think she was more than a business partner. I think they were having an affair."

The scowl remained. "Well, I kind of figured that part out. She was screwing him for free auto repair. That doesn't make them partners."

Bernice joined him in the ugly faces contest. "A woman like that does not frequent a dirty repair shop just to get favors from the marginally attractive manager." She looked away out the window, replying more carefully, "I've heard from more than one person that Herb came into a lot of money right before he disappeared."

"Who's the other person, as if I don't know?" His sneer was corrosive in its bitterness.

"Herb liked to frequent the Den. So what?" Bernice acknowledged quietly.

"To gamble?" was the obvious question.

"I have no idea," was the predictable answer but she continued undaunted. "Roger says Herb was throwing money around at the bar and told people a friend gave him investment advice that had finally paid off."

Agent Wyatt made no attempt to hide his doubt in her theory. "And you're somehow convinced that this woman was that friend?"

Bernice held her ground. "What Bernardo described to me over the phone was a first class manipulator. She knew how to glean what she wanted from men. And I know what you're going to say." She held up her hand to halt his obvious rebuttal. "But I think Herb recognized her game and called her on it. So rather than lose her advantage, she picked him up as a partner."

"To what end?" Agent Wyatt shook his head, still not convinced.

"To get him to provide seed money for her investment. She convinces him that they're two of a kind. He gives her money to invest. She lets him have just enough back to keep him on the hook then she gets rid of him and takes off with the money."

"So you think she left town? If that's the case, why are we here?" He pulled into the immaculately landscaped parking lot and turned off the engine. The stone and cabin facade of the low sprawling building reeked of too much money and not a lot of imagination.

Bernice looked around her with a knowing smile. "To test my theory." She turned to Agent Wyatt and made a simple request. "Lose the jacket and tie and follow me."

He got out of the car but stood his ground. "Why should I?"

Bernice rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone to observe the time. "We've still got a few hours to kill before the truck is ready, and it's a Saturday. We've both had a bad week and could use some pampering."

Agent Wyatt simply folded his arms in protest.

Bernice continued in her attempt to reason with him. "Look, if I'm wrong, you get to give me shit for it and get a massage out of the deal. But if I'm right, then you get closer to solving your case and going home." She pointed at his regulation armor. "But I guarantee, you walk in there as a cop then we get nothing."

Agent Waytt's mood was not improving. He pulled the tie free, grumbling, "Fine." As he pulled the jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, he stipulated, "But you're paying for this."

Bernice was digging in her purse. "It'll be my pleasure," she remarked. She looked down at herself and frowned. "You got any more clothes in here?"

"There's my gym bag in the trunk," he responded and hit the button on his key ring.

Bernice opened the trunk and gasped. Next to his gym bag was a big black hard case. She could only guess at the arsenal inside. She ignored it and dug through the bag, producing a sweatshirt. "This'll do," she said and proceeded to pull it over her head. Immediately she was accosted by his scent but deliberately ignored it.

She rolled up her cargo pants into capris and pulled her pony-tailed hair through Agent Wyatt's baseball cap. She finished the ensemble off with a pair of sunglasses to hide her unmade face and threw on some lipstick for good measure.

Agent Wyatt watched the transformation with mild amusement. "What's with the get-up?" he asked.

Instead of answering his question, Bernice pulled out her cell phone and a credit card. She left her beat up purse in the car. "You walk in front of me and hold open the door but let me do the talking," she ordered.

He crossed his arms again.

Bernice put her hands on her hips and begrudgingly added, "You want to see the former reporter in action or not?"

This produced a rather dangerous smirk, but he relented and went ahead of her up the sidewalk.

Out of the blue on their way in Bernice asked, "Quick, what's your first name?"

Agent Wyatt stopped dead in his tracks and turned to her with his trademark inscrutable expression.

She shrugged innocently. "It'd just be nice to know. That's all."

He ground his teeth for a moment as he regarded her then turned and continued forward, stating evenly, "My first name is Evan."

"Evan," Bernice repeated. "Evan, Evan, Evan. Got it," she announced and pulled out her cell phone.

Agent Wyatt opened the glass entrance door and held it for Bernice. She walked in, marched right past him like he wasn't there and proceeded to yell at some imaginary victim on her cell phone.

"Listen here, Pedro, if I wanted a huge pile of excrement on my front lawn, I'd let a herd of cows trample through my bushes. And frankly with your pruning skills, that would be an improvement. So you better find a place to hide that shit before we get back, or you can look for another job. Comprende?"

She clicked off the phone and looked absolutely furious when she approached the unwitting receptionist at the front desk. The young woman was half her age and gorgeous. She looked quite intimidated by Bernice's formidable demeanor.

Bernice quick-changed her expression from angry to patronizing, smiling like she owned the place. "Hello there. Can you help us?"

After a small gulp the young woman managed, "Certainly, Ma'am."

"My husband is a heart surgeon for the University of Minnesota. He easily performs dozens of angioplasties and bypasses every week. Well, I finally got him to come up to the lake, and he just can't seem to relax."

She turned to a completely baffled Agent Wyatt and clicked her tongue. "Just look at him," she sighed with pity. Returning her attention to the receptionist, she continued, "So I was at the club yesterday on the back nine with Eunice Conner, Judge Conner's wife..."

Agent Wyatt's eyes grew slightly wider at the outrageous lie, but he kept his silence.

"And she told me how this place just did wonders for her Bert. And I'm hoping you can do the same for my Evan." At that point in the performance Bernice leaned in and spoke with authority. "She told me I must have Jessica work on him because Bert says that she's the best."

The receptionist gaped at Bernice for a moment. She recovered quickly, mumbling, "You know, I think you should talk to my supervisor," and ran off.

Agent Wyatt wryly commented behind her. "Jesus, talk about a first class manipulator."

Bernice glanced over her shoulder and whispered, "Why, thank you."

The supervisor rushed up to the receptionist desk looking rather disconcerted. "I'm so very sorry to keep you waiting, Ms.-?"

"Hordstrom, Mrs. Dr. Evan Hordstrom. My name is Bernice, but you can call me Bunny." Bernice smiled at the woman, tolerantly waiting to be accommodated.

The supervisor, dressed to the nines and looking like she just walked off a runway, smiled tolerantly back. "I would love to grant your request for Ms. Breck to work with your husband," she apologized. "Unfortunately, she has not been employed in our center for some time."

"Well!" Bernice huffed indignantly, swirling around to confront Agent Wyatt. "Did Bert mention this to you?"

Agent Wyatt did his part to act completely clueless and shrugged.

Bernice whipped back around, tisking to herself rapidly and shaking her head, moaning, "This is extremely disappointing. My Evan simply must have the best. We were told to ask for Jessica, and she's not here." Bernice looked up with determination. "You will tell me where she works now, and we will seek her out there."

The careful change between accommodation and disapproval was so slight it was almost undetectable. However, the supervisor's tone did sharpen. "As I understand it, Ms. Breck relocated to Florida."

Bernice leveled a counter glare of disapproval and remarked, "How unfortunate for my Evan."

The supervisor smiled tightly. "It might comfort you to know that all of Jessica's former clients are now being catered to by our lovely Stacy." The supervisor looked past Bernice and sent a knowing indulgent smirk to Agent Wyatt. "Perhaps you can bring yourself to settle for her instead."

Bernice twisted around and asked Agent Wyatt rather caustically, "Well, will she do?"

Again, Agent Wyatt raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Bernice rolled her eyes and pulled out her credit card. "He simply must have this done. I cannot enjoy my vacation knowing how tense he is." She slid the card across the counter with dramatic resignation and added, "And I suppose as long as I am here, you can find someone to work with me as well."

It had been a long time since a man made her feel that good.

Her Finish masseuse, Günter, worked her over like a stubborn flank steak. He tenderized her muscles to the point where her whole body melted into a comfortable mass of goo.

Bernice saved her baiting about Jessica for her facial, where she was less worried about bodily harm. "So who is this Jessica I keep hearing so much about?" Bernice inquired with the air of a hungry gossip.

Byron, her proudly gay attendant looked ripe for the plucking. He was older but was very cognizant of his appearance and gave Günter a knowing smirk when he escorted the wobbly Bernice to his waiting chair. Bernice looked back at the extremely healthy masseuse as he made his departure and turned to Byron, whispering, "Good for you."

Byron's smirk expanded to a full blown smile. "Yes, he is," he demurred. And so their shallow friendship was forged on that acknowledgment. Bernice knew she picked the best candidate for dishing dirt even old dirt.

Byron exclaimed as much as he rolled his eyes and began to work the tingly astringent into her face. "Oh, that poisonous little number's been gone and forgotten, dear."

"Bunny," Bernice corrected with a simpering smile.

Byron smiled back. "What a sweet name."

"Thank you. But I must tell you, I've heard from just gads of people at the club that she was fabulous. Why are you not agreeing with them?" She posed the question with complete innocence.

Byron made a face like he had just eaten cat shit and harrumphed in obvious disgust. "Well, if you heard it from the club, it must have been from the men. Bend over please, Bunny." He gestured to the nearby sink and proceeded to rinse her face. It caused the tingling, slowly turning to burning to subside into a refreshing baptism.

As she sat back up, she spied the bowl of substance he was efficiently mixing. It looked like a yogurt parfait. He worked it with a bristled brush and applied the brush to her face, bitterly adding, "Around here, we called her the collector."

Bernice's eyes glowed with anticipation. "Really?" she gushed. "How intriguing."

Byron twisted the brush in small rotations over her face as he dished some more. "She would only wait on the men, telling my poor Günter he needed to practice on the woman, since he wasn't touching their bodies anywhere else." Byron ground a little too deep with his brush, causing Bernice to wince. He noticed and let up a little. "Then she would flounce around here like some vile diva, showing off her huge tips and throwing it in all our faces." He pointed to the sink again, and Bernice dutifully obliged.

When she sat back up, he applied a fragrant white cream. "So, really, she was just a stupid floozy?" Bernice watched Byron carefully.

He made a fussy face and admitted, "I wouldn't call her stupid. She knew what she was doing. She was getting more than tips from these men. Close your eyes for me please," he ordered softly.

"I hope you don't mean sex." Bernice let her eyes fall back as the soft cream was soothingly worked into her crow's feet.

This produced a chuckle from Byron. "Your guess is as good as mine on that one, Bunny. She's not my type. I was referring to information."

Bernice opened her eyes and gave a mischievous grin. "You mean for blackmail?"

Byron released a high pitched hum, teasing, "Maybe, but what I heard was she was getting investment advice. Inside stuff, you know? Which fund to buy and which to sell; asking for specifics and giving her undivided attention in exchange." He sat back and admired his work, remarking, "Beautiful Bunny."

Bernice glanced at the mirror over the sink and smiled with genuine pride. She did look pretty damn good if she did say so herself. She returned to the subject. "Well, it doesn't make sense then. If she was making so much from her clients here, why did she leave?"

"No idea," he answered simply as he tisked and ran a brush briskly through her neglected hair. "She just called us up one day and quit."

Bernice stopped Byron's brushing with her hand and questioned, "She didn't come in and pick up her last check?"

Byron raised his eyebrows in agreement. "I know, right? She did leave some God awful post office box for somewhere down south, if I remember right." He ran his fingers along Bernice's scalp and fluffed her hair, adding, "That slut Stacy does all her clients now." He let out a rather raunchy chuckle and concluded, "Talk about happy endings."

Bernice sat up at that point, raising her eyebrows in alarm. "You don't mean-"

"Oh, Bunny!" came the deep sarcastic voice.

Bernice and Byron both turned their heads to find Agent Wyatt. There he stood, holding a terry cloth towel around his naked waist with one hand and balling his clothes tightly in the fist of his other hand. Behind him stood yet another beautiful woman, looking equally put out.

"Were leaving right now," He said with authority and walked away.

Byron rubbernecked his departure with noises that sounded like he was watching the dessert cart being taken away. He assessed Bernice with a knowing leer. "With a man like that at home, I'd be going at it like a bunny too."

"Honestly, I thought that all Jessica did for her clients was stroke their egos." She let the loaded statement hang in the air and mingle with the tense atmoshere of hostility. There was plenty of room for it. Once again, Bernice shoved her body as close to the passenger door as her seat belt would allow.

Agent Wyatt sternly narrowed his line of vision to the four inches over his steering wheel and refused to acknowledge anything else in the car including Bernice.

She wasn't going to be ignored. "For what it's worth, I think we learned quite a bit about her."

He gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

She swallowed but continued. "I mean, we have her full name, Jessica Breck, and we know her last known address was a post office box in Florida somewhere and that she left work suddenly. I'm guessing it was around the same time Herb disappeared."

He careened the car into the driveway of the repair shop. Bernice grabbed the dash and stomped on the imaginary brake at her feet but made no comment about his driving.

Instead she broached, "If we can pinpoint Jessica's departure with Herb's disappearance, I'd say she would be a good candidate as a suspect."

Agent Wyatt sped down the driveway, leaving choking amounts of dust in his wake.

Bernice continued quicker, knowing she was running out of time. "But it still doesn't explain why Herb's body surfaced now. If she murdered him before she left, I mean."

He stomped on the brakes, grinding gravel under his tires and forcing the car to lurch forward hard. He unhooked his seat belt and crisply commanded, "Get out."

Bernice nodded mutely to her lap, grabbed her purse and exited the car. She walked to the garage. He walked to the office.

She cringed when she heard the door slam.

Bernardo and Mark were waiting for her at the entrance to the garage. Her truck was parked off to the side.

She smiled politely and opened her purse. "How much?" she asked with as much patience as she could muster.

"Um, your invoice is inside." Bernardo looked past her shoulder at the office.

Bernice turned slightly and glanced with her peripheral vision. "But you know how much it is, right?"

Mark spoke up. "Two-ten," he said clearly.

Bernice smiled at Mark. Even without his dad around, she could see he was turning into a responsible man. Maybe that's because his dad wasn't around.

She pulled out her farmer's wallet from her purse and counted out the sum in tens and twenties. She handed the money directly to Mark, commenting, "Worth every penny."

He accepted the money rather shyly. Bernice heard a familiar slam behind her and didn't bother turning. The two men with her observed Agent Wyatt march to his car, watching her the whole way. He paused slightly as he opened the door. Then he scowled and climbed in.

Mark took the money into the office, and Bernardo returned his attention to Bernice. He assessed her with a mixture of appreciation and curiosity.

"Hey, you look a damn sight better than when I saw you this morning."

Bernice shrugged. "Thanks. I treated myself to an afternoon at the spa."

Bernardo whistled and made a "la-dee-da" face. "That where you got the sweatshirt?" he continued.

Bernice's stomach dropped. She looked down and realized he was right, but it was too late.

She turned to the driveway only to watch the twisting wisps of dust start to settle in the aftermath of Agent Wyatt.

"Well, shit."

_Chapter_ **10**

"Oh Helen, not today."

The diminutive goat stood like a hoofed King Kong, claiming her dominance by standing with majesty on the top of the chicken coop. Bernice usually admired her irreverent spirit. Today she had no patience for it.

"Well, piss on ya then!" she yelled and stalked off, leaving the goat to bleat victoriously from her lofty perch. The newly penned in chickens cackled in righteous indignation at the noisy stomping that was taking place on their home.

Bernice herded the rest of the Nigerian dwarf goats into their barn. She grabbed the galvanized bucket of feed and stood at the entrance, banging it with a discarded piece of re-rod.

The banging was intended for Phyllis. She came trotting out from her favorite spot under the willow tree, braying with her head held high. However, it also worked in coaxing Helen off of the roof, scattering chickens to and fro in a flurry of feathers. Helen paced impatiently in the chicken pen and bleated like she was starving to death.

Bernice deliberately ignored her cries and continued to feed all the other goats and the donkey. That was just fine with her until she heard the unmistakable noise of scraping metal.

She trotted back out of the barn just in time to see Helen find the one weak spot in the chicken wire fence and mercilessly stomp it to the ground. Bernice watched with spiraling dismay, the immediate exodus of the chickens from the coop to the branches of nearby trees in chaos and panic.

Helen leaped over the remainder of the trampled fence and dashed past her into the barn.

Bernice picked up a stray rock and hurled it with all her might in Helen's direction, screaming in primal anger. All that succeeded in doing was scaring the chickens even more. It certainly didn't make her feel any better.

She stood for a moment and breathed. Resigned, she turned and decided to watch the evolving sunset instead. The chickens would settle down soon enough.

Lollygagger's Acres was one of Bernice's favorite places in the whole world. As a child she would beg and plead with her parents to go visit Grandpa and Grandma Glenwood. The postage stamp patch of lawn outside their town home in St. Paul was abysmal in comparison to acres and acres of grass, woods, and swamps. At the farm a kid could run, get dirty, and climb trees without getting yelled at.

Unlike the stark trendy home her mother painstakingly maintained with military regimentation, everything at the farm was weathered and repaired. Bernice recognized early in life that her parents were uncomfortable in that old-fashioned existence. So she would pester them to let her stay for short stints during school vacations on her own.

That seemed to satisfy everyone, except of course Darlene. A budding teenager at the time, Darlene was not at all enthused with having a kid shadow her every move like some midget reporter asking a nauseating amount of questions. Darlene only found it advantageous when Bernice was old enough to do her chores for her.

And since it was a fully functioning dairy farm at that time, there were always chores to do. Cows were herded into and out of the barn twice a day for milking. The calves were bottle fed until they were weaned, and everyone's stalls had to be scraped clean.

All that manure had to be rounded up and either piled in some inconspicuous (but not always) place or spread directly on a waiting field. And hay and straw for the coming season needed to be cut, bailed, and stored away. None of that included the constant household chores, or the gardening, or the canning and freezing.

As Bernice grew and her priorities changed, she frequented the farm less often. With her grandparents advancing age the farm started to shrink. The number of animals decreased, and fields were rented off.

Darlene dated frequently and worked at various odd jobs in town, but her loyalty to her parents kept her at home. When first her father, then her mother succumbed to the ailments that tired neglected bodies tend to collect, Darlene lost her choices completely. She took care of them both until they each passed on sometime in their early seventies.

As far as Bernice knew, Darlene never complained. She never became bitter. Her childhood friends and neighbors became her married friends and neighbors. After her parents had passed, Darlene had more time to come into the Cities and visit Bernice's parents and occasionally Bernice.

Then it was Bernice's turn to put up with being shadowed constantly and pert-near chattered into insanity, but she tolerated it because it was Darlene. Darlene was family, and in the end she was the one who ended up saving Bernice from herself.

Presently, Bernice watched the clouds become frosted in obnoxious shades of yellow, pink, and orange as they traveled over the pasture and valley beyond it. Bugs were beginning to gather around the various lights in the yard. A cool breeze streaked past her, beckoning the end of a long stressful day.

She breathed it all in, smiled to herself, and proceeded to finish her chores.

The feathery ocean breeze drifted through the jalousie windows of his tiny clapboard house and eased the humid conditions of the tropical evening, but it did little to help Nathan sleep. He sprawled out on his bed in restless disappointment.

She was not coming. The fact ate at his gut like a parasite, gnawing and teasing him with its painful elusiveness; that itch that would not be scratched. It left him feeling haunted and hungry.

He rolled over, groaning in his frustration, part of him ruing the day they met, part of him silently acknowledging it was the best day of his life. The day she ran to catch his boat for the day trip from Marsh Harbour, and he caught her firm hand and met her laughing eyes and easy smile. The sheer pleasure of her journey was infectious with its innocent curiosity. He found himself drawn to her, seeing the beauty of his home through her eyes.

Since she was traveling conspicuously alone, he felt compelled to watch over her. He rationalized it was out of pure Christian chivalry, but he knew deep down that there were less lofty motives at play. She frolicked along the beach with the joy of a child, seemingly unaware of the tempting proportions of her very adult body. Watching her wreaked havoc with his baser instincts. The beautiful memory twisted his insides now.

It was impulsive and reckless on his part to invite her to dine with him that evening. As they watched the sun settle over the azure waters of the Caribbean, he found himself compelled to risk inevitable rejection and ask her to stay. She demurred just enough to stir his passions and when she relented to his invitations and eventually his lust, it was heaven on earth.

Now it was a hell of twisted bed sheets and devastated expectations. The frantic phone call did nothing to ease his mind. The painful apology and desperate reaffirmations of her love for him only made the ache worse.

He knew their affair was fleeting at best. Perhaps, after all these months he had actually convinced himself it was going to last. He started to believe her when she told him to be patient; that soon she would stay for good. He had started to fantasize with her about their fairy tale existence in his tiny clapboard house.

Nathan rolled over on his stomach and brutally beat his feather pillow in abject frustration.

It was going to be a long night without his sweet Jessica.

Upon opening the door of the Den he was almost taken out by the slovenly drunk covered in his own puke. The drunk was being forcefully helped by Paul, who was obviously not thrilled with the job.

"I told you to take it outside!" One last shove left the guy passed out on the gravel with some nasty stuff spewing slowly from his mouth.

Paul spit just past him and sent a stink eye over to Agent Wyatt, stating bluntly, "Damn tourists," and walked back in.

Agent Wyatt just made it into the entrance when Paul bellowed, "Closing Time!" Paul cast another suspicious glance in his direction. Agent Wyatt flashed his badge. Paul gave the badge an assessment of repugnance and wandered off to yell, "Closing Time!" at stragglers in the back of the bar.

Agent Wyatt found who he was looking for turning over chairs and collecting ash trays. The Den looked like it normally would at two in the morning, save for the new air-hockey table that sat in a corner under the telltale stained glass lamp.

"Can I help you?" A feminine voice chirped behind Agent Wyatt. He turned to witness a beautiful brunette in a skin tight camo tanktop giving him the once over. He smiled.

"Brooke, go check the ladies room," Roger growled, not bothering to look up from his tasks.

Brooke smirked apologetically at Agent Wyatt and walked off, sticking her tongue out at her father as she went.

Roger made his way behind the counter and hit a button on the cash register. It spit and sputtered as it coughed up receipt paper in spastic fashion. Roger ignored it and dropped down out of sight. He popped up with a bottle of beer just as Agent Wyatt took a seat at one of the stools.

Agent Wyatt cocked his head at the bottle and reached inside his jacket to pull out his wallet.

"Don't bother. I've already settled out the till. This one's on me." Roger glanced up at him while he finished loading the dishwasher. "You look like you could use one."

Agent Wyatt nodded in acknowledgment. "Thanks," he replied and picked up the bottle.

Roger pulled out a beer for himself. He took a swig and smiled at it, reflecting, "You're not really here on official business, are you?"

"I'm wondering about your relationship with Bernice." Agent Wyatt took a swig and watched Roger, attempting to interpret his amused expression.

Roger set his bottle down, commenting, "That's kind of the problem. We don't really have one." Then he leveled a challenging gaze at Agent Wyatt, adding, "yet."

Agent Wyatt's face remained passive. He silently drank his beer and waited.

Roger was in no hurry. He seemed to be working out in his head how to proceed. "You see, sometimes it takes a man time to recognize a good thing when he's got it." He took another swig and swallowed. "Especially when that good thing can be such a pain in the ass."

Agent Wyatt looked past him. "After the stunt she pulled today, I'm starting to wonder if she's worth all the trouble."

That caused Roger to cast a nasty grin and shake his head. "Don't bother with the details. I don't want to know." He chuckled a little more. "That one was born for trouble. It's probably why she was such a good reporter."

"She ever tell you why she gave it up?"

Roger came around front and took the bar stool next to him. "To tell you the truth I never asked, you know? We just kind of hooked up. She didn't mess with my baggage. I didn't mess with hers."

Brooke emerged from the ladies room at that point. "Some lightweight pulled an _Exorcist_ all over the stall." She struck a pose of protest.

Roger was having none of it. "Well, I didn't do it so tough titty. You know our bargain."

She harrumphed and stomped off, slamming an unseen door in the background.

Roger looked at Agent Wyatt and felt the need to explain. "My daughter gets the ladies' room. I get the men's room. She's usually fine with that because generally it's cleaner. Women are more considerate." He took a swig of beer.

"And men are pigs," Wyatt finished for him. Then he smiled to himself, quiet for a moment.

"What?" Roger asked, taking notice.

"Pig, slang term for cop," he mused. "Bernice doesn't like cops."

Roger downed the rest of his bottle. Paul walked past with his jacket on and nodded his goodbye, walking out the door. The grating of the lock could be heard from outside.

Brooke walked back out to the front with a bucket and mop, but she ignored her father completely this time and scowled at the bathroom door instead. Roger addressed Agent Wyatt.

"You want another?"

Agent Wyatt shook his head, showing that his bottle was still half full.

"Fair enough," Roger remarked. He twirled the empty bottle around the counter for a few moments. "Few years back now one of the locals was having a problem with some older kids down at one of the boat landings."

Agent Wyatt nodded and sipped, listening.

Roger continued. "Bernice had just come into town from the Cities, and she happened to be in earshot when this person was bitching about the problem. Naturally, she asked the obvious question."

"Did he call the sheriff?" Agent Wyatt threw in.

"Precisely, and the local said of course he called the sheriff on five different occasions as a matter of fact. The fifth time came after he confronted the group himself and they threatened to kick his ass. Even then, the sheriff refused to send out a deputy."

Agent Wyatt was annoyed. "How come?"

"That's exactly what Bernice asked the sheriff. He told her that the boat landing was on township property, and the township supervisor should handle it. Then he suggested she mind her own business."

"And that was it?" Agent Wyatt was stunned by the total lack of responsibility.

"Yeah, well that particular sheriff had just gotten elected. He knew he was in for a few years so he could afford to piss a few people off. Not to mention, he had a beef with the supervisor in that township so he wasn't compelled to grant any favors." Roger grinned in amusement. "Bernice wasn't having any of it, though."

Agent Wyatt reflected upon how much he was enjoying himself. He could understand why Bernice frequented this bar and why she struck a friendship up with Mr. Bellamy. He could also see that he was in for a fight if he actually wanted her for himself.

"She went down to meet the hoodlums herself but instead of chewing them out like everyone else did, she just hung out there a while and tried talking to them."

"How'd that go over?" he asked.

"Like a fart in church," Roger responded, "but Bernice wasn't there to get chummy. She was there to lay a trap." Roger walked around and tossed his bottle into his recycling, causing a noisy clatter in response.

Agent Wyatt shook his head. "Oh boy," he remarked.

Roger sat back down with a fresh beer. "Yeah, she just reminded them that a local old coot had driven home drunk the previous spring, missed his driveway, and sank his truck into that very boat landing." He gave Agent Wyatt a sly grin. "Then she casually mentioned the truck was pulled out the next morning, but they never found the body."

"Was it true?"

"Kinda." Roger answered, obviously enjoying himself as well. "The drunk had extricated himself from the truck and walked home, but he didn't bother telling anyone what had happened until he needed to use his truck again a couple of days later." He waved off that part of the story as trivial. "But Bernice had sowed the seed, claiming that some folks thought his body was still somewhere in the lake stuck under a tree root or something."

"So she lied?" Agent Wyatt confirmed.

"Oh she did more than that." Roger took a gulp from his bottle then stopped and asked, "You want me to keep going? This part's a tad bit illegal."

"What the hell. I'm not really surprised." Agent Wyatt took a sip and let the hoppy beer slide down his throat. "Go on."

"After about a week when they came back, Bernice waded into the water after dark with a bull horn and a tape recorder. She made some scary noises, acting like the place was haunted."

"Wait." Agent Wyatt broke in. "That didn't really work, did it? They weren't scared."

"Of course not, "Roger returned, "but that wasn't the point. The point was to lure at least one smart ass sucker out into the water to investigate." He took a sly sip, watching the anticipation build on his listener's face. "She had a trip rope planted there."

Agent Wyatt raised himself up on his stool in disbelief. "She didn't."

"Oh yah she did." Roger started chuckling. "Dragged that sorry son-of-a-bitch about thirty feet out into the water before she cut him loose." Roger addressed his bottle, "Yep, I think that lake stayed deserted for the rest of the season. Kind of funny how it takes outrageous steps to get shit done sometimes."

Agent Wyatt turned wary. The entertainment value of the story lost its allure for him. "So you're saying Bernice isn't above taking matters into her own hands?"

Roger no longer looked entertained either. He still wore his usual amused smirk but there was more meaning behind it. "I just think you need to know what you're getting yourself into."

Unlike the previous nights, Bernice slept like a log. She woke up at the crack of nine, did the mandatory animal chores and made herself a huge greasy breakfast. Biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs and a big mug of coffee accompanied her to the kitchen table. There, equipped with her trusty laptop, she searched for Jessica Breck on the internet while waiting for the first of several loads of laundry to work through the wash cycle.

What puzzled her was there was very little of Jessica to be found. It was perplexing. It seemed to Bernice like everyone had their share of a web presence. Hell, even Darlene knew about social networking and she could barely work her cell phone, but there was nothing for Jessica. Bernice resorted to searching online directories in the state of Florida, first by county then by city.

The washer started thumping rhythmically against the wall, signaling it was finishing its spin cycle and would be ready for a new load. Bernice shoveled in another fork full and washed it down as she rose, carrying her mug into the laundry room with her. She finished off her coffee and readied a basket in the final, "Whir, whir, whir, cerchunk!"

She opened the top of the washer and hauled out the wet clumps of clothes, thinking to herself about Jessica. Only someone who was trying really hard not to be found would not put up a Facebook page. That fact alone made her look guiltier by the minute.

She really wanted to consult Agent Wyatt on the observation, but the mere thought of calling him made her cringe. After starting another wash load, she hauled the full basket with her out the back door to the clothes line.

The mid-morning sun was slightly blinding, but it felt nice and dry outside. Wispy cirrus clouds swept across the deep blue sky. Bernice took no notice and watched the ground as she walked, lost in her own intense thoughts.

Her thoughts were intense because she couldn't clear the four second memory that decided to brand itself on her brain. That's how long she had to take in the very naked Agent Wyatt the previous day. It was a scrumptious four seconds.

Bernice was no wilting violet when it came to her knowledge of the male anatomy. More than a few spiffy specimens had crossed her path in her thirty odd years, and she was appreciative of every blessed one of them. But this new body in question deserved some extra pondering. She absentmindedly did just that while hanging out the wash.

What surprised her was the lack of bulk. Most men, even Roger, took lots of pride in beefing up those pecks and biceps, but everything on Agent Wyatt was painfully taut. It was like every muscle was so efficiently disciplined that any disproportion would be ostentatious.

He had runner's legs for sure. Long, lean, tapered muscles twisted themselves around his bones and each other as they made their way up under the towel. Damn that towel. The muscles continued in tight, shallow bumps out of the top of it and up his torso.

His chest hair was black, fine, and curly. It made Bernice wonder if the meticulously clipped hair on his head liked to curl in rebellion when it got wet. Like when he stepped out of the shower after brutally running his body like a freight train, fast and hard, beating the pavement mercilessly over and over, breathing and sweating profusely with each step.

Bernice ran out of clothes to hang. She just stood there, reliving those four seconds again and again: the curve of the shoulder muscles into the neck, the tight meaty forearms, the perfectly proportioned hands, and that delicious curve exposing just a hint of butt cheek. God help her, she loved a nice ass on a man.

One of the muscovy ducks quacked in alarm when the cat got too close to her new brood of babies. It brought Bernice back to the present. She sighed in resignation and plodded back to the house just in time to catch the phone before the voice mail kicked in. "Hello," she answered quickly.

"Why aren't you in church?" Darlene crabbed back at her with no preamble.

Bernice scrunched her nose. "I got a decent night's sleep for a change." She should have let voice mail get it.

"Well!" Darlene huffed. "Apparently I should have put it on the list. Leave it to you to miss church while I'm gone. If you break your neck and end up going to hell, you can't blame me for it."

"And I suppose you attended church with the devout Mr. Sparks?" Bernice inquired dryly.

"As a matter of fact I did, and it was a delight," Darlene replied smugly. "Everyone was up on their feet singing, and some people danced. The ladies were so elegantly dressed in these beautiful dresses and these gorgeous hats. It was amazing." Bernice heard Darlene breath in awe.

"Does this mean you're converting to a Baptist?" Bernice teased.

"Of course not. Our Baptist churches at home aren't like that," she corrected.

Bernice could hear commotion in the background. "Where are you at?"

"We're having brunch at the cutest little cafe," Darlene replied. "Cameron's in the rest room. He's bringing me home tonight. We're going to the Minneapolis Museum of Art today."

Bernice groused with jealousy and poured herself another cup of coffee. "Of course you are."

There was a slight pause. "What're you doing today?"

"Laundry."

"Have you seen Agent Wyatt at all?" Darlene broached.

"Why would I?" Bernice returned. "He's investigating Herb's murder, not courting me."

"Can't he do both?" she inquired quietly.

"Darlene, you're butting in," Bernice warned her, wandering into the laundry room. The second load was already done. She opened the lid and emptied the clothes into the waiting basket.

"If this is about Roger, don't you think he's had long enough to make an honest woman out of you?"

"Hey," Bernice protested, sandwiching the phone between her ear and collarbone, "maybe I like being a dishonest woman." She hefted up the dirty laundry to the mouth of the washer.

Instead of getting the indignant response she was expecting, she got something much less savory, pity.

"Oh, honey," moaned Darlene, "no woman wants that." Bernice heard a familiar baritone voice in the background. Darlene quickly excused herself. "Got to go. We'll see you tonight."

"Bye," Bernice replied and hung up. She mock-copied Darlene with distaste while shaking the dirty clothes into the washer. "We're going to the Minneapolis Art Museum today. La-dee-da. I get to wash skivvies and scrape up chicken shit so obviously my dance card is full." Her bitterness was interrupted by someone banging on the screen door.

She didn't see anyone right off so she went out onto the porch. Agent Wyatt was out in the driveway leaning on his car fender and looking out at the farm.

Bernice wasn't sure if she should be happy or pissed off to see him. So she split the difference and went for neither. "Yah?" she spoke up from the porch.

He turned around to look at her for a moment before resuming his view of the farm. He proceeded to deliver an odd request in his usual crisp manner. "Let's go to Florida."

_Chapter_ **11**

There's dirty laundry in the washer, the chicken coop needs cleaning, the duck pool needs refilling, and the blueberry bushes need netting. Bernice was mentally going over the list she had left for Darlene before departing the house that morning. That had been six hours earlier, so it was a fruitless endeavor. Still, it was better than dwelling on her present situation.

She was on a plane with Agent Wyatt. She didn't know where they were going or what they were doing when they landed. She hadn't asked. She was told to pack an overnight bag and bring her passport just in case. And she did so without questioning why or complaining about being ordered around, which was totally out of character for her.

She rode with him in almost complete silence for the entire two hour trip to the airport. She asked which gate and was told. She asked when their flight was leaving and if there were any layovers and was told that as well. She bought a paperback at the duty free shop and never opened it. Now, they somewhere over Florida.

Bernice wasn't sure if Darlene would be upset that she had left so abruptly or elated that she had left in the company of Agent Wyatt. She ticked off the list in her head again. "Shit," she stated softly.

Agent Wyatt looked over at her. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she answered quickly. "I just forgot to pick beans this morning."

He assessed her strangely and then smiled. "Well, it's too late now."

She nodded at the statement that seemed to sum up their adventure and any misgivings she was having about it. Then the captain announced their decent into Miami.

They left the gate. Bernice followed Agent Wyatt to the rental car counter. He produced his paperwork and received his keys. Before she knew it, they were on their way. It was beginning to occur to her that this seemingly impromptu trip was thoroughly planned out.

She took a closer look at his face and noticed signs of insomnia. Her deduction was that he had been up all night working on this. She suddenly felt grateful that he included her, and that she hadn't pissed and moaned about it.

Instead she finally found her voice out in the parking lot. The heat and humidity was staggering in its sheer intensity. In a matter of seconds moisture was seeping out on her upper lip and forehead. "How'd you figure out Jessica's destination was Miami?" Bernice asked as she walked beside him while he scanned his receipt and the lot numbers.

"Actually it's not," he replied.

This need to know response was very irritating, especially since she had held her tongue for the entire trip. She took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. "Then why are we here?"

Agent Wyatt stopped and hit the key pad in his hand. A bright blue compact SUV blinked to life in front of him. He politely opened the door for her.

"I traced her Social to her passport. She's been using Miami as a port of entry quite regularly these past five years."

Bernice climbed in and watched him curiously as he took their duffel bags and tossed them in the back seat. "Then where are we going?"

"The Bahamas," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, "Nassau to be more exact."

The expression "Hurry up and wait" had entered Bernice's mind on several occasions during the course of the trip, but the connotation was becoming a lot more pleasant.

They were seated in the air-conditioned restaurant on the Fiesta Commuter and Freight Boat. As the sun set in a glorious expanse of orange over the Caribbean side of the water, they found themselves four hours into the eight hours it took the vessel to drift into Nassau's busy harbor. Bernice was eating conch fritters and a fruit salad and drinking something spicy and exotic with a hint of rum. It was well worth the eleven hour wait.

Agent Wyatt sipped at whatever he was drinking and silently perused their view. He had barely touched his meal, once again ordering the same as Bernice.

She put off disrupting his thoughts for as long as possible. "The conch is quite good," she remarked, pointing to his barely touched plate. "It tastes like fried calamari without the rubbery texture."

He finally moved his head to assess her, slightly longer than she was comfortable with, and then turned his attention to his plate. He stuck his fork into a fritter and examined it. "I've had them before," he announced and popped it into his mouth, chewing with a blank expression.

Bernice jumped at the chance of an actual conversation. "Really? You've been down here before?"

"A long time ago," came the short answer. Once again, there was no narrative.

"For what? Like spring break?" she teased him with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"No," he replied flatly, "my honeymoon."

The circulation of air blew out of her ears, leaving her deaf for an instant while Bernice absorbed the meaning of his statement. "Oh," was her lame response.

"Yeah," he added, wiping his mouth and tossing the cloth napkin on the plate. "She learned to hate cops too." Agent Wyatt rose at that point, mumbling, "I'm going to check on our vehicle. Enjoy your meal."

Which Bernice silently acknowledged was impossible after that. She told her salad as much while she dissected it with her fork. "You can't just drop a bomb like that and walk away." She downed the rest of her drink and got up to find him.

The opening for the cars on the ship resembled the mouth of a tunnel on a freeway, except that it had a retractable railing. Agent Wyatt was leaning on it and looking over the water with his trademark expression of inscrutableness.

Bernice cautiously approached him like she would a wounded animal. "I'm sorry if this trip is painful for you," she offered quietly.

"Well, it can't be helped now, can it?" His resolve was self evident. "Your outrageous wild goose chase turned up a real lead, and it's my job to track it down."

"And you need me here for that?" She faced him, mustering up some courage.

He shook his head and smirked at the water. "Despite your methods and my better judgment, you have proven yourself useful. I figure the best course of action is for me to harness your powers for good instead of evil." He glanced at her to gauge her reaction.

Bernice was perplexed, but amused. "So I'm to leave my Cat Woman suit with the retractable claws in my suitcase?"

"You paint an interesting picture, Bernice," Agent Wyatt remarked, "but it's a tad bit warm down here for that much pleather."

It was approaching the wee hours of the morning when they checked into their economy hotel. Their room was small but clean with two full size beds. They took turns showering and mindlessly scanning through the satellite TV channels until everyone was set to finally settle in.

After about an hour Agent Wyatt heard the slowing of Bernice's breathing, indicating she was asleep. He envied her the privilege and reflected on the day.

When they were able to concentrate on the case, their confinement together seemed to go more smoothly. But he could tell they were both avoiding the same subject when they walked into this room. He wondered there in the dark whether or not Bernice was disappointed that there were two beds. He knew he kind of was.

His thoughts inevitably shifted to his ex-wife. She would have hated this room. _"Evan? Two Stars? Really?"_ Somehow his ambitions were never quite lofty enough for her tastes. Part of him understood that he should be grateful to her for mentally shoving him up the ranks of his profession. But in the end he had known it would never be enough. Their mutual resentments about it had eventually gotten the better of them.

Bernice seemed to have no expectations about her lovers. He guessed that was more an act of self preservation rather than a conscious choice. Roger might be the kind of guy to let sleeping dogs lie, but he wasn't. He wanted to figure her out. Nothing worth knowing ever came easy.

Exhaustion eventually overtook him. In the dim light of the early morning, he finally let himself sleep. He was awoken a precious few hours later to the squeak of protesting springs on a cheap mattress.

It came from Bernice's bed where she was thrashing in her sleep. Her eyes were scrunched shut and her mouth was forming soundless words, save for a spare hiss or gasp, as she battled with the demons that haunted her dream.

The logical part of him knew to let her ride it out, but her body twisting and writhing in that invisible torture was more than he could bear. He rolled out of his bed into hers, pulling Bernice's protesting form into his arms.

"No!" she moaned pitifully.

He recognized the whimpering from the episode in the woods. He ached with the memory of it and pulled her closer. "Wake up," he requested softly, rubbing circles into her back.

She flinched at his touch and arched away from him like a rebelling toddler who refused to be restrained. She flailed her legs desperately. Agent Wyatt huffed in surprise at the narrow escape of his groin in the struggle. He wrapped his legs around hers.

Her eyes started to flutter as another gasp escaped her gaping mouth. Agent Wyatt buried his face in the crook of her neck and hugged her even tighter, willing her to fight herself awake. After a couple more spasms she did, going deathly still.

Bernice released her breath in harsh huffs. Her eyes popped comically wide open. They frantically darted around her in an effort to help her brain gain some perspective. They told her she was in a hotel room intimately sharing a bed with Agent Wyatt.

He raised his head to interpret her features with concern. Her complete look of disbelief was not easing his trepidation. "Bernice," he breathed.

Simultaneously they knew, but she was the one who initiated.

It was the kiss they had both been fighting tooth and nail to avoid, and the kiss that refused to be denied. It was sweet and wet in its length and suction. Their heads ground together in delicious union as they fed the festering desire that eroded away their stubborn walls of emotional remoteness.

Their restless squirming made them flagrantly aware of a mutual lack of clothing. She was wearing her signature t-shirt tent and a pair of panties, but the shirt had ridden up well past her bellybutton exposing most of her torso to Agent Wyatt's wife-beater and boxer-briefs. They made a tropical ecosystem in the closed space between them that was in stark contrast to the air conditioned room.

He carefully and slowly unfolded her from his embrace, watching for the least amount of resistance to his presence.

Bernice rolled onto her back and pulled him with her, relishing his weight on top of her. She worked her hands under his sticky shirt to mold her palms around the muscles in his back.

Agent Wyatt released a throaty groan that escaped through his nostrils. He buried his fingers in her thick unfettered hair and held her face between his thumbs. Grinding his pelvis into hers, he watched her pupils dilate in silent acceptance.

She allowed her line of sight to linger down the length of him to what she knew was waiting for her in the poly-cotton pocket with the Calvin Klein waste band.

"Not yet," came the warning above her. She looked up to witness the smirk of the devil himself. He dislodged a hand from her hair and pulled his clingy t-shirt over his head. She smiled in pure delight at the opportunity to inspect the curly chest hair up close and in person. She worked her hands around his arm pits and over his nipples, stroking his breast plate indulgently.

He gasped and swore softly at the initial contact, collapsing on top of her and kneeing her legs further apart. He worked a hand between them and cupped the moist warm fabric of her panties. She panted against his mouth and arched into the contact, slipping her tongue through his teeth in response.

The exquisite wantonness of it all was swiftly overtaking them. Agent Wyatt rolled off of her in his frustration and pulled her onto his thighs. Bernice worked her hands back over his chest and wiggled herself on him, smiling with her own devilish amusement.

He grasped the bottom of her voluminous shirt, grinding out, "Who the hell dresses you?" before pulling the detested garment over her head.

Out of the modesty of sharing a hotel room with a virtual stranger, Bernice had elected to wear her bra to bed. In hindsight it seemed so silly.

Agent Wyatt pulled himself up to a sitting position. He assessed the bra with a sweet smile. Its taupe nondescript practicality was pure Bernice. Fact of the matter was she didn't need lacy fabric to showcase her assets. Her lush round ripeness needed to only be properly acknowledged.

_All in due time_. He looked into Bernice's eyes and pulled down one strap. "Say my name."

She lost herself in those deep intense pools. She spoke without realizing it. "Evan." It formed on her lips as a suggested question, and that wasn't cutting it.

"No," he scolded, kissing her naked shoulder. "Say it like you mean it." He worked the other strap down. "Like the first time." He kissed the other shoulder.

They faced off with eyes smoldering and lips parted in anticipation. Her hands wandered to his butt. His hands lightly brushed the inside of her armpits. They were embroiled in a dark staring contest. He wanted her to speak. She was making him wait for it.

His pinkies touched the tops of her mounds. He won. She dug her fingers in the supple flesh of his butt cheeks. There was no flirtation in her tone. "Touch me, Evan."

So he did.

He cupped her ample breasts, working his rough palms over her tender nipples in an unnerving friction made to delight and frustrate with its sweet torture.

As Bernice threw her head back, she shoved hard against his chest, forcing him down on the bed. He pulled her down with him so he could bring a taught nipple to his lips. She bunched the sheet into her balled fists and ground herself against his rigid erection, releasing a desperate whimper and plummeting her head down to nuzzle his neck.

Agent Wyatt kissed his way up her chest to her ear. "Anyone ever call you Bunny before?" He nibbled an earlobe.

"Never," Bernice admitted harshly. She dragged her nubby nails over his chest, raking an exposed nipple with the lightest of scratches.

He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth and flipped her onto her side. "You're gonna get it now, Bunny."

He kissed her hard, hugging her butt tightly to him, riding her there. He released her with a growl, forcing her on her back. He sucked in the other nipple as he worked his hand over her stomach and into her panties where the warm gooey flesh waited for him.

Bernice threw her head back against the pillow and cried out, the harshness of her voice startling her in the almost silent room. She needed to hear him cry out too. She worked her own hand down and into the pocket.

"Oahh!" was his only response and he shifted himself to better accommodate her ministering.

Her brain felt befuddled and useless in the raw primal heat of their touching. She almost lost herself in its intoxication.

Almost, but not quite.

Bernice searched her mouth for enough saliva to form the necessary syllables to break the exquisite tension. She hoped to God that it was just for a moment.

"Evan?" she asked carefully. She ceased her movements.

He had worked back to kissing the other nipple and twirling his middle finger with investigative finesse around the nub in her useless panties. He stopped, sensing a shift and looked up, hoping he was wrong. "Yeah?" he responded.

She gazed into those gorgeous brown eyes full of passion and promise and hated herself for...well... being herself. "Did you happen to pack any condoms?"

If a look could kill a mood, that one packed a wallop.

Agent Wyatt closed his eyes in frustration. He questioned the mattress. "You're not using anything?"

"No," Bernice responded flatly. Then, "Wait!"

"What?" He searched her features for hope.

"We're in a hotel. They've got to have condoms in the lobby."

Never had she seen a man jump out of bed so quickly in her life. He yanked on his pants, careful not to damage anything in the zipping, and pulled his shoes over his bare feet. The messed up, half dressed Agent Wyatt was a shocking sight to behold.

He grinned at her like a hero off to save the day. "I'll be right back."

What an inopportune time for the phone to ring.

Big Ben going off in their hotel room couldn't have had a greater impact. They both remained motionless, staring at the phone. Finally, Bernice reached over and picked it up.

"Hello?" She listened to the voice on the other end, recited, "Thank you," and hung up. "Wake-up call," she informed him.

He nodded in abject defeat and collapsed next to her on the bed.

"When's our first appointment?" She picked at her pillow, fidgeting.

"One hour at the Central Bank," he grumbled softly, staring at the ceiling.

"So we've got an hour?" she broached.

Agent Wyatt turned to Bernice. She looked so sweet and vulnerable crossing her arms self-consciously over her breasts. He realized in his haste he hadn't really taken the time to look at her and appreciate her. It made him a little angry inside.

He sat up and growled, "No."

She looked at him annoyed and confused. "Are you angry with me?"

His face dissolved quickly into concern. "I'm angry at myself." He pulled her against him and palmed her face. "I want you. I want you bad. But I'm not going to put a time limit on this. I want to be with you for as long as it takes. And Bunny?" he teased, smirking, "an hour ain't gonna cut it."

The Central Bank of the Bahamas stood out in stark contrast to the more historic colonial buildings in Nassau. Its sandstone facade looked expensive and institutional. The interior was equally cold and imposing. Bernice supposed it was intentional. A person's money was serious business.

A well groomed Bahamian of African descent met them in the lobby. His handshake was practiced and firm as he gestured to a nearby cubicle. Bernice felt more like they were getting a car loan rather than discussing a murder suspect.

"It must be quite an adjustment to come down into this warm weather from all the way up in Wisconsin." The bank rep flashed an amused grin.

"Actually, it's approaching summer in Wisconsin so it is quite warm there as well," Bernice corrected him.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" he replied with an expression that told her it was not.

"Do you have the information that I requested from you?" Agent Wyatt crisply changed the subject. He was all business now. Nevertheless, Bernice took immense pleasure in noting that the hair at the nape of his neck did have a tendency to curl, fresh out of the shower.

"Yes, of course," the bank rep qualified, "but you understand that I am powerless to altar or manipulate the account in any way."

"And as I told you over the phone," Agent Wyatt tactfully reminded him, "I'm not connected to the IRS. I'm only interested in the account activity as it affects my murder investigation."

"Of course, of course," the man repeated, slightly flustered as he shuffled through the small pile of papers on the desk. He produced a sheet and slid it forward, keeping his hand on the sheet with acute pressure and apologizing again. "I'm afraid you can take nothing with you." He leveled a steel gaze at Agent Wyatt this time.

The gaze was returned. "A verbal confirmation of dates and numbers will suffice." he enunciated carefully.

The complacent smile continued, although Bernice found it more annoying than accommodating.

The bank rep recited, "According to our records, Jessica Breck maintains an account on the island in the amount of 260,114 US dollars."

"That's it?" Bernice confirmed. "What was the original amount when the account was started?"

Agent Wyatt turned to her with a frown. She knew she was supposed to let him ask the questions, but she couldn't help herself. She shrugged at him innocently.

"Four hundred thousand exactly. It was opened on the nineteenth of August in 2005."

Agent Wyatt stared at the paper in front of him, running his eyes back and forth over the information.

Bernice echoed his thoughts. "That doesn't make sense," she mumbled quietly. She sat frustrated for a moment. She pulled on Agent Wyatt's sleeve. He looked at her with irritation for having his train of thought interrupted.

She bashfully smiled at him. "I have another question."

He rolled his eyes and waved her away as he went back to fixating on the sheet in front of him.

Bernice addressed the bank rep. "How does Ms. Breck access the account?"

"She has a debit card," he replied pertly.

"And when was the last time this card was active?"

Agent Wyatt answered for her, pointing to the sheet. "Six weeks ago." He furled his brows at that but said nothing.

There was a lapse of time when no other information was exchanged. Bernice had run out of questions, and the bank rep had perfected the art of supplying information on a need to know basis. They both sat and waited on Agent Wyatt and his studying.

He finally sat back up. Out of the blue he asked, "Is this the only account Ms. Breck maintained in this country?"

The bank rep returned to his pile of papers and shuffled some more. He produced another sheet and slid it across his desk in the same possessive manner.

Agent Wyatt studied that sheet too. Finally, he stood up, asking, "Do you have a lobby phone we may use?"

The bank rep rose as well. The incriminating documents returned to their refuge in the paper pile, which he dutifully collected. "There are a couple of courtesy phones in vestibule. You will see them as you exit." He pointed them out the door. Bernice sensed traces of relief on his face. He left first and disappeared into the maze of office doors beyond their reach.

Agent Wyatt searched the desk and spied what he was looking for. He quickly snatched up a letterhead notepad and bank issued ball point pen. He walked away.

Bernice trotted up quickly along side of him. He took her hand and led her into one of the courtesy phone nooks. Instead of answering her questioning gaze, he handed her the pad and paper and instructed, "Write."

She frowned at being ordered around, but accepted the items and prepared to take his dictation.

"The original account was a direct deposit from the Mutual Interest Holdings and Mortgage Exchange Corporation in the amount of approximately two and a half million dollars."

Bernice gaped at him and stopped writing. This only caused Agent Wyatt to look grumpy and tap the pad. "Write," he commanded testily and continued. "The account was active from February of 2003 to August of 2005, when the account was transferred, and the two million and change were withdrawn in cash."

"Wow," was all Bernice could think to say as she looked at what she wrote.

"I'm not finished," Agent Wyatt crisply reminded her.

Bernice frowned and gestured dramatically, prepared to write again.

He ignored her display and recited, "She maintains an online mortgage payment for a condo in Marsh Harbour." Finished with his dictation, he took back the notepad and turned his attention to the phone directory inside the nook. He flipped quickly as he scanned for pertinent information.

"Are you looking up the address?" She asked, her appetite for the hunt increasing.

"No," was his only reply before he picked up the phone and dialed.

"Who are you calling?" Bernice whispered, rubbernecking over his shoulder at the directory.

Agent Wyatt pulled her to him for a quick and surprising kiss, then shoved her out of the phone nook, winking. He turned his back on her to speak to the party on the other end of the line.

Bernice stood out in the lobby and glared at the back of his head with the infamous expression that all men recognize when they see it as "the look".

_Chapter_ **12**

Leap frogging around the Bahama Islands could be quick and dirty or slow and dirty, depending on the budget. And since the state government only allowed higher ranking officials and politicians to squander tax payer money, budget was of the essence for their trip.

That meant taking the mail boat which left from Nassau harbor less than thirty minutes after their departure from the bank. From there, they could either take twelve hours to get to the town of Marsh Harbour proper or seven hours to land on the opposite side of the island of Abaco and pray for a taxi or hitchhike.

Agent Wyatt chose the latter, but he bribed the captain to shuttle the SUV over with them to Sandy Point so that they could drive themselves to their destination. While he was at it, he went ahead and used all his powers of persuasion to find a cheap ride for all from Sandy Point to Nickel's Town.

From there they would be picked up by the mail boat again the following morning. It was putting trust in strangers, but unless one of them wanted to fork over a couple of grand just for transportation, the kindness of strangers was all they had.

They had managed to wrangle up grilled fish sandwiches and bottled water in the Straw Market before their departure. But once on the boat, the gorgeous view became passé after a few hours. Conversation was eventually required.

"You feel like talking about why you left Minneapolis?" Agent Wyatt brought up. They were sitting in molded plastic seats in the air conditioned passenger cabin. All around them were fellow tourists and locals congregated in their own little circles and involved in their own activities.

Bernice gave Agent Wyatt the stink eye. "You feel like talking about your divorce?"

He smiled at her and shook his head. "Guess we play like Lutherans and talk about safe things." He took a swig from his now-warm water bottle. "Any ideas?" he ventured.

"How'd you grow up?" Bernice asked good-naturedly.

And so, the remainder of the slow boat to Abaco was spent reminiscing about forgotten friends and misadventures from a simpler time

"Shut up," Agent Wyatt exclaimed. "She did not beat out an '81 Cutlass at the stoplight."

"Of course she did." Bernice defended her story. "I was there. That was a 'gutless Cutlass', compared to her '74 Newport."

He almost looked hurt. "My first car was a Cutlass. It could spit gravel practically fifty feet if I gunned it. No way was it gutless."

Bernice raised her eyebrows. "Your first car was a muscle car? My, my, how did you rate?"

"I inherited it from my brother," he explained, grimacing. "He made sure to beat the shit out of it before joining the Navy. Took a whole summer just to get it running decent again."

Bernice nodded in apology. "But just the same," she reasoned, "it probably had a 260 V8 with a dual carb, and Morean's Newport had a 440 with a four barrel corroborator, so there you go." She shrugged like a girl.

Agent Wyatt narrowed his gaze. "And what exactly were two minors doing out in the middle of the night drag racing anyway?"

"Well, Officer," Bernice shyly kept her gaze to the ground in mock shame. "My parents thought I was studying at Morean's, and...well... Morean's parents didn't really give a rat's ass."

"Bet you never got in trouble on the farm," he smirked.

"No. I tried, but there was always too much work to be done to be able to get into much mischief."

Agent Wyatt studied her then. "That why you chose to move back there as an adult?"

Bernice watched the water going by, taking her time to answer. She thought she spied a dorsal fin jut up and down in the distance but wasn't sure enough to bother mentioning it. "Running a farm is a lot of work. There's plenty of stress and risk involved." She adjusted her butt in the chair, stalling to finish her thought. "But the lack of complication in that kind of a life is a comfort to me. I never have to question my purpose." She looked to him for relation. "You know what I mean?"

Agent Wyatt nodded. Then out of the blue, he took her hand and looked back over the water. Bernice smiled at the tender gesture and let him.

It was dark by the time they drove into Marsh Harbour. A smattering of street lights gave just enough illumination to avoid running over any wayward pedestrians. They made their way past rows of brightly painted clapboard houses, stone colonial estates, and finally modern stucco condos on their way to their destination.

"Her house number was 216. I assume that would put her on the second floor." Agent Wyatt scanned the fronts of the units as he slowly drove by.

Bernice pointed. "That's 116, so the unit above that must be hers."

They both looked up. They both noted the lights were on.

"It appears the infamous Jessica Breck is at home," demurred Bernice.

Agent Wyatt smirked at her. "Perhaps we should drop in and say hello." He pulled into the visitor's parking area.

She gave him an odd look. "Are you serious? I thought we were gonna do a stake out or something."

"You've seen too many movies. I came down here to find out about Ms. Breck's knowledge of Herb's whereabouts before he disappeared, and the best way to do that is to question her."

Bernice was stunned. "So your plan was to just march up there and have a nice chat with a cold blooded murderess?" She sarcastically crinkled her face. "For some reason I don't see that playing out well."

"We don't know that she murdered anyone."

"She left Wisconsin and moved her bank account around the time Herb went missing."

"Herb left his wife to be with her. Maybe she came down here to wait for him, and he didn't show up because someone else got to him first."

"So you still think it's someone back home?"

"We have no evidence to prove she was anywhere near Wisconsin when Herb's body turned up."

"You said he was frozen," Bernice pointed out. "She could have killed him before she left and-," she stopped, still glaring at Agent Wyatt, but at a loss on how to finish her argument.

"Ha!" he proclaimed victoriously. "Your theory still requires an accomplice."

"Well!" she huffed. "Even if she didn't do the wet work, you're certainly not going to get her to incriminate herself by dropping in unannounced and asking her to validate your parking."

Running out of common ground, they simply sat and glared at each other instead.

That's when the lights in the condo went off.

"Shit," Agent Wyatt cursed softly and cut the lights and engine. He immediately got out.

Bernice opened her door. He came around to her side of the SUV.

"You stay here," he warned.

"You don't have your gun," she reminded him. "What if she's not thrilled to see you?"

He looked cautiously back to the condo as he answered her. "Then I need you here to be a witness, don't I?" he admonished her with an irritating arrogance. "This is my job, Bernice. Been doing it a number of years without your help, so do what the flatfoot tells you and stay in the vehicle, ma'am."

Bernice got back into her seat and crossed her arms, fuming furiously at him through the window. He simply smiled back and shut her door, leaving her there.

Bernice watched him crouch and sneak out of sight. Even she couldn't tell where he was anymore. She waited anxiously to see what would happen next.

Suddenly, she heard a female squeak. Without even thinking, she launched herself from the vehicle and went to search it out. She followed the active shadows, not heeding that she might be putting herself in eminent danger. Her brain went frantic, thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

When she rounded the blind of a hedge, she found Agent Wyatt trying to restrain a petite black woman who was fighting back with every fiber of her being. He had his hand over her mouth and an arm around her stomach, straining to maintain control of her and the situation.

The sight of Bernice didn't help. "You really don't know how to listen, do you?" he growled.

Bernice ignored him and approached the frightened woman. "We're not here to hurt you. We only want information."

The woman widened her eyes with incoherent panic.

"She's not listening," Agent Wyatt pointed out, irritated.

Bernice put her hand on the woman's arm and looked into her eyes. Her voice was low and slow. "It's okay. This man is a police officer. He thought you were a criminal. He wants to let you go, but you need to calm down. Can you do that for me?" Bernice looked into her eyes with concern and sympathy. "Just calm down, so we can talk to you."

The panic slowly dissipated to pure apprehension. She relaxed her struggles. Bernice smiled indulgently at her before stating firmly, "Agent Wyatt, remove your hand from her mouth and apologize."

He gaped at her in astonishment and anger, silently showing his lack of willingness to obey her orders. Bernice simply glared back and turned her head in a way that asked him if he had a better idea. He scowled at her as an acknowledgment that he did not, so he slowly removed the pressure of his hand over the woman's mouth, wary of the fact that she could start screaming.

She did not scream. She simply stayed silent, her eyes hooded in blatant hostility.

Agent Wyatt acquiesced, carefully stepping back and mumbling, "I am very regretful of my actions, ma'am. I thought you were somebody else."

The woman turned and retorted in her thick, Bahamian-accented English, "Well, God help the poor soul that you were looking for if this is how you were going to treat them."

"I check on the house and water her plants every week," Gracia proudly told them as she turned the key to unlock the condo's door. "I tend all the Americans on this block and have never had a complaint. Most of my clients wouldn't even know me on sight because I do my job and disappear like a ghost." She opened the door, hit the lights and let them into Jessica's home.

It was immaculately clean, sparse, and forgettable. It would have easily passed for a model unit in its lack of personal touches. To Bernice it was quite obvious that Jessica didn't have a sentimental bone in her body, if the condo was any indication about her psyche.

"If you aren't familiar with Ms. Breck, how do you get paid?" Agent Wyatt questioned.

"My services are included in the condo association fee," she said, crossing her arms and watching him like a hawk. Once Agent Wyatt had shown her his credentials, she was slightly more cooperative, but it was obvious the trust was tenuous at best.

Gracia was less focused on Bernice. Bernice took advantage of that fact and wandered around, looking at tabletops and on walls for signs of what Jessica was like. When that turned up nothing, she began to pull open drawers and cupboard doors. She peeked in the nondescript bathroom of beige on beige. All of the fixtures were spotless, and the medicine cabinet was conspicuously empty.

She came back into the main living area and made her way over to the small kitchen.

"How long have you been working for the owner?" Agent Wyatt inquired.

"Since she purchased the condo," Gracia obediently answered.

Bernice looked in the fridge and the cupboards around it. Other than cleaning supplies, there was nothing in the kitchen at all. She bent over and opened the unused oven door. "Gracia, do you clean the condos too?"

"Yes, and tend pets, take care of laundry, and stock groceries." She listed off her services with practiced ability.

Bernice looked up, smiling at her. "And you did these things for Ms. Breck?"

Gracia shook her head. "No, only plants here. That's it." She gestured to various tropical specimens, discretely placed in corners on plant stands. Orchids and Canna Lilies in various stages of bloom held their own against the ordinary background of wicker and teak.

Agent Wyatt surveyed the room discouraged. "Well, thank you, ma'am, for your time and cooperation." He held his hand out toward the door.

"MmHmm," was Gracia's unimpressed acceptance of his gratitude. She waited for them to leave first then locked them all out of the unit. She briskly marched past them and went out of the exit door at the end of the hallway.

Bernice's sigh echoed Agent Wyatt's disappointment. "Nothin'," she concluded.

"You got that right," he agreed.

"How does anyone live that way? No pictures, no books, no food, she didn't even have a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom."

"And no Jessica," he conceded, releasing a small growl. "Well, this was a total waste of time."

They trudged abjectly out into the parking lot.

"How long before we catch our ride back to Nickel Point?" Bernice questioned as she watched her feet.

"Couple hours," Agent Wyatt mumbled.

He looked up just in time to watch the large chunk of concrete being propelled toward his temple.

Bernice screamed bloody murder. Agent Wyatt crumpled unconscious and bleeding onto the asphalt.

A shell-shocked looking black man stood over him, palming the bloody weapon and staring at Bernice with complete helplessness. "Where's Jessica?" His voice cracked in his obvious panic. "What have you done with her?"

That was all the time he had to make his case before Bernice threw her body against him and sent them both down.

His bare back scraped painfully on the hard surface as they landed, and Bernice wasted no time in squirming her way on top of him and beating at the offending arm, shaking it and causing the man to lose his grip on the rock. She rolled it out of his reach before he threw her off.

She saw the raised fist just soon enough to fall onto her back and kick in his direction as hard as she could, almost barking in primal fear. She felt her shoe make contact with something solid and hard. His body hit the pavement before Bernice was able to see what happened.

She sat up quickly on the back of her hands. In the deserted parking lot, she found herself amongst two unresponsive bodies.

"What in the hell did you do this time?" That was Darlene's idea of a greeting when she was woken from her bed in the wee hours of the morning to accept long distance phone charges. She sat in her voluminous nightgown at the kitchen table, gripping the phone and frowning.

"I rendered a man unconscious," was Bernice's short sarcastic answer.

Darlene gasped in anger. "Did you hurt Agent Wyatt?" She heard an exasperated exhalation of breath on the other end of the line and jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Oh my God, you did hurt him! Bernice, how could you?"

"Darlene, it wasn't me. We were jumped. I knocked out the other guy."

"You know, I watched on _Newsline_ the other night about how the Bahamas are a haven for drug smugglers and illegal immigrants. I bet one of them tried to rob you for money or something." Darlene's overactive imagination went wild with speculation. "Did he try to kidnap you? Maybe, he was going to sell you into slavery. Boy, what a waste that would be. I can barely get you to do what you're told here."

"OH MY GOD!" Bernice spat out impatiently. "Do you think you could actually let me tell you what's going on for seven dollars a minute?"

Darlene pouted at the kitchen table in silence. "All right then," she responded, hurt.

There was more audible breathing on the other end of the line. "The guy who jumped us is a citizen of the Bahamas according to his wallet. Agent Wyatt was bleeding pretty hard from his head, so he was air lifted to Miami. I am still here in Nassau. I am being held for questioning, and they won't let me leave until this guy I knocked out wakes up."

Darlene's features hardened with her concern. "So you're at the police station?" she asked carefully.

"I'm at the Princess Margaret Hospital in Nassau. There's a very nice police woman standing next to me, and we will be hanging out together until this guy comes to."

"Aren't you worried about Agent Wyatt?" Darlene asked.

There was silence on the other end. "More than you know. That's about it for now. Did you get my note?"

Darlene grimaced at the neglected sheet on the table. "Don't worry about things here. We'll be fine. Just take care of yourself and let me know if you need a lawyer."

"I'll be fine," Bernice argued. "Take care."

"Yah, you too, dear." Darlene hung up the phone. She heard the heavy thud of footsteps coming down the stairs and watched Cameron enter the kitchen. Without preamble he came up behind her and kissed her on the head before proceeding to rub her shoulders and ask, "Everything all right?"

Darlene embraced his hands with her own. "I hope so," Darlene replied with no confidence whatsoever.

Bernice paced in front of the small patient room. She glanced time and again at the unconscious Nathan Joseph and simply asked herself, _Why?_

Why would a catamaran sailor accost them in the middle of the night and bludgeon Agent Wyatt like that? Did he think they had taken Jessica? Did Jessica give him the impression that she was in trouble? Did she warn him that people were coming?

The only way to explain her knowledge of their arrival would be an accomplice back home. Agent Wyatt was right. Jessica might have been the mastermind, but someone else was involved too. Bernice wondered who would be on her hook.

It could be anyone from her past at the spa. She had a number of lucrative clients with good connections. What would it take to bend their moral compass? A million dollars, perhaps?

Maybe it was more personal than that. Maybe it was Chet or even Bernardo. For all she knew, good ol' Roger could've had a go at her. How would she know?

As disturbing as it was to speculate that her own lover could be a killer, it was better than imagining Agent Wyatt bleeding to death on a gurney somewhere. She tried calling Miami several times with all the weapons of persuasion in her arsenal from sweet talking to angry/empty threats to even impersonating a state official.

She was always told the same thing: immediate family members only were allowed personal medical information, period. "Assholes," she quietly cursed to herself as she paced.

The police woman assigned to babysit her looked up from her magazine and frowned.

"Not you," Bernice explained herself, attempting civility. "I'm just worried about my friend."

The police woman continued to page through the magazine and inquired flatly, "Was he that cop?"

"Yes," she sighed in her helplessness.

"No worries then," the police woman remarked. "Cops have hard heads."

Bernice couldn't help but form a small smile.

The foggy haze turned bright white and was accompanied by a horrible throbbing in his temple. He blindly raised his arm to investigate and felt searing pain on the top of his hand. He set it down and tried the other arm. It was free and painless.

Blinking several times to clear his vision, he turned his head only to regret the decision as a wave of nausea threatened to overtake him. He ceased his movements in defeat and decided to wait things out.

Agent Wyatt could hear a constant beeping somewhere behind him and footsteps on a hard surface a short distance away from him. The air conditioning chilling his skin told him he was indoors. It was an easy for him to deduce that he was in a hospital.

He made a growling sound in his throat to test his vocal cords. He found them functional. "Hello," he attempted to communicate hoarsely, "is anybody there?"

"Que?" The response was from somewhere in the room. It was from a man speaking what he hoped was Spanish. He searched his brain for his brief experience with that language and was encouraged to see shapes starting to form with his blinking.

"Donde esta aqui?" Agent Wyatt asked tentatively. He doubted he had the tense right, but hoped it was close enough.

"Miami General," the disembodied Spanish-speaking voice replied.

Agent Wyatt was trying to remember where he was last. Was it Miami? He could make out the end of the hospital bed now. The throbbing in his head was excruciating, but he felt like he had to figure things out.

And just when the concentration was becoming unbearable, his short term memory forced back recent events with startling clarity. The parking lot, the rock, Bernice...

Agent Wyatt gasped harshly, the realization of his injuries and the possible consequences involved making themselves evident. It caused his blood pressure to increase exponentially. The beeping behind him sped up to a more rapid rhythm.

"Estás bien?" his roommate asked, concerned. "Usted necesita un médico?"

_Where's Bernice?_ His brain was circling around the question with piercing pain, but he recognized the "medico" word and ran with it. "Si, si, medico, por favor," Agent Wyatt requested, "pronto."

He heard a new beep coming from the vicinity of his Spanish friend. He guessed it was the call button for the nurse. He began to blink more rapidly. He was able to make out the pleats in the curtain surrounding his bed.

Padded footsteps walked past him to the other occupant. "Qué necesita?" another man asked.

"Se despertó," was the unknown response.

Then he watched his blurry curtain get whipped aside and a short brown man move into his line of vision. The man shined a light pen quickly back and forth into his eyes. Agent Wyatt squinted in the process.

"Mr. Wyatt, do you know where you are?"

"If I understood that other guy, I'm at Miami General with a head injury from having a rock bashed into my head. That sound about right?"

He could just make out the white toothy grin of the nurse in the otherwise indiscernible features of his face.

"I'm guessing we can rule out any obvious brain damage," the nurse exclaimed cheerfully. He carefully turned Agent Wyatt's head a small degree from side to side. "Any pain or nausea?" he asked in rote.

"Yeah," Agent Wyatt answered him testily, not appreciating the seasickness the head turning was causing. "Where's my friend, Bernice?"

The nurse frowned in confusion. "You were flown in from Nassau early this morning, alone. No one told me of any friend." He checked the IV in Agent Wyatt's hand and looked up at the red bag on the metal hook above his head. "I can get you some meds for the pain, if you'd like."

"What I'd like is to find out what happened to the friend who was with me when I was hit." The authoritative cop was back, despite any lack of capacity to exert said authority. "I need to speak to the Bahamian authorities and find out if she's all right."

The nurse chuckled, not taking much credence in his request. "You are in no condition to use a phone, Mr. Wyatt-"

"Agent Wyatt," he corrected through clenched teeth. "I was investigating a person of interest in the Bahamas for a murder, and my friend was assisting me."

"Oh," the nurse acknowledged. "Was she an agent too? Because we've had several calls about you from a woman claiming to be an Agent Determyer from the Wisconsin department of something or other. Is that her?"

Agent Wyatt blinked through his confusion for a few moments while he processed that information. He smiled slowly. The beeping behind him slowed in response.

"Yep," he answered, letting his eyes fall shut. "That's her all right."

"You are free to go, Ms. Hordstrom," the police women informed her, hanging up her cell phone. "But I must accompany you to the airport and see that you are boarded and safely out of the country."

"That's just fine by me," Bernice agreed, scooping up her duffel bag. "Just get me to Miami."

The police woman faced her with trepidation, waiting for a fight. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Your flight's been changed."

"What?"

"Your flight from Nassau International is direct to Chicago where you are to be transferred to Minneapolis."

Bernice's stance was erect and hostile. Her voice was low and calm. "That's unacceptable. I need to go to Miami and make sure Agent Wyatt is all right," she claimed with conviction.

The police woman looked at the floor for a moment then raised her eyes to Bernice in abject sympathy. "Ms. Hordstrom, Agent Wyatt was the one that requested the flight change."

Bernice stood stunned, swaying slightly as if struck by an invisible slap. She absorbed the sting of the statement and began to pace, remarking sarcastically, "Well, apparently he's feeling better." She stopped and questioned the officer, "What about Mr. Joseph in there? We still don't know his connection with the investigation."

"My superiors are having his residence searched as we speak. Agent Wyatt has requested any evidence be sent to him in Madison. We have agreed to cooperate fully with him." She assessed Bernice with authority, even as the sentiment remained in her eyes. "He requested that we see you home safely."

_Chapter_ **13**

_He doesn't want to see me_. That was the gist of the statement that circled around in Bernice's head. It befuddled any logic she was attempting to apply to her present situation with emotional disappointment. Despite all they had shared, even with the passion he declared for her in their hotel room, it wasn't enough to constitute a further relationship with her on any level. That was it, end of story.

It was a painful conclusion to accept, but it was a practical one. After all, he lived several hours away. They had completely different lives. And for all intents and purposes, she was not a free agent. There was still Roger.

She had a soft spot for Roger. He seemed to be wanting more of her in his life. She could almost see herself taking up the role as his significant other, maybe even as a step-mom to Brooke. And while their passion might be waning, they understood each other. They were friends.

She and Agent Wyatt were not friends. In fact, more often than not they seemed like adversaries. It was a constant game of one-up-man-ship that ran hot and cold. She admittedly enjoyed working with him and even enjoyed the challenge of working against him, but passion was a very shallow foundation with which to start a relationship.

So, in the eight hours it took for her to finally make it back home, she convinced herself it was for the best. As for the ache of loss, it would subside quietly and painfully, as aspirations unfulfilled often do.

Bernice was only slightly surprised to see Cameron with Darlene at the airport. They rode all the way back to the farm in Cameron's car. He didn't look to be in any hurry to leave.

Cameron took her duffel bag out of the trunk. "I've been smoking a pork loin in the grill all day. Hope you're in the mood for barbeque." With that mouthwatering statement he disappeared into the house.

"Cameron's taking some vacation time," Darlene felt compelled to explain, watching him walk in. "Thought you wouldn't mind an extra hand around the place for a while." She bashfully watched Bernice's feet with a small smile on her face.

Bernice couldn't help but smile back at the new love blossoming before her eyes. It made her heart ache with just a little jealousy though. "Well, as long as he pulls his own weight around here, I don't see any problem with that." Her peripheral vision picked up the truck over by the barn. "I'm going to take a quick trip over to the Den."

Darlene's features twisted into disapproval. "But you just got here," she whined.

"I won't be long," Bernice talked over her shoulder. "I just need to let Roger know I'm back."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Darlene remembered. "Your new friend Margie called while you were gone."

Bernice halted her progress at the news. She stood there, trying to figure out how to smooth that wrinkle. She waved it off for the moment. "I'll give her a call tomorrow." She proceeded to the truck.

The Den was starting to feel like home. Bernice smiled to herself when she walked in. Then she immediately scowled.

Roger was on his way out the back door with a tall, barely dressed, bleach-blonde. He had his hand at the small of her back and was coyly whispering in her ear.

All she could do was watch and seethe. Her hands seemed to ball into tight fists all by themselves.

"He mooned around here for a couple of days after you ran off with that cop," Paul observed unemotionally from his post near the door. "Looks like he's back to his old tricks now though."

Bernice swiveled her line of sight over to the counter just in time to catch a glimpse of hurtful betrayal from Brooke. Brooke completely ignored her and quietly tended the few regulars in front of her.

Bernice finally realized to what extent she had made her bed. The Den was not her home after all. She dejectedly turned to leave. She was just close enough to catch Paul's parting comment as she left.

"Don't let the door hit you in the ass."

She absorbed those words all the way home.

It seemed like in the last 24 hours, Bernice had aged ten years. She felt completely worn out. She mindlessly ate the gorgeous plate of pulled pork and fresh coleslaw that was placed lovingly in front of her. The sense of taste barely registered in her consciousness. She chewed and stared at nothing in particular on the tabletop.

_What I need is sleep and work,_ she told herself. She needed to get back to the basics of living. That's what had always centered her in the past. It would work again now, but it would take time. She relished having no painful distractions for the foreseeable future.

"I took your duffel bag up to your room," Cameron admitted after a drink of milk. He wiped his mouth and gathered up creamy coleslaw onto his fork, bringing it to his mouth. "Hope you don't mind."

Bernice shook her head like a zombie. "That's fine," she said, barely listening.

"I noticed a box on your bed," he continued, chewing. "Did you get a FedEx before you left?"

"No," Bernice grumbled, pushing food around her plate.

Darlene and Cameron exchanged glances. Darlene spoke up. "FedEx never came while we were here," she claimed, "so where'd it come from?"

All scraping of silverware on plates ceased simultaneously. Confused looks were passed around the table for a few moments. Then everyone immediately got up.

Darlene and Cameron followed Bernice up the stairs, speculating.

"Maybe it went to one of the neighbors by mistake, and they dropped it off."

"Why would they go all the way into my bedroom?" Bernice asked.

"It might have had your name on it, and they didn't want to leave it out to get stolen."

"Did you order something for the farm?"

"No." Bernice answered.

"Maybe your parents sent you a care package."

"Highly unlikely," Bernice remarked.

"Would Agent Wyatt have sent something to you?"

"Absolutely not," Bernice corrected.

The guesses came to an abrupt end when she walked into her bedroom. In the middle of Bernice's bed on her favorite chenille spread sat a nondescript, craft colored box. It was slightly larger than a shoebox but had no shipping stickers on it. It had no names on it either. Whoever put it on her bed did so in person.

She lifted it carefully. It was relatively light. She shook it.

Darlene gasped and leaned back. "Are you crazy? You don't know what's in there!"

Bernice grimaced at Darlene, but calmly pointed out, "If someone wanted to blow me up, there's plenty of fertilizer and gasoline out in the shed that would do the job."

She shook it again. Whatever was inside was packed tight. Light and dense was the description. She set it back on the bed and picked at an edge of the packing tape with her fingernails.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Darlene exclaimed, "I'll get my sewing scissors." She took off down the hall.

Cameron watched, quietly asking, "You think this has to do with the murder?"

Bernice responded, crestfallen. "At this point, I'm hoping with all of my might that it doesn't."

Darlene rushed back in, very impolitely running with scissors. She held them out excitedly.

Bernice flipped them wide open, took a deep breath and plunged a blade into the seam. Nothing screamed out at her in pain, so she sliced open the top of the box. After handing back the scissors she grasped each ear of the box and ripped them open. She stared down at the final two inner flaps, concealing the contents inside.

She looked up at her spectators, breathing, "Here goes nothin'." Having seen too many scary movies, she shut her eyes and turned her head away before quickly popping open the flaps.

Darlene's gasp was not helping. Neither was Cameron's, "Sweet Jesus." At least there was no bad smell, so Bernice would have to look.

She found herself face to face with a box plum full of hundred dollar bills.

"You think they're real?" Darlene rubbed a bill in her hand, fascinated.

"Go grab that marker we got from the bank." Bernice pulled out the loose cash from the box, piling it in a mound in the middle of the kitchen table.

The door was locked, and the curtains were pulled. They weren't expecting visitors, but you never knew who might drop in on such a pleasant evening. No point getting caught with a load of Benjamins on the table and no proper answer for their existence.

Darlene handed Bernice the marker. There had been a story in the local paper about recent circulation of bogus fifties making their way around the area. As a result the bank had given them a marking pen to test the large bills they received at the farmers' market.

Bernice applied a dash across the bill in her hands. It turned just slightly darker than yellow, indicating authenticity. "Well this one's good."

They all just sat for a moment staring at that money. Finally Bernice sighed. She pulled the pile in front of her ordering, "I'll mark. You two count, Darlene first then Cameron."

They both nodded their heads. So began the two hour process of marking, counting, and recounting. They all recounted one last time because the total seemed odd.

"Still the same," Cameron confirmed, "Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred."

"Still a hundred short?" Bernice commented. "Seems kind of weird, don't it?"

Darlene looked down at the discarded box on the floor. "Maybe the last one got wedged into the bottom." She picked up the box and pulled at the glued in flaps. She smiled then. "I see somethin' in here." In her excitement, she rendered the glued joints noisily apart. A small green envelope flitted onto her lap. She picked it up and looked at Bernice with excitement and foreboding.

"It's for you." Her eyes were wide with the thrill of it all.

Bernice had had enough of the thrill of it all. She snatched the envelope, crabbing, "No shit, Sherlock," and used her index finger as a letter-opener. She pulled out the last one hundred dollar bill and a plain sheet of paper with a single sentence typed on the surface:

_"Enough now. -J_ "

Darlene went to grab the note, but Bernice pulled it away. "This is evidence. Bad enough my prints are on it."

Darlene looked disappointed. "We can't keep it," she concluded.

"No," Bernice confirmed. She looked at Cameron. He was watching her with a familiar, wary expression. "What do we do?" she asked.

"Well, it's got to go to the police," Darlene pointed out with obvious consternation.

"I don't think Bernice is questioning that." Cameron laid a hand on Darlene's arm. "It's to which police she brings it to?"

Darlene stared at the money with understanding creeping into her expression. "Not in this county?" she asked.

Bernice shook her head. "We don't know who to trust here, not with this much money and no way to trace it. If it were to disappear, it'd be my word against theirs."

Bernice gazed at Cameron. He nodded gravely and passed over his keys. "Head toward the Cities first. Make sure you're not followed. After you cross the border, type up the address on my GPS and head South. I'll stay here and keep an eye on things."

Bernice rose slowly from her chair. "I'll go get my bag." she said and walked slowly up the stairs.

Darlene looked to Cameron with concern. "Where's she going?"

He rubbed her back affectionately, presenting a wry smirk. "The only place she can go."

Agent Wyatt carefully poked at the ugly stitches residing over his shaved temple, wincing and testing their progress. The poking only provoked the tail end of the nagging headache he'd been carrying with him since he had left the hospital. He opened his medicine cabinet and popped out an aspirin. Swallowing it dry, he walked out of his bathroom.

He had stayed awake on the plane, refusing to take anything until he was safely in his own bed. He thought it was a sign of strength on his part. After the first hour he silently acknowledged it was also a sign of stupidity. Being lucid forced him to think about his actions. He wasn't particularly comfortable with that.

_I've hurt Bernice_. That fact caused pain that had nothing to do with the assault. By the time he got home he was so disgusted with himself that he downed one more Oxycontin than was required and prayed for sweet oblivion. He received it with twelve comatose hours of sleep.

But staying unconscious was not an option. Eventually, his hunger woke him up. He ordered a pizza. When he answered the door, he was greeted by the UPS guy with an overnight delivery from Nassau.

Several hours later, the pizza was all but gone. Going over every piece of his attacker's property brought him no closer to answers than when he started. His headache had subsided, but his stomach began to protest his choice of nourishment at the ungodly hour. He got up to get an antacid.

His progress was halted by an indignant fist pounding on his door. He looked quickly at his clock and realized it was almost midnight. Spying through the peephole, he felt the mixed emotions of elation and dread. They were the result of a very pissed off visitor.

"Open up, asshole!" Bernice yelled from his threshold.

Agent Wyatt yanked the door open. "Anyone ever tell you, your greeting technique's a tad bit coarse."

He spied a quick glimmer of concern that flashed across Bernice's features when she saw the stitches. It was immediately masked with anger as she forced herself past him, exclaiming, "Cops don't tend to appreciate manners." She tossed her familiar duffel bag upon the couch.

Bernice took in Agent Wyatt's apartment with efficient observation. She thought it oddly cold in its stiff, traditional furnishings. Expensive but cold, which was a little unexpected for her. The man exuded heat. "Nice place," she lied.

"Why are you here?" he growled, shutting the door. He immediately started putting his evidence back in its box.

Bernice bounced into a side chair and watched his actions saying nothing at first. She grabbed the last piece of luke warm pizza and idly munched on it. "You owe me an explanation." She mocked his usual crisp tone, chewing.

This caused Agent Wyatt to chuckle bitterly. He shook head as he continued his task. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Probably not," she admitted. "But that's no excuse for what you did."

"I had no choice," he ground out, picking up the box and walking it to his dining room table.

"Bullshit!" Bernice barked, following him. "Sending me home like that was mean. Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?"

The quickness of his movements astonished Bernice. Agent Wyatt grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his voice dropping and breaking. "I almost got you killed, you stupid woman! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?"

Their anger sputtered out in the physical contact. Bernice's eyes filled with pain, looking at his injuries from her intimate perspective. She reached up and carefully ran her fingertips over the stitches, cringing. "Do they hurt?" she asked.

"A little," he answered huskily. He reduced the pressure on her shoulders and watched her face in fascination. His body felt like warm milk was being poured into his veins.

Her feather light massage moved to the bruised flesh around his cheek bone and eye socket. "Watching them haul you onto that chopper, bleeding and unconscious drove me out of my mind." Her fingers glided down to rest with her palm against his jaw. "I feared the worst, and it would have been all my fault."

He caught her hand. "That's not true."

"I distracted you in that parking lot. You would have saw him coming."

"You protected me in that parking lot, and I should have been protecting you."

Their mutual admissions erased all the hurt and misunderstanding in a bare heartbeat. He pulled her to him, sighing in desperate satisfaction. He claimed her mouth in a kiss of complete, heavenly gratitude.

Bernice returned the affection with the slightest bit of reluctance. Agent Wyatt sensed it immediately and confronted her, concerned. "You're still mad."

"No," she denied, "I'm just worried about you. You're recovering from having your head smacked with a chunk of cement. You should be resting."

Her consideration for his well being filled Agent Wyatt with more affection than he knew what to do with. It only made him want her more. He pulled Bernice by the arm. "Come on," he ordered. "I refuse to waste one more minute having you coddle me."

Again and again Bernice wondered at the exquisite revenge being taken out on her quivering body in every small intentional action. The methodical movements, so attentively implemented with the ultimate goal of inciting ecstasy, and they hadn't even had sex yet.

Not that she didn't have plans of her own. This carnal onslaught would not go unanswered, but at the moment she was content to be the object of sensual affection.

"You know, sometimes a man gets so worked up in his need to drive the point home, he forgets the whole purpose of the conversation." Agent Wyatt delivered his philosophy in a low whisper as he nuzzled Bernice's neck from behind and felt his way around her front. He worked his hands over her clothes in a very naughty version of frisking.

Bernice gathered the waist band of his well-worn jeans into her clenched fists. "You keep this up, I'm not going to remember what we're talking about."

His hands migrated under her shirt and glided with smooth finesse over her belly, fanning her ribs and testing the under-wire of her bra. "Don't worry," he teased as he slid his hands down into the front of her cargo shorts. "I'll make sure you never forget." He played with the elastic of her panties and massaged the soft skin above her pelvis, gently pulling her against him and using their delicious friction to feed his growing erection.

Bernice craned her head to capture his mouth in a needy kiss while they performed their erotic dance in front of the bed. She felt him move to the button and zipper. He pulled the flaps of her fly apart, exposing her panties to the open air. He rotated his fingers over the cotton fabric just gently enough to make her want more. She whined a little as a result.

Agent Wyatt groaned deep in his throat with a need of his own. He gave her enough space to drop the shorts and gathered the hem of her t-shirt in his hands before carefully pulling it over her head.

She twirled in one smooth motion, placing her hands on his chest and pulling at his tucked in t-shirt, anxious to touch skin and hair. He lifted his arms. His shirt went sailing, and they were torso to torso.

Bernice snatched at his mouth, tasting in little nips while reaching behind and undoing the hooks on her bra. He pulled it from her chest, tossing it to the floor and pulling her against him. He reveled in the silkiness of her soft breasts against his skin. He molded her to him, rubbing his hands up her back and gripping her shoulders from behind.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing her way around his collarbone, his Adam's apple, his jaw line. She bit playfully on his earlobe and circled the tip of her tongue around the sensitive opening.

When his hands cupped the lusciousness of her round butt cheeks and he pulled her to him, the surge of need was breathtaking. Bernice began to feel restless in the slow torture. She went to resolve the issue by grabbing for his fly.

Agent Wyatt stopped her. The disappointment upon her face was almost enough to make him forget his intentions. Instead, he captured one of her arms and brought it up to his face, kissing her skin from inner wrist to elbow. He bit her flesh softly, admitting through his gruff whisper, "You start digging in there now, and I'll be done for."

Bernice stuck out her lower lip, but her eyes gave her away. She watched him nibble his way up the muscles of her palm and suck a pinky into his mouth. Her eyelids fluttered from the sensation. "You make that sound like a bad thing," she chided him as her free hand swooped down through his chest hair and captured an unattended nipple, gently pinching it. His response told her it was a good play.

Agent Wyatt kissed her softly as they began to move to the side of the bed. Bernice felt the back of her knees touch the mattress. His hands moved in position to lower her down.

She pulled away from the kiss and looked into his eyes. "Now?" she asked, her hands gripping his waist in their descent.

"Not yet," he answered through a low chuckle. His methodical mind made its observations: her face surrounded by a halo of golden hair; her knowing eyes, narrowed slightly; her well-kissed lips and ruddy cheeks, the result of his rough stubble. No way was he rushing it.

Bernice's ardor for a climax was eroding away at her patience. She frowned slightly, pulling her head up for a kiss and moving her hands inside his jeans to cup his buns. "Why are you making me wait?" she asked him as she squeezed.

Agent Wyatt moved against her a little harder than he wanted and grunted in his reaction. Not to be thwarted from his course, he pulled at her biceps and firmly placed her arms over her head, holding her wrists there. "I'm making us both wait," was his answer before moving down.

Her brain struggled to remember the last time any man had paid so much attention to her body during sex. It had been a while. She had gotten used to foreplay being rushed at the expense of intercourse. Now, she was getting spoiled rotten. Finally giving in, Bernice closed her eyes and let Agent Wyatt have his way.

He noticed the change and grinned, shaking his head at her astounding stubbornness. "'Bout time," he growled against her breast bone. He elicited a giggle from her that turned into a gasp when he pulled a big pink nipple into his mouth.

He let himself get lost in the creamy soft flesh that both tightened and jiggled at his caresses. Every peak, valley, mole, and freckle was at his disposal. Her sighs and moans helped him form the connection between the woman and her body. This was Bernice's breast, Bernice's ribcage, Bernice's bellybutton, Bernice's pubic hair, Bernice's- _Oh God_.

The scent of her caused a shudder of animal need that made his jeans extremely constricting. Agent Wyatt worked his fly free and rearranged while his mouth explored her healthy thighs. The sudden loss of blood made him light-headed, but he steadied himself and went about his business.

Bernice's eyes sprang open in a flutter of excitement when he removed her panties. She raised her head with just enough time to catch sight of his tongue flicking out before he descended upon her. After that she lost all interest in anything but the sensations he was causing in her lower torso.

There was no polite way of putting it. Between his hands and his mouth, he was playing her like a pornographic one man band. There were preludes and movements, manipulations that worked every nerve ending so acutely that all she began to sense was one huge opus of feeling soaring inevitably on its way to a spectacular crescendo.

Her feet had planted themselves on the small ledge between the box-spring and the mattress. She gradually dug her heels in and gripped the other end of the bed with her hands. Everything slowly tightened with the constant onslaught until her orgasm hit her like a molten lava flow, bubbling up from her center in a wave of hot wet magma.

She rode it out in tight, gripping muscle spasms, yelling incoherently and bucking in mindless acceptance until it all became too much. She began to pull away from him, pleading, "Please stop."

He ripped his mouth from her, swearing harshly. She flipped her legs onto the bed and rolled over into the fetal position. She continued to ride out the aftershocks that coursed through her with intense pulses.

Bernice heard the unmistakable sound of a drawer opening. She lifted her head to watch Agent Wyatt peel off the rest of his clothes. His dark swollen sex was cradled in course curly hair. It caught her off guard with its intimidating rawness.

He turned from her and viciously ripped the condom package open. She sat up and went to him.

"May I?" she asked, holding out her hand. Then she caught the look on his face.

Agent Wyatt's ravaged features were alarming with their intensity. His teeth were clenched. He almost looked in pain. The arrogance was clearly replaced by urgency.

He handed her the foil pouch. "Hurry," he commanded with a soft gravelly voice.

Bernice sat back down on the bed and produced the condom, efficiently working it over his swollen shaft. She allowed her fingers to explore for a mere moment before she looked back up to witness his barely constrained fury. They held each other's gazes as if by tractor beam and simultaneously lowered back down.

She took in her own scent glistening all over his face. Bernice grabbed his head and kissed him, tasting both of them in that unabashedly sexual state. Agent Wyatt snarled into her mouth like an animal and raised himself up to begin the insertion.

The previous orgasm made her tight. There would be no plunging. Bernice watched with marked fascination as he worked himself in, raising his head and moaning at the gradual progress of every stimulating centimeter to inch. Then she felt it too. She gasped at the intrusion and prepared her body to enjoy an entirely new song, one that was faster and harder.

Agent Wyatt shifted her thighs up and leaned over her, entering her completely. Bernice grasped at his back, opening herself wider and burying her face in his shoulder. He began to pull out then back in again, breathing harshly, increasing speed and grunting with his effort not to go too fast or too hard.

But when she cried out and gripped his ass, his own need took over. It set the pace to a ramped up rhythm that would lose control and come to a crashing end of mayhem and destruction. A shudder worked through him with its harsh vibration, causing his facial features to seize up into a tight mask.

Bernice wound her legs around his thighs, wrenching out the last vestiges his climax with her intimate embrace. She smiled in extreme satisfaction.

Agent Wyatt slowly relaxed his knees until he was sprawled out on top of her. He turned his head away from her face, stitches up, and let the good temple drop to her shoulder.

Beyond the sighs of contentment and involuntary swallowing, there were no accolades of love or endearments. Instead, Bernice remained blissfully silent.

Agent Wyatt simply said, "My head hurts." This caused them both to laugh.

_Chapter_ **14**

"Her name was Mila."

After their first time they showered together. Soaping up each other's parts and washing each other's hair, they ended the frolic with a brisk towel whipping fight. Completely exhausted, they opened the sheets on the bed and slept, naked and satiated.

Unfortunately, almost like clockwork it happened again. In the earliest light before dawn Bernice started to dream, flinching and muttering incoherently.

It startled Agent Wyatt awake. "Not again," he muttered. This time he held her down by the shoulders and shook her, commanding firmly, "Bernice wake up."

And she did, gaping up at him with a look of absolute terror. He softened his features immediately. "It's me, Evan."

A tear escaped her eye socket and traveled down her cheek. "I'm sorry," she squeaked, her vocal chords becoming constricted by the lump in her throat. "I wish they would stop." More tears tumbled down as her lip started to tremble.

By the time she was sniffling, Agent Wyatt had her gathered to him, rubbing her back and kissing her damp hair. Her crying increased, shaking her form in his arms. He ached for her, wishing he could fix it somehow, but knowing he was not equipped to do so.

Instead he just let her get it all out. Eventually, she raised her head. He looked into her red, swollen face and gently kissed her lips. "Now we're both a mess," he remarked. It made her smile and made his night. He stretched over to reach down next to the bed and brought up his forgotten t-shirt. "Here," he offered.

She accepted it, wiping her face on a corner and inhaling the smell of him appreciatively. Bernice looked down at the wet mess she had made on Agent Wyatt's shoulder and sopped it up.

He watched her work. "How long have you been having the nightmares?"

"They started a few years ago, but eventually they went away. I didn't start having them again until..."

He raised her chin to look at him. "Until Herb," he finished for her. She nodded, frowning. Agent Wyatt assessed her, breathing deeply, then suddenly got up.

Bernice watched his beautiful, naked butt retreat out of the room. She yelled after him, "Where are you off to all dressed up?"

"Be right back!" he hollered from somewhere in the apartment.

He unabashedly sauntered back in carrying a frosted cylinder and two spoons. "Hope you like Rocky Road."

Bernice eyed the glorious decadence of the hot, naked man offering her ice cream. She mentally praised the Lord for her blessings and smirked at Agent Wyatt. "You know how many calories are in that?"

He carefully crawled back into bed with his loot and handed her a spoon. "I'm sure we'll work it off somehow."

Bernice gazed at the cold, sweet treat with the veracity of a spoiled child. But to her dismay, she was spoon blocked. She grimaced at him with annoyance.

"I'll make you a deal," he offered. "I'll tell you about my divorce in all its gory detail, and you tell me why you quit your job."

Suddenly the chocolate delight didn't look so appetizing. She worked her mouth with an unsavory expression.

Agent Wyatt wasn't giving up. He buried his spoon into a strip of marshmallow and worked it out like a backhoe. "We got a deal?" He brought the heaping mound to Bernice's lips, surprising her with his tender gesture. She nodded and opened her mouth. It was delicious.

"Who was she?" he asked about Mila, digging out an almond.

Bernice skimmed from the edge of the ice cream carton. "She was a hard headed sixteen year old. She was short and cute with this long, thick hair. It would have been gorgeous natural, but every time I saw her it was a different shade of Skittle." She turned the spoon upside down and emptied its contents on her tongue. Swallowing, she continued. "She caught me coming out of a convenience store in South Minneapolis and tried to bum a smoke."

Agent Wyatt raised his eyebrows in judgment. "You smoked?"

"No," Bernice admitted, "but I had seen her hanging out with some bad people, so I told her I'd go in and buy her a pack if she'd talk with me." Bernice fidgeted with her spoon. "Not a proud moment," she confessed quietly.

Agent Wyatt held back his opinion and asked, "Did she go for it?"

Bernice smiled a little. "After I agreed to throw in a pack of grape gum." She peeked into the container and excavated her own almond. "She was crazy about grape gum. I would watch her shove a half a pack into her mouth in one shot and chew it like cud." Bernice shook her head and ate the creamy almond.

"So she was your source." Agent Wyatt rotated his spoon around her almond excavation and smoothed out the edges, eating the slack.

"At first, I just wanted human interest on the life of a teenage gang banger." Bernice concentrated on a vein of fudge. "But after a couple of meetings, I realized there was a darker element going on." Her features grew tight at the recollection.

Agent Wyatt filled in the blanks. "Her gang was reselling drugs confiscated from raids for crooked cops."

Bernice nodded. "And sweet, gum crazy Mila was screwing those cops in exchange." She let the spoon lay in her hand, losing her appetite.

"Was she doing this against her will?" he broached.

Bernice shook her head sadly. "No, she was quite proud of herself. She was moving up in the ranks, getting gifts and attention from all these men. She found it very gratifying." She twisted the empty spoon in her hand, digging slightly into her palm with its cold metal.

"So, when you broke the story and the court subpoenaed as a witness, you went into lock up to protect Mila." Agent Wyatt took the spoon from her hand and rubbed the warmth back into her palm.

Bernice watched his attentive actions, somewhat detached as she continued. "There was no doubt in my mind that they would kill her. Either the gang or the cops, but she wouldn't live out the day."

"And you stayed in lock-up for three weeks?" He leaned his head on hers.

"It wasn't that bad," she mumbled. "Some people liked to talk and that was fine. Some people liked to keep to themselves and that was just fine too. No one threatened me. I stayed out of people's way." Bernice closed her hand over his. "It was fine," she repeated.

"Then how'd you get out?" He tugged her a little closer.

Bernice huffed. "The city was threatening to sue the station if they didn't cough up my source. But no one at the station knew who my source was, not even Cameron." Bernice became very still. "No one except my fiancé."

The clarity of that statement hit Agent Wyatt like bucket of cold water. It explained so much about Bernice. No wonder she was in no hurry to get into another relationship.

"I was living with Brock Albright. His real name was Bert Algerheimer, but an anchor is almost like an actor, so he just took on a stage name." Bernice shifted restlessly.

Agent Wyatt set the ice cream carton on the nightstand and sat away from her. "You confided in him?" he confirmed.

Bernice nodded sadly at her lap. "We were engaged. My parents were practically wetting themselves with the prestige of it all. He told me he believed in my cause, that he understood my convictions." Bernice looked up at Agent Wyatt with a look of utter pain and betrayal. "What a crock of shit," she spat bitterly.

"He sold you out." Agent Wyatt took her hand.

She ripped it back, angry, staring at him and crying out, "He revealed my source on the air!" Bernice's glare could have chilled the room enough to store their ice cream. "He made a deal with the station to release me from jail and transfer both of us to a sister station in Denver."

Bernice stood up from the bed, holding her loose breasts to her chest with her crossed arms. She began to pace. "Brock thought he was doing me a favor. He claimed he was looking out for our future." She halted and ground out, "He never for one moment thought about Mila. They slit her throat and left her body to rot in a pile of garbage in a vacant lot."

Her body started to shake again. She could no longer speak in complete sentences. "Her whole stupid life...treated like trash...even me..." Bernice shook her head, denying the tears that would come despite her stubbornness. "I left that night. I didn't pack. I didn't take my phone. I just showed up on Darlene's doorstep." She grumbled, "The only time I've ever known her to have enough sense not to ask any questions."

Agent Wyatt remained on the bed, watching Bernice deal with her demons. No amount of assurances or affection from him would help. Instead he asked, "What happened to Albright?"

Bernice laughed bitterly, "Well, after his stunning success in Denver, Brock moved on to Seattle, then Phoenix, and eventually LA. He married one of those chicks from the celebrity news programs. My parents get a letter every year at Christmas."

Her face twisted into a maniacal scowl. "Mila would have been nineteen now." The irony of that comparison pushed her over the edge. Bernice kicked with her bare foot at a wooden arm chair. The chair was lighter than it looked and went flying into the wall. In the assault, it lost an arm.

Bernice's act of violence evaporated her temper. She looked over at Agent Wyatt with complete disbelief. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know how fragile it was."

His inscrutable expression returned. Agent Wyatt left the bed and walked around to stand next to her. "'Bout time that piece of shit got broken," was his flat remark.

She scrunched her eyebrows at him, confused. "You're not mad?"

He shook his head and shrugged. "I hate that chair. It used to belong to a pair." He walked back to the bed and scooped up the slightly melted container of ice cream. It had left a huge, white ring on the dainty, cherry wood nightstand. Agent Wyatt didn't seem to take any notice.

Bernice followed him out of the room, checking to make sure his blinds were pulled as she went. "Where's the other chair?"

Agent Wyatt opened the top freezer door, answering, "I broke it over the assistant DA's head when I found him naked with my wife."

Bernice stopped suddenly. "Oh," was all she could think to say.

"Yeah," he remarked as he shut the freezer and pulled open the fridge. Fishing around in there, he added, "Cocksucker's a state senator now."

Bernice gingerly walked into the kitchen and draped her arms across the top of the refrigerator door. "Well, a deal's a deal. You want to talk about it?"

Agent Wyatt stood up with two bottles of water in his hand, but he took one look at Bernice's naked shoulders and changed his mind. He tossed the bottles back into the fridge and shut the door, removing the barrier between them. He quickly pulled her to him, receiving a cry of surprise. "What say, we see what other pretentious furniture we can break this morning."

Nathan was in no mood for any more surprises. After waking up in the hospital to a police woman asking him a bunch of questions that he had no intention of answering honestly, his day only got worse.

The man he injured was a cop, an American cop. The Bahamian government didn't like Americans getting injured in their country. It wasn't good for business. But the way the man had attacked that cleaning woman, how was he supposed to know that? Luckily for him, the cleaning woman was located and corroborated his story. He smiled at that thought. By the time she was done, he almost came out looking like a bloody hero.

He was allowed to discharge himself from the hospital. He did so, thinking he was home free. Several boat rides later, he finally arrived to find his little clapboard house ransacked. He should have known it was too good to be true, just like Jessica.

He carefully made his way around the discombobulated front room to the kitchen. Drawers and cupboards were left open, but there was less clutter on the floor. He bitterly frowned and opened his small fridge for a beer.

He sucked down one precious sip when he heard his front door being banged upon. He swore as set the beer down and waded back out.

It was his neighbor's boy, Dillon. The small child held up a brown package to him like it was the Holy Grail.

"My mother said this for you," he recited dutifully and smiled proudly at his accomplishment.

Nathan carefully took the parcel from Dillon's hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to the boy. "Tell your mother thank you." He watched the boy greedily stare at the prize in his hand. Nathan closed the door, leaving Dillon on the threshold.

He walked the package back with him to the kitchen and studied it while he took another drink. The location didn't sound familiar to him. There were several stamps for transfer, indicating the package had traveled a long way to get there. He retrieved a knife from one of the opened drawers and sliced the packing tape open.

Nestled inside was a smaller box gift wrapped in his favorite color, red. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation. Only one person would have sent this to him. He gently pulled the tape from the paper, careful not to damage the thoughtful decoration.

First, he found the note. The fragrance of her filled his nostrils, engaging his brain with a very sensual memory. He closed his eyes, hungrily inhaling the perfume like it was oxygen.

Sighing, he unfolded the paper: _"You are the most courageous man I know. Never has anyone been so good to me. This is just a small token of my appreciation. Soon, I will join you. We will be together again, my Love. I am only half of a woman without you. You brought me back to life. Forever Yours, Jessica."_

Nathan reread the note several times. He relished the sweet words with every pass, his heart soaring, heady in his elation. He almost forgot to look in the gift box. He glanced down and admired the delicate, homemade chocolate candies.

The little round affairs were dark brown in their decadence with green frosting flowers on their tops. He picked one up and smiled at the cocoa and mint flavors entering his nose, already causing him to salivate. He bit into it and moaned at their rich buttery texture.

It was all Jessica; sweet, seductive, and addictive. It was impossible for him not to associate the candies with their last time together: her unbridled passion unfurling from her demure disposition like the tight bud of a rose, slowly tugging at his yearning for her, making each small conquest that much sweeter.

Wanting to take it all in one fervent action, but holding back to prolong the pleasure; she made him wait. She always made him wait. It drove him mad for her. Nathan slumped to the floor. He popped a second piece into his mouth, aching in his need, half hard with desire that the candy only mockingly reminded him of.

His preoccupation distracted him from the fact that his throat was beginning to close up.

"That's a lot of money." Agent Wyatt had his cop face on again along with his clothes. He was looking at the hundreds that were bulging out of the duffel bag and carefully holding the type-written note in his hand.

"I know," Bernice replied with a frown at the obvious observation. "That's why you're the only person I felt comfortable handing it over to."

He looked over at her and stated simply, "You could keep it."

"No," she replied with meaning, "I can't."

They sat at his lovely, carved dining room table that was now slightly smaller because they had broken the leaf accidentally on purpose. Bruised but happy, they had moved onto the couch, ripping the upholstery, tossing throw pillows indiscriminately, and taking out a delicate glass lamp in the process.

Bernice was unable to get any more verbal information about the divorce, but she could clearly tell by his actions that their destruction of the furniture was very cathartic for him. He would have new, happier memories now.

Agent Wyatt continued to scrutinize the minutely short message. He said nothing for several minutes. It drove Bernice crazy to just sit there, but prompting him wouldn't help.

Finally he asked, "And where did you find it again, exactly?"

"Exactly, on my bed in my bedroom in the farmhouse." She mentally speculated if repeating information over and over was actually helping him form some sort of theory, or if it was just a cop thing.

He handed the note back. "Take the advice."

Bernice was confused. "You mean you want me to accept the bribe?"

He took her hand, which was a bad sign in Bernice's book. "I mean I want you to heed the warning and leave Herb's murder alone."

She glared down at his hand, quietly responding, "But this must mean we're close."

"Probably, but this person was in your house and in your room. This note is more than a bribe. It constitutes a threat, a very real one." He squeezed her hand gently. "You have to consider Darlene's safety too."

He watched Bernice's face as the meaning sunk in. "Evan," she said with conviction. "Do me a favor and catch these bastards, would ya?"

Agent Wyatt pulled her hand to his lips and firmly kissed it. "Yes, ma'am," he vowed.

_Chapter_ **15**

After a hearty breakfast Bernice kissed Agent Wyatt good bye and headed home. Back in the car, real life set in again. Her feelings for the future were mixed and confusing.

First, there was the fact that she had to leave the murder alone. It really pissed her off that someone could make her feel so vulnerable in her own home. The farm was always a source of refuge for her. Now she felt exposed. Figuring out who left the box would be empowering, wouldn't it? But she made a promise, and even though she hated to admit it, Agent Wyatt had a point. It wasn't just about her anymore. Other people could get hurt.

Second was her very weird love life, if you could call it that. It felt more to her like a change in location for booty calls. She knew she should feel ashamed of herself for her promiscuous behavior, but reliving the last twelve hours, it was simply impossible to bring forth any emotion but satisfaction.

Admittedly, it was different with Roger. He had always taken care of her loneliness, her restlessness, her need for distraction and without a lot of questions. He offered her human connection on the most basic level. To put it crudely, he filled a hole. But eventually, it stopped being enough.

It wasn't like they didn't talk. She knew about Pam. She knew Roger had commitment issues because of her. She knew he gave up his lucrative career as a military contractor to set up a bar on his old man's property and raise Brooke alone. She knew he was far worldlier than his hick customers would ever imagine.

But, unlike Evan, Roger had never asked her about her old life. Maybe that was her fault. Maybe she made it clear that she wasn't looking for anything more than a warm bed and some stimulating conversation. He knew the basics of her present life with Darlene and that was about it. Roger didn't attempt to go past the safe stuff.

After their last time together she was wondering if something was starting to change with him. They were never exclusive. Over the past three years they had both seen other people. So why the sudden possessiveness now? Why give a shit now?

She knew why and it had nothing to do with her. It was because of Brooke. Roger's nest was becoming empty and he had been looking to Bernice to fill it. However, his hot little bleach-blonde was proof that she was replaceable. She understood she was losing her friendship with benefits. She wondered if that meant she was losing her friend too.

Yet Agent Wyatt for all intents and purposes was neither friend nor boyfriend. Nothing was settled between them even after all that they had shared. To call it anything more than an act of needful passion would be an exaggeration. Logistics still kept them apart. Their pasts still kept them from taking a risk with each other.

The futility of things formed a cloud of melancholy over her head as Bernice pulled into the gas station to top off the tank and pee. She also bought a bag of munchies and a cup of coffee. As she was paying her bill, she noticed a state trooper pull up to the pump in front of Cameron's car. Then she saw another pull up directly behind it, blocking her in.

Bernice knitted her eyebrows together in annoyed confusion, walking back out. She was about to voice her concerns, when suddenly the cherries came on. Four troopers swarmed her, demanding, "On the ground, now! Hands over your head!" Their guns were drawn and their faces were serious.

Bernice stopped, carefully knelt on the dirty pavement and set down her goodies and purse on the ground. Raising her hands silently and obediently, only one thought went through her mind as she was roughly cuffed and shoved into the back of one of the squads.

Jessica, you evil Bitch, I'm going to get you for this.

The holding cell in county lockup was typical in its universal stenches of urine and bitter disappointment. Being it was a weekday, Bernice felt lucky that she only had to share it with a couple of strung out teenagers and an old bar fly. Under normal circumstances they would look at her like the outcast that she was in their twisted social circle. But the orange jumpsuits were a great equalizer. She didn't have a problem with that. She was less thrilled by the strip search.

She battled with the extreme urge to call Agent Wyatt to get her out. She had no doubt that he would come to her rescue and probably relish in doing so, but her inborn stubbornness reminded her she was a big girl. She felt like they were equals and didn't want that dynamic to change.

So when the infamous solitary phone call was presented to her, she called home.

She knew better than to expect sympathy from Darlene. "You are aware that your trip south was suppose to keep your ass out of jail?"

"Just put Cameron on the phone," was Bernice's very controlled answer.

"Tell me what I can do," he offered calmly; good ol', unflappable Cameron.

"Somehow, someone impersonating you got a hold of your plate and VIN number and called in your car as being stolen. Furthermore, your impersonator claimed that I also broke into your townhouse and stole an undisclosed amount of cash."

"Wow, that's impressive," he remarked, causing Bernice to silently scowl at him over the phone. "So you need me to come down there?" he guessed.

"'Fraid so," she remarked.

"Okay then," he said, then added with a low chuckle, "sit tight."

"Yah," she mumbled and hung up the phone.

The guard smiled at Bernice and said rather jovially, "We're having fish sticks for lunch."

Bernice nodded as she trudged back to her cell and thought it could be worse. Fish sticks actually didn't sound that bad.

She paced the length of the cell for the first hour. She sat on the end of the bench the second hour. Fish sticks did indeed make an appearance and she enjoyed them like she was at a restaurant with a slightly distasteful atmosphere. She chose, however, to decline the bottle of water. If she had anything to say about it, she was not peeing in that cell.

Pacing again to work off her lunch, Bernice concentrated on who put her there. Apparently, Jessica's accomplice had been waiting for her at the farm and followed her long enough to know where she was going.

Jessica must have a cop in her corral of conspirators. It was one thing to read off a plate description. It was another to know the VIN number. That told her it was a good decision to take the cash to Agent Wyatt and not leave it with the locals, even if doing so landed her in jail.

Jessica must have known this was just an inconvenience, but for what? Was she causing another distraction to tie up loose ends? Who was dying while Bernice was sitting in this stupid cell?

Her thoughts automatically went to Margie and the guys at the garage: a widow, a kid, an old man, and an ex-con with a pregnant wife at home. Who would be next to suffer for flushing Jessica out? Correction, who would suffer next for Bernice figuring out that Jessica was involved?

By the end of the second hour, Bernice began to question her entire motivation for sticking her nose into Herb's murder in the first place. Idle curiosity was only going to take her so far. Was she subconsciously trying to vindicate herself of Mila's murder by solving Herb's? Was it really worth it? Agent Wyatt got a head wound, Roger effectively dumped her, and now she was in jail. All because Bernice couldn't just let things be.

"Enough now," the note had advised. Herb was dead. Nothing would bring him back. Life seemed to be going on just fine without him and by all accounts he was a selfish, womanizing ass. _Maybe he deserved what he-_

Bernice halted her brain right there. That was wrong. She knew it in her heart because that was the exact justification that Brock had used to write off Mila. By all accounts she was a criminal and a whore, but Bernice knew her as a person. Who knows how she would have turned out, given the chance to live? The same argument could be used for Herb. His life had merit. And Margie believed he tried. After all, the guy paid off her mortgage before leaving her.

That thought failed to ring in the right tone in her head. It had an annoying dissidence that stayed with her. She seemed to recall the same feeling when Margie told her so the first time. It just didn't seem to fit.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the guard who released her.

Fully clothed with her possessions returned intact (including her munchies and cold coffee), Bernice marched out into the parking lot a free woman...

...And stopped dead in her tracks to see Roger standing in front of his truck waiting for her.

Cameron and Darlene were with him. They walked up to Bernice.

"We'll just get the car out of impound and meet you two in Eau Claire," Cameron revealed flatly. Darlene was on the verge of opening her mouth when she felt Cameron's hand on her arm. She clamped her mouth shut at that point and followed him in the direction of the fenced-in lot.

Bernice faced Roger.

His smirk did little to hide the cold glint in his ice blue eyes. "'Bout time someone locked you up," he chided.

Bernice was still miffed about the bleach-blonde. "What the fuck are you doin' here?"

His smirk twisted into a look of sick amusement. "Well, whoever you happened to have pissed off decided to slash the tires on your truck while they were at it. And Jarvis ain't too keen on Cameron, so here I am. Lucky you." He popped the passenger door open and walked around to his side.

Bernice remained where she stopped, trying to figure out whether or not jail was actually preferable to being sequestered in the truck cab with a jilted lover.

Roger climbed in and started the engine. He noticed she hadn't moved and honked his annoyance.

Bernice frowned at him and trudged forward. "Yep, lucky me."

Being a dyed-in-the-wool Lutheran with a tendency toward lowered expectations, Bernice bore through the stony silence of the truck cab. She concentrated on the mantra, _It can always be worse_ , and then it was.

"You fucked him, didn't you?" They were on a particularly boring stretch of the freeway. The curiosity of looking at the other cars around them had long ago lost its novelty.

Bernice suspected this burning question had floated to the top of the stew of resentment he had been cooking since their last night together. But that bleach-blonde still hung front and foremost in her mind. She had a stew of her own cooking.

"Why the hell do you care?" she loftily replied, concentrating at the lack of scenery out her window.

"Because I do," Roger grumbled softly. "But apparently you don't care about me."

"Well, I'm finding it kind of hard to be convinced you care after I watched you walk out the door with another woman."

He scoffed in disgust. "She meant nothing. She was barely a passable lay."

That got her attention. "And that's supposed to make it okay? If you must know, I didn't sleep with Agent Wyatt until after I saw you with her. So, if you wanna be pissed at someone, maybe you should look in the fucking mirror."

"How was I supposed to know that? You ran off with him to the fucking Bahamas! What was I supposed to think you were doing down there, collecting seashells?"

"If you had taken the time to stop acting like a lovesick teenager, you might have realized I was down there to find Herb's murderer. Agent Wyatt almost got his head bashed in because of it. So much for your theory of some romantic getaway."

"You know, most women like a man who acts like a love sick teenager at their expense," Roger countered, annoyed.

"Most woman would not put up with sharing her man with every long-legged piece of tail that crossed his path either. So take your pick, Roger. Which one do you want?"

"I want you!" he shouted. The silence that followed filled the stagnant air of the cab with palpable tension.

Bernice recalled all of the romantic comedies she had ever watched. They all had the classic scene. The stubborn but handsome hero would finally admit his love for the heroine, and she would become all glassy-eyed at the heartfelt admission and fall gratefully into his arms (Roll credits with rock ballad playing in the background).

But this was not the romantic climax it should have been. Bernice didn't feel the exhilaration of finally being chosen as _the one_. She felt pressured. The truck ride was turning into an ultimatum on their relationship. Bernice knew deep down that she was not ready to give Roger the answer he thought he wanted.

"I had the life of captivity once. It came back to bite me in the ass." Bernice looked sadly at Roger's beautiful profile and sighed. "You're looking for someone to be with you on your terms. As your friend, I think you deserve that, but that's not who I am."

He turned his head to face her and asked, "So that's that, ha?"

She nodded. "I like my life the way it is." It was an admission more for herself than him.

Roger nodded gravely and turned his attention to the road. "Well, Brooke's gonna be disappointed."

And there it was.

They met Cameron's car in a truck stop outside of Eau Claire. Roger handed Bernice over claiming he had some business to take care of with a vendor in Chippewa Falls.

He did manage to give her a hug. "Don't be a stranger. I hate losing paying customers." He winked and climbed back into his truck.

She watched him drive off with a bemused smirk on her face. Roger didn't need her sympathy. He was a handsome, charming, sexy business owner. He'd be a catch for any woman. She did feel sympathy, however, for the future girlfriend. That woman was going to have her hands full.

Bernice turned to her companions. "Let's go home."

Cruising down State Street was just a typical commute for Agent Wyatt. Passing Wisconsin's renowned capital building barely registered on his radar anymore. Unless something was going on there that might affect his job, it was just a pretty building that complicated his route to work.

In contrast the DOJ resembled every other lack luster office building built in the last twenty years. Its brown stone facade and bowed entrances at each street corner were its only aesthetic features. The lobby was clean but plain. He flashed his badge and smiled blandly as he walked through the metal detector.

"Stan," he acknowledged the uniformed attendant. Stan nodded in response, glancing overly long at the unusual accessory of the baseball cap. Agent Wyatt ignored the scrutiny.

On his way to his office he noticed Agent Carlson loitering in an open door jamb and sharing a joke with their pretty Criminal Analyst. It was protocol for the Milwaukee field office to send over another SAC when Agent Wyatt was out.

SAC James Carlson matched Agent Wyatt in both education and street smarts, but what the man might have lacked in raw sex appeal, he easily made up for with his friendly and charming personality. Agent Carlson, upon spying the other man, immediately straightened up and slapped the door jamb to end his conversation.

He took up stride with Agent Wyatt in the hallway, smiling peculiarly. "Look what the cat dragged in," he teased. "I thought you were on medical leave for the week."

Agent Wyatt looked at his open office door and swallowed his knee-jerk possessive response. "I'm actually doing better and I don't like to leave a case half done."

Upon entering the office, he took quick note that Agent Carlson had made himself quite at home. Normally, he would have taken offense to the accumulation of fast food bags and disposable coffee cups all over his desk, but he had other things on his mind and wanted nothing to delay them.

Agent Carlson quickly danced around him to clean up his mess, smirking apologetically. Agent Wyatt ignored him for the moment and instead looked at the various pieces of evidence and leads tacked up on his bulletin board.

"Any luck?" Agent Wyatt gestured to the board with a tilt of his head.

Agent Carlson glanced up from his cleaning. "Well, no. I hung everything up that you sent over from your place, but that's about it." In his distraction, he toppled over a cup and spilled its contents all over the desk blotter. "Shit," he cursed and tried in vain to blot it up with a wad of used napkins. The stream of light brown liquid quickly found the path of least resistance off of the blotter and on to the desk.

Agent Wyatt watched the extravagant gift from his ex-in-laws quickly become blemished and slowly smiled. "Don't worry about the desk; about time it got broken in properly."

Agent Wyatt returned his attention back to the bulletin board, but he was blind to its display at the moment, caught up in a tempting fantasy. In his head he was picturing Bernice sneaking into his office under the guise of a cleaning woman and surprising him with a late night interlude. He silently wondered how much abuse that desk would actually take before collapsing.

"She sure is a hot piece of ass, isn't she?" he heard behind him.

Agent Wyatt turned and glared. "What in hell did you just say?"

Agent Carlson lifted his eyebrows in alarm and pointed to one of the photos on the bulletin board. "Sorry, I assumed you were concentrating on our suspect." He gave him a quizzical assessment. "You sure you're all right, Evan?"

Agent Wyatt caught himself and shook his head, grinning at the floor. "Yeah, Jimmy, I'm okay. I just need to get my head back in the game." He actually looked at the photo in front of him.

Jessica Breck was a beautiful woman. That was pretty much a given. Her long red hair with just the slightest hint of wave slipped coyly to one side of her face and formed an alluring shadow over her big brown eyes. Her classic nose pointed up ever so slightly as it presided over a deep cleft and lips which were full and inviting in their curved up smile.

The picture he was looking at was on her passport. Next to it was a printout from the memory card on Nathan Joseph's camera. It was a close up of the two on the beach, their heads together as he took the shot at arm's length. Their faces had a slight walleye bulge from its perspective, but they looked blissfully happy.

Next to that was a series of printouts of Jessica on the beach. She had a sarong wrapped around her waist with a string bikini top. Her hair and outfit were being blown erratically by the sea breezes, but she seemed not to notice them or Nathan. She seemed fixated on the water and was smiling like she didn't have a care in the world.

If a person hadn't known any better, those pictures could have come from someone's honeymoon, even his. The thought made him turn away. He addressed Agent Carlson again. "Tox come back from up north?"

Agent Carlson had his hands completely full of garbage. He pointed with his head at the priority mail envelope on the only extra chair. "That ME called and pretty much told me what was in it, so I didn't bother opening it. None of the usual suspects showed up during screening, but the victim had an elevated level of serotonin in his brain right before his death." Agent Carlson could feel a piece of his armload of crap giving way and comically twisted his body to try to catch it.

Agent Wyatt pointed out the door. "I don't mind you eating in my office, Jimmy, but I prefer you take food trash down the hall. I don't need it stinking up the place."

Agent Carlson nodded feebly and awkwardly waddled with his stuff out of the room.

Agent Wyatt picked up the envelope and pulled the tab open. He retrieved the paper packet from inside. Noticing his desk was still damp, he resigned himself to his side chair, hunching over in his usual manner.

He carefully scanned each page in sequence, prodding methodically from one paragraph and page to the next. He got through the entire packet by the time Agent Carlson strolled back in.

"Stan had to get someone to unlock the janitor's closet. Sheesh! You'd figure in the Justice Department, we might actually be trusted not to steal the toilet paper." He applied furniture polish and a clean terrycloth towel to the offending spill.

Agent Wyatt glanced up from his paperwork and noticed it produced mediocre results. He smiled and flipped his packet back to the beginning to read again.

"What, you don't trust me about the trace from Wausau?" Agent Carlson teased and then cursed when he realized that he had gotten furniture polish on the upholstered office chair. "Dammit!"

"I'm guessing your office in Milwaukee is entirely encased in plastic," Agent Wyatt remarked dryly and turned a page.

Agent Carlson tried in vain to rub the polish into the nubby fabric, only making it sticky and worse. "Something like that," he grumbled. His arms drooped in abject defeat, and he resigned to collapsing into the chair, mess and all. He chose to change the subject. "So the victim was drugged, right?"

"Looks that way," was Agent Wyatt's vague response. He turned to the last page again. He stopped, turned over the packet to the beginning, and scowled. "Jimmy," he inquired, "what are the most common drugs used to render someone defenseless?"

"Well, the most common is alcohol." Agent Carlson tossed the rag and polish into the pristine trash bin. "Then I suppose it would be a prescription drug like Oxycontin." He observed with a slight detachment that his hands were all sticky. He proceeded to wipe them on his blue trousers before concluding, "And then there's the tried and true Roofie."

Agent Wyatt flipped through the papers again, quickly this time, and looked up, perplexed. "All of those drugs have a profound effect on dopamine, right?"

"Well, some make more, some cause less, but yeah, dopamine is affected. So is serotonin, which the victim died with a lot of in his brain." Agent Carlson looked down at the sticky, white substance all over his pants and began to laugh. "Apparently, Evan, your dirty talk has had an effect on me."

Agent Wyatt looked up and smirked. "I think the Criminal Analyst next door would be more interested." He stood up, turned his paperwork to a specific page, and slapped it down on the desk for Agent Carlson. "There is no mention of dopamine at all in this report," he pointed out and started to pace. He looked at the bulletin board again, focusing on the autopsy photos of Herb's head.

Agent Carlson picked up the packet and gazed at it with mild confusion. "Well that's funny. I suppose it's possible that the dopamine got degraded and reabsorbed into the tissue during decomp." He let it fall out of his hand back on to the desk.

Agent Wyatt quickly scooped it up again and looked at it while studying the bulletin board. "If that's the case, why not the serotonin too?" He concentrated on the photo of the ligature marks. "It's safe to assume that the victim was somehow incapacitated and then strangled. Strangling someone is a very personal act. You would literally feel them dying in your hands." He turned to Agent Carlson with a very somber expression. "Opiates and sedatives cause amnesia and kill pain. I think whoever did this wanted to make sure the victim knew what was happening."

The phone ringing did little to lighten the mood. Agent Carlson looked to Agent Wyatt for permission to pick it up. He nodded pertly and returned his attention to the bulletin board.

"Carlson," he answered. There was a pause, then, "Oh Jesus," followed by an, "Okay, fair enough then. Keep us informed." Agent Carlson hung up the phone. He took Agent Wyatt's scrutiny with dark acceptance. "That was Nassau. Nathan Joseph was just found dead in his home."

_Chapter_ **16**

The midmorning sun of the following day began to bake upon their heads. Having started their chores hours earlier, their mutual fatigue was increasing with the temperature. Both of them had procrastinated on this particular task, distracted by murder and romance, so they obstinately worked together to get it done and over with.

"I can't believe you're just going to let him go." Darlene cast the plastic, green netting over the top of the berry bush.

Bernice caught it on the other side but used the thick layer of branches and leaves between them to avoid any direct eye contact. "Believe it," she confirmed and began tying the netting down. The chore was proving to be prickly on a couple of levels.

"Sometimes I just don't understand you, Bernice." Darlene's dexterity was a thing of beauty. She quickly outpaced her partner and loitered by her handiwork as she expressed her opinion and waited for Bernice. "When it comes to everyone else's problems, you're like a retriever with a tennis ball, but not with your own."

Bernice scowled as she finished tying and moved with Darlene on to the next bush. With fifteen down and eighty-five to go, it was going to be a long freakin' day. Bernice sighed in resignation. "Look, it's not like we probably won't cross paths now and again, so I really don't see this as a problem."

Darlene scoffed. "So that's how it's going to be? Just like Roger?" If someone could manage to throw a net in a display of disappointment, it was Darlene. "You can't tell me you find that kind of arrangement satisfying."

"If you must know, I find it very satisfying so far."

The flagrant admission of lust was enough to silence Darlene's pestering. Bernice enjoyed the few precious moments as they quietly worked together and listened to the birds and insects instead. But this was Darlene. She knew it wouldn't last long.

"Do you love him?" Darlene launched the statement like a stealth missile through the berry bush as she innocently tied the netting. It found its target on the other side, mentally striking Bernice with force through her chest cavity.

It took some time to recover. "I like him...you know...most of the time." She mulled her words over carefully. They moved on to the next bush, forcing Bernice to bear out Darlene's scrutiny. "I love you and I love this farm." She felt herself getting defensive as she moved to catch the next net. "It's just different. That's all."

"Of course, it's different," Darlene grouched, disgruntled at having to point out the obvious. "We're family, and this farm is your home. What's Agent Wyatt to you?"

Bernice had no good answer for her. When she was with Roger, there was a comfort in the lack of complication. Being with Agent Wyatt was liberating. It was exciting. It was also infuriating. It was rarely comfortable. In a word, "it's complicated," she admitted.

Darlene was about to retort but was interrupted by Bernice's cell phone.

It was Cameron. "Bernardo's here with your new tires. You want me to take care of it?"

"No, we'll come back for a bit. I want to talk to him anyway. Just tell him to sit tight." Bernice replaced her phone in her pocket and turned to Darlene. "How 'bout we take a break, Oprah?"

"Hmph," Darlene scoffed. "If I had her cash, I'd have better farm hands 'n you working out here. You're slower than pine pitch." She held the fence gate open for her.

Bernice absorbed the cut with humor and surveyed their property as they walked back. She wasn't the fastest farmer, but she had a love for the place that no amount of money could compensate for. It still got her goat that someone violated her home. She was secretly determined to find out who was working with Jessica, hopefully without anyone else getting hurt.

Darlene interrupted her thoughts. "You know why Cameron's here?" She looked straight ahead of her as she brought forth the question.

Bernice had a naughty answer at the tip of her tongue but chose to play it clean for a change. "He's on a mission to make us morbidly obese with his cooking?"

They rounded the swamp that took up most of the west pasture and crested the hill. The barns came into view against the periwinkle blue sky. Darlene looked at her feet before answering.

"He's here because... every time we go to say goodbye, we realize we don't want to be apart." Darlene's face flushed at the uncomfortable response. She had a small smile when she raised her head, but her eyebrows were dipped in concern. "That's what I want for you, Bernice." The admission was painful to share. "You deserve it," she mumbled quickly and quickened her pace to continue her walk back to the house alone.

By the time Bernice rounded the barn, Darlene was nowhere in sight. Instead, Cameron and Bernardo were drinking Dr. Peppers and leaning on the shaded side of the disabled truck.

"I keep dumping money into this heap, and you're gonna be able to put that baby of yours through college." Bernice walked up to the two. The frosty pop looked very inviting. Her mouth felt sandy and dry. _Later_ , she told herself. She had more important things to do.

Bernardo grinned proudly. "It's a girl. We just found out yesterday."

Bernice oohed, and Cameron laughed and slapped Bernardo's back. He seemed joyously happy. She hated having to poop on his parade.

"Hey Cameron? You mind grabbing my purse from the house, quick?" She gave him a look he knew was meant to make him scarce for a bit.

"No problem. I need to rinse that bass again anyway. Fish fry tonight." He made the mouthwatering announcement and walked away.

Bernice looked at the tires, trying to find a way to pick Bernardo's brain without seeming too pushy. "These look good."

"They're decent," he confirmed. "Not the best, but it's a farm truck."

She looked up at him and decided to go for it. "When that Jessica chick was getting the business from Ol' Herb, she ever work off a set of new tires?"

He watched her carefully. "Whose askin', you or that cop boyfriend of yours?"

She scowled at the assumption. "He's not my boyfriend, and I'm asking because I think she still has a stud out here doing her dirty work, like slashing my tires."

"What's that got to do with tires she bought five years ago?" He was confused.

Bernice danced around her next response with caution. "Well," she started, "I think when Jessica left town, she might have left behind her car for someone to use."

Bernardo grinned. "If she did, you'd have noticed. It was a gorgeous little Beamer, same color red as her hair." He looked at Bernice's dilapidated farm truck before continuing. "It would look very out of place in this neck of the woods."

Bernice knew she was going to piss him off with her next question, but it didn't matter. For the sake of everyone's safety and sanity she needed to know.

"So a wife and a baby, ha?" She started sweet. "That's quite the change in status from your wild youth."

"You got that right," Bernardo agreed. He was watching the house then, hoping that Cameron would make an appearance soon so he would get paid and end the awkward conversation.

Bernice had other ideas. "So when did you get married? A couple of years ago?"

"Sounds about right," he agreed. "Met her at church. She was sitting opposite my mother. I kept trying to sneak peeks at her during the sermon. She said I made her laugh." He focused on the new tires, smirking at his recollection.

"So you were single when Jessica started frequenting the shop?" She let the question hang and watch the abrupt shift in Bernardo's face. It hurt her to see this new hostility. She hoped she would eventually find a way to mend it.

He swore under his breath and looked at her. "You know, Bernice. I understand you're pissed off about this thing with the tires, and you've got a bone to pick with that Jessica bitch, but that ain't got nothin' to do with me. I won't lie. That _puta_ put it out there, and I thought about it. But women like that don't go for guys like me with anything on their minds but slumming it."

He spit in the dirt. "She'd be more Roger's style, you ask me." He assessed Bernice and added with disgruntlement, "The bill for the tires is four-fifty and I ain't got all day."

Bernice looked up at the house and nodded to Cameron, waiting patiently behind the screen door. Her heart was heavy with shame.

Bernardo wasted no time in taking off after that. It couldn't be helped. She had to know.

"You get what you were after?" Cameron knowingly inquired.

"Some," Bernice replied. "But I'm not quite there yet."

"So she poisoned him, ha?" Agent Carlson looked over the honeymoon-like pictures with morbid amazement as he absentmindedly chewed on his rubbery chicken sandwich. "That's one cold hearted bitch, right there." He turned back and observed Agent Wyatt. "So how long, you think, before the Feds muscle in?"

Agent Wyatt was meditating on the board from his desk chair with his usual blank features in place. "Hard to say," he mumbled back. "Technically they could assume jurisdiction at any time." He sat up and pulled off his hat to scratch at the stitches at his temple. "But this guy was just a catamaran sailor, not some big wig. So they might just let us duke it out with the Bahamian government and leave us be."

Agent Carlson gawked at the head wound. He asked through his chewing, "How long before those come out?"

"About a week," Agent Wyatt grumbled in response. He self-consciously put his cap back on and reviewed the fax on his desk. "So the candy tested positive for cyanide?"

"Right, but it wasn't coated over the top like on tampered pills," Agent Carlson cut in. "It was right in the center."

Agent Wyatt sat up and began to pace the length of his desk. He ignored the slurping sound coming from the other agent's beverage cup and straw. "Most cyanide poisonings are usually powder or liquid."

"Yep, like at Jamestown."

"But this was worked into the candy like a paste." He stopped and stared at Agent Carlson. "Those candies were homemade. What kind of homemade sources can a person get cyanide from?"

"I heard some fruit pits carry a little but you'd have to ingest a lot. He only ate a couple of chocolates." Agent Carlson had moved on to the fries and rubbed the extra grease and salt uselessly on his flimsy napkins. "Where'd the shipping labels track from?"

"St. Paul." Agent Wyatt gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He stood still, trying to come to a decision. He picked up the fax again and rescanned everything quickly. "I think you should put a call back into Wausau," He concluded. "Have them rerun the Tox screen, but check for indigenous, organic substances this time." He grabbed his coat.

"You headin' out to lunch?" Agent Carlson asked, unwrapping his brown cylindrical pie.

"Well, since you're already here, and I'm technically on leave, I'm going to head back up north and check on a hunch." Agent Wyatt observed the cherry filling erupt from the molten hot pie and drip down Agent Carlson's chin.

Agent Carlson blew and chewed at the same time, obviously scalding his palette in the process.

"You'll call me if anything interesting pops up?" Agent Wyatt asked.

Agent Carlson nodded and sucked some pop into his mouth to put out the fire.

"I'll probably be back in a day or so." Agent Wyatt paused at the door. "Hey, Jimmy?" When he got the others attention, he added, "If you ever meet a woman who can tolerate sharing a meal with you, marry her."

As her pickup bumped down the road, Bernice was reminded that the new tires would need to be balanced at some point. Normally a person would get that for free from where the tires came from. Unfortunately, she burned that bridge for the time being. She would simply have to fork over a few more bucks and have a different shop do the work.

Having to pay attention to gripping the steering wheel a little tighter didn't dissuade her from her destination though. She was on her way to a new lead and closer to figuring out who Jessica's accomplice was.

Getting information out of Bernardo was only half of the puzzle. The other half required Bernice to call in a favor from her new pseudo friend. She did that from the cordless in the laundry room while Darlene was on the porch snapping beans with Cameron.

"Well, hello there, Bunny," came the effervescent greeting from the other end of the line.

"Byron, I'm so thrilled you took my call. So many of my friends at the lake are just showering me with compliments about how young I looked after the fabulous facial you gave me the other day," Bernice gushed with all the exuberance she could muster.

"Well, I'm just delighted to hear it, of course." She could sense insincerity in his voice and knew he wasn't buying it.

"Okay, Byron." Bernice changed tactics, returning to her normal voice. "I'm going to cut the crap now. You know I'm not a heart surgeon's wife, don't you?"

She heard Byron clearing his throat on the other end. His voice dropped slightly. "Honey, with nails like yours, I'd say it was more likely that you were a shit farmer's wife."

"If you knew, why didn't you call me on it?"

That earned her a throaty chuckle. "Being surrounded by prissy bitches all day long, it was a pleasure to have someone pull one over on them. You were just doing such a splendid acting job, I couldn't bring myself to destroy your little performance."

"Oh," was Bernice's deflated response.

"So who are you really and what do you want from me?" Byron asked point blank, but Bernice sensed continued amusement so she decided to run with it.

"I'm a private detective," she lied, "and I am investigating Jessica for a rich client who is trying to nail her husband for being an adulterer." Bernice held her breath.

"Really?" was the excited and intrigued response back.

Bernice grinned and fist pumped to herself in victory. "Yes," she admitted. "She's stuck with a pittance from the pre-nup unless she can prove infidelity. So I'm hoping, Byron, that you'll still help me even though I lied." She let the regret and guilt shine through her voice like a glaring spotlight.

"Oh, Honey," Byron gushed, "you were so sweet to me about Günter, how could I say no? Besides," his voice dropped to the decibel befitting of sharing a great secret, "it's just too exciting for words."

"I knew we'd get along," Bernice purred back, and so she used her new ally the way he wanted to be used.

With that she was on her way to a little house on the outskirts of town to check out Jessica's last known address.

Bernice was hyper-vigilant about not being followed; taking every turn and back road she could think of to expose whomever might be on her tail. So far, she detected nothing.

After rounding the bend and turning off on yet another county road, she located the fire number to the little house. Next to it was a big real-estate sign. Bernice hoped against hope that it meant no one was at home. She slowly inched into the driveway and rolled her window down to listen for a dog, a lawnmower, any indication of life. All she heard was the gravel under her new truck tires and the wind.

The little house had seen better days. Bernice's best guess was after Jessica had moved out, the house was bought up during the housing boom. It looked like some poor sap with good intentions but poor carpentry skills tried to "improve" it.

The obviously new vinyl siding was a desperate attempt to sugarcoat an addition on the front of the house that really didn't look structurally sound. Its plain little windows didn't match the original farmhouse windows. It had been a good season since the yard had witnessed a lawn mower. As far as a dog, there was evidence that someone of the canine persuasion was using a few spots near the steps as a toilet, but they probably didn't live there.

"Well shit," Bernice remarked dejectedly. Honestly, what did she expect, some long lost relative to fill in the details on the mysterious red-headed murderess? _Really?_

She walked around a little, examining the house and trying to imagine Jessica there. She was having kind of a hard time picturing it. She recalled her surprise when Byron texted her the address. She figured this path of her investigation would lead to some unassuming townhouse similar to the condo in Abaco. This place was out in the middle of nowhere.

The explanation came to her soon enough. When a person worked in a profession where she was exposed to the public all day, what was the one thing she prized above all else? Privacy. Bernice profoundly understood what that need was like. The address made more sense at that point. Too bad five years had caused all traces of Jessica's time there to be wiped out by someone else's idea of progress.

Morally let down, she climbed back into the truck and turned to home. She knew it was a long shot, but on her own there were only so many avenues at her disposal.

Along with the usual country scenery on Bernice's route back, she took note of the abundance of storage buildings. They seemed to have sprouted like weeds in the last decade. Typically, one consisted of a sprawling pole barn structure plunked down on any old chunk of flat dirt. Its purpose was to be the messiah to conspicuous American consumers in the constant search for more places to store their crap.

Bernice pondered the philosophy and suddenly gained new-found clarity. She checked for traffic and did a quick y-turn in someone's driveway to turn back around. She made a bee line for the little house and drove back out again. This time as she made her way along, she scanned the surrounding scenery with more purpose.

Sure enough, not two miles from Jessica's former abode stood CL's Storage. As Bernice went up the drive way, she wondered if there was a manager around. She spontaneously conjured up a number of personae to justify her reason for being there. She could be the girlfriend whose boyfriend stole her crap, or the out-of-town heir showing up to claim her crap, or the repo agent coming to take someone else's crap.

But as she circled the stretched out metal structure, she came to the realization that her quick thinking was for naught. There was no discernible proprietor in sight. She drove around a couple of more times looking for surveillance equipment that didn't exist and came to a decision.

"Well, as long as I'm trespassing, I might as well make the best of it." Bernice parked the truck out of sight of the road and got out to take a look on foot.

The sand and pulverized limestone puffed up dust around her ankles as she went along. It was going on a week since the last storm. The farmer in her was hoping more rain would be coming soon. With July approaching she didn't want a drought to put all of her hard work at risk.

The structure had units on both sides of the long building. Her side contained smaller units barely wider than a standard entrance door. Probably big enough to store a motorcycle, a few small containers, and that was it.

As she rounded the skinny part of the building and looked down the units on the other side, she took note that these were wider, much wider, a good ten maybe twelve feet wide by the look of them. The snoop in her soul was getting just a little excited about it. She started walking the length of the building, looking at the ground.

And there they were. It was a complete shot in the dark, but Bernice found herself staring with fixed attention at the tire tracks that drove right into one of the locked storage units.

The criteria clicked off in her head in rapid succession: new treads, small size, short distance apart. A whole new theory about Herb's murder was quickly developing as she stared at the dusty impressions. _Maybe Jessica just had her stuff stored until she decided to come back,_ her brain teased.

"If this is actually her stuff," Bernice reminded herself in a hushed voice. She looked up at the deadbolt on the door and mentally swore. It was a nice deadbolt. She would use that kind of lock if she wanted to keep the average person out of something. In the commercials, they shot bullets through that kind of lock. "Well that sucks," she surmised and went to walk away...Until she looked at the unit next to it.

That one didn't have a deadbolt. It had a round, combination lock. Apparently, one customer didn't like to mess with keys. _Too bad for him_ , Bernice thought and went to work.

A weird prickling sensation developed on the back of her neck. She knew it was an acknowledgment to Mila. Mila was the one who got bored one day and taught Bernice how to break into combination locks. Mila told her it was an amusing way to pass the time when she would actually put in an appearance at school.

The lock giving way with a metallic click sounded very loud for the lack of any other noise around her. Bernice let out a breath as she held it in place like an egg in her hand. She knew she needed to check her gut and decide if she actually wanted to proceed.

She wondered how much worse of a sin breaking and entering was in comparison to trespassing. Then she remembered her whole purpose for being there and pulled the lock out of its slot. Murder trumped anything she was feeling the least bit guilty about, so there.

Bernice put the lock in her pocket and grabbed the handle. She grunted and pulled until the door began to roll itself up into a cylinder and grant her entrance into its hot stuffy compartment. She stifled a chuckle as she surveyed its contents. "Looks like some poor bastard got married."

The unit was packed full of what were obviously the former contents of a bachelor pad. Just on a cursory scan, Bernice identified a huge neon beer sign, several deer head mounts, a custom green and gold coffee table/keg holder, and two matching black leather recliners with various patches of electric tape. Bernice secretly wondered if the new bride even knew about the storage unit, or if the new groom was holding on to his stuff just in case.

At the moment she was grateful for his adolescent possessiveness. In the back of the unit was a mammoth entertainment center that looked like it could easily hold her weight. Up at the top of the unit was a crack where the individual walls met the unifying roof line. It looked to be just big enough for her to peek into the other storage unit.

"All I need is a quick look," Bernice told the hills of furniture that she stepped into and over. She carefully tested the shelves and traversed the solid MDF mountain to the top. Gingerly rising to a standing position, Bernice grabbed on to the corrugated metal wall and shoved her forehead into the three inch gap at the top.

All she saw was a void of black space. _Duh,_ Bernice reminded herself and dug in her pocket for her cell phone. Carefully, she held it up to the hole and sucked in a breath of anticipation.

She blinked, not sure if she was just seeing things. It felt like some sort of mirage. She had a hard time believing her eyes. But no matter how much she readjusted her sight, it was still there; the sleek, shapely sports car that would definitely stand out in her neck of the woods.

Bernice pivoted her phone around the small opening, taking in the other items in the unit. There were a few boxes, not enough for an entire lifetime though, and something else on the far wall, something big. It had a flowered bed sheet over the top of it. Bernice's mind began to fixate on it. _Is it a trunk? A table?_

Bernice heard the loud building thunder just in time to jerk her head and watch as she was suddenly submerged into complete darkness. The sound of the door making contact with the concrete pad was deafening in the metal chamber. "Hey!" she shouted, just in time to hear something small and metal slide into the latch.

_Chapter_ **17**

Agent Wyatt caught himself smiling as he pulled into the driveway of Lollygagger's Acres. It struck him as funny. Every other time he had been there, a good mood was nowhere to be found. This would be the first time he actually looked forward to seeing Bernice. Part of him was unsure if she would return his sentiment.

Darlene and Cameron came walking from behind the barn holding hands. They saw Agent Wyatt, and Darlene let go of Cameron and quickened her step to meet him.

"Agent Wyatt, what a pleasant surprise." She did a quick trot for the final few feet with one of the biggest smiles he had seen in a while.

"Ms. Glenwood," he held out his hand to shake hers. "It's nice to see you too."

Cameron brought up the rear. "You've come just in time for dinner. Hope you like fish."

"I do," Agent Wyatt answered, swiveling his head to look around.

"Then we insist you stay," Darlene proclaimed with determination.

Agent Wyatt chuckled, "I'd be happy to unless Bernice has something to say about it." He took note that the truck was gone. "She around?" he inquired.

Darlene's features darkened into a frown. "She claimed she was going to take the truck out to test the new tires, but that was a while ago. You ask me, I think she was trying to get out of chores."

"Uh huh," Agent Wyatt humored her, but he could feel his good mood dissipating. "Well, I've come a long way to talk to her." He pulled out his phone, noticed he still had no signal there and put it away again with a grimace. "You think you could try her on her cell?"

"I did," Cameron interjected, "several times. It keeps going to voice mail." His face conveyed more concern than he was sharing.

Darlene took notice though and ran with it. "You don't think she went back to Tomah, do you? I know she was good and pissed about the whole jail thing."

"What?" Agent Wyatt felt that familiar bad mood creeping up. "What jail thing, and what happened in Tomah?" The cop was back and demanded information.

Cameron shook his head. He smiled and wrapped his arm around Darlene's shoulders. "Hon," he observed, "you are about as subtle as a freight train."

Bernice didn't know why she kept checking her phone. No bars were no bars. She had already tried every nook, corner, and crevice she could shove her body into to get something that resembled a signal. Who knew a pole building would block reception so completely?

She guessed her captor did. As she sat there in the darkness utilizing one of the leather recliners, she mentally rewound her routes of the day. She tried to pinpoint where the tail found her but kept coming up empty. Maybe one of the cars she passed on the way to the house was it. Maybe checking on the storage unit had become a daily ritual since Herb had been discovered, and Bernice picked the wrong time to be snooping.

Either way, she was pretty much stuck. She had already looked for anything that could be used to break herself out. No luck. Apparently, the reluctant husband had been allowed to keep his tools. She tried kicking at the door and yelling for a while. That was useless. She also tried pulling the door up from the inside. Whatever was holding it shut was not giving.

So Bernice waited and tried to guess the next move. She half hoped the accomplice would call the cops on her again. She'd gladly do time instead of the other less appealing alternatives, like dying of thirst or waiting for someone to come back better equipped to kill her and be done with it.

"You dumbshit." She chided herself in defeat as the would've, should've, could've's danced like mocking little Umpa Lumpas in her head. _I should have told someone where I was going. I could have just called the cops when I found the tracks and let them handle it. Agent Wyatt would have helped me if I had bothered to ask him._

_But noooo_ , went the mocking voice, taking on the persona of a little purple man in the dark. For some reason he had Brock's face. She suddenly wondered what a psychiatrist would think of that. _You just had to rush headfirst into the thick of things and not take one moment to think about the consequences. You are a stubborn, nosy liar._ The purple man rhythmically kicked up a foot with each insult in a silent dance. _Admit it, Bernice, you are your own worst enemy._

Her self-destructive rant was interrupted by tires driving close by. Bernice tensed up, terrified. "Shit! They're back!" Her mind went blank for a moment in its fright. Then the adrenaline kicked in.

"I'll be damned if I'm going down easy, motherfucker!" she cursed angrily in the dark. She turned her phone on long enough to locate the antler trophies. She quickly crawled over, found the easiest one to maneuver and worked it out of the pile. Now armed, she worked her way back to the front of the unit to await her foe and her fate.

For a few agonizing seconds all she heard was her own obnoxious heartbeat. It seemed to drown out everything else in her ears. She gripped the trophy in her clammy, white-knuckled claws. An ugly mask of hate was forming on her face as Bernice geared herself for a fight.

Then she heard the sounds; footsteps were coming, and someone was calling her name.

"Bernice!" It was a man. _Crunch, crunch, crunch_. "Bernice!"

She held her breath as the hate mask dissolved into complete shock. "That's Evan's voice! Holy Shit!"

"Bernice!"

She immediately re-purposed her weapon and used it to pound in quick hard succession against the damned door. "I'm here!" She shouted with the banging. "Aaaaahhh!"

"Okay, okay!" She finally heard Agent Wyatt yell back from the other side. "I hear you. You all right in there?"

"Yah, I'm fine. Just get that damn lock off and get me the hell out of here!" She hated the frantic girlishness in her voice but knew it couldn't be helped.

There was a pause on the other side of the door that was very unnerving. "This lock is gonna take some work."

She didn't like the sound of that. It made her testy. "I don't give a damn if you have to blow this piece of shit open with a bazooka. I want out!"

There was another pause. "Is this your storage unit?"

She cursed to herself and let out a defeated breath. "No."

"Oh, so you broke into this storage unit then?"

"I had a good reason!" she shouted back in defense.

"So does every other criminal I've ever encountered."

"Do you see those tire tracks on your left? Do they look familiar?" Bernice fought with every fiber of her being to beat down the sarcasm creeping into her voice.

"Yeah," Agent Wyatt responded, "but there's not a goddamn thing I can do about them without a search warrant. And that would be rendered useless if this little escapade of yours causes that storage unit to become inadmissible evidence." His practiced tone wore on her like an itchy sore.

She growled quietly. "If no one but you and the asshole who locked me in here knows about my indiscretion, then your precious search warrant would be fine. So get...me... out...please."

She heard a resigned sigh on the other side followed by, "On one condition."

"What?" Bernice asked with confidence even though she knew she had no choice.

"I expect to be rewarded for being your accessory to a crime." She caught a hint of flirtation in his statement. At that moment it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Oh, I can make sure you are quite satisfied with your decision." She did her best to flirt in her panic-ridden state.

"Uh uh, that would be too easy," Agent Wyatt countered. "For this I'm upping the ante."

"Like what?" Bernice asked, confused.

"Like a date," Agent Wyatt answered simply.

She couldn't help but laugh. "A date, that's it? Why bother?"

"I mean it, Bernice," he scolded. "I want a real, honest to God date. And you have to be on your best behavior. No brooding behind a menu, no picking at my choice of entree, no talking on your cell phone, and for Christ's sake, no shapeless t-shirts."

"You're serious." Her tone belied her bewilderment at the request.

"You bet your ass I'm serious. And you're going to wear a dress and makeup. I want the royal treatment. That is my condition for breaking you out instead of calling in backup and letting the shit hit the fan. Take it or leave it."

Bernice smiled. A date with Agent Wyatt sounded so much better than a night in lockup. Still, she was herself after all. Couldn't give in too easily. "You know, we're going to end up having sex anyway..."

"Bernice," he warned.

She sighed dramatically. "All right, but hurry up about it." She put her borrowed antlers on the keg/coffee table and asked, "So what do you need to do? Get a cutting torch or something?"

As she finished her sentence, the door suddenly flew up, blinding her in painful surprise. When her squinting allowed her to see again, she gazed upon Agent Wyatt. He was standing in front of her with a very smug expression as he held up what looked like a misshapen coat hanger.

Bernice's look of utter astonishment was priceless. "You lied!" she exclaimed accusingly.

The smugness continued. "Well, we can discuss who the better liar is over dinner, Ms. Private Eye." Agent Wyatt assessed her condition and cringed at her look of sweaty dishevelment. "But I think you might want to shower first."

The glistening, batter-fried fish made a scrumptious and crispy noise when eaten. At least, that's what Agent Wyatt observed as he stood and watched Cameron and Darlene enjoy their meal while he waited patiently for Bernice to hold up her end of the bargain.

Not that he wasn't offered a sample repeatedly. He was beginning to wonder if all the overt politeness would push him over the edge.

"One little piece isn't going to spoil your meal," Darlene objected, holding up the platter practically in his face. "Cameron really is an excellent cook."

Agent Wyatt held up his hand and denied himself for the umpteenth time. "I'm sure he is, but I don't want to disappoint Bernice. Thank you anyway."

"So this place you're taking her, it's pretty nice?" Cameron applied dressing to his salad.

Agent Wyatt was going to answer, but Darlene beat him to the punch.

"Nice isn't the word for it. It's only the swankiest place in the county." She gulped down some milk and continued, "Maybe in three counties; of course, it's not like in the Cities." She smiled indulgently at Cameron who twisted his mouth into a knowing smirk.

Agent Wyatt suddenly felt exceedingly uncomfortable and looked up toward the staircase yet again, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of Bernice. He was starting to get a sneaking suspicion that she was stalling. Maybe the slow torture of the fish was meant to wear him down. Fat chance.

Darlene killing him with kindness, however....

"I heard your friend, Judge Conner, dines there frequently with his wife and various other important people." Darlene's eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. She gasped at the thought of it. "You two aren't going to be dining with the judge, are you?" She laid her hand on his unprotected arm and gazed up like a hungry wolf.

"Uh, no, I'm afraid not."

"Well, what a shame," Bernice exclaimed from the top of the stairs. "With enough cocktails I'm sure Bert and Eunice are just a riot."

"Well, you sure took long enough-," and then his brain stopped forming words for him. Agent Wyatt just stared. He remembered that prophetic sentence uttered by a tipsy Darlene a spare week ago, _"Get her all cleaned up, and she's quite the looker."_ _Amen, Sister_.

Bernice had despaired for the last half hour, agonizing over every piece of halfway decent clothing in her possession. It had taken her fifteen minutes just to retrain herself to use her hot rollers again. She had re-applied her eye makeup twice, trying to find the happy medium between "barely noticeable" and "cheap prostitute". Hoping the evening didn't turn into an unmitigated disaster, she even took care to pick out pretty undergarments. As she approached the stairs, she silently asked herself if all the rigmarole was actually worth it.

Her question was answered in that stare.

She smiled at Agent Wyatt. The smile grew when she surprised herself with the new noise of her heels clicking on the stair treads. She hung on the banister to maintain her balance with this virgin experience.

When Bernice was within reach, Agent Wyatt caught the hand and guided her the rest of the way down.

It would have been a moment close to perfection, but not quite.

"Huh," was Darlene's idea of a compliment. "I'm surprised you didn't go with the suit." She tossed a piece of fish into her mouth and chewed as she contemplated her niece's decision.

Bernice looked down at her burgundy halter dress with the chocolate brown shawl on her arm and began to question her decision as well. "You think so?" she deferred to Darlene.

Darlene took on a rather knowledgeable air. "Well, it is a fancy place, and Agent Wyatt's wearing a suit."

It wasn't unusual to see Agent Wyatt in a suit. But this was not state-mandated, polyester blue-on-blue. This was a gorgeous, charcoal sport-coat with a metallic silk shirt opened at the throat and black, fitting slacks. He had somehow managed to style his hair to hide the majority of his injury. The result had a rather rakish effect about it.

"I don't know, dear," Darlene continued. "I might think about wearing something else."

"No," Agent Wyatt objected evenly. He hadn't removed his gaze from Bernice a single degree. "We have reservations," he concluded with authority and walked to the screen door, opening it for her.

Bernice looked down at herself one last time and exhaled audibly. She turned back to the couple at the table. "Good night," she said and started for the door.

"When you gonna be home?" Darlene threw out.

The indiscreet question caused Bernice to start feeling like her old self. "When I'm damn good and ready." She winked at Cameron, who had the good sense to keep his opinions to himself. He winked back. "Good night," she repeated and went out the door.

Out by the car and away from the scrutiny they both took a cleansing breath and laughed at each other. He held the car door for her.

Bernice looked down at her dress again. "Do you think I need to change?"

Agent Wyatt knew she was only talking about the outfit, but he automatically thought about the woman. His answer was delivered with utmost certainty. "Not for me."

She peered at him queerly as she lowered herself into the passenger seat. He shut her door and grinned to himself as he made his way around the car.

_Chapter_ **18**

_Three years is a long time_ , Bernice repeated in her head as she took in the moment. Huge plate glass windows lined the walls around their tastefully appointed table. Not only were they allowed an amazing view of the setting sun over the scrupulously landscaped grounds of the country club, the windows also reflected back the twinkles and flickers of an abundance of mood lighting and appropriately romantic candles.

Centered around it all was her handsome date. Bernice took quiet amusement in the fact that, despite his appearance and their present location, he still perused the wine list in front of him like he was studying evidence in a case file.

"And the Napa merlot?" Agent Wyatt inquired at length.

"Heavier than the pino," the waiter answered with as much enthusiasm as he could pull forth at that point.

Agent Wyatt made it to the end of the list and flipped back to the front again. Bernice picked up her water glass and looked back out the window to hide her smile from the waiter, whose eyes opened just a little wider with impatience.

Agent Wyatt turned the page, scanned the list once more and handed the booklet back to the waiter, stating, "We'll go with the pino."

"Excellent choice," the waiter answered automatically. Bernice watched him march away in something akin to a swift power walk.

When she turned back, she found herself being scrutinized. She smiled at Agent Wyatt politely and went to take refuge behind her menu. She stopped herself when she remembered their bargain and set the menu back down, resorting to picking at the edge of it instead.

"For someone who used to make her living being watched, you don't look very comfortable." His voice was low. She could almost feel his gaze radiating heat on her. It was very disconcerting.

"That was a quite a while ago," Bernice remarked lamely and moved on to fidget with her cloth napkin.

"About as long since you've been in a place like this?"

"Yah," she mumbled, placing her silverware next to her water glass.

She watched the hand reach across the table and cease her actions. Looking up, Bernice saw a tender expression she did not expect.

"Tell me about it," Agent Wyatt requested softly.

The gesture was almost overwhelming. She felt the burning desire to hide and used her free hand to bashfully cover her mouth as she smiled and studied his features with a new fascination.

The waiter returned with their wine and bread. After he set the basket down he began his practiced rote of the evening and made the mandatory display of removing the cork from the bottle. "The specials this evening are-"

"We would like a few more minutes, please." Agent Wyatt acknowledged the interruption with a polite but dismissive tone. He only took his eyes off of Bernice long enough to retrieve the bottle from the waiter and make himself clear with a crisp, "Thank you." The waiter stood his ground in dismay for a single iota before marching off. Bernice could just picture the cursing going on in his head.

Agent Wyatt squeezed her hand gently, bringing her back to his attention.

"Oh, right," she corrected herself. "The last time was at the Landmark Center in St. Paul." She held back her sigh of relief when he released her hand.

He poured their wine. "Now that's what I call swanky."

She picked up a piece of bread. It was warm and crusty. She watched the steam pour out of it when she pulled it open. "Our senior producer was retiring, so the station put on a nice shindig for his sendoff." Watching the butter melt on contact with the white tissue in the center of the bread, Bernice realized how long it had been since she ate. She carefully bit into it, chewing self-consciously.

Agent Wyatt gave her a reprieve and tore at his own bread, breaking it up into pieces on his diminutive plate. "So you were still with Brock, then?"

She sighed and twirled her wine glass. "We were still a couple then, but at those types of parties he was rarely with me. After we would eat, it was customary for us to go off to our separate camps." She took a sip of wine and brightened at the tangy flavor.

He presented her with a wry grin. "I know this dance. Your partner would go butter up the big wigs, and you would hang out with the crew, right?"

Bernice watched him as she made rapid use of the remains of her yummy bread. "Uh hum," she mumbled and wiped the butter up with her napkin. She swallowed and continued, "Except that usually didn't last."

"Wait." Agent Wyatt was quite animated in his excitement. Bernice was a bit taken off guard by his enthusiasm. "Let me guess. Brock would eventually come back to separate you from the herd because you just had to talk to so-and-so, and he'd been telling them all about you."

After swallowing her wine, she impolitely laid her elbows on the table and studied him thoughtfully. "So you've heard this story before?"

"Change the venue to the state capitol and the people to the justice department, and I've lived that story." He finished the contents of his glass and poured himself another. He held up the bottle for her, but she declined.

"Too bad your ex-wife and my ex-fiancé couldn't have crossed paths. We might have started this little fling of ours a bit sooner." Bernice lowered her eyelids coyly and ran her finger with deliberate intention around the rim of her wine glass.

Agent Wyatt smiled and rolled his eyes. "I don't remember flirtation being on the list of demands," he reminded her.

"Oh, I'm throwing that in for free."

Bernice's trepidation about the date soon gave way to morbid curiosity as she finally got to hear about Agent Wyatt's former married life.

He took great pleasure in ordering for her, and she grudgingly admitted to herself that he didn't do too badly of a job. The braised venison loin was tender and juicy, and the baby red potatoes with butter and chives presented a creamy texture in her mouth.

She found it funny that he chose to go with the crusted sea bass and told him so. "Apparently, Cameron's cooking is working its magic on you?"

He looked up from his plate with a mouth full of fish and smiled through his chewing. "If I ever actually get to eat any of his meals. Must be nice to have a built-in chef."

"Oh, he's a new addition." Bernice cut like a surgeon, breaking up the portions on her plate for efficient consumption. "Cameron is actually an old friend of ours from Minneapolis. He and Darlene got reacquainted after Herb's...um...remains were found."

"Is he a reporter?" She sensed some tension in the question.

She waved it off. "He's a camera man from my old affiliate. But his only motivation for sticking around is provided by my aunt, not Herb."

Agent Wyatt raised his eyebrows and nodded. "So that's what's goin' on."

Bernice rolled her eyes. "Yes, they are in _luuuv_." She popped a chunk of potato into her mouth and mumbled, "Poor schmucks," as she masticated.

There was a void of silence that should have been filled in with a confirmed response. Bernice looked up and didn't like the way Agent Wyatt's features had hardened as he concentrated on his entree. It gave her a guilty feeling.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked softly.

He glanced up for just a second. "I didn't realize you were so jaded."

"Huh," was her slightly stunned response. "Well, no offense, but after what you went through, I'm surprised you're not more jaded."

Agent Wyatt smirked a little. It was a relief. "Yeah, she ran me through the ringer all right." He pushed the rice pilaf around his plate, reflecting but not sharing.

Bernice had already started her assembly line of potato, meat, and gravy. She ate without interruption for a while, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she had to prompt, "So where'd you meet her?"

He examined his wine as he spoke. "College," was the short answer. He took a sip and continued. "I was double-majoring in Criminology and Pre-law. She was majoring Elementary Education."

"Uh oh," Bernice shook her head and chuckled.

"What's the joke?"

"It's nothing." But she could see he wasn't buying it. "It's just that my friends and I always made fun of the El-Ed majors. We called them 'husband hunters.'" She watched his eyes widen and quickly apologized. "I'm sorry. We were just smart ass college kids. I know that was mean."

Agent Wyatt chuckled this time. "Mean but accurate," he replied. "We were engaged six months after we met."

Bernice held her fork in suspension at the admission. "Wow," was her only response.

"I convinced her to wait until we graduated. Her parents pulled out all the stops. It was quite the grand affair." He pulled apart the flakes of fish with his fork, scraping his plate slightly.

Bernice rearranged her potatoes again. "And a little pretentious?" she added softly.

Agent Wyatt picked a spot out the window behind Bernice to fixate on. "Lexi liked to have nice things. When she found out I was joining the police academy instead of going to law school, she let me know she was less than thrilled with my decision."

Bernice poured herself another glass of wine, wondering if this was the right can of worms to open on a date. Then she reminded herself that he owed her this particular story. "So Lexi wanted to marry a lawyer?"

Agent Wyatt looked at her point blank. "Lexi wanted to marry money, and when she knew I was determined to be a cop, she made damn sure I was a very well paid one." He turned his attention back to the window. "You should have seen her work a room. It didn't matter if it was a barbeque at a second tier sergeant's house or a dinner with the governor. She always made sure everyone knew that we were the people to pay attention to."

Bernice watched him over her wine glass. The recollection lent an air of fragility to his features. She found it a little unnerving to witness. "When did the cheating start?"

Deciding more wine was required, he drained the bottle. "Right after I got this job. Lexi was thrilled with the promotion, but by then I had learned it wouldn't be long before she would ask me what was next. So I would volunteer for extra field work to avoid the inevitable arguments at home." He studied his glass. "Eventually she stopped complaining, and eventually I figured out why."

It was a sad story. Bernice put her hand on his in genuine empathy. "I'm very sorry that happened to you."

He captured the hand, holding it and her attention with a very meaningful gaze. "I haven't given up yet."

His expression warmed her heart in a way she hadn't experienced in a long time. She was about to say as much, when she looked past his shoulder and made a face like she had inadvertently stepped into a fresh cow pie. Bernice yanked out her hand from his grasp and hid behind her napkin.

Agent Wyatt gaped at her abrupt change in demeanor with confusion. It was explained by a hand clamping down on his shoulder and a voice booming above his head.

"Why, Agent Wyatt, as I live and breathe." Judge Conner greeted him like a long lost son. "If this is how you investigate murders, I want my tax money back." He guffawed quite obnoxiously at his own joke.

For his less than impressive five foot-six inch stature, the Honorable Judge Bert Conners held himself like a man of authority. Presenting his prosperity in the protruding pot belly that preceded him, Bernice got the impression that the heart healthy breakfasts were out of necessity rather than choice.

Knowing all too well how he manipulated the system, she didn't feel one bit bad about his health. Put him in a white suit with a southern accent, and he would have been right at home in a certain fictitious county in Georgia.

Nevertheless, Agent Wyatt stood up from his chair to pay his proper respects, shaking the judge's hand. "Just taking in a meal, Your Honor. First thing in the morning, it's back to work." He turned quickly to gesture to Bernice. "May I present my date, Bernice Hordstrom?"

The judge quizzically stared at her, causing her to straighten in her chair as she politely smiled back at him. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir," she responded a little too brightly.

"Yes, well," his gaze dropped to her chest as he continued, "you're a very accommodating woman to drive all the way up here from Madison and keep your man company." He grinned at his own joke. "Let me guess. You're a paralegal. Am I right?"

Bernice's veins chilled. She let her napkin droop to shield her cleavage. "I'm a farmer, Your Honor," she corrected him succinctly.

"Really?" His eager grin deteriorated, giving away his lack of impression for her chosen profession. Bernice didn't appreciate it.

"As a matter of fact, I own the farm you wrote the search warrant out for the other day." Her smile took on a feline form. _Take that,_ she thought.

The judge stood flabbergasted for a moment then he turned to Agent Wyatt. "My wife Eunice has a niece working at the U. We told her to give you a call sometime." After one more looky-loo and nod at Bernice, the judge left their table.

Bernice bent her head to hide her embarrassment. "Well, that went well," she told her lap.

The disgruntled waiter reluctantly returned and asked if they wanted desert. His lack of fan fare made it evident that he was not looking forward to the scrutiny of yet another menu.

"No thank you, just the check, please." Agent Wyatt's crisp response was saddening.

Bernice looked past him as he went to retrieve his credit card and tried to remain unaffected by the sudden end to their evening. "I guess I could've come up with something better for your sake, I suppose," She tried to salvage what was left of her pride. "I could have said I was a flight attendant," His face was still unreadable as he drained his wine glass. "Or a pharmaceutical rep; I've heard they're hot."

He showed no reaction to either of her suggestions as he rose, accepted his card back from the waiter, and filled out the receipt. He looked out the window past her head. "You ready?"

Bernice rose with as much dignity as she could muster. "Yah, let's get going then." She briskly walked past him toward the exit.

She was already most of the way to the car when she heard the locks being released. She wasted no time letting herself in. She fussed with straightening out her clothes as Agent Wyatt joined her and started the engine.

He turned to her, asking, "Are you okay?"

She swiveled her head toward him in a jerky motion with a polite smile plastered on her face. "Yes, of course, I'm fine." She draped herself protectively in the shawl, tightening her knees and looking out her window.

Agent Wyatt assessed her painfully stiff posture with concern but made no further comment. He simply pulled out of the parking space.

Bernice held her breath. She knew the only two motels in the area were both to the south of the country club. That meant a left hand turn.

He turned right. They were going north. The farm was north. It was 9:30. Bernice didn't feel like meeting her reflection in the window anymore. She wasn't very happy with it at the moment.

She knew her behavior with the judge was inexcusable, no matter how much of an ass he was. Besides, he simply pointed out the obvious. They were an odd couple. Maybe that glaring truth was enough to cause Agent Wyatt to want to end things sooner rather than later, like tearing off a band-aid. Either way, it had to be done.

"Well, the food was really good," Bernice conceded, "and the place was beautiful."

"Yep," Agent Wyatt replied pertly. He was all about talking to the steering wheel again.

Bernice sighed to her lap softly. "You got a really big day tomorrow, going over all that stuff from the storage unit, ha?"

"Yep," he repeated again.

Bernice looked out ahead of her. _You can cry when you get home_ , she told herself. "Yeah, I got a lot of chores waiting for me in the morning." She chuckled with forced self-deprecation. "You know, I can pretend all I want that I have these other glamorous careers, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm just a farmer." She wrapped the edges of the shawl around her fingers, pulling until the tips turned purple before releasing them and repeating the process.

"Still got to milk goats and feed chickens and collect produce for the next farmers market." She laughed again, not daring to look up at her date. "And with my stupid stunt this afternoon, I'm behind in the getting the berry bushes netted. Don't think for one second that Darlene's going to let me use being trapped in a storage shed as a proper excuse either." Her heart felt like it had suddenly gained ten pounds and was bearing down on her full gut, giving her a stomach ache. She chose to absorb the pain the rest of the way home in silence.

Bernice felt the car turn suddenly to the left. When she looked up, she noticed they were traveling uphill on a paved road surrounded by trees in total darkness. In her self-induced malaise, she missed sighting any markers that told her where they were going. She looked at Agent Wyatt with complete confusion.

That's when she spied the smirk on his face.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out."

They finally crested the steep hill and came upon an open parking area in the woods.

Agent Wyatt turned off the engine and unclasped his seat belt. He turned to Bernice and gave her shawl-encased form a once over, landing on her clearly confused face. "So," he asked in a straight forward manner, "who's going to continue the evening with me: the private eye, the flight attendant, or that hot pharmaceutical rep I've heard so much about?"

Bernice grimaced with bewilderment. "Who do you want to be with?"

Agent Wyatt let out a breath of exasperation. "Well, I was hoping to spend the evening with Bernice. But if she's just too damn busy feeding the world, then I guess I'll take what I can get."

It looked like they had arrived at an unassuming county park. Dotted around them were various wooden signs with symbols of hikers and names of trails leading into the woods.

Bernice looked down at her girly heels as she exited the car. _Ankles, don't fail me now_ , she mentally chanted.

Agent Wyatt took her hand and brought her to an opening that was not marked. He produced a flashlight and lit up a small rutty trail leading out in front of them. He gathered her to him, placing his hand possessively on her hip and used the close proximity to huskily instruct her ear, "Slow and steady now." His lower lip caught her earlobe before he pulled his head away to navigate their passage.

Bernice was feeling rather disoriented with the swift change in mood. She fought it in order to keep her feet firmly planted with each careful step they took. Her ears were accosted with all the noises of the dark. Mosquitoes flitted about her with their foreboding, high pitched buzzes. Bernice quickened her pace slightly to minimize their damage. Agent Wyatt produced a throaty chuckle and met her speed.

After meandering around a few boulders that were typical to the area, they walked up a shallow bank. Ahead, Bernice saw shafts of light working through the trunks of the trees then noticed the vertical line of a roof. The noises around her started to change as well. A consistent hiss of rushing water slowly seeped into the background, accompanied by something with more of a balanced rhythm. She could barely make out a melody.

"Do I hear music up ahead?" Her question was abruptly answered by being pulled back into Agent Wyatt's arms until they were nose to nose.

"Shhh, almost there," he whispered and placed a small peck of a kiss on the tip of her nose. He pulled her forward.

Bernice frowned at his silliness. "Fine," she whispered back.

They finally cleared the brush, and she sucked in her breath. It was a secret cabin hidden away in the woods. The low long structure looked like it had been hand hewed by lumberjacks eons ago with virgin timber. The windows facing them were small and multi-paned with working shutters on either side.

Agent Wyatt led her up a set of thick wooden steps and dug into his pants pockets to fish out a key. He shoved open the heavy door and gestured to Bernice to enter.

The entire interior was lit with what looked like a dozen different oil lamps that were perched on rugged tables and shelves. There was an imposing stone hearth on one wall with two cushioned Adirondack chairs in front of it. A set of open shelves piled with a mix of kitchenware lined the other wall above a wrap-around slabwood counter. To top it off, a large fluffy bed with a headboard formed from the cross-section of an enormous stump sat directly across from the entrance flanked by two very old French doors.

The music was coming from somewhere in the kitchen area. Bernice followed the sound to an Ipod parked in a small speaker terminal that was set on top of a cooler. Some romantic crooner was belting out the classics.

She heard Agent Wyatt close the door and could feel his steady gaze burning a hole in her back. "What's in the cooler?" she asked with caution in her voice. "I hope that's not work in there."

"It's dessert," he answered lightly. "There's no electricity out here for a fridge so I had to improvise."

She twisted her head from left to right. "I don't see anything resembling a sink either." She turned to him with a questioning gaze. "No plumbing?"

He smiled at her concern. "There's a porta-potty in the closet around the corner." He approached her. "No outhouse for my date, no sirree, Bob. For you, it's first class all the way." Agent Wyatt gathered into his arms. Scanning her features, he inquired, "Any other probing questions, Ms. Hordstrom?" She looked past him toward the bed. He moved a lock of her hair and kissed her neck lightly. "Are you looking at the bed?"

"Actually, I'm looking at the French doors," Bernice corrected him. She extracted herself from the embrace and swiftly approached them. "Where do they go?" Before waiting for an answer, she turned an old iron latch and walked out.

"Hey you, get back here!" he yelled out to her.

Bernice found herself on a screened-in porch, but instead of the trees she was expecting outside the windows, there was only blackness. The hiss of water she had heard earlier was replaced with a torrent that was running somewhere under her feet. She could feel its mist coming through the screens and landing on her bare arms.

"You really don't ever look before you leap, do you?" Agent Wyatt leaned against the door jam, watching her. The amusement in his tone belied his mild scolding.

She just stared at him in complete awe, speaking up over the water, "Where did you find this place?" She spun around, lifting her face to the mist. "We must be right over the rapids of the river." Her elation was immediately replaced with sheer fright. The point of her stiletto managed to find a knot hole in the floorboards under her feet. Bernice squeaked in terror as her legs twisted and threw her off balance.

Agent Wyatt hesitated for only a moment before diving out to save her, but the momentum had already begun, and he was caught up in the quick lesson of gravity with Bernice. They awkwardly clung to each other in a mess of limbs and joints and descended to their inevitable fate in a clumsy heap on the floor. The "umphs" and "ouches" that followed were quickly replaced by uncontrollable snorting and giggling.

"That's it!" Bernice declared as she righted herself to a sitting position. "The heels are coming off." She immediately pulled her feet out of the straps and tossed the offending footwear away. She was startled by a new sensation making its way up her bare back.

"Hmm," A delicious, baritone hummed from behind her. She relished his warm fingertips and their stark contrast to her cooled, exposed skin. "I wonder when the rest of this outfit will follow."

_Chapter_ **19**

"This is a seasonal cabin that's owned by the DNR." They swayed in unison to a slow song that was composed before they were born. They were both dancing in bare feet on the braided wool rug in the center of the room. Most of the lamps had been put out, save for a few, so the atmosphere was very heady and subdued. Their hushed tones reflected that.

"Let me guess," Bernice teased. "You know a guy."

"The assistant director and I deer hunt together."

Bernice put her head on Agent Wyatt's shoulder and closed her eyes. This definitely beat a crowded dance floor and tight shoes. She lost herself in the decadence of it all, contented to listen to the vibrations of his deep voice resonating through his throat.

"The original building was constructed in the 1890's for a lumber barron who lived in St. Paul." His hand at the small of her back rotated in the silky fabric of her dress. "It was in really bad shape by the time the state confiscated it in the 1930's." He inhaled the flowery scent of her shampoo. "The WPA brought it back to the way it is now."

"Hmm," Bernice responded drowsily.

Agent Wyatt chuckled and possessively hugged her waist. "Am I boring you?"

"Of course not. It's very fascinating."

"Really?" he asked skeptically

"Mmm no, not at all," she purred, exhaling. "But keep dancing like this, and you could recite the owner's manual from your car for all I care." She made her point with a brushing of her lips against his collarbone.

A restlessness began to stir in him. The dancing was would need to end soon. "You know," he pointed out, "the ipod's bound to run out of juice any time now." His hands moved their path of rotation to the dimples above her tailbone. "Then what are we gonna do?"

She moved her hands too, weaving her fingers up into the hair at the nape of his neck. "Any board games here?" she asked, laying feather light pecks along his jaw.

There was a small groan emitted with Agent Wyatt's chuckle. "Doubt it," he guessed. "Might be a deck of cards somewhere."

"Ooh," she exclaimed with soft delight in his ear. "We could play strip poker."

"Only if I get to cheat."

"But you're an officer of the law," she reminded him before nipping his earlobe. "You're not suppose to cheat."

"Ma'am, you're presently residing on state property. That means what I say goes, cheating or not."

"Really?" Bernice raised her head to assess her favorite brown eyes. "You gonna frisk me, Officer?"

His twisted smile held naughty intentions. "You hidin' somthin?" He lowered his head to make an obvious visual search of her available cleavage.

"Well," she admitted, undoing an annoying button on his shirt. "I did take extra care with all of my clothing for this date." She let her hand wander under his shirt to stroke the skin on his breast bone.

It was his undoing. He held her head for a quenching kiss that left them both hungry. "Show me," he demanded.

"When you get on the bed," Bernice countered, undoing several more buttons to expose his torso. Apparently with the proper motivation her dexterity wasn't too shabby after all.

Agent Wyatt watched her work without interfering, enjoying her need to undress him. "Am I going to be getting a show?"

She finished up the shirt by yanking the stubborn tails from his trousers. "Unfortunately, I left the flaming hoop and trained poodles in my other clothes." She unhooked the belt buckle before adding, "But I'll see what I can do." Finishing with the button and the zipper, his pants dropped by their own weight and pooled around his bare feet on the rug.

He went to start on her clothes, but she stepped back instead, studying her handiwork with a mischievous grin. Bernice crossed her arms and addressed him like a school marm. "When you get on the bed," she repeated.

His eyes narrowed, but he tilted his head, accepting her terms. He crossed the room and made a grand display out of jumping to the center of the bed. The ancient piece of furniture creaked in protest but held its occupant in fluffy firmness. Agent Wyatt sprawled out his legs, fluffed up a couple of pillows behind him and made himself at home. He raised his eyebrows at her.

Music was still coming from the ipod. Bernice looked down at herself and suddenly felt like the kid in the school play that forgot her lines. She swallowed, closed her eyes and let Stevie Ray tell her how to move.

All of the saliva evaporated from Agent Wyatt's mouth. He simply marveled at yet another transformation taking place in the woman who was "just a farmer." The swaying hips and twisting torso synchronized with twirling arms as her fingers trailed along the length of her body before finally working into her hair. She was no professional by any means, but definitely not bad.

Bernice let the back of her hands meet as they descended down the valley of her cleavage and parted at her waist. She slowly turned with the rhythm of the song and gave Agent Wyatt a different view.

His eyes fixed with absolute attention on the tie in the center of her back. Her fingers pulled on the tails of the rabbit-eared knot with a deliberate lack of speed. He could feel his teeth begin to grind in anticipation.

Once undone, the dress cascaded out, and the freed fabric joined the dance, adding an extra flounce to the movements.

Finally, he watched the fingers work the remaining clasp at the back of her neck. He noticed the action of the snap and went completely still as the silky garment made a temptingly slow display of leaving the multiple curves of Bernice's body.

All that remained was lace and skin.

The metallic lavender threads picked up the meager light with tiny flashes of precision. He admired the way the boy shorts clung with subtle pressure around her butt and hips. As Bernice slowly turned back around, he delighted in the new topography that emerged for his perusal.

There was just enough intricacy in the fabric to blur what he already knew was there. Blood began to beat in his head and drown out the music.

Then an annoying little voice planted a very rotten seed in his consciousness. _Has Roger seen this outfit?_ it asked with undisguised evil.

Bernice glanced at him as she turned and noticed the shift in his expression. "Looks like someone is growing impatient," she taunted.

"Yes and no," Agent Wyatt answered evenly. "I'm just wondering which page of the Victoria's Secret catalog I saw that in."

"It's not," she corrected. "I got this a few weeks ago when Darlene dragged me to one of those God awful home parties."

"Really?" he teased, looking her over. "What did Darlene get?"

Bernice's smile was very comical. "You really want to go there?"

The way his face dropped told her, "no." He concentrated instead on the demi-cups of the bra that allowed her breasts to mound over the top like tempting appetizers. He barely registered that the dancing had stopped, and she was slowly moving toward the bed.

"If I had gotten it from Victoria's, it probably would have been cheaper." Her knees came in contact with the end of the quilt. The volume of her voice dropped as she moved closer. "It was kind of spendy but the only thing I liked, and you have to buy something, you know, out of guilt." Bernice began to crawl on all fours up from the bottom of the bed. "I was saving it."

Agent Wyatt let his eyes follow the swaying of her breasts as she made her way over his feet and approached his knees. "And you brought it out for me?" He mentally squelched the former rotten thought with lusty joy. "I'm impressed."

Bernice carefully sat just below his erection and leaned in to plant a soft kiss against his lips. "You should be," she whispered back.

Their eyes locked. "I hate to break the magic here," Agent Wyatt huskily confessed, "but someone is going to have to go back and get the condom out of my wallet."

Her smile took on a serpentine likeness right before she lifted her butt back up and kissed his chin. "Oh, I don't think we're going to need it." Slowly retreating, she nipped little bites down his throat and caught a few chest hairs with her teeth, pulling gently. "At least not right away," she revealed, taking a taut nipple into her mouth and sucking it.

Agent Wyatt hissed and clutched the quilt in his fists. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Bernice ran her tongue over the tight shallow landscape of his rib cage and around his navel before raising her head. "What I'm saying, Agent Wyatt, is the show is not over, and you are free to continue watching." She hovered over his engorged boxer briefs before adding with a naughty smirk, "If you can manage to keep your eyes open."

The cork was popped. The frothy foam flowed, and then they had champagne. It was served from two slender fluted glasses along with two Styrofoam containers of rich cheesecake that was topped with glistening cherries. Both were being consumed by the very naked and very satiated couple occupying the large fluffy bed in the ancient cabin.

The ipod had stopped working sometime between foreplay and intercourse. Instead, they enjoyed their meal to the symphony of night sounds and water coming through the open French doors.

"I have begun to notice that you like to consume sweets naked." Bernice flipped the plastic fork upside-down in her mouth and sucked off its contents.

"Some people smoke after sex," Agent Wyatt observed as he shaved the graham cracker crust off the back side of his dessert. "I like to replenish my blood sugar."

"Your way's better for kissing," she agreed, sipping her champagne.

He smiled at her as he chewed and excavated under his cherries for some filling. Before putting it into his mouth, he twisted the fork around in front of his eyes.

Having taken care of one need, his brain automatically felt compelled to work on another. "You think Jessica is smart enough to make homemade poison?"

Bernice carefully balanced the layers of cherry, filling, and crust on her fork. "I think Jessica is motivated enough to accomplish just about anything." She carried the edible core sample to her mouth for further study. She asked through her chewing, "What kind of homemade poison are we talking about?"

"The kind that was worked into sweets."

Bernice's face fell slightly as she swallowed. "Okay then."

Agent Wyatt smirked and stole a cherry out of her container. "It's just that both victims are showing signs of ingested toxins." He popped it into his mouth and winked.

"Both?" Bernice closed up her container. She set it on the rugged nightstand on her side of the bed, well away from grabby Evan. "What both? There's only Herb."

"And Nathan," he corrected her.

Bernice sat up with her glass of champagne. "The guy who tried to brain you? Holy shit! Was Jessica hiding out in the Bahamas after all?"

"That can't be verified," he gave the official response. "The sweets were shipped from St. Paul." Agent Wyatt had lost his appetite as well. He stashed his own container on his designated nightstand.

"How do you know the poisons were homemade?" Bernice finished off her beverage and handed him the glass. When he held up the bottle, she shook her head.

"Different deliveries of toxins have different quantity signatures. Liquid and powder have a very high concentration. This poison's parts per million was lethal but lower in concentration than what is typical for powder or liquid." He carefully set the delicate glasses and bottle on the floor. "Also, there was other foreign matter in the candy that identified it as an organic source."

"So it's the same poison you found in Herb?" Bernice deduced.

"That's the kicker," Agent Wyatt explained. "Herb wasn't poisoned to death. He was strangled, but there were brain chemicals present that suggested he was drugged with...well...we're not sure, but something."

"So, one lover she kills off remotely with a fast acting poison, and the other she makes to suffer?" Bernice gathered the sheets closer around her torso in an act of comfort. "Jessica's turning out to be one cold-hearted bitch."

Agent Wyatt settled into the bed and opened his arms for Bernice to join him. "That seems to be the consensus."

She snuggled into the space between his shoulder and arm and possessively wrapped her thigh around his. As she splayed her open palm over his chest, she asked softly, "You think she's back, or you think she's got an accomplice?"

He reached over and turned down the oil light. The noises seemed to increase as the room darkened. "Without any tangible evidence either way, I don't know."

"With the way things have been going lately, I'm worried that I'm going to end up being tangible evidence."

He laid his hand over the one on his chest. "Not if I can help it."

She could just barely make out the silhouette of Jessica ahead of her in the trees. She could see the top of her head and the swaying of her hips in small glimpses before she would disappear again.

Bernice tried desperately to keep up with her. She wanted to see her face, to catch her and stop her before she hurt someone else. The woods surrounding them was growing dark and noisy with the sounds of nocturnal animals.

The crunching of their feet on the leaves and sticks was deafening. She fumed in her frustration. Just as she thought she could reach out and grab an arm or a chunk of hair, Jessica would disappear behind a tree and suddenly be ten feet ahead of her again.

Bernice kept tripping over things. They felt repulsively squishy. Her revulsion to whatever she was stepping over kept her from looking down. The woman just out of her grasp kept her going.

Suddenly, Jessica stopped. Bernice seized her opportunity and rushed forward, twigs slapping her face, her feet flopping over themselves like a disjointed puppet.

At the precise moment she could feel her nails making contact with the bare skin on her arms, Jessica disappeared. Poof.

Bernice tried to stop short but her ankles crossed themselves. She clamored to find a balance, frantically grabbing at branches and desperately delaying with all of her strength the inevitable result of a fall.

Now she was forced to look down, down at the pieces of arms, legs, and heads. Clouded eyes stared back at her as she felt her body begin to descend, first slowly, then rapidly. Her mouth gaped in absolute horror.

Bernice flinched and popped open her eyes, but she wasn't sure she was really awake. It was hard to believe because the night sounds were still present...and so was the crunching of feet over leaves and sticks.

She froze in acute terror, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She scanned all of the tiny paned windows in the front of the cabin. She could see nothing, but there was definitely someone outside. They were pacing the length of the cabin.

Her senses finally reminded her that she wasn't alone in the bed. She registered the warmth and the breathing of the man next to her and felt a small sense of relief. She put her hand on his shoulder and shook him.

Agent Wyatt was facing her in his sleep. She watched him startle but barely move. In her close proximity she detected his eyelids flutter open. He was watching her.

"Someone's outside," she whispered.

He remained absolutely still. She held her breath in an attempt to keep it from distracting his hearing. She needn't had bothered. The breaking of a twig under someone's feet emitted a crack that seemed to run through both of them like a jolt of electricity.

Agent Wyatt put his hand on her shoulder. "Stay...in...bed," he enunciated carefully, applying pressure in a very meaningful way. He slunk out of the covers to a squatting position on the floor.

Bernice craned her neck as far as she could without actually moving too much from her original position. The rustling of the covers seemed outrageously loud to her ears as well as the snap she heard coming from Agent Wyatt's side of the bed. It sounded like a case being opened. She heard a louder snap, then a soft curse because the movements outside stopped.

For an eternity nothing moved. No one spoke. Eventually, the crunching outside resumed.

She heard Agent Wyatt exhale and a different sort of rustling take place. Bernice started to lean over, her curiosity overriding her self-preservation.

She was startled when his head popped back up. He was wearing some sort of strange contraption.

"They're night vision goggles," he softly explained without preamble, "for safety," he added.

"Good idea," she agreed, "but pants might be safer."

"Way ahead of ya." He was already crawling to his clothes at the center of the room. After pulling his pants on, he hit a switch, and his goggles emitted a quick, high-pitched squeal. It was loud in the silent cabin, but not audible enough to alert the intruder outside.

Agent Wyatt put the goggles over his eyes. The room took on the surreal appearance of another planet. He let his eyes adjust while he shoved on his loafers.

He crawled up to the windows and peeked out of a lower pane.

Bernice watched him there, sensing the tension in his muscles from all the way across the room. His lack of casualness only reminded her of their earlier conversation and the reality that she was not safe as long as Jessica was still at large. She, or someone else, could be waiting for them outside. They could be armed too.

She became acutely aware of her complete vulnerability, naked in the bed. It aggravated her. She rolled over and began to feel around the floor for her undergarments.

"Psst," came the beckoning from the window.

Bernice looked up. Agent Wyatt was shaking his head jerkily. Bernice stopped moving and returned to her original position, but she let him know she wasn't happy about it.

He ignored her and continued his surveillance. They could still hear someone outside, but the person was further away now. He rose and walked to the bed grabbing up his shirt and her dress as he went. He flipped the goggles out of his sight of vision, but left them engaged.

"Did you see anyone?" Bernice asked anxiously as she quickly assembled her clothes.

He shook his head. His features were hardened into a tense mask. He pulled up the black case from under the bed and opened it again, retrieving a rifle.

She watched him assemble and load the weapon. The sheer size of it amplified the seriousness of their situation.

Agent Wyatt glanced at her and froze. Her face in its state of raw fear tugged at his gut with a painful awareness. Glancing down at the pistol resting in the foam of the case, he took two seconds and came to a decision, handing it to her. "Here."

She held it like it was a ticking bomb. "What do want me to do with this?" Her dismay and complete ineptitude with fire arms conveyed themselves effectively with that pointed question.

Agent Wyatt lacked the time or patience for her reluctance. "The safety's off. If anyone comes through a door or a window, just start firing."

Bernice gaped at him in abject disbelief. "Are you insane? What if you come back? What if I shoot you?" She thought holding a gun was supposed to make a person feel empowered. It made her feel repulsed.

"I know you have a loaded gun in here, so I will yell 'all clear' before I come anywhere near you."

"This can't be standard procedure." She frowned at him, feeling her fright overriding her common sense.

"There could be a killer outside, and you want to talk policy?" He glared at her. "You can't run in those stupid shoes, and I can't protect you and track this fucker down. I don't have time to argue. Just keep the gun and protect yourself until I get back."

Agent Wyatt leaned over and planted a quick, fervent kiss on her lips. He hovered for a moment on the verge of speaking but changed his mind. Instead, he plopped the goggles back down and left the bed.

She watched him crouch in front of the door, carefully crack it open and sneak outside.

Then Bernice realized how utterly alone she was.

The stupidity of their present situation weighed down on him like an oxen yoke. He walked and scanned, walked and scanned, looking for any sign of movement in the black woods. Silently he cursed to himself for leaving them so defenseless.

Especially Bernice; this was the second time he dropped the ball and left her unprotected. All of the precautions he could have taken but didn't flipped across his mind, mocking him.

The cautious crunch of dried leaves snapped him back to reality. Agent Wyatt whipped around and saw a slim form moving away from him and toward the cabin. Slowly, he raised his rifle. He took one excruciatingly slow step. Unfortunately, it was into a hole. He slipped just enough to give away his position.

"Fuck!" He whispered the curse bitterly. When he regained his footing and looked up, the form was gone. He could hear the person running now and straight at Bernice.

Bernice swore she could feel every nerve ending in her body. Her brain sizzled with activity. She listened with hypersensitivity for suspicious noises outside.

They came in the form of someone running back in her direction. She shakily picked up the pistol and pointed it at the door. As she did, every single afternoon special she had been subjected to as a kid about guns came rushing back with startling clarity. She looked at the foreign object in her hand and made the most absurd expression.

"Fuck this!" she exclaimed and put the gun back into Agent Wyatt's empty case, snapping the lock shut. She knew he'd be pissed, especially if she ended up dying, but in that case what did she care? She felt better now.

She jumped down on the floor and wiggled under the bed. The running had stopped somewhere at the front of the cabin. She stared with utmost concentration at the entrance, waiting and listening for that telltale footfall on the hefty steps.

It never came. What came instead was the sound of a rifle shot that thundered through Bernice's head like a sonic boom. Tears burst though the ducts in her eyes as she forced down the natural tendency to close them. They remained peeled to the door.

The running went away from the cabin. More running could be heard coming closer then away in pursuit of the other. Bernice waited, cramped and chilly in her hiding spot, listening as her breathing became labored.

Several minutes ticked by, revealing nothing. Her joints ached in protest to her discomfort. Eventually she relented and exhaled completely for the first time since her nightmare. She strained her neck, listening and trying to comprehend if she was safe to move or not. Nothing was affording her an answer.

On all fours she slowly inched to the screened-in porch, waiting for a shout or a rustle, anything to let her know what was going on. She was disappointed and growing impatient. She grabbed her heels and slipped them on.

With nothing else to do she finally stood up. Erect, she kept her back to the wall, keeping her eyes fixated at the entrance to the cabin.

Something finally changed. Lights flashed through the woods, revealing the hulking trunks of the trees, jet black against the brilliant bursts of rotating red and blue.

It was a precarious walk back. Not having a key to the cabin, Bernice felt obligated to grab the gun case. She lugged it in one hand as she held the flashlight out in the other. She had to constantly readjust her shoulders to support Agent Wyatt's blazer.

She expected to be stopped or questioned by cops roaming through the woods, but she was conspicuously alone. She heard nothing in her vicinity except the haphazard shuffle of her own feet. Looking around her, Bernice could only make out the foliage exposed in the rhythm of the flashing lights.

As she approached the parking area, several vehicles awaited her there. She could make out a handful of deputies walking around. Agent Wyatt was under the hood of his own car. She silently wondered why he didn't bother to come back and get her.

All eyes landed on her. Agent Wyatt stood up and walked over, relieving Bernice of her burdens. His face gave nothing away. "You should have stayed in the cabin," he scolded softly, taking his blazer.

"Why didn't you come and get me?" Bernice asked with as much insincere sweetness as she could bring forth in consideration of their audience.

"I had to clear things up down here first."

That's when Bernice noticed a person in the back of one of the squads. She inhaled, then just held it as recognition kicked in.

Bernardo Mescualez was staring straight ahead, watching nothing. She guessed the vacant look was well honed from previous brushes with the law. Her heart sank. "I don't believe it."

Agent Wyatt had no sympathy for her disappointment. "Wait for me in the car," he ordered and walked away.

Bernice hugged herself from the chill and scrutiny and did as she was told. Staring out at Bernardo, she could only speculate why. The betrayal felt very similar to the one she had experienced with Mila. Her faith in mankind was nicked away at once again, leaving her disenchanted and sad. She turned from them all and let her cheek lay on the seat, shutting her eyes.

During all of the chaos, she actually managed to dose off. Her brief snooze was interrupted by the dropping of the car's hood. Around them the deputies were leaving, including the one escorting Bernardo back to jail.

Agent Wyatt opened the trunk, loaded it up and shut it again. She watched him join her in the car but said nothing. Once they started moving, she slumped down and closed her eyes.

The last thing she expected was for her companion to initiate conversation.

"He's denying everything."

"Did you expect anything less?" Bernice responded sullenly. "You obviously caught him red handed. He doesn't really have a defense, does he?"

"We found his car down the road," Agent Wyatt revealed without answering her. "Search of his trunk turned up another box just like yours with fifty grand inside." He slowed down for a stray raccoon lumbering across the road. Speeding back up, he added, "When I confronted him about it, he looked like I shot him in the gut."

"Well, that's guilt for ya." Bernice couldn't garner any enthusiasm for the new development. Something did occur to her though. "By the way," she brought up, "how'd the cops get there so fast?"

"Someone called them." Agent Wyatt turned to the road leading to the farm.

"Hmm," she remarked, "Someone must've heard your gunshot. But that's-"

"Impossible?" he finished for her. "You bet your sweet ass it is. They showed up at the exact time Mr. Mescualez was disabling my car."

Finally getting her attention, Bernice studied his rigid profile. "How could he be out wrecking your car when he was in the woods trying to kill us?"

"He couldn't," Agent Wyatt announced as he pulled into the driveway of Lollygagger's Acres. "And I know for a fact that he wasn't." He shut off the engine. Bernice didn't move an inch.

"How do you know?" Her eyebrows were knitted together in confusion.

Agent Wyatt unhooked his seat belt and pulled his keys before answering. "Because the person I was chasing was most likely a woman."

_Chapter_ **20**

Bernice was so thrown off by Agent Wyatt's revelation that she didn't even register that he was getting out of his car and following her into the house. She also missed the light coming on upstairs and Darlene's face glued to the window, watching them walk in.

Cameron flinched and squished his eyes shut against the intrusion of the light. "What's goin' on?" he groggily inquired.

Darlene grabbed her terrycloth robe from the hook on her closet. "Agent Wyatt's coming in with Bernice," she informed him softly.

"And what's that got to do with you?" he whispered back.

Darlene tartly cinched the tie on her robe and pursed her lips at him. "I know for a fact that she hasn't changed her sheets in a good week." She stepped into her bed slippers and continued, "I'll just go grab a new set from the linen closet quick before anyone notices."

They could hear Agent Wyatt's deep voice, resonating through the floor boards.

Cameron launched his arm out and grabbed Darlene by a pocket. She turned and sent him a reproachful look. It was reciprocated. "Hon, if he's here to sleep with Bernice, I doubt he gives a rat's ass about the condition of the sheets. Leave them in peace and come back to bed." He finished his request with a dangerous leer.

She reacted with a coy lowering of her eyelids. "Are you ordering me around, Mr. Sparks?"

He responded by opening the bed covers. "I'm reminding you that the only place your booty should be is right here." He finished with a devilish warning. "Don't make me tell you again."

Darlene loosened the robe, letting it drop in his hand, and stepped out of his reach. She crossed her arms over her large breasts as she faced him. "Or else what?"

"What do you think the chances are that those bills recovered from his car match the sequence of serial numbers on the money you brought to me?"

They were both seated at the kitchen table. Bernice looked up from removing her heels to answer and was rudely interrupted by the sudden stomping and running upstairs. They listened to the low growl and high-pitched squeal that followed, finalized with a big bump and then silence.

"Kids," Bernice reproved, rubbing her feet.

Agent Wyatt watched her. "Those hurt?" He inclined his head, stating the obvious.

"Yah, I used to run around town like freakin' Carrie Bradshaw in the old days." She winced when she worked her thumb over an emerging blister. "Not so much now."

Agent Wyatt scraped his chair forward and took the foot from her, pulling it to his lap. "Here, let me."

Bernice gave in but not without protest. "That's okay, you don't have to."

"I know. I want to." Holding it by the achilles tendon, he rotated his fingers with loving pressure around her arch and up to the ball of her foot.

Bernice sat watching him, unable to believe the unselfish gesture she was witnessing. "Where did you come from?"

"Madison," he answered simply, wearing his trademark, inscrutable expression.

Bernice assessed this new seduction silently. Instead she asked, "You think Bernardo's been Jessica's accomplice this whole time?"

"Not sure." He bent down and gathered the other foot in his hands. Bernice smiled self- indulgently. Agent Wyatt concentrated on his task. "He's got motive, means, and opportunity. After Herb threatened to send him back to jail, I can see him willingly strangling the guy too." He scooted up and began working on the lower calf muscles. "You've already established that he is a gardener and cook, so it's not a huge stretch to imagine him capable of making poisonous candy."

"If he is the accomplice, why would Jessica call the cops on him and put herself at risk like she did?" The working on her calf muscles was making Bernice drowsy. She hid a yawn with the back of her hand, adding, "and why the money in the trunk? It's just too convenient."

"Cops like convenient," Agent Wyatt remarked, working his fingers under her knees. "Bernardo made no attempt to defend himself when we caught him. So, either he's been the accomplice all along, or Jessica has bribed him or blackmailed him into being one now."

"I think it's the later." Bernice observed that Agent Wyatt's attention was moving precariously up her legs. "When I brought up Jessica the first time, he made no attempt to hide her. If he had been involved, he could have just nipped it in the bud right then."

"Speaking of nipping it in the bud, why don't we call it a night?" He let his knuckles trail down the backs of her thighs, taking delight in the goosebumps forming on her skin.

She caught his fingers with her own. "Are you aware that we have yet to spend an entire night together without being interrupted?"

He let his forehead lay on her kneecaps. "I am aware," he mumbled.

Bernice dropped her head to her thighs and talked to him through her legs. "It's an awfully long drive back to your motel, and there's a perfectly functional bed upstairs. What do you say?"

He smiled and squeezed her hands as he groaned, "As much as I appreciate the offer..."

Bernice sat up. "The only thing I'm offering is a place to sleep and a huge breakfast in the morning, if Cameron has his way."

Agent Wyatt perked up at that. "Breakfast?"

Bernice was aloof now. She released his hands and gathered up her discarded shoes as she rose. "Hey, if you're more at home in a motel room with stale doughnuts, far be it for me to judge." She began to walk up the stairs, coyly adding, "You know your way out."

She had placed her foot on the fourth tread by the time she heard him coming up fast behind her. She turned to mock him only to be shoved into the wall as he passed her. "Last one there," he taunted, sprinting by.

"Urgh!" was her battle cry as she chased up after him.

Cameron and Darlene stopped kissing when they identified what could only be construed as a herd of crazed wildebeests stampeding up the stairs and straight into Bernice's room. The door slammed, followed by a big bump, and then silence.

"Kids," growled Cameron.

The kissing continued.

_This is just too good to be true_ , Bernice thought.

The four of them sat around the chrome kitchen table shoveling down eggs, bacon, and toast, and passing the carafe of coffee. Darlene had a gleeful grin on her face that should have been reserved for meeting a Beatle or experiencing the Rapture.

If anyone took notice that Cameron had his hand planted firmly on her thigh, nothing was said. What could mistakenly be perceived as an act of affection was really an act of restraint to keep Darlene from hovering over their guest like a broody hen.

Agent Wyatt was wearing one of Bernice's huge t-shirts over his trousers from the previous night. Freshly showered and eating with gusto, the casualness of his demeanor tugged at her heart. The egg-white eating opportunist was rapidly disappearing from her mind. However, the man that replaced that perception was going to be much harder to let go of when the time came.

The clock on the wall echoed her thoughts as it chimed 8am. Agent Wyatt wiped his mouth and stood, gathering his dishes. While he busied himself at the sink, Darlene sent glaring looks to Bernice. Bernice glared back but relented and stood up from the table.

"I'll see you out," she stated rather woodenly.

Agent Wyatt frowned at her but turned and expressed his gratitude to the couple still sitting. "Thank you very much for breakfast this morning. I hate to eat and run, but I'm still on the clock with this case."

Darlene bumped quickly in her chair but remained sitting, only to frown at Cameron who ignored her in turn.

"I hope you'll accept our invitation to supper before you head back south," he interrupted her.

"I would like that very much." Agent Wyatt answered, amused by the couple's interaction. "I'll let you know my schedule."

"And you have to know that you are always welcome here." Darlene piped in enthusiastically. "It's about time Bernice brought around someone decent for a change."

Bernice held her lips stubbornly shut, seething at the insult.

"Okay then." Agent Wyatt threw in a quick wave and went to embrace Bernice at the small of her back. She stalked out in front of him instead.

She met him out in the driveway. She looked at everything except the man in question. "You gonna interrogate Bernardo today?" she asked the scenery.

Agent Wyatt assessed her mood with reasonable weariness. "He's got a lot of explaining to do. I just hope he's more talkative than he was last night." He noticed her stance was stubbornly swayed to one hip, her arms crossed. It irked him that he didn't know why.

"Do you think Jessica knows you identified her in the woods?" Bernice moved her line of sight to the ground, sneaking glances at him from her peripheral vision.

"For your sake I hope she doesn't, but we've got enough to hold Bernardo until we can piece together their true relationship." He took a step toward her and watched her stiffen. It was irritating. "And there's all the evidence from the storage unit to sift through in the mean time."

"Bernardo might loosen up if you promise to protect his wife." Bernice rubbed her arms defensively, turning her head toward him but still talking to his feet. "She's expecting."

Agent Wyatt took another tentative step. She didn't retreat. He took it as a good sign and stood behind her gently grasping her elbows and giving them a tug. "Hey," he gently asked. "What's wrong?"

"You mean, besides the crazy bitch who might try to kill me?" Bernice cringed at the acidity in her voice and sighed to relieve it. "I'm just tired of being rattled all the time. I miss my peace. I just want things to go back to life before the head in the haymow."

Agent Wyatt went very still. With a slow and careful touch, he removed his physical contact with her and took a step back. "I'll do my best," he stated with more bravado than he felt.

She turned slightly and smirked. "I know. You're very good at your job." She looked back out at the landscape again, adding, "Things'll be back to normal before we know it."

Then, they just stood there, neither admitting nor negating anything.

Finally Agent Wyatt relented and walked to his driver's door. "I'll call you and let you know when we've made sufficient progress."

She turned to watch him go. Bernice's poker face could match him in any game. "Leave a message. I'll most likely be out in the fields. I got a lot of work to catch up on."

"Sure thing," he replied and got into his car. He left without a look back.

Bernice walked a good five acres from the farmhouse before she let herself cry.

"We know, Mr. Mescualez."

The revelation was delivered to Bernardo with the succinct, neutral tone that Agent Wyatt was known for. He could have easily gotten a job as an auditor instead of a cop.

"We have you on tape at the FedEx office in St. Paul." He began to lay out blurry surveillance photos and other sheets of incriminating evidence, turned for Bernardo to see. However, that would have required Bernardo to look down or forward or anywhere but a fixed point beyond Agent Wyatt's head. His face was a mask of stubborn hostility.

"We also have your voice matched to the 911 call reporting Cameron Spark's car stolen."

The mask remained in place. Agent Wyatt let out a breath of exasperation. He sat back and studied the suspect. Bernardo was reading like a textbook example of a man who'd been through the system. He had probably learned the hard way that Miranda rights were his best friend in an interrogation. The macho stance, the air of arrogant hatred, Agent Wyatt had seen it too many times to expect anything different from this guy.

Except that Bernardo was different. He had gotten out and away from the prison cycle. He had a wife, a good job and a baby coming. He had every reason not to go back to jail, especially for a manipulator like Jessica.

"I've read your sheet. Some pretty nasty work, roughing up an old lady for her SSI money, but that's a long way from first degree murder." Agent Wyatt concentrated his scrutiny on Bernardo's face, looking for the tell. It came in a slight shift of the eyes in his direction followed by a tensing of the jaw as he swallowed. And Agent Wyatt knew. _He didn't do it._

"Being some lackey to a smoking-hot bitch like Jessica, I can see how some guys would get off on that. Maybe you were jealous of her boyfriend in the Bahamas. Maybe that's why you poisoned him." Agent Wyatt stood at that point and walked out of Bernardo's line of sight.

"I bet if I send a couple of deputies around your property, I'll find the plants you made the cyanide from." He watched Bernardo's shoulders start to slump. "I just hope you didn't have your wife do the cooking for you."

For a moment Agent Wyatt just stood silently. He let the tension in the small room lay on the Bernardo's shoulders like a knowing specter.

Finally, there was a shaky sigh. "I didn't fuckin' kill nobody."

"You're not Annie Oakley, you know."

Bernice made the observation while washing down a delectable tuna fish sandwich with her glass of milk. In her self-afflicted despair she had driven her body like a mule. She had finished the netting the blueberries; weeded the three acres of squash, cucumbers, and pumpkins; and tied up all the new shoots of raspberries and blackberries.

Her clothes were torn and dirty. The scratches on her hands stung like the dickens and the skeeter bites were numerous and itchy. It was all a great if temporary distraction until Darlene hauled out the shotgun.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe." Darlene glared at her as she loaded the shells into the chamber. "You're welcome."

"What're you gonna do, lady? Follow me all over the farm with your itchy trigger finger?" Bernice lost her train of thought after taking another bite of her sandwich. She looked at it, letting sight and taste marry together in her mind. "Cam, did you bake this bread yourself?"

Cameron looked up from his laptop. "I used that cast iron Dutch oven you had in the cupboard and found a recipe online." He resumed typing before adding, "With all the eggs around here I figured I'd make the mayo from scratch too."

"Seriously, Dude, it wouldn't bother me one bit if you never went home." Bernice wiped her mouth with a paper towel and returned her attention to Darlene. "As long as Bernardo's in custody, I doubt we have anything to worry about."

"But that Jessica woman's still out there, isn't she?" Darlene corrected her with authority. She looked down the barrel, aiming it out the sunny kitchen window with the frilly yellow curtains. "I don't want to be cut up in my sleep like poor ol' Herb."

Bernice tossed the rest of her sandwich down on her plate. "Could you please refrain from referring to dismembered corpses while I'm eating?" She stood, cursing herself for even coming back to the house. _Well, at least Darlene isn't gushing about Agent Wyatt._

"If it wasn't for Herb's severed head, you would have never met Agent Wyatt." Darlene set the gun carefully on the floor in front of the window. "You ask me," She added, "it was a blessing in disguise."

"I think Herb would disagree with you on that one, hon," commented Cameron the peanut gallery. He stopped typing and speculatively watched Bernice put the remainder of her meal in the fridge for later. "That has been bothering me though."

Darlene walked behind him with a carafe of coffee to give him a warm up. "What has?"

"The why's about Herb's remains. Why was he frozen? What was the point? If you want someone to disappear, you don't keep the body."

"That's right. You get rid of it. You burn it or drop it in a fresh foundation or dissolve it in acid or lye." Darlene's eyes lit up with her morbid descriptions.

Bernice closed the fridge and confronted them, talking to Cameron. "You keep her away from that gun. She's seen too many damn movies. Her imagination is getting carried away. I don't want to come back for supper and find some Jehovah's Witness bleeding in the front yard." She finished with a wave and walked out the door.

But Cameron's irritating reminder came with her. _Why freeze the body?_

Bernice found herself back at the strawberry patch not far from the house. Back where it had all started. Maybe that was the problem with this investigation. Maybe they'd been so distracted by the chain of events that followed they forgot to start at the beginning. Herb was strangled and his body was frozen for five long years. Why?

She pulled a discarded bucket from the turned over pile waiting next to the patch. As she knelt down between the rows, she let her fingers go to work while her mind concentrated on the problem with Herb.

"Why not dispose of the body immediately?" she asked the strawberries, trying to channel Jessica. "You get Herb alone and away from his wife. It's not that hard. Margie was used to him running off to wealth seminars. You get him alone in your hotel room..." She gazed down at the bucket by her knees and realized the mistake in her logic. "Nope, can't get rid of a body in a hotel room."

She worked her way up the next row, trying to back track her speculation. "Okay, you get him alone in your little house. You drug his food, strangle him and then cut him up and throw him in the freezer-" Bernice stopped again. "No, because Jessica quit her job and left town. Who's making sure Herb's body stays frozen?"

She wiggled on her hands and knees to a new spot and picked some more. "Where was the freezer? The obvious answer is Bernardo's house, but that would mean he's been in on it this whole time." Bernice addressed the overripe strawberry in between her fingers. "I just don't buy that." She tossed the rotten fruit away with her theory. "Besides, even if he was involved, he would have gotten rid of Herb before his wife found out."

The bucket was soon overflowing. She set it aside and grabbed another. She'd let Darlene do the hulling that night. She could already feel the sweat dripping down her back. She straightened up stretching and looked at the patch. She could count a good three buckets, easy, left to pick. "Never enough time in a day," Bernice reminded herself and knelt back down to continue her work.

She stopped mid-pull, leaving a strawberry intact on the stem. Her eyes widened and she stood up. She left her buckets where they lay and slowly walked back to the house. Then the walking turned into a trot. By the time she hit the steps, it was a full bore run. She skipped the first two, and stomped onto the porch.

"Oh my Lord!" exclaimed Darlene. She threw herself off of her chair to grab for the shotgun by the window.

"It's me! It's me!" Bernice yelled from the open door way. "Calm down, Scar Face, and put away your little friend. I just figured out something."

The couple gaped at her. Bernice didn't care. She just grinned.

"There wasn't enough time." Bernice walked in and grabbed her sandwich back out of the fridge. "Burning, burying, acid baths, they all take time." She sat back down and gestured to Darlene with her sandwich. "How long did it take for Grandpa to string up a hog, slit his throat and cut him up before tossing him in the freezer?"

"When he was still strong? Maybe an hour." Darlene noticed Bernice had no problem eating after her own morbid description. It bugged her, but she kept silent.

"Right, and that was probably with a hand saw. Give Jessica a tarp and the proper power tool, and I bet she could get it done in at least that amount of time." She took a huge bite and smiled, enjoying her sandwich with more gusto.

"Well, that explains freezing him to begin with," Cameron agreed, "but why leave him that way? And why try burying him now?"

Bernice frowned at her sandwich. "I don't know." She tossed the last bite in her mouth and stood back up. "Maybe more time in the strawberries will bear it out." She sent a stink eye over to Darlene. "By the way, it's probably not in your best interest to shoot me. I'm not going to get chores done that way." Bernice made a face at her and walked back out.

"Hmph," Darlene grunted at her exit. "She's so slow I doubt I'd notice much of a difference."

_Chapter_ **21**

"Almost right after you and Bernice came around the shop I got photos and a text message sent to my cell phone."

Once Agent Wyatt had pried the admission of innocence out of Bernardo, he changed his tactics. Offering coffee and an attentive ear got him much further into Bernardo's role in Jessica's ever-widening web.

"How did she get your phone number?"

"Don't ask me." Bernardo held his hands up in defense. "I barely spoke two words to the woman and that was years ago, but she had pictures of my wife. She was following her. The text told me to wait for instructions. That was it."

Bernardo sipped his coffee. The cuffs had been removed, but his body language was still less than comfortable. He watched Agent Wyatt like a hawk.

Agent Wyatt scratched the stitches on his head and made a very frustrated face. "Why didn't you report the threat to the police?"

Bernardo's face went deadpan. "I've got a record. I know what that means when it comes to dealing with cops."

Agent Wyatt stood up and walked to the other side of the room, looking out the small window. _If he had told me immediately about the blackmail, it would have saved so much trouble,_ he vented to himself, but he understood the reluctance. For most of their adult lives the two men in that small room had opposing perspectives. It was foolish to believe that would change easily. "How long before you started receiving instructions?" he asked.

"Couldn't have been more than a couple of days," Bernardo responded. "That's when the weird box showed up on my door step." He looked at the floor in guilt. "The one I put into Bernice's bedroom."

"And you delivered the package to be shipped from St. Paul shortly after that?"

"Yes, and I felt like a drug mule doing it too." Bernardo clenched his fists under the table, reflecting his bruised pride. "It was humiliating, but the pictures kept coming, and the requests got worse."

"The false police report?" Agent Wyatt returned to his seat.

Bernardo kept his line of sight on the table top. "She slipped those instructions in an envelope under my windshield wiper. My wife was with me when I found it. I had to tell her it was a warning for bad parking." He looked Agent Wyatt in the eyes then. "I felt worse about slashing the tires, especially when I had to charge Bernice for new ones."

Agent Wyatt reminded him, "Bernice questioned you then about your relationship with Jessica. You could have come clean."

"I wish I had," he admitted emphatically. "Then I wouldn't be sitting here right now."

"But you did tell her about the car."

Bernardo stopped, looking confused. "You mean the Beemer? I was straight with her on that. I ain't seen hide nor hair of that car since the bitch stopped coming around when Herb took off."

Agent Wyatt absorbed the information in silence and fidgeted with his pen before posing his next and final question. "And the fifty grand in your trunk?"

Bernardo took a long noisy breath. "I had no idea it was in there. That's a lot of money, but it ain't worth my life." He forcefully yanked the collar down on his shirt, revealing his tatoos from prison. "It sure as hell ain't worth my freedom."

"Let's see here. We got goat wormer, cat food, new brooder bulbs," Darlene read off her efficiently tallied list. She narrowed her gaze at Bernice before continuing, "A new pitchfork, because someone was pissed when they cleaned out the goat pens."

Bernice couldn't have cared less. She was in no mood for shopping. "If I knew I was gonna get guff on this trip, I would have made Cameron come instead."

"Hey, that would have been fine by me," Darlene retorted. "Unfortunately, you can't cook your way out of a paper sack." She harrumphed as she walked and glared at Bernice to push the cart behind her. "This way at least, you're good for something."

Bernice grumbled to the cute cat picture on the bag in the shopping cart, "You'd figure her mood would improve, considering she's getting laid."

"I could say the same for you, Miss Potty Mouth," Darlene snidely barked on her way to the checkout.

Sam's Farm Supply was a staple in the county. The residents of Lollygagger's Acres spent more time and money there than at the grocery store. They knew Sam's family on sight. Darlene probably knew Sam's lineage better than he did.

They rolled their overloaded shopping cart to the OSB box that served as the checkout counter. Darlene dutifully recited all the items inside. Sam's niece, Nicki, plugged the prices that she knew by heart into the new point of sale computer terminal and read off the total. Darlene dug out her checkbook.

"I'll meet you out by the truck," Bernice announced and walked out the door.

She didn't make it to the truck. Her senses of sight and smell were accosted by the flowers that were hiding out in the seasonal greenhouse around the corner. Bernice gave into the temptation and ventured over.

The hooped plastic-covered structure was hiding a treasure trove of flora inside. Petunias, impatiens, begonias, marigolds, hostas, and lilies were all lined up like obedient soldiers in their plastic green pots, proudly displaying their beauty. Bernice smiled in sublime satisfaction as she walked along the rows of slatted wooden tables and admired each plant.

Until she got to the end of the row and came upon the shrubs; then her heart sank. Like a painful reminder of her self-absorbed distractions, the roses stood in one gallon pots on the floor. Their huge, showy blooms seemed to be drooping at her as if to silently voice their disappointment.

"Shit," she admitted to them, "I forgot to call Margie back."

"Bernice!" A cranky Darlene could be heard from outside.

"In here!" Bernice yelled back, wallowing in her shame.

Darlene made no effort to hide her disapproval when she stomped in. "Oh no you're not."

Bernice glared at her grumpy entrance. "What?"

"After we practically spent ourselves into the poor house getting that stupid old truck fixed, don't you think for one moment that we're gonna fork over good money for a bunch of useless flowers."

Bernice didn't even bother to retort. She was feeling too guilty. She just walked back out of the greenhouse, crestfallen.

Darlene groused, marching after her. "Besides, planting them now is like giving them a death sentence in this heat. You never plant roses in the summer. Everyone knows that."

Agent Wyatt stopped abruptly as he exited his vehicle at CL's Storage. He found himself looking down at Bernice's tire tracks. He wanted to smile but couldn't make himself do it. His face simply went blank and he proceeded in the direction of the yellow tape.

County Investigator Lyle Brigand walked out to meet him. Slightly overweight and balding, his mustache decided to stay in the 1980s while the rest of him continued to age.

If he noticed Agent Wyatt fixating on the combination lock in the next storage unit over, he chose not to comment. Instead, he cut to the chase. "We got part of the crime scene in here."

Agent Wyatt followed Lyle into the unit, now almost completely empty. Most of the items including the sports car had been removed and relocated to the garage at the county office. All that remained was a square freezer. Its lid was propped open for his perusal. There was a definite odor permeating from the inside. Agent Wyatt snapped on his gloves and took a look.

"Blood pooled in the bottom matches the victim's type. An exact DNA match'll take a few days."

Agent Wyatt looked at the dimensions of the freezer. It was smaller than he expected. "Is it even possible for a grown man to fit in here?" He was having his doubts.

Lyle peeked inside and made his matter-of-fact judgment. "I suppose if you cut him up enough."

Agent Wyatt chose not to comment. Instead, he looked the freezer over. "No way a sports car is going to haul a freezer, even a small one." He bent down and looked around to the back where the plug lay. "There's no juice in these units so how did it get here?"

Lyle scrunched up his mouth while he was thinking and walked back outside. He looked around the ground. "Well, the only tracks here are from the car." He went out a bit in front of the unit, looking in either direction. "There are tire tracks up the road over there..."

Agent Wyatt halted him. "Those are from the citizen who called in the car tracks." Lyle gave him a queer look, so he added, "I already had her checked out. She's clean."

The queer look continued for a moment, then Lyle relented, not interested enough to delve anymore. "It's probably a matter of the freezer being transported here by another vehicle."

Agent Wyatt continued his train of thought, gesturing at the opening of the unit. "The killer drives the freezer here in another vehicle, drops it off in the unit and uses the car to dump the body." He turned his attention to the tracks, confused. "So, why not cover up the car tracks too?" He looked to Lyle for a second opinion.

"Well, maybe they figured the body would never be found, so why bother?"

"If that's the case, why mess with the other vehicle tracks then?"

Lyle seemed to be stumped on that one. "You got me there, chief," he remarked and gazed down at the tracks in question along with him. "Seems kinda short sighted, you ask me."

Agent Wyatt chewed on that conclusion all the way back to the Sheriff's office. He hoped the trace on the car would prove less perplexing.

He was wrong. Lyle's counterpart, the ambitious and pretty Investigator Jenny Greebler, met him at the doorway. She handed him the regulation clipboard and waited quietly.

He looked at the board and asked, "Well?"

"Mel says you're just going to read it again anyway, so I just figured I'd wait until you found something you had a question on," she informed him simply.

Agent Wyatt regarded her blatant disregard for protocol for just a scant moment before relenting with a smile. "Fair enough," he replied gruffly and walked with the clipboard the rest of the way to the car, Jenny in tow.

All the doors and trunk were open. The car had been parked on a large tarp. The other items from the storage unit were sitting on a couple of folding tables.

Agent Wyatt engaged in his usual habit of scanning the entire contents of the clipboard once then starting from the beginning again. "So no identifiable prints of any kind on the car?"

"None," was Jenny's succinct answer.

"Traces of blood in the trunk?" Agent Wyatt flipped to the next page.

"They match the type from the freezer." She smiled a little realizing that Melanie was spot-on about him.

"But lots of other trace on the interior of the car?"

"Yes," Jenny confirmed. "Sand on the floor of the driver's seat and long red hairs all over the upholstery."

Agent Wyatt looked up from the clip board and focused on the car. He let his eyes run the length of it and back again. They stopped as a thought occurred to him. "Where are the contents to the glove box and console?"

"Oh," Jenny blanched a little then. "Sorry, I'm still processing that." She pointed to a door leading into another room. "I've got that in our lab area. I was checking the receipts for prints."

Agent Wyatt stopped and faced her. His face was blank. "What receipts?"

She was about to answer when the garage door opened. Lyle waved them aside as he drove his large SUV in. The compact freezer was sitting in the back.

Without looking in her direction, Agent Wyatt ordered, "If you took photos of those receipts, I want to see them right away." He walked to Lyle, effectively leaving Jenny to stand and observe her abrupt dismissal. She huffed and stalked off.

Lyle was opening up the back of his vehicle by the time Agent Wyatt came over. He observed the freezer, wondering out loud, "was it heavy?"

Lyle leaned against the tail light. "It wasn't too bad," he answered, smirking. "Of course, it's empty, now."

Agent Wyatt didn't smirk back. "For being five years old, it looks brand-spankin' new."

"Yep," was Lyle's confirmation before he morbidly added, "clean the blood out of the bottom, you could fetch a good price for it on Craig's List."

The nice thing about living on a farm, even a small time one like Lollygagger's Acres, was there was never a lack of distractions. It was one of the reasons Bernice chose to make it her home. It was an ideal place to take a voluntary leave of absence from the rest of the world.

After the strawberries had been picked clean it was time to clean out the lettuce and spinach patches again. They had been neglected in all the excitement and were starting to bolt. So Bernice gave them a military style trimming, cutting them down to the nub.

After sifting out the prize leaves for human consumption she threw the remainder around the barnyard to be devoured by the chickens, ducks, and goats. She saved the bolted stems for a wander over to greet Phyllis.

Phyllis was hanging out in her usual spot in the shade of the big willow. Bernice smiled as she watched the caramel coated beauty with the unfortunate overbite use her gigantic tongue to pull the stems into her mouth. Bernice affectionately scratched the crew cut between her ears and laid her head against Phyllis' neck.

She understood the donkey, her stubborn streak, the sense of independence, the need to separate herself and watch the goings on from a safe distance. As Bernice continued to give the animal a good scratching, working her way down the neck and under the chin, she wondered if Phyllis ever felt lonely.

Bernice did. She had to acknowledge it for the first time in a long time. As she looked around she had the uneasy feeling that comes with facing reality. Things were starting to change, and the reasons were because of Herb.

After finding his head in Jarvis' barn, there was no going back for her or any of them. Darlene was in love with Cameron. Bernice and Roger were no longer together. Agent Wyatt... Bernice scrunched her eyes and shook her head like she was trying to remove an invisible insect. Phyllis snorted at the sudden movement and pulled away.

Bernice didn't really know what to do about Agent Wyatt. Having to think in those terms messed with her comfort zone. Whatever they had was exciting, unpredictable; the sex was fantastic, sometimes tender, sometimes just plain carnal.

Anything beyond that was complicated. He had a different life in civilized society where people wore suits every day and ate with judges. She wore stained clothes and touched various kinds of poo on a regular basis. There was just no easy way to compromise those two worlds.

And she didn't want to go back to his world. She liked it there under the willow tree, hanging out with the donkey.

She reflected on the rest of the farm as she walked toward the house with the greens. When she had first arrived on the farm after Mila's murder, she spent the first couple of months just licking her wounds. Eventually, the bellyaching period wore off, and Bernice shifted her ambitious nature from TV reporting to micro farming. Darlene was not easy to convince. It was a constant battle of wearing her down to make the least little change in that first year.

After dealing with dairy cows her entire life, Darlene was in no hurry to tie herself down with goats. But Bernice berated her like a power attorney at trial, tossing down research and dragging her to goat farms until finally Darlene relented if only to be left alone. It was the same with the berries and the apple orchard and the ducks. Bernice fought for them all, tooth and nail. Now she couldn't imagine the place without them.

And Bernice wasn't done. She thought about getting feeder pigs next year. She was considering schlepping their produce to chefs in the Cities and seeing if she could get some steady accounts going. There was still so much to do.

How did Agent Wyatt fit into those plans?

Against her will her mind fixated on the one problem she wanted to avoid that day. When she was presented with his handsome face waiting for her on the porch steps, she knew there would be no peace. Life was going to change, like it or not.

_Chapter_ **22**

"Congratulations, you found the freezer." Agent Wyatt's face showed no signs of actually being happy about the compliment. It was residing in its usual state of blankness.

Bernice returned the same face in kind. "Was that the thing under the sheet next to the car?"

"Yep."

"Huh." She washed the greens quickly, running the outside hose through the plastic colander.

The lack of facial expressions or any discernible conversation was ridiculous and evasive. They were both avoiding the same un-winnable argument. It was just a matter of who was going to face it first.

It wasn't going to be Agent Wyatt. He decided to use the tactic of distraction instead. He picked up the folder from the porch. "I have copies of receipts found in the car if you'd like to take a gander."

Bernice perked up. "Actually, I would." She set the colander on a nearby stump to drain off the excess water and took up residence on the step next to him.

He dutifully pulled out the printed copies taken from the digital camera and handed them over. "I figured you could identify the names of some of these businesses quicker than I can look them up or make monotonous phone calls."

She nodded, scanning them. "The ones from Chuck's Car Star are probably for gas. They're all in the morning for about the same amount." She returned those two pages for confirmation.

"Okay, that makes sense," he agreed. "What about these low budget purchases for a place called Night Light. That some sort of a bar Jessica frequented during happy hour?"

Bernice giggled, causing him to frown at her. "Actually, it's a video rental store." She shook her head. "Guess Jessica's life was not as glamorous as we would like to think."

Agent Wyatt fanned out the three remaining sheets, presenting them to her. "Any of these look like receipts for an appliance or home improvement store?"

She carefully skimmed over the remaining receipts but solemnly shook her head. "Just the grocery store, couple of take-out joints, and an ATM receipt." Bernice flipped back through all the sheets again, mentioning, "you notice when all these purchases took place?"

He nodded. "'04 and '05."

"Right, they stop in July of '05."

Agent Wyatt collected the pictures and let out a heavy sigh as he placed the sheets back into his folder. Standing, he concluded, "Well, no luck there then." He looked back at his car.

Bernice interpreted the body language. "You gonna stay for supper?"

He turned his attention, studying her. "You want me to?"

Bernice twisted her neck to gaze into the house from her seat on the step. "Cameron and Darlene would be disappointed if you came over and didn't stay and eat." She didn't look at him, afraid of the scrutiny she was getting in return.

"Would you be disappointed?" he inquired softly.

She couldn't hide her trepidation. "I'd be guilt-ridden if you left because you're upset with me."

Agent Wyatt let out an exasperated breath, rubbing his hand harshly over his features. "I'm not upset with you," he corrected with a slight growl, "but you seemed to be upset with me, and I don't know why."

Bernice folded her arms protectively around her kneecaps. "It's just we've started this-this... thing, and it wasn't very well...thought through." She hunched over, examining her shoes. "I feel like it's going to end messy and I'm not looking forward it." Bernice glowered at her beat up Birkenstocks and waited for comment. Instead, she heard the door open behind her.

Darlene's voice increased exponentially in pitch and volume at the sight of Agent Wyatt. "You weren't leaving were you, Agent Wyatt?" She mentally burned a hole in the top of Bernice's turned-down head. "Why, Cameron would just be sick if you came all the way out here and didn't even sample his barbequed duck."

"So, where'd you learn to cook?" Agent Wyatt carefully carved the glistening duck on his plate and made polite conversation. Between Bernice's mental removal from the table and Darlene's' overzealous attention to him, Cameron was turning out to be a refuge during the awkward meal.

"My mother, actually." Cameron answered with a wistful expression as he helped himself to the salad Bernice contributed to supper. "We didn't have a whole lot growing up, so instead of going out or buying things, our family would cook together. My mother learned from her mother and she taught my sisters and me."

"You grew up in a house full of women? I didn't know that." Bernice roused herself from her bad mood to make comment.

"Explains your infinite amount of patience." Agent Wyatt's well targeted remark silenced Bernice again. She seemed to withdraw into her chair.

Cameron smiled at Bernice and Darlene. "Being sequestered out in the country with two beautiful women is no big loss, my friend." He winked at Darlene, lifting his glass of milk. "You should try it sometime," he advised before taking a long drink.

Any retort was replaced with the noise of eating. Darlene delicately wiped sauce from her face before leaning in and asking Agent Wyatt, "Is it okay for me to ask if there's any more progress in your case against that Jessica lady?"

Agent Wyatt simply glanced at her with a thoughtful expression as he chewed.

Bernice spoke up in Darlene's defense. "You might want you put Darlene's fears to rest before she hires a militia to guard the house."

Darlene shot her a look that was less than thankful. "I have a right to defend my property."

Agent Wyatt raised his eyebrows in slight alarm. He swallowed a drink of milk before revealing, "It looks like we found the person who was trespassing on your property. He's in custody pending arraignment for other offenses, so you probably don't have to worry about any further intrusions."

"And the freezer?" Darlene blurted out.

Agent Wyatt set his glass down carefully and leveled a suspicious gaze at Bernice. She raised her hands in defense. "Marsha's sister works in dispatch at the sheriff's office. I didn't say a word."

Darlene watched her plate guiltily. "I'm sure she only told Marsha."

Cameron broke the tension. "There's fresh strawberry pie in the fridge if anyone's interested." Without encouragement he got up anyway and left the table.

After several painful moments of silence Darlene gained enough courage to point out, "It was a smaller freezer; the kind a single lady might have for her kitchen?"

Agent Wyatt nodded then let out a breath of surrender. "And it was in perfect shape on the outside, like it was brand new."

"Was there anything unusual about the brand, or any discernible markings that might give you some clues?" Bernice asked quietly, pushing her greens around her plate.

"No, it was just the typical Amana freezer." He stabbed dejectedly at his last piece of duck, working it into his spicy fried rice. "You can pick it up at a dozen different locations around here."

Cameron returned to the table with a glass pie dish and a mixing bowl of stiff whipped cream. Just as he was setting the dishes down, Darlene stood up suddenly and just about knocked him over. They all watched as Cameron attempted to right himself, and Darlene attempted to keep the condensation-covered dishes from escaping his grasp to break on the linoleum.

The chaos subsided with dessert intact. Cameron glowered at a thoroughly embarrassed Darlene. Then he smiled and started chuckling. "Hon, you take the cake, but leave the pie to me, will ya?"

"I'm so sorry, it's just-" She stopped and faced Bernice and Agent Wyatt. "I remembered something."

Bernice asked, "What is it?"

"Well, that freezer is supposedly five years old, right?"

"That's correct." Agent Wyatt conceded.

"Well, five years ago there weren't any big warehouse stores around here where you could buy appliances. Then, there were only a couple of places, and only one of them sold Amanas."

"You didn't have to do this." Agent Wyatt pulled the visor down to compete with the slowly setting sun that was shining directly through the windshield.

Bernice had glanced at him only once since they left the house. It was downright irritating the way his profile made her all fluttery inside. _When did I turn into such a weak willed woman?_ "It never hurts to have another pair of eyes. Besides, tracking down a freezer with you beats getting bawled out by Darlene for being a crappy dinner companion."

"Can't say I can argue with her." He twisted in her direction and examined her for a moment before he slowed for the stop sign and turned north. "You know for someone who doesn't believe in love, you sure are acting owly about this...What did you call it? This _thing_ we apparently shouldn't have started?"

"Considering you don't seem at all concerned about it, I'm guessing you don't give a shit either way."

"No," Agent Wyatt corrected her evenly, "I just don't see any problems. You're the one putting up obstacles, not me."

Bernice turned to him, defensive. "I'm not putting up obstacles. They're already there. I'm just pointing them out." She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. "The fact that you don't see them just means you're not facing reality."

He turned into a gravel driveway that disappeared into the woods. A very nondescript, hand painted sign stood beside the fire number. "Tim's Appliance Repair" was all it said. If one blinked, one would have missed it.

The bright sun was immediately dowsed out by the trees, so Agent Wyatt took off his glasses and readjusted the visor. He chose to refrain from further comment as they rode through the shaded, spooky tunnel.

As they neared the house, they passed various old structures, each overflowing with piles of old appliances. They seemed to spew forth from their openings like the buildings had regurgitated them. Smaller piles of bags, desiccated cardboard, and other odds and ends littered either side of the driveway. They were slowly disappearing with the rapidly growing weeds.

"Looks like Mr. Paulsen might have a penchant for collecting," Bernice observed.

"Humph," was Agent Wyatt's less than articulate comment. Bernice wasn't sure if it was directed at her or the glaringly obvious hoarding problem that they were witnessing.

"I'm guessing a guy like this probably still has receipts from five years ago," she continued. "Only problem might be finding them."

The sun broke back through with the trees, giving way to the main house. It was a typical farm house. It was not unlike Bernice's own home...if she had stopped mowing the yard or ceased throwing away anything ever again. It was surrounded by several additional garages and pole-sheds. What was left of an old barn stood further back. It was slowly collapsing into itself and becoming one with the twisted environment of brush and neglect.

Agent Wyatt turned off the engine. Bernice unhooked her seat belt and grabbed for the door handle. She was stopped with a hand on her shoulder.

"The obstacles are only a reality if you let them be." He leaned in and placed a kiss on her temple.

She knew the gesture was meant to be reassuring, but she couldn't help herself. Bernice smirked at him, amused. "I'll keep that in mind, Yoda."

Agent Wyatt's face displayed disapproval and he got out, grumbling, "Always the Smart-Ass."

The comment only spurned Bernice on. "So wise about the Force, you are," she continued, channeling the fictitious Jedi Master.

Her mocking quickly dissipated when she shut her door.

Both of them stood motionless, not leaving the vicinity of the car. The air around them felt wrong somehow. Despite the copious piles of clutter, any living inhabitants seemed conspicuously absent. The heavy feeling of isolation drifted around them like an invisible fog. It was very disconcerting.

They looked across the roof of the car at each other and waited. No one seemed to be in any hurry to come out and greet them. Bernice's look of worry only confirmed Agent Wyatt's own feelings of foreboding.

He took a hard swallow. "I think you should stay put, Bernice." She simply nodded and lifted her eyes past him to the house, her face drooping with the building dread. Agent Wyatt turned and slowly walked to the door.

Weeds and untended day lilies crowded around a strip of Astroturf that served as a makeshift sidewalk. The handle on the silver screen door was missing. He had to put his finger through the remaining hole to pull the door open.

The shut entrance door was unusual in the nice spring weather. He hoped against hope that it was just an indicator that no one was home. The knob turned in his hand. The door wasn't locked. His mind tried to reassure him with futile speculation that the occupant inside had air conditioning on and didn't hear them drive up.

But when he opened the door, Bernice could hear the flies from there. Agent Wyatt shut it quickly again. He bent over and covered his mouth, coughing.

"Man, poor Tim."

The deputies had gathered together next the opening to the back of the ME's station wagon. They were smoking and chatting like they were at a cookout instead of a crime scene.

If they noticed Bernice huddled in the passenger seat of Agent Wyatt's car in the dark, they made no indication as such. That was fine with her.

The tall weeds and piles of refuse surrounding them took on bizarre, animated shadows with the cherries of the law enforcement vehicles rotating incessantly. Bernice chose to sit quietly and close her eyes to the light show. She eavesdropped on the conversation instead.

"Yah, it's really too bad," she heard an older voice comment. "You know, he was having a hard enough time after his old lady went. Then those sons-o-bitches over at the Home Store started carrying fridges and shit. You ask me, that was the beginning of the end."

Bernice felt her phone vibrate in her lap again. It was the second time in the last hour and the fourth time since she left home.

The screen door creaked open, capturing everyone's attention and disrupting the conversation.

The gurney was being moved awkwardly and cautiously through the narrow doorway. There was a lumpy blue bag occupying the top of it fastened down with a couple of safety belts. Bernice recognized the ME from Jarvis' place. Behind her a couple of other people in county-issued windbreakers emerged, and Agent Wyatt brought up the rear. Some were carrying bank boxes and moving toward one of the SUV's.

The deputies quickly snuffed out their smokes and moved toward the house. Bernice couldn't make out the conversation but saw Agent Wyatt pointing and talking. The deputies walked slowly in.

Bernice's phone went off again as Agent Wyatt got into the car. She turned to him. "I need to check in soon, or Darlene's antsy-ness is going to get the best of her. She'll end up dragging Cameron out here."

He was very curt in his reply as he strapped himself in. "Call her back, tell her you're all right and that you're spending the night with me." He started the engine.

The compulsion to argue with him entered her brain, but when she noticed the tension drooping his shoulders, she squelched it. He had enough to deal with.

Revealing to Darlene that she was spending the night with Agent Wyatt pretty much deflected any urge Darlene had to be nosy. Hanging up the phone, Bernice looked out onto the dark road and asked the obvious question. "Did he die of natural causes?"

"Unfortunately, it doesn't look that way." Agent Wyatt leaned back in his seat, carefully watching the ditches for deer. "ME said there was petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes and bruises on his torso indicating a struggle."

For the first time in her life Bernice regretted watching too many crime shows on TV. "She smothered him?" She instinctively hugged herself against a nonexistent chill.

"Probably with a pillow," Agent Wyatt confirmed and slowed the car as they approached the highway. "Whether or not she left the pillow would be very hard to tell. The house is basically nothing but a series of garbage walls with paths." He took the exit toward the motel.

"And the boxes you guys pulled out?"

"Well, as best as we can determine," he continued, "all of the business paperwork was stored in what used to be a den." He pulled onto the frontage road. "But there's got to be at least two dozen boxes to run through, so we're not going to get an answer overnight."

The conversation had worn itself out for the remainder of the trip. Agent Wyatt parked in front of his room and turned off the engine. Bernice dumbly followed him up to the door, lost in her own malaise.

"So she beat us there then," she concluded.

Agent Wyatt chose not to answer.

He fished out his key and let them in, switching on the overhead light. The king size bed occupied almost all of the room. It left about two feet of space to navigate from the door to the tiny washroom and back. The TV in the corner looked too heavy for the mount it was on. The fake oak veneer on the paneling dated the last remodel to sometime in the mid 1980's.

Bernice took notice that Agent Wyatt's clothes were haphazardly draped over a small wooden chair that was placed under the hanging TV. Agent Wyatt yanked his tie apart and tossed it and his coat over the chair's back before walking into the bathroom.

He shut the door. Bernice made her way in and carefully sat on the far edge of the bed. She looked around, feeling as if she were an intruder.

He walked back out in his wife-beater, tossing the discarded shirt with the rest of the pile on the chair. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I had to wash the stink of that house off of me." He sat with his back to her on the other side of the bed and pried off his shoes. Glancing at her over his shoulder, he inquired, "You all right?"

Bernice jerkily pulled off her tennies and sat Indian style in front of her pillow. "Yah, I'm okay."

He hastily closed up his suitcase and set it in the corner, continuing to watch her. "You don't look okay. You look like a beaten dog." He undid his belt, stepping out of his trousers. "What's the matter?"

When Bernice raised her eyes, they were glassy. "Did I get him killed?"

Agent Wyatt simply he stood there in his underwear and stared at her. "What?"

"It's my fault!" her voice broke. "You told me to stay out of it. You told me to let you do your job. I go snooping around, find the stupid freezer, and this poor man dies." She viciously wiped away the tears. "Jessica probably had a pillow over his face before you got me out of that storage unit."

His swift approach caused her eyes to widen in fear and she instinctively turned her head and closed her eyes. She heard the familiar growl of frustration and felt his weight settle in next to her on the bed.

Agent Wyatt grabbed her by the upper arms, demanding softly, "Bernice, look at me." She obeyed. Her swollen eyes and worried expression gave her a ghostly pallor. "Mr. Paulsen's death had absolutely nothing to do with you or anything you did."

"How can you say that?" Her voice was barely audible above a squeak.

"Because he's been dead for almost a week."

Bernice put a halt on the pity party. "Really?"

Agent Wyatt used his grip to pull her into his arms. "If I were to wager a guess, I would say it happened sometime after the news of Herb's remains had been broadcast to the tri-state area."

Bernice exhaled some of her guilt into the crook of his neck. "Nobody should have to die that way."

Agent Wyatt tugged her closer and cherished the warmth of her body against his. "Nobody should live that way either."

Bernice lifted her head and traced the line of his eyebrow with her finger, questioning just above a whisper, "Do you ever feel lonely?"

It never ceased to amaze her how such a seemingly stoic man could so quickly soften his features to such a tender expression.

"Not when I'm with you."

_Chapter_ **23**

Sometimes, one of the most effective ways to deal with death is to celebrate being alive.

She studied his face, memorizing every line, every eyelash, reveling in the presence of him.

He returned the favor, undressing her pliant form like a ritual act.

When they lay naked under the starched motel sheets, only then did they really touch skin to skin. Only then did their hands and mouths express the need that words failed to properly articulate. The handling was gentle. The union was slow and emotional with eyes open, mouths greedy, arms and legs clinging, pulling closer, keeping out the isolation that accompanied the cold reminder of one's mortality.

His deep dark eyes seemed to absorb her, to see through her fragile defenses leaving her raw and exposed. But she wasn't afraid. She was alive. Those eyes conveyed to her what she needed to know. _You are not alone._ Their mutual climax sealed the partnership against death, against the killer that stalked them from the dark corners of their psyches and robbed them of their sleep and security.

She held him inside of her, held his body to her, gluing them together with sweat and bodily fluids. She planted small kisses all over his face and ground his stubble-covered cheek against her own, registering the sensation in her brain, memorizing the moment for later.

Because a moment was all they ever seemed to be able to count on when it came to each other. She could already feel it escaping her grasp. She moaned softly and buried her face in his neck. Agent Wyatt held Bernice, clasping her head to him and mouthing soundlessly into her hair.

They fought together to keep death at bay.

Agent Wyatt's cell phone went off in almost exact sync with Bernice's cell phone. It was 7:30am. His was a programmed alarm. Hers was Darlene reminding her she still had chores to do.

"You don't see my love life getting in the way of stuff getting done, do you?"

Bernice could hear Cameron's voice a little too close to the phone for her comfort, but she chose not to comment. "Spose not."

There was a pause then a much happier question, "Is Agent Wyatt going to be staying for breakfast?"

Bernice glanced over at him. His back was to her as he urgently spoke to someone on the motel phone. It was a terse conversation. "Kind of doubt it. I'll be there as soon as I can though."

"Oh, and Margie called again." Darlene didn't elaborate. The silence made its own guilt.

"Yah okay, see ya in a bit." Bernice hung up the phone and closed her eyes in shame.

She popped them open again when she suddenly felt the mattress compress next to her. Agent Wyatt was already buried in her hair and nibbling on her neck. "What's wrong?" He huskily mumbled against her earlobe.

"Oh, the usual."

He raised his head and studied her with a frown. "I thought we got all that stuff cleared up between us last night."

She returned his frown and stood away from his grasp, exhaling exasperation. "Why do you men always assume that sex fixes everything."

He smiled rakishly. "You mean it doesn't?"

She shook her head and couldn't help but return the smile. "You think we can table our own problems until after we get Jessica put away?"

Agent Wyatt had already begun a systematic sorting of the few remaining clean articles of clothing from his suitcase. He laid everything out carefully on the bed, each piece about one inch away from the next until his whole outfit was on display. Bernice found the ritual endearing. She wondered how he felt watching her pull on her clothes from the unsorted pile left on the floor next to the bed.

"First of all," Agent Wyatt began as he started with the boxer briefs, "there is no 'we' with catching Herb's murderer. We both have jobs. I catch bad guys. You grow food. Let's keep it that way."

Bernice bit her tongue but gave him a meaningful smirk.

He continued, tugging up his trousers. "Second of all, there's nothing to table because there's no problem with us."

Bernice pulled her huge t-shirt over her head and yanked on her beat-up jeans. She watched him button up his starched shirt. The sharp contrast of her dishevelment and his refinement was not lost on her. She really did prefer when they were both naked. It seemed to equalize them somehow.

His tie resided undone around his shoulders. "If there is a problem, Bernice, it's in your head. You have to sort out what you want. And much as you would like me to participate in your little game of self destruction, I'm not, so figure it out."

"You honestly don't see the glaring disparity between us?"

Agent Wyatt grabbed up his coat and held the door for her, holding his keys. "What, you mean our clothes?"

Bernice ranted as she walked to the car. "I mean everything. You live half a state away. You have meetings with judges and the freakin' state attorney general. I collect chicken eggs and have meetings with donkeys and dairy goats."

She looked over at him for a reaction and got a man who was grumbling and glaring at the ground. "Jesus, with Lexi nothing was good enough, and with you-"

"Don't you dare compare me to that woman!" Bernice proclaimed indignantly. "I am not Lexi!"

"But you want me to be Brock!" Agent Wyatt shot back, yanking his car door open. "Bernice, are you ashamed of what you do?"

"Of course not!" Bernice's face pinched in offense. "I love what I do."

"But you want me to be ashamed. Is that it?" He splayed his hands over the car roof. "You want me to reject you and say I don't think you're good enough. Then you'll be justified? Is that what you want?"

Her argument was losing credence. "I..." was all she could stammer out. She knew he had her. Instead she pitifully concluded, "You just don't understand."

They both got into the car. Agent Wyatt started the engine. "I think I understand quite a bit, thank you." He put the car into gear and began to back out. "And when you stop being stubborn and admit that I'm right, then maybe we can actually work this out."

He could see by her stiff demeanor that it wasn't going to happen any time soon. "Fortunately for you, I have too much work to do to sit around and pine over you."

"Good God Almighty, would you just shut her up?"

Bernice's face puckered up like a bad grape. It was bad enough that Helen was bleating like she was being murdered while Bernice had her tied down to trim her hooves. But then Darlene had to add her own acidic tone to the noise.

"I'm almost done," Bernice ground out, working the stout little chisel over one last time. Finally she undid the ties and set the belligerent little goat loose. Helen bleated once more, rammed her little hornless head into Bernice's leg for good measure and trotted off in a huff.

"You're welcome!" Bernice yelled after her and grabbed a broom to sweep up the pieces of hoof.

Darlene continued to muck out the stall behind her with the brand new pitchfork. "That stupid little goat is such a pain in the ass; she doesn't know how good she's got it." She worked the stinky pile of straw up into a sizable heap before depositing it into the waiting wheelbarrow. "Anyone else would have turned her into stew by now."

Bernice pulled over the new bale of straw in Darlene's wake. She kicked it in the middle to release the ties and worked it around to even the straw into a new bed. "Like it or not, she's our best milker."

Bernice's reasoning wasn't cutting through Darlene's stubborn opinion. "You ask me, she's more trouble than she's worth."

"Eh, you're just getting impatient in your old age," Bernice chided. "You say the same thing about Phyllis, and she's hardly any trouble at all."

"That's another walking feed bag that's next to useless," Darlene crabbed, hefting the wheelbarrow up with a grunt. "Don't know why we keep her around either."

"She's better than a watch dog, that's why. She keeps predators out of the barnyard."

"Oh yah?" Darlene argued. "If she's so great, how come she didn't notice the coyote runnin' around the place with Herb's head?"

"We didn't have her out that night," Bernice retorted. "Don't you remember? We kept her in the barn almost that whole week because of the storms."

They looked at each other simultaneously, their eyes wide with discovery. Darlene dropped the wheelbarrow abruptly. Little chunks of poo jumped out in the process. She didn't notice.

Bernice matched her step for step, marching back to the house.

"Where are you going?" Darlene asked.

"I need to call Evan." Bernice answered.

"Who?"

"Oh, um, Agent Wyatt."

Darlene grinned like a Cheshire cat. "So it's Evan now, is it?"

"Well, calling him Agent Wyatt during sex is a little too kinky for me." Bernice sped up and left the slack-jawed Darlene to stare after her.

Bernice opened the screen door and was accosted by the obnoxious noise of the vacuum cleaner. "Cam!" she yelled from the kitchen.

The vacuum ceased, and Cameron came out. "What?" he asked.

"You're supposed to be on vacation," Bernice scolded him, "not cleaning up after us."

"Just earning my keep," Cameron answered shyly. "I don't have a problem doing housework."

"You'll earn your keep and then some if you go outside and distract Darlene while I'm on the phone." Bernice picked up the cordless. "Take her out for lunch or something."

"I have a quiche in the oven," Cameron indignantly replied.

Bernice couldn't help but giggle. "Quiche? Really? You've decided to become a cliché?"

"No, I decided to use up the extra eggs, smart ass." Cameron paused at the screen door. "Darlene's right. You need a man who's willing to put up with your shit." He let the door slam behind him.

Bernice cringed inwardly and proceeded to instruct the county receptionist where to direct her call. After a bit a familiar voice picked up the line. "This is Wyatt."

"Hi, it's me." Bernice began and then stopped, embarrassed.

"Yes," He said.

"I have a question about the freezer," she started again.

There was a pause. "Yes," he repeated.

"Does it work?"

"Um," he stuttered, "what?"

"Does it run?" Bernice began again.

There was another pause. "I don't know. Why?"

"Because I think that's why Herb is no longer in there."

"You think the freezer stopped working?" Bernice could hear the impatience creeping into Agent Wyatt's voice.

"I think the freezer took storm damage. We had a batch of bad thunderstorms roll through here around the time Herb reared his ugly head, no pun intended."

"And your theory is the freezer stopped working because the wiring got fried?" Agent Wyatt followed her logic.

"Right, and Jessica had to dump Herb or else he would start to thaw. So she buried him and stuck the freezer in the storage unit."

"Okay," he relented, "so if we find out that it's not working, your theory stands, but that doesn't tell us where the freezer was being kept."

In a flash of clarity, Bernice went utterly still. She closed her eyes and let her head droop.

"You still there?" Agent Wyatt spoke up a little.

"Yah, I'm here," she answered back, deflated. "I just wanted to let you know...that I had this idea about the freezer. That's all."

There was a pause. "You sure?" He prodded, instinctively sensing more.

Bernice made her voice lighter. "Yah, that was it. I'll let you get back to work. Bye"

"Okay... Bye." The cordless went dead.

Bernice slowly sat down holding the phone absentmindedly in her hand. She gazed with an empty but worried stare through the kitchen window out at the barn.

"Yep, she's fried real good." The county janitor recited his terminal diagnosis for the freezer. He stood with the groan of a man who'd admittedly spent too much of his life crawling around behind broken appliances. "Probably took a direct hit of current and shorted out."

"Would you say it could have happened during a thunderstorm?" Agent Wyatt confirmed.

"Oh yah, that would do 'er all right." He slapped the dirt from the garage floor off of his knees. "We had some doozies a few days back now." He eyed Agent Wyatt suspiciously before referring back to Lyle. "We 'bout done here?"

"Yah, we're good. Thanks, Gus." Lyle nodded the appropriate salutation.

Gus the Janitor nodded back cordially and walked away.

"So that explains Herb's belated burial," Jenny observed. "Doesn't explain where the freezer came from. Lots of people probably had lightening strikes around the same time."

"Anything come up while searching the Mescualez residence?" Agent Wyatt posed the question as he walked away. The county investigators followed.

"So far, nothin'," Lyle answered him.

"Same with Chet Torrensen's place, house and garage. Nothing indicating he had a freezer like that, especially one that pristine." Jenny followed up, adding, "You ask me, only a woman's gonna keep a freezer that nice-looking for five years."

Agent Wyatt only grunted an acknowledgment as they all entered the adjoining office. There were two deputies assigned to sift through the large wall of bank boxes. They quickly silenced their conversation and tried to look vigilant at their task under the renewed scrutiny.

Only four boxes lay empty behind them on the floor. Various piles of paperwork and receipts coated the desks in crumpled mounds. Agent Wyatt set his jaw but remained stoically silent at the lack of progress.

"Any luck, guys?" Jenny asked lightly.

"Well, it's a hell of a mess," one of the deputies spoke up. "Credit card receipts are thrown in with bank statements and payroll stubs."

"And so far, we've come across everything from 2008 all the way back to 1995." The younger deputy didn't look up. Agent Wyatt could sense the resentment. He couldn't really blame them. It was not a pleasant task, especially for someone who was action oriented.

So he decided to sweeten the pot. "Either one of you Packer fans?"

Their heads popped up in swift animation.

"I'm just asking because I got a couple of preseason tickets for Lambeau next month against the Browns." Agent Wyatt studied them for reaction. They were fixed on him like bird dogs. "First guy that finds me a solid paper trail for that freezer can have 'em." He turned away from the stunned deputies, adding, "Hell, I'll even throw in a hundred bucks for gas and beer." He couldn't help but smile at the increased flurry of paper shuffling as he walked away.

"Packer tickets, ha?" Lyle pointed out, "Had I known, I would have sifted through the damned boxes myself."

"No kidding," Jenny grumbled in the background.

"I just thought of it on the fly," Agent Wyatt admitted. "I was gonna go with a guy from the Milwaukee office, but I think I'll have other plans now." He smiled to himself, thinking of Bernice then frowned. With the way she was acting, how was he even to be sure they would still be seeing each other in another month?

A phone on the wall chirped loudly, attracting everyone's attention. Jenny trotted over and answered it, "Greebler." She paused. "Oh yah, he's right here. Hang on." Jenny held out the corded land line. "Agent Wyatt, it's your office."

"Thanks," he returned politely as Jenny handed him the phone. "Wyatt," he curtly addressed the caller.

"How come you're not picking up your cell?" Agent Carlson asked.

Agent Wyatt took out his phone and mentally cursed. "Sorry, no signal. What do you got?"

"New Tox came back from Wausau. They found atropine and scopolamine in Mr Abernathy's eye fluid." Agent Wyatt heard a chuckle. "Apparently, it was a first for the techs there. They had to call me personally."

Agent Wyatt scrunched his features. "Where have I heard those names before?"

"Well, you don't look for them in a corpse. They are found in a homemade hallucinogenic which is generally nonlethal," Agent Carlson explained. "Normally it turns up in the urine and blood of living subjects."

"Where does it come from?"

"Usually bubbas and hippies get it from weeds out of the ditch, but the techs at Wausau say this makeup is more likely from a cultivated garden plant."

Before Agent Wyatt could digest the meaning of the findings, the adjoining office door burst open. Both deputies stormed out, anxious but happy.

"You never going to believe it," one piped up.

"Yah, we figured it would be our luck that it'd be in the last box."

The investigators turned. Agent Wyatt spied the sheet in the one deputy's hand. "Thanks, Jimmy, gotta go," he said, returning the receiver to the cradle.

"He found it, but he says he's taking me too." The younger deputy spoke up defensively.

"Jesus, Dude," the older deputy scolded. "Do you have to make it sound so gay?"

"What'd you find, guys?" Jenny asked. "A receipt?"

"No, better," the older deputy claimed. "It's a registration form for a warranty."

"Seriously?" Lyle questioned.

"Totally," the younger deputy answered. "It's got the right model number, serial number, date, everything."

"So the murderer took the time to fill out a warranty card for the freezer?" Agent Wyatt was obvious in his skepticism.

"Not the murderer," the older deputy corrected him carefully, "the victim."

Lyle grabbed the sheet that the deputy held out. Everyone else crowded over his shoulder. Lyle whistled long and loud. "Well, fuck me," he cursed. "Herb went ahead and bought his own casket."

_Chapter_ **24**

Bernice split her line of vision between the windshield and her purse on the passenger seat. She was torn with a single question.

Should I call him?

It was a debate in her head that was not being resolved easily. Part of her had a bad feeling about the visit. Part of her told her she was being paranoid.

For better or worse, common sense seasoned with some already festering guilt won the argument. Bernice's cell remained untouched in her purse at least until she pulled into the yard. Then she slipped it into her pants pocket and got out of her truck.

The days she had been away only increased her impression of awe about the plantings in Margie's yard. They seemed even more beautiful. She noted a new sculpture up front and center. It was an artist's interpretation of a windmill made from twisted and sculpted metal. The kinetic properties were engaging and whimsical.

Bernice's dread was building as she wondered again if she was making a mistake. She just couldn't bring herself to believe that Margie had anything to do with this whole mess except for being the unfortunate spouse to Herbert Abernathy.

But then her eyes wandered to the dilapidated garage. The willow tree looked even worse with dead leaves shriveled up on broken twigs and branches. They were turning brown in the increasing temperatures. The garage held up the destruction with its stubborn ugliness.

Margie opened her front door and stood on the step, watching Bernice. Bernice watched her back. Guilt and suspicion filled the gap of small talk.

Finally Bernice spoke up. "I've got something for you in my truck." She turned back, continuing, "I saw it over at Sam's and thought of you."

Margie left her threshold, frowning. She walked past Bernice and over to the truck. Once she came in sight of the box, she smiled complacently. "It's a rose bush," was her rather flat answer.

"I picked out the nicest one they had," Bernice reasoned with the ground. "It was on sale. I just figured, you're so good at nurturing plants, you could give this one a good home."

Margie remained standing by the truck and looking at the plant, her smile plastered in place. "Thanks, Bernice. Why don't we leave it here in the truck? We'll plant it together later." She glanced quickly at the cab of the truck through Bernice's open window before returning to the house. "Won't you come in and have some coffee?"

"Thank you." Bernice glanced over in the direction of the garage as they walked together. "You get that insurance guy of yours to look at the garage yet?"

"As it happens," Margie responded rather rigidly, "he's on vacation until next week.

"Well, that sucks," Bernice remarked and let herself in through the screen door.

The thing that caught her eye was the dining room window. "Where'd all your plants go, Margie?"

Margie was already ahead of her in the kitchen. "I'm having that leaky old window replaced!" she yelled back in response. "The service guy's coming tomorrow. I've got the plants in the spare room until then." Margie walked back out with her teapot in hand. "You don't mind instant, do you Bernice?"

An icy prick of fear stabbed at the top of Bernice's head and spread out in acute apprehension. She hated herself for wondering if Margie could poison someone. She smiled through it. "You know, Margie, I've had two pots at the farm already today. Why don't we just sit here and chat? Forget about the formalities."

Margie's face fell into a dark look of acceptance as she bore out the rude decline of her Taster's Choice. "Okay then, I'll be right back." She exited into the kitchen.

Bernice stuck her hand in her pocket and felt the square shape of her phone. _I should call him,_ she thought. Things just didn't feel right.

Margie came back out with two cans of lemon-lime pop, unopened. "There's no caffeine in these," she pointed out in a soft but hurt tone. She sat down at her old fashioned dining room table.

Sitting down, Bernice noted the chairs were old and looked like they had been repaired a few times. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that three kids could take a toll on furniture. That caused her to remember something.

"I met your son Mark the other day at your dad's garage. I had some work done there."

"Yes," Margie answered politely, "he told me." She fiddled with her can before adding, "He also told me you left with that state police officer."

Bernice popped open her can and waved the comment off. "Yah, that pain in the ass. Well, he didn't like me talking to you, and using your dad's shop really pissed him off." She looked at Margie. "I'm sorry if you thought I was using you. It was a total coincidence, I promise."

If Margie believed her, she chose not to comment and simply sipped her pop.

"Where is Mark, by the way? Is he working at the shop today?"

"No. Dad took him up north for a fishing trip."

Bernice took a sip of courage and figured now was a good of time as any. "It must have been really hard for you, raising those kids all by yourself after Herb left."

"Well, they're my kids, you know." Margie fidgeted with her pop top, running her manicured fingernail around its shape. "You do what you can for them."

"At least Herb paying off the mortgage made that a little easier."

Margie frowned at Bernice. "Money can't replace their father." She resumed her fidgeting, adding, "It definitely can't replace my husband."

"Is that what you told Jessica?"

"Who's Jessica?"

The answer was immediate and flat. Good Christians are naturally assumptive of a person's innocence. Anyone else would have taken that response as a genuine one. But Bernice had been a reporter in her former life. She had seen more deliveries of lies than most politicians. She knew what to look for.

It was a barely noticeable flinch. Bernice caught it in Margie's hand as it traced the pop top. Margie was looking at Bernice. Bernice was looking at that hand.

Bernice knew Margie was lying and had been doing so for a long time. "I understand why you played along." Bernice continued to watch the hand. It went motionless.

"Bernice," Margie chuckled in self deprecation, "I'm sorry, but I honestly don't know who you're talking about."

Bernice ignored the denial. "I mean, you still had three young kids at home." Bernice looked at her then with genuine sympathy. "Did she threaten you or the kids? Is that why you kept Herb in that garage all these years?" Bernice slid her hand toward Margie on the table's surface. "Margie, I understand if you're scared. Let me help you. Tell me where she's hiding."

Bernice had stopped watching Margie's hand on the full can of pop. It was her second mistake. The first was that she didn't call Agent Wyatt. That mistake flashed through her mind just slightly faster than the speed of the can that Margie hurled with an anguished growl at Bernice's head.

"What the fuck!" That curse was all Bernice managed to shriek before Margie shoved Bernice's chair backwards. Her knees bashed painfully into the tabletop. Gravity and inertia took over, sending her and the chair onto the worn carpet. Bernice scrambled as quickly as she could out of that vulnerable position but failed to deflect the well placed kick into her ribs. She gasped, rolling.

"You stupid bitch!" Margie yelled back. Her shout hurt Bernice's ears with its screechy pitch. Margie stomped onto Bernice's back with the heel of her tennis shoe. "You think you're so smart!" Bernice rolled away but not before getting a glancing blow on her upper arm. "You don't think I had you checked out after your little visit? Ha? You ever heard of Google?!"

Bernice was up on all fours then, watching Margie. "You and Jessica were in this together! Which one of you strangled Herb?" She stood up very slowly and worked her way around the table.

Margie picked up one of the displaced chairs, carrying it like a weapon. "Jessica, Jessica, Jessica!" She mocked Bernice with a falsetto rant. "Where is mean old Jessica?" She took a swing, missing Bernice. She cleared off the buffet, taking out the carefully placed pictures of her carefully maintained life and scattering them across the room like shrapnel from a land mine.

"God, I can't stand that fucking name one moment longer!" She threw the chair at Bernice. Bernice blocked her face and turned just enough. The chair struck her already beaten up back. Tears spurted involuntarily from her eyes with the wincing pain.

"Tell me where she is!" Bernice screamed at her, grabbing the dining room table and whipping it up. She ran as it moved but she wasn't fast enough.

"Rurahghghgh!" Margie screeched like a banshee, rounding the table and throwing herself at Bernice's front, knocking them both to the floor. She brought her knee hard into Bernice's pelvis and hurled her little fists at Bernice's face like sharp rocks. "She's dead! You bitch! The cunt is dead! Dead!"

Bernice could barely register what she was hearing. She was too busy tossing her hands out at Margie, trying to deflect some of the blows that were coming too fast at her head. Her nose smarted. Her lip felt split open. Her head throbbed. She could barely open her eyes.

Margie was not some tragic widow anymore. She was a killer and she was pissed off.

Bernice had no clue what weapon finally knocked her unconscious.

She wasn't out for long. The excruciating pain of getting kicked down the stairs woke her up. Her head smacked with a pop against the concrete floor. Bernice gasped, her eyes ripping themselves open to witness her fresh hell.

She was in the dark. She heard the door above her slam shut. With her nostrils flared, she caught the familiar smell of musky damp. She was in a basement and she was still alive, painfully alive.

When Bernice was just a kid, she took Darlene up on a dare and tried riding one of the dairy cows home. The cow was so startled at the foreign object on her back that she began to gallop, mooing loudly in panic. Bernice flopped off, hitting the packed cow path with a loud thud.

That didn't save her from getting trampled by another cow running directly behind her. The bruises on her thighs took weeks to go away. Her collarbone and two ribs knitted back together eventually. It took six whole months to convince her parents to let her go to the farm again.

That was a picnic compared to what she was feeling now. Everything hurt, but not enough to keep her brain from running like a freight train.

_Why am I still alive?_ it was asking. _Why didn't she finish me off? Why am I down here?_ As Bernice started to think clearly again, she noticed something. Her arms were twisted behind her back and she couldn't move them. Her feet were stuck together too. She pulled reluctantly because they hurt like hell, but the action caused her to be able to determine that she was tied up.

_Why?_ It didn't make sense. As grateful as she was that she was not dead, it didn't keep the cold dread of fear from creeping in like a toxic fog. Margie cut up her own husband. She was capable of anything.

Bernice's senses were all scrambled up with overstimulation. She could taste blood and dirt in her mouth. She could feel the cold sweaty floor against her bare, scraped up arms and ankles. She could hear splashing.

_Splashing?_ It came from upstairs, sloshing onto the floor under the door, and dripping down into the basement. Then she could smell it, that distinct metallic sulfur smell that exudes from the pump of every gas station in existence.

Her whole body froze when she heard the knob on the door turning. Her bound form was flooded with light then quickly shadowed by Margie's standing body.

"I'm just gonna borrow your truck, Bernice. Hope you don't mind." Her voice was flat and unfeeling like a switch had turned off in her head. The anger was gone. It was replaced with apathy.

"Margie, don't do this!" Bernice yelled back. "Don't leave me down here!"

Instead of acknowledging her plea, Margie picked up the gas can and emptied it out over the steps. Bernice knew instinctively that she had to move...somewhere. She flipped with a whimper onto her side. This brought her nose almost level with the floor. The smell of the gas was invading her mouth.

"God, please!" Bernice begged, her voice breaking into a shrill cry of desperation as she twisted her head to face Margie in her last hope of mercy.

"I'm gonna go now." Margie sounded annoyed and impatient like she was trying to reason with a spoiled child. "I started the curtains on fire in Mark's room. I don't know how much time you got."

Bernice just stared. There was nothing left for her to say.

"I did my damnedest not to kill you, you know." Margie shut the door. Bernice heard her footsteps quite clearly through the floor. They walked evenly through the kitchen, through the dining room, and then stopped when she heard the front door shut. There was silence until the engine of Bernice's truck kicked in outside of the house.

Bernice didn't know if she was hallucinating from the gas fumes, but she swore that she could already hear the slow smoldering of Mark's room going up in flames.

"Dammit!" she screamed. Tears streamed down her face. Her body went limp in defeat, her nose pressing against the floor. She twisted it the wrong way and pain shot up through it.

It was a reminder. She wasn't dead yet.

"I did my damnedest not to kill you, you know."

If Margie wanted her dead, she would have done it by now. She could have stabbed her, bashed her head in, strangled her, but she didn't.

Bernice's thoughts were interrupted by a fit of coughing. "Think, damn you!" Margie didn't want to kill her. She took her truck. This was just another distraction. She wanted Bernice alive. She wanted Bernice to understand. That meant there was a way out.

The crackling upstairs was not her imagination. She could see smoke fogging over the sliver of light under the door. There wasn't much time.

Bernice painfully rolled over onto her arms, crushing them and landed with a hard grunt on her other side. She twisted her head in every direction possible, looking for a door, window, wood shoot, anything that would give her a way to keep going.

It wasn't looking good.

A flair caught her eye. She wormed around on her side and craned her neck.

The old wooden stairs were nice and seasoned. With the coating of gasoline, they flamed up without any problem.

The pretense of a stealth apprehension of the suspect was quickly disregarded when they saw the smoke. After that all bets were off. Down the hilly country road the black ugly plumes could be seen for miles.

Agent Wyatt barked commands at Lyle's cell phone while grabbing at the dash. Traversing the peaks and valleys of the road, Lyle was using the off road package in the SUV like he was baha-ing over sand dunes. Agent Wyatt was feeling a tiny bit queasy.

"Every road out of the county, I want a least one squad stopping every car. Call in all the villages. I got state troopers fanning out as we speak." The APB had already been put out on Margie's description and Jessica's too for good measure. It took some intense arm twisting with the county DA and the Sheriff to throw so much manpower at one little woman. However, two confirmed deaths made for good incentive.

She was running now. Five years ago Margaret Abernathy strangled her husband and had the gall to put his body in her anniversary present. And he stayed there, locked away in the unused garage until a thunderstorm did its worst. What he couldn't piece together was how Jessica Breck fit into the picture, if she did at all.

They were within a few miles of the house now. The local township volunteer fire departments would be on the scene shortly. Lyle took a turn that was recommended to be maneuvered at 25 miles an hour, according to the yellow sign, and gunned it to 45. The SUV leaned uncomfortably. Agent Wyatt's eyes went wide but he kept his mouth shut and his machismo intact.

Then Lyle's phone rang. "Wyatt," he chirped crisply.

"Uh, yah, this is Deputy Veuson. Um, is this Agent Wyatt?

"Yes, Deputy, I'm using Investigator Brigand's phone. What do you need?" He couldn't help the impatience creeping into his voice.

"Well, I was just wondering.... do you happen to know a woman named Bernice, Sir?"

The little hairs on the back of his neck stood in acute warning. "Is she okay?" Agent Wyatt asked carefully.

He received a chuckle from the deputy. "Oh yah, she's just fine. I only bring it up 'cause I stopped her here at the river, and she seemed to know all about the investigation. She just wanted me to tell you, 'hi'."

"Good to know," he replied relieved. "I'll let you get back to work then."

"Sure thing," the deputy finished and hung up.

But the neck hair was still obstinately standing. Agent Wyatt's hardened features began to pucker with worry.

"That about the lady from the car the other night?" Lyle asked before mounting another hill.

"Yep."

"Huh," Lyle remarked. "She didn't seem very friendly, you ask me."

"I didn't," Agent Wyatt corrected then added, "Sorry, she's just not too keen on cops." At that point, the irony hit him. He quickly redialed.

"Yello," came the happy reply.

"Deputy Veuson, this is Agent Wyatt again. Can you describe Bernice for me please?"

"From what I can remember," he started, "Blonde, medium build-"

"Yeah, I get that," he interrupted testily. "What was she wearing?"

"Oh." Deputy Veuson answered like he was on the spot, "Um, let's see... I think it was some kind of polo shirt. Yah, a little pink polo shirt, kind of cute, matched her fingernails."

Agent Wyatt stopped listening at "little pink". Bernice didn't wear pink. None of her shirts were little and she did not chitchat with cops.

Her name echoed in his brain with the reverberation of the huge explosion taking place a half a mile in front of them.

She felt it as much as heard it. As the ground shook, the shelves on the wall opposite to her tumbled to the earthen floor, breaking the ancient canning jars and allowing decades old vegetables to escape.

Bernice hunched up into the fetal position as best she could away from the falling debris, but could only manage to guard her torso and head. Her feet and calves were covered in broken glass and unidentified food goo.

But fortunately, the room remained intact. For that she was grateful. She still had a chance.

Earlier, when the stairwell went up in flames, it illuminated the dark basement like a roman candle. Bernice was able to make out every corner. That's how she found the wooden door.

Many of the houses from the 1950's and 60's in that area were built over the foundations of old houses from before the Second World War. Most of them only had partial basements and a few of them had root cellars. Bernice was lucky that it was still there. She was unlucky that it was a good twenty feet across the room.

The slow torturous task of squirming and rolling her beaten and bound body across the unforgiving concrete was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her whole life. She began to lose feeling to her limbs, the shock of her trauma releasing anesthetizing chemicals into her body.

Bernice was ten feet away when the stairwell finally collapsed. The sheer terror of the noise and smoke was what she needed to galvanize her to move that final distance.

Shoving herself onto her back with an agonizing cry, Bernice kicked at the stubborn door repeatedly, swearing loudly and gritting her teeth. It gave, opening about halfway before getting stuck on the dirt inside.

That was all the room she needed. The cool earth felt like a relief on her torn skin. It would itch soon. She would probably get an infection...if she lived that long.

Almost immediately after the shelving collapsed, Bernice was rocked again when half of the house caved into the basement.

"We beat it the hell out of there when we saw the LP tank," the fireman was saying. "You never know with those fuckin' things layin' around." He stood there with his helmet under his arm, sweating profusely in all the heavy gear.

"Good call," Lyle complimented him. "Anyone inside that you could tell?"

"Nah, and with the smoke and fumes, they wouldn't have lasted long anyway."

"So no body count then?"

Agent Wyatt didn't have to look up to see the shake of the fireman's head.

The blast from the tank left a large shallow hole in the ground. It was situated near the laundry room and had apparently destroyed whatever structural integrity was left of the house, which was slowly collapsing into a big smoldering heap.

The attached garage was still standing and on fire. Another department was at work wetting down the hot asphalt shingles to keep the minivan inside from igniting.

He had six different counties hunting Bernice's truck down. If Margie was caught, she'd never see the outside of a prison again, but that wouldn't change anything. If Margie had Bernice's truck then Bernice was dead, and Margie went out of her way to make sure he knew it. The only thing keeping his grief at bay was his anger. It boiled his blood and fed his resolve.

"Lyle, I'm taking your truck." Agent Wyatt abruptly turned to leave. He stopped in his tracks as he watched Cameron's car approach the driveway. "Shit," he cursed. With a heavy head and heart he slowly marched across the lawn to greet them.

Darlene didn't wait for introductions. She was already trotting toward him. "Where's Bernice?" Her face was flushed with worry.

Cameron came up behind her. He held her shoulders and gauged Agent Wyatt's face, tactfully saying nothing.

"Um, I'm sorry, um, Darlene." Agent Wyatt was having trouble articulating with the huge stone forming in his throat. He looked back at the carnage and tried to gather some composure.

He'd had told people before that their loved ones had died. It was a necessary evil of the job. Sometimes he'd get hit or cursed at for it. A grief-stricken father spit in his face once. Knowing that his news would potentially ruin people's lives was a huge responsibility and had to be handled with decorum.

But this was hell. He didn't want to be comforting. He didn't want to be nice. He wanted to track down that evil bitch Margie and wring her neck. "She's gone," he blurted out with a gravelly voice. "I need to get who did this."

"Are you trying to tell me that Bernice is dead?" Darlene's voice jumped an octave. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Yes!" It came out harder than Agent Wyatt wanted, but his emotions were taking over. He beat them back down. "Yes. Bernice came here to confront Margie and she was killed for it. Margie took Bernice's truck. I need to go get her." He enunciated harshly, spitting his acid at the ground, not daring to look up.

He expected Darlene to break down. He was waiting for the weeping and screaming to begin. He was mistaken.

"I want to see her." Darlene's voice was low. "Show me her body."

Agent Wyatt looked up, the impatience taking over. "I don't have time for this."

"I don't care!" Darlene spat back, stepping forward. "I need to see her!"

He shook his head, trying to clear it as much as trying to reason with Darlene. "They didn't find her body. She's gone."

"Then how do you know she's dead?" Cameron reasoned, finally speaking up.

Agent Wyatt looked at the SUV waiting for him. He looked back at the house. It was a pile of misshapen studs and empty walls. One end of the house had caved in completely. The logical side of his brain, detached from the raging emotions, reasoned that the basement must be on that side of the house. Without preamble he marched off. "Hey!" he yelled at the fireman who was talking to Investigator Brigand. "Comere!"

The fireman snuffed out his cigarette, looking over Agent Wyatt with distrust. He sauntered over. "Yah?"

"You guys check the basement?"

The fireman was startled at the question and looked behind him at the convex pile of smoking rubble. "What?" he asked dumbfounded.

"Did you check the basement for bodies?"

"Well, there really wasn't time. I had to get my guys out of there once we saw the tank..."

That was all Agent Wyatt needed to hear. Hope surged through him, replacing the anger. He marched toward the basement without a look back. "Bernice!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "Can you hear me? Bernice!"

"Bernice!" Darlene and Cameron joined him.

He took a step toward the burning timbers and stopped. "Bernice!" he yelled from the edge.

"Stop!" The fireman approached him then. "You can't go in there! No one could live through that!"

Agent Wyatt turned around and grabbed him by the suspenders. "I am Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation. You get your guys over here and get this shit hosed down now! Dead or alive, we don't stop until we find a body!" He tossed him back, making it crystal clear he wasn't taking shit today.

Bernice had kicked as much dirt and garbage around the door as her bound feet would allow, but the smoke was still getting in. She tried working her face into the collar of her shirt to help her breathe and wormed her body down as far to the floor as she could go.

Time was running out.

Maybe Margie wanted her to die after all. She just wanted Bernice to think about it first like with Herb. How long was he conscious before she finished him off?

Maybe Margie didn't really give a shit either way. She just wanted Bernice's truck.

After all the money sunk into that stupid truck, Darlene was gonna be pissed. Hell if that mattered to Bernice if she was going to die anyway.

The sweat and blood smells in her shirt were better than the acrid smoke that seemed to be surrounding her. _You just fall asleep from smoke inhalation, right?_ That didn't sound so bad anymore. At least she wouldn't be sore or tired.

She wondered if she was dreaming when she heard her name. It sounded so far away like it was drifting on a cloud, a smoky cloud. There were lots of people calling her name. It was a choir, a heavenly choir welcoming her. _Guess premarital sex isn't such a sin after all. Who knew?_

But Evan wasn't dead. Why was he singing to her? He was definitely above her. He was right over her head. She could hear him walking. Angels don't walk.

"Bernice!"

She twisted to hear him better and winced from the pain. "Ow!" she said loudly.

There was a pause then more urgent calling. It was closer. "Bernice! Bernice! Are you in there!?"

_Am I?_ She opened her eyes. They stung from the smoke. She coughed. She couldn't stop coughing.

"I can hear her! Over here! Bernice! Hold on Baby!"

She could hear digging. Were they trying to dig her up? Was she dead? Was this her grave?

It was hard to think with all the damn smoke around.

_Chapter_ **25**

It was all very foggy after that.

Bernice remembered the light hurting her eyes. She remembered the wincing pain when the thin bloody planter's wire was unwound from her hands and legs. Evan was talking to her. Darlene was crying. Cameron was carrying her. There was an ambulance and doors. There was an oxygen mask. Someone kept slapping her face. She got mad and called them a motherfucker. They laughed. She didn't see what was so damn funny.

In the hospital it was very bright and noisy with beeps. Pastel-colored people kept sticking her and pulling at her. Some woman complained about digging out all the dirt and gravel. Bernice told her if it was so awful to leave her alone. Someone else told her she being difficult. She told them to eat shit and die.

Evan was in the room somewhere and commented that she was stubborn, then said, "Praise the Lord." Bernice didn't feel like praising God at the moment. It felt like every cell in her body was being scratched at with a jagged fingernail.

She had to turn her head every once in a while and cough up acidic tar. It reminded her of her dad's smoking habit before her mother made him quit. "Did I start smoking?" she asked someone. That person laughed. She didn't get the joke.

Eventually the pulling and scraping stopped. It was replaced with bandaging. Bernice could specifically make out the repeated tearing open of the packaging. Her eyes were carefully covered. There were fewer voices in the room now.

The pain began to ebb to a dull full-body throb. She licked her lower lip and felt someone put a straw to it.

"You thirsty?" It was Agent Wyatt.

Bernice sipped. The water felt good in her throat. She swallowed, wincing, and turned her head away. "You still here, flatfoot?"

There was a chuckle and a hand touching her head. "Always, ma'am." It was his cop voice.

She liked the sound of it. "Good," she said then remembered something before drifting off. "I should have called."

Thankfully, she couldn't see his face.

"She told me Jessica was dead." Bernice laid her head on the soft, familiar pillow and looked out the window of her bedroom.

The moment she woke back up in the emergency room, she insisted that they let her go home. It wasn't an argument won easily. Everyone was against it, including Darlene, at least until Bernice reminded her that they didn't have health insurance. Darlene shut up after that.

Bernice thought she was being quite reasonable listening to "infection this" and "internal bleeding that." They said their pieces, and she simply reminded them that she'd rather lie around at home for free, versus lying in some strange bed with strange noises for five grand a day.

Agent Wyatt was still with her at the hospital, but he was in and out of her room a lot talking on his phone. Even though he tried to put on a good face for her, she could tell by the rigid set of his jaw that they hadn't located Margie or her truck yet.

He and Cameron helped her up to her room. Sometime during her time in the basement, Bernice had managed to screw up her ankles pretty good. X-rays didn't find anything broken, but walking was still a challenge.

It wasn't until Bernice caught her image from the dresser mirror that she finally understood what all the fuss was about. "Holy shit," she whispered. She wanted to cry.

Movie make-up artists would have been impressed with the amount of bruised flesh she witnessed. Her face was a puffy pile of purple, green, and brown. There was a butterfly bandage over her nose and some stitching above one of her eyebrows. Her lips were split, white, crusty appendages under her scabbed up nostrils. Her hair was shaved off in very unflattering chunks. She assumed that was to check for head wounds.

Darlene was behind her, wringing her hands like she was preparing to hold vigil over Bernice's deathbed. After the men gingerly placed her down in the opened sheets, Darlene shooed them out of the room. "Time to get you out of these clothes." She gingerly removed the borrowed hospital gown. There was no helping the involuntary gasp that escaped her mouth.

Bernice looked down at her torso. Bloody scratches and varying degrees of what only could be described as "road rash" skirted their way in and out of the huge ace bandage that covered her torso from boobs to belly button. Again, x-rays found no fractures, but bruised ribs were definitely in play.

Bernice looked up at the shocked Darlene and used her best Monty Python accent. "Tis but a flesh wound," she quoted.

Darlene didn't appreciate the joke. "You almost died, you know."

"Last time I checked, almost doesn't count."

Darlene huffed in disgust. She walked to the dresser. "What do you want to wear?"

"My usual," Bernice answered, cringing at the sheer square footage of abused skin as it wrapped its way around her limbs and down her body.

"You don't want a nightgown?"

"Who am I, Zsa Zsa?" Bernice groused, going to stand. She immediately sat back down in pain. The lack of mobility was making her grumpy. "T-shirt and cut-off sweats will be fine." She went to hoist herself further up into the bed but she realized how injured her wrists were. "Ah, hell," she swore softly.

Darlene approached the bed and held up a large olive t-shirt with a very worn M.A.S.H. logo on it. It was accompanied by a pair of black sweats that had been hacked in half some time ago. "These dumpy enough for you?"

Bernice grinned through her beat-up appearance. "Perfect." She obediently held up her arms to accept her shirt. "Completes the whole war refugee look I was going for."

Darlene held up her weight with no complaints as Bernice painfully pulled on her sweats. Then Darlene helped her into bed.

"Leave the covers off or I'll get too hot." Bernice laid her bruised face down on the cool pillow case and closed her eyes.

That's where Agent Wyatt found her when he came back in. "Darlene, if you don't mind, I need to speak with Bernice alone to get her statement."

"Now, after all she's been through?" Darlene stood like a bodyguard in front of the bed, her arms crossed in objection.

"It's all right." Bernice looked over at him, gauging his reaction with curiosity. "He needs to hear what I know while it's still fresh. Standard procedure, isn't it, Agent Wyatt?"

He had to smirk at the mocking tone. "Yes, ma'am," was the required response.

Darlene had had enough. "Oh good God." She walked out shaking a finger at Agent Wyatt. "Don't you go wearing her out. Bad enough, I got to take care of her as it is." She tartly shut the door.

"Did Margie tell you she killed Jessica?" Agent Wyatt pulled up the upholstered wing back chair closer to the bed.

"No," Bernice replied, watching him. "But I bet if you checked Jessica's old house for five year old trees, you'd find Ms. Breck playing the part as fertilizer."

Agent Wyatt presented a deadpan response to her poorly delivered idea of a joke. "If you ask me," She added more tactfully, "I think after she killed Herb, she finished off Jessica and took over her life."

"That seems a little farfetched." Bernice could see him analyzing her injuries like she was a piece of evidence. Knowing how well he knew her body, she silently wondered if he was making comparisons.

"Let's look at the evidence then," Bernice continued, trying to distract herself from her pessimistic thoughts. "The last receipt found in Jessica's car was from July of '05. The account in the Bahamas was reduced and moved around the same time. I'd place good money on poor widow Abernathy taking a trip south somewhere, and Jessica's passport being used not much longer after that."

"If that's truly your theory, then why didn't she just leave after she got the money?"

"You forget she still had three kids at home." The bandage on one of her ankles started to itch. Bernice went to scratch it and sucked in a breath as her injured wrist protested.

Agent Wyatt immediately assisted her, working his nubby nails over the offending spot. "Better?" he asked.

"Yah." It made her heart all thumpy, watching him cater to her. Bernice swallowed and went back to the subject at hand. "This is how I'm imagining it went down. Margie puts up with Herb's floozies and his money grubbing because she thinks she has to for the kids."

"Then one day she finds out about Jessica, either through the garage or the bar or Herb lets it slip. Anyway, she realizes that Jessica isn't Herb's typical bimbo. After checking out Jessica through her connections at the bank, she finds out about the whole scheme with Herb stealing money from her dad."

"So then she laid out her plans to kill him," Agent Wyatt contributed to the theory, carefully moving his scratching attention to the other ankle.

"Oh, that's nice," Bernice complimented him then continued. "No, I don't think she planned to actually kill Herb. I think she only planned to drug him to get him to admit to the stealing and the affairs. She sent the kids to her dad's for the evening for their anniversary, and when it came out that he was actually going to leave her for Jessica, Margie just snapped."

"And that's why his body wasn't buried." Agent Wyatt concluded.

"There was no time," Bernice reasoned. "She strangled him in a fit of rage, realized what she'd done and had to figure out what to do with the body before her dad brought the kids back home."

He was stroking her leg now. She wasn't even sure it was conscious anymore. "Where do you think she cut up the body?" he asked.

Bernice couldn't help the sick smile that grew on her face. "Darlene actually helped me figure that one out."

Agent Wyatt stopped stroking. "How?"

"When we were at Sam's Farm Supply the other day she commented that planting roses in summer was crazy because of all the hot weather. But Margie told me that the star shaped rose garden out in the back yard was put in to honor Herb's yearly anniversary presents of roses. Their anniversary is in July."

Agent Wyatt was confused. "But Herb got her a freezer for their anniversary."

"That's kind of the point. I think she pulled him out into the yard, did...well...what she had to do and tilled up the bloody spot for a new garden." The smile turned into a sad grimace. "Maybe after nineteen years of marriage, in her mind Herb was going to give her roses one way or the other."

Bernice was frustrated, sore, and itchy. Being it was easier to leave her upstairs, closest to the bathroom, Cameron went to the extra trouble of moving the TV and DVR from the living room to her dresser. She finally got to find out what happened to her favorite character on her crime show, but TV got boring quickly. Bernice tried reading but she couldn't seem to concentrate worth a damn.

Darlene was in every hour or so, coddling her one minute and admonishing her the next. "Well, all those raspberries you babied are almost ready to be picked." She made this announcement as she hauled Bernice off of the toilet. "Guess we know who's job that's gonna be now."

"First crop of hay's done," Bernice grumbled, depressed. "Ask Marsha if Jason's kids would like to make a few bucks." She hung on to Darlene's sturdy shoulders, and they shuffled back to her room. "You may have to supervise for a little bit, but if you pay them by the pint and make sure they're not crushing the berries, it shouldn't work out too bad."

"I'll think about it," was Darlene's way of complimenting Bernice on a good idea. She gave her sore hip an unapologetic shove into the bed and went to grab the brown prescription bottle from the nightstand. Bernice shook it off.

"It's time for another pill," Darlene reminded her.

"No," Bernice refused, gingerly laying herself back against the up-righted pillows. "Those damn things plug me up like nobody's business. I'd rather be sore than constipated."

"But you're not sleeping." Darlene shook the pills like they were some miracle drug. "We can hear you tossing and making noise all the way from my room."

"How long are you going to continue to be a _we_?" Bernice turned onto her less sore side, knowing she was going to have to flip in an hour or so anyway.

Darlene set down the pills and dejectedly concentrated on the hem on the bedspread, running her fingers over the well preserved loops of the chenille. "He goes back to work next Monday."

"Huh." Bernice watched the piss and vinegar drain out of her aunt at that admission. "So then what?"

Darlene turned away. "I don't know. With everything going on with you and this whole murder business, we really haven't talked about it."

"But that's all done now."

"Oh, really smarty pants? Then where's our truck?"

She was interrupted by the cursory pounding on the screen door downstairs and footsteps walking into the kitchen. "Anybody home?" Agent Wyatt yelled.

"I don't know why he bothers," Bernice remarked. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"We're up here!" Darlene bellowed back then turned to Bernice, scowling. "He's only trying to be polite." She looked Bernice over, clicking her tongue. "Considering the shape you're in, it's a miracle he still comes around at all."

"Why don't you just dispense with the pleasantries and call me _damaged goods_ outright?" Bernice smacked away the hand trying to smooth out her chunky, un-brushed hair.

"Shh. He's coming up the stairs. You be nice." Darlene put away the medicine bottles discretely in the nightstand. She made no comment that they had to share the space with a new box of condoms.

Agent Wyatt stopped in the open doorway, leaning casually and inquiring, "Everybody decent?"

"Hardly," answered Bernice, "but you're used to riffraff."

Bernice was not one who could ever be accused of fussing over her appearance, but it actually hurt to watch his handsome face smirk at her from the doorway when she knew she resembled road kill.

"Any news on the truck yet?" Darlene covered Bernice with the blanket, smoothing it out like it was camouflage for the less attractive person underneath.

"Actually, yes." Agent Wyatt left the door jamb and wandered in. Both women were staring at him. He shook his head. "No sign of Ms. Abernathy though."

Darlene automatically moved the wing chair next to the bed and got out of the way. "Where'd you find the truck?"

"It was located in a parking lot next to a storage unit in Roseau, Minnesota." His regulation blue shirt was open at the throat. Bernice guessed the tie and coat were left in the car. "Keys were left inside along with Bernice's purse."

"Seems she's got a thing for storage units." Bernice could already feel her hip protesting. She cringed and shifted more onto her back. "Me, I've had enough of dark, enclosed spaces for a while."

Darlene and Agent Wyatt shared a look in the ensuing silence. Darlene chose to use it as an excuse to leave.

"Hope you're staying for supper, Agent Wyatt," she said over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't miss it," he returned pleasantly.

"What're we havin'?" Bernice barked.

"Well, it should be goat stew after the morning I had, but Cameron decided on burgers and potato salad." Darlene sent an accusing look at Bernice before walking out and shutting the door behind her.

"What was that about?" Agent Wyatt asked, making himself comfortable.

"Oh, she just doesn't appreciate one of our more spirited goats, and with me laid up, she's the one who has to milk her." Bernice watched how easily he was able to stretch his body into the chair. His agility made her jealous. "So, no Margie then?" It was more of an admission than a question.

"Nope." His features darkened. "She's probably somewhere in Canada by now."

"With two million dollars at her disposal, she could disappear for a long time." Bernice wanted to touch him. She didn't know if she was allowed to anymore. Something felt like it had changed.

"You were right about Jessica." That bit of information seemed to perk him up a little. "We found her under a bush set back from the house. The kicker is that the bush was pruned recently. We're waiting for the lab results, but it looks like a good candidate for the organic source of cyanide that was found in those candies."

"Were you able to tell if she was poisoned too?"

"Tox screen might turn up something, but the body's so decomposed..." Agent Wyatt let the sentence drift off as he fidgeted with his pants cuff.

Something was definitely eating at him. "Evan?" she questioned.

He looked up at her and tried to smile it off. "Sorry. Hey, how you holdin' up? Must be pretty swanky sittin' up here, getting out of chores and watching TV." He glanced over at the new addition to the room and teased, "Wish I had known. I would have brought you Bonbons."

"After I got through my saved shows, there wasn't a whole lot left to watch." Bernice noticed he was still distracted, so she tried a different tactic. "So when do you have to go back?"

It hit the mark. Agent Wyatt grimaced. "Tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Yeah, Agent Carlson and I have a meeting with the Attorney General. It ain't gonna be pretty."

"Why, because you didn't get Margie?" Bernice felt like she needed to defend him. "That wasn't your fault."

"It's not just that we didn't get Margie," he corrected her "We wasted lots of money and man hours not getting Margie. The state doesn't look for the reasons. They follow the money."

"But you saved my life." Bernice sat up despite the stabbing pain she received in response. She ignored it. "The video that fireman ran off his phone has been broadcast all over the place. You're a hero. How can they chew you out?"

"That publicity is the only thing saving my job, Bernice." Agent Wyatt stood up and away from her then. "And I'm no hero."

"Right," Bernice returned sarcastically. "You were just doing your job, ma'am. Isn't that right, Officer?"

She wasn't prepared for the anguish on his face when he confronted her. "You were right, Bernice." He said it softly, painfully. "I didn't want to believe you, but you turned out to be right about us cops."

"Evan," she tried to comfort him, "you're not like that."

"Oh yeah?" he scoffed bitterly. "When I figured out that Margie had your truck, I automatically took you for dead. All I wanted to do was hunt her down and make her feel pain. How's that for blood thirsty?" The venom in his voice gave no quarter.

She watched him, her face crinkling into confusion. "I don't understand. You found me."

"If Darlene and Cameron hadn't come along, I would have been back on the road looking for Margie, and you," He couldn't finish the sentence. He beat his fist against the wall in his anger. The violence of it left a shallow dent in the plaster.

Thankfully, no one else was in the house to hear it. The hard thump echoed by itself in the awkward silence of Bernice's bedroom.

When Agent Wyatt finally looked at Bernice, it almost did him in. Tears fell unfettered down her ravaged face. "No." The word was ripped from his throat as he threw himself to her bedside. "Please don't cry. God, Bernice, I am so sorry. I don't deserve you. If I could take back that moment..." He carefully held her beaten form and rocked her.

She clung to him and let all the fear and pain out in his strong willing arms. She buried her face in his chest and wept, finally admitting how close she had been to death. "I've been so stupid," she wailed. "I should have called you when I figured out it was Margie, but I felt so guilty and unsure. I didn't want to get in the way of your job."

"Fuck my stupid job," he declared, kissing her hair and gently rubbing her back.

It was still a little too hard. "Ow," Bernice exclaimed in a small whimper.

Agent Wyatt stopped and looked down at her. "Is there a single square inch on your poor body that isn't in pain?"

She snuggled into him, mumbling, "There's a couple of places."

He shook his head, letting out a relieved but exasperated breath.

Cameron walked into the room. "Burgers are ready." His smile drooped when he realized he had walked into something. "You two need a minute?"

"We're gonna need more than that," he whispered into her ear. Lifting his head, he said, "Hey Cameron, you mind packing us a to-go box? I've got a little surprise for Bernice."

Cameron was hesitant. "Okay, but Darlene's not gonna be happy about you hauling Bernice out of the house in her condition."

"Duly noted," Agent Wyatt acknowledged. "By the way, you didn't happen to make dessert, did you?"

_Chapter_ **26**

"Now, I'm really going to miss you."

Bernice said this while sitting neck high in hot bubbling water. A very naked Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation cradled her between his thighs and messaged her temples and her scalp. Jets of bubbles circulated around them, relaxing her muscles, bringing down the swelling, and numbing the scratches and cuts.

"Mmm," was Agent Wyatt's throaty response. "I'm going to miss you too."

Bernice laughed. "I'll bet."

"What?" he argued. "I will."

"Let me figure out exactly what you're going to miss. Is it getting violated during a massage or getting your head bashed in or having to constantly rescue me from my own recklessness or me breaking your furniture..."

"Hey," he interjected. "I happen to like the way you break my furniture." His hands moved down to message her neck and shoulders. "As a matter of fact, I have a very pretentious Louis-inspired desk with your name on it at my office. You might want to come by for a visit sometime when you're feeling better."

"Hmm." Bernice liked the way he was thinking. "I might just do that."

"And you're right," Agent Wyatt agreed. "I won't miss any of those other things you mentioned. I definitely won't miss finding dead bodies with you." His hands evolved to working little circles around her shoulder blades. "But I will miss you, especially like this."

"You're kidding right? I look like hell."

"That's not what I'm talking about," he corrected her. "I'm talking about us being alone together, no barriers or boundaries between us. We're just two equally naked people whose only agenda is each other."

Whether he was aware of his actions or not, his hands came under her armpits and grazed her breasts. Bernice inhaled at the unexpected intrusion. He immediately moved his hands. "Sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"No." she said.

"Yeah, I know. It was a mistake. I really wasn't trying to-"

She carefully grabbed his retreating hands. "No, I mean don't stop."

Agent Wyatt chuckled. "Bernice, you don't have to..."

She gingerly brought his hands to her breasts. "Touch me."

His palms were wrinkled from their extended time in the water. He glided them slowly, rotating around her breasts and grazing her nipples the way he knew she liked it. She settled back against him, letting her wet head lay on his shoulder. He kissed her on her exposed neck, feeling her moan through her throat.

When Bernice reached up and kissed him, he held her breasts and squeezed gently, groaning into her mouth. "Are you sure you can do this?"

She bit his lower lip. "This is making me feel better." She ran her chapped lips along his rough cheek, trailing her tongue up to his ear. "Skip the ribs and touch me lower."

Her carnal request was making him hard. "Yes, ma'am." Agent Wyatt drawled and took immense pleasure out of causing her to gasp into his ear when he found the sweet spot. He worked that wonderful connection between her nipple and her clitoris and played it like a tantric instrument. Bernice dug her elbows into his thighs and arched into the sweet manipulations, letting the buoyancy of the deep warm water carry her to a gratifying plateau.

She hit it with little pulsing sparks, tightening up her butt cheeks against him and moaning, "God, Evan, you are so good to me." She tentatively tried to put pressure on her hands. She hissed when her wrists decided otherwise. "I just wish that I could return the favor."

"You don't need to," he told her as he nibbled around her jaw. "Can't you feel me behind you?"

She could, and it made her very happy. It also made her resourceful. "I have an idea."

"Oh, dear."

Slowly she raised herself up, letting the water help her. She turned. "If I bend over the tub on my knees, and you come up behind?"

Agent Wyatt shook his head watching her painfully get into position. "Bernice..."

"Evan, I want you."

He knew it wasn't easy for her to say, and it was what he needed to hear. "Just give me a second to suit up."

Between the condom under water and the extreme caution not to further bodily harm, it was an experimental and careful coupling, but it was a successful one that built slowly and gained in momentum and confidence. They celebrated being alive and together, leaving their misgivings with their clothes and the separate lives they represented.

Agent Wyatt bent over Bernice, kissing up the valley of her spinal cord. "You're right, that was a good idea."

She smiled, her cheek lying on the cool ceramic tiles that lined the hotel room's hot tub. "Well, every once in a while I get lucky."

She felt him pause over her prostrate form. "Like it or not, Bernice... I just want you to know...that I love you." He placed one more hesitant kiss on her back and then stood up out of the water.

Bernice's eyes popped open. Her brain whirled like a New Year's noise maker before it settled on the disturbing thought. _Shit_ , it proclaimed. _What the hell am I suppose to do with that?_

"See how many I got?" Michael proudly held up a green plastic container to show off his work. "I'm gonna beat Kevin."

Bernice smiled at him and looked over at the opponent in question, who was much more interested in his phone than picking raspberries. _Oh, to be young and stupid_ , Bernice thought, but she went ahead and put her camp counselor voice into play. "Hey Kevin, if Darlene catches you with that phone in your hand, she's libel to try out the new wood chipper."

Kevin's supreme look of alarm as he stashed the phone in his pocket made her wonder if he thought she meant he'd go into the chipper instead. She shrugged it off. Either way, he was working again.

Bernice sat on an old blanket near the bottom of the patch and contented herself to picking whatever berries were in reach, promptly popping them into her mouth. As far as she was concerned, that was what supervising was all about.

Her wrists still looked like a botched suicide job but the muscles were finally starting to heal up. Her ankles were being more stubborn. Walking to the bathroom was a long drudging process requiring advance planning, but it was still better than Darlene treating her like a big baby.

Being outside and watching spring heat into summer was the best medicine yet. Freshly mowed grass, ripe berries, and quick little breezes to cool the skin against the big bright sunshine; these were all things that made Bernice surmise that life wasn't too bad.

Her pocket began to buzz. She almost squealed but caught herself. Ever since their last night together in the hot tub, Agent Wyatt had made it his mission not to give up on Bernice, no matter what distance was put between them. He faithfully called every day.

The conversations were short and a little flirty but very light. "You won't hear the l-word from me again until you're ready to say it too." That was the last thing he conveyed to her before goinh back to Madison two weeks before.

Bernice still wasn't ready to say it back. It would take time to believe that wretched little word could be trusted to enter her heart and vocabulary again. It was still too soon.

She popped out her phone, watching Michael's eyes bulge in greed at a particularly huge berry. She chirped out a greeting. "Well hey there, stranger."

It wasn't Evan. "Um, hey there yourself."

Bernice stared at the LED reading of _UNKNOWN CALLER_. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she scolded herself. That was what caller ID was for.

"So you're alive," Margie continued pleasantly.

Bernice's eyes went buggy. She simply gaped at the phone in her hand and said nothing.

"I'm glad you're alive."

The anger finally kicked in. "Where are you?" Bernice hissed harshly.

"Oh, I'm around," was Margie's singsong reply. "Still in transit though. No point having your boyfriend trace the call. I'll be off this tower and long gone by then."

"So you're calling to gloat?" Bernice tried to come up with some way to make the call useful. So far, it was only frightening.

"I saw your rescue on the news and just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"No thanks to you, lady."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry things got out of hand the way they did." The pleasant voice was replaced with the flat one.

"So you're just going to disappear and leave everyone else to clean up your mess including your father and children?"

There was the impatient sigh again. "I could have disappeared when things got out of hand five years ago with Herb, but I didn't. My family is old enough to take care of themselves now."

"What about that poor man who sold Herb the freezer, or your lover in the Bahamas, or me? Were we just getting in your way?"

There was another sigh. "When I was Margie, I wasn't given much of a choice about the life I had. As Jessica I was free to find out what life really had to offer, but it came with a price. The person I get to be now has the chance to start all over again and maybe get it right this time."

"So you're gone for good? You're never coming back?" Agent Wyatt would never stop looking for her. The case would never go cold for him. Somehow he would find her, and Bernice would help him.

There was a bizarre little laugh coming from her phone.

"Oh... ya never do know, do ya?"

The End

Excerpt from...

FEMUR

in the

Fieldstone

Dairyland Murders Book 2

by Chris Seaton Copyright 2011

"Leave it to you to waste a perfectly decent day." Darlene stood and exhaled audibly, letting the cool breeze of September honor her with its presence.

"Well, Lord forbid I actually get to enjoy it with you griping every five minutes," Bernice returned. She poked the crowbar into the pile and twisted it into a small hole between the stones, working it until a decent sized boulder popped loose. The boulder reluctantly vacated the home it had occupied for decades and rumbled down the short slope onto the grassy ground. "No one held a gun to your head," she added acidly.

They looked like an odd couple doing an odd job. In the mid-morning sun two women of a certain age were perched on either side of a haphazard pile of roly-poly rocks. They were on the edge of a tree line that marked the boundary between two neglected fields.

"Well, considering your track record for getting in trouble, I figured it'd be in my best interest to make sure you didn't break nothin', messing around out here." Darlene managed to palm a football sized rock in each hand and walk the short distance to the back of the pickup truck.

Bernice did her best not to be jealous. After her brush with death a couple months earlier, her body just wasn't healing fast enough for her taste. Walking every day was helping with her ankles, but her back and ribs were being a lot more stubborn about getting with the program.

"It's not messing around," Bernice corrected her, grunting and gritting as she slowly pulled a smaller rock up to her chest. "It's taking advantage of an opportunity. Do you know how much these rocks would cost if I had to buy them? Mrs. Beaker is just giving them to us for free." With a very unladylike, "Huvvv!" she heaved her prize into the protesting truck box.

"What she's doing is taking advantage of the free labor so she doesn't have to pay someone to haul them off of this property." Darlene picked up a couple more boulders and dropped them in. "You ask me, you might as well just go into town and get _sucker_ tattooed on your forehead."

Bernice stopped and leaned on the truck, frustrated and quickly losing her patience. "Look, I already confiscated every rock on the farm that I could find. It's still not enough hardscape for the new garden." She held up her hand with a stern face, sensing an old objection. "I'm putting in this garden with or without your help, so put up or shut up." She stomped back to her place on the pile, grumbling, "I know I'm not going to get both."

For quite a while after that, the task of moving the rocks from the pile to the truck was performed in silence. The tall, wheat colored weeds and wild flowers in the surrounding fields filled in the gap with swishing sounds when the wind disturbed them where they stood. They were in the twilight of their lives, tall and tippy, heavy with seed and waiting for their internal clock to tell them it was time.

The plants were joined by the nuthatches, chickadees, and cedar waxwings that were populating the trees further down the strip from the rock pile. Their chatter and chirping came and went with the wind. They hopped quickly and covertly through the branches, scavenging whatever berries and bugs that could be found.

It would have been quite a lovely moment, but Darlene and Bernice, the aunt and niece owners of Lollygagger's Acres were just too crabby with each other to truly enjoy it.

Darlene, stubbornly proving that she was actually capable of holding her tongue, took her mood out on a bowling ball sized boulder. She kicked at it repeatedly with her foot until she found the sweet spot, and it gave way. Unfortunately, she didn't take the laws of physics into account, and her side of the pile began to slide down with the boulder like a tiny avalanche.

Bernice saw it coming and grabbed Darlene's arm, pulling them both off balance. They wound up falling backwards down the other side. Thankfully, neither got hurt, but landing in the mature bed of burdock was not met with enthusiasm.

As they trudged back out, it was evident that the prickly little pom-poms clung like barnacles to whatever exposed sock, shoelace, or strand of hair available, in hopes of colonizing a new home elsewhere.

Regrettably, this was not the first time either of them had dealt with such an infestation. They left the barb-covered orbs intact for the moment, knowing full well that disturbing them only encouraged the little bastards to fall apart on contact. It would make the complete removal of the seeds that much more tedious.

Darlene's tolerance had hit its breaking point. "I've had enough," she proclaimed haughtily. "Let's get this shit over with and go home."

Bernice surveyed the results of their unintentional land slide. "Looks like we got enough here anyway. Let's gather a few more up and head back."

"'Bout damn time," Darlene grumbled.

Instead of reacting negatively, Bernice smirked at her aunt. "Ah, you're just pissy 'cause Cameron's missing your play date this weekend."

"Hey, I understand he's got a job to do," Darlene defended her bad mood. "Don't mean I gotta be happy about it."

Cameron Sparks was a large, dark, fifty-ish blast from their past. Bernice had worked with him when she was a reporter for Action 18 News in Minneapolis. He was a veteran camera guy. Cameron got re-acquainted with the ladies when the remains of a man long forgotten (by most accounts with good riddance) were discovered in the neighbor's barn.

Cameron and Darlene reawakened old passions which quickly turned into something deeper. He was fast becoming a fixture at the farm. With his expertise in the kitchen, Bernice's therapeutic walks were also required to work off the extra calories.

Unfortunately, duty called him away that particular weekend. He was off shooting footage of tornado damage in Northeastern Minnesota.

They began to make quick, steady work of picking up all the rocks and setting into the truck bed. "Hopefully, I get to have the house to myself for a change," Darlene remarked, sending a skeptical eye in Bernice's direction, "unless _he_ cancels again."

"If _he_ does, he does." Bernice rolled the rock onto the tail gate and bent down to grab another. "I just hate wasting reservations. That's all."

_He_ was Evan Wyatt, Special Agent in Charge from the Madison office of the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation. So far, he'd been unable to locate and apprehend a certain serial killer. As a result, he'd been working obnoxious amounts of overtime to keep himself in marginally good graces with his higher ups and hopefully keep his job.

Agent Wyatt and Bernice's initial meeting was about as prickly as the burdock barbs digging into her ankle. Even so, they somehow managed to forge a tentative partnership to expose that killer. Overcoming mounting corpses and subsequent attempts on their lives, the attraction between them was undeniable. It eventually won out over emotional obstacles and practical common sense.

Bernice had been spoiled in her previous relationship with the convenience of a local entrepreneur who made his own schedule. Agent Wyatt lived and worked on the other end of the state. His job was unpredictable and time-consuming.

After four hastily canceled dates, Bernice had resorted to bringing the mountain to Mohamed. She showed up at his office for a late evening appointment with a gift box of fudge. Following the pleasurable destruction of his pretentious desk, the last physical reminder of his ex-wife, the rest of the date had continued in his apartment where they shopped for a new desk from his laptop in bed. Bernice had never realized how much better fudge tasted when one was naked.

That had been three weeks ago. For their latest rendezvous Bernice had gone online and found a deal on a swanky hotel in downtown St. Paul, complete with dinner reservations. For the last week she had called in almost daily to make sure some other crisis hadn't cropped up. There were no new stings on meth houses, no sudden raids on suspected pot farms, and no new dead bodies. So far, so good.

Darlene glanced over at the fieldstone and stopped, perplexed. Investigating, she removed some rubble out of her line of vision. It was hard to make out, but there seemed to be more soil in the newly exposed part of the pile. The additional earthworms squirming indignantly at having been exposed made it clear something was different. She pulled their protesting bodies aside and began to recognize what she was looking at. "Hey Bernice, I think there's an animal buried in here."

Bernice looked up and frowned. "Ew, you mean like a dog or something?"

Darlene shifted her head, looking at the newly excavated piece of bone. "No, it's bigger, more like a cow."

Bernice let her eyes take in the entire pile of rocks and shook her head in disagreement. "No, can't be a cow. The rock pile's not big enough for a whole cow."

Darlene leveled a knowing glare, remarking, "You of all people know firsthand that a body will fit in a smaller space if you cut it up enough."

Bernice reacted with a very distasteful expression when the phone in her pocket rang. She looked at the caller ID and noted, "Someone else who knows that first hand." She started the conversation with, "please tell me you are taking me away from all this."

In response there was a chuckle followed by a sad sigh. It didn't sound promising. "Please don't hate me," was Agent Wyatt's pleading response.

"What now?" Bernice didn't bother hiding the disappointment in her voice. Darlene discreetly busied herself with the rock pile.

There was another sigh. "Trouble down at the UW Platteville Campus." He didn't elaborate. He simply said, "I'm really sorry."

Now it was Bernice's turn to sigh. "You know, I have a good mind to go all by myself and call you from the huge, jetted tub in our hotel room."

"Would it be one of _those_ kinds of phone calls?"

She smiled. "I don't know. Would you have me arrested for sexting?" She liked the frustrated groan she got in response. "Well, if absence makes the heart grow fonder..."

"It makes other organs ornery and uncomfortable," Agent Wyatt countered. "How about another visit to my office, ma'am?"

"See, I knew you were getting spoiled," Bernice teased. "I can wait."

"Suit yourself. Gotta go. Later, Bunny." He mocked her with the dreaded nickname.

"You're gonna pay for that," she warned and hung up her phone.

When Bernice turned around, she was completely taken off guard. Darlene was standing on the rock pile and holding a large long bone over her head like it was some sort of primitive trophy.

"See," Darlene pointed out, "Look how big it is. Definitely gotta be a cow bone."

Bernice couldn't help but giggle. "All right, Mrs. Flintstone, you've made your point."

The giggling subsided almost as quickly as it had begun. Bernice felt a tightness of apprehension creep into her as she approached the newly exposed part of the rock pile. It increased until her scalp felt like it was being pricked with painful needle points. She blinked a couple of times, hoping her mind was playing tricks on her.

"Darlene," she cautioned in a low voice, "I think you should put the bone down. Now."

Darlene knew the tone and didn't like it. She immediately dropped the bone like it was on fire and launched herself off of the pile, catching her balance in a couple of steps after her ungraceful dismount. She briskly wiped her hands on the ground, twisting her face with appalled revulsion. "Good God, don't tell me."

Bernice pointed to the grimy heel of the exposed tennis shoe and simply said, "Call the cops."

Exert from...

FEMUR

in the

Fieldstone

Dairyland Murders Book 2

by Chris Seaton Copyright 2011

Don't miss a single book in the Dairyland Murders Series:

Book 1: Head in a Haymow

Book 2: Femur in the Fieldstone

Book 3: Cop Incognito

Book 4: Torso in the Torrent

Book 5: Blonde in the Backwaters

Find out more at  www.dairylandmurders.com

