Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,4

moved to Bitterwood until she was a freshman in high school.

Her parents had gone to Maryville with two other couples for dinner and a movie. They’d returned shortly after midnight to find their daughter dead in her bedroom upstairs. Multiple stab wounds washed clean and free of blood. The cotton pajamas in which her killer had dressed her had barely had a drop of blood on them.

“We have potential witnesses to interview.” Ivy’s chin came up, even though she looked bone tired. Sutton wondered if she’d been awake when the call came in about Marjorie Kenner. Pulling an all-nighter with her case files?

He’d been pulling an all-nighter himself, which was why he’d been awake to hear the dispatcher send out a call for units to respond to a 187—a homicide.

“I’ll make myself scarce,” Sutton told Parsons. “Leave you two to your interviews.”

Ivy’s hand closed over his arm as he started to walk away, her grip strong. He looked down at her hand where it circled his arm, surprised by a sudden spark of sexual awareness. Her hand was warm and dry, her touch firm, but running through his head like a motion picture were images of her hands on his body, exploring with the same sure, firm touch.

Where the hell had that reaction come from? He and Ivy had never shared that kind of connection back in the day.

Of course, back then, she’d been a skinny fifteen-year-old with sad eyes and a whole lot of pain on her plate, and he’d been a restless eighteen-year-old with one foot already out of town.

“Where are you staying, in case I need to get in touch?” Despite the casual tone she used, Sutton knew he’d be hearing from her sooner or later.

He tried not to let his suddenly fevered brain continue down the sexually charged path onto which it had already wandered. “The motel on Route 4. Stay and Save.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “I see. Does Cleve know you’re in town?”

“No. And I’d just as soon keep it that way.” He didn’t know if he could get away with being in town without running into the old man, but he sure as hell intended to try.

“You have a cell phone?”

She wasn’t going to let it go, was she? He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Nice to see you again, Ivy Hawkins.”

Her eyes darkening, she took the card and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. “Same here.” He didn’t think she meant it.

She held his gaze a moment longer, reigniting the flood of titillating mental images running through his brain. Then she turned and walked away without a further goodbye.

He took several deep breaths as he walked back to his Ford Ranger, trying to drag his mind back to the questions raised by the latest murder. He’d come to Bitterwood thinking he’d know pretty quickly whether or not he could help solve the Billings girl’s murder.

He hadn’t expected to hear about similar murders. But research had led him to two other murders in Bitterwood over the past couple of months. Three, counting Marjorie Kenner’s. So, maybe not a crime of passion, as he’d suspected of April Billings’s murder.

Back in the truck, he checked his email, though it was too early for anyone from the office to have come through with the information he’d requested. But apparently one of his fellow Cooper Security agents was an early riser; he had an email from Delilah Hammond waiting in his in-box.

“Call me,” it said.

Uh-oh.

He dialed her number, unsurprised when she answered on the first ring. Nor was he surprised that she didn’t even bother with a greeting.

“Have you lost your damned mind?”

“Hello to you, too,” he said, stifling a grin.

“You had the good sense to get out of Bitterwood years ago, and you take the first job out of that godforsaken hollow that comes slithering through the office?”

Delilah Hammond had lived in Bitterwood for seventeen years before she got out on a college scholarship. She’d seen her brother Seth sucked in by Cleve Calhoun’s unique brand of larcenous charm and live to pay for it. Sutton didn’t blame her for her reaction. But he knew what he was doing.

“It’s only for a few days,” he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

“You are not using your reasonable tone with me, Sutton Calhoun. Tell me you’re not.”

“I’m not,” he lied.

“Yes, you are.” Her annoyance came across the phone line, clear as glass. “I’m not trying to be bossy here.”

“You live