even if I have to climb the damn fence at midnight.”
Half an hour later, Dena pulled into a parking space at the Rancho Almagro Police Department sub-station next door to the post office annex in Old Town. Only a black and white, and one motorcycle, were parked in the other spaces. With her mouth set in determination, she strode inside.
A gray-haired man sat at a computer behind a countertop. “Good afternoon,” Dena said. “I’m trying to locate Deputy Stanton.”
A uniformed deputy, who sat behind another computer, scraped his chair back, stood and walked over to the counter.
“Deputy Stanton is off duty. Can I help you?”
Bummer, she had no connection with this man. “I’m Dena Roman, the sister of Carli Jarvis.” The deputy frowned, and then squinted. She guessed he searched his mental file. “Murder victim. Three months ago. Body buried at the hotel site next to Three C’s Estates.”
His head jerked upward. “Sorry, Miss—”
“Roman,” Dena reminded him. She’d given him a bullet list on Carli and sounded more like a cop than a sister. She had to do that though—disengage—because then she could discuss Carli’s situation in public without her eyes tearing up.
“How can I help you?”
“I’ve spoken with Deputy Stanton a few times by phone. Now with the second victim, well, I wanted to discuss Carli’s case.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation and—”
“Have they ID’d the second woman? Is there a connection?”
The deputy swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. She stared at the start of black whiskers on his neck to avoid his penetrating dark eyes. He hadn’t shaved close enough this morning, if at all.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I do understand your concern, but I’m not in a position to discuss the case with anyone.”
“But, I’m family—” Oh, hell. Her eyes began to well up and she blinked hard several times.
“Come back tomorrow. Deputy Stanton might be able to help.”
“Thanks.” She shoved her sunglasses on and left.
Ten minutes later, Dena inhaled the aroma of robust coffee and tried to quell her anger at all men: first Zeke, then Rocky, then the cop. She looked around the Starbucks, glad she’d noticed it earlier. She stirred the froth into the liquid, took a sip of the cappuccino, and let out a sigh. A blonde woman came in wearing running clothes, and a redhead sprang up and hugged her tight. As they laughed and joked with the barista, Dena caught fragments of their conversation and felt loneliness wash over her. Something about the redhead needing extra bartenders at a place called Cliffs. She didn’t have a lot of gal pals. Her life consisted of being on call twenty-four-seven for her mostly bratty celebrity clients, and she had no social life worth thinking about. She looked up as the women took their drinks and left, arm in arm. She swallowed hard. She missed companionship.
Dena walked over and tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash bin. She’d just come from Old Town, but needed an icebreaker. “How far away is Old Town? And did that blonde woman say she owns a spa? I might get a massage.”
“I’ll write down the directions. Debbie Williams owns The Healing Spa. Rachel Copeland owns Cliffs. It’s a good place for dinner or a drink.”
“Thanks.” Dena indicated the stack of newspapers. “It’s a terrible thing about those murders, isn’t it?”
“Shocking. Things like that don’t usually happen in these parts. Least as how, they never used to.”
“Did the first victim come in here? Did you know her?”
The woman shook her head. “She wasn’t a local.”
“Do you think there’s a connection to that farm? I forget the farmer’s name, but I know he’d only just moved back here—”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No, no way.” Dena laughed and looked around the café. A guy seated near the door gave her the “what’s up?” tilt of his chin. “I’m a visitor.”
“Zeke is getting a bum rap. I knew him in high school—”
“Oh, sorry for my comments, please…tell me about him.”
“He’s a successful lawyer and managed to escape this hell hole. Everyone lashes out, or looks at his return with suspicion.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Damn narrow-minded locals.”
“Small towns are all the same. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sorry for my outburst, some of these people chafe my butt,” the woman said, and handed over the directions. “Have fun.”
“Thanks. Um, what about that property on the other side of the hotel? Who does that belong to?”
“West Coast Citrus,” the woman said. She walked over to a coffee urn