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you?”
“For a few more revolutions,” Jasmine said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Should I know what you’re talking about?”
“Only if you live on a carousel.”
“In other words, no.” Rogan flicked a look at the deputy, who seemed to want the shadows to swallow him up.
The tension returned. The chief’s lips thinned. “Right. Back to business. Except…” With a subtle head motion at Jasmine, he aimed a questioning look at Rogan.
Intercepting it, Jasmine held out her hand. “Elizabeth McCabe. My friends call me Jasmine Ellis. Michael here still prefers the name Rogan.”
“Cover story?” the chief assumed.
Rogan moved a shoulder. “That was the plan.”
“Life’s all about plans. Ian Cutless,” he said to Jasmine. Then he made a showcase gesture. “And this, my friends, is the nephew of the woman I’m currently seeing. His name’s Wesley Hamilton-Blume. His favorite pastimes are eating, sleeping and blowing up bad guys on his iPhone. Sound impressive? Well, let’s see. He can outgun any gaming adversary online, and eat more blueberry pies than the three of us combined.” His expression hardened. “He can also lose prisoners like nobody’s business.”
“I didn’t lose him,” the deputy defended. His gaze dropped back to the floor. “He escaped.”
“Escaped,” the chief repeated. “While you slept off a massive dinner in your—no, my —chair.” He held up a finger to count. “I leave town at 3:00 p.m. Deputy collects the prisoner’s meal tray at five-thirty. Then deputy lumbers off and doesn’t check the cells again until I get back at—” he regarded his watch “—ten forty-five the following day. I go in, and what do I find? Fresh scratch marks around the lock, a lump of nothing under the blanket and two black feathers lying on the pillow.”
“Feathers?” Slithery knots formed in Jasmine’s stomach. “Why feathers?”
“Because my now-gone prisoner likes to thumb his nose at the law. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice enough fellow most days. Eccentric, but that’s normal in this town. Teaches at the local school.”
Oh, damn, Jasmine thought. “What did your prisoner do to get arrested?”
“He broke in here and started diddling with my office computer. I caught him doing the same thing earlier and warned him, but did he listen? No. Yesterday afternoon he was back doing it again. So I invited him to spend the night in one of our cells. Evidently—” he shot the deputy a virulent look “—he chose not to accept.”
“What’s his name?” Jasmine hated to ask.
“Mud when I get hold of him. But in the day to day, he goes by Grant, Lenny Grant.”
Chapter Seven
“I knew this would happen.” Jasmine stormed into Daniel’s cottage, mindless of the magazines that swayed in her wake. “Daniel’s gone, we’re here, and so is the legend that got him two death feathers and me one. I can’t believe I was worried about him. He’s a cat with nine hundred lives. Okay, maybe you didn’t know your friend Ian Cutless was the police chief here when we were in Salem, but all you had to do was call. We could have saved ourselves a long trip and the thrill of spending the night in a paper jungle.”
Rogan leaned a shoulder on the door frame. “You’re forgetting, Cutless was in Portland last night. And Daniel escaped from his cell sometime between when the chief left and when he returned.”
“Are you telling me that Wesley is the only deputy this town has?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Her lips tipped into a false smile. “In that case, your old friend’s an idiot.”
“Wesley’s father is the mayor.”
“And his aunt’s dating the chief. Still an idiot.”
“Doesn’t alter the fact that we had to come.”
“No? Huh.” When Boris poked his nose into her leg, she bent to pet him. “So tell me again, Rogan—or maybe it’s for the first time—how do you expect to catch a murderer into whose hands we appear to be
“For a few more revolutions,” Jasmine said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Should I know what you’re talking about?”
“Only if you live on a carousel.”
“In other words, no.” Rogan flicked a look at the deputy, who seemed to want the shadows to swallow him up.
The tension returned. The chief’s lips thinned. “Right. Back to business. Except…” With a subtle head motion at Jasmine, he aimed a questioning look at Rogan.
Intercepting it, Jasmine held out her hand. “Elizabeth McCabe. My friends call me Jasmine Ellis. Michael here still prefers the name Rogan.”
“Cover story?” the chief assumed.
Rogan moved a shoulder. “That was the plan.”
“Life’s all about plans. Ian Cutless,” he said to Jasmine. Then he made a showcase gesture. “And this, my friends, is the nephew of the woman I’m currently seeing. His name’s Wesley Hamilton-Blume. His favorite pastimes are eating, sleeping and blowing up bad guys on his iPhone. Sound impressive? Well, let’s see. He can outgun any gaming adversary online, and eat more blueberry pies than the three of us combined.” His expression hardened. “He can also lose prisoners like nobody’s business.”
“I didn’t lose him,” the deputy defended. His gaze dropped back to the floor. “He escaped.”
“Escaped,” the chief repeated. “While you slept off a massive dinner in your—no, my —chair.” He held up a finger to count. “I leave town at 3:00 p.m. Deputy collects the prisoner’s meal tray at five-thirty. Then deputy lumbers off and doesn’t check the cells again until I get back at—” he regarded his watch “—ten forty-five the following day. I go in, and what do I find? Fresh scratch marks around the lock, a lump of nothing under the blanket and two black feathers lying on the pillow.”
“Feathers?” Slithery knots formed in Jasmine’s stomach. “Why feathers?”
“Because my now-gone prisoner likes to thumb his nose at the law. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice enough fellow most days. Eccentric, but that’s normal in this town. Teaches at the local school.”
Oh, damn, Jasmine thought. “What did your prisoner do to get arrested?”
“He broke in here and started diddling with my office computer. I caught him doing the same thing earlier and warned him, but did he listen? No. Yesterday afternoon he was back doing it again. So I invited him to spend the night in one of our cells. Evidently—” he shot the deputy a virulent look “—he chose not to accept.”
“What’s his name?” Jasmine hated to ask.
“Mud when I get hold of him. But in the day to day, he goes by Grant, Lenny Grant.”
Chapter Seven
“I knew this would happen.” Jasmine stormed into Daniel’s cottage, mindless of the magazines that swayed in her wake. “Daniel’s gone, we’re here, and so is the legend that got him two death feathers and me one. I can’t believe I was worried about him. He’s a cat with nine hundred lives. Okay, maybe you didn’t know your friend Ian Cutless was the police chief here when we were in Salem, but all you had to do was call. We could have saved ourselves a long trip and the thrill of spending the night in a paper jungle.”
Rogan leaned a shoulder on the door frame. “You’re forgetting, Cutless was in Portland last night. And Daniel escaped from his cell sometime between when the chief left and when he returned.”
“Are you telling me that Wesley is the only deputy this town has?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Her lips tipped into a false smile. “In that case, your old friend’s an idiot.”
“Wesley’s father is the mayor.”
“And his aunt’s dating the chief. Still an idiot.”
“Doesn’t alter the fact that we had to come.”
“No? Huh.” When Boris poked his nose into her leg, she bent to pet him. “So tell me again, Rogan—or maybe it’s for the first time—how do you expect to catch a murderer into whose hands we appear to be
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