LITMIR.BIZ

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money. He would come to a friend’s or neighbor’s aid without being asked. But socially he’d become a loner since a broken engagement to a young woman from a neighboring Montana town.

      He moved closer to a counter. A fan on it fluttered sun-streaked strands of his brown hair away from his forehead. “What’s this for?” he asked, drawing her away from her thoughts.

      She pivoted to see him gesturing at the display of scented candles. She couldn’t resist a tease at his expense. “Light.”

      Straight, dark brows bunched with his scowl.

      “Some people buy them for romance,” she said to lighten the moment.

      “Or séances?”

      Tessa went on. “Other people find tarot cards and Ouija boards and dowsing rods interesting.”

      “All things to help tell the future.”

      “If that’s what a customer wants. I don’t use crystal balls or tea leaves or tarot cards.”

      “I heard differently. I heard you can read crystals to predict the future. Something about different crystals meaning different things.”

      Why would he have bothered to learn about that? “Crystal clairvoyants cast five crystals. The pattern in which they fall tells the future.”

      “But you don’t do that?” He stopped beside shelves where she’d displayed ginger jars containing herbs, decks of tarot cards, astrological charts and the colored crystals.

      “I can, but I don’t predict.”

      He pivoted toward another wall of shelves displaying tea leaf cups, runes, Celtic crosses and candles. “You told Sylvia not to have real flowers.”

      She couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, I did.”

      He kept staring at the high ceiling as if something important was written on it. Hanging from a beam, a giant brilliant blue sphere rotated in slow motion in a corner of the room. “Isn’t that predicting?”

      “I never told her they would wilt.”

      “This building must be a devil to keep cool,” he said suddenly.

      Tessa nearly laughed at the so serious, practical observation. “Not usually.” The cost of heating or cooling the old building had seemed inconsequential to her. She’d fallen in love with the Victorian. It had carried a positive aura with its warm, homey feel. At the time, she’d needed to keep negativity out of her life. She doubted this man would understand such whimsical thinking. “It has been miserably hot,” she finally added.

      “Global warming.” A crackly voice cut in. Tessa smiled at Margaret Hansen, one of her best customers but a legendary eavesdropper. The elderly lady had a penchant for hot-pink fingernail polish. Today it matched the artificial pink rose stuck in her snow-white hair. “Can I see that one?” she asked, pointing to an astrological chart under a glass display.

      The store occupied the first floor of the Victorian. Tessa had replaced one of the side windows with a huge, octagonal-shaped one. On sunny days, light poured into the room. Italian lights outlined display shelves. In the middle of the room near the checkout counter was a black wrought-iron spiral staircase that led to a loft and shelves of books about astral projection, channeling, I Ching, even herb cooking.

      She withdrew the astrological chart for Margaret. “Look it over, Mrs. Hansen. See if it’s what you want.” Tessa crossed to Colby. He was staring at the storeroom. “Yes, it was once a kitchen. Still is, but I cook upstairs in my apartment.”

      He slanted a look at her. “Is supplying an answer before I ask a question supposed to be a demonstration of your mind-reading ability?”

      “It’s called observation. I saw you looking back there. Why are you here?”

      “Don’t you know why?”

      “Yes, I’ve heard.” Tessa had read the newspaper stories about Harriet Martel’s murder. Colby’s aunt had been forty-three, the head librarian and four months pregnant.

      As if tempted, he touched the deck of red tarot cards. “My aunt—”

      “Was Harriet Martel,” she finished for him. “I’ve heard about her. I’m very sorry.”

      He was going to ask her. She knew there was no other reason for him to have stepped into her store. Too practical. This was a logical, realistic man who believed in only what he could see.

      “I want to hire you.” Often people, even those who viewed her as a fraud, considered asking for her help when all else failed. “The sheriff’s investigation is at a dead end.” He honestly sounded stymied.

      Tessa rushed a refusal before he explained more. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I can’t get involved.”

      He drilled a look at her that carried both annoyance and puzzlement. “I understand you know my mother, Louise Holmes.”

      She wasn’t a fool. He was leading her in a different direction deliberately. “Yes.” Her guard went up with his shift in conversation. “Louise is a lovely woman.” A friend of Sylvia’s, Louise had come into the store several times during the past two weeks. Tessa had seen a photograph of Harriet and had noted a resemblance between her and Louise Holmes. Louise was softer-looking, and unlike the unsmiling Harriet, Louise possessed one of the most wonderful smiles Tessa had ever seen. A hundred-watt, sunshiny smile that conveyed warmth and genuine friendliness. Tessa had yet to see Colby really smile, couldn’t help wondering if he had the same smile.

      She’d met his father, too. Handsome, he was an older, heavier version of Colby. Known as Bud since his days as star quarterback at the local high school, Adam Holmes had been a rancher all his life. He and Louise were well-liked by a lot of people in town.

      “It was bad enough when my mother thought Harriet had died by her own hand, when everyone, including Sheriff Reingard, thought she’d committed suicide.”

      “They know now it was murder.”

      “Right. When my mother learned Harriet had been killed, she was stunned.”

      Tessa wanted to turn away, but she heard such affection in his voice when he talked about his mother.

      “She won’t rest unless we find out who killed Harriet.”

      Nice, Tessa thought. Mr. Macho, Mr. Rugged was nice—sensitive. In seconds, she’d learned he was a good son. He’d unveiled a wealth of family concern. She’d known another man who’d never understood loyalty to family, who could ignore responsibilities without a glance back.

      “Look, I wasn’t as close to her as I’d been when younger. She’d been living in Boston for a while, and when she came back to Rumor, I was on the rodeo circuit.”

      And he felt guilty for not being around for her.

      “I’ve heard she was unhappy, especially during the past few months.”

      That Harriet was having an affair had fueled the gossip.

      “You’ve probably heard. The sheriff’s investigation is stalled. For a while, everyone was convinced the killer was local. Now we’re not so sure because of Warren Parrish.” Anger teetered just below the surface of his voice. “He claims he’s Harriet’s estranged husband. One day weeks ago he unexpectedly arrived in town.”

      In spite of herself, curiosity got the best of her. “Do you think he killed her?”

      “I don’t like him. I wouldn’t mind seeing him gone and behind bars. There was a book in Harriet’s house with blood on it. Her own. She used it to print some letters. H and I and an N or M or R. I’ll see if I can get the book for you.”

      Tessa shook her head. “I don’t want it, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Colby. Call me Colby. Chelsea Kearns, the forensic expert, has come up with a profile of the killer. I’ll get it for

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