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the mayor’s office. It took the phone seven rings to go to voice mail.

      “This is Jade Carson, and I think I’ve had a break-in. Can someone call me right back, please.”

      Applebaum was a hands-on kind of mayor, proud of always being available to the townspeople. His voice mail would forward to both his and his secretary’s cell phones. Sure she’d hear back within five minutes, Jade took a deep breath and debated. She couldn’t go inside. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t look around. Sweeping the books into her bag, she set it on the porch steps, but kept her purse—and cell phone—with her.

      Careful not to step in the flower beds, she leaned forward to press her face to the living room window. Everything looked normal. Nothing to worry about, she assured herself as she continued around the side of the cottage. Her fingers curled around the windowpane, she shifted to the tiptoes of her four-inch-high boots. Squinting through the dusk-shadowed sheers, she peered into her bedroom.

      And wanted to cry.

      “Holy shit.”

      Jade would be the first to admit that she had a lingerie addiction. But seeing every piece she owned thrown around the room, tossed over the bed, dresser, floor and even the curtain rods, she wondered if she should look for a 12-step program.

      Just as she was imagining herself standing in front of a bunch of strangers declaring her name Jade and confessing her love of tiny pieces of silk and lace, her phone rang.

      “H’lo,” she answered morosely.

      “Jade, dear, this is Mrs. Clancy,” greeted the mayor’s secretary. “Are you okay? You think someone broke into your home?”

      “Either that, or the Victoria’s Secret Fairy had a tantrum in my bedroom.”

      “Oh, dear. The Panty Thief got you, too. Poor thing. You didn’t go into the house, did you? You’re not supposed to.”

      “No, ma’am. I’m looking through my bedroom window.”

      “Good, good. Mr. Applebaum is meeting that detective the sheriff sent. He’s due anytime now. Not that I have much faith that he’s any good. I overheard the mayor talking to the person in the county office. It sounded like the detective has some issues. And to be sent out here, on a case like this? Clearly that means he’s bad at his job, right?”

      Such a comforting thing to say to the most recent victim of the crime that the said detective had been sent to solve.

      “Mrs. Clancy,” Jade interrupted, leaning her forehead against the cool wood of the windowsill. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t block out the image of her ransacked room.

      “Did you hear they found another pair of underpants this evening? Sheer, red with little pink roses sewn around the sides. Imagine that, sheer undies. I’ll bet they were ordered from one of those catalogs. Not sure who they belong to, since the news hasn’t traveled much yet. But someone will step forward, I’m sure. Panties like those didn’t come cheap.”

      “Mrs. Clancy—”

      “Not to worry, though. With a detective on the job, even if he’s not a good one, I’ll bet this is solved before your undies are left out in public somewhere. He should be here soon, too. I was making up a plate of cookies to take over. I imagine the young man is hungry after his long drive. And as he’ll be staying at Mary Beck’s bed-and-breakfast, you know he’s not going to find anything good to eat there.”

      “Mrs. Clancy,” Jade interrupted, louder this time. She blinked hard to clear the frustrated tears from her eyes, but couldn’t push the feeling of angry embarrassment away as easily. “Please. Can you let the mayor know about my break-in now? It’s getting chilly out, and Persephone is on the loose.”

      There was a loud gasp, then the sound of cookies tumbling and crumbling onto a plate. “There we go. Sugar cookies are just as good in pieces. I’ll run this over right now, and the mayor will be there within ten minutes. You go catch that cat, Jade. If she gets into Carl’s train one more time, he’s going to be furious.”

      “Only if she eats the head off his teddy-bear ballerina again,” Jade muttered to the dead phone. A new layer of nerves danced through her tummy. Thanks to some creep, her favorite pink silk thong was dangling off her vanity mirror. And now a strange, possibly incompetent cop was going to paw through her stuff.

      And her cat, the scourge of Christmas decorations everywhere, was on the loose.

      With a grimace and one more pained glance through the window, Jade turned, calling, “Persephone?”

      So frustrated she was ready to cry, Jade made her way to her postage-stamp-size front porch, still calling for her pet. Usually the cat responded instantly. But Persephone wasn’t stupid. She knew the minute she got within grabbing distance, Jade would lock her in the house.

      Then she saw her across the street. Right on top of Carl’s six-foot inflatable Santa snow globe. Jade squinted, then moaned. Yep. That was a teddy-bear head dangling from the black furry mouth.

      DOUBLE-CHECKING the address, Diego parked his Harley in front of a two-story house that looked as if it’d been puked on by Christmas. Santa waved from a sleigh on the roof, danced with an elf on the lawn and flashed in lights, Vegas style, from the front porch.

      This was the mayor’s house? Why couldn’t they have met at his office? This was so … small-town. Diego sighed. He wrenched his helmet off and scanned the view with a grimace. A tree glittered holiday cheer from the front bay window, and a beribboned pail of candy canes hung off the mailbox, inviting people to share one.

      But it wasn’t the effusive ode to holiday cheer that had him massaging his temple.

      It was the man, probably in his sixties, romping around on the lawn while three kids clung to his back as if he was a bucking bronco. Or—Diego squinted at the brown sticks tied to the guy’s head—maybe a flying reindeer?

      Kinnison really knew how to twist the knife, shipping Diego off to a modern-day Mayberry. Small towns were worse than a gang-run ghetto when it came to trying to solve a crime. The residents banded together like glue, protecting their own. And while the ghettos had drugs, guns and prostitution, small towns had closed minds, uptight attitudes and suspicion of outsiders. And mayors who saw their citizens as beloved children to be protected.

      It took all Diego’s resolve to swing his leg over the bike and step onto the sidewalk. His tension didn’t shift any when the older guy pulled out a friendly smile instead of a gun.

      “Well, hello, there,” the man said from his prone position, looking none the worse for wear as a fourth kid came barreling around the corner to latch onto the guy’s neck like a demented squirrel monkey. “Can I help you?”

      “I’m looking for Mayor Applebaum.”

      “That’d be me.”

      Of course it would. Diego didn’t bother to sigh.

      “Sir, I’m Detective Sandoval with the Central California Sheriff’s Department.”

      “Ah.” The mayor nodded, then with a few tickles, a hug or two and a direction to head on home for cookies, he dispersed the children and got to his feet. He watched them scurry over his lawn and up the steps of the house next door before giving Diego his full attention.

      As long and lanky as he was graying, the man towered over Diego’s own six feet. Brushing grass off his ancient corduroys, he came forward and offered his hand.

      “Welcome to Diablo Glen.” He gestured toward the matching detached garage next to the house, just as nauseatingly decorated as the house. “My office is in the town hall, of course, but I seem to get more work done here at home. Less interruptions, I suppose. Come in, we’ll talk.”

      On edge, Diego followed.

      “Kinnison sent you, then?” the mayor asked, opening the unlocked door. Following him in, Diego felt his shoulders relax for the first time since he’d got his

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