CHAPTER 1
Three Years Later
Christine Ireland struggled to clasp the silver-and-garnet line bracelet around the customer's plump wrist extended to her. She was successful, and blood vessels in the woman's hand immediately distended. "Wilma, this bracelet is lovely, but it's only seven inches long. I believe you might need an eight."
Wilma Archer burst into jolly laughter. "Oh, Christine, didn't I say this is for my granddaughter's high school graduation in two months? Good heavens, if I wore this for a day I'd be a candidate for amputation."
Christine breathed easier and smiled. So many women who came into Prince Jewelry tried to force wrists and fingers into jewelry that was far too small for them, then became insulted when a clerk suggested a larger size. Christine had known Wilma Archer for years, though. The woman didn't have a vain bone in her body.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer the bracelet in gold?" Christine asked as she gently unfastened the tourniquetlike bracelet.
"Of course I'd like it in gold with a few diamonds for accent, but that would triple the cost and my granddaughter will be keeping the bracelet in the dormitory. It could be lost or stolen."
"She's living in a dorm?" Christine asked as she placed the bracelet on cotton in a long navy blue box bearing a small gold crown logo. "Isn't she going to college here in town?"
"She had aspirations for Princeton because Brooke Shields went there, but her grades kept her here at Winston University. Not that Winston isn't a good school."
"It's my alma mater," Christine said.
"And you graduated summa cum laude, which I'm sure my granddaughter won't manage. You were also sensible enough to live at home." Wilma scowled. "Her parents will be paying a fortune to let her stay on campus in some cramped little dorm room when her home is fifteen minutes away from the school." Wilma sighed. "Oh well, I doubt she lasts more than a year, but if she miraculously graduates, I'll buy her a bracelet, a ring, and earrings in gold, garnet, and diamonds!"
"That should be incentive enough for her to get a degree," Christine laughed.
"I hope so, but I'm not holding my breath." Wilma glanced casually around the showroom. "My husband bought my engagement ring here when old Mr. Prince managed the store." She raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Listen to me—old Mr. Prince. He was younger than I am now, but he seemed old as the hills to me back then. And very grave. He made every purchase seem as if it were the most important thing that had happened to him all week. You would have thought that ring with its little chip of a diamond was one of the crown jewels," she said wistfully. "It's such a shame Ames didn't go into the business. I know Mr. Prince wanted the store to pass from generation to generation. But at least Ames didn't sell the place."
"His heart is in the law, Wilma, and he's generated quite a practice in a city of only thirty-five thousand," Christine said. "He must be good."
Wilma grinned. "Is he as good a guardian as he is an attorney?"
"You know he is, and I'm grateful to him every day for taking in Jeremy and me."
Christine remembered being seventeen and feeling like she was plunging down into a dark, cold pit when a doctor entered the hospital waiting room where she and Jeremy had been sitting for five hours. With a grave face and gentle voice he'd told them both their parents were dead from the crash of her father's small plane. Jeremy had begun to cry in a low, monotonous whine. Christine had pulled his head to her shoulder, her grief and horror mixed with the weight of knowing that above all she must take care of her mentally disabled brother and not let him be swept into a system that would let him wither for lack of attention and love.
"I don't know what we would have done without Ames," Christine told Wilma. "I hate to sound self-pitying, but the few elderly relatives we had didn't want us." The relatives didn't want Jeremy, she meant, in spite of their sizable trust fund.
"Shameful!" Wilma burst out. "Family is the most important thing in life, I say." She tapped her pudgy fingers on the glass showcase for emphasis. "The most important. I complain about mine sometimes, but I cherish them."
"Even if they throw around their money?"
"In spite of all their flaws!" Wilma declared, grinning.
Christine giggled and Wilma said, "It's so good to hear you laugh, honey. You don't do it often enough, a beautiful young lady like you. Actually, you're more like Ames Prince than his own daughter was. Responsible and sensible."
Wonderful, Christine thought. Dara Prince was a laugh a minute. I'm responsible and sensible. Dara was a sexy red spike-heeled pump. I'm a sturdy brown oxford.
Wilma laughed good-naturedly and patted Christine's hand. "Oh, sweetie, if you could see your face! You think I wish you were more like Dara, don't you?"
Christine felt her cheeks warm. "I know how much fun she could be."
"Sometimes Dara was fun. But there's a time for levity and a time to be serious. . . ." Wilma trailed off as sadness flashed in her usually merry eyes. "If she'd been around longer, she would have learned that not all of life is fun and games."
"It seems her mother's death would have taught her that," Christine said softly.
Wilma nodded. "I know. But Eve's death had the opposite effect. Afterward, Dara seemed almost reckless. Maybe Ames indulged her too much." Wilma shook her head as if clearing it. "Enough sad talk."
"I agree. Do you want this bracelet gift-wrapped?"
"No, dear. I don't like that garish wrapping paper Ames makes you use for all occasions. I don't know why he insists on it."
"Because Eve picked it as Prince Jewelry's trademark paper. Frankly, I don't like it, either. Over half the customers decline it, but I can't budge Ames on the matter."
"You are the manager of the store, for heaven's sake!" Wilma huffed. "He should listen to you. But I know how stubborn he can be. I'll speak to him about it. Sometimes I have great influence on him."
"Most of the time, you mean."
Wilma couldn't hide a slightly self-satisfied smile. "Where's young Jeremy?"
"In the back working on some pieces."
"Who would have guessed that boy had such a talent for jewelry design?"
"Not me," Christine said. "Artistic talent doesn't run in the family."
Both women looked up when the front door opened and a tall man strode in wearing a tan raincoat and carrying a black umbrella. Christine cringed as he shook the umbrella vigorously, dousing the pale gray carpet and a nearby chair covered in hyacinth blue silk. He had started to tramp across the showroom when Wilma Archer said commandingly, "Ames Prince, maybe you own this store, but you should treat its furnishings with a little respect. Wipe your shoes on the mat, put the umbrella in the stand, and hang up that dripping coat."
Christine tried to stifle a smile as Ames glanced at Wilma with surprise etched on every line of his aristocratic hawklike face, then did exactly as the woman ordered. When he'd finished, he looked at Wilma without animosity and said, "Is that better?"
"Much. I'm sure Christine appreciates it. She went to a great deal of trouble redecorating this place last year, and it looks beautiful. I won't have you spoiling it with your carelessness."
"Yes, ma'am," Ames said meekly, his thin lips twisting with a rare burst of amusement. Few people could have gotten away with speaking to the dignified Ames Prince that way. But when Ames was an only child with a quiet, aloof father and a mother slowly dying of multiple sclerosis it was Wilma Archer who had welcomed him into her warm home and treated him like one of her own boisterous brood of four. He'd spent more time with the Archers than with his own father even after the death of his mother when he was ten. "What are you doing out on an awful day like this?" Ames asked her.
"This is the fourth dark, rainy day in a row. I felt if I didn't get out of the house, I'd scream. Besides, I don't think it will be safe to come into town after today."
"You're right," Ames said. "The river is three feet below flood level. I think they'll be putting up the sandbags soon." He looked at Christine. "Jeremy doesn't want to help with the sandbag operation, does he?"
"Yes, he does," she said, regretting that Ames always acted as if Jeremy were physically twelve years old, not just mentally.
"It's too dangerous for him out there. He could fall in the river and drown," Ames pronounced.
"He's an excellent swimmer," Christine offered.
"Not when the current is so swift. And he panics."
Wilma rolled her eyes at Christine. Ames had become overprotective of Jeremy, especially after the disappearance of his daughter Dara three years ago. Foul play had never been proved. For all anyone knew, she'd simply run away. After all, she'd threatened it often enough and many of her clothes and belongings were missing. But Christine knew the specter of his daughter's possible death constantly lingered over Ames.
Rain had blown under his umbrella and dampened his hair. Seeing his hair wet made Christine realize how thin the silver-laced brown strands had become in the last couple of years. Moisture glistened on all the new lines etched around his cool gray eyes and bracketing his thin lips. His cheekbones jutted starkly beneath unhealthily pale skin. Dara's disappearance had taken a noticeable physical toll on Ames. His feelings he kept to himself.
"Business slow today?" he asked Christine.
"It's four o'clock and Wilma is my fifth customer."
Ames frowned. "Hardly worth opening the store for."
"Well, I like that!" Wilma declared with mock outrage. "I'm not worth opening the store for?"
Ames smiled. "Please pardon my discourtesy, madam. I would keep the store open all day for you alone. But I think we should go home early today. And tomorrow we'll open at ten instead of nine."
"Good," Christine said. "I'll have time to go to the gym before work. I haven't been there for over a week."
"As if you young, skinny things need to work out," Wilma said. "I think you could stand to put on ten pounds, Christine. And you could do with twenty, Ames. You are entirely too thin—"
"Wilma, I'm afraid you're going to have an unpleasant trip home. It's pouring and there are flash flood warnings," Ames said abruptly to stem one of Wilma's tirades about everyone's weight.
"I'm a fine driver and I've been maneuvering these roads since before you were born," Wilma returned tartly.
"You're going to drive home all alone in this downpour?" asked Ginger Tate, the twenty-year-old red-haired sprite Christine had hired as a clerk two months ago. For the past hour she'd been polishing an ornate silver tea service on this slow afternoon. "I don't think driving by yourself is a good idea, Mrs. Archer. What if you have a flat tire?"
"I know how to fix a flat tire, young lady."
"When you're being pelted with rain?" Ginger shook her head and grimaced. "It'll blur your vision and you can't see. It'll mess up other drivers' vision, too. Gee, someone might run right over you. Splat! Then how would you feel?"
"Probably not too well," Wilma answered solemnly.
"Right. And aside from you getting hurt, the other driver would feel crummy for running down an elderly lady," Ginger added, polishing diligently. She went at every task enthusiastically. "They'd feel guilty for the rest of their lives."
Ginger was too busy polishing to notice that Christine and Ames were now on the verge of laughter along with Wilma.
Wilma's tone was grave: "I guess I'm being appallingly selfish. I hadn't given any of those possibilities a thought. You're a very astute young lady, Ginger."
"Yeah, well, my dad says I analyze everything too much, but I can't help it. It's just my nature."
"It's often a fine trait," Wilma said. "All right, Ames, Ginger has convinced me I'm taking unnecessary risks. But before I go home, I have some things to drop off at the church for families who've already been flooded out of their homes. Blankets, canned foods, some clothes. You can follow me home from there and make sure I don't cause any disasters."
"It would be my pleasure," Ames said, "but we should get going. Driving is more difficult in this rain when it gets dark, and at the most we only have about a couple of hours of daylight left."
Christine handed Wilma the box containing the bracelet and Ames was shrugging back into his damp raincoat when the front door opened. A tall, lean man entered the store and looked quickly around. He carried no umbrella and rain glistened on his short, thick brown hair. He wore a yellow rain slicker and water-spattered uniform trousers with the distinctive black stripes down the sides.
"Be sure to wipe your feet," Wilma instructed.
The man looked down at his shining black shoes. "I've had on rubber boots until two minutes ago," he said. "I left them outside the door."
Wilma squinted at the broad-brimmed hat he carried. "I was introduced to you last year at the Sternwheel Regatta. You're Deputy Sheriff Michael Winter, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm Wilma Archer. This is Ames Prince and Christine Ireland."
He shot Christine one quick, keen glance after which she was certain he could describe in detail her short blond hair, light aqua eyes, straight nose bearing a smattering of freckles, above average height, and white silk knit sweater.
He turned his gaze back to Wilma. "We did meet at the regatta, ma'am," he said in a deep, smooth voice as he held out his hand to the older woman. "The weather sure was nicer then."
"Oh, it was beautiful! And what a fine turnout we had. I do love all those pretty boats!" Wilma sounded young and slightly flustered. Christine recalled her going on a few months ago about meeting the new deputy in town, clearly with matchmaking on her mind since she'd added excitedly that he was young, divorced, and handsome and had moved to Winston from Los Angeles, where he'd been a detective. Please don't let her announce that I'm single, Christine thought, not without provocation. Wilma's determination to find her a husband had embarrassed her in front of several single men. But when the deputy sheriff began to talk in a businesslike tone, her fear of humiliation vanished. He wasn't going to give Wilma a chance for any small talk.
"I need to speak to you, Mr. Prince," Winter said almost grimly as he looked at Ames. "I was told at your office you might be here."
"And so I am," Ames said casually. He seemed calm, but Christine felt a small clutch of fear caused by the discomfort in Winter's eyes, the formality of his tone. "How may I help you, Deputy?"
"I wonder if we might speak alone."
"I'm not under arrest for some heinous crime, am I?" Ames's voice was strained. "You're not trying to spare me the humiliation of arresting me in front of a crowd?"
"No, sir, certainly not. But I have some news I thought might best be delivered to you in private."
This was something about Dara, Christine thought with a dark, certain dread as she saw color seep from Ames's face. He sensed it concerned Dara, too, and he was afraid to hear the news alone, although he would never admit it.
"I have no secrets from Miss Ireland and Mrs. Archer," Ames said stiffly. He completely ignored Ginger, who'd stopped polishing and watched with huge eyes. "Please don't drag this out any longer."
Michael Winter's slender face tightened. His dark eyes gazed unflinchingly into Ames's for a moment and Christine saw his right hand curl into a fist, then relax. He swallowed and said gently, "Mr. Prince, about an hour ago an object washed up on the riverbank about half a mile south of town. It was tightly wrapped in plastic." He paused and Wilma's breath drew in sharply. "Unfortunately, I wasn't present when it was retrieved and therefore couldn't stop some of the local men from unwrapping it—"
"Probably a cow or a dog or a goat or a . . ." Wilma interrupted before her voice trailed off and she looked apprehensively at Ames, who seemed frozen, not even blinking.
"It's not an animal, ma'am," Deputy Winter said gently. "It appears to be an adult female."
"Oh!" Wilma exclaimed. Michael Winter did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Ames, who swayed almost imperceptibly.
"The body has been in the water for a while," Michael Winter went on softly. "Maybe years. There's a lot of decomposition in spite of the heavy plastic wrapping. However, Mr. Prince, I regret to say we believe it might be the remains of your daughter, Dara."
CHAPTER 1
Three Years Later
Christine Ireland struggled to clasp the silver-and-garnet line bracelet around the customer's plump wrist extended to her. She was successful, and blood vessels in the woman's hand immediately distended. "Wilma, this bracelet is lovely, but it's only seven inches long. I believe you might need an eight."
Wilma Archer burst into jolly laughter. "Oh, Christine, didn't I say this is for my granddaughter's high school graduation in two months? Good heavens, if I wore this for a day I'd be a candidate for amputation."
Christine breathed easier and smiled. So many women who came into Prince Jewelry tried to force wrists and fingers into jewelry that was far too small for them, then became insulted when a clerk suggested a larger size. Christine had known Wilma Archer for years, though. The woman didn't have a vain bone in her body.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer the bracelet in gold?" Christine asked as she gently unfastened the tourniquetlike bracelet.
"Of course I'd like it in gold with a few diamonds for accent, but that would triple the cost and my granddaughter will be keeping the bracelet in the dormitory. It could be lost or stolen."
"She's living in a dorm?" Christine asked as she placed the bracelet on cotton in a long navy blue box bearing a small gold crown logo. "Isn't she going to college here in town?"
"She had aspirations for Princeton because Brooke Shields went there, but her grades kept her here at Winston University. Not that Winston isn't a good school."
"It's my alma mater," Christine said.
"And you graduated summa cum laude, which I'm sure my granddaughter won't manage. You were also sensible enough to live at home." Wilma scowled. "Her parents will be paying a fortune to let her stay on campus in some cramped little dorm room when her home is fifteen minutes away from the school." Wilma sighed. "Oh well, I doubt she lasts more than a year, but if she miraculously graduates, I'll buy her a bracelet, a ring, and earrings in gold, garnet, and diamonds!"
"That should be incentive enough for her to get a degree," Christine laughed.
"I hope so, but I'm not holding my breath." Wilma glanced casually around the showroom. "My husband bought my engagement ring here when old Mr. Prince managed the store." She raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Listen to me—old Mr. Prince. He was younger than I am now, but he seemed old as the hills to me back then. And very grave. He made every purchase seem as if it were the most important thing that had happened to him all week. You would have thought that ring with its little chip of a diamond was one of the crown jewels," she said wistfully. "It's such a shame Ames didn't go into the business. I know Mr. Prince wanted the store to pass from generation to generation. But at least Ames didn't sell the place."
"His heart is in the law, Wilma, and he's generated quite a practice in a city of only thirty-five thousand," Christine said. "He must be good."
Wilma grinned. "Is he as good a guardian as he is an attorney?"
"You know he is, and I'm grateful to him every day for taking in Jeremy and me."
Christine remembered being seventeen and feeling like she was plunging down into a dark, cold pit when a doctor entered the hospital waiting room where she and Jeremy had been sitting for five hours. With a grave face and gentle voice he'd told them both their parents were dead from the crash of her father's small plane. Jeremy had begun to cry in a low, monotonous whine. Christine had pulled his head to her shoulder, her grief and horror mixed with the weight of knowing that above all she must take care of her mentally disabled brother and not let him be swept into a system that would let him wither for lack of attention and love.
"I don't know what we would have done without Ames," Christine told Wilma. "I hate to sound self-pitying, but the few elderly relatives we had didn't want us." The relatives didn't want Jeremy, she meant, in spite of their sizable trust fund.
"Shameful!" Wilma burst out. "Family is the most important thing in life, I say." She tapped her pudgy fingers on the glass showcase for emphasis. "The most important. I complain about mine sometimes, but I cherish them."
"Even if they throw around their money?"
"In spite of all their flaws!" Wilma declared, grinning.
Christine giggled and Wilma said, "It's so good to hear you laugh, honey. You don't do it often enough, a beautiful young lady like you. Actually, you're more like Ames Prince than his own daughter was. Responsible and sensible."
Wonderful, Christine thought. Dara Prince was a laugh a minute. I'm responsible and sensible. Dara was a sexy red spike-heeled pump. I'm a sturdy brown oxford.
Wilma laughed good-naturedly and patted Christine's hand. "Oh, sweetie, if you could see your face! You think I wish you were more like Dara, don't you?"
Christine felt her cheeks warm. "I know how much fun she could be."
"Sometimes Dara was fun. But there's a time for levity and a time to be serious. . . ." Wilma trailed off as sadness flashed in her usually merry eyes. "If she'd been around longer, she would have learned that not all of life is fun and games."
"It seems her mother's death would have taught her that," Christine said softly.
Wilma nodded. "I know. But Eve's death had the opposite effect. Afterward, Dara seemed almost reckless. Maybe Ames indulged her too much." Wilma shook her head as if clearing it. "Enough sad talk."
"I agree. Do you want this bracelet gift-wrapped?"
"No, dear. I don't like that garish wrapping paper Ames makes you use for all occasions. I don't know why he insists on it."
"Because Eve picked it as Prince Jewelry's trademark paper. Frankly, I don't like it, either. Over half the customers decline it, but I can't budge Ames on the matter."
"You are the manager of the store, for heaven's sake!" Wilma huffed. "He should listen to you. But I know how stubborn he can be. I'll speak to him about it. Sometimes I have great influence on him."
"Most of the time, you mean."
Wilma couldn't hide a slightly self-satisfied smile. "Where's young Jeremy?"
"In the back working on some pieces."
"Who would have guessed that boy had such a talent for jewelry design?"
"Not me," Christine said. "Artistic talent doesn't run in the family."
Both women looked up when the front door opened and a tall man strode in wearing a tan raincoat and carrying a black umbrella. Christine cringed as he shook the umbrella vigorously, dousing the pale gray carpet and a nearby chair covered in hyacinth blue silk. He had started to tramp across the showroom when Wilma Archer said commandingly, "Ames Prince, maybe you own this store, but you should treat its furnishings with a little respect. Wipe your shoes on the mat, put the umbrella in the stand, and hang up that dripping coat."
Christine tried to stifle a smile as Ames glanced at Wilma with surprise etched on every line of his aristocratic hawklike face, then did exactly as the woman ordered. When he'd finished, he looked at Wilma without animosity and said, "Is that better?"
"Much. I'm sure Christine appreciates it. She went to a great deal of trouble redecorating this place last year, and it looks beautiful. I won't have you spoiling it with your carelessness."
"Yes, ma'am," Ames said meekly, his thin lips twisting with a rare burst of amusement. Few people could have gotten away with speaking to the dignified Ames Prince that way. But when Ames was an only child with a quiet, aloof father and a mother slowly dying of multiple sclerosis it was Wilma Archer who had welcomed him into her warm home and treated him like one of her own boisterous brood of four. He'd spent more time with the Archers than with his own father even after the death of his mother when he was ten. "What are you doing out on an awful day like this?" Ames asked her.
"This is the fourth dark, rainy day in a row. I felt if I didn't get out of the house, I'd scream. Besides, I don't think it will be safe to come into town after today."
"You're right," Ames said. "The river is three feet below flood level. I think they'll be putting up the sandbags soon." He looked at Christine. "Jeremy doesn't want to help with the sandbag operation, does he?"
"Yes, he does," she said, regretting that Ames always acted as if Jeremy were physically twelve years old, not just mentally.
"It's too dangerous for him out there. He could fall in the river and drown," Ames pronounced.
"He's an excellent swimmer," Christine offered.
"Not when the current is so swift. And he panics."
Wilma rolled her eyes at Christine. Ames had become overprotective of Jeremy, especially after the disappearance of his daughter Dara three years ago. Foul play had never been proved. For all anyone knew, she'd simply run away. After all, she'd threatened it often enough and many of her clothes and belongings were missing. But Christine knew the specter of his daughter's possible death constantly lingered over Ames.
Rain had blown under his umbrella and dampened his hair. Seeing his hair wet made Christine realize how thin the silver-laced brown strands had become in the last couple of years. Moisture glistened on all the new lines etched around his cool gray eyes and bracketing his thin lips. His cheekbones jutted starkly beneath unhealthily pale skin. Dara's disappearance had taken a noticeable physical toll on Ames. His feelings he kept to himself.
"Business slow today?" he asked Christine.
"It's four o'clock and Wilma is my fifth customer."
Ames frowned. "Hardly worth opening the store for."
"Well, I like that!" Wilma declared with mock outrage. "I'm not worth opening the store for?"
Ames smiled. "Please pardon my discourtesy, madam. I would keep the store open all day for you alone. But I think we should go home early today. And tomorrow we'll open at ten instead of nine."
"Good," Christine said. "I'll have time to go to the gym before work. I haven't been there for over a week."
"As if you young, skinny things need to work out," Wilma said. "I think you could stand to put on ten pounds, Christine. And you could do with twenty, Ames. You are entirely too thin—"
"Wilma, I'm afraid you're going to have an unpleasant trip home. It's pouring and there are flash flood warnings," Ames said abruptly to stem one of Wilma's tirades about everyone's weight.
"I'm a fine driver and I've been maneuvering these roads since before you were born," Wilma returned tartly.
"You're going to drive home all alone in this downpour?" asked Ginger Tate, the twenty-year-old red-haired sprite Christine had hired as a clerk two months ago. For the past hour she'd been polishing an ornate silver tea service on this slow afternoon. "I don't think driving by yourself is a good idea, Mrs. Archer. What if you have a flat tire?"
"I know how to fix a flat tire, young lady."
"When you're being pelted with rain?" Ginger shook her head and grimaced. "It'll blur your vision and you can't see. It'll mess up other drivers' vision, too. Gee, someone might run right over you. Splat! Then how would you feel?"
"Probably not too well," Wilma answered solemnly.
"Right. And aside from you getting hurt, the other driver would feel crummy for running down an elderly lady," Ginger added, polishing diligently. She went at every task enthusiastically. "They'd feel guilty for the rest of their lives."
Ginger was too busy polishing to notice that Christine and Ames were now on the verge of laughter along with Wilma.
Wilma's tone was grave: "I guess I'm being appallingly selfish. I hadn't given any of those possibilities a thought. You're a very astute young lady, Ginger."
"Yeah, well, my dad says I analyze everything too much, but I can't help it. It's just my nature."
"It's often a fine trait," Wilma said. "All right, Ames, Ginger has convinced me I'm taking unnecessary risks. But before I go home, I have some things to drop off at the church for families who've already been flooded out of their homes. Blankets, canned foods, some clothes. You can follow me home from there and make sure I don't cause any disasters."
"It would be my pleasure," Ames said, "but we should get going. Driving is more difficult in this rain when it gets dark, and at the most we only have about a couple of hours of daylight left."
Christine handed Wilma the box containing the bracelet and Ames was shrugging back into his damp raincoat when the front door opened. A tall, lean man entered the store and looked quickly around. He carried no umbrella and rain glistened on his short, thick brown hair. He wore a yellow rain slicker and water-spattered uniform trousers with the distinctive black stripes down the sides.
"Be sure to wipe your feet," Wilma instructed.
The man looked down at his shining black shoes. "I've had on rubber boots until two minutes ago," he said. "I left them outside the door."
Wilma squinted at the broad-brimmed hat he carried. "I was introduced to you last year at the Sternwheel Regatta. You're Deputy Sheriff Michael Winter, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm Wilma Archer. This is Ames Prince and Christine Ireland."
He shot Christine one quick, keen glance after which she was certain he could describe in detail her short blond hair, light aqua eyes, straight nose bearing a smattering of freckles, above average height, and white silk knit sweater.
He turned his gaze back to Wilma. "We did meet at the regatta, ma'am," he said in a deep, smooth voice as he held out his hand to the older woman. "The weather sure was nicer then."
"Oh, it was beautiful! And what a fine turnout we had. I do love all those pretty boats!" Wilma sounded young and slightly flustered. Christine recalled her going on a few months ago about meeting the new deputy in town, clearly with matchmaking on her mind since she'd added excitedly that he was young, divorced, and handsome and had moved to Winston from Los Angeles, where he'd been a detective. Please don't let her announce that I'm single, Christine thought, not without provocation. Wilma's determination to find her a husband had embarrassed her in front of several single men. But when the deputy sheriff began to talk in a businesslike tone, her fear of humiliation vanished. He wasn't going to give Wilma a chance for any small talk.
"I need to speak to you, Mr. Prince," Winter said almost grimly as he looked at Ames. "I was told at your office you might be here."
"And so I am," Ames said casually. He seemed calm, but Christine felt a small clutch of fear caused by the discomfort in Winter's eyes, the formality of his tone. "How may I help you, Deputy?"
"I wonder if we might speak alone."
"I'm not under arrest for some heinous crime, am I?" Ames's voice was strained. "You're not trying to spare me the humiliation of arresting me in front of a crowd?"
"No, sir, certainly not. But I have some news I thought might best be delivered to you in private."
This was something about Dara, Christine thought with a dark, certain dread as she saw color seep from Ames's face. He sensed it concerned Dara, too, and he was afraid to hear the news alone, although he would never admit it.
"I have no secrets from Miss Ireland and Mrs. Archer," Ames said stiffly. He completely ignored Ginger, who'd stopped polishing and watched with huge eyes. "Please don't drag this out any longer."
Michael Winter's slender face tightened. His dark eyes gazed unflinchingly into Ames's for a moment and Christine saw his right hand curl into a fist, then relax. He swallowed and said gently, "Mr. Prince, about an hour ago an object washed up on the riverbank about half a mile south of town. It was tightly wrapped in plastic." He paused and Wilma's breath drew in sharply. "Unfortunately, I wasn't present when it was retrieved and therefore couldn't stop some of the local men from unwrapping it—"
"Probably a cow or a dog or a goat or a . . ." Wilma interrupted before her voice trailed off and she looked apprehensively at Ames, who seemed frozen, not even blinking.
"It's not an animal, ma'am," Deputy Winter said gently. "It appears to be an adult female."
"Oh!" Wilma exclaimed. Michael Winter did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Ames, who swayed almost imperceptibly.
"The body has been in the water for a while," Michael Winter went on softly. "Maybe years. There's a lot of decomposition in spite of the heavy plastic wrapping. However, Mr. Prince, I regret to say we believe it might be the remains of your daughter, Dara."