If Looks Could Kill

If Looks Could Kill Read Free

Book: If Looks Could Kill Read Free
Author: Eileen Dreyer
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judgment, consternation, or amusement. The chief seemed to keep his better emotions to himself. Finally, though, he holstered his gun and lifted his own cap to run a hand through his hair.
    "If coffee'll help things make more sense," he obliged.
    Chris nodded and held out her free hand. "Chris Jackson," she reintroduced herself. "I'd promised myself I was going to go by and warn you about Pyrite's nefarious secret right away, but I've been a little preoccupied."
    He took her hand in an uncompromising grip, and Chris was damned if she didn't see a twinkle in those eyes. "Burglary'll do that. Al MacNamara."
    "Welcome to town, Chief MacNamara." His palm was just as damp as hers, which intrigued Chris even more. Letting go, she turned toward the partitioned area behind the cash register. "Do you take anything in your coffee?"
    She assumed he'd follow. He did.
    "No, thanks."
    "Eloise?"
    Eloise waved from where she was bent back over the cash register. "I'm tallying receipts, dear. Go right ahead."
    Much better to catch the best dirt from a safe distance, Chris knew. Eloise's head was tilted so that her hearing aid could pick up the conversation like a directional mike.
    Chris fought a grin as she hefted a coffeepot that had been brewing since sometime before lunch. "Pyrite must be a change after Chicago, huh?"
    The chief hooked a thumb in his belt. "Quieter."
    Chris let go with a laugh that echoed all around the high ceilinged old building. "You," she accused, "are a master of understatement."
    He accepted his mug and a seat after Chris cleared her tax receipts and one of the attack cats off it. Chris perched on the six inches of free space on her desk. Or rather, Eloise's desk. Chris made only nominal appearances at the How Do, even when she came in by the front door.
    "You say you're an author?" MacNamara asked from behind his mug, his attention skipping restlessly around an area decorated in early wallboard and stock overrun.
    "Card-carrying. It's kind of the town's little secret. Nobody knows I live here, and I'd prefer it that way."
    "Your pseudonym Stephen King?"
    "No. C. J. Turner."
    That provoked the most interesting reaction yet. Halfway to taking another sip of coffee, the chief left his mug hanging in midair as he let his gaze settle right back in on Chris.
    "The suspense writer?"
    She nodded, still uncomfortable with the astonishment that usually met that statement.
    "I pictured you older," he admitted. "And a lot balder."
    Chris offered a bright grin. "A misconception I work hard to encourage. I find it much easier to write if I don't have to deal with any of the little complications of, um, notoriety."
    The chief took his sip of coffee, but his features didn't ease any. He didn't look away from Chris, either, which suddenly made her just a little nervous. She had a feeling she was well acquainted with other varieties of that look, and none of them had anything to do with fame or accomplishment.
    "Is there a problem?"
    He made it a point to finish his coffee before answering.
    "Pyrite isn't exactly the place you'd expect to find a name like C. J. Turner. The book covers all say he lives in Taos."
    "I drove through there once," Chris said, her voice hesitant. "I thought it would be a nice place to set an author."
    But the chief was looking around the store. "Don't you have a phone?"
    "I do here," she said, giving him his lead. "It has an answering machine I check at least once every couple of weeks whether it needs it or not."
    He nodded, almost as if coming to some conclusion as he stroked at his upper lip with two fingers, an instinctive action of concentration. Chris wondered distractedly how long it had been since he'd shaved off his mustache.
    "At least it makes sense now," he said almost to himself.
    She did her best to remain polite as the first tendrils of dread curled through her. After passing acquaintance with bad news, she'd developed an unerring instinct for it. Her tolerance for it wasn't nearly as

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