Free The Murder Game by Beverly Barton

he opened his door and got out. Before he had a chance to round the hood and open her door, she jumped out and met him at the right front bumper. He nodded in the direction of the big tree.
    “Ladies first,” he said.
    She walked ahead of him, up the side of the road and into the area near the bridge. The two men standing there watched as she and Griff approached. The younger man, wearing a tan Stetson and brown leather boots stepped forward.
    “Mr. Powell?” he asked as he held out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Touchstone.”
    Griff shook hands with Dean Touchstone, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Texas-lean, and sported a thick, old-cowpoke mustache.
    He turned to Nic, removed his hat, and nodded, “Ma’am.”
    “This is Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She’s working with me on this case.”
    Nic had to bite her tongue to keep from correcting him and saying that he was working with her and not the other way around. But she forced a smile and shook hands with the sheriff.
    “This is Vance Coker.” The older man nodded to Griff and gave Nic an appreciative appraisal, the kind men give most women at first glance. “Vance is the one who found Gala Ramirez’s body hanging from that tree right there.”
    Vance was probably sixty, short, wiry, and gray-haired. At least what hair he had left was gray. He had the kind of weathered skin that a person has after years of sun exposure.
    “Vance owns this land,” the sheriff said.
    “Been in my family over a hundred years,” Vance added.
    “He found Gala’s body hanging from that maple tree there by the bridge, the first of August. Me and Ellis, one of my deputies, came out just as soon as Vance called us.” Dean Touchstone turned his head and stared at the tree. “It’s been over ten years since we had a murder in Durant County.”
    “Sure was a troubling sight,” Vance said. “That poor little gal was strung up like a piece of beef, her ankles bound together and her head scalped. You can’t imagine what that looks like if you ain’t never seen it. Real troubling.” Vance shook his head back and forth.
    “Was she naked?” Nic asked. “Was there any evidence she’d been sexually assaulted?”
    “She wasn’t naked,” Vance said. “She was wearing shorts and a blouse, both of ’em bloody. Real bloody.”
    “She wasn’t sexually assaulted,” Sheriff Touchstone said. “The coroner’s report ruled out rape.”
    “What did the coroner’s report tell you other than she hadn’t been raped?” Griff asked.
    Ignoring Griff’s question, Touchstone looked at Vance. “Thanks for meeting us here. I appreciate it.” He turned to Griff. “You folks have anything else you want to ask Vance before he leaves?”
    Beating Nic to the punch, Griff asked the farmer half a dozen questions. His answers were succinct, but not very informative.
    “If that’ll be all, Mary Lou’s holding lunch for me.” Vance looked to the sheriff for permission to leave.
    Touchstone nodded. “Thanks again, Vance.”
    As soon as the farmer got in his truck and drove off, the sheriff faced Griff and Nic. “I’ll give you folks the basic facts of the case, but that’s all. I’m not opening my files to you and I’m not sharing privileged information. Understood?”
    Nic smiled. “Yes, Sheriff, we understand. You can’t divulge privileged information to just anybody, not even private detectives.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Touchstone smiled at her, a flirting twinkle in his eye.
    Griff cleared his throat. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, what we need is to confirm that the similarities between Kendall Moore’s murder and Gala Ramirez’s murder are enough to indicate a link between the two and possibly point to a serial killer.”
    “I understand,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t want y’all bandying around the words ‘serial killer’ in Stillwater. Folks are upset enough by the Ramirez girl’s murder without hearing