Free The Murder Game by Beverly Barton Page B

plastic case, laid the items inside, and put the case back into the suitcase.
    As he left his room, he whistled to himself, some nonsensical tune from his childhood. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the words to the song, didn’t even know the name of the song, but he found himself humming it whenever he was plotting a new adventure. It was a happy song. His mother had hummed it to him to comfort him after she rescued him from his father’s wicked temper tantrums. Why his father had lashed out at him and never at Mary Ann and Marsha, he didn’t know. But whenever Daddy got in one of his moods, he had always called for Pudge to be sent to his study.
    Don’t think about how mean Daddy was to you. Think about how kind Mommy was to you afterward.

    Nic hadn’t chewed Griff out the way she had wanted to and it had taken every ounce of her willpower. She had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he had no right to speak for her, that maybe she had wanted to give the handsome sheriff her cell number. And if she had, it wouldn’t have been any of Griff’s business.
    On the drive from Stillwater to Lufkin, he’d glanced at her every once in a while, as if trying to gauge her mood, but she’d remained calm and silent, speaking to him only when he asked her a direct question.
    Finally aboard the Powell jet and waiting for a powerful summer thunderstorm to pass before taking off, she and Griff sat in the luxurious cabin, sipping on early-evening drinks. Crown Royal and Coke for Griff. Plain Coke for Nic.
    “He’ll contact us again,” Griff said, the statement coming after endless minutes of complete silence.
    “Who?” Nic asked.
    “The killer.” Griff pivoted on the leather sofa and faced Nic, who sat across from him. “Who did you think I meant—Sheriff Touchstone? Hell, what kind of name is that, anyway—Touchstone? A pretty name for a pretty boy.”
    “He was rather handsome, wasn’t he?”
    “He took an instant shine to you.”
    “Do you find that so hard to believe, that a good-looking man would find me attractive?”
    Griff downed the last drops of his drink, set the glass on the side table at the end of the sofa, and replied, “No, of course not. You’re attractive. I never said you weren’t. It’s not your physical appearance that I object to, it’s your personality.”
    “What’s wrong with my personality?” That’s it, Nic, ask him and he’ll no doubt tell you.
    “You’re abrasive, aggressive, bossy, and—”
    “Traits that you would admire in a man.”
    “Why do you want to act like a man?”
    Answer that one, she told herself. Damn him!
    Nic finished off her Coke but didn’t put down her glass. Instead she shook the tumbler, making the ice chips click together as she absently stared into the glass.
    The distinctive ring told Nic that it was her cell phone and not Griff’s. She removed the phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. This just might be the call she’d been hoping for.
    “Hello, Doug.”
    Griff’s eyes widened. She didn’t pay any attention to him. Let him wait.
    “I received two rather interesting phone calls today,” Doug Trotter said. “First this morning, Chief Benny Willoughby from Ballinger, Arkansas, called me and then this afternoon, Sheriff Dean Touchstone from Stillwater, Texas, called. Seems they’ve each got an unsolved murder and they think the same killer committed both crimes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you, Nic?”
    “I might.”
    “Might, my ass. Just where the hell are you? And don’t give me any bullshit about your being in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains.”
    Nic sensed Griff’s impatience. He was dying to know what her boss had to say. Tough shit. The longer she could make him wait, the better.
    “I’m on a private jet that will soon be taking off from Lufkin, Texas,” Nic said.
    “How’d you get yourself involved in this?” Doug asked.
    “Does it matter?”
    “It