Free Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell

civilized world. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them after a long day of hiking. Maybe several days.
    “You’re not what I expected,” she said.
    “No tuxedo, pistol, and martini, shaken not stirred?”
    Her laugh was as real as the color of her eyes. “Sorry, I’m very new to this.”
    “Don’t feel bad. Damn few people are used to death threats.”
    Her laughter vanished. Tight, pale lines appeared around the mouth that had been a soft, deep rose.
    Nice going, Zach told himself with a sigh. Turn the client into a net of twanging nerves with a few badly chosen words.
    DeeDee had never noticed.
    Could be why he spent a lot of the time working with intel, not clients.
    “My social skills need polish,” he said. “Let’s start all over again. Hi, I’m Zach. Joe Faroe wanted to come in my place but his wife is having a baby as we speak.”
    “Really?” Jill grinned. “I’ll bet Lane is so excited he’s bouncing in place. Not many boys his age would be, but he’s really looking forward to having a crumb-crusher in the house.”
    Zach’s smile surprised her as much as his beat-up hiking boots, dirty jeans, and clean hands.
    “I hope he gets a brother,” he said.
    One of Jill’s dark brown eyebrows rose. “You don’t like women?”
    “I have four sisters, all older than me by at least eight years. My dad died in a stock car race when I was twelve. I couldn’t wait to live in an estrogen-free zone.”
    Jill smiled slightly. “I was raised by women in a militantly testosterone-free zone.”
    “Should be interesting.”
    “What?”
    “The next few days.”
    Her smiled faded. “That’s one way of putting it.”
    “Like I said, my social skills need some work. So why don’t you do the talking? Tell me about everything that led up to my knock on your hotel room door.”
    “Everything?”
    “If it has to do with the reason your little SUV got slashed, yes. You can leave out the boyfriend trashing, giggling sleepovers, brutal labor stories, and choices in gear for your monthlies.”
    Jill stared at him for a long moment. “Whew. You really meant it, didn’t you? About the estrogen free.”
    “If I never again have to listen to a debate over the joys of pads versus tampons, it’s fine by me. You can leave out the my-cramps-are-worse-than-yours contest, too.”
    “In return, you won’t drool over big tits, pant over heart-shaped ass, and whine about not getting any. Deal?”
    Zach smiled slowly, then laughed. This one definitely wasn’t DeeDee. “Deal. Now tell me why you called St. Kilda Consulting instead of the cops.”
    “I trust Joe Faroe.”
    “And you don’t trust cops?”
    She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not real impressed by the sheriff of Canyon County, Arizona. And he’s even less impressed with me.”
    “Any particular reason?”
    Jill took a deep breath and told Zach about her great-aunt, the paintings, the gallery letter, the fire, the stiff-necked sheriff, and an art dealer called Blanchard from east Texas.
    Zach might look scruffy, but he listened with an intensity and intelligence that reminded her of Joe Faroe. He asked questions, she answered with what information she had, he asked more, and she got frustrated by her lack of answers for basic data on her relatives.
    “Hey, don’t feel bad,” he said. “Most people barely know their parents’ birth dates, much less the grandparents’ and grand-siblings’. I’m lucky to remember my sisters’ birthdays. As for my herd of niecesand nephews, forget it. Don’t worry, St. Kilda will fill in your family gaps. Beginning now.”
    Zach took out his cell phone, put it on speaker, and hit speed dial.
    “Research,” a woman’s voice said.
    “This is Zach Balfour. I need a run on an art dealer called Blanchard, male, may or may not be based in east Texas. A photo would be primo. I know that you probably won’t find zilch, but you may get lucky.”
    “Hey, Zach. It’s Shawna Singh. Steele told me to put you