Free Beguiled by Deeanne Gist Page B

place?”
    “No.”
    “Then I’d prefer to speak to them. I got my facts wrong last time, remember?”
    “They weren’t here during the robbery, either.”
    “I’d still like to talk to them.”
    She hesitated.
    His blue eyes exuded appeal. He definitely had the all-–American-boy-next-door look down to an art. And try as she might, she wasn’t immune to it.
    Snatching the card, she took a step back. “Wait here.”
    She’d barely closed the door when Latisha reached the entryway. “Is it Cheryl?”
    “No, a reporter from the paper.” She handed the card over.
    “He wants to talk about the robbery?”
    “I was just fixing to chase him off.”
    Latisha bit her lip. “Hold on a second. I should talk to him. Maybe it would wake the neighborhood up, so the police start taking these robberies seriously.”
    Rylee wasn’t so sure. Talking to the press was a very slippery slope. Just like talking to the police. “How about I have him call your office and make an appointment?”
    Latisha shooed Rylee’s suggestion away with a fanning of her hand. “Nonsense. You show him on in to the parlor.”
    “You sure you don’t want to wait until Paul gets back?”
    “The sooner we get the news out, the better.”
    Rylee watched her until she disappeared from sight. Then she took a deep breath and reopened the front door.

Chapter Eight
    Logan found Latisha Petrie installed in a floral print club chair, one of a pair upholstered in the same fabric as the open drapes. For a woman whose house had just been burgled, she seemed quite composed. But as she rose to greet him, her outstretched hand trembled, giving the lie to her impression of calm.
    He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to meet under these circumstances, Mrs. Petrie.”
    “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, a waver in her voice. “Please have a seat.”
    He crouched on the edge of the sofa, his knees nearly touching the coffee table, while she resumed her place by the window. Rylee stationed herself behind Mrs. Petrie’s chair, like a lioness waiting to pounce.
    “Mrs. Petrie—”
    “You can call me Latisha.”
    “Thank you.” He placed his recorder on top of an oversized picture book on the table— Paris Interiors . “Do you mind?”
    “Go right ahead.
    In response to his questions, Latisha described coming home this morning from the airport, then discovering the broken door. Without thinking, she’d rushed through the house, finally ending up in the bedroom. Only then did she realize the danger she was in.
    “For all I knew, he could’ve still been in the house.” She studied her cupped hands. “But he wasn’t. I called the police.”
    “When did you realize what had been taken?”
    Her face slackened. “It took a while. The burglar didn’t just dig through my drawers—he ripped them out. When I walked in, I didn’t even recognize the room.”
    “And all he took was a brooch?”
    “All? My husband’s mother gave that brooch to me.” She swallowed. “She’s not with us anymore. We lost her last year.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    She dabbed at her eyes. “It was a Victorian mourning brooch.
    There’s a cape I wear it with, and I just leave it pinned to the side.
    The burglar dumped out all my jewelry, but had to tear through the closets before he found the brooch.”
    “Victorian.” Logan jotted that down. “I guess it was worth quite a bit.”
    She shook her head. “Not compared to a lot of my things. It’ll take a lot more money to repair the damage he did than it will to replace that brooch. The value’s not what matters, though. He broke into our home . He took something that had special meaning to us.”
    Rylee put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
    After he finished with his questions, he asked to see the scene. They started in the sunroom, where the French doors had been forced. Getting inside had been as simple as breaking a pane and reaching through to work the lock. He bent down for a closer inspection, bits