When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(40)

“Dorothea.” The sheriff reached out a hand.

The older woman batted her heavily mascaraed eyes. She had a mass of platinum blond hair arranged in a French twist, and the too-thin build of a woman who’d spent her entire life denying herself dessert for the sake of her girlish figure.

D.D. held out a hand. She didn’t get the same lingering look as the sheriff, but Dorothea was polite enough.

“Sure you heard about the excitement yesterday,” the sheriff began. He’d taken off his hat as soon as they walked through the door. Now, he turned it in his hands. D.D. was starting to recognize his routine: The sheriff liked to approach his constituents with folksy charm. Hat in hand, literally, just one of the neighbors, asking a few questions.

As Dorothea nodded, D.D. decided the sheriff might be onto something. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar, as the saying went.

She’d never been particularly good at that approach, given her own blunt, take-no-prisoners style. She smiled now, forced herself to slow down, make eye contact.

Dorothea appeared momentarily uneasy, so maybe D.D.’s expression wasn’t quite as neutral as she hoped. Probably, even things like smiling took practice.

“We’re interested in some property records,” the sheriff said.

“Well now, Sheriff, of course I want to help. You know I do. But I have a responsibility to this town and the privacy of its citizens.”

“Tax rolls are public domain, Dorothea. Nothing to worry about. We just need to dot some i’s, cross some t’s. This is gonna be a very big investigation and we want to put our best foot forward. Show these Yankees”—he grinned, elbowed D.D.—“we know what we’re doing.”

So that’s how it was going to be. Dorothea beamed at the sheriff. D.D. stopped with the smiling, returned to her more traditional role as bad cop. Or as the case might be, stern Northern cop.

“Which property records, Sheriff?”

“Well, that’s the thing. We don’t exactly know. I’m guessing we’re going to need you to do some fancy database searching. Not that I imagine that’s any problem for you.”

Indeed, Dorothea had already returned to her computer, hands hovering over the keyboard.

“We want to go back . . . I’m gonna say, fifteen years.” The sheriff nodded, as if that number sounded good enough. “Let’s say homesteads that include at least an acre.”

Dorothea gave him a look. D.D. was guessing, given the rural location, at least an acre was pretty common for property around here.

“Now, this is the trick—we’re curious about property that’s changed hands. Maybe the owner died, something like that.”

Nodding. Fingers flying across the keyboard now.

“How many is that?” the sheriff asked after a minute.

“I have two dozen.”

“Any properties showing a cabin deep in the woods? Or removed from its neighbor?”

Dorothea frowned at the sheriff, then consulted her list. “Ten or so.”

“I’ll tell you what, just download them all. That’ll be good.”

The sheriff glanced at D.D. She added: “What about any properties that have been foreclosed on? Regardless of lot size, location.”

“That gives us four or five more.”

“We’ll take those addresses, as well.”

Dorothea nodded. Hit a button. The printer fired to life.

“I heard you found bodies,” Dorothea whispered at last, looking at the sheriff and placing extra emphasis on the s at the end of the word.

“Skeletal remains,” the sheriff confirmed soberly. “Nothing for immediate worry. But violent crime is violent crime. We’ll be getting to the bottom of this.”

“Young girls? Many of them?”

“We’re still conducting our investigation.”

“Does that ring any bells for you, Dorothea?” D.D. asked, because she saw a gleam in the woman’s eyes. The town gossip. Of course she wanted to be in the know. “Are there many girls that pass through here?”

Dorothea hesitated, glancing at the sheriff. He nodded slightly, as if granting permission to speak to the outsider. Dorothea turned to D.D. “During the summer season, this place is crawling with new faces, including plenty of girls suited for waitressing, hospitality, and the like. But come winter, business drops way off. Most businesses cut down, the kids head back to school. Winter, we’re a sleepy town in a lot of ways. Without the hikers . . .” She shrugged.

“True,” the sheriff agreed. He took the stack of property records from Dorothea and thumbed through them, as if already bored.

“It’s a beautiful main street,” D.D. commented. “I especially love the Mountain Laurel B and B run by the mayor and his wife. What a gorgeous Victorian.”

“One of the true prized jewels of the town!” Dorothea warmed immediately. “That property was originally built in eighteen-thirty as a summer home for a rich Atlanta family. They had four daughters. One, Martha Counsel’s great-great grandmother, married locally and stayed on. That house has been in the family for generations!”

D.D. nodded. So the hotel belonged to the missus, not the mister. Interesting. “I just met the mayor and his wife. Such a shame about their niece.”

“Oh, they take good care of her. Poor thing. To have been in a terrible accident. Girl was left simple, you know.”