Deeply regretting that I’d left my umbrella in the car, I sighed and took a step toward what was going to be an instant drenching, when I felt my cell phone vibrate in the pocket of my raincoat.

I pulled it out and took the call. “Hey, Ash. What’s up?”

“Can you stop by the sheriff’s office?”

“Sure. When?”

“Right now would be good.”

I looked balefully at the sky. Just when you thought it couldn’t rain any harder, it did. If I went out there now, I’d inevitably end up with wet socks. I hated wet socks.

“It’s about Brown Bernier,” Ash said. “There’s something you need to know.”

“Be there in five minutes.” I thumbed off the phone and ran into the rain.

*   *   *

Four and a half minutes later, I squelched my way into the lobby of the sheriff’s office. Behind the bulletproof glass, a woman in civilian clothes looked up from her computer and came to the window. “Are you Minnie Hamilton?”

She looked about my age, give or take a couple of years, and had enviable straight brown hair cut into wavy layers that looked as if they did exactly what she wanted them to. I wanted to dislike her, but her friendly smile made it impossible.

“That’s me.” I peeled my raincoat from my skin and shook as many drops as I could onto the absorbent mat. “Sorry about the mess, but it’s ark-building rain out there.”

“No worries. Deputy Wolverson said to tell you he’s waiting in your regular room.”

I smiled. In the past two and a half years I’d spent so much time in the sheriff’s office I’d been thinking of asking if I could have a plaque installed with my name on it, but I couldn’t decide between “Minnie’s Annex” and “The Hamilton Room.” “Have you worked here long?” I asked. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Chelsea Stille, the new office manager. I’ve been here almost two weeks.”

I’d heard Sheriff Kit Richardson was finally getting around to replacing her longtime office manager, who had retired a few months ago, but I hadn’t heard the deed had been done. “How do you like it so far?”

“So far, so good,” she said cheerfully. She buzzed the door open, we gave the “been nice to meet you” greetings that people do, and I headed down the hallway to my room.

Inside, the too-handsome-for-his-own-good Ash Wolverson was already sitting at the chipped laminate table that should have been retired out to pasture a decade ago. He was flipping through a small pile of papers and frowning.

“Hey.” I hung my still-dripping coat on the back of the chair opposite him and sat down. “What’s the deal?”

Ash flipped the folder shut. “We have to wait for Hal.”