“Why? Have you been thinking of entering the priesthood?”
No, he’d been stuck in a marriage with a woman he’d come to loathe. “I’m not religious. My parents shoved it down my throat when I was young. I haven’t recovered yet.”
“My father would’ve been able to convert you,” she said confidently. “You should’ve heard him preach.”
Hunter wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t say so. “Who took over his congregation when he went missing?”
“Reverend Portenski.”
“Was it a position Portenski particularly coveted?”
“He didn’t even live here when my father disappeared. He heard about the opening and came to inquire several weeks afterward.”
Portenski didn’t seem to have much of a motive for murder, but Hunter wasn’t crossing anyone off the list just yet.
“Turn right here,” she said.
Hunter did as she told him. “Have you ever done any traveling?”
“No.”
“You’ve never left the South?”
“Not even for college. I went to Mississippi State, which is only about three hours from here, and graduated with a degree in journalism. Now I own the only newspaper in town.”
“Then you’ve done well.”
She gave him a sheepish grin. “It’s not as prestigious as it sounds. The Stillwater Independent comes out once a week, and I’m usually the major contributing journalist, depending on what I pull from the bigger papers, of course.” She rested her head on the back of her seat and watched him from beneath her eyelashes. “What about you?”
“I went to San Diego State. But surfing came between me and a degree.”
“I knew it!”
Laughing, he held up one hand. “Just kidding. Actually, I had a 4.0 all the time I was in school.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, you didn’t.”
He merely smiled.
“You probably surfed for as long as you could get away with it, then went into the police academy when you realized you had to grow up.”
He’d been telling the truth about his grades, but he didn’t bother trying to convince her. It didn’t matter if she believed he’d been a slacker. But the fact that she knew anything about his background surprised him. “Who told you I used to be a cop?”
“Grace did some research.”
“Investigating the investigator, eh?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Smart. What else do you know about me?”
“That you’re good.”
He grinned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease her. “I told you that on the phone.”
“You were talking about sex.”
“Some men are good at more than one thing.”
“I thought you were too jaded to be attracted to me.”
“No, I’m too jaded to act on the attraction.”
Despite what he’d said, the sudden silence was charged with sexual awareness. “Ours is a professional relationship,” he added. But the statement sounded a little forced, and she immediately called him on it.
“Who are you trying to remind? Me—or yourself?”
He felt his mood darken. “You’re not making this any easier.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said innocently.
“Just tell me how to get to your house.”
“Make a right at the stoplight. After about two miles you’ll find a country road that goes over a hill and dead-ends at a small brick cottage with ivy on one side.”
“That sounds like ‘over the river and through the woods.’ You can’t be more specific?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t miss it. It’s the only house on the street.”
“And this small cottage has guest quarters?” This suddenly became a very salient point.
“It’s actually a detached garage that I converted into a guestroom. Very cute.”
“Will I have my own shower?”
“Yes, but no kitchen.”
“Not a problem. I wasn’t planning on cooking.”
“I suppose that’s my job?”
“We could always go out,” he said with a meaningful grin. “I happen to have an expense account.”
She grimaced. “Right. I’ll cook.”
Chapter Eight
The guest cottage was similar to the main house, which reminded Hunter of an old Italian farmhouse—the kind often depicted in movies—except that it had only one room with a small bathroom.
“It’s a little stuffy in here after being shut up for so long because of the rain,” Madeline said. She lit a vanilla-scented candle as she showed Hunter around, but as far as he was concerned, the place had smelled great from the beginning, like fresh linens and a trace of Madeline’s perfume.
“Here’re the clean towels.” She opened a tall cupboard, made of distressed wood, standing just outside the bathroom—probably because it wouldn’t fit inside—and pointed to a neatly folded stack of white and blue towels.
He nodded, thinking he wouldn’t mind a hot shower—followed by a soft bed and then, hopefully, oblivion.
She walked over to the brick fireplace, which, along with some primitive-looking bookshelves, took up one whole wall. “You’ll find plenty of wood in here if you’d like a fire,” she said, pulling up the lid on a nearby bin.
The smell of pine and turpentine filtered into the room and made Hunter think of the time he’d taken his small family camping in Yosemite. Life with Antoinette had been difficult from the start. But Maria had made all the difference. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders as they hiked, helping her across the wet rocks of the stream where they swam. God, he missed his little girl…
When he realized Madeline was waiting for a response, he knocked on the small door at the back of the bin that indicated it could be filled from outside. “Handy.”
“The fireplace should keep you warm.”
The thick feather comforter on the bed would do that, too.
She tucked her hair behind her ears as she turned to face him. “I’m sorry there’s no television out here. No fridge, either. But feel free to come over if you need anything. There’s a key under the mat. It opens both houses.”
“I’m sure a burglar would never expect to find it there,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm.
“There’s virtually no crime around here.”