Broom and Gloom Page 3

  ***

  By the time I found my hotel, it was almost eight at night. I parked in the garage beside the convention center and then stepped into the lush establishment. A huge atrium stretched eight stories high in the center, complete with a fountain, live music, a restaurant, and a bar in the center. An employee greeted me from behind a granite-topped desk, got my information, and pointed me toward my temporary home away from home.

  My suite had a nice sitting area at the front, a good-sized bathroom, and a bedroom with a king-sized bed. The place smelled a bit of overfragranced cleaners, and the heat was so dry my mouth and nose instantly felt arid. Still, the soft carpet and spa-like pillows made up for it.

  I think I’m going to like it here.

  I had to admit that I hadn’t traveled very much by myself, so the change of pace was nice. Plus, it was good to be alone. I needed this time to sort out my thoughts about life.

  The forensic conference began tomorrow. One hundred professionals from all over the country had flown in for the event. Some wanted to get in the training hours to keep their certifications current. Others just wanted to refresh certain skills, learn the latest technologies, or add to their continuing education. Experts were leading lectures on various topics relevant to the forensics community.

  I’d decided I needed to come to both refresh my mind and get some direction for my career. I just couldn’t keep cleaning crime scenes forever.

  The conference lasted all week and ended with a main session where the Kirsh Award, named in honor of Robert Kirsh, a groundbreaking pioneer in the forensic world, would be bestowed upon one guest of honor.

  I glanced around my hotel room with a contented sigh.

  The last time I’d stayed at a hotel this nice had been for a law school reunion with Riley. My heart twisted with sadness at the thought. As much as I’d like to think I could write off our relationship and be over it in a few months, my emotions weren’t cooperating. I wondered if there was a part of me that would always love Riley. Did that make me stupid or dedicated?

  I deposited my suitcase in the bedroom, grabbed my laptop, and plopped down on the couch. I typed in crazy woman Georgia Dalton’s name.

  The first thing that came up was the website she’d set up for Trace. She certainly was obsessed with the man, typing in every sighting she’d had of him. Other fans posted pictures of him grocery shopping or posed with him at restaurants. The strange thing was that there hadn’t been any new posts in two weeks. Coincidence? Probably not.

  I ripped a piece of paper out of my notebook and began scribbling down questions for Trace like: Have you ever taken a restraining order out on her? Do you know where she’s from? Where did she work?

  Second, I searched for Skye Flores. There was no mention of her online. Was that because she was private, or was there more to it?

  I flipped through Jono’s notes and read that Skye had lived near Lawton. She’d left her career as an elementary school teacher four months ago, in the middle of the school year. That seemed strange within itself. Most teachers, unless they had good reason, at least waited until the school year was over.

  Someone who quit midway through the school year might be a free spirit prone to following whims.

  Maybe all of this was for nothing. Maybe Skye had just decided she needed a life change, and she’d taken off for a new adventure. I could see where the idea was tempting. It wasn’t necessarily the right way to get a fresh start, but it was one way.

  The final person I needed more information on was Caitlyn, Trace’s girlfriend who’d moved back to Colorado. I actually had her phone number, and since she was one time zone behind me, I thought it was still early enough to call.

  She answered on the first ring and sounded wide awake. Thank goodness.

  I explained who I was. As soon as I mentioned Georgia, her voice changed from friendly to witchy.

  “I hated to let her win. I really did. But what choice did I have?”

  Her choice of words had me curious. “What do you mean ‘win’?”

  “I mean, she was trying to run me off, and she did. I left Oklahoma and came back home. I left everything behind me—my apartment, my career, my boyfriend, my life.”

  “Why did you give all of that up?”

  “I thought that crazy lady would kill me! Nothing’s worth that. I was tired of living in fear.”

  “So you feel confident that she was behind the incidents that took place, like your car tires being slashed and your apartment ransacked?”

  “I know she was. I just couldn’t prove it. I went to the Laundromat one time, and she was there. She wasn’t even doing laundry. She also showed up at the movies once when Trace and I were together. I looked behind me, and she was sitting about five rows back. Not watching the movie. Watching me.”

  I shivered at the thought. If what she was saying was true, then Georgia was messed up. As in psycho-chick crazy.

  “I even thought I saw her here in Colorado one time.”

  That surprised me. “Really? Are you sure it was her?”

  “No, that’s the weird thing about her. She changes her look all the time. Sometimes she’s a brunette, other times a blonde. She’ll wear glasses, sunglasses, hats, change the way she dresses. She’s creepy.”

  In other words, I could be looking for Georgia while I was here in Oklahoma and never even know I was staring right at the woman.

  The thought wasn’t comforting.

  “One of the strangest things about her was that I could always tell when she’d been around because I found daisy petals,” Caitlyn continued.

  My spine stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Whenever something happened, I found little white petals in the vicinity. By my car. In my house. No one could ever prove it, but I felt certain Georgia had left them. It was the only thing that made sense, and the flowers only made her seem more messed up.”

  “I’d agree.” Was it done in a “he loves me, he loves me not” moment? Wasn’t that one reason why people picked petals off flowers?

  “One last piece of advice,” Caitlyn said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you see Georgia, run the other way.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The blood spatter fanned out on the wall, drops of crimson that grew smaller as they traveled downward.

  I leaned toward the display, examining each droplet and vying for the best position within the sea of onlookers. I quickly studied the pattern, looking only at the facts before me. The blood was an impact stain that appeared to have been projected through the air. Aside from the spatter, there were also some splashes, as well as an arterial spurt. I did a quick analysis based on the forward spatter, which would have come from an exit wound and was more of a fine mist. The spines, satellites, and elongation of the spatter told the grisly story of what had happened.

  “The man was shot at close range,” I said. “Even though it looks like the gun was fired from a distance due to the trail of blood, when you carefully examine the droplets, it’s obvious that the gun used was high powered. It would explain the pattern of blood spatter here. At first glance, it’s almost deceitful.”

  Everyone remained quiet, which surprised me. I’d expected an onslaught of opinions from my classmates. My stomach clenched as I looked back at them, waiting for their assessment of my assessment.

  Only a new figure had entered our little semicircle, someone with an air of authority around him. His presence had shut everyone else up.

  “Very good,” the man said. He nodded approvingly at me. “I believe you will get the Student of the Day award, Ms. . . . ?”

  My cheeks flushed. I’d arrived to class this afternoon, and there’d been a note on the marker board that we needed to examine the imitation blood left on the wall. A group of my classmates and I had gathered around to discuss it until the teacher arrived. Little had I known that the teacher had arrived. Little also had I known that the teacher was not Dr. Wilmette Perkins, as it said on our
schedule.

  The man staring at me now was Levi Stone, one of the world’s leading authorities on blood spatter analysis. He’d been a guest lecturer during one of my courses in college, and I’d developed a big-time crush on him during that time. I never thought I’d see him again, yet here he was now.

  I cleared my throat. “St. Claire. Gabby St. Claire.” I really wasn’t going for the James Bond effect. The words had just slipped out.

  His eyes lingered on me a moment before he finally stepped back and looked at the red splotches on the wall. “Very good. Ms. St. Claire is correct. Blood behaves according to certain scientific principles, and we must draw conclusions based on what we see. Our job is to interpret the evidence that’s been left behind and not to jump to conclusions. To the untrained eye, it would be easy to draw inaccurate assumptions about the pattern of this blood.”

  We all went to our seats, and I pulled out my notebook, ready to take notes and absorb all I could while here.

  I couldn’t help but marvel at Dr. Stone. Not only was he a leading expert in the field of forensics, but he’d authored several books about real-life crime. He consulted for various TV shows. He’d served as president for the American Forensic Association, and currently owned Stone Forensic Consulting, which, now that I thought about it, was based out of Oklahoma. He was a celebrity in the CSI world.

  The man was handsome to boot. He was tall—well over six foot. He had ginger-colored hair, green eyes, and a well-defined body. A slight stubble covered the strong features of his cheeks and chin. Despite the professional nature of the conference, he wore jeans, a button-up shirt, and cowboy boots.

  I felt dazed as I listened to him from my seat in the conference room. Everyone else seemed to be on their best behavior as well, soaking in everything he had to say. Something close to fire ripped through my blood with every new fact, procedure, or technology I learned about.

  Passion. That’s what this was. I loved this stuff. I mean, I really loved it. I’d missed being immersed in this world of official law enforcement.

  As Dr. Stone showed us slides from various case studies, I not only examined them for evidence; I also tried to figure out the best ways to remove the blood from the surfaces they’d stained. Years of being a crime scene cleaner had done this to me.

  “What do you think, Ms. St. Claire?”

  I turned my attention back to Dr. Stone, who stared at me. “I think you should clear any expectations from your mind. The less you know about the case before going in to examine the blood spatter, the more objective you’re going to be.”

  He stared at me a moment longer. I waited for criticism, for him to call me on my bluff. Instead, he nodded. “Very good.”

  All too soon, the class ended. I gathered up my notes, stuffed them into my book bag, and started toward the door.

  “Ms. St. Claire,” a deep voice said before I was swept out the door by the flow of students.

  I stopped, two people colliding into me from behind. As I turned, I saw Dr. Stone.

  For some reason, nervous flutters rumbled through my stomach. It was like coming face-to-face with a crush from your childhood or a celebrity from your favorite boy band. Of course, mine happened to be a forensic specialist instead. I was a real nerd like that.

  I pulled my bag up higher, waiting for the crowd to clear. Finally, the last of the students trickled out and I stood face-to-face with Dr. Stone.

  “Yes, Dr. Stone?” My throat felt dry.

  He studied me a moment. “Have we met before?”

  He couldn’t possibly remember me from my college days. “You were a guest lecturer in one of my college classes. But that was several years ago.”

  “Virginia, right?”

  My cheeks flushed, and I hated myself for having this reaction. I was way too old to feel like this. I mean, I was twenty-eight and acting like I was thirteen. “Yes, I did go to college in Virginia.”

  He tapped his chin. “You were in my applied forensics class. Even back then, you were just as perceptive as you were today in class. We did that monthlong study where we assigned people to investigative roles and searched for answers on a real-life case. You were the only one in class who nailed it.”

  He had remembered! “You just made my day.”

  His eyes sparkled. “How could I forget someone with so much potential? Really, your work in examining that blood spatter today was amazing. This was from an actual case that I consulted on. Local law enforcement flubbed up the evidence and made a lot of improper assumptions that almost sent the wrong person to prison.”

  “Well, I love this stuff.” I shrugged, acting as if his compliment was nothing, while in reality I was thrilled. Like, bouncing-off-the-walls thrilled.

  He smiled. “Yeah, I can see that in your eyes.”

  We started walking down the hall together, and I noticed several people glance his way. He was like a rock star in the forensic world, and I was sure others would be clamoring for his attention. I’d take whatever time with him that I could get.

  “I didn’t realize you were going to be teaching this week,” I started, tugging absently at one of my curls. I’d accidentally left my styling gel at home, which meant that my hair would turn into a frizzy mess faster than one could say “Superfreak.”

  “Dr. Perkins had something come up at the last minute, and the coordinator asked me to fill in. I, of course, said yes.” He had this cool, detached tone to his voice. It was more than his inflection, for that matter. The way he carried himself also seemed aloof, like someone who didn’t give a lot of credence to what other people thought.

  I reminded myself to keep talking and not just stand there like a doofus. “You must live around here, then.”

  He nodded. “I do. Just about an hour out of town.”

  “Nice.”

  He pointed at my shirt. “You a Trace Ryan fan?”

  I glanced down. I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. Trace had given it to me before we said goodbye last night. “You could say that. You like him?”

  He nodded. “I do, actually. Their new single, ‘Doom and Groom,’ is really catchy. The radio stations around here won’t stop playing it.”

  “Tonight’s his release party for his new album with Ranchhand Records.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Would you like to go?” As soon as the question popped out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch it back. What was I thinking? I waited for him to scoff, to say no, to make up an excuse as to why he had better things to do.

  “Really? I’d love to. You really wouldn’t mind if I came along for the ride?”

  Being stuck in the car for an hour with a renowned forensic expert? I could think of worse things. “Not at all. Some company on the ride would be nice, especially someone who can help me navigate around these here parts.”

  “These here parts, huh? We’re in Oklahoma, darlin’, not the Deep South.” He grinned, a dimple appearing in his left cheek.

  I smiled. “Understood.”

  He checked his watch. “Let me just check on my kids; then I can meet you downstairs in the lobby. Does that work?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  Kids? The man was probably ten years older than me, which would put him around forty years old. Most people his age had kids and a wife and a cute little house with a white picket fence.

  And all of that was fine because I wasn’t looking for love or romance or even a fling or a crush. Nope, nothing of the sort. I’d had my fill of romantic drama, enough to last a lifetime.

  This was a time for me. No guys included. I had to figure out myself before I involved a man in my life, and that was that.

  As he stepped away, imaginary spiders crawled over my skin. I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me.

  I looked up and down the hallway but saw no one.

  Maybe I was being paranoid.

  But usually, my instincts were dead on.

  Could it be Georgia?

  I brushed it
off, but not until I scanned the hallway one more time and saw no one unusual.

  Just in case, I’d stay on guard, because a girl never knew when trouble might pop up at the worst possible moment.

  CHAPTER 4

  Spearmint. Dr. Stone smelled like spearmint as he sat beside me in the car, his frame entirely too big for the Fiat 500 that I’d rented. But he didn’t complain, and a single apology from me when we’d first climbed inside seemed to be enough.

  We didn’t even begin to talk or have casual conversation as he directed me out of downtown Oklahoma City. Rush hour was in full force, and the last thing I wanted to do was seriously maim the man beside me because of my lousy driving. The forensic community would never forgive me.

  Finally, I navigated out of the city and started north. Trace and his band were doing their “soft launch,” as he’d called it, tonight. This would all be very interesting, even more so now that Dr. Stone was with me.

  “So, what have you been up to? Where are you working?” Dr. Stone asked, leaning back but having nowhere else to go in the car. I knew I should have splurged for an upgrade, but how was I to know?

  Any ego I had left deflated under his question. He expected me to tell him the name of a major police department. I wished that were the truth, and I had a glowing response that would be sure to impress him.

  I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m a crime scene cleaner.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “What?”

  I went through the story about how I’d dropped out of college, started my own crime scene cleaning business, finished my degree, started working for the medical examiner, lost that job due to budget cuts, and eventually gone back to crime scene cleaning.

  In fact, by the time I finished, we’d pulled up to the Dusty Boots Café outside of Stillwater, and I put the car in park. I’d basically monopolized the entire hour on myself when I could have picked his brain—really, a term that was too literal for a crime scene cleaner—about the famous cases he’d worked.

  “I want to talk to you more about your career later,” he said, his hand on the door handle.