Page 11 of Skin and Bones

“Stranger danger,” I muttered under my breath, giving Chowder a disapproving look he chose to ignore.

As the sheriff waited for me to open up, I took a moment to appreciate the view. He stood a couple of inches over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to suggest he spent his free time doing something more strenuous than paperwork. His uniform—light blue shirt and dark pants—was pressed to military precision, but it was how he filled it out that caught my attention. I was starting to have an unusual fascination with shoulders.

I was captivated by the thin scar that traced his jawline, starting just below his ear and running about two inches down. I had a feeling whatever had happened he was lucky to be alive.

“I’m not open yet,” I called through the door.

“Official business,” he replied, holding up a leather folder.

With a sigh that was only partially for show, I unlocked the door and stepped back to let him in. “Good morning, Sheriff. You’re up early.”

“Dash,” he corrected.

“You said it was official business,” I said, arching a brow.

He smiled in that slow, thoughtful way he had. “So I did. I’m sorry to disturb you before opening hours.”

“No trouble,” I lied, remembering how’d I’d looked when he’d last seen me and trying to push through the embarrassment, though I did look pretty spectacular in my red dress, so that had to count for something.

“Are you okay? You’re looking kind of flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I said, feeling my face flush even more. “I’m just not used to law enforcement at dawn. Should I be worried?”

“Not unless you broke the law,” he said, looking around the empty room. “But I do need a favor.”

Chowder chose that moment to trot over, greeting the sheriff like he’d been sent a personal invitation with bacon treats attached.

“Chowder,” I said. “Have some dignity.” I blew out a sigh as Chowder rolled like a sausage onto his back for belly scrubs.

“He’s just being friendly.”

“You said something about a favor?” I reminded him, trying to keep things on track. “At six thirty in the morning?”

“I need to use your tea shop. For a meeting. Today, if possible.”

“A meeting,” I repeated, feeling like I was several steps behind in this conversation. “Here? The station doesn’t have a conference room?”

“It does,” he confirmed. “But this isn’t an official meeting, and I’d rather not conduct it on government property.”

My brows rose at that bit of information.

“When?” I asked, already mentally rearranging my day.

“After you close today?” He sounded almost apologetic. “Six o’clock? I know it’s short notice, but?—”

“Who’s meeting?” I asked, curious despite myself.

Dash hesitated, then said, “The Silver Sleuths.”

“I’m sorry, did you say the Silver Sleuths? As in, my Silver Sleuths? The geriatric crime enthusiasts who are bound and determined to find out everything there is to know about the mysterious new sheriff?”

He winced. “That’s a terrifying thought,” he said. “But yes. The very same. After our conversation last night, I did some research. Turns out their credentials are legitimate, and quite impressive.”

“I told you so,” I said, unable to resist repeating his words from the night before.

“You did.” He nodded, then added, “I need their expertise.”

I moved to refill my cup since my tea had gone cold. “For what exactly?”