The Art of Love and Murder by Brenda Whiteside

joked about the experience.
    His uplifted hand dipped a bit, he blinked and his copper eyes grew dark amber.
    Did he think she’d really been in danger? She hesitated, thinking she should apologize for joking.
    He drew a deep breath. “To new friends,” he said. Their glasses clinked. “And ghosts in dark alleys.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “Take a drink or risk bad luck.” He sipped his wine and quirked a brow at her.
    “I’ve never heard that one.” She sipped. “So, tell me more, Sheriff Meadowlark, which by the way, you might have mentioned.”
    “Why?”
    “Why? Because.”
    “Ah, good reasoning.” He teased and nodded his head.
    Laura returned with the appetizers. “I think you’ll really like the grilled flatbread.” She handed her the miniature spatula. “Enjoy.”
    “I don’t know what you do when you’re not researching family history in Flagstaff.” Chance continued as if Laura hadn’t interrupted. “Can’t recall we’ve had much of a conversation.”
    “Touché.” She tilted her head. “We’ll swap stories. Okay?”
    “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?”
    She laughed. “Something like that. Tell me, who are the Meadowlarks?” She scooped a piece of flatbread and offered it to him.
    “Thanks. That would be my daughter, Jenny, and me. She’s an art student at NAU. She’s nineteen going on thirty.” He smiled, obviously fond of his daughter. “Who are the Dahls?”
    “I have a son, Dylan, who’s in Paris studying to be a chef. My daughter, August, lives in Tucson. She owns an art gallery, and it’s her fault I’m here.” She thumped the table. “My turn. How long have you been the sheriff?”
    “I’m in my second term.”
    “What—”
    “Hold up.” He waved a piece of flatbread in the air. “I believe it’s my turn. How long have you been...what do you do?”
    She laughed. “Okay. Mmm. This flatbread is delicious. I own a coffee café called the Lacy Latte. I bought it a few months after Conrad, my husband, died And what did you do before you were sheriff?”
    “Flagstaff policeman.”
    Laura stopped at their table to take their dinner orders.
    “So, you’ve always been a lawman.” She jumped in as soon as the waitress walked away, not waiting for him to think of a question for her.
    “I prefer to think of myself as a peace keeper. Maybe it’s my Hopi heritage.”
    “How’s that?” She bit into an asparagus appetizer.
    “The word Hopi is a shortened version of the original tribal name, which translates to peaceful people.”
    “That’s beautiful.” She’d felt his peaceful side last night, taking charge and calming her. “My mother was Hopi.”
    He assessed her face. “Yeah, I can see that.”
    “What made you leave the police force to become the sheriff?”
    “I needed...a change.” Chance stared into his wine, his chest swelled with a breath.
    His tone intrigued her. There was more to this story, and she’d only scratched the surface. But before she came up with another question to draw him out, he raised a hand to stop her.
    “I seem to remember a promise of a story you were going to tell me.”
    A change of subject. He seemed determined to keep his distance. Maybe the man did possess a dark streak. A secret. She didn’t need secrets or men with secrets. Her chest tightened, and with a deep breath, she forced herself to relax and forget. Or at least set it aside.
    She ran a finger around the edge of her wine glass. Without knowing how deep his connection to the Katz family went, she needed to be diplomatic relating the meeting she’d had with Carol.
    “Although I hadn’t met Kitty before, I met her mother earlier today.” She related the events of how she came to Flagstaff and the visit with the only relatives who could tie her to her birth mother.
    “Truth is, I didn’t do much preparation, as far as family history, before I drove up. Since my parents, birth parents that is, died when I was quite young, I know very