by Rebecca Deel
“I need an interview, Serena. People are just beginning to trust the Gazette. I can’t run a story about Miller’s break-in without an interview from the sole eyewitness. I’ll damage our credibility—especially since the witness is my own kin.”
Guilt pricked at her conscience. Megan began publishing the Gazette six months earlier with a prayer, two part-time journalists and a printer. Now, three full-time journalists, one printer and a copy editor depended on her for their jobs.
“I don’t want to be in the paper’s headlines.” Serena stopped at the traffic light, waiting for a green signal.
“We won’t identify you.”
“You can’t keep secrets in a town the size of a shoe box.” Serena’s gaze skimmed the downtown business district. Belle’s Beauty Shop, First National Bank, the hardware store and Madison’s knitting shop occupied one side of Otter Creek’s town square. The other sides housed retail stores, the library, a flower shop, the courthouse and police station, restaurants, the Gazette, and a church. “Get a statement from the police.”
“The cops are stonewalling.” Meg paused.
Serena’s eyes narrowed. She could almost hear the cogs spinning in her sister’s brain. Meg never used dramatic pauses unless she planned an ambush or blackmail.
“If you don’t talk, I’ll send Mitch to hound it out of you.” Her voice sounded smug.
Serena groaned. Mitch Harrington. Ace reporter. “All right, but you can’t mention Home Runs.” Bad publicity might flatten her fledgling business before it got off the ground.
“Yes!”
“On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“I want Allison to interview me.”
“Done. What else?”
Serena smiled. “Corral kids at the toddlers’ picnic in two weeks.” She waited as Megan weighed the cost to her sanity, knowing she had her over a barrel for a change.
Megan sighed. “All right, but don’t omit any details. Where can Allison catch up with you?”
Serena parked in the driveway of a two-story colonial brick house on Patterson Street. “I’m taking Ruth to see Doc Anderson.”
Megan chuckled. “You won’t be going anywhere for a while. Thanks, sis.”
Serena dropped the phone in her purse. She hated publicity. That summer in Las Vegas with her uncle taught all the Cahills about unrelenting media coverage. What irony that Megan chose a journalistic career.
She got out of the car and climbed the front steps. The upcoming interview caused a knot in her stomach, but Meg never gave flippant promises. She wouldn’t have to deal with Mitch Harrington.
#
The hospital room door closed, muffling noise from the busy corridor. A heart monitor beeped. Miller’s frail body resembled a pile of sticks covered in clothes on the sterile bed.
Rod’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. And with Blackhawk behind him, he couldn’t slip into the hall for water and a break from suffocating memories. He forced unwilling feet to carry him into the room. Sweat dotted his brow as he stationed himself near the door.
A nurse updating Miller’s chart glared at the two policemen. “No more than five minutes. He needs rest.”
After the nurse left, Blackhawk stepped to the bedside. “Mr. Miller.” He waited until the man’s eyes focused on his face. “I’m Ethan Blackhawk from the Otter Creek Police Department. I need to ask questions about the assault.”
“Can’t help you. Don’t remember anything.”
“What time did you get up this morning, Mr. Miller?”
Miller looked puzzled. “Around 7:00. Why?”
“Did you eat breakfast, drink coffee, read the newspaper?”
The old man nodded.
“Then you remember some things. Tell me what you can about the rest of your day.”
Rod leaned against the wall and recorded Miller’s activities on his notepad. Nothing unusual yet. The old man might not be much help. He hoped Ms. Cahill had a good memory for faces.
Miller stopped speaking and closed his eyes. “Don’t remember much else. Heard a noise in the living room and went to see what it was. Found a man in black clothes and mask searching my desk. Pain exploded in my head. I woke up here.”
Rod’s pulse quickened. “There were two of them?”
Miller reached for a glass of water. Blackhawk helped him maneuver the glass and straw.
Watching his chief assist Miller, Rod noticed the back of Blackhawk’s hands. Scratches and bruises marred his skin. What caused that? His hands weren’t injured last night.
He thought through the investigation at Miller’s house, but came up empty. Rod hadn’t paid attention to Blackhawk’s hands. Did he fight with somebody?
The old man sucked in a breath, then again closed his lips around the straw. Impatience roared through Rod. Miller was drinking enough to drain an 8-ounce glass of water. He’s stalling. Why?
“How did I get here?” Miller’s speech sounded slurred this time. “Who found me?”
Blackhawk raised his head and stared like a predator readying himself to leap on unsuspecting prey. Fear’s cold finger trailed down Rod’s spine.
“Serena Cahill called us.”
Miller sought Blackhawk’s face. “Did they see her?”
CHAPTER THREE
“Tell me about George’s break-in, Serena. I hear he interrupted a burglary.”
Serena smiled at her passenger. Ruth Rollins looked like a frail grandmother, not the curious sifter of gory details seated next to her in the car. Who would have guessed genteel Ruth wrote the Olivia Tutweiler murder mysteries that scared Serena into using a nightlight?
She supplied information about the condition of the room, position of the victim, and what police activity she’d witnessed between trips to the bathroom and the bushes. “One good thing happened this afternoon. I met the new police chief.”
“Really?” Ferret-like eyes stared at her with interest. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s a gentleman.” Serena’s face burned. “He has a sense of humor, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Is that so? What an interesting description of him.”
“Have you met him yet?”
“Oh, yes, dear, I have.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you’re right. He is handsome.”
Serena changed the subject before she embarrassed herself further. “Are Olivia’s adventures based on your own experiences, or are they pure fiction?” She turned into the doctor’s parking lot and eased the car into an empty space.
Ruth laughed. “Unfortunately, Olivia’s clumsiness and penchant for getting into trouble mirror my own misadventures. My nephew says I’m a menace to society.”
Serena hurried around to the passenger side to help Ruth. “I don’t understand how authors write books. What an enormous task.”
Ruth hobbled with her crutches a few steps to the office door. “When I sit down to write, I don’t try to write a novel. I write a scene, whatever scene I see or hear in my head. My characters talk, and I type like mad to record all the conversation. Then I go back and add in other details.”
Serena opened the door and moved aside. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”
Ruth chuckled. “It is. Can’t complain about a job where I plot murders, knock off irritating people and get paid for it. Just don’t tell anyone I hear voices in my head, or they’ll haul me away.”
#
Serena scanned the magazine rack in Doc Anderson’s waiting room. No new magazines to stave off boredom. Next time she taxied Ruth to the doctor, she’d bring along the latest Olivia Tutweiler. She sighed and grabbed a magazine that included recipes.
Flipping through pages, she found a collection of cake recipes guaranteed to entice people to beg for seconds. Serena’s lip curled. Box cakes with added ingredients to disguise cardboard taste.
“Serena, you look more beautiful every time I see you.”
Magazine pages crackled in her fisted hands as she lowered the magazine and turned
to the man now seated next to her. She didn’t think the day could get any worse. Wrong again.
“Mitch.” She forced a smile. “You here to see Dr. Anderson?”
Mitch Harrington’s glacial gray eyes triggered a shiver. Had the room’s temperature plummeted?
“Of course not.” Impatience etched his features. “I’m here for the interview.”
Serena’s heart sank. No way. Meg promised. “Where’s Allison.”
Mitch shrugged. “Her daughter’s sick. I volunteered.”
Great. Mitch could wring information from a turnip. She sank lower in the chair, praying she wouldn’t say anything to hinder the police investigation or her business. Her checking account couldn’t afford another failure. “What do you want to know?”
Serena fielded question after question until she grew irritated at his tenacity. She glanced at her watch and realized thirty minutes had passed, maybe the longest thirty minutes of her life. What was taking Ruth so long?
“Did you see the man? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“You already asked that question at least a couple of times.”
“And you didn’t answer me. Come on, Serena, did you see the man or not?” His gaze seemed to bore a hole through her.
Serena drew breath to reveal the description she gave Chief Blackhawk, but something held her back. “It happened fast, Mitch.”
He stared at her so long Serena thought he’d nail her for waffling on the truth. “Don’t you think the public has a right to know what this guy looks like?”
“The police will handle it.”
Exasperation settled on his face. Mitch moved on to other questions until he gathered enough information for his story.
After juggling the answers to his questions, she understood why he’d won so many journalism awards. He dug for details with the thoroughness of a miner panning for gold. Meg counted herself blessed to hire a prize-winning journalist for part-time work while he researched and wrote a book. Too bad Mitch’s personality lacked prize-winning qualities.
“When I finish the write up, I’ll stop by your house. We can talk, go to dinner.” He stood, preparing to leave.
“No, Mitch.” Not after last week. “That’s not a good idea.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He left the waiting room, slamming the door behind him.
Serena slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d say a little elf perched on top of her head, pounding away with a sledgehammer. She hoped that was her last round with Mitch for a while, but a nagging feeling in her gut warned her otherwise.
#
“Miller’s lying.” Ethan Blackhawk leaned back in his office chair.
Kelter nodded in agreement. “Question is, why?”
“Fear.”
“He’s afraid they’ll come back? Doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“Neither does hitting a residence in broad daylight with people at home. Why risk it?” Ethan studied his detective. How much should he tell Kelter? He had no proof yet. If his suspicions proved right, Otter Creek would get a lot messier fast. “Injuries from the car wreck left him helpless. Miller’s in rough shape, but he could have been killed. Whoever beat him knew how to inflict the most pain with the least permanent damage.”
“How do you know that?”
“Reeks of contract work. I’ve seen it before.” His fist clenched. And been on the receiving end of such a beating. His attackers, however, were more enthusiastic than precise.
He’d never forget the pain from the punches and kicks, the alley’s stench of beer and urine, the sound of his father’s screams. If it hadn’t been for a good Samaritan and the blonde-haired waif with blue eyes, he’d be dead.
He rose, walked into the squad room, and poured two mugs of coffee. Back in his office, Ethan handed a mug to Kelter. “Serena or Pam took him every week for check-ups or physical therapy. Why not wait until Miller left? Otter Creek’s not a booming metropolis. Everybody knows everybody else’s schedule.”
“Maybe they grew impatient.”
“Or maybe something sped up their search.” He sipped the hot, bitter brew. “Did you notice Miller didn’t ask about Serena’s safety, only if the perps saw her?”
“Think she’s involved?
Ethan hesitated. Was she involved? He doubted it. Serena ought to be nominated for an Oscar if she’d faked her reaction to blood. “No, I don’t.”
His main concern focused on the perps. When he discovered an intruder in his home, Miller claimed he saw a masked man. Serena didn’t mention a mask when she described the gunman. Maybe he pocketed the mask. Or perhaps Miller lied to protect himself or someone else.
If this was contract work as he suspected, Serena would be in danger when the men discovered she could identify one of them.
Kelter stood and moved toward the door, mug in hand. “Still want me to check her out?”
“Check them both out.”
Kelter hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.
Ethan waited. They’d worked together a couple weeks, but he already respected Kelter’s professionalism and insight. His personnel file documented his thoroughness, valor, and high case closure rate. It also detailed the wreck that killed Kelter’s wife and three-year-old daughter.
Without turning, Kelter said, “What happened to your hands, sir?”
Ethan glanced at his scraped knuckles. Observant. Good. The corners of his mouth curved. “My aunt’s shutters.”
After Kelter left his office, Ethan jerked open a desk drawer and grabbed a bottle of aspirin. Who knew a sleepy berg like Otter Creek had enough crime to spark a headache.
The phone buzzed. “Chief, your aunt’s on the line. You have a minute?”
“For her, always. Thanks, Trudie.” Trudie Gallagher had to be the world’s best administrative assistant. She protected his time and privacy like it was her own. No one slid by Trudie.
“Hello, beautiful. How was your doctor visit?”
“Excellent. Only two more weeks in this leg iron, then on to physical therapy.”
Ethan chuckled. “And how long before the next leap from an airplane, Aunt Ruth?”
“I’ll have to pass on more parachuting. The doctor says I’m too old to be jumping out of airplanes. I couldn’t convince him I landed wrong.”
He breathed a silent prayer of thanks, grateful the doctor curbed Aunt Ruth’s adventurous spirit this time. He hated acting like the troll barring the door, but cringed every time inspiration seduced his aunt into trying something new for use in her mystery novels. “You’ll think of something guaranteed to keep me awake at night.”
Ruth laughed. “I heard you had another break-in.”
“Small town grapevines work like the moccasin telegraph on the rez.” Ethan rubbed his jaw. “How’d you hear about it?”
“A call from a friend at Cornerstone Church. Bev’s niece works at the Stop-n-Go where Gage bought the Cokes.”
“I’ll have to remind the rookies about investigation procedures and protocol.”
“Go easy, Ethan. You know those boys haven’t done much more than issue traffic tickets.”
“Yes, ma’am. I also know they are professionals and need to approach their work with that attitude. They may move on from our police force to one in a larger city.” Ethan jotted a note to jar his memory later. “Loose lips could get someone killed.”
“Point taken, Ethan. By the way, your witness, Serena Cahill, has been driving me to appointments and church when you are busy.”
He froze. “I see.” His sole witness chauffeured his aunt around town? How much danger stalked her? Would it spill onto Ruth?
“Stop it.”
Ethan looked at the phone clutched in his hand as if it had bitten him. “Ma’am?”
“Stop looking for criminal connections where there are none. Serena’s a nice young woman who keeps me from depending on you more than necessary.”
Ethan turned his chair and watched
pedestrian traffic in the square below. If Ruth found out how much trouble bubbled below the surface in Otter Creek, she’d be in the middle of it. “I want to take care of you, Aunt Ruth.” He dialed back the steel in his voice. “It’s an honor to give back a small part of what you gave me.”
Ruth sighed. “I know that, Ethan. And I love you, too. But I won’t let you smother me or take away my independence.”
“Understood. But you have to let me spoil you.”
“On that note, I’m developing a grand case of cabin fever. I could use some company. How about lunch after church Sunday?
Ethan hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. Ruth balked over his caution and pampering, but his responsibility for her care topped his priority list. Ruth Rollins had saved his life, and he’d let no one harm or take advantage of her. Not even someone as beautiful as Serena Cahill.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ethan flipped over another photograph from the parsonage break-in. Pastor Lang’s study mimicked Miller’s house. Heaps of books and scattered papers created a carpet of confusion.
Another snapshot revealed a close view of computer innards. Computers made his life easier until they imploded, corroded, hiccupped, or threw a shoe. Any computer he depended on betrayed him, running off with his data and disappearing into the misty void of cyberspace. His favorite computer required a pen to operate. A yellow legal pad never disappointed.
Other scene shots revealed more chaos in the rest of Lang’s house, but nothing like the destruction at Miller’s. Intact couch cushions and pillows littered the floor. Paintings still hung on walls. Why did Miller rate extreme measures? Was he home at the wrong time? Were the other break-ins more like Miller’s or the preacher’s?
Ethan left his office and scanned the quiet squad room. He’d given most of the staff the weekend off. Since the former police chief had resigned and moved to Florida three months ago, all the staff and officers had pitched in multiple overtime hours. His gaze rested on the detective pecking at his computer keyboard. Rod clocked out an hour ago. Why was he still here? “I thought you were going home.”
