Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  “You’re not tempted?”

  “Nah. Once a week I play for sick kids at the children’s hospital with a couple of my cop buddies. That’s enough for me. The good thing about sick kids is they’re so happy to see anybody, they don’t even care if we’re any good or miss a line.” He used his thumb to peel the label off his beer.

  Why is he suddenly nervous? Can’t be me. We’ve been talking easily enough all evening. “You never told me what you’re doing in Austin. Is it business or pleasure? Are you working while you’re here?”

  “I’m working, but not on a case. I’m helping out a friend. Is there any chance you would recognize the name of the defendant in the Tom Meyers case you saw on the news last week?”

  A friend of Noah’s? Did this involve Conner? No way had that man done anything illegal or immoral. She trusted him as much as she trusted Noah. Which was a boxcar’s worth even though they hadn’t spent that much time together.

  “The name didn’t register with me. Maybe if I saw a list of suspects.” Curiosity was about to eat her alive, but Noah would have told her if he could.

  Noah fumbled with his beer. Discomfort evident on his face. “I have the case files in my room. I can bring them to your hotel and we can go over them in the lobby.”

  Ahh, that’s why he was fidgeting. “Seems like a lot of extra work. Why don’t we go to your place and you won’t have to drive back and forth?”

  Shoot. Had she just suggested going to a man’s motel room? And on a first date?

  “I only have one requirement,” she added.

  If he’d looked uncomfortable before, now he was downright antsy. “What’s that?”

  “You have to get the car and pick me up. My feet are killing me.”

  Noah unlocked his motel room door and flipped on the light. Laurel had already followed him inside when he realized the room wasn’t anything to brag about. It was cramped, the carpet was worn, the curtain sagged, and the air conditioner gave off a faint, moldy smell.

  He hadn’t helped any by leaving his dirty shirt on the bed, a wet towel in the bathroom, and a vending machine snack of soda and half-eaten cheese crackers on the bedside table.

  Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

  “Why don’t you sit here?” he asked, pulling the only chair in front of a desk that held seven square inches of work space.

  One by one he dragged over the five cardboard boxes. He took the top off the closest one and rummaged through a stack of loose papers, pulling out a copy of a booking sheet, along with a photo and arrest record. “Can you glance over this and see if the name or anything else looks familiar?”

  Twenty minutes later, she pushed the chair back and massaged her forehead. “I’m not positive, because I wasn’t paying that much attention, but I don’t think it was any of these guys.”

  Well damn. There went most of his cash and two days’ worth of wasted work. He glanced at Laurel. Maybe not totally wasted.

  “The guy the news was talking about got out of jail last week, but the news clip they showed was old, and had him going into jail. And I don’t think Tom Meyers was his lawyer because another guy was standing in front, talking about a travesty of justice. Tom Meyers was standing off to the side, smirking.”

  Yep, that would be Tom Meyers. The one smirking.

  Laurel twisted in her chair until she was facing him. “Do you have your computer? I’ll bet if we did a Google search we could find out why he was in the news.”

  “No, but I can probably pull it up on my phone.” If the case on TV wasn’t about one of Meyer’s clients, were they on the wrong track? Wasting their time? He’d check anyway, but more because he gave his word than because he believed it would lead anywhere.

  “Reading anything longer than a paragraph on a phone is tough. Let’s go back to my place. I’ve got my laptop and we can be more comfortable.” She jerked her head around, allowing her hair to swing forward, hiding her face, but not before a slight blush crept onto her cheeks.

  Yeah, she’d noticed. An hour to kill and he’d spent it fretting when five minutes work would have made the place presentable. On the other hand, no amount of cleaning would turn this dump into a five star resort.

  But it had been cheap, available, and on the correct side of town for a quick get-away in the morning.

  The big question was: Why did he care? He wasn’t in the business of trying to impress people. Page Reimer had spent two days at his house and all he’d done was rinse out their coffee cups.

  On the other hand, the first time Betsy had come to his apartment he’d scrubbed the bathroom and bought a vase of flowers.

  He returned the papers to the file boxes, shoved $175 worth of trash into the corner, and grabbed his keys. He didn’t have time to psychoanalyze himself. He had a mystery to solve and a serial killer to find.

  He’d better get busy and forget about chasing a life he was never meant to realize.

  Laurel’s hotel had everything Noah’s didn’t. Valet parking. A bright, shiny lobby with a smiling desk clerk. Signs with directions to the pool, the workout room, two different restaurants.

  Noah hadn’t noticed when he picked her up. He’d been too busy worrying about the time, and his clothes, and his breath. And rather this was a date or something less.

  Seeing her room, with its thick carpet, pristine white spread, and desk you could actually work on didn’t ease his insecurities. Only a quick glance at make-up strewed across the bathroom counter helped with that.

  “This hotel is where the classes are being taught and my boss was anxious for me to come so he made the reservations and picked up the tab. He can write it off as business related. He got a pacemaker in July and I think he’s ready for me to take over some of the work of running the office. Nothing like a health scare to make you reevaluate your priorities.”

  He’d agree, but it had taken him the better part of a year after Betsy’s death to begin looking past the end of his nose. He still couldn’t plan more than a day or two ahead.

  Laurel pulled a second chair in front of the desk, straightened her workbooks and papers, and opened her laptop.

  A giant fist slapped Noah in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

  Laurel’s screensaver was a photo of Crystal Hudson. Her best friend and neighbor. A woman whose death Noah was investigating when they met. A woman cut down in her prime because her husband would rather pay a hit man than pay for a divorce.

  A woman whose brother Laurel worked to help place in a year-long drug rehab facility instead of prison.

  “Have you heard anything from Crystal’s brother? How are things working out for him in Arizona?” He believed rehab was the only hope for most addicts, really he did, but the cop part of him was skeptical. He’d seen too many relapse the minute they hit the streets.

  “I’ve gotten a couple of notes from him. The last one had a drawing of Crystal that was so good I would have hung it on my wall if it weren’t on notebook paper. The facility keeps me apprised of his situation. It’s been eight months so he can start leaving the center with supervision. He’s going to get those awful rotten teeth fixed while he’s there and someone can drive him and pick him up and take care of him after. Ice packs and chicken broth, I guess. I suspect he’s shit-out-of-luck on pain meds.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “A half-way house for nine months to a year. They operate a training program that turns strays into service dogs. Supposed to be good for the patients and the dogs.”

  Crystal dead. Her husband dead. The hit man locked away for life. Wouldn’t it be nice if something good came of it all?

  If so, it was due to Laurel and her hard work for someone she barely knew. Contrast that with Paige who’d used him. Used Conner. Used everyone she’d ever met to promote her career.

  And now Laurel was helping him chase down a maybe-criminal without even asking why.

  The da-ding da-ding of the laptop coming online sounded and Laurel put the cursor on the info
bar and started typing. In an instant, she had a page full of Tom Meyers hits.

  She scrolled down, tried an entry, backed up, tried another, narrowed her search parameters and tried again.

  In less than two minutes, they were head-to-head, reading an article from the Austin American-Statesman. The newspaper had two photos. One of Jeffery Landers being released from prison, into the arms of his family.

  The older photo showed Landers—orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, armed guards—being led away from court, his elderly lawyer by his side. Tom Meyers stood in the background, wearing the smirk Laurel had mentioned earlier.

  He put his arm around Laurel’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re better than ten of Earl Sparks.”

  Laurel’s laugh was liquid light, shining into his deep, dark corners. “I guess I’m flattered. Who’s Earl Sparks?”

  “Cop I work with who got conked on the head at that concert last spring. He’s been on desk duty ever since. He’s a great help—filling out forms, typing up warrants, researching—but he can’t spell, uses the hunt-and-peck method of typing, and isn’t exactly tech-savvy. He’s one of the guys in my band. Has this great Barry White voice you wouldn’t believe could come out of someone so skinny.”

  “Well, don’t tell anybody. I wouldn’t want to steal his job.”

  “That’s going away, one way or another. He has until the end of the year to get an all clear from his doc, or take early retirement.”

  Noah glanced around the room, suddenly uncomfortable. “How about we go downstairs to the bar and I’ll buy you a nightcap? I owe you for finding this for me. It’ll save me hours of work.”

  “I accept on two conditions.”

  Always with the conditions. “What’s that?”

  “One, I don’t have to report it on my income tax. And two, instead of a drink you make it one of this hotel’s famous double fudge brownies.”

  Laurel eyed her plate of double fudge brownie topped with vanilla ice cream doused in chocolate syrup. She scooped up a spoonful and promptly dripped chocolate on her coral blouse. Well damn, that would leave a stain. You couldn’t take her anywhere.

  Only one bite was left.

  It looked tempting, but there was no way. She was too full. Not to mention the calories. She and Noah had walked several blocks, first to the restaurant for dinner and then to Sixth Street for music. That should count for something.

  Who was she kidding? An hour on the stair-stepper wouldn’t erase this evening from her hips.

  She pushed the dish away and glanced at Noah. He had done everything but lick his plate clean. She watched as he examined her remaining dessert.

  Men. They could eat anything without disastrous results. It wasn’t fair.

  Nothing about this was fair. He’d approached her. He’d asked her out to dinner, where they’d had a lovely time. He’d even asked for her help with a case.

  Sure, she’d given him a slight peck when they met, but he definitely seemed to enjoy it. Then bam! Nothing.

  He’d turned cold when she suggested going to her room. Did he think she was offering more than the use of her laptop?

  Maybe he was involved with a certain country/western singer.

  Maybe he wasn’t ready to move on to the next step.

  Maybe he was as confused, unsure, ill-at-ease as she was. In that case, she was in trouble.

  She was a nervous eater. If she kept spending time around Noah, she’d weigh four hundred pounds in no time.

  “You finished with that?” His voice startled her.

  “What? Yes. You want it?”

  “I don’t actually want it. I’m just trying to help you out.”

  “How do you figure that? Are you worried the chef will be insulted?”

  “Well, it’s never good to make the chef mad, but I was more worried about your problems with the IRS. If I force myself to eat this, they can’t claim you were paid for helping me.”

  “An ingenious plan, I must admit, but I thought all you public servants stuck together.”

  “Ha! I do my best to stay away from those alphabet soup folks.” He forked the last remaining crumbs of the brownie. “IRS, CIA, FBI, NASA, SETA, Triple A, the DMV. You can’t trust any of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “I will admit to knowing one FBI agent who is helping with the case we’re working on. So far, he’s been okay, but give him time. He’ll show his true colors eventually.”

  “It’s good to know you’re not disillusioned. That you always keep an open mind. Is it the case with Tom Meyers and Jeffery Landers?”

  “No, that one’s personal. Something I’m trying to clear up on the side. That Fed is helping identify the bodies in the Killing Field Murders. You may have seen it on the news last week.”

  Oh, no. Was Noah involved in that case? No wonder he was uptight. How did he handle something so horrible? And here she was worrying about a stain on her blouse.

  Noah paid the check and walked her to the elevator. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

  “My class ends at four, then I’m heading straight back to Houston.”

  “I wish I could stick around, take you to lunch. Or even breakfast. But I need to get home and hit my computer. See if I can finish with Tom Meyers’ problem this weekend. Once I get to the office Monday, I won’t have a spare minute until somebody is locked up.”

  “You’ll let me know what you find out about Landers?”

  He used his thumb to wipe something—chocolate?—off the corner of her mouth. “You’ll be the first one I call. You did more to solve it than I did. This is the second time you’ve set me on the right track on a case. I already knew you were a lot nicer than me, and funnier, and better looking. Now I know you’re smarter. If I have any sense at all, I won’t let you get too far away.”

  “You best remember that.” Maybe he wasn’t a lost cause after all.

  Sunday didn’t go exactly as Noah planned.

  He did stop in Elgin and picked up some bar-b-que to go, wrapped in butcher paper and oozing grease. Good thing they put the finished package in a plastic bag. Even then, the aroma almost drove him crazy on the way home.

  His stop in Burton was brief. Just long enough to grab two pies. The cafe only had one lemon meringue, so he settled on lemon chess for himself.

  The problem started when he got home. Sweet Pea was fine. She had clean piddle-pads and a few bites of fresh-looking dog food in her bowl so he knew she’d been well taken care of.

  When he knocked on Mrs. Powell’s door, carrying her pie, her voice drifted through the thick wood, “Come in, Noah. It’s open.”

  His heart did a hop, skip, jump. That woman had never left a door unlocked in her life.

  She was leaned back with her feet up in a recliner that had belonged to her late husband, not her usual chair with its sewing basket, crossword puzzle, mystery novel, newspaper, laptop, telephone, and TV remote close at hand.

  “Oh, Noah. You’ll have to pardon me. I think I got a little overheated. That wind last night made a mess of the pansies I planted yesterday. I was outside cleaning up and got a bit dizzy. That’ll teach me to garden in the middle of the day.”

  The day was overcast, a pewter gray, possibly seventy-four, seventy-five degrees, with a slight breeze. He’d seen her working outside in July.

  Her face was ashen. If she’d gotten overheated, shouldn’t it be red? “How long ago was this?”

  She glanced at the clock on the TV. “Oh, my. It’s been an hour. I must have dozed off for a while.”

  Dozed off? The queen of get-up-and-at-‘em had taken a nap? “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”

  “Heavens no. I’ll stay here and rest a while. At seventy-eight, I think I’ve earned a day off.” She patted the arm of the faded blue chair. “This is pretty comfortable. Don’t know why I never use it.”

  Because she called it a death trap. Said her husband retired, dropped down into it, and stayed there for the next two years. Vehemently de
clared she had no plans to sit around and rot.

  “How about the Redi Clinic? Let them check your blood pressure.”

  “How about you go home, play with Sweet Pea. She misses you. If you want to be a help, you can pull my garbage can out to the curb.”

  Holy crap. She’d never asked him to do anything except to move furniture or get something down from the attic. He’d helped her plant some new roses once, but only because he’d seen her struggling with the shovel.

  He occasionally carried her trash cans out to the curb or back, but only if he beat her to it. Come to think of it, starting last August, that was most weeks.

  His only grandmother had died when he was nine, his mother had been gone for sixteen years. His dad, a foster kid with no family, for seventeen.

  He did have an elderly aunt in a nursing home he’d visited last summer. The first time he’d seen her in several years.

  Even Betsy’s mother had disappeared into her own world of Alzheimer’s.

  He’d sort of adopted Mrs. Powell—or maybe it was the other way around—but he couldn’t afford to lose her. There weren’t that many people in his life.

  There had to be something he could do to help her. “Want me to bring over some lunch?” That way he could keep an eye on her.

  “Rachelle’s tofu casserole?” Horror coated her voice.

  “Yes, but a different recipe. She and the girls took a cooking class last summer and this one’s actually edible.”

  When he returned fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Powell had set her kitchen table with a placemat, silverware, and a water glass. She reached into the cabinet for a cloth napkin and swayed, grabbing the counter for support.

  “That’s it,” Noah said, his voice cracking. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  Few stars were visible in the cloudy sky when Noah got home. Sweet Pea gave him a dirty look. Her dinner could be an hour late and she understood. Three hours and she was an unhappy dog.

  He lowered himself into a kitchen chair and scooped the tiny dog into his lap. “Sorry, Pea, your favorite babysitter, Mrs. Powell, is in the hospital.”