by Rebecca Deel
Nick left the bacon and burnt bread and tackled the rest. He swallowed the last bite of eggs as Madison looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Hi, Georgia.”
The florist paused with a tight smile. “Madison.”
“How are you, Georgia?” Nick asked in a low, but audible tone.
She glanced at him, her eyes hard, and walked out without replying.
His heart sank. He expected natives to freeze him out, not old friends. He’d have to stop by her shop later.
“Where do we go first?” Madison said.
“Courthouse.” Nick left a generous tip for the absent Trixie and walked toward the cash register. He stopped behind the two old-timers who spoke to him Friday morning. “Morning, Russ, Dan.”
Russ held out his hand. “Glad to see you up and around, Nick. Lucky.”
“Very.” He smiled. “You aren’t afraid to talk to me?”
Dan adjusted his Braves cap. “Too old to care what people think anymore.”
Nick chuckled. A good philosophy. “Do either of you know who Charles Howard’s real estate agent is?”
“Craig Lawrence,” Russ said. “Just missed him.”
“Any idea where he went?”
Dan nodded. “Heard him tell Trixie he was headed to old man Lawrence’s place. Today’s his mother’s birthday.”
“Thanks.” The bills for their breakfast lay on the counter. Nick picked them up. “This one’s on me.”
Outside the deli, Nick and Madison dashed across the square to the courthouse, dodging puddles in their path. “Why are we here?” she said.
“To find out how much property Charles Howard owns.”
Suzie growled. “Don’t people know how to drive in this town?”
Rod chuckled and handed the frowning dispatcher a cup of coffee. “It’s the rain. Maybe this will help.”
“Go ahead and laugh, but if another accident call comes in, I’m sending you into the rain. The rest of the patrol’s already working accident scenes.”
He jammed a hand through his red hair. “Good thing I brought an extra change of clothes today. Call if you need me.” In the hall, he turned right and walked to the squad room. While the civilian employees worked at a steady pace, the room lacked the usual assortment of blue suits.
He settled into his chair as the Ethan opened his office door, keys in hand. Rod’s eyebrows shot up. “Where you going?”
“To rescue Mrs. Haney’s cat from Col. Hollister’s tree before he uses the fur ball as target practice.”
Col. Hollister and Mrs. Haney’s feud generated a lot of jokes around the station. At least once a week, the colonel threatened to call animal control about one of Mrs. Haney’s five cats. Rod rubbed the back of his hand. He drew cat-retrieval duty last week and Muffin hadn’t cooperated. “The colonel’s on a rampage again, huh? Need backup?”
Ethan chuckled. “No, just band-aids and antibiotic cream. Those cats don’t like me much.”
He snorted. “You drop them to the ground at the first opportunity. Don’t blame you, though. Mrs. Haney’s cats have a vicious streak; we’ve all got scars.” He sipped his coffee, happy with desk duty for the moment. “Anything you want me to work on while you’re gone?”
“See what you can dig up on John Castigian. I want to know where he is and why Bates had his rifle.”
“Might be best if you waited here,” Nick said with a flushed face. His voice echoed in the courthouse corridor.
Oh, this had to be good if it made him that uncomfortable. “Why?” The color in his cheeks deepened further. Madison grinned.
“The clerk’s probably a woman.”
“And?”
He frowned. “You’re going to force me to spell it out, aren’t you?” Nick jammed his hands in his pockets. “Deeds are public records and she has to let me look at them. However, since I’m as popular as fire ants around here, I’ll have to persuade her to talk to me.”
“You can’t do that with me in the room?”
“Won’t work with my . . .” He stopped, shifted his weight. “My girlfriend in the room,” he finished. His voice sounded strangled.
Madison burst into laughter. “You’re charming her into talking and a girlfriend hampers the effect?” A strange jolt of electricity shot through her. No man had called her his girlfriend in a long time. It was kind of nice. She saw his point, though. Sweet talking clerks worked better if he appeared available.
“Yeah.”
“No lipstick smudges.”
He smiled. “No chance, baby. I won’t be long.” Nick walked to the last door in the corridor and disappeared into the office.
Fifteen minutes later, he strolled into the small waiting area. He took her arm without a word. She knew he wouldn’t tell her what he learned until they were alone, but she couldn’t help teasing him. “That didn’t take long. You must be irresistible.”
His hand tightened on her arm. “Minx.” His eyes glinted with suppressed laughter.
Cocooned in her Jeep with the rain pounding on the roof, she said, “So, what did you find out?”
Nick finger-combed wet hair out of his eyes and wiped his face. “Howard owns four pieces of property: his house, the hardware store, the now burned-out Bare Ewe’s building, and a large, ocean-front property down in Florida. He has a second mortgage on each piece of property except the one in Florida.”
Her mouth gaped. “You learned all that from the deeds?”
“And from the clerk, Penny.”
Rain ran down the glass pane in thin rivers. “Why so many mortgages?” She turned. “Is that why he wanted me to find another place for The Bare Ewe? So he could sell the building?”
“Maybe. We need to know why he’s in debt, if it’s worth setting the store on fire to get out of it.”
Madison tried and failed to imagine that kind of desperation. She felt for her cranky landlord. “Where to next?”
Nick checked the time. “Hospital.”
Hospital? She gave him a sidelong glance. Had Delaney’s breakfast special made him sick after all? “You okay?”
“I want to check the parking lot again, see about security cameras. Maybe someone snapped a picture of the stalker in action.”
Ethan grabbed the coffee pot and poured the steaming brew into his mug. He sipped the hot liquid, grateful for the warmth heating his insides. Mrs. Haney’s cat chose the tallest tree in the colonel’s yard, which left Ethan with scratches from branches as well as feline claws. The scratch on the back of his hand still oozed blood. He needed to treat and cover it or Serena would have a fit.
He smiled. Hard to believe how much his life changed the last five months, and would change even more after he and Serena married in November. A cold trickle of water ran down his neck and back. He shivered. Rain made a miserable bedfellow when mixed with air-conditioning and wet clothes.
Rod stopped beside him, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “You survived.”
Ethan grunted and headed for his office, coffee in hand. “I wish Mrs. Haney would keep those fur balls in the house. Make life a lot simpler for Col. Hollister and us.”
“I suggested that last week. She said the cats go stir crazy if they’re cooped up too long.”
Ethan shook his head, sat, and shuddered when the cold shirt pressed against his back like a second skin. “Anything new?”
“John Castigian is dead.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nick peered through rain pouring in sheets from the edge of an umbrella. Already soaked to the skin, he thought the umbrella useless, but Madison insisted on holding it over his head. He pointed to a light pole. “There’s one camera.”
He looked at the spot where Madison’s car was parked Friday night and Saturday morning. With a good camera angle, they might get lucky. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and took the black-and-white striped golf umbrella from her hand. “Let’s talk to hospital security.”
After a couple of inquiries and a phone call, they walked down the fir
st floor hallway, found the correct door and knocked. A stout man with a military cut opened the door. In his mid-thirties, the man wore a gray uniform with a security patch on his sleeve. A sudden smile lit his face. “Madison, great to see you. Sure was sorry to hear about your store. My wife was devastated.”
“Thanks, Billy.” She smiled. “I have a bag of supplies for Melinda in my car. Can I leave it with you?”
“Sure.” He turned to Nick. “Billy Grant,” he said and held out his hand.
“Nick Santana.” He watched the security guard for some kind of reaction. He wasn’t disappointed. The welcoming smile faded to an unreadable blank mask. Nick waited. Would curiosity trump the town grapevine?
Billy stepped through the doorway, allowing them a glimpse at dozens of monitors on the security room’s walls and two security personnel scanning the banks of screens, yet blocking their entrance. His gaze locked on Nick. “What can I do for you, Mr. Santana?”
“It’s Nick, and I need you to check the parking lot security tapes for Friday night and Saturday morning, Lot B.”
The security guard’s gaze shifted from Nick to Madison and back. “Car broken into or stolen?”
“Someone left a threatening note on my windshield,” Madison said. “We wondered if you caught it on tape.”
Billy rubbed his chin. “Can you narrow down the time? We have 6-hour tapes we switch out at 12:00 and 6:00, morning and night.”
“I came around 11:00 Friday morning and didn’t leave until the same time Saturday morning.”
“You authorized for the tape?”
“Everything we learn goes straight to the police chief,” Nick said. “We can get a court order, but you’ll do him a favor if you short-cut the red tape.”
Billy hesitated. “I heard Josh is joining the police force,” he said to Madison. “He was one of my best friends in high school.”
“Josh said you and he kept in touch by snail mail and email over the years. You were a good friend to him, Billy, and he hasn’t forgotten it.”
Nick’s lips twitched. She had good instincts, better than some cops he worked with in the past.
Billy nodded once, turned on his heel and walked to a wall-sized cabinet. He opened the door, scanned labels and selected four tapes. “Can’t give you originals. Will Chief Blackhawk accept a copy?”
The knot eased in Nick’s stomach. He smiled. “I’m sure that will be fine. Thanks.”
When Billy returned with the duplicate tapes and handed them to Nick, he said, “You’ll let the chief know I cooperated?”
Madison patted his arm. “I’ll tell him how helpful you’ve been.” She smiled. “Where should I leave Melinda’s bag?”
“I’ll walk out with you, get it myself.” He glanced at one of his co-workers. “Hey, O’Reilly, I’m taking a break. Back in ten.”
“Dead?” Ethan sat his mug on the desk with a thud. Castigian was dead? “When?”
Rod shuffled through the sheaf of papers until he located the right one. “About two years ago.” He looked up. “A month or so before Luke Ryder was killed. Died in prison not long after Bates was released. Heart attack.”
So how did Bates get the rifle? Did Castigian’s family sell his possessions or did Bates steal the rifle? If he stole it, why didn’t the family report the rifle missing? Ethan sighed. He still believed Bates told the truth when he denied any knowledge of the rifle. “So what’s his connection to Bates?”
“State penitentiary. Bates and Castigian were cell mates. According to the warden, they watched each other’s backs.” Rod handed Ethan the report. “Castigian saved Bates’ life during a prison riot. Kept Bates from bleeding to death from a stab wound.”
So a tight bond of loyalty existed between the two men. How far did it go? Did it include their families, enough for the Castigian family to give Bates the rifle in memory of his old cell mate? “Keep digging. Get me everything you can find on Castigian and Bates. Something in their background will give us the answer to Bates’ murder. And I want to talk to the Castigians.”
Madison drove along the tree-lined driveway, a smile perched on her lips. At Martha Lawrence’s house, she expected to see Scarlett O’Hara sweeping around the corner in one of her southern belle dresses. When the house came into view, Nick leaned forward, peering through the rain-splattered windshield. His mouth gaped. “Is that . . ?”
She laughed. “Welcome to Tara.”
He shook his head. “Mother loved Gone with the Wind, but Dad wouldn’t let her go overboard like this.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. Mrs. Lawrence is obsessed.” She carried two plastic bags through the mist to the front door. He raised his hand to knock, but she grabbed it and pointed him to the doorbell.
He arched his brows, but complied. The ringing tones of a familiar theme song produced a grin.
Martha Lawrence opened the door, steel-gray hair hugging her head. “Madison, come in.” She swept her into a hug. “So sorry about The Bare Ewe, honey.” She invited them in and smiled at Nick. “Who’s this handsome young man?”
Madison squelched a burning desire to giggle at the flush rising in his cheeks. “Nick Santana.”
“Really?” Their hostess looked Nick over. She held out her hand. “You have quite a reputation around town, son. Most of it bad.”
“You don’t believe the gossip?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know you, but I know Madison. Rocked the Cahill triplets as babies. If she trusts you, then you’re all right in my book.” Martha closed the front door. “Come into the kitchen; drink some tea with me. I have sweetened iced tea or I can brew herbal tea. Feel free to look around, Nick.” She and Madison walked to the kitchen at the back of the house, and left him standing in the entranceway, stunned. “Didn’t tell him about the house, huh?”
Madison laughed. “I wanted to see his reaction. I’ve never seen him speechless.” She breathed in the mouth-watering smell of fresh-baked bread. “Oh, wow, you make bread from scratch?” She loved Mrs. Lawrence’s modern kitchen with its white cabinets, taupe granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. This was the one place Martha refused 1860s originality.
Martha chuckled. “Sort of. I dump fresh ingredients into my bread maker and turn it on. Would you and your young man like iced or hot tea, honey?”
“Iced tea sounds great, Mrs. Lawrence.” She laid the bags on the kitchen table. “Yarn Jungle had one extra skein of the yarn you requested in the bin, so I added it to your bag as a gift. I also included the latest Knitter’s magazine. The copy I was holding for you is decorating a Kansas lawn by now.”
The glass pitcher clinked against the tops of the glasses as Martha poured tea. “Leave the bill out and I’ll write you a check.” She glanced at the apple clock on the wall. “Almost lunchtime. Will you and Nick stay and eat with us? Craig went to pick up Robert. They should be back any time.”
Madison opened her mouth, intending to give a polite refusal, but her stomach growled. Her face flamed. Breakfast was a distant memory.
Martha laughed. “I’d say that’s a yes.”
“Your house is incredible, Mrs. Lawrence.” Ice clinked in Nick’s glass. “How long have you lived here?”
Martha flashed a smile at her husband, who focused on his meal. “Robert built this house for me 15 years ago.”
“Wasn’t that when Charles Howard opened the hardware store?” Madison refilled her glass, flicked a glance at Nick, then filled his.
“Sure was.” Craig’s salt-and-pepper hair glistened, his tanned face a soft replica of his father’s craggy features. “Before that, the building used to be a paint store.” He grinned. “You can only paint so much and folks needed a local home repair store.”
Nick stretched his arm across the back of Madison’s chair. “When did he buy the building next door?”
“Three years ago. I handled the sale. Howard wanted the building as an investment, maybe expand his business later. A couple different businesses negotiated for a
lease, but the economy nosedived and both of them bailed. Then Madison returned home and worked out a two-year deal with Howard.”
“Heard he wanted to sell.”
“Yeah.” Craig frowned. “Thought we had a good prospect, but the lady told me a couple weeks ago the building was too small. She wants to open a bookstore.” His countenance brightened. “Sold her the old dress shop.”
Hmm. “A lot of square footage for a bookstore,” Madison said.
“That’s what I told her.” He shrugged. “She wants someone with a compatible business to lease part of the building.” He slanted a look at her. “It’s got two separate front entrances. Do books and yarn go together?”
Madison smiled. She wondered the same thing. “Maybe. May I tour the building and meet your client?”
Craig pulled out his cell phone. “Give me your cell number. I’ll work out a time.”
She recited her number and finished the last of her tea. “What will Mr. Howard do now? Sell the empty lot or rebuild and sell?”
“Don’t know yet. He’d get more with a building on the property, but I’m not sure he can wait long enough to rebuild.”
“Who’s calling in his marker?” Nick asked.
Craig shrugged. “Just know the man’s pressuring me to move the property, fast.”
His father grunted. “Day trading,” he said.
Day trading. A couple of Madison’s friends at church dabbled in that and lost almost everything they owned. Glued to the Internet and those ticker symbols, they latched onto every rumor and raced to buy the next sure hot stock which often turned out to be a fool’s guess.
“He’s playing the stock market?” Martha’s mouth gaped
“And doing a bad job of it,” Robert said. “Waiting for a big score, too greedy to take small gains.”
“How did you find that out?” Craig set his glass on the table with a thunk. “I couldn’t get him to tell me anything.”
