by Terry Odell
Justin couldn’t detect anything but shock on Megan’s face. If she had any knowledge of Kaestner-Carptenter, she was one hell of an actress.
She sat, rigid in her chair. “Sam’s brother? A Nazi? A war criminal? How can that be?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“You haven’t told Rose and Sam, have you? My God, it would probably kill them. He has no love for the Nazis. I know he donated to the Simon Wiesenthal Center regularly.”
“And now you see my dilemma. I’ve been trying to get what I need without involving my grandparents, but things are getting out of hand.”
“You think some neo-Nazi is after them? But why kill Mrs. Bedford? Nobody would mistake her for Rose.”
“I think Mrs. Bedford was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Justin wiped his hands on his jeans. He was going to have to start at the beginning, tell Megan everything. And maybe she’d have some ideas, some hidden memories that might surface and give him what he needed.
“About three weeks ago,” he said, “I got a call from someone claiming to be a long-lost cousin, through Opa’s side of the family. He had quite a tale to tell.”
Megan’s eye’s popped wide. “Cousin? Tell me.”
“Eventually. I have other plans for tonight.”
He caught the way her eyes cut to the bed, then to him, frowning. “Like what?”
He gazed at the bed as well, wondering if her thoughts were aligned with his. No, he told himself. Her frown said otherwise. Tempting as it was to pursue it, he had a mission to attend to. Besides, she was practically a sister to him. At least, that’s what he kept trying to convince the part of his anatomy that kept regarding her as a woman.
She sat, waiting for his response. And it didn’t seem to be about the bed. He snapped to the task at hand. “Like going to Oma’s house and doing a thorough search.”
“For what?”
“Some kind of journal, or diary. Heinrich was supposed to have written it while he served in one of the camps.”
“You think the guy who broke in is looking for them, too.”
“That makes the most sense, don’t you think?”
She chewed her lip. “It fits the facts. But what about Karl Franklin? How does he tie in? He didn’t have anything on him about Vintage Duds or Betty Bedford.”
“I don’t have a clue about who he was.” He hesitated.
“What? You’re thinking something. I can tell. I’m in this, too.”
And she was. More than he was, perhaps. Unable to sit, he paced to the door and back. “Do you think it was a coincidence that Franklin got into that car accident when he did?”
Her mouth gaped. “You think someone killed him?”
“What do you think?” He sat on the bed across from her. Took her hands in his. Waited.
“Oh, God. You think whoever killed Franklin is the same guy who caught me.” She jerked her hands away and this time, she did the pacing. “He might have killed me. If I hadn’t gotten away…Oh, God.”
“I don’t think he meant to kill you, Megan. I think he meant to use you to make Opa talk. To tell him about the journal, or whatever it is.”
She spun around. “But you said Sam didn’t have it.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice rose half an octave. “How can you be looking for a journal that might not be there?”
“Slow down, Megan. What am I supposed to do? We both assume my grandparents don’t know about Heinrich Kaestner. The whole reason I’m trying to keep this quiet is to avoid them finding out they might be related to a Nazi war criminal. You think I should ask them? What do I say? ‘Hey, did you know your big brother might be alive? Except there’s this one little thing. He represents everything you hate.’” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “We don’t even know that Opa had a brother.”
She clutched fists of her hair. “Oh, damn. This is hard.”
“Trust me, if I thought they knew anything about Kaestner-Carpenter, I’d have said something. But if they don’t, I didn’t want to be the bearer of that kind of news.”
“I see your point. But if they don’t know about this journal, why can’t we stick with the way things have been? What nobody knows can’t hurt them.”
“But someone else knows. This cousin swears he’s not responsible for the break-ins.”
“What did this Kaestner do, anyway?” Megan asked.
“According to what I could find on the net, he worked in one of the camps. He had the power of life or death over the prisoners. Details were sketchy.”
“You don’t have positive proof it’s Sam’s brother.”
“Catch 22. The proof should be in the journal.”
“So, let’s go find it.”
“I’ll go. Someone should be here with Oma and Opa.”
“But two of us could cut the search time in half. Besides, they told us they didn’t want to be disturbed.” She paused. “You don’t think someone’s going to come after us here, do you?”
“No, nobody should know where we are.” But telling Megan what he thought would either scare her or raise her stubborn streak, and he didn’t particularly want to contend with either.
“Then I’m coming.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not a kid you can order around. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t help you.”
“Because I’m afraid the guy who killed Mrs. Bedford might show up and hurt you.” The words escaped before he had a chance to engage his brain.
Megan didn’t back down. If anything, she grew more defiant. Hands on her hips, she leaned forward, eyes blazing. “It’s my call, Justin. If I’m in danger, I get to decide. Not you. If you’re that worried, we could call Gordon. Didn’t he say he was putting extra patrols on the house? How did you plan to get in without being noticed? They’ll probably arrest you for breaking into a crime scene.”
He hated to admit she could be right. And hadn’t Gordon said he didn’t think they’d be collecting any more evidence? That he’d kept the crime scene tape up to convince his grandparents not to stay there?
“No telling how long it will take,” he said. “Unless I find it relatively soon, I might not make it by breakfast.”
“After breakfast should work,” she said. “Rose and Sam said not to bother them, remember?”
“They’re early risers. They could be finished and ready to meet us by eight. You could keep them occupied.”
“So, we’re on the road by six. That gives us lots of time.”
“Megan, no. It’s better with one of us here. Plus, I know where I’ve already looked.” And he knew, no matter what she said, if they were both there, he’d be worrying about her.
By now, they stood nose to nose. She was talking, but he wasn’t processing.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, not knowing whether he should shake her or kiss her. Her widened eyes tipped the scales. Almost without thinking, he shoved his mouth against hers. Her lips parted in surprise.
What the hell. All his frustration poured into the kiss. Instead of shoving him away, she joined him. Willingly. Tenderly. Eagerly. After savoring the moment, he pulled away. “Write a note telling Oma and Opa we decided to go out, we might be late, so they shouldn’t worry. Tell them to call our cell phones if they need to reach us. You can slip it under their door. I’ll go grab a few things and meet you by the car.”
She stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She put her fingertips to her lips. Smiled. “In your dreams. I do that, and you’ll be gone before I get downstairs. We go together or not at all.”
Chapter Eighteen
Megan saw the guilt flash across Justin’s face and knew he’d have bailed on her. She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, trying to ease the exhaustion behind them. She pushed her heady reaction to his kiss aside, and concentrated on what Justin had said. The more she thought about his plan, the less she liked it.
“We should stay here,�
� she said. “Both of us. Going to Mapleton will create more problems than it solves. We need to talk to Gordon first. He’s a cop. He knows how to keep things confidential. And we can do better searching in broad daylight, not skulking around like burglars.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’m going to bed. I’ll meet you for breakfast at six-thirty.”
“Justin, wait.”
He turned. “What now? I’ve already said I’ll go along with your plan. You need to figure out how we’re going to keep my grandparents out of the house. You know Oma is going to want to rush in and clean from top to bottom. Twice.”
She debated with herself, reluctantly seeing the logic in Justin’s plan. “You said we have until Sunday. What happens then?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged to her side. “The cousin sends somebody to confront Oma and Opa.”
A chill ran through her. “Worse than what’s already happened?”
“He swears he knows nothing about that.”
The pieces fell into place. “That means…there’s someone else. Your cousin wants the journal, but so does someone else, and your cousin didn’t send him.”
“That’s how I see it.” He rubbed his belly, as if he was in pain. She could believe it. Her Alfredo sauce and chocolate cake weren’t sitting all that well either.
“So why is it so important to him to find this journal thing?”
“He said his career would come to a screeching halt if he was connected to a war criminal.”
“Why? Aren’t people smart enough to know you can’t blame someone for what his grandfather did?”
“He doesn’t think so. There’s very little he’s willing to tell me other than he needs top government security clearance, and if he’s related to a Nazi, he’s not going to get it.”
Her brain was running in circles. “So, didn’t you check him out? Google him? Justin, I can’t help unless you tell me everything.”
“I told you what I know. Someone says he’s a long-lost cousin, that Sam had a brother, and the brother, according to the cousin, is a Nazi war criminal. Without the journal, we have nothing but his word.”
She spun at a tap on the door. She exchanged a questioning glance with Justin. He shrugged. She pushed past him and checked the peephole.
“Just a minute,” she called. She turned to Justin. “It’s Rose and Sam.” Quickly, she finger-combed her hair. “We are not going to spoil their evening. Happy thoughts.”
She repeated that to herself under her breath, then released the locks and opened the door.
“We saw the light,” Rose said. “Oh, good. Justin, you’re here, too. We won’t keep you, but we wanted to tell you everything was wonderful.”
“Delicious,” Sam said. “There, Rose, we told them. Let’s go upstairs.”
“One minute more,” Rose said.
“Come in,” Megan said. She took Rose’s hand and tugged her inside. She closed the door behind them. Rose glanced at her, then Justin, then Sam. “Are we…interrupting?”
Not what you think. “No, Justin and I had room service for dinner, and we’ve been catching up.”
“I’m glad,” Rose said. “You weren’t close when you were growing up.”
“They have grown up,” Sam said.
“Of course they have.” Rose flapped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “The other reason we stopped by—we saw some brochures about tours.” She handed one to Megan. “Museums, art galleries. It’s been a long time since we’ve been in the city, and we signed up. Would you like to join us? The concierge said there were openings.”
Megan exchanged a glance with Justin. Sometimes the stars aligned in your favor. “No, you two go. Have fun. I…um…got a call. From the office. There are a couple of things I have to straighten out. I can take advantage of the hotel Internet. Justin?”
“I’ll think I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m not the art gallery sort. Maybe I’ll check out some flooring samples for your kitchen.”
“You do too much,” Sam said.
“I enjoy it. It’s a change from what I do at work.”
“Oh, but we were going to go shopping,” Rose said to Megan. “The tour will take up most of the day, and I know I’ll be too tired when we get back.”
“Don’t worry about it. We can always shop another time.”
“Rose. Let’s go,” Sam said. “It’s late.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her around, and marched her to the door. “We’ll get together for dinner tomorrow.”
Rose reached up and slapped his hand. “Relax. The night is young.”
Megan managed to control her fit of laughter until they’d left.
“I so don’t want that picture in my head,” Justin said before he, too, burst out laughing.
It had to beat the pictures that had been forming before they’d arrived. Megan wiped tears from her eyes. “They’ve just handed us tomorrow. You said six-thirty for breakfast?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up here.”
“Justin, there’s one more thing.” Megan braced herself for Justin’s reaction.
“What?”
“Give me your car keys.”
“What? Where do you need to go?”
“Nowhere. And neither do you.”
“Oh, so you think I’d sneak out without you?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“And why should I trust you?”
###
Gordon jerked awake to the incessant klaxon of what sounded like a red alert for an enemy attack on a starship. As abruptly, the noise ceased, and a gentle kiss landed on his forehead.
“I have to get to work. Go back to sleep.”
Angie’s voice. Her touch. Her bed. Awareness returned. Gordon caught a shadowy glimpse of Angie’s bare backside as she padded into the bathroom.
The shower ran. Yawning, he debated joining her, then checked the time. Four-thirty. In the fricking morning? How long did it take to get dressed and walk down a flight of stairs? His mind cleared some more. She’d warned him about the alarm before they finally called it a night and went to sleep. She had to bake.
He flung back the covers and set about picking up the scattered foil packets. Heat rose to his neck as he recalled his fumbling attempts with the first one. Hell, their entire first encounter was a series of awkward moments. He’d been with Cynthia for three years; she’d been on the pill. As for sex, they’d fallen into their own predictable rhythm.
Angie had said she understood. With a new partner, there was always that initial clumsiness, and he’d admitted he hadn’t had much practice since the divorce. He smiled, remembering the fun they’d had practicing. Fun had been missing from his sex life far too long. Even with Cynthia.
The shower turned off. The curtain scraped against the metal rod. Seconds later, the door opened, and a towel-encased Angie stepped into the bedroom. She shook her wet hair, then gave him an appraising glance.
She grinned. “Looks like my cinnamon roll dough isn’t the only thing rising this morning.”
“I’d better go,” he said. “I’ve got to get home, change, and check the night reports before Detective Colfax show up.”
“So soon? There’s time between kneading and rising. The dough,” she added with a grin. “I can come back. With coffee. Unless you want to help.”
He slipped into the closet behind her and tugged at the towel where she’d tucked it together above her breasts. Squeezing them gently, he said, “This is the only kneading I want to do. How long?”
“Long enough. That is, if you’re as good as you were last night.” She let the towel fall to the floor, turned and gave him a parting kiss that would carry him well past breakfast. “See you later.”
“Count on it.” He took his turn in the bathroom. From downstairs, the aroma of coffee wafted up, along with cinnamon and yeast. He pulled on his briefs, then sat on the couch to watch the early morning news. Nothing about the Mapleton murder, thank goodness. He drifted off to thoughts of Angie.
; The next thing he knew, a coffee-flavored kiss woke him. “Mmm.” He blinked his eyes open, not sure if he was still dreaming. He stared into her blue eyes. She held a condom in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. “Which first?”
Afterward, he reached for the coffee. Cold, but the caffeine worked. While Angie redressed, he straightened the couch cushions. Finding a well-read paperback romance novel, he sat and thumbed through it, wondering if Angie’d been inspired by its prose.
She came out, smiling. “Whatcha got?”
He handed her the book. “Found it in the couch.”
She checked the cover, then frowned. “Not mine. I’ll bet it’s one of Donna’s. I’ll give it to her.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Gotta run.”
He checked the time. Five-thirty. The café didn’t open until six. “Is Ozzie in?”
She sniffed. “Bacon’s going. Yep.”
So much for tiptoeing out through the café. “I’ll go out the back way. But lock up. And unless you want that cat coming back, close the window.”
“Roger, Chief.”
He drove home on autopilot, changed into street clothes and got to the station in time to grab a cup of coffee and review the night reports.
“Chief?” Laurie snagged him when he passed her desk, handing him a manila envelope. “This is for you.”
He glanced inside the envelope. The credit card receipts from Daily Bread. Which, he recalled, he’d left on the counter where Ozzie had put them before he’d gone upstairs with Angie. “Thanks. I’ve got work to do.”
“Gotcha, Chief.”
He closed his office door, which hardly increased the odds that he wouldn’t be disturbed. With the caffeine working its way into his system, Gordon lifted the pile of reports from his “In” box and read as he sipped.
As expected, there’d been more call outs to check on strange noises, but with the increased manpower, they’d had excellent response times, and minds quickly put to rest. He was almost through the stack when Laurie informed him Colfax was here.
“Send him in,” he said.
Seconds later the door burst open. “Morning. Quiet night.”
