by Terry Odell
She snorted. “From what I’ve seen so far, anything in place would be the surprise. My uncle’s lawyer didn’t keep tabs on what my uncle did. He paid the taxes, arranged for yard maintenance, nothing more. I would think that if somebody had been stealing the house’s furnishings, you guys would have heard about it. But you said you didn’t find any crime reports, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I mean no. No crime reports.”
“So, he must have gotten rid of everything before he went into the nursing home. I’m still coming to terms with inheriting this—” she swept her arms in a wide arc— “house from a man I never met. And wondering if I made a huge mistake moving here. Did you know him at all?”
Officer Patton shook his head. “The house had been vacant a long time when I came to Pine Hills a year ago.” He chinned toward the stairs. “I ought to get moving. The detective sent me to confirm the graffiti is just paint.”
Morgan didn’t ask what else he thought it might be. Horror movie blood? Maybe she would watch him work after all. She moved for the stairs.
In the offending bedroom, Morgan waited in the doorway. After brushing water droplets from his short-cropped hair—medium brown, she noted, again wondering why it mattered—Officer Patton turned his ball cap backward. He proceeded to snap pictures of the room from all angles, paying closer attention to the graffiti wall. Then, he shoved his hands into a pair of blue gloves and opened his kit. With what looked like a small scalpel, he scraped bits of the lettering into a vial of liquid, sealed it, and gave it a vigorous shake. He stepped closer, held it so she could see the flakes swirling in the vial.
“Nothing dissolved,” he said. “My guess is it’s paint.”
“You were testing for blood, weren’t you?” She wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved it wasn’t blood or creeped out that it could have been.
“Per orders from the detective.”
“Is it what you thought it would be?” she asked.
“Frankly, yes. Detective Detweiler’s first guess was pranksters, but he told me we have to cover our asses.”
Morgan eyed his kit. “No fancy CSI stuff?”
“Not without evidence of a crime. If the test had come back positive, our lab tech would follow up. If things get complicated, we work with the county.”
“Do you need to do anything else here?” she asked.
“No, but I might as well check out the rest of the place with you.”
Morgan waited while he repacked his kit. Not because she was afraid to look alone, she told herself. Or because she liked the idea of someone else around. It was merely polite.
She went into the bathroom first. Acceptable plumbing, she’d told Mr. Hathaway, was a priority. The room had a shower/tub combo, a Formica-topped vanity with a single sink. She used her phone to record the cracked tiles, the rust stains, and the missing towel bar.
“Until the water’s turned on, there’s no way to know if everything works,” she said.
Officer Patton opened the cabinet under the sink. He unhooked a flashlight from his utility belt and shone it around.
“Pipes are intact,” he said. “No sign of drips.”
“You know plumbing?” she asked.
He gave a wry grin “My dad’s a general contractor. He wasn’t thrilled when I didn’t want to stick around and do the and Son thing with the business, but after a few years of working with him, being a cop called me louder than busted toilets.”
“Was he mad when you left?”
The officer straightened and turned off his flashlight. “Nah, he understood. He still gives me grief about how ‘Patton and Nephew’ doesn’t work as a business name, even though my cousin is ten times better at the job than I’d ever be.”
His smile said he and his father had a good relationship.
Morgan shook off the pangs of longing that welled inside her, that if her parents hadn’t died, they would’ve let her become her own person whether or not it fit their expectations.
She blew out a sigh and stepped into the hall. “I’m going to check the rest of this floor.”
The other two bedrooms on the floor were as empty as the first one, but no more nasty writing.
“Attic and basement,” she said. “Attic first.” No need to mention what the thought of going into a dark, damp basement did to her insides. Morgan paused at the hallway door, open enough to reveal a staircase leading upward. She sought the flashlight app on her phone.
“The lawyer said he couldn’t get the utilities people out today,” she grumbled as she climbed.
“I can go first,” Officer Patton said. “I have a better light.”
“I’m fine. Unless there are mummified bodies up here, in which case I’ll defer to you.”
“The climate here’s a bit damp for mummification.” His tone conveyed a hint of teasing.
An undisturbed layer of dust covered the attic floor. A lone wooden trunk, also covered in dust, sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time,” Officer Patton said.
“I still need to look inside.” Morgan stepped carefully across the room. She rounded the trunk to lift the lid and encountered a padlock. A secured padlock.
She turned to the officer. “I don’t suppose you learned to pick locks somewhere between contractor and cop skills.”
“Sorry, no. In my current line of work, bolt cutters are the tool of choice.”
“Then it’s down to the basement,” she said. “This time, you can go first.”
COLE SENSED A HEIGHTENED level of apprehension from Morgan as they descended the steps to the basement. She puffed out rapid breaths and seemed to be testing each step before moving onward. If she was on her own, he could understand her caution, but if there were issues with the stairs, he’d be the one to tumble. The light from her phone bounced back and forth, as if she couldn’t steady her hands. Gave her something to do, he surmised, since her phone’s light was swallowed in the brighter beam of his flashlight.
“You all right?” he asked. “I’ve got this.”
“No, I’ll do it. I need to send the pictures to the lawyer.”
A pronounced layer of apprehension filled her voice.
As they approached the final step, he held her back. “Let me have a quick look. Make sure there’s nothing to trip over.”
“Like pods?” she asked, her accompanying laugh shaky.
“Now that would be a surprise,” he said.
“You’re thinking of bodies, though, right? If there were any, this is where they’d have to be.”
He didn’t point out the two acres of land surrounding the house. Wonderful. Now she had him thinking of bodies.
The sound of Morgan’s breathing seemed to pulsate through the basement. Cole stifled a sneeze at the smell of dirt and mold. But not death. He played his light across the space. Lots to trip over. Boxes. Stacks of boxes. A maze of boxes. Big ones, little ones, and all sizes in between. None big enough to hide a body. At least not an intact one.
“No bodies. No pods,” he said. “Watch your step. I’ll check the furnace and water heater.” If the house had been vacated over five years ago, chances were both would need to be replaced.
Navigating the narrow path between the foot of the stairs and the low wooden platform holding the appliances, he glanced back at Morgan, who’d remained on the stairs, one hand clutching the rail.
The water heater seemed in reasonable shape. No rust on the unit, no stains on the platform indicating leaks.
“Are they okay?” Megan’s tremulous voice wafted across the room.
Cole did a quick assessment of the furnace. “Odds are these weren’t new when your uncle left. I’m guessing they’ll work for a while, but you should plan on replacing them. Not sure they’re up to current code. You’ll definitely need to have someone come out and assess them. There’s no washer or dryer, but the hookups are here.”
“I wonder if Uncle Bo
b even had them, or if a renter took them. Either way, by now I’d want new.”
Her phone’s light bounced around the room, moving from box to box. “What do you think is in all of these?”
“Not a clue.” He pointed at a stack with his light. “Maybe it’s everything that was in the house before your uncle moved. Minus the furniture.”
“Like books, pots and pans, clothes?”
He turned and shrugged. “Won’t know until you open them.”
She’d stepped onto the dirt floor. With an explosive huffed out breath, she strode to his side and took pictures of the furnace and water heater. With another audible exhale, she moved toward the boxes, snapping pictures as she walked.
Were her hands trembling? Cole ambled ahead of her, using his light to blaze a trail through the maze.
Morgan appeared to gather strength as she worked—maybe seeing everything through the camera’s screen helped distance her from whatever she was afraid of.
“Do you think I should count them?” she asked.
Cole paused. “Are you supposed to be taking an accurate inventory?”
“The lawyer just said document. If he wanted something accurate, he’d have sent his own people, don’t you think?”
“Makes sense.”
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Morgan said. “The house is empty, the basement is full of boxes, and there’s a nasty threat painted on a bedroom wall. I need a place to stay. I’m going to try to convince the lawyer this place is uninhabitable at the moment, and see if being in Pine Hills and working on the house will meet the terms of the trust without having to live in the house.”
“Makes sense,” he said again.
Morgan set a brisk pace for the stairs and trotted up to the kitchen. Cole followed, glad to hear her voice had lost its quaver.
“Can you recommend a motel in Pine Hills?” she asked.
“There’s one motel. The Castle Inn. Don’t let the name fool you. It’s named after the original owner, not the architecture. I stayed there a few nights when I first got here.”
Morgan slipped her phone into her purse. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic. What about a rooming house, or short-term rentals, or an Airbnb?”
“Not much tourism in Pine Hills. Salem’s a better bet, if you want choices.”
“I’d rather be closer.” She yanked on a curl. “I admit I didn’t do my homework, but I honestly thought this house would be livable.”
“In that case, I’d say book a couple of nights at the Castle, then once you’ve got a better handle on your situation, you can see if there’s another place that suits your needs.” Cole checked the time. “I have to get to the station. Are you going to be all right?”
“Of course,” she said.
She didn’t sound all right. The repeated yanks of that curl added credence to his assumption.
“I get off at four,” he said. “There’s a café on the main drag. Sadie’s, if you’d like to meet for coffee. Kind of a welcome to Pine Hills. There’s The Wagon Wheel if you want something stronger.”
“Maybe. I really need to line up my ducks first.”
“Tell you what. I’ll be at the Wagon Wheel at four-thirty. If you show up, fine, if not, that’s fine, too.”
The rain had stopped. Outside, she got halfway to her car, paused, turned, and gazed at the house. Her shoulders slumped, and Cole wished he could summon a genie to transform the house into the home Morgan must have expected.
He got into his cruiser and let Dispatch know he was on his way to the station. When he arrived, he found a note from Randy Detweiler on his desk.
Found something. Come see me.
Chapter 3
MORGAN FOLLOWED OFFICER Patton’s directions to the Castle Inn, a rustic, three-story structure. Blue clapboard siding, wraparound porch, hanging baskets filled with flowers. The painted wooden sign identifying the site said there were vacancies.
The place looked inviting enough from the outside. Why had Officer Patton sounded reluctant to recommend it? Too old-fashioned? Was he a sleek and modern, glass and chrome kind of guy?
What did it matter? She slipped her car into an empty slot in the small lot beside the inn and rambled along the brick-paved walkway to the entrance. Chimes tinkled a friendly greeting as she pulled the door open.
A light floral aroma welcomed her. A blazing fireplace filled the room with a warm glow. Scattered in groups conducive to conversation were overstuffed chairs in floral prints. Cherry end tables with graceful legs curving down to clawed feet held lamps with fabric shades festooned with hanging beads. Morgan half-expected to see a plump woman with curly white hair wearing an apron over a gingham dress appear offering cookies or hot chocolate. Or both.
Instead, she was greeted from behind the registration counter by a cadaverous man who looked like he’d be more at home in her new house. A tight-fitting black jacket over a gray shirt, open at the neck, revealed wisps of white chest hair. Sallow skin. Sunken cheeks, thin lips, oversized ears. Gray hair slicked over a freckled pate.
“May I help you?” he asked.
Startled by his voice, nasal, and pitched an octave higher than she’d expected, Morgan arranged her features into a pleasant expression, then ambled to the counter. “I’d like a room.”
His eyes, rheumy, with scarcely enough color to be called blue, seemed to study her as if searching for a reason not to give her one.
Maybe he was the reason Officer Patton hadn’t been enthusiastic about staying here.
“Two nights, maybe three,” she added.
He consulted a computer, frowned, and squeezed his lips even narrower. “For one?”
“Yes, just me.” She eyed the door. Could she change her mind? Walk out? Where would she go? Salem? She figured that would add an hour’s commute.
“I have a double bed on the third floor. No elevator.” His gaze assessed her again, as if trying to decide whether she was capable of the climb.
“That will be fine. I’d appreciate help with my luggage. I’m relocating to Pine Hills, so I have several large suitcases and some boxes. Unless you have security in your parking lot, I’d rather not leave them in my car.”
“Very well. While you fill out the registration form, I’ll attempt to locate somebody to assist you.”
He thrust a sheet of paper toward her and went into a room behind the counter.
Morgan shook out her hand, then painstakingly filled out the form and fished her credit card out of her wallet. She hadn’t even asked what the nightly rates were, not that she had a choice.
Moments later, Mr. Death-Warmed-Over returned. He perused the form and accepted her credit card. “One night in advance, the balance due at checkout.”
She agreed, and he ran her card.
“You’ll be in 306. Stairs are to your left.”
Morgan accepted the key—an actual key, not a plastic card—and climbed the carpeted stairway to the third floor.
The room’s décor matched that of the lobby. The bed was covered in an off-white chenille spread. An armoire took the place of an actual closet. Crocheted doilies abounded. One draped across the back of an upholstered wing chair, two more covered the arms. Another rested beneath the hobnail milk glass lamp on the night table.
She checked the bathroom. Toilet flushed, water ran hot in the pedestal sink. Towels were hotel standard, along with tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. A plastic curtain festooned with tiny rosebuds enclosed the tub-shower combination.
Morgan returned to the bedroom. No desk. Internet? She’d forgotten to ask about Wi-Fi. A check of her phone didn’t reveal any networks she could associate with the inn.
A knock on the door suggested Mr. Death-Warmed-Over had found someone to help with the luggage. She stepped to the door, pausing to note there was no peephole. “Who’s there?”
“Um, it’s Joe. They said you needed help with your bags?”
She opened the door to a man—no, a boy. A bored expression. Military cut br
own hair. Acne across his forehead. High school, she thought. From his build, an athlete. Football? Wrestling?
“Thanks, Joe. My car’s in the lot.”
Joe pivoted and headed in the direction of the stairs. Morgan grabbed her car keys and followed.
Once in the parking lot, she unlocked her trunk and pointed to the two large suitcases. “If you can get those, I’ll bring the small one.”
He hoisted them with ease and marched back the way they’d come, the wheels clicking over the pavement. Morgan wrested her carry-on from the backseat and hurried to catch up.
Joe carried the bags up the stairs as if they were feather pillows. Using both hands, Morgan dragged hers, the case thumping up each step.
“You can leave them over there.” She pointed toward the space between the bed and the window, then accompanied Joe down for her cartons.
“Hang on,” he said. “Let me get a cart.”
He returned with a hotel bellman’s cart and stacked the six boxes. Once he’d deposited the boxes in her room, Morgan went to her purse for her wallet. Pulling out a five, she said, “Do you work here regularly? The man at the desk made it sound like he was going to flag someone off the street.”
Joe lowered his head. “My mom’s one of the housekeepers. I come by after practice and hang around until she’s done. Do my homework, stuff like that. Help out, if they need me.”
She extended the five. “I’m glad you were here. I’m sure my things would have been okay in the car, but I feel better having them with me.”
He shrugged and walked away.
“Wait,” she called after him. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
He stopped, turned. Another shrug. “Guess so.”
“Have you lived in Pine Hills all your life?”
“Pretty much.”
“And your family?”
“Just me and my mom,” he said. “We moved here from Portland when I was three.”
Morgan did a quick calculation. She put Joe in the sixteen to eighteen-year-old demographic. He’d have been a young child when Uncle Bob lived here. Maybe his mother could offer some insights.
