by Terry Odell
She gathered her laptop and left the housekeeper to her cleaning.
In the lobby, she found a chair away from the other two guests and called Mr. Hathaway. When Mrs. Braithwhite answered, Morgan bypassed the pleasantries. “I need to come see Mr. Hathaway today. This morning, if possible. I’m an hour away. When can he fit me in?”
“Let me see, Ms. Tate. He’s free at eleven-thirty. Normally, he takes his lunch at noon—”
“I’ll be there. A working lunch will be fine with me.” Morgan hung up before Mrs. Braithwhite could object.
It was eight-thirty. Lots of time. Morgan debated dragging a couple of boxes from the basement to her room here, then dismissed it. She could visit other homes along Elm Street and see if the neighbors could offer insights into Uncle Bob’s lifestyle.
Too early to bother people, though. She booted her laptop and logged in to the inn’s Wi-Fi, then spent the next half hour scrolling her social media accounts, clearing out emails, and doing searches about what the town had to offer. Nothing from Austin, though he typically sent texts. One from Mr. Nakamura, his piano teacher.
A brief chill ran down Morgan’s spine. They had a no news is good news communication relationship.
With a feeling of dread, she clicked open the message.
COLE CLAMPED DOWN THE lid on his to-go mug of coffee and read over his morning to do list. Three people to serve with papers.
He was heading toward Elm Street when Dispatch sent him on a well-being check as far away from the Elm Street neighborhood he could be without leaving Pine Hills. Bruce Grossjean’s daughter, who lived in Michigan, said her father wasn’t answering his phone.
With a sigh, Cole turned his cruiser around. There were dozens of reasonable explanations why a person didn’t pick up a call. In the shower, the yard, asleep—or just plain avoiding the caller, which topped Cole’s list.
Mr. Grossjean was seventy-six years old, in reasonable health and physical condition, with occasional signs of dementia. More than once, he’d been picked up wandering the neighborhood wearing only his robe and slippers. Cole wondered why his daughter didn’t arrange for a companion or caregiver instead of expecting the police force to keep tabs on her father. Four blocks from Grossjean’s address, Cole slowed, scanning the sidewalks for the man.
No sign of him. Cole parked his car in front of Grossjean’s house, let Dispatch know he was there, and strode up the walkway to the brick-trimmed wooden ranch house. He rang the bell. “Mr. Grossjean. It’s Officer Patton, Pine Hills Police. Your daughter’s worried about you.” Again, he muttered under his breath.
The man didn’t have a driver’s license which didn’t mean he couldn’t be out and about. Cole pressed his ear to the door, listening for music or the television. Quiet.
He rang the bell again. When there was still no answer, he set out around the house, trudging through overgrown grass, peering in windows. No sign of the man. Which could be a good thing, although there were plenty of places where he couldn’t be seen if he’d fallen or passed out. Or was taking a nap.
After checking in with Dispatch, Cole learned Grossjean’s daughter said a neighbor, Alma Evans, had a spare key for emergencies. She lived kitty-corner across the street in another brick-trimmed ranch, much like most of the homes in this section of town. A car sat in the driveway. Dispatch confirmed the car was registered to Alma Evans.
Cole crossed the street and headed for Alma Evans’ door. Unlike Grossjean’s ill-kempt yard, her lawn was mowed, her flowerbeds filled with spring blooms.
Cole rang the bell and announced his presence. Waited. Repeated his call.
“One minute,” came a breathless voice from inside.
A moment later, the door opened a crack, stopped by a security chain. “What can I do for you, officer?” a woman, late fifties, presumably Alma Evans, asked.
“It’s regarding your neighbor, Bruce Grossjean,” Cole said. “His daughter is worried about him. He didn’t answer the door, and she said you have a key. I’d like to make sure he’s all right.”
“I can assure you, he’s fine,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need more than a verbal confirmation for his daughter. Do you know where I can find him?”
She huffed out a lengthy sigh, then released the security chain and opened the door. “See for yourself, officer. He’s just fine.”
Alma Evans, hair mussed, makeup smeared, wearing a lacy robe revealing more of her than Cole needed to see—ever—stepped away from the door, crossing her arms across her chest. “Bruce. There’s a police officer here who wants to see you.”
A man shuffled into the kitchen, head bowed. His gray hair stood up in all directions. His barrel chest was bare except for a mat of hair. Lipstick smears stained his face. He pulled up a pair of silky black boxers, decorated with an array of red hearts, having trouble getting them over a bulging part of his anatomy.
“Don’t tell me. Christine called you,” he grumbled. “Again. Tell her I’m fine, and you can leave. These pills only last so long, and they’re not cheap.”
“Sorry, sir. We’re required to follow up on calls when a relative gives cause to be concerned. I’ll let you get back to ... I’ll let her know you’re all right. However, if I might make a suggestion? Get a cell phone.”
“Have one,” the man said. “Don’t see a need to turn it on if I’m not making a call.”
“But what if someone wants to reach you?”
Grossjean seemed to roll that around for a moment. “I see your point, Officer.”
Cole let himself out and scurried to his cruiser. Some days, he wished he could unsee what the job brought. This was one of those times. He tried to keep the pictures of what would happen next out of his head.
He reported to Dispatch that Grossjean was very much alive and well, and left it at that. “Show me en route to the northwest sector for routine patrol.”
Passing through downtown, he scanned the Castle Inn’s parking lot but didn’t see Morgan’s car. Had she already left? He’d hoped she would have touched base, shared her plans.
Dispatch interrupted his thoughts of Morgan with another call, this time for a group of rowdy teens at the river. Typical for a teacher planning day. Cole headed that way to make his presence felt. Generally, the kids were bored, blowing off steam.
After a few words with them, pointing out the consequences of getting arrested and suggesting that if they didn’t have enough schoolwork to keep them occupied, Pine Hills was in need of people to pick up litter in the park, on the downtown sidewalks, and the hiking trails, they dispersed.
He again reported himself en route to the northwest sector. He didn’t expect he’d find anything at the Elm Street house, but there was a slim chance Kovak’s idea about someone returning to the scene might have merit. If Cole was the one to find a clue, so much the better.
I’m at your house. I see your car. Where are you?
Chapter 7
MORGAN THANKED TRISHA Forsythe, a harried mom with twin toddlers, who lived in the house behind Uncle Bob’s.
“It’ll be nice to have someone living there,” Trisha said. “My husband’s a firefighter, and he and some of his colleagues have a part-time handyman service. You know, in case you need someone to help with fixing up the place.”
Morgan thanked her again, saying she’d definitely keep him in mind. She hurried around the block, back toward her car. She’d need to hurry to make it to Portland in time for her appointment with Mr. Hathaway.
When she rounded the corner and saw a police car parked in front of her house, her pulse tripped. Had something happened? She quickened her pace.
When she reached the house, Cole was walking from the side yard to the police car. A grin spread across his face when he looked her way, and she couldn’t help responding with a smile of her own. And a tingle lower down, one she tried to ignore.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
“Routine patrol,” he said. “Everything
looks fine. Did you get my text?”
She pulled her phone from her purse. “Had it silenced. I was trying to find a neighbor who might’ve known Uncle Bob, or at least know the reason why the housekeeper freaked.” Morgan relayed the housekeeper’s answer after this morning’s encounter.
“So that’s a dead end, at least for now. Any luck with the neighbors?” Cole asked.
Morgan shook her head. “The ones who were home all moved in after he’d left and hadn’t heard anything about Uncle Bob. Another dead end there. I have to get going. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with the lawyer in Portland.”
“Would you like to meet for dinner?” he asked. “We could compare notes.”
Dinner with Cole? Would she want company if Mr. Hathaway couldn’t find a way she could avoid living in the house until it was more ... livable? She wouldn’t know until after her meeting.
“I’ll let you know.” She got in her car and backed out of the driveway.
And there was the matter of Austin and his music. He’d missed another lesson. Mr. Nakamura had pointedly reminded her that without twenty-four hour’s notice, he charged for the missed lesson. She knew that all too well. The man was the best in the area, and he seemed to understand Austin’s situation, so she put up with his frequent displays of self-righteous arrogance.
Save it. Nothing you can do from here. The missed lesson was probably due to Austin’s mother. Calling in Children Services will do more harm than good. You need to establish yourself here. And soon.
Pushing thoughts of Cole and Austin out of her head, she made it to Mr. Hathaway’s office building with fifteen minutes to spare. She hadn’t risked stopping for food on the way.
When Morgan entered Mr. Hathaway’s office, a woman about her age sat at the reception desk. Morgan blinked twice as she read the nameplate. Lois Braithwhite? This was the stodgy Mrs. Braithwhite? Short brunette hair with gold highlights. Shiny red lips? Red blazer over an abstract print, scoop-necked blouse in bright, primary colors. Was that a hint of a tattoo above her collarbone? Dangly earrings sparkled in the overhead lighting.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
The voice was right.
Morgan collected herself as she readjusted her image of an older—much older—woman who wore her gray hair in a bun and dark-colored pant suits with high-necked blouses. And sensible shoes. Morgan couldn’t see Lois Braithwhite’s lower half, but she’d bet her shoes were anything but sensible.
“I’m Morgan Tate.” She extended a hand. “I have an appointment with Mr. Hathaway at eleven-thirty. I don’t know how long our meeting will take, or if we can continue it somewhere nearby for the lunch I promised to provide.”
Lois Braithwhite’s smile as she accepted the handshake revealed perfect white teeth. She reached into her lower desk drawer, brought out a file folder and laid it open on her desk. Menus. Lots of menus. She plucked one and handed it to Morgan. “The starred items are his faves. I can have lunch delivered.”
Morgan readjusted her assessment of the woman. Not at all stodgy. She scanned the menu, her mind still in disconnect mode. “Why don’t you pick? All of these look fine. I’ll pay, of course.”
“That’s not necessary.” Lois Braithwhite put the menus away. “We have an account. I’ll have lunch there today and take care of your order.”
The woman picked up her phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Hathaway? Ms. Tate is here. I’ll take my lunch break now and bring yours back with me.” A pause while she listened. “I’ll send her in.”
Lois? Mrs. Braithwhite? Morgan didn’t know how to think of her. The woman flashed her perfect teeth again and motioned to the hallway. “Go right in. Third door on the left.”
The woman stood to leave, and Morgan paused long enough to check out her shoes. Red. Narrow, three-inch heels. Hardly in the sensible category.
Morgan ambled down the hallway, counting the doors. The first said Staff Only, the second was unmarked, and the third said Edmund Hathaway. She knocked.
“Come.”
Morgan opened the door and stepped inside. Mr. Hathaway was a much closer fit to the image she’d imagined. Salt-and-pepper hair, fashionably styled. Black-framed glasses on a long, straight nose. Very regal looking.
“Won’t you sit down, Ms. Tate. Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?”
She requested water. He stepped to a small fridge in a console along the side wall and brought her a bottle, along with a glass from the coffee station.
Morgan set them beside her. “What have you been able to do about the inheritance and the trust? If you saw the pictures, you know there’s no way anyone could live in that house in its current state.”
“I agree,” he said. “I did spend a considerable amount of time going over the terms of the trust. I apologize that I couldn’t get your utilities turned on yesterday, but if you can be at the house by three this afternoon, I will ensure that the requisite companies will meet a three to five pm window.”
“I’ll make it happen.” She poured half her water into the glass and took a tentative sip.
“Very good,” Mr. Hathaway said. “As for the terms of the trust. You need to be living in the house for one year, with the clock starting within three days of the utilities being turned on, or you’ll sacrifice the house and the balance of the trust. There’s also the stipulation that you can be away no more than two days in any given month. Otherwise, the clock will reset. That can happen only once, or the house will be put on the market with the proceeds being split between the Willamette Valley Villas and three designated charities.”
Two days a month. “Do the days accumulate?” she asked. “If I don’t leave the house in a given month, do I get four the next month?”
Mr. Hathaway shuffled through the papers. “No, they don’t.”
“Understood.”
“There are funds allocated for repairs. I will verify the amount. I’ll need your banking information so I can transfer the funds to your account. You can buy a bed and move in as soon as it’s delivered.”
“There’s effectively no kitchen.” She gave him an imploring gaze. “If I eat out every meal, I’ll be spending a fortune. Then there’s remodeling. Even if I don’t move any walls or do any actual reconstruction, there’s a ton of repair work that needs to be done. Isn’t there a way I could live somewhere else until I have more than a bed? I promise to stop by the house every day.”
His eyebrows lifted above the frames of his glasses. “People live at home during remodel jobs all the time, Ms. Tate.”
Her heart sank. She hid behind her water glass. “Understood. What if they find the place has to be brought up to code and it’s not safe for me to live there? Do you reset the clock? What if it becomes part of a police investigation?”
“What?” His brows lifted again.
She explained in more detail the graffiti she’d found. “The police are looking into it.”
Morgan saw no need to tell him they’d said they didn’t think there was a crime involved. Hadn’t Cole said they were keeping their eyes out in case someone came back? That had to count as looking into it.
She fished her phone from her purse and scrolled through her photos until she found the graffiti image, a picture she hadn’t sent to Mr. Hathaway.
His brows threatened to hit his hairline. “This was in the house?”
“Yes, in the master bedroom.” She cocked her head. “Do you have any idea why it’s there?”
“I do not. I suppose, if the police deny access to the home, it could change things. Temporarily.”
For the better—at least better for her, Morgan hoped.
Mr. Hathaway stacked the papers. “Although your uncle suffered from dementia, he was of sound mind when he drew up the trust. I suggest you move ahead as if there are no changes.”
So much for hoping for the better.
COLE SAT IN HIS CRUISER, spending the last half hour of his shift watching the road to the river park. Word must have gotten ou
t that the cops had upped their presence, because the few teens who came through followed traffic laws to the letter. Cole had wandered through the picnic areas and the usual hideaways surrounding them. All quiet. Barring a call from Dispatch, it would be a long half hour.
His phone buzzed a text. An involuntary smile tugged at his lips when he saw it was from Morgan.
Have to wait for utility hookups. Three to five window. Dinner after?
He tapped out a reply.
Sounds good pick u up castle 6
He tapped Send and checked the time. Two hours, twelve minutes. Should they do a repeat of The Wagon Wheel? Sadie’s? Somewhere nicer? Morgan said next time would be her treat, so picking a more expensive place might not be fair. She’d also said that was if he had news about her uncle to share, which he didn’t.
He let his mind wander. Morgan could make the decision.
He radioed Dispatch he was en route to the station. Of course, an idiot was weaving all over the road. Texting and driving? Drunk? Cole flipped on his lights and fell in behind the car—a powder blue classic Mustang—as he radioed in the plates.
Registered to a Vance Ebersold, DOB February 19, 1958. The man happened to be the manager of the Pine Hills Bank and sat on the town council. Registration and insurance up to date. The car slowed and pulled over.
Cole stopped behind him, tapped his vest, then got out and approached, touching the trunk of the car with his forefingers to verify it was closed. Plus, should anything happen, there was evidence Cole had been there.
What Cole found was not a sixty-one-year-old man. More like sixteen. The kid was fumbling with his zipper, and his passenger, a girl who seemed a couple years older, was hastily tugging at her skirt.
His day for sexual encounters.
He asked for identification.
The boy was Randall Ebersold, claimed he had his dad’s permission to use the car. The girl was twenty-one—more than a couple of years older—and lived in Cottonwood. What was she doing hanging out with a sixteen-year-old? There were no indications either of them had been drinking. According to Dispatch, Randall had no record, so Cole let both off with a warning—a stern one—about not doing anything other than driving while driving, and told them to go home.
