by Terry Odell
“Ms. Tate.” His nasal voice made her cringe.
With a sigh, she turned. “Yes?”
“There was a call for you. A detective with the police department. I hope there isn’t a problem. We can’t harbor fugitives here.”
Harbor fugitives? What television shows did the man watch?
She trudged to the counter.
COLE SPRAWLED ON HIS couch with the journal, thinking of the way Morgan had responded when he’d offered to take her to the pet store in Salem. He hadn’t expected tearful gratitude, and it had shaken him. It was a simple offer, a friendly offer, yet she’d acted like he’d handed her the moon on a necklace of stars.
A pang of guilt over the way he’d left his tools at the house as an excuse to go back hit him. For whatever reason, Morgan had allowed him inside her barrier, and he vowed he wouldn’t betray her trust.
That meant keeping things platonic.
He liked her on her terms, but his body insisted on hoping for more.
Cole opened the journal. If figuring out who this kid was, and if there was a connection to the graffiti didn’t take his mind off his thoughts of Morgan, he could always take a cold shower. Or have another night with himself for company.
Morgan said it seemed like the kid was a bookworm, and the articulate way he wrote made for easy reading. Cole had read some of the books the kid listed, mostly because they’d been required in school. This kid seemed to enjoy them, sharing his thoughts about the themes and characters. Explaining why he and his teacher disagreed on interpretation. Enjoying the way his teachers had accepted his opinions, talking about staying after school to discuss the symbolism in “The Old Man and the Sea.” Was it important that the old man’s eyes were blue, when most Cubans had brown eyes? What did it mean?
The words blurred. Cole was back in his English classroom, taking that damn test about that very book. The one he’d stayed up late so many nights studying. He’d never thought beyond what Miss Oberg had said in her lectures. Lectures, with no opportunity for discussion. Cole hadn’t cared. He just needed to echo what she’d said, get a B or better on the test, and he’d pass her class.
When she’d scheduled the exam, Miss Oberg knew darn well it was a senior skip day, a day when many seniors planned to have breakfast at a local coffee shop. She’d made it clear there would be no make up exams. Cole couldn’t afford a zero.
Jazz had begged him to join the gang for breakfast, but Cole had done the right thing and gone to school.
As the memory surfaced, tears welled, splashing onto the page like blood dripping from a reopened wound. Cole slammed the journal shut.
THE NEXT MORNING, COLE staggered out of the shower like a man with a hangover, although he’d had nothing to drink last night. He’d promised to go to the pet store with Morgan, and he’d have to haul ass. He threw on jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, shoved his feet into his slip-ons, and arrived at the Castle only five minutes late.
He jogged up the walkway to the lobby, casting his gaze across the people reading newspapers and having coffee. No sign of her. Good. She wouldn’t know he hadn’t arrived on time. He sent her a text letting her know he was waiting.
Be right down, she texted back.
He cast a sidelong glance at the woman at the counter, preoccupied with helping a guest, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from the station as if he belonged there. He’d skipped breakfast to be on time, and he needed that hit of caffeine to get his brain in gear.
He sensed Morgan’s arrival before he saw her, as if she followed behind an invisible pressure wave that declared Morgan is coming. Her scent? The way she walked? Was he tuned into her wavelength?
He hadn’t had these feelings since Jazz, and he’d spent enough time reliving the past last night. New day. New friend.
His smile as he caught her gaze was uncontrollable.
Her smile seemed pasted on. Not the enthusiasm he’d expected, considering they were on an errand for Bailey.
“Ready?” he asked.
Dumb. She wouldn’t have come downstairs unless she was. Dare he ask what was bothering her? Putting her on the spot to share something she didn’t think was any of his business would shove a wedge between them, and he wanted to move forward, not backward.
Why?
A question he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have trouble making friends. Until Morgan. She was nothing like Jazz. Curvy where Jazz was lean. Dark hair in tight curls unlike Jazz’s straight, blonde style. Latte-colored complexion where Jazz was peaches and cream.
Maybe that’s why you’re attracted to her.
Different in looks, yes. But the feelings inside, the quickening heartbeat, the spontaneous grins—things he hadn’t felt in years—those were all coming back.
In his car he flipped the radio to his heavy metal playlist and upped the volume.
At the pet shop, Morgan’s mood brightened. She seemed happier than a kid given free rein in a chocolate shop as she chose a bed, collar, leash, food, treats, toys, and every other imaginable accoutrement for Bailey. The dog had better pull through. Morgan said she’d checked with the vet first thing this morning, and Bailey’s condition was improving.
Things had a way of going south in a hurry. He hoped for her sake they didn’t.
He helped load everything into the back of his car, and they headed for the animal clinic. Cole lowered the radio’s volume to background level. “Did you find anything interesting in the journals you read last night?”
“No.” She stared out her window.
Cole abandoned his efforts, turned up the music, and lost himself in Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills”.
And Morgan’s scent.
At the clinic, Morgan raced from the car, not giving him a chance to play gentleman. He followed her inside, where she, fingers drumming on the counter, explained that the vet had given her permission to visit Bailey.
“Dr. Shannon is with a patient,” the receptionist said. “I’ll let her know you’re here. You can’t go back unaccompanied.”
Morgan’s shoulders bunched beneath her sweater. Cole moved in, guided her to a chair. “We can wait.”
Morgan lasted about ten seconds before she got up and paced the waiting area, looking at pictures, at the dog supplies, although he’d bet last month’s paycheck that she wasn’t seeing any of them. She came back, plopped into the chair.
“Cops are good at keeping secrets, right?” she said.
Chapter 17
AS SOON AS SHE SPOKE the words, Morgan regretted voicing them. Detective Detweiler—Randy, he’d told her to call him last night—had promised not to reveal her secret to anyone, but she didn’t know him. She’d been forced to take him at his word, that he wouldn’t say anything.
If two people know something, it’s not a secret anymore.
“You mean, can we be discreet?” Cole said. “It comes with the job. What we see on the job stays on the job. Unless we have to testify in court.”
She knew that might or might not be the full truth. She envisioned the cops sitting around the station, sharing and rehashing what they’d seen, not really thinking they were speaking out of turn. They were cops, all facing the same job stresses. They’d talk. It was human nature.
“What about when you’re doing your unwinding thing at The Wagon Wheel,” she asked. “You don’t talk shop?”
“Never with names if there are civilians around. Why do you ask?”
Before she got deeper into the discussion, Dr. Shannon approached. “Miss Tate. Come on back.”
Cole shot her a questioning glance.
She tilted her head toward the door, and he followed her and Dr. Shannon to the room where Bailey lay in a kennel—more like a cage, she thought—with a bright blue gauze bandage holding an IV in place, and two more bandages covering his injuries. Two other dogs occupied similar kennels, one making a quiet mfff sound when Morgan approached.
Mozart’s “Magic Flute” played softly in the background. Much nicer than Cole’s preferences—an
d better for the dogs, too.
“Hey, Bailey.” Morgan crouched beside the cage. “How’s my big, brave dog today? When you’re feeling better, I have a whole bunch of surprises for you.” She poked a finger through the grate and scratched him behind the ears.
Bailey’s ears perked up and his tail thumped. He remembered her. Morgan was sure of it.
She turned to the doctor. “How soon before I can take him home?”
“We’ll take it a day at a time. I’d ballpark two days, maybe three. I want to keep an eye on his renal function, and since we’re letting his lacerations heal naturally, I want to watch that, too. His bandages are medicated and infused with honey, and it’s better if we handle it here.”
“Honey?” Morgan asked.
Dr. Shannon smiled. “It’s a great natural antibacterial and anti-inflammatory.”
“How long can I stay?” Morgan asked, looking at Cole. She didn’t think he’d want to spend his whole day off at the clinic.
“Half an hour,” Dr. Shannon said. “You can come back again after two.”
That was all? Two thirty-minute visits? Morgan nodded, hoping her disappointment didn’t show.
“Do you mind waiting?” she asked Cole. “I’ll come back myself this afternoon.”
“Not a problem.” He squatted and rested the back of his hand against the metal bars. Bailey sniffed and gave a feeble doggie kiss. “You’re going to be one spoiled dog, fella.”
He rose and said, “I’ll be in the waiting room while you finish your visit.”
Morgan nodded her understanding.
Dr. Shannon excused herself to see more patients, and told her Derrick, the tech, would be there to answer questions.
Morgan hadn’t noticed the young man in blue scrubs working at the back of the room. He turned at the mention of his name and gave a quick wave. “Bailey’s doing fine. He’s an excellent patient.”
Morgan didn’t leave her place by the dog’s side.
Derrick gave another dog an injection, checked the IVs, and spoke in happy tones as he tended to them.
She hummed along with the music, interspersing the melodies with the same soothing words she’d used yesterday. Bailey’s eyes closed, but he seemed to be smiling. At least that’s what Morgan told herself.
When her cell rang, Derrick shot her a disapproving look. The display announced Mr. Hathaway’s office calling, and Morgan stepped to the far corner of the room. Could he have good news? Had he gotten approval for her to live elsewhere while she fixed the house? He’d said it could take a long time. Had he pushed things through?
“This is Morgan Tate.”
Lois Braithwhite came on the line. Morgan listened as the woman gave her the news.
COLE LOOKED UP FROM the magazine he was reading when Morgan came into the waiting room. Had it been half an hour already? The article about personality traits of different breeds of dogs hadn’t been that interesting.
“Bailey’s asleep,” Morgan said. “The tech said he’d be out for longer than my thirty-minute allotted visiting time, so we can go.”
There was more, and it probably had nothing to do with Bailey. Cole set the magazine aside and stood. “On with New Life on Elm Street?”
She adjusted her purse on her shoulder, and he followed her to the door.
“The lawyer’s office called,” she said once they were underway.
“Good news?” he asked.
“I got a budget for the repairs and renovations, which should help. How far can I get on thirty-five-thousand dollars? Are we talking paint and basic repairs, or can I turn it into a comfortable home?”
Cole hadn’t priced materials, much less labor, in a long time, but he wouldn’t be the bearer of bad news. Then again, if Morgan had money of her own, she could supplement the budget. “We can go over my list and you can prioritize everything. Since you have a dollar figure to work with, a good contractor will be willing to work with you.”
“Would the firefighter group be the way to go? Would I get more for my dollars with them?”
If she hired them, and they’d let him fill in, that would mean more opportunities to see her. That wasn’t a fair reason to push for her to use them. It had to be her decision, based on facts and practicality, not based on hormones.
“Why don’t you make an appointment, show them the place? I’ll be happy to sit in and make sure they treat you fairly,” Cole said.
She nodded. Cole couldn’t read her expression, but it seemed as though she had to give serious thought whenever he offered to help.
After a moment, she said, “I’ll check with my neighbor for contact information and let you know.”
At least she hadn’t removed him from the equation. “Sounds good.”
“Can you drop me off at the inn? That way I’ll have my own car, and you won’t have to taxi me back and forth. Or, we could go over your information at the inn and save you a trip to the house.”
His hormones overpowered his attempts to downplay his involvement. “It would be better if we could walk through the house so I can show you what I’m talking about.”
“Makes sense.”
He pulled into the Castle’s lot.
“I’ll meet you at the house.” Morgan got out of his car and hurried to hers.
He waited for her to pull onto the road, then followed her to Elm Street. A dusty white panel van sat near the porch. Morgan pulled in behind it and ran toward a beefed-up, dark-haired man, dressed in coveralls, swaggering from the porch toward the van.
Cole left his car on the street and jogged over to join her. From the way Morgan had rushed over, it was someone she expected, but most legitimate companies drove vehicles with company identification. He felt for his gun, tucked into its holster at the small of his back.
“You’re early,” Morgan said to the man. “I’m glad I caught you.”
Cole looked more closely. The guy’s coveralls had the name Rich embroidered in red above the breast pocket. The pocket itself had a patch saying Rich House Cleaning. No law saying he had to have a logo on his vehicle. He looked young. Early to mid-twenties. Didn’t seem old enough to have his own company.
“You asked this guy to come?” he asked Morgan.
“Yes. He was supposed to come after lunch. By the time I’d buy everything I’d need to give the house a decent cleaning, not to mention do all the work, it would be cheaper and faster to hire out.”
“Had a cancellation, and took a chance on coming by early, getting a head start,” Rich—if that was his name—said.
“We have things to deal with in the house,” Cole said. “Hope you can work around us for a while.”
“Not an issue.” Rich walked to the back of the van, Cole at his heels, and opened the doors.
Cole wrapped his hand around the grip of his gun as he peered inside. Cleaning supplies. Buckets, stepladder, mops, vacuum cleaner. Cole relaxed his hand.
While Rich unloaded his supplies, Cole went to his car for his measurements and drawings. Morgan had opened the front door and stood on the porch. He joined her.
“You didn’t tell me you’d called a cleaning service,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “I didn’t know I was supposed to. Like I said, it seemed sensible to hire out.”
“Which is fine,” he said. “But you didn’t ask him for ID. His van wasn’t marked, and he didn’t show up at the agreed upon time.”
Her lips flattened. “His coveralls matched the company name. Maybe he’s just starting out, hasn’t been able to afford to customize his van. Maybe the company van is in the shop and he’s using a loaner. There are a dozen more reasons I could think of.”
“It’s easy enough to get coveralls personalized,” he said. “Did you check his website? See if his picture was on it? Is he insured?”
She yanked on a curl. “Anyone can put up a website. Besides, what’s he going to steal in here? A couple of secondhand lamps?”
Cole lifted his palms in surrender. “I’m too used t
o seeing the wrong side of everything. Next time, ask for ID and proof the company is licensed and insured, okay?”
Glowering, she stepped aside.
Cole turned. Rich carried a large industrial vacuum cleaner up the porch steps. Cole moved to let him pass.
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll take a quick look, lay out my battle plan,” Rich said, straightening so his two-inch advantage over Cole was obvious.
Cole ignored the posturing. Detweiler towered half a foot above Cole, and he’d adjusted to interacting on an even plane despite height differences.
And, Cole admitted, he had been playing the alpha dog card. Byproduct of his job.
Be honest. You were protecting Morgan, whether she needed—or wanted—to be protected.
Chapter 18
MORGAN THANKED RICH and left him to his vacuuming. She found Cole in the kitchen. “Guess what?” she said. “Rich might have known the kid who wrote the journals. They would have been in school at around the same time. Before you ask, no, Rich doesn’t have any idea about the graffiti. The kid’s name was Kirk Webster, and what Rich remembers about him matches what I read in the journals. He was a good student, always had his nose in a book. It didn’t make him popular with most of the kids. He was accused of being a suck-up, trying to be teacher’s pet. Kept to himself a lot.”
Cole set the paper he’d been reading aside. “That matches what I found in the last journal.”
“Do you have it with you?” she asked.
“No. It’s still at my place.”
“The rest are at the inn. With a name, you could look him up, couldn’t you?”
“Same way you can. Cops aren’t allowed to use law enforcement databases for personal use. Everything is logged and tied to a case number.”
The excitement in her belly turned to a dull sense of disappointment. “Do you think there would be people at the school—teachers and staff—who might remember him?”
“Could be. Why? I thought you were more interested in your uncle’s past, and he was gone when Kirk Webster lived here.”
