The General's Secretary

by Debby Giusti

  A car pulled to a stop outside. Footsteps approached on the walkway that edged the rooms. Dawson’s pulse kicked up a notch, realizing, too late, he had failed to flip the latch.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  He glanced at the bathroom that offered no place to hide. The closet hung open. Small, dark, confining. Exactly where he didn’t want to go.

  A key scratched against the lock. The knob turned.

  Sweat pooled around his neck. He didn’t have a choice and slipped into the closet’s confining darkness. His heart skittered in his chest. He left the door ajar and peered through the crack.

  Someone stepped into the room.

  Five-seven and slender with shoulder-length hair and big eyes that took in the room with one glance.

  Lillie?

  * * *

  The last place Lillie wanted to be was Granger Ford’s motel room, but she had thought the key would unlock the door and lead to information about her mother’s death.

  Three nights ago, Granger had phoned and asked her to meet him here. In hindsight and despite her concern about the museum project, she should have accepted his invitation.

  He’d claimed to have answers, which she took to mean information about what had happened on that stormy night so long ago. Obviously, from the disarray, someone had searched the motel room, looking for the information that must have played into Granger’s death.

  Lillie pulled in a deep breath to calm her runaway pulse. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stepped toward the duffel bag. After rifling through the contents, she opened the dresser drawers. Her fingers rested briefly on the Gideon Bible. Lord, let me find the truth.

  Granger claimed he had never known her mother and had had nothing to do with her death. Not that Lillie was sure she believed him. Easy enough to beg forgiveness after the fact.

  “Go back to bed, child.”

  Yet Granger’s voice wasn’t the one she heard in her dreams. Nor was his face the one that returned to haunt her with each passing storm.

  Knowing it was only a matter of time before the Freemont police or the muscular CID agent from Fort Rickman found where Granger had been staying, she tugged on the closet door.

  A man stood shadowed in the recesses.

  Her heart exploded in her chest. She screamed.

  Turning to flee, her foot caught on the leg of the bed. She lost her balance.

  “Lillie.”

  Hands reached for her, easing the fall. He took the brunt of the blow as they both crashed to the floor.

  She kicked, heard him groan and kicked again.

  He pinned her down, the weight of his legs impeding her movement. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She screamed again.

  He covered her mouth with his hand. His breath warmed her cheek.

  “Lillie, stop.” His voice was low, insistent.

  She bit his hand.

  “Augh,” he groaned. “Listen.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  “The police are coming. You don’t want them to find you here.”

  Reason tangled through her fear as she recognized Dawson’s voice.

  “I’m going to let you go. Leave the room. Take the back road out of the motel. Meet me at the truck stop one exit north on the highway. We need to talk.” His hand eased up ever so slightly. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  He drew away from her and stood.

  Scampering to her feet, Lillie raced for the door and threw it open. Light filtered into the darkness. She turned, seeing the special agent bend down and pick up something from the rug.

  Dawson Timmons was a fool to think she would meet him anywhere except at military police headquarters on post.

  “You dropped something.” The key dangled from his hand.

  The sirens screamed in the distance. Not much time to get away.

  “Meet me at the truck stop,” he said again. “We can share information.”

  The police would never understand how she had known about the motel room and why she had been there with the CID agent. Leaving the parking lot, she headed out the back way.

  On the phone, Granger had said he’d been framed. At the time, she hadn’t wanted his excuses to buy her sympathy. Now she wasn’t sure about anything or anyone, especially the special agent who seemed to be one step ahead of her.

  General Cameron had spoken highly of the Criminal Investigation Division on post. A number of big cases had been solved over the past few years because of their hard work. That’s why she had felt comfortable sharing her story tonight with the special agent.

  Now she wondered if she could trust him. How had he known about the motel room? Could he have been one of the people Granger claimed had framed him? If so, Dawson was the last person Lillie should meet. Yet, he now had the key that might unlock information about her mother’s disappearance.

  Lillie needed to be smart and careful, which meant having something to hold over Dawson’s head if things got ugly. Grabbing her phone, she dialed her private line at work that hooked into the voice mail she checked each morning as soon as she arrived at her desk.

  If something happened to her, General Cameron’s aide would eventually review the messages. “This is Lillie Beaumont,” she said once the call transferred to voice mail.

  She glanced at the clock on her dash. “It’s four-thirty a.m. I’m on my way to the truck stop at the exit north of town to meet CID Special Agent Dawson Timmons concerning Granger Ford’s death. If something should happen to me, question Agent Timmons.”

  Years earlier her mother had disappeared on a stormy night. She glanced at the leaves and branches strewn across the road. Meeting Dawson could put her own life in danger.

  A shiver slipped down her spine. Lillie had to ensure that she wouldn’t disappear on this stormy night like her mother.

  THREE

  Dawson parked on the far side of the truck stop where his car wouldn’t be seen from the interstate. Quickly pulling out the wax kit he kept in his glove compartment, he made a mold of Lillie’s key. Later, if need be, he could make a duplicate.

  Leaving his car, he rounded to the front of the one-story stucco building and glanced at the few cars driving along the highway, their lights cutting through the darkness. The rain had stopped, but a wind blew from the west. He rubbed his bare hands together as he approached the all-night diner and peered through the large windows. Standing behind the counter, a waitress poured coffee for two husky guys in parkas.

  Dawson wiped his feet on the doormat, frustrated by the damp cold that gnawed at the old gunshot wound to his leg. He thought of the investigation that had left him injured, hating the ever-present limp and accompanying pain.

  Stepping inside, Dawson unsnapped his windbreaker and nodded to the waitress, who raised a pot of coffee. He held up two fingers and pointed to the booth where Lillie sat. She watched him approach the table and slide into the seat across from her.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” he said, adding a smile to counter her frosty glare.

  “You have something that belongs to me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

  The waitress approached with two mugs she quickly filled. “You folks want breakfast?”

  “Coffee’s fine.” Lillie dumped a packet of sweetener and a significant amount of cream into her mug.

  “Two eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage and biscuits.” Dawson eyed Lillie. “You like grits?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Make that two orders with grits.”

  The waitress scurried back to the kitchen.

  Lillie raised her brow. “I don’t need breakfast.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s been a long night.” He glanced at the men at the nearby counter and lowered his voic
e. “I’m glad you decided to meet me.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the chunky mug. “Did I have a choice?”

  “You could have gone home.”

  “I need my key.”

  She held out her hand, palm up, which he ignored.

  “You tried the key at the motel,” Dawson said, “thinking it would open the door. Evidently Granger didn’t tell you what it unlocked when he called you.”

  She tilted her head and braced her shoulders before she leaned across the table, her voice low. “When did he call nine-seven-one-four, the number on your business card?”

  Touché. Ms. Beaumont had a mind and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stretched back in the booth. “You’ve developed a bit of an attitude since you left your house, Lillie. What happened?”

  “I realized you may be more of a problem than an asset.”

  “Which means?”

  “I thought I could trust you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m working for Uncle Sam. I’m trustworthy.”

  “Really, Dawson?” She raised a brow and stared at him across the table.

  He almost smiled at the cute way her nose turned up and the handful of freckles that dotted her cheeks, neither of which he had noticed earlier. “Let’s make a trade. Okay? You go first.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already told you everything.”

  “Why did Granger pick tonight to stop by your house?”

  “He was on the run. As I mentioned, someone found him and beat him.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he was trying to uncover the truth about what happened to my mother.” Lillie glanced at the waitress then back at Dawson. “I overheard the prosecuting attorney talking to my foster parents before Granger’s trial began. The lawyer was worried the evidence wouldn’t be enough to find him guilty. Everyone wanted to pin the crime on someone. Granger was the logical choice.”

  Dawson’s muscles tensed. “Do you know that for sure?”

  She leaned in closer. “All I know is someone wanted my mother dead, only I never knew who. At the time, it was easier to believe Granger was guilty.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I want everything to go back to the way it was before Granger knocked on my door.” She sighed. “Only there’s no going back.”

  “Why would someone want to kill your mother?”

  “I thought it was because of me. That I had done something wrong.”

  “Which doesn’t make sense, Lillie.”

  “Not to an adult, but children always believe they’re at fault when something bad happens.”

  Dawson thought of his own childhood. For too long, he had blamed himself for his absentee father.

  Lillie pointed a slender finger at him. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. CID Agent. How are you involved?”

  “I’m representing the military in the investigation.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She was right, but Dawson wasn’t ready to reveal anything else.

  His cell rang. He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. “Timmons.”

  “Pritchard here. Thought you might be interested in the latest.”

  “Hold on a second.” Dawson glanced at Lillie. “I need to take this call.”

  Without waiting for her response, he slid from the booth and hustled outside. The chilly night air swirled around him. He pushed the phone to his ear. “Go ahead.”

  “The victim rented a room at the Hi-Way Motel. We’re there now.”

  “Did you find anything that has bearing on his death?” Dawson asked.

  “A photo cut from the local newspaper of a guy named Billy Everett was hidden in the motel Bible.”

  The one place Dawson hadn’t looked.

  “Everett got into trouble a few years back,” the cop continued. “The news photo was taken when we hauled him in for questioning. We didn’t have enough evidence and eventually had to release him.”

  “Had he been arrested before?”

  “For possession. Did some time. Claimed he had cleaned up his life, but the guy’s got problems. Not too smart, and years of abusing drugs haven’t helped.”

  “So why would Granger have his picture?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Do me a favor,” Dawson said. “Fax me a copy of the photo.”

  “Will do.”

  “Any indication Everett was involved in tonight’s shooting?”

  “A lamp was overturned, and the bedding was disheveled. Looks like there could have been a scuffle.”

  Or someone was looking for something, such as a key, which Dawson didn’t mention. He raked his hands across his face, needing the coffee he hadn’t had a chance to drink.

  “If they had argued—” Dawson went along with Pritchard’s theory “—why would Granger go to Lillie’s house?”

  “The guilty always return to the scene of the crime. Irene Beaumont’s house burned down years ago, but her daughter was still in town. If Granger killed Irene, he might want her daughter to know about his release from prison.”

  “Lillie was only four years old when her mother disappeared.”

  “She heard a man’s voice that night,” Pritchard said. “Irene Beaumont had a Fulton County license plate on her car when she arrived in Freemont. Initially, folks thought she had gone back to Atlanta with her lover. No mention of a husband. Most people presumed she had never married.”

  “And left her child home alone?”

  “No one said she was the best of mothers.”

  Small towns were all alike. Similar talk had lived on in Cotton Grove. Hard for a kid who heard what people said behind his mother’s back.

  Pritchard sniffed. “Of course, all that changed when they found her body.”

  “Did the motel manager know anything about what happened today?” Dawson asked.

  “He saw a guy who matched Everett’s description. Red hair and a scar on his right cheek. Hard to miss. Highway Patrol’s on the lookout for him. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Dawson disconnected and pocketed his phone as he returned to the booth.

  “That was the police, wasn’t it?” Lillie wrapped her arms defensively across her chest. “Did they find anything at the motel?”

  “A photograph of a guy named Billy Everett was tucked in the Bible. Red hair. Scar on his right cheek. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Pritchard thought there had been a scuffle.”

  Lillie shrugged. “Granger’s face was bloodied, but I got the impression someone had searched the room.”

  She thought for a moment. Her face clouded. “You were there when I arrived.”

  Dawson pointed a finger back at his own chest. “You think I messed up the place?”

  “You didn’t tell Pritchard about the motel room.” She held his gaze. “Granger had your BOQ phone number in his pocket. You didn’t reveal that either.”

  “And you failed to mention the key.”

  “Which belongs to me.” Once again, she held out her hand.

  Disregarding her request, Dawson stared into her pretty eyes. “Granger knew he had been set up. The case was open and shut, as you mentioned, only because they had a fall guy, a transient construction worker who came to town when he needed money. A guy who didn’t have resources to defend himself.”

  “The court appointed an attorney.”

  Dawson laughed ruefully. “A lawyer who should have retired years earlier. You probably didn’t follow the local news when you were a kid. Not long after the trial, the lawyer was diagnosed with dementia and was placed in a nursing home where he died a bit too soon thereafter.”

  “If you grew up in Cotton Grove, why
were you interested in a murder that took place in Freemont?”

  Her question caught Dawson off guard. He looked down at his mug, weighing his response. “I planned on making the army a career. My local library carried the Freemont papers as well as information about Fort Rickman.”

  Lillie shook her head. “My mother’s death had nothing to do with the military. What aren’t you telling me?”

  He ignored her question. “I still don’t understand why Granger would return to Freemont and jeopardize his new-found freedom?”

  “He wanted to clear his name, to make good on the past. At least that’s what he told me over the phone. He said he’d made mistakes. He’d abandoned someone and wanted to make it up to him.”

  A muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “Him?”

  “His son.”

  Inwardly, Dawson groaned. “A son was never mentioned in the news reports. Maybe Granger was lying to get on your good side.”

  “It’s possible.” Her bravado faltered. She rubbed her forehead. “Actually, I don’t know what to believe. I boxed up all the memories of long ago, hoping I could hide the past. Granger’s death forces everything out into the open.”

  Maybe Lillie understood how he felt growing up as the kid without a dad. Dawson had put the snippets of gossip together. Some people never forgot the drifter who had left his mother pregnant. No name on his birth certificate meant legally Dawson didn’t have a father. It didn’t mean he didn’t know who his father was.

  Just as Lillie had indicated, Granger’s death forced everything into the open. It was time for the truth.

  “You said Granger mentioned having a son.” Dawson let out a lungful of pent-up air. “He was talking about me. Granger Ford was my dad.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  “Because I buried the past just like you did.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She grabbed her purse and slid from the booth.

  He stood and reached for her wrist. “Don’t leave, Lillie.”

  She jerked free of his hold. “You used me to get information.”

  “I did no such thing.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Throwing it on the table, he turned to find the two truckers glaring at him.