| |
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 brown 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.
“Do you think it would be all right if I asked your mom a few questions? My uncle used to live in Pine Hills. I never knew him, but your mother might.”
Joe shrugged again. “Guess so.”
Morgan followed him down the stairs to a hallway on the ground floor. Joe tapped at a door marked Employees Only and opened it.
“Mom. This lady wants to talk to you.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Let her in.” The woman’s voice was deep and gravelly, more like what Morgan had expected Mr. Death-Warmed-Over to sound like.
Morgan stepped into the room where a lone woman stood at an ironing board. Plump. Gray curls. No apron over a gingham dress, though. Instead, she wore a shapeless light blue uniform, typical of most of the hotels Morgan had stayed in. Her nametag said Phyllis. Lines of weariness etched her face. The woman glanced up as Morgan entered, still moving the iron across the pillowcase on the board.
Morgan introduced herself, gave an abbreviated version of why she was in Pine Hills. “I’d really like to know more about my uncle, Bob Tate. Did you know him?”
The woman stood the iron on end. Wide-eyed, she made the sign of the cross.
~~~
COLE TAPPED ON THE half-open door to the detectives’ office. Kovak was on the phone, and Detweiler was tapping away at his computer. Detweiler motioned Cole inside, continued his tapping for a moment, then shoved the keyboard drawer away.
“You said you found something?” Cole said.
“I did, but I’m afraid it’s not what you were hoping for. Bob Tate left his home for an assisted living center eight years ago. The first three years he was gone, the property was rented out to a revolving door of tenants. When the company managing the rentals went out of business, nobody took things over. That was five years ago, and it’s been empty ever since.”
“What about rumors, scandals, small-town gossip? Missing persons? Urban legends? Ghosts?”
Detweiler snorted. “Our job is to prevent crime and apprehend those who get past preventative measures. I couldn’t find anything to tie into a crime. If the house has a new owner, that’s a positive. Whatever she decides to do with it should improve the neighborhood.”
“What about the graffiti? It did say somebody was dead.”
“Since we don’t know who it’s referring to, there’s nothing of a criminal nature to pursue. I know you’d love to get your teeth into an unsolved mystery, but this one’s a dead end.”
“Understood, sir.” Cole glanced at the clock on the wall. He was off shift in five minutes. He’d file a few more reports and be out of here.
After surviving without another paper cut, Cole strolled to the locker room, changed into his street clothes, and retrieved his laptop.
He wondered if Morgan Tate would meet him at The Wagon Wheel. Although he wasn’t sure why, he was looking forward to it.
Being friendly to a newcomer, he told himself. That she was attractive didn’t play into it. Much. In addition to the physical side—nice figure, big brown eyes, an easy smile—there was the way she’d clearly been scared to go into the basement, yet she found the moxie to do what she needed to do. It would have been easy enough to ask him to take the pictures for her.
Did she think that would make her appear weak in his eyes? Did she have something to prove to herself? After all, she’d picked up stakes and moved halfway across the country to take possession of a house, sight unseen. That took guts.
He arrived at the steak house ten minutes early. Not really early, just ten minutes before he’d said he’d be there. And before anyone else from the station would be. He didn’t want to explain not wanting to be part of the group tonight.
He grabbed his laptop and went inside, asking Dina, the hostess, for a table at the back. She gave him a quizzical brow lift, pulled a menu from the pile at the counter, and led him through the dining room.
“Hot date tonight?” she asked, plopping the menu on the table.
“Nah. I need to get some work done.” He set up his laptop.
It’s not a date, idiot. You come here all the time, and simply mentioned to Morgan that she could join you if she wanted.
From the way she’d answered, he didn’t think she thought it was a date, either.
Seconds later, Will, one of the servers, appeared. “Hey, Cole. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Chainbreaker to start,” he said.
Will eyed Cole’s laptop, then shot a glance toward the larger table at the far left of the room, where the group usually sat. Cole pointed to his laptop. “Working tonight.”
Will’s smile was more like a smirk. “Be right back.”
Ignoring the man’s expression, Cole booted his laptop. What would the public search engines reveal about Bob Tate? Detweiler had undoubtedly gone through police channels, looking for crime and missing persons reports. Maybe Cole could discover things on the civilian side.
He started with the obvious, typing Robert Tate Pine Hills into the search field. Alternating his attention between the screen and the front door, he waded his way through the initial hits. Would be a lot easier if Morgan were here to help him refine his search parameters.
Will returned with his beer, and Cole took a sip before setting it aside to return to work.
His next glance toward the door accelerated his pulse. Morgan.
She said something to Dina, who grabbed a menu and approached his table.
Cole stood. Tried to keep the grin stretching across his face from spreading too far. “Morgan. Glad you could make it.”
Dina shot him a wink and retreated.
“Am I interrupting?” Morgan asked, nodding toward the laptop.
“No. As a matter of fact, you can help.” He pulled out a chair for her.
She sat, back straight, those big fawn eyes wary. “I wasn’t going to come.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I got a room at the Castle Inn. It’s ... quaint.”
“That it is.”
“The guy at the desk is creepy,” she explained, “but the rooms are clean, and everything works. Unlike another place I could mention. What’s weird is one of the housekeepers freaked when I asked her if she knew my uncle. She did the cross thing and wouldn’t talk. Looked at me as if I was the Devil’s spawn. I’m hoping she won’t put spiders in my bed.”
Cole wondered if he’d run into the woman. “Her name?”
“Her nametag said Phyllis.”
Cole drew a blank. “I doubt she’d risk her job by putting spiders in your bed. Best case scenario, she’ll make sure your room isn’t on her list.”
Morgan cocked her head. “Why would she react that way?”
“Dunno. What do you know about your uncle? I was trying to see if there was anything on the web that might give us an idea about the writing on the wall.”
He realized he’d said us.