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AT SADIE’S, MORGAN forked up the last of her omelet. Chastising herself for thinking the housekeeper would have sabotaged her room based on a connection to her uncle, she stared out the window. Where to go first? Salem or Portland? The boxes in the basement would have to wait until there was electricity and plumbing.
Cole had offered to go with her tomorrow. Was there a reason to wait? If she left now, she could fit both visits in today, and what could Cole add to the mix? She didn’t need a cop. Or an escort.
Then again, it would be nice to have company on the drive. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking company. Easy to talk to. She could prove she wasn’t the bitch she’d been yesterday. She’d awakened at six after sleeping straight through the night, a solid ten hours. Austin had returned her text with a thumbs up emoji, so at least he still had his cell. Using phones at school was off limits, so she’d told him she’d try to catch up tonight.
Mr. Hathaway first, she decided. Knowing more about Uncle Bob might answer the question about the message on the wall. Pinning down the exact conditions of the trust now that she’d seen the house was a higher priority.
Inside Sadie’s, tables filled. Outside, sidewalk traffic picked up. Moms pushing strollers, a man herding six dogs on a tangle of leashes. Shopkeepers setting up sidewalk displays in preparation for opening. She smiled. Main Street, USA. Hopes for her dream rose.
She’d start in Portland. She should make an appointment. At least let Mrs. Braithwhite know she was coming, verify Mr. Hathaway had followed up on yesterday’s conversation.
At the inn, Mr. Death-Warmed-Over had been replaced by a cheerier woman. Although the woman appeared to be a contemporary of his, it was amazing what a smile could do for a face, even one mapped by wrinkles.
“Good morning,” the woman called out.
Morgan returned the greeting and went upstairs. A housekeeping cart blocked the doorway to her room. Was it Phyllis? Morgan tapped on the jamb and said, “Hello?”
The housekeeper—and yes, it was Phyllis—came to the door, a questioning smile on her face. A smile that disappeared when she recognized Morgan.
“This is your room?” she asked. “Can you show me your key, please.”
Morgan complied. “May I come in for my laptop?”
“I will be done in fifteen minutes,” the woman said, pushing her cart out of the doorway.
“That’s fine.” Morgan stepped to the desk where she’d left her laptop. She faced the housekeeper. “Please, if you don’t mind, can you tell me why me being related to Bob Tate upset you so much yesterday? I never knew the man at all.”
Once again, the woman crossed herself. “He was a wicked, evil man. That is all I can say. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” She pivoted and went into the bathroom. The water cascading into the tub signaled the conversation was over.
Evil? Wicked? What had Uncle Bob done to earn that kind of a reputation? From what Cole had said, nobody else had any memories of him at all. If he’d been some kind of monster, surely more people would remember. Had her parents known? Were they responsible for Uncle Bob disappearing from her life?
Could the writing on the wall somehow be related to her uncle’s death? He’d been living in Salem, at the health care facility for years, and had died recently. She didn’t think there was a way to tell when that message had been painted, but her impression was that it had been there long before Uncle Bob’s death.
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?