by Rebecca Deel
Right. So what was the panic he’d experienced this morning when he learned Megan was the assault victim? Simply worry for an annoying friend and his boss’s sister-in-law, he assured himself.
He needed to talk to her again about articles in the paper concerning the case. Despite Ethan’s assurances, he wanted more of a commitment from the newspaper’s editor not to compromise his investigation.
He climbed the porch stairs, rang the bell and waited. When the door opened, he nodded at Josh. “How is Meg?”
The six foot former Army special forces soldier motioned him inside. “Stubborn as ever. She needs medicine and sleep, but says she can’t stop working yet.”
Rod glanced around the living room, curious what made Megan Cahill tick, though not surprised by what greeted him. Books stacked three rows deep on floor-to-ceiling bookcases, towers of books on the floor, mini-mounds on coffee tables and the television. A leather couch and love-seat hosted a couple of paperbacks each.
Since his reading consisted of law enforcement journals and the occasional murder mystery, Meg’s love affair with the written word intrigued him. Rod stepped closer to one of the stacks and read the titles. His lips curled at the corners. Otter Creek harbored a criminal in training. Bookmarks held Meg’s place in reading about cracking safes, picking locks and counterfeiting money. “She has eclectic taste in reading, doesn’t she?”
Josh chuckled. “Meg is always reading weird stuff. I prefer a good Robert B. Parker book.”
“I hear you.” Rod shifted his gaze from Meg’s book stash to her brother. “I need to talk to Meg again if she’s up to it.”
“If I can get her attention away from the computer, I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Rod surveyed the room again. Megan needed a few more bookcases. A nice oak stain would fit well in her living room. He inspected the overflowing bookcases and guesstimated on the height and width.
Josh re-entered the room. “Meg needs to finish a paragraph before she loses her train of thought. Want a Coke while you wait?”
“Thanks.”
Josh shot him a knowing look. “Had dinner yet?”
“No time.”
“Sit.” Josh nodded at the bar stools near the counter. “Do you like roast beef?”
Rod’s mouth watered at the mere thought. “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll make both of us a sandwich. Meg’s not a domestic diva. If I depended on her to feed me, I’d starve.”
Josh slid a can of Coke across the counter to him and returned to the refrigerator for bread, meat, mayonnaise and mustard. Rod popped the tab on the cold Coke and took a long drink. The sugar rush lifted his flagging energy.
“How’s the investigation going?”
“About like you’d expect with a media circus. Reporters are on my heels the second I step outside the station. I had to duck out the back door when I left tonight so I wouldn’t lead them straight to Meg’s door.”
“I appreciate that,” Meg said, walking into the kitchen. She sniffed. “Roast beef?”
“Want a sandwich?” Josh asked.
“I’m not really hungry.”
“When did you last eat?” Rod asked.
She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“Then it’s been too long. Make her a sandwich, too, Josh.”
Meg eased onto a stool across from Rod. “Make it half of one, Bro. And could you turn off the overhead light?”
Rod studied her face, noting the pallor and careful movements. “Pain still bad?”
“Getting worse by the hour.”
“When can you shut it down for the night?”
“As soon as I eat and take pain medicine.”
Rod frowned at her. “Why didn’t you take something sooner?” She looked almost fragile, something he never thought he’d connect with the gritty editor.
Meg’s mouth curved. “The paper goes to press tomorrow night, with or without articles. I’d prefer something in those columns besides a string of Zs. Prescription pain meds knock me out.”
His lips twitched. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Meg Cahill surrendering easily to medicine-induced sleep.
She palmed the Coke and medicine Josh handed her. She swallowed the pill and faced Rod. “What do you need, Detective? Did you think of something else to ask me?”
Josh placed a plate with two sandwiches in front of Rod and one with half a sandwich for Meg on the counter. “Eat before that medicine kicks in.”
She made a face at him. “Yes, Mother.”
Josh snorted. “You’re just lucky Mom and Dad left town last night. Otherwise, Mom would be camped out in your extra bedroom instead of me.”
“You’re not staying with me.”
“Want to try kicking me out?”
She glared at him, grabbed her sandwich and took a bite.
Josh grinned and walked out of the kitchen.
Neither Rod nor Meg talked for a while. As he ate, Rod watched Meg tear apart her sandwich and eat tiny bites off one piece. He figured she was having a hard time dealing with the aftermath of the murder, something that would affect her appetite for a while.
He ate most meals on autopilot. He also knew from experience he’d skip more meals than he should while investigating Sherri’s death. He buried himself in cases and forgot to eat. Erin used to make sure he ate at least once a day. Now, no one cared if he ate.
He chewed the last bite of his second sandwich and rose. Rod placed his bare plate in the dishwasher and noticed her empty glass. He opened the refrigerator and brought another Coke to the counter.
“Thanks.”
“Have you remembered anything else since I talked to you at the hospital?” Rod seated himself next to Meg.
She gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
He pulled one of his business cards from his pocket, grabbed a pen and scribbled his cell phone number on the back. He slid the card beside her plate. “Call me if you remember something during the night.”
Meg quirked an eyebrow. “A writer’s muse strikes at odd hours of the night. What if it’s 2:00 a.m.?”
His lips twitched, knowing she meant the comment as a joke. “Cops keep weird hours too. Call no matter what time it is.” He would probably be awake anyway. He hadn’t slept through a whole night since his wife and daughter died. “Even if you don’t remember anything but can’t sleep, call me.”
Suspicion gleamed in her eyes. “Why the generous offer, Detective?”
“When the medicine wears off, your mind will replay this morning’s events. You’ll analyze every minute you remember, do what-if scenarios.” He shrugged. “It’s how people work through the shock, the disbelief, the grief.”
Meg dropped her gaze and reached for her glass, hand trembling. “I’m familiar with the process.”
Rod stilled, his gaze focused on her face. The echo of haunting memories played across her features. “What happened?”
“I lost a cousin in a bank heist in Las Vegas two years ago. A robber shot her when she didn’t move fast enough to suit him. She died in my arms.”
He covered her hand with his, squeezed. “I’m sorry.” A close look at her grim features sparked another question. “Think you could walk through the crime scene with me tomorrow?”
Meg’s gaze shot to his face. “Why?”
“Any information you offer will be a great help.”
“You don’t have any leads.” Her voice rose, outrage evident.
He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Look, Cahill, you’re our best witness. Will you cooperate or not?”
“After the paper’s put to bed.”
Irritation flared inside Rod. “What time will that be?”
“If nothing goes wrong with the press, around nine o’clock tomorrow night.”
“You can’t get around to helping me any sooner?”
“Look, Kelter, I’m short on staff and money and loaded with assignments for
which I have no writer.” She leaned close, her eyes glittering. “If you keep nagging me about this, I’m desperate enough to draft you as a guest writer.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. He had interviews scheduled for tomorrow anyway. And retracing Meg’s steps at night might bring more details to the surface of her memory. “9:00 p.m., then.”
Rod stood. “Get some rest.” He strode through the living room and motioned for Josh to follow him outside. “You’re staying with her?”
“Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on her whether she likes it or not.” Josh surveyed the street. “You think the shooter might come after her?”
Rod stared at the closed door a moment. “I think if those two joggers hadn’t shown up when they did, Meg would be lying on a slab at the morgue beside Sherri Drake.”
The Watcher cruised slowly up the street, noting the SUV still parked in Megan Cahill’s driveway. His lips curled. Which cop was staying with her? Probably Josh, the former special forces soldier. He didn’t want to tangle with Josh Cahill unless it was unavoidable.
The Watcher slammed his fist against the steering wheel, vaguely registering the pain in his hand. He’d have to plan another way to dispose of the nosy editor.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday morning, Meg stumbled into the kitchen, eyes bleary, body sore, but grateful the headache had moderated to a dull roar. Without saying anything, Josh poured coffee into a mug and handed it to her.
After the second cup, she turned to her brother with a sigh. “Okay. It’s safe now.”
He approached her, wariness in his gaze. “Hungry?”
She rolled her eyes and made a fist.
“Guess not. How do you feel?”
“Like somebody stomped all over me, then beaned me over the head with a baseball bat.”
“Taken anything yet?”
Meg eyed him.
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands, backing off. “How about some over-the-counter pain medicine with a side of fresh homemade biscuit covered in orange marmalade?”
Her stomach growled. She had forced herself to eat yesterday, but the biscuit with marmalade sounded like it would settle well on her stomach. “You cooked?”
“Ha.” Josh grabbed a plate from the cabinet and dropped a couple biscuits on it. “Serena stopped to check on you earlier. She thought you might like something easy on your stomach today.”
God bless her sister for taking such good care of her. Then again, Serena did all of Meg’s cooking. She had hired Serena through her personal chef business, Home Runs, Inc., to keep her pantry, freezer and refrigerator stocked with food so Meg wouldn’t have to be concerned with cooking healthy. Her lip curled. Right, like she cooked anything, healthy or not.
“So, what’s on your schedule today?”
Meg swallowed a mouthful of biscuit covered with the spiced preserve. “Interviews for articles.”
“Any dealing with Sherri Drake?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You spying for somebody, bro?”
“Just keeping tabs on my snoopy sister who has a tendency to land in thorny bushes.”
“Did you have to bring that up again?” Her face flamed. “I was ten years old and a bee was chasing me. Why won’t you let me forget that incident?”
Josh leaned across the counter and dropped his voice to a low rumble. “Because that’s still typical of you. You leap into the unknown, hoping there aren’t any rose bushes when you land. Not all the choices you’ve made are good ones. Bad choices have consequences like that leap into Mom’s rose bush.”
Meg swallowed the last bite of biscuit around a suspicious lump in her throat. “I love you, too, Josh.”
“So, are you pursuing leads on Sherri’s murder?”
“I’m conducting whatever interviews Ruth has lined up for me until lunchtime. Then I’ll be back at the Gazette office to polish the last articles and check layouts for tonight’s press run.”
Josh stared, mouth gaping. “You convinced Ruth Rollins to write an article?”
“Not just any article, dear brother, but the lead article on the murder.” She carried her plate to the dishwasher. “Rod was right about one thing. I can’t report on Sherri objectively. Despite what he thinks, I don’t want to jeopardize his case.” She shrugged. “I thought it best to hand over that story to someone not involved.”
“Does Ethan know?”
“Did I hear you right?”
“I imagine you did unless you’ve lost your hearing since you married Serena.”
Conversations in the squad room dropped to a whisper. Ruth’s tart tone brought a smile to Rod’s face as he watched the exchange between Ethan and his aunt. He had to admit, Meg pulled a fast one on him. He figured she would bulldoze her way through the article about Sherri’s murder and, if he was lucky, let him or Ethan read it before it went to press.
“I don’t want you involved in this murder investigation.” Ethan’s voice rose. “Don’t you have a book to write?”
“Settle down, Ethan. I told Megan you wouldn’t let me run around the countryside stalking a killer. All I’m going to do is write the articles.”
Wait a minute. Rod’s smile faded. Ruth couldn’t create facts like she did for those Olivia Tutweiler murder mysteries. “Won’t you have to do research or interviews for your story?”
Ruth shook her head. “I’m simply the writer. Someone else will do the interviews and research.”
Oh, man. He knew what was coming and it wasn’t good. “Who’s doing the leg work for you?” His voice rumbled out of his chest.
Ruth smiled. “Megan.”
Great. Rod scrubbed his face with his hands. His key witness planned to interview anybody she cornered about the murder. And since most murders were committed by people in the victim’s circle of family, friends, or acquaintances, she’d most likely put herself back in the path of the killer.
“Aunt Ruth, you’re . . .” Ethan paused, seeming at a loss for words.
She pointed her finger at his face. “You don’t want to tell me I’m too old, Ethan Blackhawk. You may complete that sentence with stubborn, creative, determined, even incredible, but not old.”
Ethan laughed, tugging her into his embrace. “No, ma’am. I love you too much to say that, but please be discreet. Don’t blow our case out of the water by leaking too much information. This isn’t the time to show off your ability to pry secrets from unsuspecting rookie cops.”
“Since the rookies are off limits and you don’t appear busy, how about an interview?”
“Rod’s the lead detective on the Drake case.” Ethan released his aunt. “Talk to him.”
Rod grinned at his boss. “Sorry, Ethan, but I have an interview in fifteen minutes. You’ll have to update Miss Rollins.” He gulped the last of his coffee and strode from the squad room before the police chief found a way to hogtie him with a press interview.
Megan accelerated down the main road, glad none of the Otter Creek police were in sight. Since Ethan became police chief, she could paper her bathroom wall with speeding tickets. Her irritating brother-in-law had come down so hard on Officer Henderson for letting her slide out of earlier tickets that the rookie wrote her up for every tiny infraction now.
She pressed the gas pedal harder. What good did it do to have a 1990 Corvette if she couldn’t drive faster than 35 miles per hour? The speedometer needle nudged 60 when her cell phone rang.
She dug her phone from her purse. “Cahill.”
“How fast are you driving?”
Meg’s foot eased up on the accelerator. “Hey, Tony. You don’t want to know.”
“The engine sounds good.”
“I finally nailed the tune-up this time.”
“Will you come by the store today?”
Tony owned the only auto parts store and repair shop in town. “The boots came in?” Meg had noticed a crack in the boots last week when she changed the oil in her car.
“Arrived on the truck this morning.”
>
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” She ended the call and pressed down on the accelerator again. Her fingers itched to tear into the boxes and change out the parts. Her ‘Vette was a fine piece of craftsmanship, one that deserved dealership parts in perfect working order. She could almost feel the grease on her fingers.
She’d have to wait until Saturday afternoon, though. The weekend edition of the Gazette went to press that morning.
She pulled into the parking lot of Tony’s shop, making a mental note to check the rotors and brakes on Serena’s Volkswagen Beetle. And she probably needed to order a couple cases of synthetic oil for her parents’ cars while she was here.
Tony’s parking lot in front of the store wasn’t large and he already had enough customers to force Meg to park near the road. Looked like the ad in the Gazette was working for him.
She climbed from the car and started toward the building, stopped and retraced her steps. Meg grabbed her laptop and relocked her car. Zoe had put together a new ad for Tony. Now was as good a time as any to show it to him. The bell rang overhead as Meg opened the door.
The burly, bearded mechanic glanced up from the cash register. “Hey, Meg. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“No hurry, Tony.” She lifted her laptop. “Where can I set up? Zoe designed a new ad for you.”
He rang up another sale, grinning. “If it brings in more customers than the one we’re already running, I’ll have to expand the parking lot.”
Meg smiled. “Can I quote you on that?”
After the last of Tony’s customers left the store, Meg showed him the new design for the ad. “If you want to run this in color, we’ll give you a twenty percent discount for two editions.”
He nodded. “Looks great. Let’s do it.” He inclined his head toward the register. “The boots are behind the counter.”
Tony walked around the end of the counter and reached for her bag. An explosion rocked the building, shattering the windows and throwing Meg and Tony to the ground.
Rod stood in the library of the Drake mansion, scanning titles of leather-bound books that graced the elegant cherry shelves. He couldn’t help contrasting this collection with the diverse piles at Megan’s place.