Starting OverISBN 9781419910197
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Starting Over Copyright© 2007 Terry Odell

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

Chapter One

In the steamy cocoon of the shower, Colleen’s fingers found the dimpled scar the bullet had left on her thigh and the long, straight one where they’d repaired her femoral artery. She knew they were no longer a garish red, but she refused to look at them. Thankfully, the exit wound on the back of her leg was out of sight unless she really worked at seeing it. The ugly reminders that screamed “failure” remained, long after the physical pain had gone.

She watched the sudsy water swirl down the drain, willing it to take her memories along.

Get a grip. It’s over. Forget Pine Hills. You made your choice, so get on with your life.

She declared yesterday a do-over. Hell, as long as she was changing the rules of time, the last three months never happened. But then, she’d still be a cop in Pine Hills, Oregon, instead of a basket case in Orlando, Florida.

Wrapped in a towel, another turbaned around her head, Colleen padded into the living room of her new apartment and stared at the tiny suitcase she’d left in the middle of the floor last night. She rolled it into the bedroom and dumped the contents onto the bed, mumbling a quick thanks for her mother’s advice to pack a day’s worth of essentials into her carry-on.

A distant rumbling, like an approaching thunderstorm, reverberated through the room. She pulled back a corner of the curtain and peered out at a cloudless blue sky. Not a leaf or tree branch moved. She had a lot to learn about Florida weather.

The doorbell rang and she grabbed her robe. Who came calling at seven in the morning? Surely not Mrs. Walters, her new landlady. Could the airlines have found her luggage already? Optimism surged. Another ring, followed by a determined knock.

She wriggled into her robe. “One minute.”

“Orange County Sheriff.”

Her pulse raced. She yanked the towel off her head, shook out her hair and went to the door. Tightening the belt on her robe, she peered through the peephole at a man in a dark green uniform.

Take it easy. Find out what he wants.

Colleen pulled the door open enough to talk, not enough to invite him in. Tall, with his eyes obscured behind mirrored sunglasses, he had Colleen fighting the urge to slam the door. “What do you want, Deputy?” She heard the raspy tone of her voice and cleared her throat. Her eyes automatically found the nametag pinned to his broad chest. Graham Harrigan.

God, had someone on the Pine Hills force called in a favor, asked the locals to check up on her? Hey, I’ve got a friend who’s close to the edge. Drop in, make sure she’s all right.

“I’m looking for Jeffrey Walters,” he said, removing his sunglasses.

Not for her. Exhaling with relief, she talked to his nametag. “I don’t know any Jeffrey Walters. Only Doris Walters, my landlady, and I’ve never met her in person. Try the main house.”

“I did, but there was no answer.”

“Is there something wrong?” That low-pitched sound rumbled through the air again, but if the deputy heard, he gave no indication. She fixed her gaze on his chin and waited.

“Not that I can tell, but I still have to look into it. His daughter said he wasn’t returning her calls. Asked us to look in on him.” He pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Can I have your name, ma’am?”

His voice was more bored than belligerent, but he was a man, a cop and she wanted him out of here. She paused. Hell, he was doing his job. No need to piss him off.

“Colleen McDonald.”

His tone warmed up twenty degrees. “Good morning, Colleen McDonald. Scottish or Irish?” He gave her a broad smile.

“Scottish.” As if he could disarm her that easily. She pulled her robe tighter and put her hand to the doorknob. “Why don’t you leave me your card, Deputy Harrigan, and I’ll tell Mrs. Walters, or this Jeffrey person—if I see him—to call you. I have things to do.”

He slipped his notebook into a pocket and handed her a business card. “Fine. Well, as one Celt to another, thanks. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Like I said, I’ll let you know if I see anything.” Colleen tucked the card into the pocket of her robe and started to close the door. Before she did, she heard the rumbling again. “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.” His expression was guarded.

“What’s that noise? The one that sounds like Dorothy and Toto should be flying by?”

He grinned. “You are new around here. Roller coasters. Universal runs them empty for testing every morning at seven. If the atmospheric conditions are right, the sound carries. It’ll quiet down once the park opens and they run their normal schedule with passengers. But you’ll probably be able to hear some screaming if the wind is right.”

“Roller coasters. Screaming people. Right. Thanks.” She gave him what she hoped would pass for a smile.

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, slipped his sunglasses back on and headed up the driveway.

Colleen went to get dressed, working past her nervous reaction to finding a cop giving her the once-over. Harrigan was doing his job and had no reason to know anything about her past. No reason to judge her.

Yet she suspected Harrigan had been studying her with those deep blue eyes. His face appeared before her, with its dark wavy hair, straight nose, cleft chin, light bronze skin.

Holy shit, where had that come from? She snorted. She’d reacted like a cop, automatically sizing up a person. Six-two, broad-shouldered, early thirties. A man in uniform. Exactly what she wanted to avoid, why she’d left Pine Hills. She’d ask Doris Walters about Jeffrey, have her call Harrigan and be done with him.

* * * * *

Deputy Graham Harrigan sat at his computer in the sheriff’s office, the normal sounds of office activity fading to white noise as he hunted and pecked his way through the report he needed to file. As he’d told himself countless times, he needed to take a keyboarding class so he could get through the drudgery faster. The smell of stale, burned coffee permeated the room and he wished he’d taken a few minutes to stop at Starbucks.

“Harrigan!”

Graham looked up at the sound of his name and saw Jerry Clarke’s midsection precede him into the room.

“Heard you got stuck with a patrol call. Thought you were looking for a promotion, not a step backward.”

Graham’s jaw clenched. “Some of us don’t run for the john when the office needs extra help.” Heat rose in his face and he refused to turn to meet Clarke’s eyes.

“Next opening in Criminal Investigations will be mine, Harrigan. Get used to it. If they thought you could cut it, they wouldn’t keep sending you on wild goose chases.”

“It’s not your decision,” Graham said. “We’re both at the top of the list and you know it.”

He watched Clarke leave and admonished himself for letting the man get to him. Still, Graham knew if Clarke got the CID slot, it was unlikely another would open in time and he’d have to requalify.

Clarke had unlocked that place inside where Graham kept his doubts. He’d been promoted three years ago, qualified for CID, but until there was an opening in the Criminal Investigations Division, all he could do was wait. He turned his attention back to the screen. Finally satisfied, he hit “Save” and “Print”.

Being a team player had to count. Or so he’d thought when he’d volunteered to cover the check on well-being call. He dug through the papers scattered on the desk, found the number he needed and dialed the phone.

“Mrs. Simon? Deputy Graham Harrigan. I’m the officer assigned to look into your father.”

“What did you find?” There was an unexpected edge to her voice.

“Ma’am, there’s no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he isn’t checking his answering machine.”

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t return my calls. Billy’s birthday is coming up. He’ll be eight and I know Daddy promised him something special.”

“I asked at the guesthouse, but the tenant said she didn’t know your father.”

“My aunt Doris lives in the guesthouse. She has for years and she sure as hell knows Daddy.”

“Well, Mrs. Simon, there’s someone else living there now.”

After a brief silence, Mrs. Simon spoke again, more quietly. “I do remember Daddy said he was thinking about putting the old witch in an assisted living place. Said she was starting to forget things. You know, leaving the stove on, not bringing her purse to the grocery store. Maybe he decided to let her live in the main house where he could keep an eye on her.”

“It was early when I stopped by. Maybe they were asleep and didn’t hear me. I’ll try again.”

Her tone regained that edge. “Well, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but I think you’d be wise to check out this new tenant as well.”

Graham held the phone away from his ear against the woman’s shrill exhortations. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”

“I would think so. My father could be missing and there’s a stranger living on his property. I expect to hear from you right quick.”

He gritted his teeth before he replied. “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up the phone as gently as his irritation allowed. Right quick, she’d said. Like hell. If he turned this over to the detectives, it could be weeks. No foul play, nothing out of place. This would sit at the bottom of their piles. Maybe he’d see what he could do on his own first. Besides, almost anything beat pointing a radar gun at tourists. He started clicking through databases.

The house and cottage were owned by Jeffrey Walters. No mention of a Doris. Property taxes were paid in full. No record, wants or warrants on either of them. Jeffrey seemed to be self-employed. A land developer, so travel wouldn’t be unusual.

DMV records showed a Buick Park Avenue registered in Jeffrey Walters’ name, the one he’d seen when he’d peeked in the garage window earlier. Graham bounced it around his brain for a minute or two. If the guy was missing, why was his car in the garage? No, still too many possibilities that didn’t mean anything. Walters might have taken a cab to the airport, or someone drove him. Hell, the jerk was probably away trying to buy up some property so he could build a bunch of condos or time-shares. Everything hush-hush, get in before anyone else found out, like Walt Disney had all those years ago.

He shook his head, told himself to keep an open mind. He’d never get assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division by jumping to conclusions. Start with the basics. The man was single. Probably off for a bit of R and R with a woman and they took her car. Look for a woman.

A woman. What about Colleen McDonald? He found himself smiling involuntarily as he thought of her. He’d like to find a reason to talk to her again. The way she’d looked, bundled in that plaid robe, almost standing at attention when she spoke to him, yet with an air of defiance. Her fair skin sported a light sprinkling of freckles and he’d bet when her hair dried, she was a glorious redhead. A natural redhead. Especially with her bright green eyes. Tall, about five-eight in her bare feet, but making allowances for the dark circles and haunted weariness in those eyes, he’d say mid- to late-twenties.

Graham shook his head. He wasn’t used to being rebuffed. Quite the opposite in fact. Women usually went for the uniform and if that wasn’t enough, he’d turn on the Irish charm. He’d discovered most people, especially innocent ones, tended to babble when they spoke to the cops. Colleen had given him no more than absolutely necessary. Experience with the law, perhaps? He’d check her out. As he went to enter her name in the database, he realized he wouldn’t have to make up excuses to see her. He had a name, but hell, he hadn’t even asked her how she spelled it. Okay, there were only two choices, but any excuse worked for him.

Graham pushed away from the desk and went in search of Sergeant Briggs.

Briggs looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. His bald head always made Graham think of a dark chocolate truffle. “What can I do for you, Harrigan?” The sergeant’s deep voice filled his office. “This got something to do with that patrol call you took this morning?”

“Yes, sir. Everything looked fine—only today’s paper in the driveway, no mail backup, grass is cut. No answer at the door. The guesthouse had a new tenant and the daughter who requested the well-being check didn’t know anything about it. I thought I might give a few speeders a break this afternoon and go back. The daughter seemed upset.”

Briggs steepled his fingers and stared at Graham. “You’re still waiting for a CID slot, aren’t you? You and Clarke?”

“Yes, sir, but this won’t interfere with my Motors duties. If you prefer, I’ll look for Mrs. Walters on my own time.”

Briggs gave a noncommittal grunt. He inhaled, stared at the ceiling and then exhaled loudly. “Finish your morning Motors route. You can take half an hour after lunch.”

“Thank you, sir,” Graham said. After speeder duty, he’d grab a quick bite at First Watch, which would put him minutes away from the Walters’ house. Melinda might be working the lunch shift. But instead of Melinda’s face, he saw Colleen’s, with those haunted green eyes.

Laughter erupted from the squad room. The sound of his name, coupled with Clarke’s guffaws, eradicated Colleen’s image like windblown storm clouds. Damn it. It had been five years. He was a damn good cop and he was going to beat Clarke into CID no matter how many times the man tried to dredge up his past.

* * * * *

Colleen fished some clean underwear from the pile on her bed, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and the clean shirt she’d stashed in her carry-on. A long-sleeved polo had seemed reasonable when she’d checked the forecast for Orlando before she’d left Oregon, but apparently nobody told the weather gods it was supposed to be in the sixties, not the eighties here. Then again, they hadn’t foreseen the black ice on the roads or the storms in the air that had turned yesterday’s travel into the trip from hell. She flipped on the television and surfed until she found the Weather Channel. A perky meteorologist pointed to a brightly colored map and talked about approaching fronts and heavy rain. Great. Hot and rainy?

She found a scrunchie, ponytailed her hair and slung her hobo bag over her shoulder. Time to meet the landlady and get on with her new life.

Walking up the drive toward the main house, Colleen saw the skies darkening with the approaching storm. Maybe someone had it right for a change. She quickened her pace and followed the flagstones to the front door. Before her finger reached the doorbell, the door cracked open on a security chain and a woman’s face, etched with the wear and tear of sun exposure, peeked through the opening.

“You must be Colleen McDonald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman shut the door and Colleen heard the chain being released. “Come in. No point in air conditioning all of central Florida. I’m Doris Walters. I trust you found everything to your liking.”

Colleen stepped inside. “Well, the airlines lost my luggage and the rental car agency was out of cars, but otherwise, things are fine. I was hoping you could tell me where I can find a grocery store. And if there’s a bus stop.”

The woman gave a perfunctory head bob. Tiny, probably no more than five-one, thin as a rail, with a cottony tuft of white hair billowing around her head. A mobile Q-tip. She wore lightweight green slacks, a coordinating yellow and green polo shirt and green canvas sneakers. She was impeccably made up, with subtle blush, pink lipstick and gray eye shadow. Her blue eyes, enlarged by her wire-rimmed glasses, moved from Colleen’s head to her toes. Colleen’s cheeks heated at the obvious scrutiny and she automatically glanced down to make sure she hadn’t left her zipper unfastened and her shoes matched.

“I need to run some errands myself,” Mrs. Walters said. “If you like, we can go together.”

“That’s great. Thanks.”

“I hope we can beat the rain. I need my purse. I’ll be right back.”

Colleen looked around, noting the spare southwest décor. The earth tones were nothing like the little-old-lady green and yellow florals that overwhelmed her apartment.

“Here we are,” Mrs. Walters chirped when she came back. “Follow me.” She pivoted and bustled away, dangling a set of keys from her fingers.

Colleen shook her head and followed the woman through the living room, dining room, into a spacious kitchen and out a door into the garage. Mrs. Walters stood on tiptoe to press the button for the door remote, then held the keys out to Colleen. “I hope you don’t mind driving. I’m still working on getting back my driving privileges. You have a couple of fender-benders when you’re twenty, nobody cares. Do it when you’re my age and they yank your license.” She opened the passenger door of a cream-colored Buick Park Avenue and slid onto the front seat.

Colleen opened the driver’s door and settled in behind the wheel, tossing her bag onto the backseat. Mrs. Walters sat with an oversized green tote perched on her lap like a cosseted pet and Colleen backed out of the garage. The door lowered and Mrs. Walters set the remote in the console between them.

“Okay, Mrs. Walters. Where to?”

“First, call me Doris. I was Mrs. Walters when I taught sixth grade and I’d just as soon forget most of that.” She gestured down the road. “There’s a nice little shopping center about three miles from here. Bank, market, cleaners—you name it, it’s there. Turn left at the corner.”

As Colleen eased the car onto the road, she decided there was no point in pretending this morning hadn’t happened. “You know, a deputy came to my place.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doris shift in her seat. “He said he’d knocked at your door. Something about a Jeffrey.”

“I saw him. Heard him, too. But nobody gets me out of bed at that hour.”

“He said Jeffrey’s daughter was trying to reach him. Is Jeffrey your son?”

“Nephew.” Doris folded her arms across her tote. “That Kimberly is a nuisance. Always whining about something.” She unclicked her seat belt. “This is it. Turn right.”

In the parking lot, Colleen obeyed Doris’ command to park near the clock tower, glad there was a space available. Otherwise, she got the feeling Doris would expect her to create one.

“I’ve got eleven-fifteen,” Doris said. “Meet me here at one. That should give me enough time.”

“Fine.” Colleen checked her watch. The skies were almost black now, with silver light shining through the breaks, although it was still warm. The Christmas decorations on the light posts in the parking lot seemed incongruous with the new climate. She gave an inward chuckle. Florida or Oregon, Christmas promotions jumped onto the scene as soon as Halloween passed.

“Are you sure you don’t need help with anything?” Colleen asked.

“Just because some judge decided I can’t drive anymore doesn’t make me helpless, young lady. You do your shopping, I’ll do mine. I’ll see you at one.”