Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

The pieces, tattered like fabric scraps, needed a master seamstress to take needle and thread and sew them together into a bright, big memory quilt. Perhaps this quilt would never be perfect or pretty, but it promised some kind of warmth and comfort. If the memories joined, calm was sure to follow. And perhaps the headaches would stop.

But even as she imagined a needle and thread basting fabric edges together, a slight jostle, a loud noise or a bad night’s sleep undid the stitching in a blink and the scraps unraveled.

Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.

All that ever remained were worthless scraps.

And the headaches.

And the raw fury that burned like boiling water.

November 1

Sugar,

You make me feel like a princess. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana ain’t got nothing on me when I’m with you. The private dinner was so perfect. The twinkling lights. Music. Iced champagne. Fried chicken. And the kiss. The kiss so very sweet and so very . . . hot. I realize now why so many find you hard to resist. Your energy draws people. It certainly draws me.

I did not give you an answer last night but . . . yes! Yes! Yes! I would love to ride down to Memphis in your new candy apple red car. And stay at the fancy hotel you talked about. I look forward to silk sheets and breakfast served on silver trays.

Until next weekend . . .

A.

Chapter Five

Saturday, October 15, 8 AM

Deke arrived home late last night, showered, and too jazzed to sleep, had grabbed a beer and sat in the worn recliner that had been Buddy’s favorite. As ESPN played on the big screen, he’d sipped the beer and stared at football wondering how many hours Buddy sat in this chair, alone and chewing on a case? How many years would Deke sit here, doing the same before his heart gave out and he earned a big funeral filled with speeches, bagpipes, and a five-gun salute.

He’d fallen into bed at two and risen by six. He’d stopped for more coffee and an egg bagel and now found himself at his desk, the one place he belonged.

Deke sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and flipped on the desk lamp. Rolling his head from side to side he attempted to work kinks from tired muscles that needed a week’s worth of rest, not more caffeine and paltry stretches.

He powered up his computer and waited as it came online. All the interviews he and KC had conducted yesterday had done little to get them closer to a killer. They’d heard an array of comments about Dixie. Most included her obsession with men and singing. And though some flat-out didn’t like her, most liked her bubbly nature.

A check of his answering machine had him listening to Rachel Wainwright’s voice. A familiar tension twisted his gut. “Detective Morgan, this is Rachel Wainwright. I’m calling about the DNA in the Jeb Jones case. Have you heard from the state lab? Call me.”

He hit delete. She never made an effort to soften her requests. No please or thank you. She was all hard angles and edges. Not the kind of woman he pictured snuggling next to on a long winter night.

A knock at his door had him raising tired eyes to a uniformed officer sporting a dolly stacked high with dusty brown boxes. “Officer Morgan, you requested files on the Annie Rivers Dawson case?”

Deke rose, surveying the hefty stack of boxes. “I did. Tell me that’s all you have.”

The short, stocky officer grinned as he backed the dolly into the room. “Got one more pile as big as this one.”

“Ten boxes.”

“It was the case back in the day. Had every cop in Nashville working on it.”

“Right.” He jerked his head toward a corner. “Start piling them there.”

The officer tipped the dolly back and moved it across the room. As he started to unload, he added, “You gonna go through all these?”

He lifted the lid of a dusty, yellowed box and glanced at the files packed so tight it would take a crowbar to wedge one free. “Not unless I have to.”

“You think the DNA will go against you?”

“It pays to be prepared.”

“So you do think there could be a problem?”

“No. I don’t.” He closed the lid. Better to cut rumors off at the knees. “I’m curious, that’s all. Keep loading. I’ll be back.”

He headed to the forensics lab where he found Brad Holcombe. In his late thirties, Brad had a thick, stocky frame that built muscle as easily as it did fat. Lately, months away from the gym had softened the muscle and robbed the man of color. Red hair swept over freckled skin that burned with the slightest kiss of the sun.

“Brad,” Deke said.

Brad looked up from a pair of overalls laid out flat on a large table. In one hand he had a magnifying glass and in the other a set of tweezers. “Deke. Come to ask about the DNA?”

He wanted free of this case and Buddy’s shadow. “I have. Heard anything?”

“I called last night before I left the office. It should be here in a few days.”

The door to the lab opened and his sister, Georgia Morgan, pushed into the lab, bursting with her customary gust of energy. Unlike her brother, Georgia had a fair complexion and blond hair that she kept twisted into a bun at the base of her skull while working. She had soft cheekbones, a heart-shaped face and full lips that easily split into a wide grin. A bundle of energy, she couldn’t speak without using her hands or keeping her voice from rising or falling with emotion. “What will be here in a few days?”

Deke sipped his coffee. “Lab results.”

Georgia scrunched up her face. “The Annie Rivers Dawson case?”

She’d been born with radar. “That’s right.”

“I saw the stacks of boxes in your office.”

He’d hoped to avoid any drama with Georgia. “I must have missed you.”

She dropped her backpack on her small corner desk and shrugged off her sweater. “Thought we could invite the clan over to the Big House in a couple of weeks.”

“Why is everyone coming over?”

“It’s brother Alex’s birthday.”

“Birthday.” He’d forgotten.

She shook her head, an annoyed brow arched. “Yeah, I know. Not on your radar. That’s my job to keep this rag-tag group of Morgans together. But I live in a one bedroom apartment and you’re camped out in the Big House, so you’re gonna have to host.”

“Fine.”

Since their mother’s death, Georgia had tried to honor the birthday party tradition. The Morgan brothers had played along while Buddy was alive but now all had scurried away like rats on a sinking ship.

“I’m baking a cake like Mom always did,” she said.

Deke grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “What if I pay you to buy one from a baker?”

Blue eyes flashed the first warning sign of Georgia’s trademark temper. “Very funny. I can bake a cake.”

Each time he stomached one of her cakes it weighed heavy in his gut for days. “Why don’t you sing “Happy Birthday”? You’re the one with a voice. I’ll buy a cake.”

“No, it has to be made. From scratch.” Give her a murder scene and she was cool and collected. Mess with a family tradition, and then you better expect a meltdown. “It’s what we’ve always done.”

Deke rubbed the back of his neck. “Georgia, you damned near burned the house to the ground the last time you cooked.”

“That was six years ago. And I have improved. Buddy said so.”

“He was always a soft touch with you. You could serve him roadkill and he’d have grinned.”

She scrunched up her face. “Funny.”

“Not kidding.”

She waved away his sour, if not begrudgingly playful expression. Blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll skip baking the cake if you let me help you with the Dawson case.”

There was always an angle with Georgia. “No.”

“I don’t like that word.”

“Tough.”

She stepped closer and lowered her voice as if remembering Brad was in the

room. “Why can’t I help? I can handle the extra work.”

He kept his expression neutral, knowing the more he fed this argument the hungrier she’d get. “No one’s digging into the files until the DNA comes back. Right now it’s a matter of if not when we reopen the case.”

“I’d still like to read the files.”

“No.” Deke, his growing annoyance caught Brad’s attention. “Brad, let me know when the DNA arrives.”

Brad glanced quickly at Georgia before he straightened and met Deke’s gaze. “Will do.”

Georgia glared at Brad and mouthed the word “traitor” before following Deke out the door. “Why are you shutting me out?”

When he’d been fourteen and she’d been four they’d been riding in the car with their mom who’d been dropping him off at the movies to meet friends. Georgia had wanted to go to the movies with Deke. Mom had said no and Georgia had screamed during the entire drive to the theater. She’d never gotten her way but she’d taken hostages. “This is not your case, Georgia.”

“But I’d like it to be.”

A wry smile twisted the edges of his mouth. “I’d like to win the lottery but the chances are slim to none.”

“It’s not the same.”