11. Not My Business
NOT MY BUSINESS
MORGAN
Morgan wasn’t used to second-guessing herself. She was not an impulsive person. Her actions were decisive, supported by data and executed with confidence.
Driving to a pub to meet a man she didn’t know to compare notes on an investigation she had no business being involved in was pushing the limits of her comfort zone, no matter how strongly her instincts pushed her in that direction.
Instincts were not facts.
And yet, here she was.
After Patrick Callaghan’s unexpected visit the day before and her grandfather’s unusual display of …
well, not warmth, exactly, maybe approval?
—she’d returned to the kitchen to ask Frank more about it, but he’d already disappeared into the barn, and Morgan didn’t feel their relationship had progressed to the point of barging in there and demanding answers.
Privacy and personal space were sacred.
She paced the living room instead, her thoughts bouncing between intelligent blue eyes and wondering why a man who ran his own moving company and tended bar had been skulking around a potential crime scene.
Maybe it was exactly as he’d said, and the people of Pine Ridge were protective of their town.
Except Patrick Callaghan was no more a simple hauling bartender than she was an armchair detective. And, based on Frank’s comments, neither was Patrick’s family.
Morgan was beginning to suspect there was more to her grandfather, too.
Before her mind went too far down that rabbit hole, Morgan decided to do what she did best—search for tangible answers.
Who owned the campground before? That had been NorthStar’s question, and it was as good a place to start as any.
Deed records were public, so she didn’t have to use special skills to find the information.
The original owner was listed as Eamon Sullivan, who bought the parcel from a much larger estate more than a hundred years earlier.
One property transfer in 1987 to Thomas Sullivan as part of Eamon Sullivan’s estate, which included mention of a separate parcel as well—adjoining acreage on Old Miller Road to Francis J. Sullivan.
Frank.
Her grandfather's brother had been running a campground on land their father had bought. The same campground where a dead body had recently been found. And nobody—read: Frank—had thought to mention any of this to her.
She closed the laptop and sat very still for a moment.
Then she pulled the casserole Donna left for them from the fridge, put it in the oven, and waited for Frank to come in for dinner.
He came through the back door at six-thirty with Shadow by his side, smelling of wood smoke and gun oil. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then poured a big glass of water from the tap and drank half of it in one go.
Morgan put down the book she’d been reading. “Why didn’t you tell me Sulley’s campground is on family land?”
If Frank was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “My brother’s land,” he corrected. “Not mine.”
“Hence the term family land.”
Shadow lifted his head from his spot by the door, tilted his head, then put it back down.
“Not my business,” Frank said firmly. “Not yours, either.”
“It is, actually. I’m a Sullivan and a death investigator.”
“A death investigator on leave for poking your nose where it wasn’t welcome.”
Morgan sat back as if slapped. Her supervisor saying as much was one thing, but she hadn’t expected that from Frank. “Are you suggesting I should keep my head down and my mouth shut?”
He finished the rest of the water. “Didn’t say that, did I?”
No, he hadn’t, because he hadn’t actually said anything.
And yet, she had the feeling that she’d missed something and her grandfather was waiting for her to catch up.
She paused. Took a discreet, steadying breath.
Put her personal feelings in a box and looked at the situation objectively.
She needed more information, and her grandfather had it.
“What was he like?” she asked. “Your brother, I mean.”
For several moments, she didn’t think Frank was going to answer. Then he said quietly, “Tom was a good man. Sulley’s was his pride and joy, and because of him, lots of people have memories they’ll carry with them for a long time.”
“Were you close?”
“We had different views on the world and how best to serve it,” Frank said, choosing his words carefully. He looked directly at Morgan. “But he'd want this sorted out.”
“Then why haven't you sorted it out?”
Frank set his glass in the sink, looking older than he had only a few minutes earlier. “Because I’m retired now.”
It wasn’t an outright confirmation, but it was another piece in the enigma that was Frank Sullivan. She pinned it on her mental board with his near hermit-level existence and his conspiracy literature.
The timer went off, and Frank used the potholders on the counter to pull the casserole out of the oven, while she silently recounted the conversation he’d had with Patrick Callaghan, drafting theories based on what was said—and what wasn’t.
“Patrick’s grandfather,” she said, rising to pull plates from the cupboard. “You served together?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Frank said cryptically.
“Jack was—is—the best man I ever worked alongside, and his boys are cut from the same cloth. His grandsons, too, from what I can see.” He scooped a large spoonful of something delicious onto Morgan’s plate, then did the same for his own.
“Good men to have on your side. Now eat up while it’s hot. ”
Sensing her grandfather had said as much as he was going to on the subject, she let the subject drop.
The rest of the dinner passed in contemplative silence—his as much as hers.
Later that night, Morgan checked the forum again, anxious for more information now that she had a personal connection to it. There had been several new posts since the last time she’d checked, and she read through each of them carefully.
The ownership thread had developed and was completely in line with what she’d found.
Someone with the handle Ledger had traced the financial history of the campground and found no evidence of anything shady.
Until a short period before Thomas Sullivan’s death, the campground had been very successful, if not particularly lucrative.
It had all the hallmarks of a sole proprietorship, run for reasons other than pure profit.
While that didn’t eliminate any possibilities, it reduced the likelihood that the recent death was tied to prior criminal activity. For some reason, that made Morgan breathe a little easier.
She opened a new reply window and sat with her hands over the keyboard. Was she really going to actively involve herself in an investigation to which she was personally connected?
Why not, she rationalized? She’d used her training and experience to offer insight into plenty of other cases.
No one in the forum knew her real name, only her online persona.
Besides, she hadn’t even known Thomas existed until a few hours ago.
She’d be just as clinically objective as she would with any other.
She started typing.
The post was brief. Three paragraphs, citing the inconsistency between a medical event ruling and the lack of physical evidence, as well as the positioning of the cabin and what that implied about the victim's knowledge of the site.
Clean. Factual. No mention of the family connection or the notebook or the man who'd returned it.
Just the questions a trained investigator would ask.
She posted it as GraveDigger and closed the laptop.
Shadow had migrated onto the bed beside her at some point and was pressed against her left side with the solid, radiating warmth. As she sat there in the quiet of the October night, she thought about what Frank had said.
About Patrick’s implied offer.
Morgan reached over and turned off the lamp and lay in the dark for a while, pretending she hadn't already made a decision.
So here she was.
Jake’s Irish Pub was on the main road, exactly where Frank had said. She couldn’t have missed it if she'd tried. The green and white striped awning, the windows warm with a welcoming amber glow. Through the glass she could make out the movement of people inside.
She sat in the car for a moment, preparing herself. That subtle tingling sensation she felt wasn’t nerves. Nor was it anticipation at the thought of seeing Patrick Callaghan again. Perhaps it was the idea of a potential collaboration with someone who might actually be worth collaborating with.
That sorted, she got out of the car.
The double doors were heavy but swung open with little effort. Warmth hit her as she stepped through it, along with the smell of lemon oil and fine spirits. She stood for a moment in the entrance, absorbing the feel of the place. It had an undeniable sense of history, family, and community.
Her eyes found him immediately.
He was behind the bar, moving with easy confidence. He said something that made the man across from him laugh, his lips curling up into that half smile.
He hadn't seen her yet. She could still turn around and walk out.
She didn’t.