by Lauren Carr
The stars that burst before his eyes could only be described as multi-colored brilliance. He swore he could even hear the fireworks explode inside his head. Later, he would recall with pride that even while he was stumbling after the assault that had broken his nose, which caused blood to splatter all over his white shirt, he did not lose sight of the matter at hand. Even as he was staggering around the driveway while trying to shake off the blow, he still kept hold of the brunette, who was struggling to get back into the fight.
The explosion of pain inside his head was amplified by the blast of an air horn behind him.
The brunette stopped struggling.
The women stopped shrieking.
Even the ringing in David’s ears subsided in obedience to the air horn.
“Now that I have everyone’s attention,” David heard Bogie call out from somewhere behind him. “I believe someone called 9-1-1 about a dead body.”
Like a student in a classroom answering a question, the housekeeper raised her hand. “That would be me,” she said with a thick accent. “It’s Ms. Ramsay.” She pointed up over their heads to a second floor above the garage. “Mr. Hathaway found her in her studio. Someone …” She choked. “…killed her.”
“I think you can put her down now.” Bogie stepped over to where David was still holding the brunette up off the ground with his arms around her waist. “Are you going to behave, Miss?”
For her answer, the brunette glared over at the blond.
While he retrieved his sunglasses from the grass, and a handkerchief from the cruiser to hold on his nose, David noticed that the blond was older than he had first thought. The thick nest of blond curls and voluptuous build were misleading. Up close, her face revealed lines under heavy makeup.
“She started it,” the brunette pointed at the other woman. “She was trying to make a run for it.”
“I was not,” the blond said. “I was getting my car ready to go.” She told the two officers. “I have an important meeting in Pittsburgh tomorrow that I have to get ready for. Mr. Hathaway said I could leave as soon as I give the police my statement.”
David asked, “And you are—”
“Susan Dulin. Neal Hathaway’s executive assistant.” With one hand, she tugged up on what was left to the shoulder of her dress, while adjusting her white high-heeled sandals with the other. With every move, her nest of platinum spirals spilled into her face and over her shoulders.
Seeming to notice David’s handsome form for the first time, the brunette pulled down her skirt and smoothed her hair. “I’m Rachel.” She held out her hand to him. “I hope you don’t think I’m a nut, but Susan was trying to get away; and I know that when it comes to crimes like this, the police need to question everyone.” She flashed him a grin. “I used to be a journalist.”
With a wicked grin, Susan said, “Rachel is married to Scott, Neal’s son.”
Rachel shot her a glare, which Susan returned with equal hostility.
While David made notations in his notepad, Bogie called over the housekeeper who was watching them from the other side of the SUV. “What’s your name?”
“Greta.” She cast her eyes down to the ground.
“What can you tell us?” Bogie asked her.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was cooking breakfast when Mr. Hathaway called on the intercom, and told me that his wife was dead and to call the police. After I called you, I came out here to wait.”
“Where is he?” David asked.
“He’s up there with her.” She pointed again to the upper-level of garage.
“I guess we need to go see Mr. Hathaway.” Noticing the bloody nose, Bogie asked, “What happened to you?”
David wiped his nose and examined the thick, sticky red substance on his handkerchief. The bleeding was letting up. “I got sucker punched.”
“By a girl.” Bogie laughed. “I can’t wait to tell your pa about that.”
The older officer’s radio crackled. “Hey, Bogie?”
Pressing the handkerchief to his nose, David leaned his head back to stop the bleeding.
“Yeah, Fletcher?” Bogie answered with a laugh in his voice.
“We got a problem with this car in the lake,” the officer reported. “The driver’s dead. It’s a rental car checked out by a Charles Smith at Dulles Airport yesterday. He’s got a Miami, Florida, address. Problem is that Charles Smith is alive.”
They exchanged glances. “What’s that?” asked Bogie into the radio.
Fletcher explained, “I called the phone number that the rental car company has for Charles Smith. A guy answered. He’s Charles Smith. He says that someone stole his identity months ago, and he’s been trying to straighten it out since forever. When I told him this dude was dead, he said ‘Good’.” The officer asked, “What do you want me to do? We have nothing to tell us who this guy really is.”
David cracked, “Maybe the real Charles Smith killed him.”
Hearing him, Fletcher’s voice came over the radio, “It wasn’t a homicide. At least, I don’t think it was. The buck killed him.” He chuckled. “The buck that killed him is dead, too. I guess we could call it a murder-suicide.”
Bogie said, “Get this guy’s fingerprints and run them through AFIS. If he’s an identity thief, maybe he’s in the system.”
When they climbed the stairs to the floor above the garage, David and Bogie could hear wrenching sobs coming from inside the room that appeared to be a studio apartment. The door leading into the studio was ajar.
Unsure exactly what would be waiting for them inside, they both placed their hands on their guns. Bogie eased the door open and stepped inside.
It was hard to believe that the sunny studio with a full view of the lake through the deck doors was now the scene of a bloody homicide. A kitchenette took up the far wall of the great room. A spiral staircase led upstairs to a loft.
The studio had canvases displayed on the walls and works in progress lined up on easels. Most of them were lake scenery or nature. Others were still life. A paint-covered smock lay across a stool resting before an empty easel.
On the floor, a man cradled the bloody body of a woman wrapped in a white terry-cloth bathrobe that matched his. “It’s okay, baby,” he assured her in a raspy voice while stroking the blood-soaked red curls from her face. “It’s going to be okay.”
The officers exchanged somber expressions.
“Mr. Hathaway?” Bogie stepped into the room. He stopped in front of a hammer painted red with human blood.
“Sshh,” Neal Hathaway looked up at them with swollen red-rimmed eyes. “She’s okay. Ilysa’s going to be okay. I’m a rich and powerful man. I can afford the best doctors in the world. We can fix this.”
David cocked his head for a better view of the woman in the blood-soaked bath robe.
The mass of red curls were matted against the side of what used to be his wife’s face. What had once been a human face had been pounded into hamburger made of meat and bone.
“I’m a rich man,” Neal Hathaway sobbed while rocking his wife’s body in his arms. “We can save her.”
“Mr. Hathaway?” Greta startled David when she touched his arm. When she saw the sight her hands flew to her mouth. “Are you okay, Mr. Hathaway?”
Bogie held up his hand in a gesture for her to stop. “I’m sorry, you can’t come in.” He turned back to the grieving husband. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hathaway, but it’s best if you let your housekeeper take you back to the main house. We’ll take care of your wife.”
“What are you going to do?” Without looking up, he continued to stroke her hair.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Bogie assured him.
Greta held out her hand to him. “Come with me, Mr. Hathaway. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see.”
Bogie helped him to his feet. The housekeeper clutched his elbow. At the door, Neal Hathaway turned around to take one last look at his wife, who was lying like a rag doll tossed aside, in the middle of the art studio.
Tears came to David’s eyes while he watched Neal Hathaway cling to the one thing he was unable to fix with his wealth and power.
There are still some things that all the money in the world can’t buy.
Chapter One
Deep Creek Lake - Present Day
“Okay, Reggie, our next delivery is One Spencer Court. That’s the stone and cedar place at the end of the point. ” Kevin chuckled when he read the address off the clipboard.
First day on the job and he’s got a delivery on Spencer Court. Hey, you gotta learn sometime.
“What’s so funny?” The pimply-faced trainee glanced over at his supervisor sitting across from him in the van’s passenger seat.
With a smile, Kevin pointed up ahead. “Take the next right and cross the toll bridge over the cove. That’ll take you onto Spencer Point”
“Toll bridge?”
“You’ll see.”
Reggie eased the van onto the narrow bridge to cross over the cove. The shoreline in this corner of Deep Creek Lake was the residence of some of the most luxurious homes in the area. The houses along the peninsula increased in grandeur up to the cedar and stone mansion that occupied the tip of Spencer Point. “Wow,” he breathed.
“Stop!” Kevin shouted.
Reggie hit the brakes. The van stopped so fast that the packages in the back spilled off their shelves. The only one that stayed put was the six-by-five foot flat box out for delivery to Spencer Manor.
“Watch where you’re going, kid.”
Motionless, like a sentry on duty, a German Shepherd blocked the center of the road on the bridge. His gaze was directed at them.
“What’s he doing?” Reggie whispered.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Looks like he’s sitting to me.”
The young man looked on either side of the dog to judge if there was enough space to drive around him. There wasn’t.
“What’re you going to do?” the trainer asked.
“Honk my horn? That’ll make him move.” After Kevin shrugged his shoulders, the driver tapped the horn.
Without so much as a blink of his eyes, the dog didn’t move in response to the blast. When the driver hit the horn repeatedly, the German Shepherd remained frozen in his spot in the road. Reggie pressed his palm to the horn and kept it there.
“Hey, cut it out!” an old man with a fishing pole yelled from a dock. “You’re scaring the fish.”
Reggie turned back to the canine cocking his head at him. The delivery man could swear he saw the dog’s lips curl in a smirk. “I’m driving through. He’ll jump out of the way.”
“What if he doesn’t?” asked Kevin.
“His fault if he’s too dumb to jump out of the way of a moving vehicle.”
“That’s Gnarly,” the trainer warned him. “He’s a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them. He’s Mac Faraday’s dog.”
“Who?”
“Mac Faraday owns Spencer Manor.” Kevin pointed to the end of the Point. “Nice guy, but I guarantee you, you run over his dog, and Faraday complains to the home office; then you’ll be delivering packages to Pakistan.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Make him to move.”
Reggie threw open the door and walked over to the dog blocking the road. “Move it.” He waved his arms. “Get out of here. Go home.”
The shepherd remained rooted in the spot.
The skinny delivery man called back to his trainer. “He didn’t even blink.”
Chuckling at the sight, Kevin climbed out of the van. “He doesn’t.”
Reggie asked, “Does he bite?”
“He’ll kill you if he has to.”
Reggie peered down at the dog that he guessed to be the largest German Shepherd he had ever seen up close. His brown face was trimmed in silver. The thick fur that made up his mane was sable. His tall ears stood erect. If he wasn’t such a nuisance, Reggie would think he was a beautiful animal. “You wouldn’t bite me.” He reached out to grab his collar. With a growl, Gnarly bared his teeth. Reggie jumped back.
“Told you he’d kill you if he had to.” Kevin laughed.
“Then you make him move.”
The trainer slipped a hand into his breast pocket. Stepping up to the dog, he held out his open palm to display a dog biscuit. “There you go, Gnarl.”
After taking the biscuit, the German Shepherd trotted off the bridge and up a path leading into the woods.
With a laugh, Kevin turned to his trainee. “I told you it was a toll bridge.” He climbed back into the van. “Let’s go. We need to get this package to Mac Faraday.”
The late Robin Spencer loved her gardening as much as she loved murder mysteries. The grounds of her homestead, known as Spencer Manor, displayed her green thumb in multi-colored glory.
While Mac Faraday took after his mother in many ways, gardening wasn’t one of them. He didn’t know the difference between a petunia and a dandelion; nor would he notice the rhododendron bushes calling out for food and water after a couple of days without rain.
It wasn’t that Mac was a neglectful homeowner. He was diligent about giving Gnarly his six o’clock biscuit. He wasn’t quite so conscientious when it came to tending to his late mother’s gardens. He would be if the rhododendron bush jumped up and down on his chest at the morning’s first light.
For that reason, Archie Monday had made it her personal mission to keep Robin Spencer’s beloved gardens flourishing.
It had been a busy spring for the editor and research assistant. When she wasn’t cooped up inside her stone cottage working on an upcoming release from a hot new writer, she was up to her armpits in mulch and plant soil.
It seemed as if God sensed that she needed a break. The day after she had sent off the book, the sun had risen to shine on Spencer Manor’s gardens in full bloom. The estate resembled a floral rainbow of blues and reds and yellows.
In the guest cottage, Archie checked her reflection in the mirror and applied one more layer of blush to her cheeks. After combing every hair in her blond pixie cut in place, she covered it with a new hat.
She had compared notes with her best friend, Catherine Fleming, about the proper attire for the garden club luncheon at the Spencer Inn. This would be Archie’s first meeting as a bona fide member of the same exclusive garden club, founded by Robin’s grandmother. Archie wanted to make a good impression.
Spencer’s own honest to goodness social debutante, Catherine Fleming had suggested a Chanel suit. She also recommended a hat to match. This season, hats were very in. In the sunshine yellow suit with a matching hat, Archie felt like a bumble bee. I’m a cute one at least.
After grabbing her matching yellow clutch bag, she locked the door to the guest cottage where she made her home and trotted up the stone path through the rose garden. She was climbing the steps to the manor’s back deck when she heard the delivery truck roll through the stone entrance. Expecting the arrival of her new smart phone, she clasped the hat down tighton her head with her hand to keep it from flying off, and broke into a run to meet the truck.
There was no need to hurry. The delivery men were taking their time ogling the twenty-three foot spectacle occupying the far side of the circular driveway. Blue and white, the Cobalt speed boat rested on its trailer, while waiting for its new owner to launch her for her maiden voyage.
“Sweet,” Kevin said while circling the boat. “Must be nice.”
“Boys and their toys.” Archie reached out to sign the tablet tucked under his elbow.
Kevin held the tablet out of her reach. “Sorry, Ms. Monday, but today we need the man’s signature himself.” He showed her an envelope that he had tucked underneath the tablet. “There’s a letter for him, too. He’s to sign for both of them.”
Archie’s face screwed up in puzzlement when she saw Reggie pulling the large package from the back of the truck. “I take it that’s not my new phone.” She hurried up the steps and went inside the mansion.
Kevin assi
sted his trainee in lifting the box from the back of the truck and carrying it up to the porch. “Do you remember Robin Spencer?”
“The writer? I remember us having to read some of her short stories in school. We saw a play that she wrote, too.”
“She’s the one that wrote all those books about the millionaire playboy named Mickey Forsythe—”
“I loved those Mickey Forsythe movies,” Reggie said. “I didn’t know they wrote books about him.”
Kevin explained, “Mickey Forsythe was a cop who inherited millions of dollars. So he leaves the police force and goes around solving murders for kicks.”
While they carried the box across the stone walk, the older man gestured with the toss of his head at the mansion. “After Robin Spencer died last year, they found out that when she was a teenager, she had a baby out of wedlock. She left everything tohim. That baby had grown up to be a big time homicide detective. Get it? Mac Faraday is the same guy his birth mother wrote about.”
At the top step, the door opened. “I’m nothing like Mickey Forsythe.” In contrast to the dark-haired super detective in leather jackets and dark glasses from Reggie’s youth, the true life version of Mickey Forsythe wore jean cut offs, a faded blue shirt, and flip-flops on his feet.
“Yeah, right,” Kevin chuckled. “And Gnarly is nothing like Diablo, Mickey Forsythe’s German Shepherd.”
“Are you talking about the dog that held us up at the bridge?” Reggie asked on their way across the threshold.
“Is Gnarly doing that again?” Archie directed them to carry the package down the three stone steps into the drop-down dining room on the other side of the living room.
Enthralled with being so close to one of his movie heroes, Reggie ignored the question. “I love Diablo.” He handed the letter and tablet to Mac. “In that last movie, the bad guy tried to escape from Mickey by climbing up a ladder to the roof and Diablo actually climbed up the ladder and nailed the sucker.”
“That’s Gnarly all right.” The older delivery man was laughing on his way back to the van. “There’s nothing that dog can’t do.”
“What did you order?” Shaking her head, Archie stood in front of the package propped up against the backs of the dining room chairs. “Maybe it’s a mattress.”
