Carefully trimmed sideburns, crow’s-feet creases radiating from the outside corners of his eyes, thick brows, a nose with a little bump on the bridge that looked as though it hadn’t been set perfectly after being broken, and maybe a hint of sunburn on his tanned skin. But mostly I was struck by his calmness. I hoped it hadn’t come from dealing with this kind of situation on a regular basis, but it probably was the demeanor of an experienced detective.
And that thought prompted a question I couldn’t help but ask. “Do you know who he is, the man? I hope his family—” I winced. This was going to be awful for them, no matter what.
I’d been so young that I’d been spared the torment of seeing police officers at the door after my mother had been killed. But I’d known they’d come, sensed their somber presence and quiet voices in the foyer, endured the tension in my nanny’s insistent hugs, and absorbed the same hollow, distant pain my father had acquired after he’d rushed home from his business trip.
Vaughn wrapped his long fingers around the mug. “We have a pretty good idea. The ME will have to confirm and notify relatives before we announce it, though.”
“Of course,” I murmured. But there was something—this death was going to require an announcement. I knew the names of those who died in unusual ways were usually released in short official statements. But announced?
Vaughn’s expression let me know that I wouldn’t be getting any more information out of him. That amused tilt of his lips again. He knew I was sizing him up, too.
Might as well let the man do his job. I pushed back from the counter and started collecting dirty dishes.
Vaughn drained his mug and handed it to me. “Thanks. Best I’ve had in a long time.” He nodded toward his card still lying on the counter. “Call me if you need anything or remember anything else. I like details. And intuitions. They’re usually right.”
I couldn’t help smiling a little at that. Intuitions. And a man who came right out and said they were valuable. I trailed him to the door.
He turned and angled one of his thick brows at me. “Lock this?” His hand was on the door knob, and even though his statement sounded like a question, it was also a command. “It’ll be busy out here for a while.”
Willow wedged into the doorway with me, and we watched him walk away.
“I told you he was hunky,” she murmured.
It took me a full minute. Mainly because the height difference between mother and son was so extreme. The keen brown eyes, however, bore a striking resemblance.
“Willow,” I said in a warning tone, “you promised no collusion.”
She gaped up at me. “No way. Bettina might be, uh, pushy—but there’s no way she planted that dead guy just so you’d meet Vaughn.” She shook her head indignantly. “No way. This is just one of those things. He investigates major crimes, so it makes sense he’d be called out for a dead body.” She sniffled. “Sad, really. Can I stay here tonight? I don’t want to fight through that”—she pointed toward the knot of people still clogging the walkway and the additional rapid comings and goings along the gangplank—“to get home.”
CHAPTER 4
I insisted that Willow call her grandmother. She did so from the roof deck, complete with vigorous waving and jumping jacks while the phone was pressed against her ear to ensure her visibility across the marina. I suspected Detective Malloy had already informed Roxy that her granddaughter was alive and well on the other side of the police tape. From the office, the woman with the giant beehive hairdo raised her hand in acknowledgment of Willow’s antics and readily gave permission for a sleepover.
We spent the next hour setting up my new sleeping area in the loft. Willow thoroughly and convincingly explained her vision for curtains that would provide both a modicum of privacy and separation from the rest of the loft, and I agreed to make a run to IKEA in the next few days for the necessary hardware and fabric.
When we’d exhausted that subject, Willow turned her attention to the potential for an office at the other end of the loft. I turned my attention to the clock—nearing midnight. But she was going strong, and she was doggedly avoiding my attempts to discuss our discovery of the dead man.
The experience had to have jolted her—having spewed her stomach contents was proof of that. I just hoped she’d open up at some point and not internalize too much. But I wouldn’t pressure her.
So I found myself seated on the floor underneath my desk, speaking on the phone with the technical support department of my internet provider. A few presses of the reset button on the router plus two complete reboots while we listened to each other breathe on opposite ends of the line, and we were in business.
When I crawled out from under the desk, Willow was engrossed in matching up my selection of art supplies with suitable containers. I use old vases, bowls, and baskets to keep everything I need easily at hand, but I’d had to consolidate when I’d packed. Willow was un-consolidating.
“What do you do, exactly?” she asked.
“Good question. Most of this stuff is really just for my hobby—or hobbies, or maybe obsessions—but I’m hoping to turn it into a business.”
My answer was not sufficient. Willow flashed me a scrunched sneer that I was learning indicated annoyance. “What did you used to do, before you moved?”
Ah—the unemployment problem. I felt like sneering myself. “Truth? It’s majorly embarrassing.”
“Oh yeah?” Willow stuffed loose strands of blue hair behind her ears with an eager grin.
I sighed. “Yeah. I designed emails.”
“Yuck.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But why is that embarrassing?”
“Because they were copycats.”
The non-disclosure agreement I’d signed when I’d been hired had been very specific. And my friend from the human resources department, Kris, had reiterated that all of its minute points still held, pretty much for the rest of my life, even though I was no longer gainfully employed by that particular contractor for the National Security Agency.
And then I thought, she’s a blue-haired kid with a penchant for space opera. And she’s just seen what is probably her first dead body. Shoot—it was my first dead body. It’s been a rough night. Why not tell her?
So I amended, “They were perfect copies. Otherwise known as spear phishing. All for a good cause, of course.” I choked a bit on the last sentence, because I didn’t entirely believe it, at least not in every single instance. But that horrid non-disclosure agreement did still have its hooks in me, at least about some things.
“Whoa. That’s vicious.” Willow squinted hard as she leaped to the obvious, but inaccurate, conclusion. “You stole money from little old ladies’ bank accounts?”
“The targets were mostly—allegedly—terrorist masterminds and financiers. Nobody you’d regard as innocent. And I don’t think the people I worked for stole anything once they were in. Just watched. But I can’t say for sure, because that part wasn’t my responsibility.”
“Is this—like—a secret?” Willow whispered.
I nodded.
“Whoa,” she said again. Then she leaned a hip against my desk and held up an assortment of colored pencils. “How are you going to make a business out of these?”
Hurrah for changing the subject. Willow had more positive social wiles than I’d given her credit for. “Marketing, graphic design, brand strategy, consultant-for-hire, et cetera. Among other things, I’m pretty good at designing logos, and I prefer to start with more tactile media before scanning the artwork over to digital. What do you think?”
Her mouth shifted into a dubious pucker. “Fine,” she muttered. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
“Or starve,” I added cheerfully.
oOo
The next morning, I cranked out the Five Tibetans on the rooftop deck just outside my new sleeping area and immediately saw the wisdom in Willow’s interior design scheme. Since I wasn’t at water level, there were no nosy neighbors to paddl
e alongside and interrupt me. No witnesses to my contorted body positions. Well, one—but I was pretty sure the great blue heron winging by with his long neck crooked in on itself didn’t give me a second glance. Therefore no embarrassment. And the view was spectacular. A two-for-one deal.
Willow was gone. She’d left the sheets and blankets I had used to turn the sofa into a cozy nest for her folded neatly on the coffee table. No note; no dirty dishes in the sink. And she’d relocked the front door behind her, per Detective Malloy’s order.
I unlocked the door and pulled it open. The walkway was deserted. Only a forgotten knot of yellow police tape around a lamppost remained of the previous night’s events. If I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended really hard, I might be able to convince myself none of it had actually happened. Almost. Too bad the technique doesn’t work.
Instead, my imagination flitted to what the family of the dead man must be going through right now. I wondered if they’d been notified yet. How long had he been missing—a few hours, a few days? Had they been living with a growing sense of dread filling their hearts, waiting for a phone call? Or had he been expected at home any moment, having just run out on a quick errand?
Ugh. Speculation doesn’t solve anything. But I was feeling an overwhelming urge to talk about it with someone, and I realized that, the night before, I’d been hoping Willow would want to talk for my benefit as much as for hers. There was no way I would call Detective Malloy with my emotional neediness, even though he’d offered that unqualified anything as a reason to call. Sloane and her family were at church this morning, so my best sounding board was unavailable at the moment too.
That left one option. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and snugged the laces on my cross-trainers.
A wildlife refuge abutted the south end of the marina, the next property upriver from where my house floated in the A-17 slip. It was probably home to the great blue heron who’d been commuting overhead. On the map, the refuge was a long, skinny green strip that occupied the space between the river and the county road which was several hundred yards inland and paralleled the water.
According to the brochure I’d seen in the marina office, the refuge served as a rest stop for migratory birds as well as provided nesting habitat for year-rounders. While there were undeveloped trails and limited public access, the refuge’s main purpose was to serve wildlife, not humans. In other words, don’t expect flush toilets and picnic tables. And if a bear or cougar wanted to eat you while you were in the refuge, well, good luck with that. Which was fine with me.
But I also grabbed my pepper spray canister and stuffed it in my pocket, just in case.
I found a feeble hint of a hard-packed trail amid the mounding blackberries that marked the edge of the marina’s parking lot. Scooting through sideways to avoid the thorns, I was quickly overshadowed by a loose, volunteer forest of cottonwoods and poplars intermixed with a few coniferous trees, maybe pines? I added a tree identification book to my growing mental list of field guides I would need to fully appreciate my new home.
I’m not a runner; not even a jogger. But all those lunchtime power walks with my friend Kris had served me well in the stamina department. Besides, I wanted to catch glimpses of the wildlife, not scare the creatures away with manically pumping legs and flailing arms.
The path widened. Dotted with half-buried rocks, zigzagged by tree roots, requiring constant vigilance so I didn’t end up in a face-plant with a nasty twisted ankle, but, oh, so worth it. Chirpy little birds swarmed the leafy canopy—flitting, rustling, and not at all disturbed by my presence.
Scattered crackling in the underbrush made me jump a few times, but whatever creatures were making those noises didn’t want me to see them. I took a measure of comfort from the fact that they were shier than I was. As long as none of them turned out to be snakes or skunks, everything would be just fine.
The path wound toward the river and eventually emerged into a more open area along a sandy beach. Well, partly sand and partly mud—the high tide line was clearly etched into the riverbank that was cut away above the beach. Apparently I’d timed my early morning foray with low tide. During her introductory spiel for new lessees, Roxy had warned me that the Pacific Ocean tides affect the Columbia and Willamette rivers—and thus my house—even though the marina was roughly sixty miles from the coast and even farther if measured in squiggly river miles.
The water lapped the sand in gentle swells, and a bird with long, shockingly bright yellow legs high-stepped its way along the shore. I froze, not wanting to interrupt the bird if it was foraging for breakfast. Its peculiar gait was both comical and endearing.
And then there was a noise that shouldn’t have been in that peaceful spot—rough male laughter.
The kind of sound that makes a woman cringe and sets off the inner claxon alarm of her self-protection radar. I don’t think guys understand this—the automatic, involuntary response we have to certain of their behaviors, but I also suspect that this response has saved many women’s lives, provided they paid attention to it.
The bird didn’t like the raucous disturbance either. It took off running, neck outstretched, and launched into flight.
There were three of them, just coming into view around the bend. They were joking and jostling each other while one of them pushed what appeared to be a slender unicycle ahead of him. He paused to jot notes on a clipboard. I bent low and scurried—subtly, I hoped—toward the muddy bank and the safety of the trees beyond.
The urgency I felt was irrational—should have been irrational. But the frantic niggle was still there, prodding at the back of my brain. At that moment, I would have much rather encountered a bear than one of those men, let alone all three men together.
I slid a few times on the mud before gaining purchase, then I was up and over and crouching in some accommodating ferns. I snuck a quick look down at my clothing. Gray hoodie and darker gray capri yoga leggings—good for blending in. My cross-trainers, however, were neon lime green. Then again, I was in a forest with a lot of other greens.
But curiosity held me in place as the men moved closer. These guys weren’t nature lovers or outdoorsy athletes—the kind you would reasonably expect to encounter on an early Sunday morning in a wildlife refuge.
They were dressed in khakis and loafers, button-down shirts with the long sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Casual clothes, but not walk-on-the-beach clothes. More telling because they hadn’t removed their shoes to go barefoot.
The laughter was getting louder and coarser, ricocheting off the mud flats and tree trunks. A minute later, I saw the reason why. A shiny silver flask removed from a pocket and passed around. The owner of the flask sipped both first and last—effectively doubling up on his buddies—before returning it to his pocket.
And the unicycle-looking thing turned out to be a measuring wheel. There were frequent pauses in their leisurely stroll while the man with the clipboard recorded information. He seemed more serious and focused than his two companions, but, altogether, they appeared to be celebrating something.
When they’d passed me, I stood and stretched my cramped legs. My arm brushed against the hard lump of the pepper spray canister in my pocket, and the silliness of my position flooded over me. Hiding like a scaredy-cat. I had as much right to be on that beach as they did. Me and my hyperactive amygdala.
I turned and retraced my steps toward home.
When I reached the marina, the office was open, where I found Roxy engaged in the ritual of lighting up another cigarette. The flick of the lighter, the cigarette pressed to her lips while clamped between the first and second fingers of her left hand, the hollow sucking of her cheeks as she inhaled, the flaring glow at the end of the cigarette; then the simultaneous removal of the cigarette from her mouth, the thump of the lighter in her right hand on the counter, and an exhale of swirly blue-gray smoke into the already dense atmosphere accompanied by a satisfied sound deep in her throat.
I’d been privy to that particular se
quence of actions a dozen or more times over the course of the two hours it had taken to sign the moorage lease and be indoctrinated with all the guidelines and regulations of the marina’s homeowners’ association. She wasn’t exactly a chain-smoker, but only because she chose to ignite each new cigarette with a lighter rather than the butt of the previous one.
Our orientation session had also given me the opportunity to memorize the definition of gadfly because it was the featured (two days past date) term on her word-a-day calendar. I’d been sorely tempted to reach over and tear the sheet off, but had heroically restrained myself. Because I refuse—or at least try really hard—not to be a gadfly. Today’s word was esoteric, and I decided to ignore it.
I suspected Roxy was walking a very fine line in that shady area next to the laws about not smoking in public places or in places of business. Only the fact that the marina office was tacked onto the front of her apartment—the private, on-site residence provided for the marina manager—made such unhealthy crossover possible.
My eyes were already watering from the sting of secondhand smoke, but there was something I had to do. “Did you see Willow this morning?” I asked.
Roxy grunted. “Drove her to that sci-fi writing group she goes to. Every Sunday they hang out in hoity-toity coffee shops in Portland and brainstorm.” She scooped her fingers—and cigarette—in the air to encase the last word in aerial quotation marks.
I grinned. “She’s a smart kid.”
Roxy exhaled and pressed the heels of her hands on the counter. She tilted her head—along with the entire shellacked hair sculpture on top of it—while studying me with a contemplative look. “Yeah. I guess she is.” Another drag on the cigarette. “All I know is she keeps me organized.”
I nodded. “I was the beneficiary of that particular skill set last night. You should see my desk. Anyway, I wanted to check with you about the cooking lessons. Did she tell you about that?”
Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1) Page 4
