The Last Fairytale (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 2)

by Molly Greene

  The road wound along a pine-shrouded cliff dotted with up-market homes. Gen called out house numbers as they passed. “Real estate around here is worth millions of dollars a pop,” she said. “I hear the big properties sell for obscene amounts of money. It’s a shame we can’t see much beyond the gates.”

  “I’ve seen enough already to be rethinking my piddly retirement account.”

  “Slow down,” Gen said. “We’re getting close. There it is.”

  Vonnegon’s property fronted on the asphalt two-lane. An eight-foot hedge barred them from getting much of a peek, but judging by the view down the drive, the parcel dropped away from the building to the water below.

  The place appeared to have little usable land. The panorama of ocean and sky, however, was probably breathtaking, unimpeded as it was by trees or housing. Gen could easily see the allure.

  Even more attractive were the wheeled army-green trash cans beside the drive.

  “Score number one,” Gen said. “It’s trash day.”

  “Plan to do a little dumpster diving?”

  Bree eased to the curb and set the parking brake. Gen hopped out and glanced casually up and down the road, then headed for the gate. Bree followed.

  “If someone answers, I’ll ask directions,” Gen murmured. A video camera was mounted above the entry keypad. Gen tapped the speaker button and the light blinked red.

  Through the ironwork, they could see that the street-side windows of the sleek stucco house were covered with wide plantation shutters. The slats were closed. No one seemed to be around. Gen couldn’t catch a sound other than the hollow echo of the keypad buzzer.

  Back at the curb, Gen studied the nearest neighbor, a contemporary number perched on the hillside across the way. “I don’t see anybody.” She turned away and lifted the lid of the closest can.

  They peered inside.

  The previous day’s thumbed-through newspaper sat atop the pile. Gen picked up the first sheaf. “Looks like Vonnegon was here yesterday, and he doesn’t recycle. Bad boy.”

  She moved the stack aside and dug beneath the newsprint, turning up an egg carton and half a dozen broken shells, an empty champagne bottle, and the smelly dregs of plastic that probably once shrouded a wedge of brie. “Must’ve had company.”

  “Champagne right after an employee died on the premises of a business he owned?” Bree wrinkled her nose. “What is there to celebrate in that?”

  Gen stuck a discarded pen into the bottle and moved it aside, then dug around some more.

  “Check it out. An Amazon receipt. Looks like it’s for a book, but the paper’s too soggy to read the title.”

  Gen made a protective sleeve from a sheet of the Sunday Home section, carefully folded the receipt inside, and stuffed it in her pocket.

  Chapter Eight

  “Looks like we won’t be able to walk right in.” Gen rattled the gate guarding the Richardson Bay docks. “Locked.”

  She peered through the chain link at the tidy rows of tied-up boats. “We’ve been lucky so far. This place will just be more of a challenge.”

  Bree pointed to a row of mailboxes. “Even worse, it looks like the boxes are posted with the name of the boat, not the owner. And we don’t know which one is Ducane’s.”

  “We’ll ask when we get in.” Gen dropped her hands from the fence and turned back toward the parking lot. “Let’s hang around out here. Eventually someone will come or go, and we can slip through.”

  They sat on a cement bench a few feet from the entrance. Bree searched for something in her purse. Gen cleaned her sunglasses. Within a minute, a young man left the dock area headed for his van.

  Gen pushed the dark lenses onto the bridge of her nose and made a grab for it before the gate could close securely. She held it open for Bree, and they strolled onto the first of three wooden docks.

  Hands in pockets they wandered along, admiring the bound yachts and looking for a name that might make sense.

  A bare-chested elderly man was soaking up the weak sun in a deck chair aboard the Mustang Sally. An equally gray-muzzled Chihuahua was snoring beside him. He squinted at them and raised his glass. “Perfect day for a sail.”

  “Yes, it would be,” Gen agreed. “But we don’t own one of these beauties. A friend does, though, Andrew Ducane. Can you point us in the right direction? We just dropped by on a whim, and we’re not sure which is his.”

  “Andrew will be in the city today. But his sloop is over there.” The man pointed with his glass toward the next dock over. “The Night Cap.”

  They thanked him and sauntered across. “No police tape,” Gen noted. “Let’s go aboard.”

  Gen didn’t know stern from aft, but she tried to act like she belonged when she stepped on the deck. The cabin was locked. They were peering in the windows when a voice alongside made them both jump.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gen plastered on a wide grin and turned around.

  A stoop-shouldered young woman in baggy cargo pants and a golf shirt stood at the dock steps, clutching a canvas messenger bag to her chest. The thick sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose looked to be prescription. She righted them with a nudge and tried to smile.

  The attempt faded quickly.

  “Hi there.” Gen sighed and splayed a hand across her chest. “You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here. I’m Wendy, a friend of Andrew’s from Elergene. This is Emily. We’re up here on vacation for a week, and he’s talked so much about the Night Cap. Andrew mentioned he was jealous we had time off and might play hooky and call in sick, so we dropped by to see. Sorry. I guess we’re trespassing, aren’t we?”

  The woman stepped aboard. “I’m Catherine, Andrew’s, um, sister-in-law.” Her bad pixie coif was shaggy and uneven, at least two haircuts overdue and at the gawky stage in the growing-out process.

  No obvious signs of disbelief or animosity disturbed her nondescript features, although her eyes were obscured by the dark tint of the heavy glasses. “If you’ve not been at work, you probably haven’t heard the news.” Her voice caught and she stopped to clear her throat. “Andrew is dead.”

  Gen reeled back a step and covered her mouth. “No. I haven’t spoken to anyone since last week. What happened?”

  “No one seems to know.”

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Bree whispered. “Is there anything we can do?”

  Bree and Gen perched on the edge of a pre-formed fiberglass bench seat that doubled as built-in storage along each side.

  Catherine sat across from them, pushing her butt back against the rail. Her glasses slipped forward again. She bumped them back, then dropped her hand and opened the knapsack to retrieve a set of keys.

  “No. But thanks for offering. I came down to clear out the fridge and see if anything needs to be stowed. Andrew spent a lot of time here.”

  When Catherine’s eyes fluttered, Gen wondered if it was grief or fear. But what did she have to be afraid of?

  “We’ll let you get to it, then,” Gen said. “When are the services? We’d like to attend.”

  “Um, the family isn’t sure yet,” Catherine replied. She kept her gaze focused on the satchel in her lap. “They’ll let Elergene know.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” Bree murmured. “We’re awfully sorry about what happened.”

  Gen and Bree both offered their hands. Catherine shook each in turn, still unable to look them in the eye.

  Gen climbed the short set of interior stairs, then threw a leg over the side to catch the deck. She gave the Night Cap a final glance as she strolled away, but Catherine was already in the cabin and out of sight.

  “From what we’ve heard, Andrew would never play hooky,” Gen said. “Funny how she didn’t comment on that.”

  * * *

  Their vehicle was quickly engulfed by the crush of bumper-to-bumper mayhem once they crossed the bridge back into the city. The building trade shifts clocked out by three-thirty in the afternoon, ejecting contractors�
� trucks and construction crews onto the streets. Every last one of them was anxious to get home.

  “You’re a patient driver.”

  Bree slipped a CD of classical music into the player, then leaned back against the headrest, lulled by Vivaldi and oblivious to the frustrated commuters in the surrounding lanes. “Traffic is not my personal source of rage.”

  “I hope I never find out what is.”

  Bree thought about that. “I don’t get mad much, I guess. I feel sorry for myself instead. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “Anna used to say that anger doesn’t work as an everyday thing.” Gen glanced over at Bree. “But it can help you get over stuff. As long as being pissed off doesn’t become the norm.”

  “Do you think I should be furious about getting dumped?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m not telling you to do anything. I was talking hypothetically about emotional coping mechanisms.”

  “You can’t get mad at someone because they don’t love you back.”

  “No, you can’t,” Gen replied. “But you can get pissed off because they’re idiots who wasted your time.”

  Bree chuckled.

  “Besides,” Gen continued, “I saw you get huffy with the cops, so I know you’re capable.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. But Garcia is just downright arrogant and aggravating.”

  “Garcia is a cop.”

  “Does that excuse bad behavior?”

  “I think it encourages it.”

  * * *

  Gen walked through her front door at five o’clock that evening to the welcoming scent of roast beef wafting from the kitchen. Ryan was watching the news. He muted the audio and rose to give her a kiss.

  “Welcome home.”

  “Wow, I could get used to this. Hugs, kisses, dinner on the stove. Can I have a foot massage, too?”

  “Don’t push your luck.” Ryan headed for the kitchen. “Gotta check the spuds.”

  Gen followed him in, noting the uncorked bottle of red wine breathing on the center island beside two waiting goblets. Ryan tilted out the oven door and poked the Yukon Golds. “We can eat in about half an hour.” He poured and handed her a glass.

  “Wait, I’ve changed my mind. I think I should be rubbing your feet.”

  “Sit down, Genny.”

  She pulled a stool out from the counter and sat. “Why do I get the impression you’re going to get all stern with me?”

  “I’ve been called back to a meeting in D.C. this week. I’m taking a flight out Thursday.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably just a general confab. Could be they want me to consult on something they’ve got going on.”

  “I see.” Gen drummed her fingers on the counter, then lifted her glass and sipped the wine. She savored the heavy cabernet, then swallowed. “You sound serious. Are you sure it’s a simple consult?”

  He busied himself with the salad and didn’t reply.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’ll be back Sunday.”

  “Short trip. You’d think they could discuss whatever it is over the phone.”

  “You know how they are. They like face time.” He took a pull from his own glass, then spun the goblet slowly by the stem. “Tell me what you found in Marin.”

  “Well, Ducane and Vonnegon both have distractions stashed away up there. Andrew was a swabby and Vonnegon likes to take in the view.”

  “The view?”

  “He owns a classy home on a Tiburon hillside.”

  “Expensive turf.”

  Gen nodded. “It fits him, but it seems like Andrew and the sailor thing is odd. Nothing Vonnegon said or anything we’ve heard or found makes him out to be the type.”

  “So the question is, does Vonnegon know, or did the kid live a different life away from the office.”

  “Exactly. Vonnegon did say his private life was private.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “We ran into a sister-in-law at the boat. Catherine somebody.”

  “Uh-oh. How’d that go?”

  “Not a problem. I told her I was a co-worker on vacation and stopped by on a whim. She told me he’d died but nobody knew how. Seemed suitably sad.”

  “What else?”

  “Mr. Taylor Vonnegon was apparently in residence at his weekend place, and he was drinking champagne.”

  “Whoa. The night after the sudden death of one of his staff?”

  “You said it.”

  “Can’t be sure it was him, though, without a witness,” Ryan said. “He might’ve lent the place to someone. A friend, or family. Or maybe he rents it out. How’d you find out about the wine?”

  “It was trash day.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  They clinked their glasses in a silent toast.

  Chapter Nine

  Bree was relieved to be home. She tossed her purse on the crushed-velvet Victorian settee beside the door and stretched. Her spine was stiff from spending so much time in the car. As she hitched her back side to side to tug out the kinks, she heard muffled mumbling coming from the bedroom.

  She froze, hands above her head, and listened.

  Two beats later she dropped her arms and crouched, trying to make herself less of a target. She eased an umbrella out of the antique stand opposite the settee and held it forward like a rapier. Then she crept across the living room toward the sound.

  Bree curled her head around the door and observed the room. A pile of clothing was tossed willy nilly across the mattress. Shoes and handbags were strewn across the carpet.

  A boot shot from the open closet. It was followed by a short, compact man who stopped, then posed his toned body with one knee bent and smoky eyes riveted on her. He stared, wide-eyed, hands fisted on his hips, pouting with practiced charm.

  “It’s about time,” he whined. “Where have you been? I told you I needed to borrow things for tonight. I also need a stylist, but you’ll have to do. Come on. Chop chop.” He turned with a flourish and disappeared back into the walk-in.

  Bree chuckled at the visual. As if Oliver Weston could ever really go back in the closet. “Damn it, you scared me.” She propped the umbrella in the corner.

  “Jiminy Christmas, who did you think it was?” Oliver stuck his head out with a red silk blouse draped over his arm. “If you didn’t want me to come in when you’re not home, you shouldn’t have given me a key. And, oh by the way, it’s your own fault. Go right ahead. Diss your best friend. Don’t be bothered to remember appointments.”

  “Did I make plans with the Village People?”

  “Very funny. By the way, who was the hunk in the hallway Friday night?” he asked. “You weren’t so chipper then.”

  “Wow. My head is spinning from that abrupt subject change.”

  “I’m dying to know.”

  “I’m sorry I was so loud.”

  “You were rude and obnoxious. He, on the other hand, was sooooo sweet. Dreamy man, too, what I could see of him at that distance through a crack in the door.”

  He re-emerged wearing the blouse and sporting a red Chanel handbag. His top two buttons were undone, revealing a row of Chinese figures inked in a vertical line down his hairless chest. “What is wrong with you? I would have been begging the guy to come in, not screeching at him like a fishwife.”

  “It’s a long story, Liv.”

  “I can’t imagine why making a good-looking man stand in the hallway while you bitch at him is even a topic of conversation here. I mean, I can see me doing it, but really. Kissed anybody lately?”

  “Just you.” She pecked him on the cheek. “I saw the most intriguing tattoo today, you would have loved it. It was a sphere, and one side was the sun with a man’s features. The other was the moon with a woman’s face.” She made a circle with her hands, thumbs and fingertips touching. “Very cool. You could have it done man and man.”

  He smiled. “Now who’s changing the subject?”

&nbs
p; “Did it work?”

  “Where were you today?”

  “Tiburon.”

  “Oooooooh la la.”

  “Yeah, I was rubbing shoulders with the smart set. Not.”

  “Why’d you go? Or a better question might be, why’d you go and not invite me to tag along?”

  “Sorry again, Liv. I drove up with Gen. She’s an old college bud who nearly had to bail me out of jail Friday night.”

  “Good God. Was this before or after the fight with the hallway hunk? What’d you do, brawl downstairs before you came up here?”

  “No. It’s a long story.”

  “I’m torn between staying to hear it and being on time to make an entrance. Can I borrow this shirt?”

  “Of course. And sadly, I must admit it looks better on you than me. Where are you off to this evening?”

  “I told you days ago. Tuesday is drag night at Swish. I swear, your memory is in the toilet lately.”

  “It is. I completely forgot.”

  “I hope memory lapses and fighting with ravishing men aren’t indicators of early onset dementia. So, do you want to come along?”

  Bree laughed at both his serious assessment of her mental state and his sudden segue. She chose to ignore the former. “What, and compare myself to your friends, every last one more striking than me at my best?”

  Oliver smiled and batted his lashes. “You know we’re all jealous of you.”

  “Only because I have a vajayjay.”

  “We love you in spite of that, hon.”

  “Another time, but thanks. The past few days have left me without the will to party on.”

  “Sure you don’t want to talk?”

  “You’ll hear the story soon enough. Tonight I need to write.”

  “Somebody’s got to pay the mortgage, eh? Ohhhh kaaay. Smooch smooch.” He leaned in and bussed the air, then stood back to contemplate her.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been up to because you’re not saying, but the color in your rosy little cheeks is prettier than I’ve seen in a long time. I’d say Friday night’s corridor cutie is more fascinating than you’ll admit.” He bent and swept a pile of clothing off the bed, then disappeared back into the closet.