The Last Fairytale (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 2)

by Molly Greene

  The conversation was heated.

  She doused the headlights and pulled to the curb a few houses down. Her cell pinged. She answered in a whisper. “I can’t talk, Livvie.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I’m in Sausalito, kind of sneaking around. I’ll call you when I get out of here.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up until you tell me–”

  Bree cut him off. Liv would be put out with her, but she could coax him from his bad mood later. She started to turn off her phone, but changed her mind and tucked the cell beneath the floor mat, then eased out onto the road.

  The night was dark and silent. The neighborhood was deserted. The voices were gone. She walked back and hugged the hedge that separated the yard from the street. She eased forward until she gained the bottom of the drive.

  Bree curled her face around the shrubs to have a look and saw a movement in front of her. She reared back, but not soon enough. “Taylor?”

  A cloth was pressed over her mouth and nose. She tried to slap the hand away, but her attacker clenched her body tight.

  Her head felt thick. Her struggling slowed.

  Bree drew in a breath to scream, but the sound faded in her throat.

  She sank into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “This is Gen Delacourt.”

  “Hi my lovely, this is Oliver.”

  “What’s the news, Liv? Do I detect a little tension in your voice? Don’t tell me your friend’s dog died.”

  “No, not the dog. But you’re right, I’m nervous.” He hesitated. “Have you talked to Bree?”

  Gen saved the file she was working on, then powered off her laptop and stretched. A glance at the clock informed her it was later than she’d thought.

  “We spoke earlier,” she replied. “But I turned off my cell to catch up on paperwork and lost track of time.”

  “Do you know where she is? I have a bad feeling.”

  “What happened? She was going to Elergene. She might have called. Let me check.” She walked across the room with the handset to her ear and pulled the mobile from her bag, then turned it on.

  “Genny, I know your phone is off. I left five messages before I gave up and dug around in Bree’s stuff to find your card. That’s why I’m calling your land line.”

  “I’m looking at the message log now. She called a few hours ago. Let me see what she says.” Gen was silent for five beats. When she spoke again, her tone had changed from confident to concerned.

  “Liv, she says she thinks Vonnegon is up to something. She said she was going to follow him and she’d call me later. That was about five-thirty. It’s eight o’clock now. I don’t like it.”

  “Then you’re really not going to like this. I caught her live a while ago. She was whispering, said she was in Sausalito sneaking around, then she cut me off. That’s what she said, sneaking around.”

  “Have you called her again?”

  “Every fifteen minutes. Her cell is on, but she hasn’t picked up. She always takes my calls.”

  By then, Gen was wearing a path in the carpet from her desk to the front door. She was about to turn away from the windows when the street lights illuminated a familiar face.

  “Hold on. Garcia is outside. Maybe he was here to drop her off. I’ll flag him down and call you back. Hopefully this can all be explained.”

  She threw open the front door. “Garcia!”

  The detective pivoted on the sidewalk, took one look at Gen’s face, and hurried back. “What?”

  “Tell me you just dropped Bree off at her condo.”

  “No. What makes you think that?”

  “Clutching at straws.” She ushered him inside and closed the door. “Bree is missing.”

  “Define missing.”

  “She was with Vonnegon. Apparently she heard him say something suspicious and decided to follow him. That was about five-thirty. Our neighbor, Oliver, just told me he called her about an hour ago. She was whispering. Told him she couldn’t talk because she was sneaking around Sausalito. She hasn’t answered her phone since. Oliver and I both have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Didn’t I make it clear she was to stay out of it?”

  “She wants to write a feature story about Ducane’s death.” Gen gestured toward the back office and Garcia followed her in. “She didn’t want to tell you, thought you’d frown on it. Which you do, I can see it on your face.”

  “I understand your concern.” Garcia looked at his watch, then shoved his hands into his pockets and played with his loose change. “She’ll turn up. She’s probably just out with Vonnegon. Sounds like they’re getting cozy.”

  “She’s not playing footsies with Taylor Vonnegon, not from the sound of the message she left. She said she was following him in her own car.”

  “Does she have friends in North Bay? Is it typical for her not to pick up every call? Could she have been pulling your leg, just telling you a story about following someone to get you riled up?”

  “Her close friends are here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ninety-nine point nine percent sure.”

  “Is her cell still on?”

  Gen picked up the land line handset. “Let’s find out.” She keyed in Bree’s number and held the receiver to her ear. Six unanswered rings sent her call to voice mail.

  “Bree, this is Gen. Call me the minute you hear this message. I mean it, call me immediately.” She clicked the line off, returned the handset to its base, and sat down on the couch. “What do we do now?”

  “Let me think.” He went out to the lobby.

  Gen closed up the office and picked up her purse, then turned off the lights. They walked out the front door and she locked up behind them.

  “Let’s visit Vonnegon,” Garcia said. “If he’s not home and we still can’t reach either of them, we’ll track her phone.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Garcia’s unmarked Tahoe was parked at the curb a block north. Gen trailed him as his long stride covered the distance. She swung into the passenger seat and buckled up. Seconds later, he hurtled into traffic.

  “What were you doing down this way?”

  “Pardon?” He kept his eyes on the street.

  “At our building. What were you doing there?”

  He glanced at her as if he’d just remembered something, then swung his eyes back to the surrounding cars. “I wanted to see if I could catch Bree–” he hesitated. “Miss Butler at home. I had a question.”

  “What?”

  Gen could sense Garcia’s scowl despite the darkness. Sure enough, when they passed under a street light his expression clearly revealed his annoyance. She pressed him anyway.

  “Come on.”

  “Ducane’s tox screens came in a few days back. I needed to ask Miss Butler to look at photos of the crime scene and describe it to me again. I was curious if she might have seen something she didn’t think was significant at the time.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I knew what, I would’ve just called and asked her if she saw it.”

  “Come on, Garcia.”

  “I don’t want to plant any ideas in anyone’s head, I just wanted to ask a witness to describe what she saw in the room.”

  Gen tried another approach. “What did the tox screens show?”

  “We don’t want to release it to the public.”

  “I’m not the public, detective.”

  When cut his eyes to her again, Gen saw his resolve weakening. “I can’t have this getting out.”

  “You think I’m going to post it on Facebook?”

  Garcia sighed and gave in. “Ducane died from acute mycetism.”

  “Sounds like some kind of crazy disease.”

  “Mycetism refers to the harmful effects brought on by the ingestion of substances present in certain types of mushrooms.”

  Gen’s eyes went wide. “He was poisoned?”

  “Apparently he ate or d
rank something derived from toxic mushrooms. There was no actual mushroom tissue found in his stomach or intestines, and the compound itself isn’t anything the poison or drug people have seen.”

  “Does that point to Elergene?”

  “When we questioned Vonnegon yesterday, he blamed Ducane’s personal research. He says the kid was out to distill a psychoactive chemical on the sly, and the company had no knowledge of it until the break-in brought it to light.”

  “Do we believe him?”

  “Why would he risk his business and a lucrative government contract? It doesn’t make sense. A big company wouldn’t take a chance on creating a hallucinogenic drug that at best would have limited interest on the black market. I think we can chalk it up to personal dabbling on Ducane’s part. It wouldn’t be the first time a company geek got curious.”

  “You have a point.” Gen shifted in her seat. “Garcia, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Go on.”

  “When we gave you the tip about Catherine Robeson’s last address? We’d already been there. We found an active grow room in the garage.”

  Garcia jerked his head to look at her and the wheel mimicked his motion. The car swerved. Gen grabbed the edge of her seat. Garcia blew out an expletive and yanked them back into the lane.

  “Maybe I should have mentioned this sooner.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was grim. “Tell me the rest.”

  “Someone was growing mushrooms in that room off the garage. In a big way.”

  He struck the wheel with the flat of his hand.

  “It was a sophisticated set-up,” she continued. You saw the rolling stock. It was filled with some kind of mulchy soil. The place was cool. Kind of humid. Looks like they knew what they were doing.”

  “Damn straight he knew what he was doing. Ducane was on the team that created the system at Elergene.”

  “Did Vonnegon tell you exactly what Elergene’s research was all about?”

  “No, just that it’s a classified government-related operation.”

  “Well, it looks like Ducane took a deep interest in his work. How were we to know his partners would clean the place out? I’m still wondering how anyone knew we were there.”

  “Somebody’s been one step ahead of us all along. I’m getting tired of it. I want Russell Yates and Catherine Robeson. I want answers.”

  “I want to know where Bree is.”

  “As far as we know, Vonnegon was the last one to see her. So that’s where we start.”

  When they passed Huntington Park, Garcia slowed and began to search for a parking place in the ritzy Nob Hill neighborhood. He jockeyed the SUV into a spot hardly longer than the vehicle itself, and they were both out of the car and on the sidewalk.

  “Over here.”

  Garcia led her across the street to an upscale, remodeled Victorian. They climbed the front steps.

  “I’ll do the talking.”

  Gen nodded and hung back while Garcia pummeled the bell. A maid answered. He spoke to her in Spanish and she opened the door, then led them to the living room.

  Vonnegon was reading in a silk-upholstered wing chair. “It’s late for a social call.” He put down the newspaper and stood, then raised his eyebrows at the maid. She left the room.

  Garcia skipped the small talk. “You were with Cambria Butler this afternoon. Do you have any idea where she is now?”

  “No.” Vonnegon looked concerned. “Has something happened?” He glanced at a clock on the side table. “I dropped Bree at her car hours ago.”

  Gen had pegged him early on for caring about Bree. Now she prayed she was right.

  “We can’t locate her,” Garcia replied. “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “This is troubling.” Vonnegon returned to his chair. “Please take a seat, I find it difficult to have you two glaring at me. Do you think I’ve done something to her?”

  “We’re here because we believe you were the last one to see her today. It’s the obvious place to start.”

  “Miss Butler and I spent a lovely hour and a half at the Fairmont. She came to see me at my office, and I invited her to accompany me there.”

  “Why did she come to your office?”

  “She had questions about Andrew Ducane.”

  Garcia’s eyes slid to Gen, and he sounded irritated when he spoke again. “Did she drive to the hotel?”

  “We took my car and left hers in the Elergene garage. I had a matter to deal with afterward, so I dropped her back there around dusk. I would say it was after five.”

  “And where did you go when you left her?”

  “To Sausalito.”

  “Why?”

  Vonnegon blinked. “Detective, do you suspect me of doing her harm?”

  “Should we?”

  “Of course not. I’m quite fond of her. She was happy and healthy when we parted. We–” He hesitated but did not look away. “We kissed. We made a dinner date for this weekend.”

  At that, Garcia looked decidedly grim. “What were you doing in Sausalito?”

  “I had a discussion with tenants who rent a house my mother owns there. Trash is piling up in the yard, and the neighbors are complaining. She’s talked to them about it, but the message seems to be falling on deaf ears. So I went to tell them they had fifteen days to rectify the situation, or they’d be served eviction papers.”

  “Do you always handle tenant situations in person?”

  “Never. This was a first.”

  “Why this time?”

  “They upset my mother. There’s often hell to pay when someone upsets my mother.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bree dreamed she was swimming to the surface of a deep, dark pool. When she opened her eyes, an unfamiliar room shimmered into view. It was dark but for a prick of light from a dim bulb on the opposite wall. Where was she?

  For one sweet moment she was unafraid. Then she searched her memory, and what happened in the hills above Sausalito came back with a rush. She recalled the sweet smell and arms holding her captive. The rag on her mouth and nose must have been saturated with a drug.

  Everything after that was a blank.

  Until now.

  Her mouth was covered with tape. She was lying on a bunk. The layout of the room and the drone of machinery somewhere aboard told her she was in the cabin of a boat. She sat up too fast and struck the bulkhead.

  When she raised her arm, she discovered her hands were bound. Fear rushed through her. She felt gut-shot with adrenaline. She struggled upright and looked at her feet.

  Duct tape.

  Bree panicked, and cohesive thought unraveled like a thread from a well-knit sweater. She rose to her feet, screaming behind the tape, then crashed to the floor to writhe and weep until the initial surge of terror began to pass.

  She sucked deep breaths through her nose and thought. She needed a plan. A cool head was the only thing that would get her out alive, because one thing was clear: no one would go to all this trouble just to let her go.

  Bolstered by a flood of will, Bree fought to right herself, then sat on the bunk and breathed steadily.

  Her hands were bound, palms together.

  She opened her mouth wide and pushed her tongue against the tape, then picked at the silver edges with her nails. The strip across her face began to pull away; she stopped. She was sure she could remove it.

  Now she needed to sever the strips on her hands and legs. There was no way to know how much time was left, and freeing her hands was the only way she could escape.

  She pushed herself upright against the bunk, then swung over and clung to the cabinetry opposite the bed. She scooted her feet across the aisle, grasped the handle of the top drawer, and pulled it open.

  Paper. All she could see was paper.

  She shuffled the documents aside and felt beneath them. A pen, paperclips. She was trying to think of a way these everyday things could help when she hit pay dirt. On its side in the back of the drawer was an old-fa
shioned paper holder made from a thin, sharp metal rod on a wooden base.

  She stood it up and eased her hands over it. The spike punched up and down, forming a line of tiny perforations in the bindings around her wrists.

  When she heard footsteps approach, she shoved the drawer closed and fell on the bunk, then crabbed back into the far corner just as the cabin door was flung open. Two men descended the stairs. One wore a dry suit hood, the other a ski mask.

  They made directly for her.

  Bree bent her knees and kicked out wildly, but they easily overpowered her. One man hoisted her by the arms. The other grabbed her feet. They dragged her from the cubby, then carried her upstairs like a slab of meat.

  Upstairs, they tossed her carelessly onto a bench and her breath was knocked out by the blow. Bree grunted with pain and sucked in noisy nosefuls of air to re-fill her lungs.

  As one man dimmed the light illuminating the upper deck, Bree sat up and tucked her legs beneath her. She pushed back against the rail and looked over her shoulder. The boat was moving slowly through the water. The endless ocean spilled around the hull.

  Her eyes slid back to the men.

  Ski mask was facing her. When she saw the gun, she drew in one last breath and rocked forward on her knees, then drove her body up with every ounce of strength she had.

  It was enough. Momentum carried her over the rail. She arched her back and dove into the sea.

  Muffled shouts sounded as Bree hit the water. The boat slid by. A volley of shots rang out, pinging into the ocean around her.

  Boomboomboomboomboom.

  * * *

  Garcia and Gen hurried back to the Tahoe and climbed in.

  “What now?” Gen heard the ragged edge to her words and steadied her voice before she spoke again. “It sounds like Bree overreacted.”

  “Sounds like it.” Garcia was already a block away, winding his way among a mob of vehicles. “Maybe we are, too. Call the neighbor and ask him to pound on her door and see if she’s back yet. If she doesn’t answer, tell him to check the garage and see if her car is there.”