It's Murder, My Son (A Mac Faraday Mystery)

by Carr, Lauren

  It’s Murder, My Son

  A Mac Faraday Mystery

  By

  Lauren Carr

  It’s Murder, My Son

  By Lauren Carr

  All Rights Reserved © 2011 by Lauren Carr

  Kindle Edition

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

  For Information Call: 304-285-8205

  or E-mail: writerlaurencarr@comcast.net

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  With Love,

  To Jack,

  My King of the Beasts

  Prologue

  Deep Creek Lake in Spencer, Maryland

  The sitcom was senseless. That didn’t matter. Katrina was too tense to handle anything with depth. The hot bath and martini had failed to soothe her nerves. She ran the water until steam filled the master bathroom.

  The weather channel had predicted that the severe winter storm would hit around midnight and continue through the next day. Spotting storm clouds on the horizon, Katrina anticipated waking to white-out conditions. Buried in a thick white blanket would be her last memory of Deep Creek Lake.

  After a long soak in the tub, Katrina slipped into her red silk bathrobe and combed out her long black hair. Tenderly, she rubbed the most expensive anti-aging moisturizer over each inch of her olive flesh.

  Her beauty had earned her millions. That made it worth preserving at all costs.

  Time for a third martini before bed. She wondered if she would hear from her husband before she fell asleep. He had told her that he would be working late in the city.

  Like I don’t know what you’ve been working late on. Go ahead. Get snowed in with Rachel for Valentine’s Day. Enjoy it while you can.

  After completing her nightly beauty routine, she returned downstairs to the home theater where she got sucked into a verbal exchange between a husband and wife about their teenage son’s sexy girlfriend.

  A noise outside made her jump out of the recliner.

  She glanced at the clock.

  Almost nine. Could Chad have decided to come out when I mentioned my appointment with the divorce lawyer? Maybe he does love my money more than he loves Rachel.

  She listened. Nothing except the wind signaling the blizzard’s approach.

  Maybe I should call David? No. It wouldn’t look good if Chad found him here. He’s already suspicious.

  The German shepherd began scratching at the back door.

  Not again, you damn dog! When you aren’t wanting out or in, you’re digging up the back yard.

  With a groan, she pulled herself out of the recliner and let the dog out onto the patio. As long as she was up, she poured herself another martini and admired her reflection in the mirror behind the bar before returning to her seat for another sitcom.

  Her mind sucked in by the television, Katrina was unprepared to fight when her killer attacked and pinned her down by her throat.

  “Did you really think I was going to let you leave?” she heard through the roar in her ears while gasping her last breath.

  Chapter One

  Three Months Later

  The Valentine’s Day blizzard that had paralyzed the East Coast for almost a week was only a memory when Mac Faraday drove between the stone pillars marking the entrance to Spencer Manor.

  In the heart of Maryland, the cedar and stone home rested at the end of the most expensive piece of real estate on Deep Creek Lake. The peninsula housed a half-dozen lake houses that grew in size and grandeur along the stretch of Spencer Court. The road ended at the stone pillars marking the multi-million dollar estate that had been the birthplace and home of the late Robin Spencer, one of the world’s most famous authors.

  While packing up his handful of belongings in his two-bedroom, third-floor walk-up in Georgetown, Mac Faraday envisioned his arrival into high society:

  He would pull up to the front door of Spencer Manor in his red Dodge Viper. Then, the front doors would open and Ed Willingham, the senior partner of Willingham and Associates, would welcome him into his new home. Ed was the first attorney Mac liked. He sensed it had something to do with Ed working for him.

  Everything happened as Mac had envisioned until Ed opened the front door and released a hundred pounds of fur and teeth that shot like a bullet aimed at the man in the roadster.

  “No! Come back here! Stay!” the lawyer seemed to beg the German shepherd, which landed in the front passenger seat of Mac’s convertible in a single bound.

  Mac felt the beast’s hot breath on his cheek while they spilled into the stone driveway. He shoved against the canine straddling his chest to keep him from ripping his throat open.

  In a flash, his thoughts raced back to the event that had brought him to this moment.

  Mac’s twenty-year marriage had ended with the single pound of a judge’s gavel. Even though his wife had left him for another man, the judge had awarded their home and everything of value to her. Mac had received the credit card debt that she had racked up after tossing him out of their home. After the hearing, Mac had made an appointment to meet with his lawyer to arrange for the next legal proceeding: bankruptcy.

  Ed Willingham had cornered Mac on his way out of the courtroom. Assuming that the silver-haired gentleman had been sent by his now ex-wife’s lover to deliver another round of legal torture, Mac Faraday had escaped and hurried away.

  After jogging three city blocks in Washington, DC traffic, Mac had felt sorry for the sweaty little man chasing after him. When he had turned around to face him, Mac had noticed that this lawyer wore the expression of a child bursting to tell his secret, which would change his life forever.

  The teenage girl who had given him up for adoption forty-five years earlier had grown up to become Robin Spencer. Upon her death weeks earlier, America’s Queen of Mystery had left her vast fortune to her illegitimate son, an underpaid homicide detective named Mac Faraday.

  Nobody had told him that a man-eating dog was part of that inheritance.

  A high-pitched whistle broke through his screaming and the shepherd’s barking.

  The canine froze.

  “Gnarly, get off him!” Mac heard yelled in a feminine, but firm, tone.

  The German shepherd paused.

  “Yes, I’m talking to you.” She seemed to respond to the dog’s nonverbal question.

  As if weighing his options, Gnarly glared down at his quarry.

  Through his fear, Mac noticed that the dog’s brown face was trimmed in silver. His fingers dug into Gnarly’s thick golden mane. He would have thought Gnarly was a beautiful animal if he wasn’t trying to mutilate him.

  “Mac is your new master,” the woman back on the porch told the dog. “What have I told you about biting the hand that feeds you?”

  The dog uttered a noise that sounded like “Humph!” before climbing off Mac’s chest and disappearing around the front of the roadster.

  Sighing with relief, Mac pushed himself up onto his elbows.

  Keeping as far from the beast as possible, Ed Willingham rushed around the rear of the car to help him climb to his feet. “Mac, I am so sorry. I never expected Gnarly to react like that. Your mother always called him a pussy cat.”

  “That was no pussy cat.” Mac clutched his chest where Gnarly’s paws had threatened to crush his ribs. He glanced
around for the woman who had saved his life. “Who called him off me?”

  “That’s Archie.” Ed led him by the elbow up the porch steps and into the foyer of the manor. “She comes with the house.”

  “What do you mean she comes with the house?” Before Ed could explain, Mac sucked in a deep breath when the reality of what he had come into struck him with full force.

  The front foyer of Spencer Manor stretched up two stories to the cathedral ceiling paneled in cedar. Granite slabs made up the floors throughout the home, including the three steps that led down to the dining room which opened up onto the deck overlooking the lake. Colorful afghans were draped across leather furniture in the living room, which was twice the size of the one in the home Mac’s ex-wife had won from him thirty days earlier. Stone fireplaces commanded every room. Every window and door provided a view of Deep Creek Lake.

  The scent of leather and cedar seemed to wrap around him like a soft blanket welcoming its lost son home.

  Candid photographs of people Mac didn’t know and memorabilia dating back generations littered the mantles, walls, and end tables. He wondered what connection these things had in his and his grown son’s and daughter’s roots.

  Outside on the deck, a petite woman with shortly-cropped blond hair set a table for lunch. Even though the season had yet to shake the chill from winter, her skin was golden from the sun. Ankle bracelets jeweled her bare feet. Her white shorts and short-sleeved top contrasted with the jeans and jacket Mac wore for protection against the cool breezes that swept in off the lake.

  “Archie was Robin’s editor and assistant. She’s lived in the guest cottage for years,” Edward explained. “She receives a check every month from a trust fund Robin left her; plus, she gets to live in the guest cottage for as long as she wants.” He clarified, “She’s been taking care of the estate and Robin’s dog, Gnarly. He’s now yours. Good luck with that character.”

  “He’s going to need it,” Mac muttered about the German shepherd following at Archie’s heels. With food on the scene, the dog seemed to have forgotten about him.

  Inside the living room, Mac stopped before a life-sized portrait hanging over the stone fireplace. The image was that of a man, dressed in stylishly casual clothes, sitting in a wingbacked leather chair. Gray touched the temples of his auburn hair. His facial features included chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw. His blue eyes seemed to jump out of the painting. A German shepherd sat at attention by his side.

  The resemblance between Mac and the man in the painting was striking.

  “That’s not you,” Ed told him. “Robin had that portrait done over fifteen years ago. It’s her vision of Mickey Forsythe, the detective in most of her books, and Diablo, his dog.” He added, “Uncanny resemblance, huh?”

  Mac felt a chill go down his spine. “Weird.”

  “Your ancestors founded Spencer back in the 1800s,” Ed explained. “They were millionaires by the 1920s when the electric company put in the dam and built the lake. After that, Spencer became a resort town. One of the most luxurious hotels in the country is the Spencer Inn. Robin’s grandfather had built it and passed it down to her, but she preferred murder to business.” The attorney sighed with a smile. “Robin wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t involve a dead body.”

  “Now I know where I get it,” Mac replied.

  “Lunch is ready,” Archie stepped in from the deck to announce.

  Claiming he couldn’t stay due to an appointment in the city, Ed handed Mac two sets of keys before speeding away in his Jaguar.

  “Hungry?” Archie had prepared salmon and salad.

  The smell of mesquite filled the air. Mac noticed a fire in the outdoor stone fireplace that took up a corner of the deck. She had cooked the fish on a grill over the open flames.

  As if to answer her, Gnarly jumped up to snatch the salmon from one of the plates. Archie turned around in time to see him gulping it down. “Gnarly! Bad dog!” Done with his meal, the dog sniffed along the edge of the table to see if it held anything else worth stealing. “Stop it!” She swatted the dog’s rump. “Go lay down.”

  After backing up a single step, Gnarly sat with his eyes trained on the table.

  “He’s a bad dog,” she said. “But he’s really very loveable.” She patted Gnarly on the top of his head. She offered Mac her lunch, which he continued to decline until she offered to split it.

  On his way to the table, he stopped at the deck railing to take in the view.

  Boulders lined the shoreline of Spencer Point. At the very tip of the peninsula, the boulders had been lined up to support a wooden walkway leading to a gazebo housing a hot tub set in the lake. Trees along the lake provided privacy without cutting off the view.

  A path off one end of the deck led to Archie’s log cottage tucked into the corner of the property. Surrounded by a floral garden, it resembled a grown-up version of a little girl’s playhouse.

  “Beautiful,” Mac breathed.

  “Robin loved this place. She had traveled all over the world, but she thought this was the most beautiful place of all. She wanted you to enjoy it the way she did.” When Archie turned to lead him to the table, he caught a whiff of her scent. She smelled like the roses in the garden.

  Offering him the seat facing the lake, she sat across from him. “I thought that since we’re going to be living here together, the least I could do was welcome you with a nice lunch.” She smiled. “From here on out, you’re on your own when it comes to cooking.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Mac sipped the water. “I’m a rotten cook. I’ve been living on take out since my wife and I split up.”

  “That stuff can kill you. You might want to consider hiring a housekeeper and cook. Robin didn’t have one because she liked doing that stuff for herself. She had a cleaning lady come in once a week, but that was it as far as household staff. Last summer, the cleaning lady got married and moved to Maine. Robin never got around to replacing her. As big as this house is, you’ll need a housekeeper.”

  “How much do housekeepers cost?” he asked.

  Her laughter reminded him that with the two hundred and seventy million dollars Robin Spencer had left him, he could easily pay the going rate for any maid service. In an effort to take the attention away from his goof, he asked her, “What kind of name is Archie for a girl?”

  “Archie is what Robin called me. My real name is R. C. Monday.”

  “R. C. Monday?” Mac asked. “What does R. C. stand for?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly. “Robin loved it. She said I was her Archie. Everyone else took up on it and that’s what they call me. Do you remember Nero Wolfe?”

  “Who’s Nero Wolfe?”

  Her smile dropped. She blinked at him in disbelief. “Nero Wolfe. The Fat Man. His mysteries are a classic.”

  Again, Mac’s cheeks felt warm. “I’m afraid I’m not up on murder mysteries. Most of the reading I’ve done is to study murder cases and forensics. Only in the last month, since I found out that Robin Spencer was my mother, have I been reading her books. It takes a long time to read eighty-seven books, five plays, and watch twenty-eight movies based on her books.”

  “Plus, her journal,” Archie said.

  “You know about her journal?”

  “Robin and I were close. She was like a mother to me,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Since you know about it, then would I be correct in assuming that you knew about me before all this happened?”

  “I’m the one who found you for her. It took me less than three weeks.” One corner of her lip curled up. “But I have to admit that it was Robin’s idea to meet you by calling your police department with a story about basing her new detective on Georgetown’s top homicide detective. Once she was alone with you, it was a cinch for her to collect your DNA to confirm that you were her son.”

  Mac shook his head at the cleverness of it all.

  Five years earlier, he had felt honored when his supervisor had chosen h
im to meet Robin Spencer at the Four Seasons to answer questions for her book research. The celebrated author’s cutting wit had caught him off guard. They had lunched on burgers and eaten ice cream for dessert. Before he knew it, the afternoon was over and Robin had invited him to have dinner with her as well. Claiming to want to know everything in order to create a realistic character, she had interviewed him about his childhood and family. The next day, she had sent him a basket of fruit and a thank you card.

  Ed Willingham had told Mac that Robin took the spoon he had used to eat his ice cream to a private lab to compare his DNA to hers to determine if he was her son. At the time, the thought had never occurred to him that he had spent the day with the birth mother who had given him up for adoption over four decades earlier.

  Archie interrupted his thoughts by saying, “I know all about you.” She fed her last bite of salmon to Gnarly, who wolfed it down without tasting it.

  Mac enjoyed her playful nature. “What exactly do you know?”

  “You had the best arrest record in DC, but that didn’t matter much after Freddie Gibbons Jr. flew off into the sunset on his daddy’s private jet. After that, no one looked good and you were made the scapegoat.”

  Mac lost his appetite.

  She leaned across the table in his direction. “Who do you think gave Frederick Gibbons the heads up that the grand jury was about to indict his little boy of being the Rock Creek Park serial rapist?” she whispered as if someone else was on the deck to overhear their discussion.

  “Didn’t matter who gave Gibbons the heads up. According to my boss, it was my fault that he got away,” he said, even though he knew the fault didn’t belong to him.

  “Do you mean Harold Fitzwater?”

  That startled him. She even knew the name of his supervisor in Georgetown.

  “Don’t you think Stephen Maguire handling the indictment was a conflict of interest?” she asked. “They were fraternity brothers and roommates at George Washington University.”