She wasn’t the first here this morning. A moving truck was being loaded at one space, a plump woman, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen and a man with a pot belly currently wrestling a sofa up the ramp. The man was shouting at the woman and boy, who weren’t lifting their end up as high as he’d like. The woman began screaming back just as Sophie carefully maneuvered through the narrow lane between truck and the storage spaces on the other side. She flinched at the language.
Around the corner, another woman seemed to be poking rather desultorily inside a space that was packed, literally, concrete floor to ceiling and bare-stud wall to wall with…well, household possessions, Sophie guessed, glimpsing the white side of some appliance as well the plush back of a chair, the top of an end table plus lots of cardboard boxes and some bright plastic tubs. If the poor woman was hoping to put her hands on one thing, Sophie didn’t envy her.
That was unit 3006. On the other side of the next aisle was…3093. The 4000s had to be here somewhere, didn’t they? And surely she’d spot Aunt Doreen’s aging white Corolla.
Sophie passed other tenants either putting more possessions into their rented spaces or taking them out. The place really was huge. There were occasional doors that likely opened to short hallways where tenants could access small spaces – maybe five by ten feet or ten by ten – but most units seemed be at least fifteen by twenty or more. And there were parking spaces for RVs, boats on trailers, cars covered by canvas, a horse trailer and… She stared. Good Lord, was that a carnival carousel? She’d swear it was.
A last jog, and she found herself facing a shorter row of buildings that formed an L to the rest of the facility. And yes, she was finally among the 4000s.
It wasn’t until she reached the end and turned again that she discovered a couple of units were caps to the rows, and 4079 was one of those. Aunt Doreen’s car was not parked in front. And she couldn’t miss the lock clipped over the hasp of the closed metal door designed to roll up.
Well, damn.
Sophie parked and tried her aunt’s number again. Four rings and she was back at voice mail. She had already left several messages. Wonderful. Well, she had the key and she was here, so why not open up and see for herself the stuff the auction committee had procured? Not to mention how well organized the amateur enthusiasts were.
But when she got out and tried fitting the key her aunt had given her last night into the lock, it didn’t fit. Not even close. Sophie frowned. The brand name on the key didn’t match the one on the lock, but she hadn’t expected it would. She knew her aunt had had copies made of the original keys so practically every member of the auction committee had one – something Sophie thought hadn’t been smart. So she supposed it was possible the keysmith hadn’t done a good job. But…so bad the key wouldn’t even go in the hole?
Had someone replaced the lock in the past few days? Without telling Doreen, who was the auction chair? That didn’t make sense unless the committee had decided to expel Doreen but hadn’t gotten around to telling her. And that seemed unlikely, given that Sophie’s aunt was the moving force behind the whole enormous effort.
Sophie drove back to the office she’d passed at the entrance and went in. A middle-aged woman behind the counter said, “You looking to rent a storage space?”
“No, I was expecting to meet my aunt – Doreen Stedmann – here at the space she rented…”
“Oh, you’re Doreen’s niece Sophie.” The woman beamed. “I’m Marge Hedgecoth. Why, Doreen talks about you all the time! Says you’re some kind of fancy event planner.”
“Well…”
“She was so excited that you were coming.” She frowned. “I haven’t seen her yet this morning, although I don’t open until ten, you know.”
Yes, Sophie had noticed the sign on the door. Tenants had access to their units from six a.m. until midnight with special arrangements required for other times, but office hours were more limited.
“She’s probably just late,” Sophie said, then explained that the key she’d been given didn’t fit into the lock. “I’m wondering if I might have written down the wrong number for the space.”
Marge verified that, indeed, the auction committee for the Save the Misty Beach campaign had rented number 4079, beginning in March when the first of the donations had begun pouring in.
“Well, Doreen gave me a key, which is unusual, but she wanted to be sure anyone who needed to drop something off could get in. So let me get my cart and I’ll follow you out there.”
She flipped the sign on the door to a picture of a clock that indicated she would be back in ten minutes and and climbed into a golf cart parked by the back door. Sophie was able this time to drive directly – more or less – to her aunt’s unit, which faced the chain link fence at the back of the property and the woods beyond. As Sophie parked again and got out, it occurred to her that it was really rather lonely back here, blocked by the bulk of the building from being seen by any other units except the one other that faced the same direction.
The golf cart arrived. A small, wiry woman with short, graying hair and skin that was beginning to look leathery, Marge got out and confidently poked her key at the lock.
“What in tarnation…?” she muttered.
Sophie saw immediately that she wasn’t having any better luck.
After a minute her hand dropped. The two women looked at each other in something approaching consternation. “Hmph,” she said. “I suppose they’re entitled to change the lock.”
“But Aunt Doreen gave me this key only last night. Could she have forgotten…?”
“Did you call her?”
“She’s not answering.” Sophie couldn’t put her finger on why she was so uneasy, but she was. “I went by her house first, and she wasn’t home. Her car wasn’t there, either.”
“I’ve a mind to cut that lock right off,” Marge declared.
Sophie stared at the metal door. “I’ll happily pay for a replacement lock.”
“Well, then, you just hold on and I’ll be back in two shakes.”
The morning was chilly enough Sophie began to pace. Wisps of fog lingered. If she went one way, she could see down the aisle at the far side of the property, which was currently empty. The other way, she could see the same people working in their units that she’d earlier passed. A few covered vehicles were parked back here, too. She ended up at the chain-link fence, staring into a forest that looked surprisingly primeval, considering how long this area had been settled and that it had likely been clear-cut at one time.
There wasn’t much forestry on this side of the coastal range anymore, though; winter storms and ocean winds kept trees small compared to farther inland and therefore unprofitable. These were hemlock, spruce and cedar, she thought, although she couldn’t have told a hemlock from a spruce from a fir, if the truth be told. The evergreens were underlaid with shrubbery, some native, some not. Oregon grape, she thought, the ubiquitous salmonberry, huckleberries, the ferns that loved the damp climate, and other bits of foliage and even a few late spring flowers she didn’t recognize.
Movement, caught by the corner of her eye, made her jump until she saw that a squirrel was scampering up the trunk of a tree. It paused on a branch to gaze at her with suspicion before darting out of sight.
She was smiling when Marge returned with a pair of lethal-looking bolt cutters.
Sophie hit re-dial on her phone and, at the sound of her aunt’s voice saying, “I’m too busy to take this call,” shook her head at Marge, who marched over to the door and applied the bolt cutters.
Marge appeared entirely too scrawny to cut through a quarter-inch or more of steel, but with a snap, the lock fell open. “There you go,” she said with satisfaction.
Sophie took the lock off, set it on the concrete to one side, turned the hasp and heaved the door up. With a squeal and clatter, it rolled on its tracks.
Beside her, Marge gasped.
The interior was shadowy and astonishingly full, but Sophie was instantly rivete
d by the mess. Boxes were open, items spilling out. Smashed ceramic and shattered glass sprinkled the concrete floor. A framed picture lay face down, glittering glass around it and a hole stomped through the back. Somebody had broken in, was all she could think. Rifled the contents without caring what was destroyed. What a disaster.
Dear God, Sophie thought in shock, had Aunt Doreen seen this? Might she have gone to the police?
The committee or her aunt had obviously bought multiple shelving units, the kind that could be easily assembled and then taken apart to be moved, because a number of them lined the walls. Most were still packed with boxes of assorted shapes. Peering in, Sophie saw framed pictures carelessly stacked to one side. Tall or awkward things filled the middle. Was that a cat climber? A huge basket that had been covered with cellophane spilled gourmet foodstuffs across the floor.
Along with her dismay at the implications of the mess, it was the clutter and the dim lighting that explained why her eyes didn’t immediately focus on the figure crumpled at the back. Even when she saw…what she saw…she rather stupidly gaped at the drying pool of a dark substance that had crept far enough from the – body? – to soak the corner of a cardboard box and possibly damage the contents.
It was only then, reluctantly, that her eyes focused on that ruined head, and she saw the face.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, at the same moment as Marge whirled, raced to the fence and lost her breakfast through it.
*****
The gate to the storage facility stood open when Daniel Colburn drove up in his squad car. Marge Hedgecoth stood just inside, waiting beside her golf cart. She didn’t look so good.
Rolling down his window, he asked, “You okay, Marge?”
She summoned a smile that didn’t help much. “I’ve been better.”
Daniel nodded. “Around back, you said?”
“Far corner.” She waved. “4079.”
“Once I see what’s what, I’ll need to talk to you.”
“Yes, Chief. I’ll be in the office.”
“Good,” he said. “In the meantime, I want you to shut down the gate. No calls, either,” he told her sternly. “Don’t let anyone in, or anyone out. Ask folks to wait until I can talk to them.”
She agreed. He figured he could trust her. He’d gotten to know Marge since he took on the job as police chief of Cape Trouble ten months ago. During his tenure, the fence around the facility had been cut a couple of times, a car stolen once, a lock cut off a unit and the contents ransacked another time. There’d been some vandalism. Marge was a tough lady.
He eyed the people he could see industriously doing whatever you did in a storage space, but drove directly to the far corner where Marge had told him the victim’s niece waited.
He noted the isolation of this particular unit and automatically scanned eaves and fence line for a camera. He knew there were several sprinkled throughout the facility and that Marge kept an eye on monitors during the day in her office. He’d arrested the idiot who drove away in the very collectible, shiny red, 1962 MG roadster by watching video footage that showed the guy clear as day. But – didn’t it figure? – Daniel didn’t see one back here.
The car parked to one side of the gaping door was a sleek, four-door blue Prius. A woman sat behind the wheel. She got out when he parked and walked to meet him.
His immediate reaction shook him a little. Crap. He liked to look at a sexy woman as well as the next guy, but this was piss poor timing. He couldn’t let himself forget that this woman was involved in some way with a death and therefore a potential investigation. And the feeling of a fist in the gut meant he was doing more than looking.
She wasn’t even beautiful, not exactly. Medium height but leggy, maybe a little short-waisted which might be making her breasts look bigger than they actually were. Wavy dark-blonde hair – yeah, he did like blondes – bundled carelessly up on the back of her head with tendrils already escaping. A pretty oval face without noticeable cheekbones but somehow…delicate. As they got closer, he saw how fine-textured her skin was.
Uh huh, and how waxy pale. His nose had already caught the scent of puke. Not surprising. Rookie cops invariably puked at their first murder scenes or after seeing the gruesome result of a major vehicular accident.
“Chief Daniel Colburn,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m afraid Marge didn’t mention your name.”
Her eyes were green. Hazel probably, but mostly green.
“Sophie Thomsen,” she told him. “That’s, um, my aunt in there.” She nodded sideways without looking into the storage unit. “Well, sort of my aunt.”
“Sort of?”
“She’s my stepmother’s sister. Doreen Stedmann.”
Oh, hell. “I know Doreen.”
Ms. Thomsen nodded unhappily. “Everyone in town does.”
“Please stay here while I take a look.”
She didn’t appear to be sorry to stay behind.
Daniel knew all about the auction, which was being held as part of the effort to raise the funds to buy a sizeable piece of land the other side of Mist River from town. Forty or fifty acres, he understood, of prime river- and ocean-front land that included forest, dunes, an old lodge and a string of cabins, now all but falling down. The long-time owner had passed away and his heir wanted to unload the property, which had resort chains salivating. Locals were determined to keep their pretty town pristine and save it from the evil giant condo developments that were sure to take over if that land was chopped into pieces and made available. The heir was apparently giving them a little time to raise the money. Daniel didn’t see much hope, but you never know.
Doreen Stedmann was a local character, an eccentric woman known as an activist but lacking real solid follow-through, gossips said. She started a lot of projects but finished few. From the bulging contents of the storage space, she’d been doing surprisingly well on this one.
Until somebody had gone berserk in here, that is. And until she’d died or decided to kill herself amongst the auction items, if that was what had happened. He hadn’t had the impression from Marge’s frantic call that there’d been an accident. She hadn’t asked for an aide car. She hadn’t even asked for police in a generic sense. She’d wanted him, Chief Colburn.
He stepped carefully around the clutter and the broken bits, trying not to touch anything, ready to begin revival efforts if there was any chance at all. But he could tell from twenty feet away that it was too late, and had been for a couple hours, at least. What’s more, Doreen hadn’t killed herself. Somebody had taken care of that for her. She was definitely dead, and the sight wasn’t pretty. No wonder the sort-of niece appeared about ready to keel over.
He stood for a long time, doing nothing but studying the scene. Taking in her position, the sizable dent in her head, the cord tied around her neck as a finishing touch. The hefty, cut crystal vase that had been tossed to one side and the blood and tissue that marred its sharp cut edges.
No obvious sign of a struggle. The auction stuff closest to her was still neatly piled. The cat climber might have been rocked; it sat unevenly now, one corner of the base on top of something he couldn’t see.
Why that cord around the neck? Symbolic, or had the killer been unsure the blow to the head did the job?
“Damn it,” he muttered, and carefully retraced his steps. Once in the open air, he made some calls, then turned to the niece who stood with her back to him, staring into the trees on the other side of the fence. He followed her gaze, scanning for an opening cut in the chain link, but didn’t see one. The ferns and salal and salmonberries appeared untrampled. Moisture from the mist glistened on leaves. From here, he couldn’t see the back gate required as an emergency entrance. He’d be wanting to verify that it was still locked as soon as he had a minute.
“Why don’t we sit in my vehicle,” he suggested. “I’ve got the medical examiner coming and some crime scene folks I’m borrowing from the county.”
She shivered and turned. “Yes. All
right.”
“Marge didn’t mention cutting the lock off,” he said thoughtfully. “When she called, she said only that you and she had found a dead woman. I was half-expecting a heart attack victim or suicide.”
Ms. Thomsen explained about the keys not fitting this lock, and how she’d felt uneasy when she couldn’t reach her aunt by phone after they’d made arrangements to get together this morning.
“I intended to change the lock anyway,” she admitted. “I gather that any number of people have keys right now, and that’s asking for trouble.”
That was one way of putting it, Daniel would concede. Murder probably wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, though. Unless, of course, after murdering her aunt she’d just happened to have a new lock in hand because she’d intended to replace the old one anyway.
A patient interview later, he thought he knew everything she’d done from the time she drove into town last night, but her reserve was so deep, he had to wonder what she wasn’t telling him. Either Sophie Thomsen was holding back on him, or she was one complicated woman. He was leaning toward the second explanation, because the one thing that rang clear was her affection for her shirt-tail aunt.
When he temporarily ran out of questions, she asked, “Was…was she strangled?”
“The cause of death will likely have to wait for the autopsy,” he said gently. “That head wound looks to me like it would have been fatal.”
A shudder wracked her, the most profound sign of distress she’d yet displayed. “I wonder if she saw it coming.”
“Likely not. It was on the back of her head.”
“I hope not,” Ms. Thomsen burst out. “I hope she had no idea.”
He hoped for the same. That way, Doreen’s death, while brutal, was also a good one. One minute, she was involved in life, productive, maybe happy, the next, wham, one blinding moment of pain and she was gone. No lingering, knowing her fate, no misery. There were certainly worse ways to go.
Whisper of Revenge (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 4) Page 26
