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.
Which did not mean he felt any more merciful toward the man or woman who’d killed this decent woman for no justifiable reason.
“It had to be quick,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her suffering.”
Some of the tension left Ms. Thomsen’s shoulders. “Thank you for telling me that.”
He nodded.
She breathed audibly for a minute. He was about to make his excuses when she said, “Does the gate record when people come and go? Or does everyone have the same code?”
Interesting that she was thinking so analytically. Almost like a cop.
“No, each tenant has a unique code.” He already knew that much, from previous investigations. “So the answer is yes, we’ll be able to pinpoint arrivals and departures based on what code they used.” Maybe. The gate moved with ponderous slowness. He’d observed before that two or even three cars could pass through once it opened. If the guy was patient, he could have ridden someone else’s tail coming and going and left no record of his presence at all. “You’re wondering where your aunt’s car is.”
“Well…yes.”
He’d been mulling that over himself, and now said, “I had a thought about that.” He jumped out of his squad car and walked over to the row of vehicles that were being parked here presumably because of the security. He ignored the RV on the end and the camper next to it, as well as the aging but well-cared-for Cadillac that inexplicably lacked a cover. Nope, it was the vehicle on the end that was hidden under a canvas tarpaulin. He lifted one side only enough to confirm his suspicion, then let it drop.
Ms. Thomsen had gotten out, too, he saw, and stood watching him.
“White Corolla, rusting bumper?”
Looking numb, she nodded.
“The question is, how did he get out of here?”
“Or her.”
He looked at the niece.
“From what I can gather, most of the people working on the auction are women. Doreen has mentioned only a couple of men.”
She blanched at speaking her aunt’s name, but hadn’t let herself cry yet. He’d begun to suspect she wasn’t the one who’d puked. Marge had looked considerably more rattled than this woman when he arrived.
Ignoring the approaching sirens, he asked, “Why do you assume the killer is an auction volunteer?”
She frowned. “Are you suggesting it was someone who just happened to wander by?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “There were a whole bunch of people already inside the gates when I got here. What if they leave?”
“Marge won’t let ‘em.” He turned when a white van rolled around the corner and stopped behind his city car. “The troops are here, Ms. Thomsen. You said you’re staying at the Harrison cottage? Why don’t you go back there, and I’ll be by to update you later. Say, mid-afternoon.”
She gave a half nod, then changed her mind. “Will you ask everyone to be really careful when they’re working in there? I’d hate to see anything else get broken.”
He stared at her, struck by her coldness. “Why would you care at this point?”
She transferred her stare to him, startling him with the pure ferocity in her eyes. “Because Aunt Doreen cared. She cared a whole lot. And I’m thinking the only thing I can do for her now is finish something that mattered to her. Make it my memorial to her. That, Chief Colburn, is why I care.”
After a minute, he said, “Got it.”
She nodded and walked to her Prius. For maybe thirty seconds his brainwaves altered, letting him see only her. The confidence of her stride, the delicacy of her bone structure, the sway of her hips in snug jeans, the way she carried herself with shoulders squared and head high. Then he blinked and called, “Wait!”
He lifted a hand at the two men and one woman who’d gotten out of the van, but jogged to Ms. Thomsen.
“Is there any chance you – or someone – have a list of what should be in there?”
“Yes, in theory.”
He raised his eyebrows at that.
She grimaced. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. It became apparent to me, talking to Doreen, that while the group was doing a heck of a job begging donations, they weren’t doing nearly so well organizing the stuff once they had it. Apparently somebody had volunteered to enter donations as they came in and work on a catalog, but she’s been full of excuses and not really doing it.”
“And who would that be?”
“Rhonda…Rhoda…something.” She lifted her hands. “I have a list of volunteers with contact info back at the cottage. I haven’t met any of them yet, except for a few I already knew from visits to Doreen.”
“All right,” he said. “See what kind of inventory you do have, too.” He stared at the daunting contents of the storage locker. “Do me a favor, though. Please don’t call any of the other volunteers or accept any calls. In fact, don’t talk to anyone, okay? I’ll want to give each of them the news myself.”
Still remarkably composed, she nodded. “I wonder what happened to the lock.”
“I think the fact that the lock was replaced suggests the killing of your aunt was thoroughly premeditated. He – or she – came prepared. The replaced lock was likely intended to slow down the discovery of the body. Any volunteers who came out here would be puzzled and possibly annoyed because their keys didn’t work, but most of them wouldn’t have demanded Marge cut the lock off.” Which, the more he thought about it, made Ms. Thomsen an unlikely killer. Why would she put the damn lock on, then immediately insist Marge cut it off?
“No. No, I suppose not.” She hugged herself. “No.” She stole a look toward the cluster of people now waiting for him outside the space and the grim sight past them, then hurried the rest of the way to her Prius.
A moment later, she drove around the corner of the building without looking back.
CHAPTER TWO
The cottage her aunt had rented for Sophie for the month was a perfect dollhouse. It probably dated to more like the 1940s than the turn-of-the-century, but the lavender paint job with trim in deep purple, white and sunny yellow gave it a Victorian feel. The yard wasn’t big, but the garden was beautiful and at its most glorious right now with antique roses, delphiniums, foxgloves and poppies in bloom. A white picket fence bounded the front yard, the walkway from the street entering beneath an arch covered by a pale pink, single-petaled climbing rose tangled with a clematis that had dinner-plate sized sky-blue flowers. Sophie wasn’t a gardener – she lived in a condo in Portland – but even she could appreciate the beauty of this yard, maintained by the owner.
At first she huddled inside, sipping tea to combat the chill that had settled inside her, but eventually the sun did come out and she took her third cup of tea out onto the tiny brick patio in back. It was soothing listening to bees hum gently as they moved from bloom to bloom. Even more powerful than the fragrance of the roses was the smell of the ocean, salty and slightly fishy. The muted roar of the surf was constant, too, part of life here. She remembered how, after each summer spent here, she’d had trouble sleeping when they went home after Labor Day weekend. She’d felt the absence of the ocean’s rhythm as if some essential function of her own body had ceased.
But after that summer – yes, After – she would forever find the sound to be ominous rather than soothing.
The cottage was situated closer to the river than Sophie liked, and she’d been relieved to discover there was no view that direction. Coming and going, she wouldn’t have to look across the river at the row of cabins on the other side. She had become quite good on her occasional visits here to Cape Trouble at not seeing the old resort, the pier, the driftwood-tumbled ba
nks of the river or the roll of sand dunes that, who knows why, had been formed by the Pacific ocean only on the south side of the river. Tourists, of course, made their way onto the dunes even though the land was marked No Trespassing out by the highway, but when had that ever stopped anyone? These were puny compared to the magnificent dunes by Florence, but were fun nonetheless for kids to slide down on pieces of cardboard or plastic disks. According to Aunt Doreen, the dunes and the native reeds that grew around them were sometimes torn up by ATVs. Sophie doubted the Cape Trouble patrol officers paid much attention to the long-abandoned resort, cut off as it was by the river from the rest of the town.
Another of those shivers rattled Sophie’s teeth and she rose to get a sweater. She’d forgotten how cold the ocean air was. Ninety degree days in Portland were likely to be seventy here on the coast.
She’d already pored over the file of information Doreen had given her last night. She’d have liked to have gone by her aunt’s cottage to see what else she could find, but suspected Chief Colburn wouldn’t appreciate her using the key Doreen kept under a plant pot.
When she kept shivering even after she’d pulled the sweater over her long-sleeved T-shirt, Sophie realized she was in shock. That must be why she felt so peculiar. Or, more accurately, why she didn’t feel what she knew she should be.
Her mind shied from remembering her aunt’s body, the pool of congealed blood, or the one, awful glimpse she’d had of Aunt Doreen’s staring eyes. It didn’t shy quite fast enough, though, and her teeth gave a quick clatter.
She was the only person in the world I truly loved. The only person who truly loved me.
The knowledge was stark, too big for her to face yet. She’d never let herself think about what it would be like when Doreen was gone. How could she, without accepting how alone she was?
Her father was alive, but he’d abandoned her emotionally from the moment her mother died. If it had only been grief, she might have forgiven him later, but then he’d remarried less than a year later. Julie, the woman he married, hadn’t displayed any interest in mothering the shocked, withdrawn little girl Sophie had been. The only positive of acquiring a stepmother was Julie’s sister, brisk, brusque, odd but somehow comforting.
Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 2
