“Ms. Thomsen mentioned that you’d stopped by to extend your condolences.”
“And tell her I’d keep my end of the bargain if the committee planned to go on. Sounds like she’s the reason they are.”
“Somebody else might have stepped in,” Daniel murmured, although he doubted it. No one else had the expertise to take over. For all Doreen’s passion, Daniel couldn’t see how the auction would have come off successfully without her bringing in someone like Sophie.
“Could be.” Billington sounded doubtful.
“Did you remember her?” Daniel asked, as if the possibility had just come to him.
“Sophie?” Billington laced thick fingers over a still flat belly. “Sure. I worked for my uncle summers in those days. Sophie and her mother were here for three months every year. She was a cute kid.”
“I hear she looks a little like her mother.”
The guy sat quiet for a moment. “More than a little. Kinda startled me when I saw her.”
“Mother must have been a pretty woman.” Daniel kept his tone relaxed. Just making conversation.
“Oh, yeah. All the young guys working here talked about her, wondered if her husband knew what he was doing, leaving her by herself so much.”
“But she wasn’t by herself, was she?”
“What?” Those dark eyes cut his way. “Oh. You mean the kid. No, you’re right.”
“Did she seem like a woman who was looking around for diversion?”
He shrugged. “There were a few times I wondered, but it was probably wishful thinking. Truth is, she was a little bit of a snob. Running a resort, you get a lot of those. Guys like me, we were supposed to be grateful because she smiled nicely when she said thank you for the clean towels.”
He was speaking easily, as if he didn’t mind, but a man didn’t say something like that without meaning it. Daniel hid what he was thinking, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled. This man still nursed some bitterness, Daniel felt sure. Like Elias Burton, Benjamin had imagined himself in love or at least lust with Michelle Thomsen that summer, if not before. Wanting her, and unhappy because she didn’t see him that way.
“Wonder what she’d think if she knew this was all mine now,” he mused.
“I imagine she’d be pleased with what you’re doing to save a place she must have loved,” Daniel suggested.
“I’d like to think so.” He gazed out at the ocean, his eyes unfocused. “Interesting her daughter is back here at the same time I am.”
Daniel wanted nothing so much as to stand up and leave. Call it an over-reaction, but he didn’t like the way Billington talked about Michelle, and he hated the thought of Sophie having any dealings with him. If she did, by God he’d be at her side, he resolved.
Long practice allowed him to stay relaxed, expressing only mild curious. “You must have been here when her mother was killed?”
The guy turned his head sharply enough to give himself whiplash. “Was killed? What’s that supposed to mean? The sheriff said she killed herself.”
“Right.” Daniel allowed an eyebrow to arch. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”
“I was here,” he said tersely, then seemed to realize something more was called for. “One of the other guys who worked here and I were the first people to get to Sophie.”
“Would that be the artist?”
“Burton? Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Somebody told me the other day that he’d worked here that summer. He must have just been a kid.”
“Old enough to pant after Michelle,” Benjamin said with disgust, before giving Daniel a swift glance. “She told us to call her that. Summers aren’t for missus, she said.”
They talked some more, but confidences seemed to be at an end. Daniel was very aware that Billington stayed on the front porch watching as he went to his squad car, got in and drove away. Mrs. Billington never had made an appearance.
Summers aren’t for missus. What had Benjamin meant to imply by that? Daniel wondered. Only that she had laughingly told the resort employees to call her by her first name? Or had she been hinting at something more?
It was also possible that Billington had wanted to think that’s what she was doing. And then what? Had he felt thwarted because she didn’t get any friendlier? Angry, if he thought she was getting friendlier with someone else? Say, Elias Burton? Daniel speculated. Burton was a far more striking man, and had probably been a good looking boy.
That was assuming a thirty-two year old woman would have looked twice at a seventeen-year-old boy. Hell, Billington hadn’t been that much older – certainly ten years younger than Michelle Thomsen. If she’d been looking, there had to have been plenty of men in town who would have been interested.
Daniel wondered how he could find out who else had worked at Misty River Resort that summer.
Was there any chance the weekly Cape Trouble Tribune had reported any tidbits Chief Marsh had either missed or deliberately left out of his reports?
Unfortunately, long past issues of the Tribune were still available only on microfiche at the newspaper office or the library. Daniel chose the library; he’d draw less attention there.
Lucky for him, the librarian was conducting a preschool storytime, and the Tribune microfiche was well-organized and labeled. He settled himself behind one of those cumbersome readers long-replaced in most libraries, and began reading.
The first article, which had come out the day after the death, was next thing to hysterical. Evidently, several young women in the area had disappeared that summer and the previous one. A pretty female tourist had vanished from farther north, up in Seaside, the summer before that, which might or might not be connected. Three of the five that likely were connected had been tourists; one had been a twenty-year-old college student working for the summer at a resort near Arch Cape, and the fifth had been a young housewife. Four of those five had been grabbed in this county. They had left work or a bar or home, never to be seen again. No trace had been found, certainly not a body. Every God damn one of them was blonde and, according to the article, attractive.
Daniel sat, stunned. Surely Chief Marsh wasn’t so stupid it hadn’t occurred to him that Michelle Thomsen could have been an abduction gone wrong because her daughter was calling for her insistently enough that other people were likely to notice. The killer hadn’t had a lot of choice but to cut his losses. All he’d have had to do was put the gun in Michelle’s hand, overpowering her as he lifted it to her head. Let her fall, while he disappeared into the fog.
Daniel’s skin crawled as he imagined how close the man might have been to Sophie when she found her mother.
Marsh had apparently made no attempt to determine who went with what vehicle at the resort that morning, or to pinpoint the whereabouts of anyone. Elias Burton claimed he’d just arrived for work – but who was to say he hadn’t already arrived half an hour before? Benjamin Billington might have just come out of the lodge – but would his uncle have been able to vouch for that, or could Benjamin, too, have had plenty of time to make a move on a beautiful woman who had strolled into the dunes to admire the arrival of morning? And what about the uncle? He was there, too.
Daniel brooded. Truthfully, the string of abductions would lessen any good investigator’s focus on the young guys who worked at the resort. Michelle could have been spotted when she was in town, walking the beach, who knew. The guy could have concealed himself until she stepped out of the cabin all by herself, and so early in the morning no one else was up and around. He might have thought he could talk her into his vehicle, or had brought something to bind her or knock her out if he had to, only Sophie had thwarted him.
Another thing working against suspicion falling on both Elias Burton and Benjamin Billington was their ages. Burton especially. The previous summer, when women started disappearing, he’d have only been sixteen. Not unheard-of – but extremely rare for a serial killer to start operating that young.
Frowning, Daniel read
on. The follow-up article in the next week’s Tribune expressed relief that the death of “summer visitor” Michelle Thomsen had been determined to be a suicide. Her husband had taken his daughter and his wife’s body back to Portland. Several people were quoted expressing suitable regret that such a tragedy had come to Cape Trouble.
By the following week, the column inches were devoted to a local arts fest and kite flying competition that took place in late July every year.
Out of sight, out of mind.
He swore under his breath, restored the microfiche to its place, and strode out of the library.
It wasn’t a twenty minute drive to North Fork, the neighboring town upriver where the county sheriff’s department was headquartered. The sergeant at the front desk recognized him right away and, after a brief phone conversation, sent Daniel back to Mackay’s office.
His teeth set, the sheriff shoved himself to his feet when Daniel entered. Pain made his face gaunt.
“Don’t get up,” Daniel said.
Mackay grunted and sank back into his desk chair. “Sorry. This hasn’t been a good day. My leg keeps cramping.”
“You have something to take for it?”
“Yeah, but— Shit. It would be easy to get addicted.”
Daniel didn’t say anything. This was the most unguarded Mackay had allowed himself to be, and only because he hadn’t been able to help himself.
“It was a bomb,” he said after a minute. “Did a lot of damage. Killed—” His head jerked to one side. “A couple of other people,” he finished, not what he’d intended to say.
Daniel knew to nod. He had a very bad feeling about what Mackay hadn’t said. God. Had he lost a wife or kid? A partner?
With a mumbled curse, the sheriff yanked open a desk drawer, took out a prescription bottle and shook a couple of pills into his hand, swallowed then chased them down with coffee that had him grimacing.
“What brings you out here?” he asked finally.
Daniel told him what he’d read, and why.
Mackay frowned. “I haven’t been on the job that much longer than you, so I can’t tell you a lot. I never heard any connection to this Michelle Thomsen’s death. There’s still talk about the disappearances of those women, though, because of the possibility we had a serial killer working this county. I think one more woman disappeared later that summer or early fall, then no more. Eventually there was some doubt the disappearances were all tied together. One of the women might have had an abusive boyfriend, and either she fled him or he might have killed her, gossip said, although there’s no proof either way. And young women on vacation make dumb choices. You had that rape in Cape Trouble.”
Daniel bent his head in acknowledgement.
“What’s your interest?”
He wouldn’t have told anyone else, but didn’t see any way around it under the circumstances. He explained that he’d gotten to know Doreen Stedmann’s niece, who had taken over organizing the auction, and that she’d talked about her mother’s death.
“I pulled out what we had in the basement out of idle curiosity, but I’ve got to tell you, it was a piss poor excuse for an investigation. I looked up the couple of issues of the Tribune about that time, and that’s where I read about the women who’d been disappearing. According to the paper, all blondes, which Michelle Thomsen was. Got me wondering.”
He ended up elaborating – who knew what had happened to the handgun, or whether it had ever been fingerprinted, the necklace that had never been found, the refusal of the husband and daughter to believe the dead woman had been depressed at all, never mind suicidal.
Mackay grimaced. “My long-time deputies will tell you Randy Marsh was lazy and incompetent. Although, truth be told, you may be the first truly competent police chief Cape Trouble has ever had.” His expression was speculative.
Daniel hesitated only briefly. Alex Mackay had told him about his injury and hadn’t had to.
“I was homicide in San Francisco. You know that. It was getting to me. This is my idea of R and R.”
The sheriff laughed. “Complete with rape and murder.”
Daniel chuckled ruefully. “That wasn’t supposed to be part of the program.”
“I hear you’re accomplishing miracles with training and what not.”
“I’m trying.”
Mackay’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “You want me to do some digging? I can let you know what, if anything, the investigation then turned up.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Daniel rose to his feet. “No, damn it, don’t get up. And thank you. I’m sure you need a research project like another hole in your head. Especially since we both know there’s nowhere I can go with this.”
“But it’s an itch.” The brown eyes were steady, knowing. “Neither of us would be good at our jobs if we didn’t do our damnedest to scratch that kind of itch whether it seems to make sense or not.”
They shook hands, and Daniel left, as satisfied as he could be.
Eventually, he thought, if Mackey didn’t blast his theory out of the water, he might tell Sophie what he suspected. She needed to believe her mother hadn’t chosen to abandon her so brutally.
Damn, he thought, getting into his car and noticing the time, he’d managed to kill entirely too much of this day following trails that had nothing to do with Doreen Stedmann’s murder. With a little luck, the autopsy report would be lying on his desk. He didn’t expect any surprises, but you never knew. No matter what, he had to get his ass in gear if he was going to be at Sophie’s not much after five, ready to subject himself to another evening of watching her pretend he didn’t exist.
*****
Sophie noticed the difference in Daniel immediately. Last night’s good humored man had been replaced by one who was distant, a frown seeming to be carved between his eyebrows. He’d rejected her offer to cook; she could get some work done while he was putting dinner together, he said.
Once they sat down to a meal of potato salad, hamburgers and fresh peas, conversation wasn’t exactly snappy. She asked about his day. More of the same, he said, then, after a noticeable hesitation, told her he’d seen the results on Doreen’s autopsy.
“The blow to the head killed her. The rope was either window dressing, or the guy wanted to be sure.”
She stared down at her plate, absorbing his matter-of-fact comment.
After a moment, he asked politely whether she’d made good progress today. Yes, she told him.
She did spark genuine interest when she said, “I came on the Dale Chihuly piece.”
“Yeah?” He set his fork down. “Is it a good one?”
“Yes, fortunately. There are some on the resale market that are a thousand dollars or under, but this was one of his Sea Forms series. I’m valuing it at twelve thousand dollars.”
He didn’t look as surprised as she’d expected, which suggested he knew enough about Chihuly to be aware prices for his work went a whole lot higher than that. “What’s a sea form?”
She described the bowl, ribbed in glass that shaded from rose red to a deep purple, the sides rippling. “He pointed out that shells are often ribbed, and that glass has a good deal in common with water. He’s right that these pieces do almost look like something you’d find in the bottom of the ocean. The colors wouldn’t be out of place on a coral reef, either.”
“Will you get that much for it?”
“If the right people come to the auction, probably. Conceivably, way more than it’s actually worth.”
“You plan to continue storing it out there?”
“Where else?” she asked with surprise. “Here? You don’t like me having anything here. Do you have a better idea?”
“No.” He frowned. “You’re right.”
That was it. He stood and began to clear the table. He refused help, and once he had loaded the dishwasher, he sat in the same easy chair he’d occupied last night, this time opening his own laptop and appearing to concentrate utterly on it.
Given that he
r willpower was tissue paper thin, Sophie knew she should be glad that he wasn’t pressuring her. So why was she also a little insulted that he’d given up so easily?
Or was she really hurt?
Yes. The way her heart squeezed did hurt, damn it.
Hurt a little now, hurt a whole lot later. That had been her choice, and she’d made it. He’d accepted her signals without asking for clarification or exceptions. He was being a gentleman.
Either that, or shrugging because there were plenty of fish in the sea. Speaking of sea forms.
“Why the sigh?” he asked, making her jump and turn in her seat to look at him.
“What?”
Why was his voice a little husky and his eyes heavy-lidded? “You just let out a heavy sigh.”
Oh God, she had. Resolutely she looked away from his dark, lean face and focused on her laptop. If it wasn’t right in front of her, she wouldn’t have been able to tell him what screen she had open. A Fendi scarf. That’s what she’d been describing. Approximate value: $300.
“I guess I’m tired,” she excused herself.
“Then let yourself have the evening off.”
“You know I can’t.”
“All right, then.” He sounded unexpectedly gentle, given the earlier chill.
“You really don’t have to guard me, you know.”
“Yeah, I do. I’d never forgive myself if someone came after you and I wasn’t here.”
New chill, this time goosebumps on her arms. She rubbed them and swiveled in her seat so she didn’t have to look over her shoulder. “You really think someone might?”
Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 14
