The gentleman turned a mild face on Nate. “I got up this morning and found I’ve nothing in the house to eat, so I came here. I’m used to having my meals prepared, you see.”
“Oh, yes,” said Skillet, his lip curled in a snarl. “He’s used to having his meals prepared, but he’s never considered me good enough to prepare them. I’ve tried to get him in here to sample my creations, but he made it quite clear that my little bistro is beneath him, so he can get the hell out.”
Nate turned to Mr. Snowden. “Sir, if you’ll take a seat in the dining room, we’ll see about getting you some breakfast.”
Mr. Snowden raised an eyebrow and exited. Nate leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “What’s the story?”
An angry sizzle arose from an overheated pan as Skillet emptied a board full of chopped vegetables into it, swirling and tossing them with passionate intensity.
“You ever been to Le Poisson D’Or?” he asked, naming a fine restaurant in Seattle. Nate shook his head. “How about Die Wolke Zimmer? No? These are two top-drawer restaurants owned by Mr. Snowden. I had hopes of becoming a chef in one or the other establishment. Hell, half the reason I moved to this neighborhood is so I could impress the chief there with my cooking, but he was having none of it. Wouldn’t deign to dirty his mouth at my bistro, so he can damn well starve for it now.”
Skillet cracked a dozen eggs into a stainless steel bowl, whipping them with punishing vigor. Nate waited until the thwack of whisk against steel dropped to a decent decibel level.
“Seems to me this is your golden opportunity,” he said. “Serve the man.”
“Hell, no. He’s snubbed me and publicly embarrassed me. Tell him to go home and pop open a jar of caviar.”
“You know, Skillet, if you handle this right, you could have him eating out of your hand. Literally. I’d think twice before throwing this chance away.”
Skillet’s whisk came to a halt. Nate pictured the wheels turning inside the man’s head. Skillet was starting to appreciate the power hand he’d been dealt. Only, how would he play it?
A sly look passed over his face. “Yeah, okay. Tell Mr. Snowden I’d be delighted to serve him.”
“Will do,” said Nate. “You need any help in here?”
“I could use some help, but not from you,” Skillet said, appraising Nate and finding him wanting. “Send someone in here with some experience.”
Nate rounded up Mrs. Dawson and Dr. Deb for kitchen duty and stepped into the lounge, hoping to find Riley. She was absent. A bank of bookshelves lined the back wall of the lounge and Nate pulled out a random volume and surveyed the title, The First Global Revolution. He flipped it open and read a passage that someone had underlined in red pencil: “It would seem that men and women need a common motivation, namely a common adversary, to organize and act together; in the vacuum, such motivations seem to have ceased to exist—or have yet to be found.”
Idly, Nate turned over a page or two and read another underlined passage that seemed to follow from the first: “In searching for a new enemy to unite us, we came up with the idea that pollution, the threat of global warming, water shortages, famine, and the like would fit the bill…. All these dangers are caused by human intervention.” And then, with a double underline: “The real enemy, then, is humanity itself.”
Nate looked inside the front cover and found an Ex Libris sticker with the name Amanda Horton written in a large, cursive hand. He placed the book back on the shelf and pulled out another, titled If I Were An Animal. He found a highlighted passage which read, “If I were reincarnated, I would wish to return as a killer virus to lower human population levels.” This one also belonged to Amanda Horton, or had at one time.
He perused a third book, skimming through a collection of writings by Sir Francis Galton, stopping to reread a heavily highlighted paragraph: “What nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may do providentially, quickly, and kindly. As it lies within his power, so it becomes his duty to work in that direction.” There was a hand-written notation in the margin. Human weeding and eugenics.
Nate’s stomach turned queasy. He felt as if he had lifted a stone and come face to face with a writhing mass of maggots feeding on something rotten. These books propagated the wide-scale extermination of human beings. Someone had collected and studied these volumes. For what purpose? Did Ms. Horton support these ideas or seek to combat them?
Tucked among these books, Nate saw a volume covered in purple-blossomed fabric. He was interested to note that it was a personal journal and was filled with the same handwriting with which Amanda Horton had claimed ownership of her books. He examined the pages, reading many passages on a continuing theme. “Christianity is on the outs. The new religion embraces a new center of control, combined with Gaia worship, and we will prevail!”
Also, “The hope is that people will willingly submit to sterilization to save our Earth. If they don’t, we must resort to other methods.”
There was a paragraph bemoaning the critics who refuted these views. “The ignorant accuse us of using environmentalism as a ruse, a means to establish a world Utopia for the elite who see themselves as gods ruling over the many. This offends me. We are saving the world.”
Nate wondered if Amanda Horton had any connection to the Mountain Vista resident whom Rick had identified as a suspect. If Riley was correct in her theory, then in Ms. Horton he may have found a kindred spirit.
Shouts boomed out from the kitchen, signaling that breakfast was ready. Nate selected some of the slimmer pamphlets, including copies of the Earth Charter and Agenda 21, and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. He caught the scent of soap and turned as Riley entered the room, running her fingers through towel-damp hair.
“You hungry?” he said.
“When Skillet cooks, I’m always hungry.”
“That good, huh?”
“Just wait.”
CHAPTER 43
RILEY SIGHED WITH PLEASURE, MARVELING over the perfection of the omelet, butter-kissed and golden, bursting with crisp vegetables and the sharp tang of some cheese she couldn’t identify. There was fruit salad, a gorgeous array of colors, spritzed with fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and pared peppermint leaves.
“I was short on time, so just muffins today,” Skillet said. “Maybe rolls or pastries tomorrow. If we’re still here.”
“The muffins are great,” Riley assured him, savoring a bite of blueberry and streusel. “Thanks so much, Skillet. This is awesome.”
There were murmurings of agreement. Riley noticed Skillet shooting furtive glances at Mr. Snowden, who ate with apparent vigor, and wondered what prompted the trace of smug satisfaction on the chef’s face. The meal was served buffet style and the clubhouse and bistro had attained the air of a country house full of guests, rather than a restaurant and meeting place. She shared her table with Skillet and Teren and they lingered over coffee until Nate rose and reminded everyone to stay in groups. He’d eaten with the Mayhew’s, but now took the fourth chair at Riley’s table.
“I see that Riley’s endorsement of you is justified,” he said to Skillet. “Fantastic meal, thanks.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. What are you doing today to earn your keep?” Skillet asked, a hint of asperity threading his voice.
“I’m going to patrol the neighborhood, try to determine if there’s anyone who needs help.”
“What about this killer fellow? How will you be tracking him down, detective?”
“Let me worry about that. Just focus on lunch.”
“Nothing to focus on. You all can deal with the sandwich fixings and carrot sticks. I’m not doing lunch. I’ll be busy all morning with dinner prep and after lunch I’m taking some down time.”
“Good,” said Riley. “I’ll help, if you like.”
Nate held up a hand. “I need you first.”
She looked at him, eyebrow raised, waiting for him to continue.
“I’d appreciate it if you came with me on the rounds. Teren, t
he Newcombes need some help with a few things. Would you check in with them?”
Riley thought Teren looked a little miffed at being directed around by the new guy, but he covered it with grace. Nodding, he rose from the table and left the room. She and Nate went to the parking lot. Riley noticed that he checked to make sure the rear compartment of the Explorer was locked tight and hadn’t been tampered with. They rolled slowly through the streets of the neighborhood, looking for obvious signs of distress or anything out of place.
Riley watched Nate in her peripheral view. His eyes scanned the yards, the doors and windows, the spaces between the houses. After a complete circuit throughout, Nate pulled the car into a driveway and they started knocking doors. Many of the houses were unoccupied, owned by summer vacationers, and Riley marveled how the sound of their knocking seemed to echo against empty walls and hardwood floors when there was no living soul inside to respond.
At door number three, they were met by an elderly woman wearing a lace kerchief and sensible shoes. She peered out, studying their faces and looking vaguely disappointed.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Nate said, showing his identification, “I’m Detective Quentin. Everything okay here?”
Her face crumpled. “I’m fine. My cats is all fine. But there’s no electricity and my phone is busted. I’m worried about my grandson. He lives in Kent and he’s coming over for Sunday supper.”
Nate gave her a cheerful smile. “I’m sure he’s fine, ma’am, so don’t fret when he doesn’t show up. All the roads are closed. He’ll be staying home and so should you. Do you need anything?”
Her eyes wandered around the doorstep as if searching her cupboards. “Well, no. I got plenty of canned food and a kerosene lamp. Only thing is, I’m worried about my grandson.”
Nate stepped back a little, making room for Riley. She came forward and took the woman’s hand, patting it, making direct eye contact. “What’s your grandson’s name?”
“His name is Daniel. He’s a good boy. He’ll be coming for Sunday supper.”
Nate and Riley had checked the name on the mailbox before walking up the drive. Riley said, “Are you Mrs. Ransome?”
“Yes, Mabel Ransome.”
“Mrs. Ransome, Daniel won’t be coming for supper today, but don’t let that worry you. He’s staying safely at home. The roads are closed, people are staying in their houses. And so should you. Okay? Do you understand?”
Riley watched Mabel Ransome’s watery blue eyes focus, could almost see clarity take hold. The woman nodded.
“Yes, I understand. Me and the cats’ll stay here safe. Daniel can come next Sunday.”
“That’s right,” said Nate. “Stay safe, Mrs. Ransome.”
They waved and left, moving to the next house on the block. It was a contemporary model, gray with white trim, stone accents, and a stylish colonial red, metal roof. Riley laughed as they approached.
“We’re at the home of the infamous red roof.”
Nate stopped and surveyed the house. “What makes it infamous?”
“It caused a furor in the neighborhood when they put a metal roof on their house. And a red one, at that! Traditionally, only cedar shake or tile was acceptable, and the covenants prohibited the use of other roofing materials. Architectural shingle edged a way in, but metal was far too avante-garde. The owners had to go before the board to plead their case and one disgruntled neighbor showed up to complain, wanting the roof torn off and replaced to match what everyone else had.”
“You’re kidding. Was the covenant written during the Elizabethan era?”
“Close. 1965.”
“Ah. What happened?”
“The owners collected signatures from a hundred of our more forward-thinking neighbors and as you can see, they kept the roof. I think it’s lovely.”
“And,” Nate added, “it won’t need replacing until the next century. One and done—a freedom worth fighting for!”
No one answered their knock, and Riley hoped the inhabitants of the red-roofed house were enjoying a European vacation or ski weekend in Colorado. Somewhere safe and far away. She and Nate continued to the next house on the block.
The land parcels were generous, with enough room between to give them a bit of a walk, but not enough to make it worth driving to each house. They parked in a central location and hit eight or nine houses, then got in the car and moved to the next section. Riley estimated about a hundred houses in the neighborhood and several belonged to those who were already apprised of the situation and had moved to the clubhouse. They fell into a rhythm.
“So, how’d you become a concert pianist?” asked Nate.
“I was born into it. My grandfather was Zach Riley. He played jazz piano during the Big Band era. He married a musician and they had little musician children, one of which was my mother, who married a musician, and then there was me. I learned music the same way I learned to walk or talk. I can’t imagine being anything else.”
“You never wanted to break out of that mold?”
“Well, for a while I wanted to go to law school. But I was in my rebellious early teens. I also pierced my ears and streaked my hair purple.”
“You wild mustang.”
Riley laughed. “Then, when I was fifteen, I won the Bachauer Gold medal and signed my first recording contract. I was hooked.”
“Did your parents pressure you to succeed?
“The pressure to succeed has always been tremendous, but not directly applied by my parents. Just a result of my heritage. Both my parents played, of course, and we had that beautiful old Bechstein. I gravitated toward it, and I met so many people who helped me along the path. I studied in Washington D.C. and then in Spain and London.”
Nate stopped in their walk between houses. “But you married a fireman. How’d that happen?”
“The events of 9-11 made a huge impact on a lot of people and you can include me in that. I lost friends and contacts that day and in 2002, I performed at a series of charity fundraisers in support of victims and their families. That’s when I met a handsome firefighter by the name of James Forte and, as I think I mentioned, I became intrigued with the name and then by the man, himself. We married a year later.”
“How was your career at that point?”
“It was really taking off, so we were often apart, both traveling. He was involved in training events and speaking engagements and I with my tours and recording. He loved his job and allowed me to love mine.”
“And then you had a son?”
“Yes, Tanner.”
“Did that change things?”
“Of course. I slowed down a little and we moved here, to Mountain Vista, so that Jim could take a position with the Tacoma Fire Department and I could focus more on composing and learning a series of new concert pieces. We wanted to live someplace serene and rural, but not too isolated, so this seemed like the ticket.”
“But the fire…it wasn’t in your house here?”
“No.” Riley hugged herself, feeling a little chilled in the weak sunlight.
Nate removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “We can talk about something else,” he said.
Riley shook her head. They stood beside a stretch of fairway and Riley gazed across the manicured grass, seeing something else entirely.
“It was almost Christmas and I was on a holiday tour in the Midwest. Jim and Tanner came out and rented an apartment so we could spend time together. My schedule kept me out late and it was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I arrived at the apartment, and it was surrounded by police and firetrucks. I couldn’t believe it, it seemed so unreal.”
“That’s awful, Riley. I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t speak right away, her thoughts focused across time and distance.
“The police are not satisfied the fire was an accident.”
“What?”
“There was never enough evidence to make a case for arson, but they suspected it.”
“Was anyone el
se killed?”
“Yes, two neighbors died, as well.”
“Oh, hell.” Nate walked in little circles.
“I haven’t been able to perform properly ever since.”
Nate stood before her. He took her hands and studied them. “That’s a lot of grief to deal with. It takes time.”
“Yes,” said Riley. “Grief, and guilt.”
“What do you have to feel guilty about?”
Riley’s eyes went back in time again. “I wish I knew,” she whispered.
Nate wrapped her in a hug. “Come on, let’s go back. It’s almost lunchtime.”
They returned to the Explorer and Riley tossed Nate’s jacket onto the backseat. They crossed the bridge, but Nate passed the clubhouse and kept driving.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a feeling.”
“Ah, the scientific method.”
Nate laughed. “I noticed a side road along the back edge of the neighborhood. We haven’t talked to anyone there yet and that’s the direction Cappy came from last night.”
They parked the car and covered the circuit of houses on the cul-de-sac. Three times their summons went unanswered, twice the homeowner had nothing to report. The last door opened and they were looking down the barrel of a shotgun wielded by a tall man wearing low-slung jeans and a belt buckle that looked liable to pull them off his hips.
“Whoa,” Nate said, waving his police ID. “We just a have a few questions.”
“Sorry, officer. I’m a bit jumpy after last night.” The rifle retreated.
“What happened last night?”
“Someone tried to break in here. I figure the sound of my pump-action scared ‘em off.”
“What time was this?”
The man thought about it. “I’d say between midnight and one.”
“Are you Mr. Calloway?”
“That’s me.”
“Did you get a look at anybody, Mr. Calloway?”
“Nope. Slept on the couch there,” he bobbed his head toward the front room, “with one hand on my gun, but never heard nothing more.”
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 13
