A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1)

by Nichelle Seely

  My cell rings, and I have to roll over and reach for where it lies on the floor with the cord curled around it like a noodle. I lean too far and tip the cot over and bang my nose on the floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” I press my hands to my face as the call goes to voicemail. I get up, dress, and make coffee before listening to the message.

  “Audrey, it’s Claire. Please call. It’s Dan — he’s been — he’s been kuh-killed.”

  The final word, killed, is almost lost in a guttural sob. I only understand because it’s a word I’ve heard a lot, in a variety of tones and accents. I put aside my surprise and dismay: those emotions won’t be helpful. Instead, I call back immediately. She’s at home, and I get directions, pour the coffee into a thermos and show up at her door. Inside, we sit on a black leather sofa that has a matching recliner. House plants crowd the corners and the coffee table has an artful stack of photography books. A giant TV covers most of one wall; a free-standing Tiffany floor lamp glows in the corner. The image of middle-class prosperity.

  But. First things first.

  I get a mug from the kitchen — note the soapstone countertops and white-painted cabinetry — pour out some coffee, add cream. Notice the tremor in my hand.

  “Drink this, Claire. That’s right. Now. Tell me what happened.”

  Her voice is tight, controlled, but breaks forth occasionally into an emotionally charged stutter. “He didn’t come home last night. He often works late, so, I was annoyed but not worried. I went to bed at midnight. But he wasn’t back this morning. I called his phone, cell and office, but no answer. Went by the church, but it was locked. His car was still in the lot. I don’t have keys so I banged on the door, yelled. Then I called the police.”

  “Deep breaths, Claire.” Wait while she complies. If ever I need evidence of who was behind the initial delay of investigating Victoria’s disappearance, I have it here. Claire would have called the cops if not deterred by Daniel.

  Although, I guess he is her husband and not just her friend. Still.

  A steel-and-crystal clock ticks from the wall. Claire glances at the face and together we watch the creep of the minute hand.

  “They came while I was banging the door again. Of course, they thought I was a burglar — ’til I said I was the one who called. My husband, inside. No answer. They got the door open, went in, ‘Police!’ One kept his eye on me, tried to keep me back. As if! But I was too worried to care. I pushed in, following, went right to Dan’s office. He was —” she breaks off, gulping air like a climber on Everest.

  I picture it, the desk, the computer, the piled papers. “He was…?”

  “He was leaning back in his chair, all the way, his face all bloody, his head — oh God — his head —” her voice rises, a near shriek. “So awful. What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

  Anxiety clamps around my body like a coffin. I was just there yesterday evening, talking to him. Just a few hours ago. I shudder. Was the killer in building, lurking? Waiting until I left? I take a breath of my own, try not to think about how I was the last person to see him alive. Except the murderer.

  And maybe the murderer saw me.

  I force myself to calmness, take refuge in the routine search for information. It’s the best way to help my friend.

  I take her hands. “It’s okay, Claire, you’re all right. I’m going to help you. Find some answers. Let’s go back to the parking lot. Outside. You saw his car, right? What kind is it?”

  “Toyota Highlander. Grayish blue. Or bluish gray.”

  The same thing I saw yesterday. “Were there any other cars in the lot?”

  “No. Just his. And mine.” She’s stopped stammering, is holding tight to my hands.

  “What do you drive?”

  “Little white pickup. Ford Ranger.”

  These questions are largely to get her to steady down, recounting information she’s sure of. But the discrepancy in their vehicles is telling. We’re talking a twenty thousand dollar price difference. Daniel didn’t stint himself. Where did the money come from? My dislike of the man is growing, posthumously. Remembering how I had been able to just walk inside the previous day, I say, “Is the church usually kept locked?”

  “Victoria liked to leave it open if she was working there, so people could come in to see her. But if Dan was alone with the money, I’m sure he’d lock up. Especially at night.”

  “What money?”

  “Collection money. For the various fundraisers and service offerings.”

  I remember some of the requests from my first visit to the church. He’d been alone with the money yesterday, I assume. But it couldn’t have amounted to more than a few hundred dollars, if that. Probably much less — there’d been no service in which to pass the plate. I recall my meeting with him, his words: Audrey, I didn’t expect to see you. A slight emphasis on the ‘you’.”

  “Would he have been meeting anyone?”

  There’s a long pause. When Claire answers, her voice is choked, not with grief but with anger. Or maybe both.

  “What. Do. You. Mean. Meeting with someone? Like, an affair, do you mean? Do you mean, cheating on me? With another woman? Who do you mean, exactly?”

  I pull my hand away, surprised by her outburst. And I clock the way she says ‘another.’ Not like ‘other than herself.’ No, like ‘other than the one she already knew about.’ I don’t know where to go with this. Claire is hurt, distraught. I don’t want to hurt her more. But this sounds like it might be important. I soldier on, trying to be gentle while stepping on the petals of her heart with clodhopper boots.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the affairs, Claire.”

  I’m taking advantage of a vulnerable witness, and I know it. Her guard is down, the bars are off the doors, the train has been derailed from its safe and preplanned tracks. But. It’s necessary — there’s no time for niceties. People are dying. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And she tells me what I suspect already: Daniel has never been faithful, but he always comes back. He loves her. He does. But he can’t help himself. I learn about the married secretary at his previous job, the one that made him leave Beaverton Foursquare; the choir director at Pacific Universalist before that. Claire hoped it would get better after the move to Astoria. And it was better, for a while. But there was someone. She thinks it started six months after they came here. And she thinks it stopped about the time that Victoria went missing.

  Maybe he was too worried to carry on his little fling-ding. Maybe he felt bad. But I don’t think so. Or if he did feel something like remorse, it wasn’t strong enough to make him stop. I pat Claire’s shoulder and utter soothing words, but it’s an old story. The oldest. It’s hard to reconcile the independent, strong-minded person I know Claire to be with someone who would put up with this treatment. The human heart is truly unfathomable. I try to picture Daniel Chandler as some kind of Don Juan, but I can’t. He’s no George Clooney. But he is — was — a pleasant enough guy. Maybe that’s enough, more than enough, for desperate, lonely women.

  Again, I lead Claire gently back through her memories of the parking lot, the building, and finally the office. The desk, the chair, the body.

  He’d been beaten to death, his head pulped by a blunt instrument. A hammer, a bat, a two by four. Someone who felt an extreme version of fear or rage. Knowing what I do now, I think: jealous husband, jealous lover. He’d diddled the wrong woman, and someone got revenge.

  There’s already been one murder. Are they related? Do I have two killers to find, or only one?

  Maybe Claire finally got fed up.

  No. I don’t believe it. Too brutal. Women don’t often beat people to death. They shoot, stab, suffocate, or poison. Sometimes, occasionally, they drown.

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  No. Victoria’s killer is a man. I know it.

  Do you?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I GLANCE BACK as I leave the Chandler house. It looks dark and lonely, with only a sing
le lamp glowing through the window. It’s just after seven, and the eastern sky is pale as I click my car door open with the key fob. It’s been raining, big surprise, and the pavement looks black and shiny, reflecting the street light in a dim yellowish circle. My car is beaded with moisture. The seat upholstery feels cool to the touch. As I drive away, the reaction sets in — the personal one. I’m shaken by what has happened to Daniel. I just saw the guy, healthy if not wealthy and wise. Or maybe he was wealthy; he had a fairly expensive car. Nice furniture, decent house. But he didn’t get it working for churches. It’s been my experience that, unless you’re a rock star preacher with a celebrity income to match, church workers are notoriously underpaid.

  So. Why kill Daniel?

  Philandering comes to mind.

  But to have his murder coincident with Victoria’s death? What are the odds?

  I’m no statistician, but my guess: pretty damn unlikely.

  The two must be related.

  So. Why Daniel? I mean, he’s a bookkeeper, for crying out loud. At a non-profit. Robbery seems to be a non-starter. There shouldn’t have been much cash on the premises, since there hasn’t been a service.

  But. There’s entirely too much money in his life. My guess: fraud. Or blackmail.

  People don’t usually kill over fraud. They sue each other instead. But blackmail? That includes a recipe for violence.

  What might Daniel have known?

  Maybe he knew who killed Victoria Harkness.

  Jumping over the moon to your latest conclusion, Lake?

  Okay. It is a big leap. Set that aside for a moment. What else might he have known?

  …

  I can’t think of anything. Some sexy secret discovered during an illicit tryst? Feels like a reach. But. It must be something that would generate anger or fear.

  Blackmail presupposes evidence. I wonder if anything is missing from his office. I was just there, so I might be able to detect an anomaly that the police would miss. And I’ve already left my DNA on previous visits, so adding more trace evidence won’t make any difference.

  As easy as that, I’ve talked myself into going back to the scene of the crime.

  I know, crazy. Not to mention unprofessional. But. I have to look at the place before it gets too messed up by the cops, and before my own memory fades.

  When I pull into the parking lot of the Church of the Spirit, the clouds open and rain bullets onto the asphalt. Wonderful. Gloves, shoe covers: check. I run to the front door, splashing my pant legs. Rivulets of water drip off the hem of my jacket, creating a ribbon of wetness around my thighs.

  The door of the church is crossed over by yellow crime scene tape that rattles in the downpour. I thought I might have to dodge some CSIs but no one is here. Sloppy. Could be because it’s early, But still. I try the door and to my surprise it opens. Hooray, no need for the pick gun which I’ve forgotten in the car anyway. Before my nerve deserts me, I duck under the tape and go inside. Look out the window as I pull on gloves and booties. The big supermarket windows offer a wide, depressing view of Marine Drive. Once again, I feel like a target on a shooting range, but tell myself there’s no one out there to see me. Besides, the light isn’t on. I’m hidden in shadow.

  The roar of rain falling on the metal roof covers the sound of my footsteps as I make my way back to Chandler’s office. There’s no sign of the numbered cones and tags or other detritus of forensic data collection. Doesn’t look like the scene has been processed yet. They probably don’t have a local CSI team. Lucky for me.

  I hope they’ve at least taken the body.

  Steeling myself to peek around the jamb, I’m relieved to see there’s no corpse in the chair, no near-sighted bookkeeper with an eye for the ladies. The office doesn’t have windows, so it feels safe to flick on the light and shift into observation mode.

  The harsh illumination reveals bloodstains, sprinkles of reddish drops on the desk and walls and a big smudge on the chair back. A line of backspatter across the ceiling tiles. Even without the body, evidence of a severe beating is clear. I glance around, trying to remember what the place looked like earlier. Piles of papers, computer, sagging bookcase, uncomfortable guest chair. Check, check, check, and check. The office still looks untidy, but not searched. Or if it has been, it’s been by a consummate professional. And I doubt that anyone of that caliber has any interest in Daniel Chandler.

  I nudge the mouse a tiny bit to awaken the computer. I’d love to see an appointment schedule appear on the monitor, complete with names and addresses, but it’s only the login screen. I never seem to get the same breaks the TV detectives do.

  Look again at the papers. Is one of the piles shorter? It’s hard to tell. And Daniel might have continued on working after I left. The truth is, I wasn’t paying that much attention to his desk. I take a barrage of pictures to study later, and notice the small red spots that crisscross the papers. The arcs look uninterrupted. The papers haven’t been moved since the attack; ditto flash drives and pens and post-it notes.

  Whoever killed Chandler didn’t care about what the bookkeeper was doing in here. They weren’t after money, or incriminating documents, or blackmail material. Or if they were, they got what they wanted before the attack. There doesn’t even appear to have been a fight. Just one guy walking up to another and beating his head in.

  I glance up at the backspatter, mime a swing over my head and adjust my position until I’m under it. The killer seems to have been standing at the side of the desk. But. There’s a lot of variables. Where Daniel was seated. The angle of the wound. The length of the weapon. All I know is the killer got close. My intuition goes clickety-clack. Chandler knew his killer. Knew him, and didn’t expect the violence. Didn’t see or recognize the weapon as a potential threat.

  So, not an enraged husband. Or, a husband who kept himself so cool that Daniel didn’t clock the threat. Was that even possible? Even if the guy was cool, wouldn’t the bookkeeper have been a teensy bit nervous? Chandler wasn’t stupid. Would he have stayed sitting down? Seems like anyone would instinctively address a potential threat by standing up.

  He wouldn’t have been afraid of Claire.

  Shut up. It isn’t her. Women hardly ever beat people to death, remember?

  Hardly ever isn’t never, though, is it?

  I ignore Zoe, try to put myself in Chandler’s point of view. Close my eyes. Imagine that I’m sitting down, working, it’s late at night. I’m here alone…

  A vision starts to form behind my eyelids. The ergonomic chair cradles my aching back, the computer keyboard is smooth under my fingers, clicking as I type. There’s a sharp pain behind my right shoulder, and I massage the muscle. My eyes are burning with fatigue. But I’m almost finished. The spreadsheet numbers blur and I rub my eyes. The sound of the rain is a background hum, white noise. The door creaks open. I look up in surprise, expecting to see my wife.

  A steel hand clamps on my shoulder, jolting me back to the present. I scream a little, jabbing an elbow into whoever is behind me. I feel a body twist away from the impact, a grunt of aggravation more than pain.

  “Ms. Lake,” says a masculine voice, “You are out of your jurisdiction.”

  Detective Olafson gives me the option to go without handcuffs, but makes it clear that I’m coming with him to the station. I’m numb, still in shock from my experience. I don’t understand what just happened. I’d tried to imagine a sequence of events, and got something else, something more autonomous. Another vision? But how? What causes these? And why did Olafson have to interrupt before I saw the intruder?

  Irritation replaces fear.

  After a silent ride to the APD, we move past the curious gaze of the guy at the front desk and go right in to the same interview room we used when I came looking for a consultation.

  “So, Ms. Lake, want to tell me why you’ve broken in to a crime scene which was clearly marked? I doubt you’ve forgotten what that means, despite the number of months you’ve been off the job.” The
detective sounds genial, but the flash of his canines behind his upper lip and the hard glint in his eye reveal that he’s pissed.

  I think about lying, but why? I think about not answering, but again, why? Just to annoy Detective Olafson? Doesn’t seem like a smart choice at this point. So, the truth it is, then.

  But first: “I think ‘broken in’ is too strong a term, Detective. I didn’t break anything that wasn’t already. No one was on guard. And the door was unlocked.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Don’t play games with me, Lake. You may think you’ve got the edge here, but you don’t. You may think you have a right to ignore the rules and regulations of police investigation, but you don’t. You may think your status as some sort of ‘criminal consultant’” — he raises his fingers and makes air quotes — “gives you some kind of immunity. Well, you can think again.” He leans back in the folding chair until the screws at the joints creak. “Now. Stop wasting time and tell me what you were doing at the Church of the Spirit.”

  “I was investigating.”

  “I don’t recall inviting you onto the team.”

  “Listen, Detective.” I rest my forearms on the table and prepare to stretch the truth. “My client, Claire Chandler, asked me to look into it. It’s her husband, for chrissake. I wanted to see the place for myself, before your ‘team’ starts to move things around. I know how to keep it clean.” I indicate my gloves and the shoe covers that are still on my feet, now torn and muddy from being herded across the church parking lot by Olafson.

  “Why?” he barks, leaning forward now, until we’re almost nose to nose. “Why did you feel the need to ‘see it for yourself?’” Annoying air quotes again.

  I resist the urge to pull away. “Because I was just there. I talked to him yesterday. I wanted to see if anything had been disturbed, if anything was missing, that I could remember.”

  Olafson remains in his bent forward position, like a crouching wolverine. A vein is pulsing in his temple. I can smell whatever it is he uses for shampoo. Something faintly medicinal.