Because I'm Watching (22 page)

She went into her office.

Kateri could do nothing about the cool atmosphere but deal with the day-to-day situations as she had always done. Every day the election loomed closer, and according to the polls, every day Bergen continued to pull ahead. Win some, lose some. Not that she didn't care, but she found that for her, it was less about the race and more about losing the job she did well and loved. And, of course, the specter of unemployment reared its ugly head. Maybe Bergen would hire her as … a psychological counselor to the police department. Or a psychic. In the novels, all the police departments had a psychic.

Cheered by the idea—because, after all, she had better psychic creds than anyone else she knew—she fired up her computer and pulled the first file folder across her desk.

Everyone agreed the downside of being a law officer was the paperwork.

The downside of being sheriff was reviewing everyone else's paperwork and making sure her own paperwork got done. She was going through the case files, one eye on the clock, and when Mona buzzed through on the antiquated intercom Kateri was almost relieved.

That lasted until Mona said, “Sheriff, Mrs. Butenschoen is on the phone and asking for you.”

Forty-five minutes before Kateri intended to leave and Mrs. Butenschoen was calling to complain about dog poop or illegal rhododendron clipping.

“Thank you, Mona.” Kateri picked up.

“Sheriff Kwinault, this is Mrs. Butenschoen on Dogwood Blossom Street.”

Kateri would recognize that persnickety voice anywhere. “Yes, Mrs. Butenschoen, I know where you live.”

“I don't know if you've heard, but I recently installed a video camera in my front yard.”

“I did hear that.”
And wasn't at all surprised.

“It's not as easy to program as one might like, and well … would it be possible for you to come by and view something I saw? By accident?”

Oh, no, please, no …
“Mrs. Butenschoen, if you have discovered who is placing dog bombs on your front walk, you can file a report and use your video as evidence—”

Mrs. Butenschoen interrupted. Of course. “I would like to speak to
you.
I would like
you
to see this.” A hesitation. “Please.”

Hm.
Please.
Mrs. Butenschoen being nice. Interesting. Maybe ominous. “I've got a few minutes left before I go off duty. Why don't I come by now?”

“That would be perfect. Thank you, Sheriff Kwinault.”

Kateri stared at the phone before she put it back on the charger.
So close to going home …
Yet best to catch Mrs. Butenschoen in a good mood. Standing, Kateri fetched her walking stick and exited her office. “Mona, I'm going to visit Mrs. Butenschoen and then take off for the day.”

“All right, Sheriff. See you tomorrow.” Mona started shoving her work in her desk drawers. It was four thirty, she should put in another half hour, but with Kateri gone Mona would skip out. She was a crummy personal assistant, a malicious gossip, she wore enough perfume to set off every allergy in the patrol room, and Kateri itched to fire her. But Mona was in the throes of a hot affair with City Councilman Venegra, less than fondly known in the police department as Viagra Venegra, and until the flames cooled, the councilman lost an election, or Mrs. Venegra shot her, there was no getting rid of Mona.

In the patrol room, no one gave Kateri a bad time about leaving early to go on a date. No one said anything until she called, “I'm headed to Mrs. Butenschoen's. Anyone want to come with me?”

She got a chorus of moans and Moen's “Sucks to be you,” and the arctic atmosphere warmed a few degrees.

No matter how slowly Kateri drove, she still reached Dogwood Blossom Street in less than ten minutes. She pulled up in front of Mrs. Butenschoen's, turned off the motor, and looked at the neat and tiny house. With a sigh, she climbed out and headed up the front walk, watching carefully for dog bombs.

She had to admit, it
would
be interesting to see who was willing to go through so much smelly trouble to give Mrs. Butenschoen a rough time.

The front door opened before Kateri put her foot on the first step; she found herself looking up at Mrs. Butenschoen and wondering how much hair spray it took to torture her hair into those immovable helmet-like waves.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Sheriff. I do appreciate it.” Mrs. Butenschoen swung open the screen door.

“Just doing my job,” Kateri said, and wondered when she had descended into clichéland. They walked through the entry and into the neat kitchen decorated with formal English china teapots set on a corner shelf and formal teapots printed on the wallpaper. The round dining table held a steaming teapot clad in a knit yarn cozy, two delicate flowered cups, a plate of cookies—and a laptop.

Mrs. Butenschoen seated herself in the captain's chair and gestured for Kateri to seat herself. “Do you like tea, Sheriff? If not, I can make coffee for you. Or pour you a Coke.”

“Tea is fine, thank you.” Kateri asked for one lump of sugar and a dab of cream and watched as Mrs. Butenschoen poured it out. She sipped and ate a lemon cookie. She felt as if she had fallen into an alternate Mrs. Butenschoen universe.

“I can't think why I've never asked you in before. This is so much more civilized than having a row on the street.”

Definitely an alternative universe. “It's lovely. Thank you. Now … you said you have video confirmation of your”—what to call him?—“‘culprit'?”

“I do. But it gets even more interesting than you can imagine.” Mrs. Butenschoen pulled her laptop toward her and opened it. “Once I determined to buy a surveillance camera, I researched the matter thoroughly, determined I could install the camera myself, and when I was last in Seattle I bought it at Costco for a good price.”

“Of course.” Kateri accepted another lemon cookie. “These are great.”

“Thank you. I made them myself.”

Kateri had never doubted it.

“Unfortunately, the software is not easily mastered and the manual is less than helpful, and rather than scan only my yard, the camera swings in wide circles.” Mrs. Butenschoen nudged the laptop toward Kateri. “Sometimes I see my yard, sometimes across the street, sometimes next door, sometimes my rhododendrons or my siding. Which is how I missed the poop perpetrator the past two times.”

Kateri angled her chair to see the screen. “That's rather dizzying.”

“Yes. And frustrating. But last night I did at last catch the criminal in the act.”

On the screen, Kateri saw a man in a dark suit walk up to the gate. He carried a shovel, and when he glanced around, she recognized him and did a double take. “Isn't that the neighbor from across the street?”

“Yes. Dayton Floren.”

“Right.” He opened the gate, placed a pile of dog poop on Mrs. Butenschoen's top step, and quickly left. Kateri sat back in her chair. “Law enforcement is one surprise after another.”

“I didn't suspect him either. He dresses so well, seems so prosperous and well spoken. I was going to call as soon as I saw him, but then I had a thought. Because of the erratic behavior of the camera, I wondered if I could see who had set the fire at Mr. Denisov's home.”

Kateri's respect for Mrs. Butenschoen's logic took a forward leap. “You would make a good detective.”

Mrs. Butenschoen smiled. “Yes. I would.”

“Did you succeed in catching the arsonist on camera?” Obviously she was or she wouldn't be sitting there all rosy-cheeked and smug.

Mrs. Butenschoen typed in a command, then turned the screen face toward Kateri.

Kateri's jaw dropped, and it took her more than a few moments to recover her power of speech. “But he … he … that's Dayton Floren again. Why … why…?”

“Exactly my thought. Why him?” Clearly Mrs. Butenschoen had the answer, because she opened her browser and pointed.

There it was, a biography of Dayton Floren, disgraced son of Washington real estate developer Neil Floren. Before he was twenty-four, Dayton had been accused of real estate fraud. Nothing had been proved, and in the ensuing seven years he had developed subdivisions in Tacoma and the Tri-Cities area. One of those subdivisions had had to be abandoned before it was finished because of pesticides in the soil. Real estate fraud indeed. “But what is he doing
here
? What does he hope to accomplish?”

“I have thought deeply on this matter, and I believe he wants to chase us out of our beloved historical neighborhood, buy the houses on the cheap, and develop the area into horrid modern beach houses or, worse, duplexes.” Mrs. Butenschoen was clearly offended to the depths of her soul.

“You may be right.”

“Of course I'm right! He has been disparaging of our pristine neighborhood, offering to buy people's houses.”

“That's hardly a crime.” Although in Mrs. Butenschoen's eyes it was. “Putting poop on someone's front walk isn't exactly the act of a terrorist.”

“I assure you, I felt afraid that the person who hated me so much as to defile my yard might proceed to other, more violent crimes against my person.” Mrs. Butenschoen's voice quavered.

“Yes. You're right, of course, Mrs. Butenschoen.” Just because the police department giggled at poop on the lawn didn't mean a single woman living alone would not feel alarmed by the malevolence of the act. “Arson, at least, is incredibly serious and could have led to the death of Mr. Denisov or a firefighter. Or both.”

“I have also wondered whether…” Mrs. Butenschoen traced the edge of her teapot with her finger. “I'm somewhat ashamed of the way I accused Madeline Hewitson of setting the fire.”

Wow. Yet another indication of the heretofore unsuspected human side of Mrs. Butenschoen. “Yes. But in all fairness, Maddie is quite … odd.”

“She always thinks someone's after her. I was wondering if Dayton Floren had been tormenting her as he's been tormenting me.”

Kateri didn't want Mrs. Butenschoen to make premature accusations, but she did have a point. “That's worth looking into.… Do you possibly have any video of him over there?”

“I would have to look. It does take time to review the recordings.” Looking suddenly weary and blue around the mouth, Mrs. Butenschoen lifted her teacup.

Kateri noticed a slight tremor in her fingers. “I'm sorry you've been worried. Have you not been sleeping?”

“As I said—my conscience is not entirely clear in regard to Madeline Hewitson.”

Which was an answer of sorts. “Do you know, is Dayton Floren at home?”

“Not now. I saw him drive away. Sometimes he's gone for days. Sometimes he comes home in the middle of the night and staggers up his walk. I suspect he goes to bars and drinks alcohol.” Now she sounded like the prissy, disapproving Mrs. Butenschoen.

Kateri stood. “Mrs. Butenschoen, thank you so much for your help, and thanks for any future help you might give Virtue Falls law enforcement. Now—why don't you get some sleep?”

“I've got plenty of time to sleep.” Mrs. Butenschoen used her hands to get herself to her feet. “No. I will keep watch and call when I see Mr. Floren arrive at his home.”

“No need. I'll order extra patrols for the neighborhood.” Obviously Mrs. Butenschoen would watch and call if she wished, so Kateri added, “When the arrest is made, I will give you full credit in the news story.”

Mrs. Butenschoen folded her hands at her belt. “Thank you. I would like that. I hope his arrest will ease Madeline Hewitson's anxiety.”

“I hope so, too.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Kateri stopped to pick up Lacey, then headed for home. As she fit her key into the door, Charlotte Lombardi came out of the next-door apartment looking young and disgustingly fit in her workout clothes. She carried a large, square cardboard box in her hands. “Sheriff Kwinault, Bill asked if I would sign for this and of course I was glad to.”

Bill was their aptly named postal carrier. Charlotte was a physical trainer at Planet Granite, the local gym. And Kateri didn't remember ordering anything online. “What is it?”

“Registered mail from Baltimore!”

“Baltimore.” Funny how the name of the place still had the ability to chill the blood and heat the face.

“From Neill Palmer. Do you know a Neill Palmer?”

“He … yes. I know him.” Her father. Her uncaring, uninterested, unresponsive father. “I'm surprised to hear from him.” They hadn't had contact since she had asked for help getting into the Coast Guard Academy and he had given it … after grinding her pride into the dust.

“Let me carry it inside for you. It's heavy!” Charlotte spoke in exclamation points, especially when she was nervous.

Kateri could see why. “The tape on the box has been ripped away.” She opened the door.

Lacey raced inside, ears flapping like adorable pigtails.

Charlotte followed. “You know what they're like down at the post office. It was open when it got here!”

“Um-hum. Did you peek inside?”

“By accident!” Charlotte's face slid from perpetually perky to simply sad. “I couldn't see anything. There's another box inside. It's black.”

Lacey sat next to her food bowl, scraping it across the kitchen floor with each nudge of her butt.

“Okay,” Kateri said, “put it over there in the corner beside the couch.”

“Black and with a lid that lifts off.” Charlotte placed it on the coffee table. “A big, heavy, textured gift box!”

“Thank you for signing for it.”

“Aren't you going to open it?” Charlotte shuffled from foot to foot like a kid waiting for Christmas. Obviously,
she'd
never received a gift she didn't want.

“Maybe after dinner.” After next year's dinner. “Are you off to teach a class?”