Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) (17 page)

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 her 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?”

“After the break-in at your aunt’s?”  The furrows in his
forehead had deepened.  “Maybe.”  He muttered something under his breath. 
“Yeah.  I think it’s a real possibility, if we can’t figure out what he’s
after.”

Even as she absorbed the possibility that she really was in
danger, Sophie’s instinct was to downplay  the whole situation.  “You must have
been getting bored with your job,” she said lightly.

He set the laptop onto the coffee table and straightened. 
“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you’re throwing yourself into this heart and soul. 
Guarding me with your life.  Even listening to my sad story.”  She tacked that
on as if his listening was a minor kindness, when really being able to talk to
him and knowing he believed her had changed something deep inside her.

 
What am I doing?
she wondered in sudden panic. 
Am
I trying to make this personal?