Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) (4 page)

There were other arguments against her complicity, though,
including the abortive search of the stuff in that rented space.  Sophie
Thomsen was apparently slated to have unlimited access to every single
donation.  Why would she need to ransack it now?

Still - something to keep in the back of his mind.

Not surprisingly, she knew considerably more than he did
about the auction and the entire fundraising effort.

“The current owner of the property says that he knows his uncle
would have preferred keeping the land in its natural state.  Apparently the
uncle had had offers over the years and turned them down.  The heir is trying
to honor Mr. Billington’s wishes.”

He studied her.  “You sound as if you knew this Billington.”

“I did.  A long time ago.”  Only by a certain constraint in
her voice did he guess she’d rather not chat about the old guy.

“How about the current owner?”

“He was an adult and I didn’t have much to do with him.”

He was an adult.
  Interesting, Daniel thought.  Had
she grown up in Cape Trouble?  At the moment, though, he couldn’t see how her
history was relevant to his investigation, so he returned the focus to the
fundraising effort.

Sophie told him there had already been some substantial
monetary donations, and that a group similar to the Nature Conservancy had
agreed to pay up to half the purchase price and would both own and administer
the land thereafter.  “There’s still a substantial gap, though,” Sophie said,
“which the auction will help fill.  Doreen’s goal for it was two hundred
thousand dollars.  She was hoping for a lot more than that.  Half a million was
her dream.”

He stared at her.  “How the hell is that possible?”

“For one thing, it’s to be held in Portland, not here.  You
knew that, didn’t you?”

“Actually, no.  I hadn’t paid that much attention.”  He
didn’t wanted to say that he’d assumed the whole campaign was next best thing
to a joke.

“From what Doreen told me, they’ve brought in some pretty
amazing donations so far,” Sophie continued.  “Somewhere in there is a piece of
Dale Chihuly glass, for example.”

Even he recognized that name.

“They’re not only hitting up locals, you know,” she
continued.  “They’re going for people throughout the Northwest who are known to
be sympathetic to ecological and conservation causes.  Auction tickets are two
hundred dollars, which lets out people without some decent money to spend.”

So much for his belief that Doreen Stedmann was a crackpot –
a nice lady whose enthusiasm was admirable, but still a crackpot.

Sophie didn’t know much about the financial donations
already made, except that there was some sort of escrow account at Oregon Coast
Bank.  And that much of the money consisted of pledges rather than actual,
in-hand cash.  “But I’m sure someone else on the committee can tell you more
about that,” she added.

He copied down names and numbers from her list of auction
volunteers rather than taking it from her.  She also showed him the itemization
of tangible donations, which even he could see was poorly organized.

“I can tell you from experience that this list doesn’t cover
half of what’s in that storage space,” she said.  “Plus, Doreen has mentioned
things to me not listed here.  I’m going to need to start from scratch, looking
at every single donation, describing it and assigning a value as well as a
catalog number.  I’ll be using a program called Auction-Tracker that’s already
on my laptop.  It also allows us to enter the names and contact info for
auctiongoers, their bid numbers and so on.  The cashier function means it can
handle the entire event from beginning to end.”

“And this is what you do for a living,” he said, intrigued.

“No, actually I work on events for a major corporation
headquartered in Portland.  Some are designed to show off products, some to
entertain customers, shareholders.”  She shrugged.  “But I got my start in the
business with a company that does put on auctions for non-profits, and I’ve
continued volunteering time to a couple of  organizations that depend on their
auctions.”

“Yeah?  What are those?”

Her expression didn’t change, but he could feel her
reluctance though her hesitation was brief.  “One offers refuge and services to
teens living on the street, and the other is a no-kill animal shelter.”

Creatures, human and otherwise, that on some level were lost
or abandoned.  As he’d hoped, her choices told him something about her.  Once
he had more context, he’d know what it meant.

“Okay,” he said finally.  “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve
talked to everyone on this list.  Then you can get in touch and set up a
meeting or whatever you have in mind.”

“When can I get back into the storage unit?”

“You sure you can bring yourself to work in there?”

“I don’t see that I have any choice.”  She spoke slower than
usual for her, as if she was thinking aloud.  “I wonder if there’s a vacant
unit the same size or even bigger?  I could move the items as I look at them.”

Daniel nodded.  “That’s a good idea.”  He hesitated.  “I’m
going to be looking over your shoulder, you know.  Somebody was hunting for
something in there.  They might have found it, but they might not have, too.”

“Then why didn’t they keep looking?”

“There was a risk that someone would show up.  You, for
example.  Could be your aunt had mentioned that you were meeting up with her
there.  He killed her, searched frantically, panicked.”  He didn’t have to add,
Or found what he was looking for
. 

Her shudder reminded him that he wasn’t talking to another
cop, hardened to death in its uglier forms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but she shook her head.

“You didn’t say anything you shouldn’t have.”  She stared
into his eyes with such intensity, he couldn’t have looked away.  “I need you
to find out who murdered her.  Don’t let them get away with it.”  She
swallowed, and finished more softly.  “Please don’t.”

“I’ll do my damndest,” he said.  “That’s all I can promise.”

For what felt longer than the few seconds it actually was,
she continued to study him.  At least she dipped her head.  “Thank you.”

He rose to his feet.  “Do you know who your aunt’s heir is?”

“I am.”

“You’re sure?”

“If she’s changed her will, she hasn’t told me.  I don’t
actually think she has that much.  She owned a garden center for years.  Sold
it, I don’t know, maybe ten years ago?  But that’s not what you’d call a high
profit business.  She’s lived ever since on the proceeds and whatever she had
from her own parents.  I’m not sure if she’d started getting Social Security
yet.  She does own her house, and that’s it as far as I know.”

“Okay,” he said.  “You know I have to search it.”

“I…assumed.  Do you have her keys?”

“Haven’t located them yet.  They’re not in the car.”

She told him where her aunt’s hide-out key was.  It was all
he could do not to say, Why bother to lock at all?  Putting a key in a place
that obvious was all but an invitation to burglars.  Usually when he said
something like that, though, people here shook their heads at him with pity for
his jaundiced, big city thinking.

He wondered if Doreen Stedmann’s murder might make some
locals a little more careful from now on.

*****

The tiny living room was crowded with only three people in
addition to herself, Sophie couldn’t help noticing.  Aunt Doreen’s house wasn’t
much bigger.  She’d have to find out where the full auction committee had been
meeting.

Daniel – Chief Colburn – had called her just after five to
let her know that he’d spoken, at least briefly, with everyone on the list
she’d given him.  She could feel free to call them now.  No, he told her, he
hadn’t learned anything meaningful as yet.

Hannah Moss’s name had been starred, and Sophie knew Doreen
had considered her a co-chair, so Sophie’s first call was to her.  She was the
one to suggest a get-together tonight, and brought the other two women with
her.  Sophie was touched that they’d come with lasagna, garlic bread, salad and
red wine in hand. 

“I’m sure people will be bringing you food like crazy the
next few days,” the oldest of the three had told her.  “That’s what we do
around here.  But Chief Colburn,“ she gave a sniff that seemed to hold disdain,
“has kept word from spreading as fast as usual, and we knew you wouldn’t want
to cook tonight.”

Sophie hadn’t even known she was hungry until she smelled
the lasagna.  She’d found enough mismatched plates and silverware to
accommodate everyone.  The tiny table in the kitchen sat only two, however, so
they’d carried their food into the living room.

Really, the meal turned into something like an Irish wake. 
They all wanted to talk about Doreen – her accomplishments, her energy, the
nice things she’d done for everyone she knew.

“I’m the newcomer,” Hannah said.  “I bought the bookstore
here in town only a year ago.  I was divorced and wanted to get away from the
city.  I hadn’t been here a day when Doreen stopped by with a huge pot of
vegetarian chili and a whole lot of advice.  My expanding into chocolate was
her idea.”  When Sophie blinked in surprise, Hannah laughed and explained that,
along with books, she sold truffles, fudge and hot cocoa in her store, a hugely
successful sideline.

Sophie had decided almost immediately that she’d like
Hannah, who looked about her own age of thirty.  She was tall, red-headed,
freckled, buxom and a little plump.  Sophie had heard one of the other women
ask what she’d done about babysitting, so she knew Hannah had children.

Sophie was less sure she was going to like the second woman,
Elaine Terwilliger.  Elaine had let her know right away what a long-standing
friendship she had with Doreen.  “I barely knew she had family!” she exclaimed,
then pasted on an expression of chagrin.  “Oh, of course she talked about you,
Sophie.  But since she didn’t see you very often…”

Physically, she reminded Sophie of Marge without Marge’s
good humor.  Sophie had met several of Doreen’s closest friends, and Elaine
hadn’t been among them.  That said, it quickly became apparent that she had
been working very hard on the auction.  She had been involved in a couple such
efforts down in Arizona, where she and her sister spent winters, and had a
better grasp of some of the realities than Doreen had had.

The third woman was so quiet, Sophie couldn’t come to a
quick conclusion about her.  Her name was Naomi Kendrick, she apparently owned
a small café that served breakfast and lunch but not dinner, and she’d made the
lasagna, which was amazing.  She was skinnier than Sophie thought anyone who
cooked for a living ought to be.  Her skin was very pale and the pixie cut of
her brunette hair gave her an otherworldly air.  At first glance, Sophie had
put her in her mid-twenties, but she decided she’d been wrong after watching
the way Naomi listened without committing herself.  She seemed perpetually
wary.  Sophie was reminded of some of the girls she’d met at the teen shelter. 
What first appeared to be shyness was something else altogether.  Pain?  Fear? 
Or else she was being completely ridiculous, and the poor woman was beat after
a long day and upset by the news about Doreen.  She did smile when Sophie said,
“This is the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.  I know where I’m going to be
eating from now on.”

Not until they’d put their plates in the dishwasher and the
leftovers away in the refrigerator did they get down to business.

Elaine had been writing countless letters seeking
donations.  Hannah had hit up locals, and Naomi had been the liaison with the
Governor Hotel in Portland for the event itself.  She’d chosen the menu –
“after I got input, of course,” she added hastily, with a glance at the other
two – and she’d found the artist who had donated the artwork for the
invitations, catalog and poster.

“Aunt Doreen showed me the poster last night.  It’s
gorgeous,” Sophie assured her, and her face brightened.

The painting was beautiful, evocative, perfect for its
purpose…and Sophie’s stomach had turned upside down at first sight of it.  The
watercolor had a dreamy quality.  It captured a peek-a-boo view between dunes
of the beach where it curved to meet Mist River.  A clump of seashore lupine in
the forefront provided vivid color, and Sophie had all but been able to feel
the coarse texture of the beach grass.  She would swear she knew the exact spot
where the artist had placed his easel.

It was in one of those dips between dunes that she’d found
her mother.  Perhaps even that dip.  It was years before she could make herself
go to the beach at all – any beach.  The mere idea of a walk in the dunes on
the other side of Mist River was still, twenty years later, enough to make her
skin prickle and her stomach seize up.  Sophie had never been sure whether
Doreen had noticed her excuses and alternate suggestions for outings during
visits.  Last night, as Sophie had smiled after barely glancing at the painting
and said, “Oh, that’s lovely,” to Doreen, she’d barely resisted the need to
race to the bathroom and throw herself to her knees in front of the toilet.

As she lay in bed later, tired from the preparations she’d
made to be away from home for a month as well as from the drive, yet unable to
sleep, she hadn’t been able to get that painting out of her mind.  Had Doreen
forgotten where Sophie’s mother had died?  Or maybe she’d never known, since
Sophie’s family were strangers to her until months later.

It was ridiculous to think that watercolor was a taunt aimed
directly at her.

It was twenty years ago.  None of them know.

The name of the artist niggled at her, but she couldn’t seem
to put a face with it.  She’d forgotten so much.  She didn’t know if she wanted
to meet him or not.

Hoping the other women wouldn’t see the shadow on her mood,
she briskly explained her intentions for handling the donations and overseeing
the remainder of the preparations for the auction, and was glad when no one
argued.  She’d been afraid there would be some resentment that she was so
obviously taking over, especially now that Doreen wasn’t here to back her. 
Elaine, she sensed, might not be altogether happy, but she kept her mouth shut,
and the other two women appeared to be grateful rather than rebellious.