The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (25 page)

"But not this guy."

Ryan shook his head. "This guy is smart, and comes up with clever ways to get what he wants. Without leaving any traces behind."

"They did find a partial fingerprint on the boat engine. Let's see—" Joe pulled out another page. "Right pinky. Smudged. Not exactly helpful."

"Yeah, but now when we catch Dennis we might have proof of murder."

Joe shrugged. "But we're not any closer to finding where Dennis is hiding. And I don't see how we're going to find him."

"Yeah. It won't do us any good if we don't catch the SOB." Ryan looked it all over. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was depressed. But he just couldn't see a pattern in the info. Nothing jumped out at him.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. There had to be a pattern there, but he wasn't seeing it.

"I really thought you two were a good match," Joe mumbled.

Joe was back at his desk, writing a report on the computer. Ryan watched him. "Why did you think that? I mean, she's cute and all, but I don't know...."

"She stands up to you. She tells you off when you need it. She brings you out of your shell. And she's a good mother to that boy. Oliver told Marisol that Camilla was a good second mom. Those were his words for her. A good second mom, since his first one had to go away. Sounds like a good woman to me."

He shrugged. "She is a good woman. A good person. She just decided she didn't want to be with me."

"Is that what she said? She doesn't want to be with you?"

"Not exactly. We just couldn't agree on things."

"Like what exactly? You left the cap off the toothpaste, or what?"

"No." He swiveled his chair away from Joe and glared out the window at Calle Principal. "She says she's staying town after we already agreed to leave together."

Ryan saw Robin Brenham walking down the street outside. She got into her blue hybrid import. She must be heading out to Camilla's to sign the papers. The Honeymoon Cottage was sold. So why did she think she had to stay?

He turned away. This wasn't getting him anywhere.

"It doesn't sound like she dumped you. It sounds like you're disagreeing on geography."

"There's more to it than that." But what? She had started to say something, but then he'd said something wrong, as usual, and she just got exasperated with him. Why? Because he wanted to keep her safe? She always got mad at him when he said he would protect her. But wasn't that what a man was supposed to do?

"Flowers," said Joe. "That and an abject apology always works wonders. Trust an old married man."

The phone rang. Saved by the bell. "Get it, Serrano."

Joe shrugged and picked up the phone.

"Pajaro Bay sheriff's office. Deputy Serrano speaking." Joe's shoulders slumped and he put his head down. He sighed loudly in a long-suffering way that gave away the caller's identity.

"Yes, I see that, sir. I see. Another seven chickens."

Ryan stifled a snicker.

"I will be happy to take the report over the phone for you, sir."

Joe listened some more. "Perhaps we could discuss this later, sir? No, I understand you're a taxpayer, sir. I certainly do take this seriously."

Ryan smiled evilly. "Go take the report, deputy."

"Yes, sir," Joe said to the man on the phone. "Why of course I'll be glad to come see the evidence. Yes, sir. I do think it's a terrible crime. I am not taking it lightly at all, sir. I'll be out as soon as possible, sir. No, I'm sure you won't disturb anything until I get there. No, sir, I don't think it'll be necessary to block off the barn with crime scene tape. Thank you, sir." He hung up.

"Have a good time, deputy," Ryan said.

"Thank you, sir." Joe grabbed his hat and notebook and headed out the door.

At least now Ryan would have some time to think in peace. Why was Camilla so mad at him? She seemed to kind, so loving, but then he'd say or do something that just set her off.

He wasn't getting anywhere with this. He threw himself into his work, trying not to think about her any more.

He started working through all the papers on his desk, city by city. He carefully read through each report before filing it, still hoping to find some clue that would lead him to Dennis.

He worked for a half hour on the papers, finding nothing, with no sounds except the occasional codes coming in over the Coast Guard radio's frequency. They were still out by the lighthouse, trying to catch all the kids who were apparently trying to hide from them on the island.

He shook his head, and flipped to the next report in his stack.

About the boat explosion. Joe was right. There was nothing much there, especially since the body wasn't recovered for autopsy. But at least for once there was some suspicion that it wasn't an accident. He set that page down, read the next.

Nothing but general background on the girl killed in the boat explosion. Well-off family in L.A. Only child. Father was a lawyer and mother was a real estate agent. Bright girl, but suspended from high school twice, dropped out of college. Really clever, her teachers said. Came up with ingenious ways to get away with things. After school she bounced around, having minor contacts with the law here and there—passenger in a drunk driving incident with some kids, skirmish while partying at a club. Bailed out every time by her parents. Never held accountable. Spoiled. Her picture showed a good-looking young woman with glossy black hair, perfect makeup and a snooty look on her face.

Ryan froze.

He was having one of those Bloodhound Knight moments. The clues shook together like puzzle pieces. He stared at the picture of Dora Favre: no body recovered. Mother was a real estate agent. Waist-length black hair and an arrogant expression. Got away with everything she ever tried.

The answer had been right in front of him all along. Waist-length black hair. "I always feel like she's looking down her nose at me." Mother is a real estate agent. Clever but amoral.

No body recovered. Because Dora Favre was at Camilla's house right now.

He tried Camilla's cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message.

Called Robin Brenham's number. Straight to voicemail. Left another message.

He called the dispatcher and gave her the code for crime in progress, backup needed.

The Coast Guard was still out at the lighthouse. Joe was somewhere halfway up Pajaro mountain. He knew backup from the county took seventeen minutes to get here by chopper over the mountain from inland.

He had the dispatcher call in everyone ASAP and then he was out the door to the car.

The closest backup was seventeen minutes away. And he knew seventeen minutes from now would be too late.

~*~

Chapter 14

The fog shrouded the day, making everything in the little cottage feel hushed, isolated from the whole world. Camilla stood at the kitchen sink, doing the breakfast dishes, trying not to think about the path she'd just embarked on.

She had locked herself in the bathroom for a while to have a good cry, and now she was cleaning up the mess of the morning dishes—the mess she'd made of her life.

"Oliver," she called. "Get your stuff ready for school, hon."

She looked out the kitchen window at the back yard. She couldn't see anything more than a few feet away. It had an odd look, the fog almost glowing, with the sunshine just beyond the fog bank making it seem solid, like a gray screen lit from behind by a pure light. Muted, soft, alone.

Ryan was gone. She had sent him away. Dumped him. Now she had to face whatever came next on her own. She wiped her hands on the dishcloth and set it down on the counter. Squared her shoulders. She was doing the right thing. Ryan had never been the right man for her. She'd known that from the start. She could never tell him the truth. Could she see herself living a lie for the rest of her life? Never being able to be honest with the man with whom she shared her life? No.

Sending him away had been the right thing to do. That didn't make it easy to live with.

"Oliver?"

No answer. She went into the living room. His sleeping bag was still on the floor, his pajamas discarded on top. Backpack gone.

"Come on, honey. No messing around today. I've got a lot to do."

She looked in the tiny bathroom. Went upstairs to the second floor, even up to the little room on the third floor, where just last night she and Ryan had—

Enough of that. Where was Oliver?

"Oh, no." Had he been upset by their argument? She knew how fond he was of Ryan. After thinking they were staying together, running away together, now she was dumping Ryan and not running. Had she added another loss to his young life?

"Oliver!" She shouted it, but was met with nothing but silence in the house. At least as silent as the old cottage ever got. She stood in the middle of the living room and strained to listen: the creaking of old timbers, the tree branches rustling against the shingles, the whisper of the waves far below the cliff out back. But no sound of a little boy's footsteps.

"Oliver, please. Where are you?"

She was getting frightened now. Something was off in the cottage. It was like the little house was menacing all of a sudden, and she began to wonder if Dennis was lurking somewhere around. And if he was, could he have cornered his own son for some awful scheme?

Again she ran through the house, searching frantically in every tiny spot Oliver could have crawled into.

Then she rushed back downstairs, looking in, behind, around anything big enough to hide a small boy.

She threw the dutch doors open and ran outside to the back yard. She saw a flash of yellow on the lawn.

It was Oliver’s backpack, lying haphazardly in the grass, abandoned. She was really scared. She ran to the cliff, looked down over the dizzying edge. Nothing. Fog blocked her view of the cliff face, and of, God forbid, the ground far below.

"Oliver!" she shouted.

She looked around the yard, then saw that the shed door was standing open.

She went in. Even though the fog had been thick her eyes still took time to adjust to the dark little building.

"Oliver?" she whispered, somehow feeling like she shouldn't shout in here.

Where could he be? She absently noted the hum of the freezer still running, the jumble of 100-year-old junk. Something was different in here. Things had been moved around.

But she didn't have time to register what was different, because she saw a shadow on the floor, out of place amid all the cast-off treasures.

She bent over. It wasn't Oliver.

"Robin?" She lay too still, a gash in her forehead oozing dark. Camilla shook her shoulder, whispered her name. "Robin?" No response. Camilla felt for her wrist. She could feel the pulse, she could see her chest rise and fall. She was alive, but how badly hurt? And how did she get hurt?

Oliver wouldn't have hurt her. This made no sense. Dennis must be around somewhere.

She stood, fumbling in her coat pocket for her cell phone to call 911—and then realized the phone was in her purse back in the house.

"Hold on, Robin. I’m going for help."

Only the hum of the freezer answered her.

She turned to go, then froze. The freezer. That's what was different in here. The stack of windows had been moved away from the freezer, and the scratched white door stared blankly back at her.

No! She'd heard of children hiding in freezers, suffocating, unable to get out.

She pulled the door open.

And screamed.

Her first thought was that Dennis looked so peaceful.

Dennis Hutchins' dead body lay curled up in the freezer, almost as if he were sleeping. Sleeping on a pile of money. All around him were plastic bags full of cash. It was poetic somehow to see him that way, with the money he cared about so much cradling him in death.

Poor little Oliver. He was truly orphaned now. "My poor little boy." That was all she could fit into her mind. Poor child, so alone.

Except for her. What had happened here? Robin hurt, Dennis dead. Had Oliver stumbled across all of this? If he had, who knows how traumatized the poor child would be. She had to find him. She had to call 911. She had to get help. Now

She started to close the freezer door on the awful sight, but her own name caught her attention. She paused, the door open and the cold blast from the freezer hitting her in the face. There was an envelope, hand addressed, with her name and old address in San Jose. She carefully picked it up from its resting place among the bags of money, and slammed the door shut. She had to get help.

"You ruined everything."

The voice was female, from behind her. Camilla shoved the envelope into her pocket and turned around.

In the doorway of the shed, with that shimmering foglight behind the figures, Camilla could only see one taller, and one shorter person, side by side, with the gray swirling around them.

"Thea?" Relief surged through her. "You found him. Thank you, Thea. I was so worried about him. We have to call Ryan. Something terrible has happened, and Robin is hurt, and—"

Then she saw the shape in Thea's hand. A knife? At Oliver’s side?

Thea? This day was becoming surreal. First the discovery in the freezer, now her real estate agent holding a knife on her little boy.

"Why do you have a knife?" she asked stupidly, too shocked to put it all together.

Thea smirked at her in that superior way she always did. "Why he wanted an idiot like you...."

"Dora killed daddy," Oliver said, standing in the shadow. "My daddy's dead."

"I know, sweetheart." She took a step forward to put her arms around him but Thea raised the knife.

"What's going on? I don't understand."

"You are the dumbest of them all, Camilla. Put your hands up and come out of there."

She obeyed, her hands raised like in some old gangster movie. "Dumbest of them all? You were behind all the killings?"

Thea smirked at her. "Even now you can't understand what's happening to you." She grabbed Oliver by one arm and dragged him back a few steps as Camilla came closer. "That's far enough."

This was unbelievable. "You punctured the gas tank."