Trust No One (5 page)

C
ongratulations, Arkwright. You really know how to screw up a date.

Julius brought the SUV to a halt in the driveway in front of his house. He shut down the engine and sat for a moment, contemplating the darkened cottage and the mystery of Grace Elland.

The cottage was modest but it was infused with the comfortable patina that only several generations of occupation could impart. It held a few very nice surprises, such as the brilliant view of the lake and the extraordinarily lush gardens. A man could be content with a house like this for the rest of his life.

Grace Elland held a few surprises, too. It was difficult to believe that any intelligent individual could take seriously all that nonsense about positive thinking and the power of affirmations. It was one thing to do a good job. He didn’t blame her for working for a self-help guru. A job was a job. You did what you had to do. He admired competence and hard work regardless of the nature of that work. But tonight he’d gotten the impression that Grace had really bought into the
Witherspoon Way fantasy. She actually did seem to believe that positive energy was a force for good in the world.

Either she was for real or she was one of the most clever con artists he had ever met—and in his line, he’d encountered some very good ones.

Mentally he cataloged his impressions of her. She was on the small side. Even in the ridiculously high, incredibly sexy high-heeled shoes she’d worn tonight she barely topped out at a point just a little above his shoulder. But she moved like a dancer. There was something light and graceful about her—and a subtle strength, as well. He’d felt the feminine power in her when he lifted her up into the passenger seat of the SUV. The memory of holding her for that brief moment stirred his senses.

Her hair was the color of aged whiskey. Tonight she’d twisted it into a knot high on her head, probably in an effort to give the illusion of height. The style enhanced her eyes, which were an interesting shade of amber and green. When she looked at him he got the unsettling sensation that she could see a lot more than he wanted her or anyone else to see, things that he kept hidden from the world.

Theoretically she was the kind of woman you didn’t look twice at on the street. But tonight he had definitely looked twice—more than twice—and he wanted to look at her—be near her—again. There were questions hanging in the air between them. He would not be satisfied until he got answers.

Some alchemist. He had turned a golden blind date into lead. Now he was stuck with the problem of figuring out how to reverse the process.

He opened the door and climbed out of the vehicle. Harley Montoya emerged from the neighboring house and came out onto the porch.

“How’d the big date go?” Harley bellowed.

There was no need to raise his voice. The two houses sat side by
side, separated only by the narrow drive that Harley used to haul his beloved boat out of the water for maintenance. Sound carried well in the stillness of the winter night. But Harley was going deaf in one ear and he tended to assume that everyone else was hard of hearing as well.

As far as anyone knew his first name was a Montoya family name that had been bestowed on him by his parents. But back in the day when he had made his fortune in the construction and development business the rumors circulated that the name was derived from a certain brand of motorcycle. There was no getting around the fact that he was constructed along the lines of a Harley-Davidson. He was in his eighties now and had softened somewhat over the years but he still possessed the solid, muscular build that brought to mind images of the famous bike.

“It was a blind date,” Julius said. He closed the door of the SUV. “It didn’t go well. They rarely do. And is everyone in Cloud Lake aware that Grace and I were set up tonight?”

“Pretty much,” Harley said. “You’re home early. Figured you’d screwed up. What went wrong?”

“I made the mistake of asking her if she murdered Witherspoon. She got pissed.”

“No kidding.” Harley snorted. “Why in the name of hell did you have to go and ask her a thing like that?”

“I was curious to see what her reaction would be.”

“I guess you got that question answered. I told you Grace Elland was no killer. You’re an idiot when it comes to women.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Well, don’t worry too much about screwing up,” Harley said. “Looks like you and Grace will both be in town for a while. Play your cards right and you’ll get another chance.”

“In other words, I should try to think positive, is that it?”

“Hell, no.” Harley snorted. “I’m talking about smart strategy, not that positive-thinking bullshit. Strategy and planning are your strengths, son. Use your natural-born talents.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that.”

Julius walked across the lawn and went through the small gate. He moved out into the narrow rutted lane that separated the two houses.

“You weren’t living here in Cloud Lake at the time of the Trager murder, were you?” he asked.

“No,” Harley said. “Still too busy making money in those days. Most of what I know about it and about Grace Elland comes from Agnes.”

“A bad scene like that would sure as hell leave a few scars, especially on a girl who was only in her teens at the time.”

“What are you gettin’ at?” Harley asked.

“Just wondering why Grace never married, that’s all.”

“They say a lot of young women are waiting longer to get married these days, if they marry at all.”

“Wow. You’re an expert on modern social trends?”

“Nope, but Agnes keeps me up to date,” Harley said. “She says Grace has just been waitin’ for the right man to come along. We were both sort of hopin’ you might be him.”

“What the hell made anyone think I might be the right man?” Julius asked, genuinely surprised.

“No idea, come to think of it.”

“Were you and Agnes Gilroy coconspirators with Irene and Dev when it came to planning the blind date?”

“Course not.” Harley sounded affronted. “Do I look like a matchmaker to you? It was Irene Nakamura’s idea. She and Grace have been friends since they were little kids. I hear your old buddy Dev went along with the notion. Go blame him if you want to blame someone.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Julius started walking down the lane toward the dock and the boathouse. “Good night, Harley.”

“Don’t give up, son. I think Grace is the kind of woman who would give a man a second chance.”

Julius paused and looked back at Harley. “Are you sure you haven’t fallen into the clutches of some motivational guru?”

“Are you laughing?” Harley demanded.

“Trust me, I’m not laughing.”

Julius walked to the end of the lane and stepped out onto the floating dock. Water lapped gently at the planks. Cloud Lake didn’t reflect clouds at night, just moonlight—at least it did on a night when the moon was out, like it was tonight. The water was a sheet of black glass streaked with silver under the cold, starry sky.

The weathered boathouse loomed on his left. He moved past it and came to a halt at the end of the dock. Although the trees crowded close to the water’s edge, the lights of some of the houses and cottages could be seen from where he stood.

The Elland house was only about a quarter of a mile away if you drew a straight line from point to point across the lake. He could see the lights of the kitchen and back porch. As he watched, one window went dark but another suddenly illuminated. The bedroom, probably. Grace was going to bed. It was, he discovered, an unsettling thought; the kind of thought that could keep a man awake at night.

He took out his phone. Devlin answered on the fourth or fifth ring. He sounded irritated.

“This had better be important,” he said. “We keep early hours here in Cloud Lake. This isn’t the big city.”

“You said you wanted my impressions of Grace Elland.”

“Hang on.”

There was some rustling. Julius heard Devlin mutter something about business—probably speaking to Irene—and then a door closed.

“Okay,” Devlin said. He kept his voice low. “I’m in the kitchen getting a glass of water. Talk fast.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Grace killed Witherspoon.”

“Good to know that you and Irene agree on that. Grace does have a fairly good alibi.”

“Not iron-clad?”

“In my experience there are very, very few iron-clad alibis. My contact at the Seattle PD confirmed that the video from Grace’s apartment garage camera shows that she arrived home at seven o’clock that evening and did not leave until seven-thirty the following morning. The ME said Witherspoon was murdered shortly after midnight.”

“Curiosity compels me to ask, what would you accept as an iron-clad alibi?”

“If the suspect could prove that he or she was dead when the victim was killed I might go for it. But even then I’d look at the alibi real hard. It’s not that difficult to come up with a scenario that has someone setting up a murder-suicide in which the suicide takes place before the murder.”

Julius thought about it for a moment, intrigued by the problem. “I can imagine a couple of other ways a dead man could commit murder. A delayed-action weapon like slow poison, for example.”

“I’ve told you before, you think like a cop.”

“Pay is better in my line.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Devlin said. “All right, let’s say for the sake of argument that you and Irene are right when you tell me that Grace couldn’t have killed Sprague Witherspoon—”

“I never said she couldn’t have done it. I said I don’t think she did it.”

There was a short pause on the other end of the connection.

“You really think she’s capable of murder?” Devlin asked finally. He sounded curious.

“You’re the cop. As I recall you have told me on more than one occasion that everyone is capable of committing murder under the right circumstances.”

“There is that,” Devlin conceded.

“Don’t underestimate Grace Elland. Underneath that optimistic, glass-half-full exterior, there’s a tough streak.”

“No doubt about it. I’m the one who told you the story of what happened here in Cloud Lake all those years ago, remember?”

Julius watched the lights of the Elland house. “I remember.”

“Grace is something of a local legend in this town. It’s one of the reasons I asked for your take on her. You’re an outsider. I knew you wouldn’t be swayed by the story from her past.”

“She says she’s here to think about her future and make some decisions regarding a career path.”

“Yeah, Irene explained that Grace has spent the past few years hopping from one job to another,” Devlin said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Julius said. “When Grace finally does decide what she wants in life, I would not want to be the one standing in her way.”

Unless I’m what she decides she wants.

The thought came out of nowhere, startling him so badly that he almost dropped the phone.

“Damn,” he said.

He said it very softly but Devlin heard him.

“You okay?” Devlin asked.

“Yeah, fine. Just a little phone issue.”

“So, how did the date go tonight?”

“It went swell up to a point. Got asked in for tea.”

“Tea?” Devlin’s tone suggested that he had never heard of the substance.

“Some kind of herbal stuff.”

“I guess that sounds promising. What went wrong?”

“What makes you think something went wrong?”

“You obviously got home early,” Devlin said patiently. “You’re talking to me on your phone so, ace detective that I am, I deduced that you were no longer with Grace.”

“You’re good. You’re also right in your deductions. The date ended somewhat abruptly when I asked Grace if she killed Witherspoon.”

“You asked her?” Devlin repeated in a neutral tone.

“Yep.”

“Point-blank?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Harley said something along the same lines.”

“I assume she denied it?” Devlin said.

“Sure. That’s when she kicked me out of the house. But here’s the thing, Dev, there’s something really wrong with this picture. She’s scared.”

“Of what?”

“Damned if I know. But I saw what I’m sure are brand-new locks on the front and back doors of the house. While we were in the kitchen the email alert pinged on her phone. She jumped. Make that flinched.”

“She’s a woman living alone,” Devlin said. “Good locks make sense. As for the email alert, I’ve been known to flinch when I hear mine ping, too.”

“There’s something else going on, Dev. I can feel it.”

“As Irene keeps reminding me, finding a dead body is bound to be a traumatic experience for someone who isn’t in the business of finding them.”

“You’re in that line.”

Devlin exhaled heavily. “You know as well as I do that for those of us who do stumble across dead bodies every so often in the course of our jobs, it’s never routine.”

“That attitude is what makes you a good cop.”

“Why do you think I took this nice, cushy job here in Cloud Lake? I got tired of finding dead bodies in the big city.”

“I know,” Julius said.

There was silence at both ends of the connection for a few seconds.

“All right, back to Grace Elland,” Devlin said finally. “Here’s what the Seattle people have: She walked into her boss’s house and found him dead in bed, shot twice with a handgun that was reported stolen.”

“Someone bought it on the street to use on Witherspoon. Grace doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would know how to buy a gun in a back alley.”

“Got news for you, it’s not that hard to buy a stolen gun,” Devlin said. “Nothing was stolen from the house. It was not a burglary gone bad. As I was saying, the SPD people figure the most likely scenario is that the killer is probably someone connected to Witherspoon. Grace knows that. So if she’s innocent—”

“She is.”

“Then she’s probably coping with the fact that at some point her path crossed with that of the killer,” Devlin concluded. “It’s not surprising that she might decide to take a few extra precautions with her own personal safety now.”