The Killing Game (13 page)

“Carrera didn’t have an explanation of what happened to Bellows?”

“Oh, he said they’d tipped over and the boat was atop them. Brian managed to get the inflatable turned over and inside it, but by then Bellows was gone. Disappeared.”

Luke knew Bolchoy had never believed Bellows’s death was anything short of homicide, but there had never been any proof. “You told Peg your suspicions.”

“She wouldn’t believe me . . . at first. But then those documents turned up. The sale of their property with
her
signature, and she didn’t sign it. She had to go to court, you know. Actually prove it was a forgery. The Carreras insisted they knew nothing about it. Must’ve been Ted who put her name on the doc, was their defense. Maybe it was . . . hard to say because he was dead. Carrera brothers skated again, but after that, Peg wasn’t quite so fond of them.” He slid Luke a glimmering look. “Corkland said that’s where I got the idea to forge their confessions.”

Luke wanted to ask him if Corkland was right, like he’d always wanted to but had been reluctant to ask. Now Bolchoy was staring him down, almost daring him to, but once the truth was out, there would be no putting it back. Cautiously, Luke said, “Rule number eight: Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

Bolchoy’s mouth settled into a hard smile. “That’s rule number six. Don’t forget it.”

“I haven’t.”

Bolchoy picked up his drink, though it was empty, then turned the glass in his hands. “At first Peg didn’t want to talk to me after Ted’s death. She’d had some medical issues. Cancer scare, I think. And anyway, she didn’t want to hear my theories about what happened on that inflatable.”

“You told her you thought it was a homicide.”

“She didn’t believe it. She defended those bastards until the document showed up. Even then, though, she shut the door in my face. I tried to contact her, but truthfully, she likes a prettier face.”

“What do you mean?”

He laughed shortly. “She liked the Carrera boys. Maybe even better than she liked her husband. I thought about using you back then, but well—” He shrugged. “Things went the way they went, and anyway, the lady wasn’t taking my calls. You want to know where she landed? Go see her in person. Knock on her door. She’ll take one look at you and you’ll be in.”

* * *

September walked through the door of the house she shared with her fiancé, a modified 1950s rambler, and dropped her messenger bag atop her grandmother’s quilt, which was tossed on the couch. She could smell the barbecue before she entered the kitchen. Jake was on the back patio outside the sliding glass door, which was cracked open a couple of inches. He was tending to a couple of rib eyes he’d flung on the grill as soon as September had texted him that she was on her way home from work.

She lingered a moment in the kitchen while he still didn’t know she was there, her gaze skating over his lean form, the strong line of his jaw. She and Jake had been through a lot in the past year; both of them had spent time in a hospital recuperating from various injuries. When he’d asked her to marry him, September had said yes, then had suffered huge doubts about the possibility of wedded bliss . . . or wedded anything, for that matter. Her own family had its share of weirdnesses, and she’d suffered a low-grade panic attack, if there was such a thing, for months on end. But she’d come through that with a kind of what-the-hell’s-wrong-with-you moment. Jake Westerly was the only man she wanted and she was damn lucky he felt the same way about her.

So, now they were making plans for a wedding. He didn’t care when, where, or how, he just wanted it to happen.

“Hey, Nine,” he said when he saw her, a grin catching his lips. Most of the time he still called her by her nickname, the one her twin, August “Auggie” Rafferty had dubbed her with because she’d been born in the ninth month of the year . . . barely. Auggie’s birthday was August 31, while September had arrived a few minutes later, just after midnight, hence she was christened September. This was a strange quirk of their father’s, started before their births with their brother, March, and sisters July and May. September always wondered what her father would have done if they’d arrived in the same month, but Auggie always figured they’d be August and Augusta. . . . The sad part was, he was probably right.

Jake put down his barbeque tools and bounded back inside, sweeping her into a bear hug that caused September to laugh in surprise.

“You’re squeezing me to death!”

“Ah, no. We can’t have that.” He slowly released her, then laid a big smacker on her. “Got a big account today.”

Jake owned an investment business he’d toyed with selling, his desire to make people—rich people—money having waned over the years. He had a half-interest in his father’s winery—his brother, Colin, was his partner—and he’d thought about moving into the business more fully. But as soon as he decided to quit the investment world, suddenly everyone wanted him to be their financial adviser. So, he was keeping with it in the meantime, and he’d admitted to September that he had a new attitude since they’d become engaged. “I want to be married to you. Everything else is secondary.”

The hell of it was that September didn’t feel quite the same. She loved Jake, didn’t want anyone else and wanted to be married to him. That was all true. But as far as the job went, she liked being a homicide detective, and after over a year on the job she wasn’t quite the newbie she’d been. Not that Jake was asking her to quit, but he did worry about the dangers.

“Are the steaks burning?” she asked.

“Nah. Just a char. I’ll leave the salad to you. Pour yourself a glass of wine.” He indicated the open bottle of red on the counter as he headed back outside.

“It’s salad in a bag,” she said.

“Of course.” He threw her a grin.

Cooking wasn’t exactly her long suit.

She poured a small amount of a red blend they both liked, looked at the glass, then added in another healthy dose. What the hell? It was Friday and she wasn’t working tomorrow, though today had been long. She and Gretchen had changed direction at the last moment and decided to meet with Grace Myles, which hadn’t worked. Grace was apparently having a bad day and the detectives were politely, firmly turned away. They’d been on their way to meet with Bromward, but Gretchen had decided she would rather call on the phone than face the man’s cats again. Back at the station, she’d phoned the garrulous older man, who’d proceeded to hang on the phone with the just-one-more-thing line long after Gretchen’s patience could handle. September’s partner had finally just clicked off while Bromward was in midthought, and after spewing a blistering string of swear words, Gretchen had said to September, “Bromward’s yours from here on out. I’m not talking to him anymore.”

“That’s not how it works,” September said.

“Yeah, it is.”

Now, September grabbed the bag of Caesar salad out of the refrigerator, cut it open, and dumped the hunks of romaine into a bowl. Then she cut open the inner bags of shredded parmesan, croutons, and the dressing. One of the things she loved about Jake was that he could swing from the most gourmet meal to pedestrian fare without comment.

She set the bowl onto the table, scooped up her wine glass, and joined Jake outside. “Gretchen said the skeletons-in-the-closet investigation would be solved in a few days.”

“Gretchen says a lot of things that aren’t true. You just noticed?”

“Smart-ass.” She shook her head. “She dragged me back from vacation last summer because the case was heating up, but it just came to a grinding halt. We don’t have a DNA match and no one on Aurora seems to know who belongs to the extra bones. I’ve gone back through property records to previous homeowners, but no one wants to get back to me.”

Jake pulled the steaks off the grill and slid them onto a plate, then picked up his own glass of red. They both walked back inside and sat down at the small kitchen table.

September exhaled heavily and picked up her wineglass. “Gretchen and I connected with Tynan Myles at Tiny Tim’s today. He lives at the house catty-corner across the street from the Singletons, where we found the bones. He wasn’t a lot of help. His mother, Grace Myles, owned the house before she turned it over to Tynan. She was probably the Singletons’ closest friend, according to Carol Jenkins, Jan Singleton’s sister. But Grace is in assisted living now and suffers from dementia. We tried to see her, but she wasn’t at her best and the powers that be at Maple Grove Assisted Living suggested we come back another time.”

“You said the bones are from an eighteen-year-old male?”

“Who would be about thirty now, if he’d lived. Tynan’s son, Grace’s grandson, is probably closer in age, but he never lived on Aurora. He lived with his mother out of state. And his wife isn’t interested in having us talk to him.”

“What about the other neighbors?”

“There’s a Chinese family in the house directly across from the Singletons. They’ve been there about five years. They’re very polite, but when I ask them questions they just nod and smile. I don’t know how much they understand. They have a grown daughter who lives in Los Angeles who I’ve talked to and who basically interprets. She says they don’t know anything, and I believe her. They haven’t been there long enough.”

“Any other houses?”

“Lots of houses, but no one who really knows the Singletons except the guy on the opposite end of the street. Gretchen had an illuminating conversation with him about pretty much everything but the Singletons, so, now I’m going over the records of people who lived on Aurora before. One house has sold six times.”

“Something’ll break.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” September grumbled. “Gretchen’s losing interest. Even though she likes the weird ones, she’s about ready to jump ship.”

Jake touched the rim of his glass to hers. “C’mon. Let’s eat. You’ll feel better.”

Chapter Eight

Saturday morning Luke drove to the Bellows’s cabin and was a little surprised to see how well-tended it was. The trees and bushes that lined the lane were trimmed back and there was fresh gravel along the lane that led to the small clearing by the lake, where a newly shingled two-story house had replaced the rustic abode Luke remembered from the pictures Bolchoy had in his file.

Luke parked and stepped out, conscious of the earthy smell of the lake and the light breeze that filtered the heat of the sun. It was late September and there was no discernible change from August. If it hadn’t been that he was worried about Andi, it would have been a perfect day.

He sprang up to the two steps to the front door, knocked loudly, and waited. Peg Bellows wouldn’t answer his phone message, but it might be harder to ignore him on her porch. He noticed the two window boxes with pink, purple, and yellow petunias bobbing their heads in the breeze. She’d put some time, effort, and money into the place, that was for certain. Maybe as a nose-thumbing to the Carreras? It was her property and she wasn’t selling.

But Bolchoy had intimated that she’d been swayed by the good-looking brothers. Maybe she’d had a change of opinion after Ted’s death. It sure looked like it.

He knocked again and waited, then moved to the front windows, peering inside. The place was clean and decorated with a more modern feel than the rustic furniture he’d expected. Was he remembering Bolchoy’s pictures, or was it merely his own expectation? Either way, this decor smelled like money . . . but if she’d sold out to the Carreras they would’ve razed the place in preparation for buying more and more land. Like the Wrens, they planned bigger, though the Wren’s lodge was bound to be more family friendly than whatever the Carreras would come up with.

He knocked a third time, pretty sure no one was around. He was turning to leave when he heard the hum of a loud engine approaching. He waited, and a truck appeared pulling a small trailer with landscaping equipment. A man jumped down and looked over at Luke inquiringly.

“Peg Bellows isn’t home?” he asked the man.

“Nah.”

“I’ve been calling her and there’s been no answer.” Luke walked toward him. “You do the landscaping around here?”

“Yep.”

“You have a card? I have a friend who bought a cabin just down the way. She could use some help.”

He squinted at Luke. “Name’s on the truck.”

Luke had seen that he was Kessler Landscaping. “Saw that, but there’s no phone number. You’re Kessler, then?”

“Art Kessler.”

“Luke Denton.” He stuck out his hand, and the older man hesitated briefly before extending his own.

“I’m looking into Peg’s husband’s death,” Luke told him as Kessler dug in a couple of pockets, apparently searching for a business card. “Did you know Ted?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“Ah . . . well, I’m following up. Someone’s gotta make sure justice was really served.” He knew how pompous he sounded, but he wanted Kessler on his side.

The older man squinted up at the sun. “I gotta get workin’.”

“You don’t know when Peg’ll be back?”

“If you was really workin’ for her, you’d know where she was.”

“I’ve reopened the case.” Luke wasn’t going to back down. “I don’t think Ted’s death was an accident, and I think the Carrera boys were at fault.”

“You a cop?”

“Was. Worked on this case a bit. Now I’m doing it on my own.”

“What’s your stake in this?”

“I don’t like killers escaping justice. That’s all.”

The older man considered for a moment, then said, “She’s away. Won’t be back till sometime next month. I’m keeping an eye on the place while she’s gone.”

“Do you know where?”

His answer was a shrug.

“Okay.” Luke nodded. “I’ll have to catch her when she’s back.”

“You really think you can put them boys away?”

“I’m sure as hell gonna give it the old college try,” he answered grimly.

“Good luck to you, son.” Kessler’s lips turned up in what Luke thought might be a smile, but then he headed back to his equipment.

Luke climbed into his own truck and drove back down the lane to the road. Scratch Peg Bellows for now. If he was going to bring the Carreras to justice, he was going to have to go back to the beginning. He should’ve asked Bolchoy if he’d made copies of the department file on the Carreras, something he was known to do even though it was frowned upon.