Whisper of Revenge (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 4) (26 page)

Along with her dismay at the implications of the mess, it
was the clutter and the dim lighting that explained why her eyes didn’t
immediately focus on the figure crumpled at the back.  Even when she saw…what
she saw…she rather stupidly gaped at the drying pool of a dark substance that
had crept far enough from the – body? – to soak the corner of a cardboard box
and possibly damage the contents. 

It was only then, reluctantly, that her eyes focused on that
ruined head, and she saw the face.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, at the same moment as Marge
whirled, raced to the fence and lost her breakfast through it.

*****

The gate to the storage facility stood open when Daniel
Colburn drove up in his squad car.  Marge Hedgecoth stood just inside, waiting
beside her golf cart.  She didn’t look so good.

Rolling down his window, he asked, “You okay, Marge?”

She summoned a smile that didn’t help much.  “I’ve been
better.”

Daniel nodded.  “Around back, you said?”

“Far corner.”  She waved.  “4079.”

“Once I see what’s what, I’ll need to talk to you.”

“Yes, Chief.  I’ll be in the office.”

“Good,” he said.  “In the meantime, I want you to shut down
the gate.  No calls, either,” he told her sternly.  “Don’t let anyone in, or
anyone out.  Ask folks to wait until I can talk to them.”

She agreed.  He figured he could trust her.  He’d gotten to
know Marge since he took on the job as police chief of Cape Trouble ten months
ago.  During his tenure, the fence around the facility had been cut a couple of
times, a car stolen once, a lock cut off a unit and the contents ransacked
another time.  There’d been some vandalism.  Marge was a tough lady.

He eyed the people he could see industriously doing whatever
you did in a storage space, but drove directly to the far corner where Marge
had told him the victim’s niece waited.

He noted the isolation of this particular unit and
automatically scanned eaves and fence line for a camera.  He knew there were
several sprinkled throughout the facility and that Marge kept an eye on
monitors during the day in her office.  He’d arrested the idiot who drove away
in the very collectible, shiny red, 1962 MG roadster by watching video footage
that showed the guy clear as day.  But – didn’t it figure? – Daniel didn’t see
one back here.

The car parked to one side of the gaping door was a sleek,
four-door blue Prius.  A woman sat behind the wheel.  She got out when he
parked and walked to meet him.

His immediate reaction shook him a little.  Crap.  He liked
to look at a sexy woman as well as the next guy, but this was piss poor
timing.  He couldn’t let himself forget that this woman was involved in some
way with a death and therefore a potential investigation.   And the feeling of
a fist in the gut meant he was doing more than looking.

She wasn’t even beautiful, not exactly.  Medium height but
leggy, maybe a little short-waisted which might be making her breasts look
bigger than they actually were.  Wavy dark-blonde hair – yeah, he did like
blondes – bundled carelessly up on the back of her head with tendrils already
escaping.  A pretty oval face without noticeable cheekbones but
somehow…delicate.  As they got closer, he saw how fine-textured her skin was.

Uh huh, and how waxy pale.  His nose had already caught the
scent of puke.  Not surprising.  Rookie cops invariably puked at their first
murder scenes or after seeing the gruesome result of a major vehicular
accident.

“Chief Daniel Colburn,” he said, holding out his hand.  “I’m
afraid Marge didn’t mention your name.”

Her eyes were green.  Hazel probably, but mostly green.

“Sophie Thomsen,” she told him.  “That’s, um, my aunt in
there.”  She nodded sideways without looking into the storage unit.  “Well,
sort of my aunt.”

“Sort of?”

“She’s my stepmother’s sister.  Doreen Stedmann.”

Oh, hell.  “I know Doreen.”

Ms. Thomsen nodded unhappily.  “Everyone in town does.”

“Please stay here while I take a look.”

She didn’t appear to be sorry to stay behind.

Daniel knew all about the auction, which was being held as
part of the effort to raise the funds to buy a sizeable piece of land the other
side of Mist River from town.  Forty or fifty acres, he understood, of prime
river- and ocean-front land that included forest, dunes, an old lodge and a
string of cabins, now all but falling down.  The long-time owner had passed away
and his heir wanted to unload the property, which had resort chains
salivating.  Locals were determined to keep their pretty town pristine and save
it from the evil giant condo developments that were sure to take over if that
land was chopped into pieces and made available.  The heir was apparently
giving them a little time to raise the money.  Daniel didn’t see much hope, but
you never know.

Doreen Stedmann was a local character, an eccentric woman
known as an activist but lacking real solid follow-through, gossips said.  She
started a lot of projects but finished few.  From the bulging contents of the
storage space, she’d been doing surprisingly well on this one.

Until somebody had gone berserk in here, that is.  And until
she’d died or decided to kill herself amongst the auction items, if that was
what had happened.  He hadn’t had the impression from Marge’s frantic call that
there’d been an accident.  She hadn’t asked for an aide car.  She hadn’t even
asked for police in a generic sense.  She’d wanted him, Chief Colburn.

He stepped carefully around the clutter and the broken bits,
trying not to touch anything, ready to begin revival efforts if there was any
chance at all.  But he could tell from twenty feet away that it was too late,
and had been for a couple hours, at least.  What’s more, Doreen hadn’t killed
herself.  Somebody had taken care of that for her.  She was definitely dead,
and the sight wasn’t pretty.  No wonder the sort-of niece appeared about ready
to keel over.

He stood for a long time, doing nothing but studying the
scene.  Taking in her position, the sizable dent in her head, the cord tied
around her neck as a finishing touch.  The hefty, cut crystal vase that had
been tossed to one side and the blood and tissue that marred its sharp cut
edges.

No obvious sign of a struggle.  The auction stuff closest to
her was still neatly piled.  The cat climber might have been rocked; it sat
unevenly now, one corner of the base on top of something he couldn’t see.

Why that cord around the neck?  Symbolic, or had the killer
been unsure the blow to the head did the job?

“Damn it,” he muttered, and carefully retraced his steps. 
Once in the open air, he made some calls, then turned to the niece who stood
with her back to him, staring into the trees on the other side of the fence. 
He followed her gaze, scanning for an opening cut in the chain link, but didn’t
see one.  The ferns and salal and salmonberries appeared untrampled.  Moisture
from the mist glistened on leaves.  From here, he couldn’t see the back gate
required as an emergency entrance.  He’d be wanting to verify that it was still
locked as soon as he had a minute.

“Why don’t we sit in my vehicle,” he suggested.  “I’ve got
the medical examiner coming and some crime scene folks I’m borrowing from the
county.”

She shivered and turned.  “Yes.  All right.”

“Marge didn’t mention cutting the lock off,” he said
thoughtfully.  “When she called, she said only that you and she had found a
dead woman.  I was half-expecting a heart attack victim or suicide.”

Ms. Thomsen explained about the keys not fitting this lock,
and how she’d felt uneasy when she couldn’t reach her aunt by phone after
they’d made arrangements to get together this morning.

“I intended to change the lock anyway,” she admitted.  “I
gather that any number of people have keys right now, and that’s asking for
trouble.”

That was one way of putting it, Daniel would concede. 
Murder probably wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, though.  Unless, of
course, after murdering her aunt she’d just happened to have a new lock in hand
because she’d intended to replace the old one anyway.

A patient interview later, he thought he knew everything
she’d done from the time she drove into town last night, but her reserve was so
deep, he had to wonder what she wasn’t telling him.  Either Sophie Thomsen was
holding back on him, or she was one complicated woman.  He was leaning toward
the second explanation, because the one thing that rang clear was her affection
for her shirt-tail aunt.

When he temporarily ran out of questions, she asked,
“Was…was she strangled?”

“The cause of death will likely have to wait for the
autopsy,” he said gently.  “That head wound looks to me like it would have been
fatal.”

A shudder wracked her, the most profound sign of distress
she’d yet displayed.  “I wonder if she saw it coming.”

“Likely not.  It was on the back of her head.”

“I hope not,” Ms. Thomsen burst out.  “I hope she had no
idea.”

He hoped for the same.  That way, Doreen’s death, while
brutal, was also a good one.  One minute, she was involved in life, productive,
maybe happy, the next, wham, one blinding moment of pain and she was gone.  No
lingering, knowing her fate, no misery.  There were certainly worse ways to go.

Which did not mean he felt any more merciful toward the man
or woman who’d killed this decent woman for no justifiable reason.

“It had to be quick,” he said.  “You don’t have to worry
about her suffering.”

Some of the tension left Ms. Thomsen’s shoulders.  “Thank
you for telling me that.”

He nodded.

She breathed audibly for a minute.  He was about to make his
excuses when she said, “Does the gate record when people come and go?  Or does
everyone have the same code?”

Interesting that she was thinking so analytically.  Almost
like a cop.

“No, each tenant has a unique code.”  He already knew that
much, from previous investigations.  “So the answer is yes, we’ll be able to
pinpoint arrivals and departures based on what code they used.”  Maybe.  The
gate moved with ponderous slowness.  He’d observed before that two or even
three cars could pass through once it opened.  If the guy was patient, he could
have ridden someone else’s tail coming and going and left no record of his
presence at all.  “You’re wondering where your aunt’s car is.”

“Well…yes.”

He’d been mulling that over himself, and now said, “I had a
thought about that.”  He jumped out of his squad car and walked over to the row
of vehicles that were being parked here presumably because of the security.  He
ignored the RV on the end and the camper next to it, as well as the aging but
well-cared-for Cadillac that inexplicably lacked a cover.  Nope, it was the
vehicle on the end that was hidden under a canvas tarpaulin.  He lifted one
side only enough to confirm his suspicion, then let it drop.

Ms. Thomsen had gotten out, too, he saw, and stood watching
him.

“White Corolla, rusting bumper?”

Looking numb, she nodded.

“The question is, how did he get out of here?”

“Or her.”

He looked at the niece.

“From what I can gather, most of the people working on the
auction are women.  Doreen has mentioned only a couple of men.”

She blanched at speaking her aunt’s name, but hadn’t let
herself cry yet.  He’d begun to suspect she wasn’t the one who’d puked.  Marge
had looked considerably more rattled than this woman when he arrived.

Ignoring the approaching sirens, he asked, “Why do you
assume the killer is an auction volunteer?”

She frowned.  “Are you suggesting it was someone who just
happened to wander by?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Her eyes widened in alarm.  “There were a whole bunch of
people already inside the gates when I got here.  What if they leave?”

“Marge won’t let ‘em.”  He turned when a white van rolled
around the corner and stopped behind his city car.  “The troops are here, Ms.
Thomsen.  You said you’re staying at the Harrison cottage?  Why don’t you go
back there, and I’ll be by to update you later.  Say, mid-afternoon.”

She gave a half nod, then changed her mind.  “Will you ask
everyone to be really careful when they’re working in there?  I’d hate to see
anything else get broken.”

He stared at her, struck by her coldness.  “Why would you
care at this point?”

She transferred her stare to him, startling him with the
pure ferocity in her eyes.  “Because Aunt Doreen cared.  She cared a whole
lot.  And I’m thinking the only thing I can do for her now is finish something
that mattered to her.  Make it my memorial to her.  That, Chief Colburn, is why
I care.”

After a minute, he said, “Got it.”

She nodded and walked to her Prius.  For maybe thirty
seconds his brainwaves altered, letting him see only her.  The confidence of
her stride, the delicacy of her bone structure, the sway of her hips in snug
jeans, the way she carried herself with shoulders squared and head high.  Then
he blinked and called, “Wait!”

He lifted a hand at the two men and one woman who’d gotten
out of the van, but jogged to Ms. Thomsen.

“Is there any chance you – or someone – have a list of what
should be in there?”

“Yes, in theory.”

He raised his eyebrows at that.

She grimaced.  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.  It
became apparent to me, talking to Doreen, that while the group was doing a heck
of a job begging donations, they weren’t doing nearly so well organizing the
stuff once they had it.  Apparently somebody had volunteered to enter donations
as they came in and work on a catalog, but she’s been full of excuses and not
really doing it.”

“And who would that be?”

“Rhonda…Rhoda…something.”  She lifted her hands.  “I have a
list of volunteers with contact info back at the cottage.  I haven’t met any of
them yet, except for a few I already knew from visits to Doreen.”