Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) (14 page)

In one of the photos, a wide shot of a dozen or so people, Angel recognized Phillip standing off to one side at the back, with Candace in front of him. His parents sat in the center front.

After perusing the photos, she wandered down the hall and into a room that had been set up as an office. A look around confirmed
that Phillip used it for his business. Maybe she wouldn’t need Barry Fitzgibbon’s help in getting that client list after all.

Phillip had a number of files lying on top of the desk. One held information on the new mall. Angel wondered if Phillip and his partner had hit a snag on it. The development was controversial, as a lot of people in the area resisted this kind of growth. They liked Sunset Cove just as it was. They didn’t mind the tourists but wanted the town to maintain its beachy flavor.

Flipping through the pages revealed nothing incriminating or out of the ordinary. There was a note clipped to a short stack of papers for someone named Becky, asking her to cut a check to Johansson Electric.

That should make Mary happy.
Angel wondered what to do with the note. Who was Becky, and had Jenkins let her know what he was doing before he died? Would anyone come here to pick up his papers? Maybe tomorrow she could find out what kind of working situation he had. She could mention to Fitzgibbon that she’d seen the note.

Angel sat down at the computer and turned it on. She wondered if Nick had checked it out. Remembering Callen’s question about a suicide note, she settled in to peruse his files.

Dead end. Without a password she couldn’t access anything. Frustrated, Angel turned the computer off and went back to exploring the house. She left via the front door and went to the south side and the door she’d seen there. It opened into a combination mudroom/laundry room/bathroom. Opening the door at the other end of the room, Angel found herself in the kitchen, opposite the door she’d used the day before. The pristine white linoleum was now mottled with dozens of muddy footprints.

The place seemed eerily silent, and Angel did an about-face, heading back into the laundry room. There she noticed another door and discovered it led to the basement. She peered down into the darkness and thought she heard a faint rustling sound. Hair pricked the back of her neck, and she hurriedly shut the door and went back out on the porch, telling herself the noise she’d heard had to be mice or squirrels.

It was almost time to pick up the children, but she wanted to check the root cellar. Since it didn’t have a lock like the other doors, the intruder—supposing there was one—may have gained entry there. Angel went back outside, climbed down the steps, and followed the short gravel path to the slanted boards. She removed the two-by-four and tugged at the rope handles, surprised at how easily the panels opened. She lifted both sides, letting the heavy two-inch reinforced plywood doors drop to the ground. Concrete steps led to a dark, musty-smelling basement. Angel descended a half dozen stairs and looked for a light. She found one at the center of the stairs and pulled the string. The light came on, illuminating an unfinished root cellar where old wooden bins lined the walls. She spotted potatoes and carrots, beets, some apples and pears, along with several plants.

At the end of the room was another door, with most of its white paint peeled off. Opening it put her into the main basement. She found a light switch just inside the door and flipped it on. The basement housed a furnace and a number of floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with canned tomatoes, peaches, plums, cherries, and other foods she didn’t recognize. Everything had been organized and labeled. No surprise there.

The musty smell permeated this room as well but mingled with the scent of freshly cut wood and herbs that hung in bunches from the rafters. The ceiling was unfinished, exposing old wires and pipes, but someone, probably Phillip, had recently Sheetrocked the walls. She could see the new wiring as well, compliments of Johansson Electric.

Jenkins had confiscated a good-sized area in the corner for his workshop. A long, wide cabinet pressed against the wall held an assortment of tools neatly stored in drawers and hanging on pegs. In the center of the workshop sat a table saw. A gadget for every occasion. Everything a carpenter would want.

She climbed the stairs, thinking she’d exit that way, but remembered that she’d locked it from the other side. Descending the stairs, she noticed a large wooden cabinet to her left that sat against a wall in another alcove. A glass front displayed Phillip’s gun collection. Phillip had been shot with one of his own guns. Odd that the exterior doors to the basement were unlocked. Anyone could have had easy access to the gun case. The gun case, however, was padlocked.

Two loud bangs jump-started her heart. Holding her hand on her chest, she ducked and crept the rest of the way down the stairs, trying to figure out what had made the noise.

Gunfire? No, that wasn’t right. It didn’t take too long to discover the source. Someone had dropped the doors to the root cellar and apparently shoved the two-by-four into the handles, trapping her inside.

SIXTEEN

A
ngel walked back into the main part of the basement, dropped down on the second step, and stretched her legs out in front of her. “Now what?” She had left her bag and her cell phone in the car. She probably wouldn’t be missed until she failed to pick up the children.

Angel had no intention of staying in the cellar that long. If only she hadn’t locked the basement door.

“That’s it!” She bounced up and ran into the workshop. Scrounging through the drawers, she found a long thin nail and hurried up to the door. As with many interior doors, this one had a hole in the center of the knob as a safety feature. She inserted the nail into the hole, and within seconds it opened. Slipping the nail into her pocket, Angel eased open the door.

Whoever had closed up the root cellar might still be there, and that someone could be Phillip Jenkins’s killer. Angel crossed the kitchen floor when she heard the distinct roar of a motorcycle. She ran to the kitchen door and flung it open. Someone was racing down the driveway and raising too much dust for Angel to identify them.

She raced out to her car and tore down the driveway, hoping to catch up with the intruder. As she drove, she put in a call to Nick. He wasn’t sympathetic.

“Serves you right, sneaking around out there by yourself. It was probably just a neighbor who noticed the cellar doors were open.”

“You think?” Angel said. “Come on, Nick. My car was parked in the driveway, and in case you hadn’t noticed, that cherry red is pretty hard to miss.”

“Okay, so somebody else was snooping around out there. They’re gone now, right?”

By the time she reached the main road, there was no sign of the motorcycle or its driver. “Yes, and I lost him. It’s weird. I didn’t hear anyone drive up, and I would have. You don’t suppose he was here the entire time, do you?”

“You mean while we were there? That’s impossible, Angel. Someone has been out there since you got there yesterday afternoon.”

“True, but why didn’t I hear the guy drive up?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Angel sighed. “Forget I called.”

“Consider it done.”

Angel headed to town to pick up Brian and Dorothy. As she drove back into town, she wondered about the wisdom of accepting Rachael’s job offer. She’d never investigated a murder before and really didn’t know if she should start now. Her experience was minimal, and she doubted watching
CSI
counted for much.

How can you not investigate? The case deserves much more than the Sunset PD and Nick are apt to give it.

Callen should have been in on this one. Next time she talked to him, she’d ask him to . . .

No, you won’t. Callen is up to his earlobes in work.
She certainly didn’t need to increase his workload.

But helping Candace was the right thing to do. Angel just hoped she would be able to do it.

After changing cars again, she picked up Brian and Dorothy from school and headed back out to the farm. On the way, she told the kids about seeing the motorcycle. Not wanting to frighten them, she didn’t mention that the driver had locked her in the basement.

“Oh, that was probably Darryl’s Harley,” Brian said. “He stays here sometimes and keeps it in the barn.”

“I see.” Angel eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Was he staying here yesterday?”

“No,” Brian said, “but his bike was here.”

“We saw it when we were playing,” Dorothy added.

“He probably just came back to get it,” Brian said.

“Why would he do that?”

“Sometimes he goes places with his friends and he doesn’t want to leave it at his place. He’s afraid it will get stolen.”

“So his bike was here yesterday. How would he get here, and why didn’t anyone see him?”

“Hitched a ride, I guess.” Brian shrugged. “Or he might have had a friend drop him off.”

Strange. As Nick had said, the house had been watched continuously from the time she’d arrived until she’d left to pick up the kids this afternoon. Had Nick or the lab techs thought to look in the barn? She’d have to ask Nick.

When had Darryl come, and how long had he been there? Had Darryl come while Candace was gone? Had he killed Phillip? Suppose he had and was leaving when Candace drove in. He wouldn’t have wanted to be seen leaving the farm. He may have hidden in the barn with plans to sneak away as soon as he had a chance, only he didn’t get that chance until Angel went into the basement. Could he have hidden in the barn the entire time? She remembered the noise she’d heard in the loft earlier and how someone had watered the animals.

Had he been watching her? If so, he’d seen her go down into the basement via the root cellar. It was clearly visible from the barn. She said none of this to the children. Angel thought it best to keep the mood as light as possible.

Brian and Dorothy were happy to be able to help with the animals and took pride in showing Angel what to do. While they worked Angel asked Brian about the computer. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to access it. The office equipment was off limits to the younger children, but Gracie used it for reports and such. Angel made a mental note to ask her about the password.

While the children fed the animals, Angel climbed to the upper level of the barn and stood at the partly open sliding door. The intruder could have seen everything that was going on from up here with no one knowing or seeing him. She found several cigarette butts and gum wrappers off to one side along with the wrapper from a granola bar. Stacks of hay bales provided a perfect hiding place.

Angel moved Darryl up to number one on her suspect list. He’d locked her in the basement to give himself time to escape. It made perfect sense. Darryl knew about the gun collection, and Gracie had told her that Darryl had stolen one of them. Candace refuted that, but Darryl knew how to get in and out of the house undetected. Phillip wouldn’t be at all concerned for his safety if his nephew had walked in.

“What’s your cousin Darryl like?” Angel asked the children on the way back into town.

Dorothy grinned. “He’s nice. Darryl plays pony with us in the barn and helps us swing from the rope in the loft and land in the hay. Daddy let him take us for a ride on his Harley.”

“Mama didn’t want us to go,” Brian said. “But Dad told her it was okay and to quit babying us.”

“Hmm. What’s his last name?”

“Jenkins, like us.”

“So you guys like Darryl?”

“He’s okay.” Brian shrugged. “Gracie hates him.”

“She thinks he’s disgusting, but that’s because he smokes,” Dorothy put in.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No, but Gracie might.” Brian shrugged.

“Did Darryl and your dad get along okay?”

He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “I guess. Him and my dad were buds. Dad would drink beer with him and take him hunting. He even let Darryl shoot his guns.”

Maybe he shot off one too many.

Angel drove Brian and Dorothy straight back to her parents’ place and went in with them.

The kids settled in to do their homework, and Angel wandered into the kitchen, where her mother put her to work. Side by side they butterflied chicken breasts and pounded them to one-fourth-inch thickness. “This is a great way to relieve stress,” Angel commented as she brought the flat mallet down on the thicker part of the chicken breast.

“Maybe that’s why I like to cook.” Anna chuckled. “Banging pots and pans around can be therapeutic.”

“Funny, I never thought of you as having much stress, but now that I think about it, you would. Raising five kids couldn’t have been easy. I’m glad you took your hostilities out on the food and not on us.”

“My mama used to tell me all the time, ‘Children are for loving, not for hurting.
’
”

Angel and her mother placed the chicken pieces in a large plastic bag with marinade so the chicken would absorb the spicy mixture for an hour or two. “Later we’ll dredge them in a flour mixture and fry them in olive oil.” She’d serve the chicken topped with a mixture of mushrooms, scallions, onions, garlic, and marsala and cream to make a sumptuous gravy. Angel’s mouth watered just thinking about it.