Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) (11 page)

Daniel read again that last note. 
No reason to doubt
that Michelle Thomsen did take her own life.

“Bullshit,” he said aloud, his anger rising to a boil even
as he knew he wouldn’t be able to reopen the investigation.  Without DNA,
without the weapon, with no witness but a ten-year-old child, there wasn’t a
damn thing he could do now, twenty years too late.

Sophie had mostly accepted Chief Marsh’s conclusion.  Would
she be any better off to know that Daniel suspected her mother had been
murdered?

If it were him, he knew what he’d prefer.  Brooding,
disliking his choices, he restored the mostly empty box to its place on the
shelf.

“Corn chowder,” Sophie decided without any hesitation.  It
was one of the specials today at the Sea Watch Café, and came with cornbread
and honey-butter.

At noon on the nose, she had locked up the storage unit and
told today’s bodyguard, a rawboned boy who shouldn’t be old enough to wear a
uniform and carry a gun, what time she planned to be back.  With auction day
looming, a priority for her and her fellow committee members was to get
invitations out and online registration available.  Hannah had agreed that she
could slip away from the bookstore for a lunch meeting.  Naomi apparently had
some kind of backup, too, because shortly after Sophie walked in the door,
she’d slipped out of the kitchen and joined her at the table.  Hannah and
Elaine Terwilliger arrived only minutes later, Elaine grumbling about tourists
and the lack of parking.  Hannah looked as if she wanted to roll her eyes. 
Both her business and Naomi’s depended on the tourists Elaine so despised.

While they waited for their food to arrive, they studied the
proof of the invitation Hannah had designed.  She had enough computer expertise
to get an online registration up, too, she thought.  A friend who designed
software had offered help if she needed it.  Everyone at the table agreed that
she should go ahead.

Sophie kept glancing at the invitation, which lay on the
table where Naomi had set it down.  The front, of course, featured the artwork
that she found so disturbing.  Her gaze repeatedly drawn to it, she lost track
of a conversation that had become more casual once their decisions were made.

“This artist,” she said into a lull, reaching out to almost
touch the invitation but pulling her hand back at the last second.  “Aunt
Doreen didn’t say much about him.”

“Elias Burton is somewhat reclusive,” Naomi said in her soft
voice.  “I was admiring his work in the gallery two doors down when he came in
and Monica Sanchez introduced us.”

The others nodded; Sophie assumed Monica owned the gallery,
which she’d noticed but never gone into.

“The painting of his in the window showed the river crossing
the beach at low tide.  You know, with the deep channel in the middle, but
silvery ribbons out to each side.”

Again, nods.  Sophie flashed back to her young self
splashing in the shallow ribbons, laughing and stamping to feel the cold, wet
sand suck at her feet.  She had been waiting for sunset, she knew.  A flock of
seagulls had settled on the beach near her.  In her memory, a dog barked
somewhere.  With dusk approaching, bonfires had begun to appear nestled between
dunes or protected by heaps of driftwood.

“It was lovely,” Naomi continued.  “Dreamy, mysterious.  The
light looked like dawn.  Doreen had just asked if I’d consider helping with the
campaign and we’d talked about an auction, so on impulse I asked if creating
our artwork was something Elias would consider.  He didn’t hesitate.”

“Is he donating the original to be auctioned?” Sophie
asked.  “I’m betting it would bring in a good price, no matter what his work
usually retails for.”

She ought to know, of course.  Usually she’d have gone right
online to look him up.  She told herself she’d had too much else occupying her
time and thoughts, but knew better.

“Oh, he’s quite well known.  The paintings I’ve seen are in
the $5,000 range.  He sells prints, too, of course.  And yes, he did give the
original.  I’m pretty sure it’s in storage already.”

Sophie flashed back to her first glimpse into the space
Doreen had rented and saw again the painting that lay face down, glass
shattered, a hole in the center where her aunt’s killer had tramped carelessly
on it.  What if that was the original auction artwork?  She knew that the
couple of times since, when she’d briefly been in the unit removing items, the
painting wasn’t lying on the concrete floor anymore.  She thought vaguely that
it had been propped against the open studs of the wall, but facing in.  She
decided not to say anything until she knew for sure.

If it had been destroyed, the news wasn’t good for the
auction.  Despite her instinctive antipathy, she hated to think of a painting
so beautiful destroyed.

Her mind took a sideways jump.  What if the destruction
hadn’t been careless at all?  What if the killer had hated that painting as
much as Sophie did?

She almost shook her head.  For all she knew, the piece that
had been ruined was nothing more than a nice framed print by who knows what
artist.  There were other paintings and prints, some bubble-wrapped, some in
butcher block paper, propped against the wall.  Even if the artist had
delivered it unwrapped, surely Doreen would have seen to it that Elias Burton’s
precious original was protected.

“So the artist is a local?” she asked, hoping her tone
didn’t reveal her intense interest that was also wariness.

“He grew up in Cape Trouble,” Elaine said.  “In fact, he’s a
regular here at the café.  With luck, he’ll come in today and we can introduce
you.”  She smiled.  “I think he has his eye on our Naomi.”

With complete composure, Naomi shook her head.  “You know I
don’t usually make it out of the kitchen.  He must like my food.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Sophie said, seeing their waitress bearing
down on them with a laden tray.  She hoped no one else heard her stomach growl.

Elias Burton didn’t make an appearance.  Sophie didn’t know
whether to be glad or sorry.  She couldn’t help wondering if she’d remember
him, as she did Benjamin Billington.  Even if Burton had lived in Cape Trouble
then, he might have been a child, and now knew of her mother’s death only as
local history.  It had to be coincidence that he’d chosen that particular
glimpse of the ocean between dunes to represent the auction.  It was even
possible her own memory was faulty, but Sophie didn’t think so.  The fog had
clung in tendrils that morning, thick around the cabins, but thinning closer
where she found her mother.  She’d been able to see the beach and ocean waves. 
And…a lupine in bloom, just like in the painting?  Was that why the damn
painting had disturbed her so much?  She hated knowing that lupine was there in
her memory now, whether it really had been or not.

No, she didn’t want to meet Elias Burton.

It was Daniel who came in just as the meeting was about to break
up.  He took a menu from the middle-aged waitress but, instead of letting
himself be seated, wended his way between tables toward theirs.

His sharp blue eyes came to rest briefly on Sophie before he
nodded at the others.  “Ladies.”

Hannah greeted him with warmth, Elaine with some reserve,
and Naomi shyly.  She murmured, “If you’ll excuse me,” and disappeared into the
kitchen.  Daniel watched her go speculatively before he looked back at Sophie,
who was tucking her wallet into her bag.

“You got a minute?  I was hoping to catch you.  I have a
couple of questions.”

Sophie’s heart thudded, although whether in dismay or
anticipation she couldn’t tell.

The other two women left, Elaine looking as if she’d have
liked to linger but couldn’t think of an excuse.  Sophie waited politely while
Daniel sat down, glanced at the menu, and made his order.

“I suppose your officer told you where to find me,” she
said.

“Slawinski?  Yeah.”

“Is he old enough to be a police officer?”

Daniel gave one of those grins that lightened his face so
startlingly.  “No.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose.  “I’m reassured.”

He laughed.  “Glad one of us is.”  He thanked the waitress
when she brought him a cup of coffee, then looked across the table at Sophie,
his expression sobering.

“You and your dad ever talk about your mother’s death?”

Sophie stiffened.  Was this his idea of making conversation?

“No,” she said after a moment.  “He was upset at the time,
but angry too, I think.  After the first few weeks, he refused to talk about
her at all.  ‘What’s the point in wallowing in grief?’ he’d say.”

Daniel shook his head.  “Did he at least put you in
counseling?”

“No.”  She tried to smile but felt it go askew.  “I suppose
I was angry, too, or at least I felt so betrayed, I wanted to forget her. 
I…conspired with him to forget Mom.  I didn’t rebel until he introduced me to
Julie and I recognized her.  I couldn’t understand how they’d gotten to know
each other, but I hated her connection to Cape Trouble.”

One of his eyebrows rose.  “She’d have known your mother,
too, wouldn’t she.”

“Yes, of course.  I don’t remember them doing more than
having the kind of conversations you do with a clerk at the library or the
store, but still.”

Daniel nodded, and she could tell he understood.

“Why did you ask?”

He hesitated.  “You don’t talk much about him.”

“He didn’t abandon me, not the way she did, but we’re not
close.”

“Do you really believe that she did?”

She stared at him in shock.  “What would you call it?”

Ignoring her question, he said, “You told me you didn’t
believe she was depressed.”

Stunned, she whispered, “You know something.”

“No.”  His big hand covered hers briefly, squeezed and let
her go.  “No.  It’s twenty years too late for me to find any answers for you.”

“But you looked.”  She was certain without knowing why.  A
part of her was outraged, as though he’d violated a secret part inside her, and
she knew she sounded accusatory.

“I was curious.”

Her anger died as quickly as it had flared.  “You wouldn’t
have said what you did if you hadn’t noticed something that bothered you.”

She saw chagrin in those dark blue eyes.  “Nothing
conclusive.  It was an inadequate investigation, though.  I thought your father
might have known more.”

“You mean, something that the investigators didn’t write
down?”

“Or about your mother.”

She grappled with that before realizing what he was saying. 
“You mean, like she’d been suicidal?”  Her chest felt as if it was being
squeezed.  “I told you!”  Heads turned at nearby tables and she struggled to
lower her voice.  “She wasn’t sad.  I know she wasn’t.”

Expression compassionate, Daniel was shaking his head. 
“That’s not what I meant.  The then-police chief noted that your father had
insisted your mother wasn’t depressed.”

Her back was so straight, it wasn’t touching the chair
behind her.  “Then what were you thinking?”

He didn’t answer immediately.  Sophie had the sense he was
weighing his possible responses.  What he finally said, slowly, was, “Whether
he might have suspected a reason someone would have wanted to kill her.”

Absorbing that, she did nothing but blink.  Why had she
never wondered?

Because I never let myself consciously think, Mom didn’t
kill herself.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“Sophie, I’m sorry,” he said roughly.  “I shouldn’t have
even suggested the possibility.”

“No,” she whispered, lowering her head to stare at her
hands.  “I’ve never been at peace with what they said.”

“I really don’t think there’s any way to get answers.”

“They must have checked for fingerprints on the gun.”

“I don’t know if they did or not, and there’s no indication
of what happened to the gun.  Unless it belonged to your parents and was
returned to your dad?”

She shook her head hard.  “No, I’m sure they never owned
one.  Mom hated them.  I always thought…”  She stopped.

He finished the thought she didn’t want to say aloud.  “She
wouldn’t have used one to kill herself.”

“Yes.  There are other ways.”

His lunch arrived, and he covered for her distress by
bantering with Anita, the waitress.  But when she left them alone, Daniel’s
smile faded.  The lines on his forehead had deepened with what she thought was
regret.

“After it happened, did your father take you right back to
Portland?” he asked.

She nodded.  “The next day.  We didn’t stay in the cabin
that night, either.  He rented a hotel room in town, on the other side of the
river.  I sort of remember some woman sitting with me, I suppose while he went
back to pack up our stuff.  It was a long time before I came back to Cape
Trouble.  I was twelve or thirteen, I think, the first time Aunt Doreen brought
me to stay with her during a school break.  Spring, I think.”

“Was the resort still operating?”

“I’m pretty sure it was until, oh, five years ago, maybe?” 
She hesitated.  “I’ve never been over there again.  When I’m in Cape Trouble, I
try to pretend this is a small town in eastern Oregon, maybe.  Or California,
or Florida.  Anywhere but here.”

Expression arrested, he said, “You’ve never wanted to see
what’s changed?  What’s the same?”

Sophie shook her head.

“If you went, you might find it’s just a beach.  I doubt there
are any ghosts lingering.  You and your mom must have had good times, those
summers.  Could you even find…?”  He broke off, but not quick enough.

“The spot where I found my mother’s body?”  Her voice was
scratchy.  So many emotions swirled inside her, she doubted she could be
rational right now.  Bending, she grabbed her bag and fumbled inside until she
found the proof for the invitation.  Pulling it out, she laid it on the table
and stabbed it with her finger.  “There.  Right there.”

He looked, then his gaze lifted to hers.  Searched, while
his mouth tightened.  “You’re serious.”

“Yes.  When Doreen showed me the poster, I felt sick.”

“It’s not that distinctive a scene,” he said slowly.

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”  Once she’d looked down
at it again, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the small version of the painting.

“You don’t think it’s chance.”

“I don’t know.  Do you?”  Heaven help her, she was 
begging. 
Tell me it has to be.  That the artist wasn’t deliberately evoking
the horror of that morning, even as he disguised his intent with a vividly blue
ocean and blue-purple lupine and the gentle curve of dune and seagrasses.