“Why would he move the cult to California if he felt more comfortable here in the Pacific Northwest?” she asked.
“Could be any number of reasons, but the most logical one is that there were people here who knew him. He was trying to reinvent himself as a cult leader. He preferred a location where no one would be likely to recognize him.”
“So you and your brothers and Anson have concluded that there is a very good chance he was from this region,” Virginia said. “That makes sense. He was still a young man when he fired up his cult.”
“We’ve never even been sure of his age, but according to the fake ID he was using in those days, he was probably twenty-four or twenty-five when he started recruiting.”
Virginia thought about that. “He must have started out with very little cash. How did he manage to acquire the Wallerton house?”
“We tracked that down easily enough through the property tax records. It belonged to one of his followers, a man named Robert Fenwick. Shortly after he gave Zane the deed, Fenwick died in a car crash.”
“Convenient.”
“Zane didn’t need him anymore.”
“No.”
The room seemed to have gotten colder. Virginia wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill.
“Zane was a manipulative sociopath,” she said. “That kind of evil shows up at a very young age, so it’s safe to say he must have made some enemies before he turned twenty-four or twenty-five.”
“Zane was a sociopath but he was not crazy, not in the sense that he believed himself to be a real prophet or supernatural leader. He wasn’t delusional. He was in the cult business for the money and the sense of power he got when he manipulated people like our mothers.”
Virginia thought about that. “You said he was in it for the money.”
“His operation didn’t last long—about eighteen months. But during that time he raked in a lot of cash or, rather, his followers raked in the money for him. Many of them turned over their life savings. As far as we can tell, he didn’t take any followers who were not useful to him.”
“I’ve always wondered why he recruited my mother. She was a young woman on her own with a child. I know she didn’t have any money to give to Zane.”
“I don’t know why he wanted your mother in his cult, but I know exactly why he wanted to control my mother,” Cabot said. “She was a trust-fund baby. Her father disowned her when she ran off with my father, but the old man couldn’t prevent her from accessing her trust fund.”
“What happened to your father?”
“He was killed in a car crash.”
“Like the man who gave Zane the Wallerton house? I’m starting to see a pattern here.”
“Oh, yeah. What happened to your father?”
“Killed in a car that was rigged to explode,” Virginia said. “They never caught the person who planted the bomb on the vehicle. The authorities decided Dad must have had mob connections. It was ridiculous. He was an artist.”
“Turns out there were a lot of convenient deaths around the time Zane was setting up in the cult business.”
“No wonder he decided to move out of the Pacific Northwest.” Virginia thought for a moment. “Did Zane manage to blow through your mother’s fortune? Was he finished with her? Do you think that’s why he murdered her?”
“No, he killed her well before he had exhausted her trust fund. And before you ask, no, due to some technicality in the way the fund was set up, I was never included in the trust. My grandfather couldn’t stop my mother from accessing her inheritance, but he did manage to tie things up in such a way that I never got a dime.”
“That’s harsh.”
“The old man was thoroughly pissed because Mom ran off with a man he disapproved of.”
“Did you ever meet your grandfather?” Virginia asked.
“No.”
“You mean your family let you go into the foster care system rather than forgive your mom for running off with the wrong man?”
“Up until his death a couple of months ago, my grandfather controlled the Kennington family with what people like to call an iron fist,” Cabot said. “Anyone who wanted to keep his or her share of the inheritance had to toe the line.”
“A real control freak.”
“Yeah. But I got lucky.”
Virginia smiled. “Anson Salinas.”
“Right.” There was a short pause before Cabot spoke again. “As I told you, Whittaker Kennington died recently.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t go to the funeral.”
“No, but evidently he left me a bequest in his will.”
“So he had a change of heart there at the end?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Cabot said. “I think it’s more likely that his first wife—my grandmother—left the bequest to me before she died. Maybe something the old man couldn’t touch. Who knows? It’s not a lot of money. Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Still, twenty-five grand is twenty-five grand.”
“True. It will buy some upgrades for our computer system. I’ll find out the details soon enough. I’ve got an appointment with a Kennington family lawyer. But let’s get back to the real question here. I know why Zane found my mother useful.”
“Her trust fund.”
“Right. Do you have any idea why he might have recruited your mother?”
Virginia turned that over in her head for a moment.
“I’ve never asked the question from that point of view,” she said. “I’ve often wondered why my mother joined the cult, but I’ve never thought about why Zane lured her into his web.”
“You were just a kid, but what do you remember about the situation?”
“My mother fell in love with an artist. She got pregnant and dropped out of college. They eloped. Her parents were furious. There was a huge quarrel. Things were very strained between my parents and my grandparents after that. And then my father was killed and Mom somehow fell under Zane’s influence. She never explained why.”
“You grandparents must have been shocked.”
“Horrified is more like it. They were both college professors, you see. They moved in serious academic circles. The fact that their daughter had gotten sucked into a cult was not only emotionally devastating for them, it was also enormously embarrassing.”
“You said your mother didn’t have much money, but maybe your father had a life insurance policy that was worth a lot of cash,” Cabot suggested.
“No, I’m sure there was no insurance money. Mom was smart—my grandmother always says she could have had a brilliant career as a mathematician—but she certainly didn’t have access to a fortune.”
“Did your mother work?”
“Of course. I told you, my dad was an artist. He never did make any money.”
“What did your mother do?”
“She became a bookkeeper. Why?”
“Zane’s scam was, in essence, an old-fashioned pyramid scheme,” Cabot said. “One of those operations that depends on a lot of people at the bottom sending money up the chain to the people at the top.”
“The people at the bottom never get rich but the guy at the top does. All right, so that explains the business model. Go on.”
“Zane would have needed the basic infrastructure that any successful scam or legitimate business requires, including someone who could handle the money that poured in.”
Understanding slammed through Virginia.
“He would have needed a bookkeeper,” she whispered. “One he could control. My mother. He needed her skill set.”
“Zane built a highly profitable business, but he was the CEO. He couldn’t spend his time dealing with the day-to-day financial aspects of his operation. He needed someone he could trust to handle the money.”
“No one knows the secrets of a busine
ss operation as intimately as the bookkeeper,” Virginia said. “Mom must have realized what was going on.”
“Yes.”
“But if Zane was running a successful business, why did he torch the compound and destroy the people who were bringing in the cash for him?”
“Good question,” Cabot said. “My brothers and I have given that a lot of thought. The only conclusion we’ve been able to come to is that for some reason, Zane decided that it would be in his own best interests to pull the plug on the cult operation and move on. He used fire to destroy as much as possible.”
“Covering his tracks and silencing witnesses,” Virginia said. “But that all happened twenty-two years ago. Why kill Hannah Brewster now, after all this time?”
“Because something has happened,” Cabot said evenly, “something that has brought Zane or someone else out of the shadows. Whoever that person is, he either viewed Hannah Brewster as a threat or else he wanted some information he thought she had. Given that I think Brewster took her own life, I’m almost certain that it was the latter.”
“She had some dangerous information and she died in an effort to take her secret to the grave. But at the same time she sent me a warning.”
“She must have believed that you were in danger.”
CHAPTER 13
A double tap, just like a pro. Sandra Porter, aka crazy stalker bitch, was no longer a problem.
Tucker couldn’t get the scene out of his head. He prowled through his house, a glass of ice-cold vodka in one hand. It was not his first. Talk about a real-world video game. It was thrilling. Exciting. Over the top. He was definitely playing in the big leagues now.
The problem was that the killing of Sandra Porter had left him riding a razor-sharp edge of panic. Some part of him kept waiting for the cops to knock on his door.
He was still amazed that the two shots hadn’t drawn any attention. Well, it was Pioneer Square, after all. Gunshots at night weren’t exactly unheard-of, and in this case the noise had been muffled by the old brick walls of the gallery and the reverberating music of the nearby clubs.
Just two shots. Like a damned pro.
Belatedly he remembered the gun. It was in the pocket of his jacket. He should probably get rid of it. After a couple of moments of close thought, he decided he would hang on to it. He could always ditch it in Elliott Bay if it became necessary.
He stopped in front of the living room window and looked out at the small bungalow across the street. The only light was the one that burned over the front door. The elderly couple had gone to bed hours ago.
The neighborhood was incredibly boring. He would have preferred to live in one of the downtown condos or apartment towers near the cafés, coffeehouses and bars. But he’d inherited the house from the drug-addicted woman who’d called herself his mother. He was going to make a lot of money when he eventually sold the place. Meanwhile it offered the advantage of privacy. He was the youngest person on the street and no one paid any attention to him.
For what had to be the thousandth time, he went over every detail of the scene in the gallery. He was sure he had left no trace of himself behind, but the body would be discovered when the shop opened on Monday morning—if not sooner. And then the cops would be involved.
It was only a matter of time before the police showed up at the offices of Night Watch and started asking questions. It was, after all, what cops did. And they always looked hard at the boyfriend or the husband.
He had told Sandra that they had to keep their relationship a secret because everyone knew that Josh Preston, the head of Night Watch, was a real prick who strongly disapproved of office romances. Sandra had agreed. But now he had to wonder if she had become careless or downright vindictive when the relationship ended.
He turned away from the window. He had some cleanup work to do. Earlier he had tossed Sandra’s phone into Elliott Bay. They had never had sex in her apartment—he had insisted they go to hotels for that, and he had always used a fake ID to check in. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, he’d detoured by her place a short time ago and taken a quick look around. He had been relieved to see no obvious evidence of their relationship. Not much evidence of any kind of a life at all. Sandra had been obsessed with her online games, but aside from that she had been a real loser.
He had never intended for the affair to last any longer than necessary. Sandra Porter was hardly any man’s idea of a sex goddess. She was a loner with no family or friends and had zero social skills. But he had needed her coding talents to get the app working. Seducing her had been so easy. He had assumed getting rid of her would go just as smoothly. He had been wrong.
Mentally he ran through the checklist. He had taken care of her phone and he was sure her apartment was clean. Now he had to fire up his computer and spend a few hours making certain the bitch had not left any clues to their relationship online. It wasn’t like he had to scrub all traces of a connection between them, he reminded himself. He and Sandra had been colleagues, after all. It was only natural that their paths had crossed occasionally. He just needed to make sure that nothing pointed to him as an ex-lover.
He would plant a few clues that would send the police in an entirely different direction, he decided. The killing had taken place in Pioneer Square. The most logical story would involve drugs and a mystery man. He could invent an online ghost. The police would waste days or even weeks chasing Sandra’s unknown lover. Eventually they would give up.
He thought about that some more. Yes, he liked that idea very much. The cops would look for a man. He would point them toward one who didn’t exist.
He returned to the freezer, took out the chilled bottle of vodka and poured himself another glass. He reran the scene in the back room of the gallery. Again. A dark thrill shuddered through him.
Two shots, just like a pro.
Crazy bitch.
CHAPTER 14
The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted Virginia the next morning when she opened her guest room door.
There was a familiar face in the hall.
“Good morning, Louann,” Virginia said.
Louann Montrose was a small, whip-thin, sharp-faced woman in her early forties. Virginia had gotten to know her because Louann had worked first for Abigail Watkins and was now handling the B and B housekeeping for Rose Gilbert.
Today, Louann was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Her graying hair was pulled back and secured with a rubber band. She was pushing a large cart bristling with cleaning utensils.
She paused when she saw Virginia.
“Hey, there, Virginia,” she sang out in her cheery, singsong voice. “When I arrived this morning, Rose told me that you were back on the island. She said you had a friend with you this time.”
Louann’s face had the tight, weathered look of a woman who’d endured a tough past and had probably overcome more than one addiction. She radiated what Virginia considered an unnatural air of perpetual bliss and serenity. She was a devoted student of yoga and meditation.
The door of the neighboring room opened. Cabot appeared.
Louann brought her cart to a halt. “So you’re Virginia’s friend. Welcome to the island.”
“Thanks,” Cabot said.
Virginia stepped in quickly. “This is Louann Montrose, Cabot. She’s worked here at the B and B for years.”
Cabot inclined his head. “Nice to meet you, Louann.”
“A pleasure,” Louann sang. “Will you two be staying long?”
“No,” Virginia said. “We’re leaving on the afternoon ferry. Cabot is a private investigator.”
Alarm flickered in Louann’s pale eyes. She stared at Cabot.
“Why are you investigating Hannah’s death?” Louann’s voice lost some of its singsong quality. “You think there was something suspicious about it?”
“At this point I’m just asking questions
,” Cabot said mildly. “Did you know Hannah Brewster?”
“Of course I knew her. Everyone on the island knew her.”
“Any reason to think someone might have wanted to hurt her?” Cabot asked.
“None of the locals, that’s for sure,” Louann said, very firm now. “Hannah wasn’t what you’d call the warm and friendly type. Her only real friend was the woman who used to own this place, Abigail Watkins. But Hannah wouldn’t have hurt a fly and no one on the island had a problem with her.”
“I believe you,” Virginia said hastily. “But I’m wondering if someone from Hannah’s past might have come to the island to do her harm.”
Louann’s mood changed again. Now she was curious.
“You’re talking about that cult she and Abigail used to belong to, aren’t you?” she said.
Virginia nodded. “Yes.”
“But that was ages ago,” Louann said. “Why would someone come after Hannah after so much time?”
“I don’t know,” Virginia said. “But I can’t get the idea out of my head.”
Louann’s blissful serenity snapped back into place. She gave Virginia a beatific smile.
“I know what it’s like to get dark thoughts in your head and not be able to get rid of them,” she said, once again using her musical voice. “You know what you should do?”
“What?” Virginia asked.
“You should take up meditation. It will do wonders to calm your mind.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Virginia said. “I’ll look into it.”
“You said you were checking out today?” Louann asked.
“That’s right,” Cabot said.
“Mind if I go ahead and make up your beds now? I can do the rest of the cleaning later after you leave.”
“Sure,” Virginia said. “Go ahead and make the beds.”
“Thanks,” Louann said. “I’ll get the fresh sheets.”
She left the cart where it was and walked a short distance down the hall. She disappeared into the laundry room.
Cabot closed the door of his room and waited while Virginia shut hers. They walked toward the stairs. At the door of the laundry room Cabot stopped. Virginia did, too.
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