Ava shook her head. "It took me a few minutes to get here. I just found the tractor like this, still turned on. But I don't know where he went, or why he did this—I just don't know…."
"I do," Robin said with sudden certainty. She turned and ran for the cottage.
Chapter Twenty-One
Robin skidded in the open doorway of Songbird Cottage. She started coughing as soon as she entered.
In the shadows ahead, there was a figure moving around, splashing gasoline from a can all over her grandmother's brick floor, the stucco walls, everything.
"Stop it!" she shouted.
She came inside, and watched as Ava's father set the gas can on the floor with a metallic clink on bricks.
He stood up straight and pointed a gun at her.
"I don't know anything about guns," she said, "but I'm going to take a wild guess that's a .38 special."
With his other hand he pulled a box of kitchen matches out of his shirt pocket. "Doesn't matter," he said softly. "You should have listened."
"Listened?" Robin asked.
Ava came in behind her, casting a shadow across the doorway, and Russ started at the sight.
"Go home!" he said frantically. "Don't be here!"
"I am here, Dad," she said.
Ava walked right up to him, splashing through the puddles of gasoline on the floor, getting the flammable liquid all over her jeans. She ignored the gun he was holding, and took the matches out of his hand.
He let her do that, but when she reached for the gun in his other hand, he pulled away. "No," he said.
"Stop this, Dad," she said. "Why are you here?"
He pointed the gun at Robin. "She wouldn't let it go. I told her, but she was so stubborn."
"Told me what?" Robin asked.
"To let go of the property," he said.
"My mother," Robin said, realizing he was looking at her but seeing Genie Smith Walker, who had stood here 25 years ago. "You tried to get her to sell to you."
He looked at her again, blinking at her in the doorway. "Get over here," he said curtly, motioning with the gun.
She complied, moving slowly and carefully to avoid startling him. She stopped ten feet away from him.
"You're not her," he said. "You're the little girl."
"You saw me? Back then? But I don't remember you."
"I didn't talk to her then. I saw her, and then later, I went to talk to her."
She knew how that talk had gone. She had the precious obituary to tell her all about the result of that conversation. She felt a coldness wash over her as she realized she was facing her mother's murderer.
She stared at the man, seeing him anew, realizing that 25 years ago he would have been young, and strong, and easily capable of brutally murdering an innocent woman for his greedy plans.
But Russ wasn't paying much attention to her. He was focused on his daughter, who still seemed confused about what was happening.
"You didn't know," Robin said to Ava. "You really had no idea what your father planned."
"What he planned?" she asked, staring at him. "Dad? What plan?"
"The resort, Ava. He's going to build a resort on the strawberry field."
She shook her head. "No. We don't own the strawberry field. We pay rent on it every month."
"To Pajaro Bay, LLC," Robin said. "Who is that?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Some investment company."
"The property records show that investment company bought the strawberry field on January 8, 1992."
"What? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Ramona Robles Stockdale died on January 8, 1992."
"So?"
Robin continued. "My mother died on February 27, 1992."
"I'm sorry," Ava said automatically. "I know it hurts."
"Yeah. It hurts. She was murdered. Shot in the back with a .38."
Ava started at that, stared at the gun in her father's hand, but then shook her head.
"Then Frank Guerrero died."
"Who?"
"Ask your dad about him. He was a detective, and he was shot in the back with a .38. On March 6, 1992. Eight days after my mother died."
Ava was shaking her head, as if to ward off where these dates were heading.
"I read your blog," Robin said. "Thought it was great. Especially the story you told to honor your mother. Who died on March 16, 1992, from a self-inflicted gunshot."
Ava's voice sounded strangled as she whispered, "from postpartum depression." She repeated the phrase, as if warding off a curse. "She died from postpartum depression. It was a tragedy."
"Yes. It was a tragedy. Your mother died eleven days after Frank Guerrero. Who died eight days after my mother did."
"A coincidence," she said desperately.
"Did she leave a note?" Robin asked.
Ava shook her head, then turned on her father. "You killed her? You killed her and told me it was suicide?"
"No!" he said in horror, waving the thought away with the gun. "No! I loved her. I loved her! She did it to herself."
They stared at each other across the room in silence, Russ with longing, and Ava with suspicion.
"Why?" Robin asked softly, like dropping a pebble into the silence between father and daughter.
"What?" he said, turning to her and staring as if he'd just realized she was still in the room.
"Why did your wife kill herself?"
"Postpartum depression!" He shouted it, as if yelling it out loudly enough would make it true, would drown the truth.
Robin just shook her head. "Eleven days after the detective. Nineteen days after my mother. She found out somehow. She couldn't live with it, could she?"
He was shaking his head, over and over, the gun waving back and forth, like he could push the truth away.
"She couldn't face it," Robin continued, finding herself feeling pity for this ugly little man and his pathetic, useless plot that had cost so many lives.
"My mom…?" Ava said in a strangled voice. "What do you mean?"
Robin and Russ stared at each other.
"What do you mean?!" Ava yelled. "My mother didn't kill herself?"
Russ didn't say anything. His eyes—the eyes of her mother's murderer—stared at her, pleading.
Robin shook her head at him. "She deserves the truth. Tell her."
Still he wouldn't.
So Robin did. "What would your mother have done if she realized she was married to a murderer?" she asked Ava.
Ava let out a cry of anguish. A cry that reminded Robin of the one her own mother had made in this cottage all those years ago when she'd found her family, and realized they were beyond her reach.
Robin continued. "I'm sorry, Ava. But she would have to decide: would she report him to the police, put a stop to his crimes. Or would she turn her back on the victims and ignore what he'd done?"
Ava sank back against the brick fireplace. Her hand reached out to the gnarled mantle to support herself.
"Or she'd kill herself because she couldn't face doing either," Ava said. It was whispered, but Russ reacted to it like it was a shout.
He sobbed. He put his hands up to cover his face, the gun still there, still dangerous. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said. Then he looked up at his daughter, almost frantic, like a drowning man clawing at a bit of driftwood. "But it's not too late. We can pretend. We can pretend none of it happened."
"But why?" she cried. "I don't understand why. Why would you do all this? We have our farm."
"Farm?" He was contemptuous. "I never wanted to be a farmer. Strawberries! All my life I've smelled the sickening sweetness of strawberries. The land under them is worth millions."
"And all you needed was Songbird Lane," Robin said.
"Songbird Lane?" He spit out the words. "I need a road. I need a wide, paved road that can handle construction equipment. That can bring carloads of tourists to a big hotel right overlooking the water with tennis courts and swimming pools and 200 luxury units all sold o
n a time share."
"You can't do that," Ava said. "The village will never approve it."
"But I'm not in the village, am I? Just outside the city limits. And the county will approve it because they're miles from here and can rake in the tax benefits without having to deal with the traffic and noise pollution. I'd tear down this stupid barn and bulldoze the trees and make my millions." He turned back to Robin and pointed the gun right at her chest. "And then you came along three days ago like you owned the place and it was the nightmare all over again."
But this hadn't started three days ago. This had started over 25 years ago, when a young mother came to visit with her three-year-old and stood in the cottage her own mother had built and cried.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"It's too late," Robin said. "It's over. It's been over for 25 years. you just didn't know it."
"No," he whispered.
"It's been over since mom died," Ava said softly. "Since you killed her."
"I didn't kill her." This reached him. He turned to face Ava, desperation in his eyes. Longing. Pain. "I didn't kill her," he repeated. "She did it to herself."
"She knew," Ava whispered. "She knew."
"And my mom? Did she know?" Robin asked Russ, her own voice cracking with emotion.
"What?" Russ asked, his eyes on his daughter, who stood sobbing before him.
"Did my mother know who you were?" Robin repeated. "Did she know why you wanted her dead when you came to her apartment and shot her in the back?"
He nodded, just the tiniest nod, and it struck Robin like a blade through the heart. "But it was her fault," he said, still trying to make excuses. "She wouldn't let it go. I didn't—I wouldn't have—she wouldn't sell. I was in debt up to my neck. I had bought the second field knowing we couldn't afford it. But I knew Ramona Stockdale had died, and it was my one chance. Her brother Elias had promised me he'd let me buy this land as soon as he got ahold of it."
"But when Ramona's will was read the land wasn't there, and her brother couldn't sell it to you because he didn't own it," Robin said. "So how did you find out what had happened to the cottage?"
"Frank Guerrero," he said. "Caught him out here poking around on the land. He said he was a farmer, but that city slicker stood out like rhinestone earrings on a pig. He finally told me what was up, and he agreed to let me have a crack at the heir when he found her."
The heir. Her mother. "So what went wrong?"
"She wouldn't sell. She said nothing mattered more than family." He spat out her mother's treasured phrase as if making a curse of the words Robin had held to her heart like a prayer.
"And then Guerrero read that she'd been shot," Russ continued. "And he told me he wanted money. I didn't have any money! That was the point!"
"So you shot him in the back," Robin said. "And then kept silent for over twenty-five years. You let your daughter grow up, take over the farm, plant avocado trees for the next generation."
He looked down at the gun in his hand, down at the gasoline can by his feet. But not at his daughter, who stared at him as if he were a stranger to her.
"So why now?" Robin asked. "Why kill Junior Thackery?"
"He knew I wanted the property. He called me and said he'd decided to sell it, that the listing would go public soon if I wanted to bid on it. He wanted a quick sale to pay his father's medical bills."
"But he didn't know why you wanted the land, did he?" she asked. "He had no idea what you'd done."
An almost imperceptible nod. "But he knew I was the one bidding. And then he put it all together after his father blew up at him. I met him at his office last night. He said his dad had told him where to find Ramona's file. I just wanted the file. But he said he'd already taken it to his father. But he hadn't told him what he knew yet."
"What he knew? So he figured it out?"
Another nod. "He'd read about Frank Guerrero and your mother. He'd figured out the connection, just like you did. He was going to tell his father everything."
"So getting the file wasn't enough," she said. "You had to kill him before he talked."
"Yes," said Dylan, coming in the door to the cottage, his hands up and his movements slow so he wouldn't startle the old man. "It's over, Russ."
Dylan wanted to jump him. But the gun was there, and the man had killed several people already.
And the little cottage reeked of gasoline. The gas can stood on the floor, and its contents made slick, iridescent puddles on the brick all around the room. One match would take the whole place down, and finish the job Russ must have started the day before, with what he'd hoped would have looked like a random brush fire.
"Nobody's going to believe this is anything but arson and murder," he said to Russ. "It's too late for all of that."
"It's over," Russ said, and the older man's shoulders slumped.
"It's been over for 25 years," Robin said. "You just didn't realize it."
Ava stood within feet of her father holding a book of matches, and Dylan wondered where she fit into this.
He took a step forward, positioning himself to block Russ's line of fire toward Robin.
"You were right about the bullets," he said over his shoulder to Robin. "They're all .38 caliber, including the one that killed Junior. They are going to test them to see if they match. Captain Ryan's on his way here," he added to Russ. "There's no point in dragging this out any more." His eyes went from the gun in Russ's hand to the box of matches in Ava's.
"It's too late," Robin said to Russ. "You have to give yourself up now."
She took a step forward and Dylan put his arm out, blocking her way. "No," he said quietly, and she stopped in her tracks. "It's over, Russ," he said to the old farmer.
"No!" he said desperately. "No one will know it was me. I'm nothing. Nobody sees me. Nobody notices me. They'd never think it was me. If I say someone stole the gun…." He looked frantically from one to the other. "If they're gone—" He waved the gun at Dylan and Robin. "We could do it, Baby!" he said desperately to Ava. "You saw a thief take my gun! Just tell the police that!"
But she shook her head. "No."
"But we're family!" It was a pathetic plea that almost made Dylan feel sorry for him.
But Ava just shook her head. "No. Mom couldn't turn you in. But I can. I won't let you kill anyone else." The tears streamed down her face, but she faced him squarely. "It's over, dad. Put the gun down. We can work this out. Don't make it any worse than it already is."
"It can't get any worse," he said, so quietly that Dylan wasn't sure he heard it.
But he saw Russ raise the gun, saw where he was pointing it, and quickly turned around, burying Robin's face into his chest and holding her tight.
The sound of the gunfire roared up to the hand-hewn rafters, deafening them, leaving them gasping at the shockwave that seemed to echo endlessly in their ears.
Robin struggled to pull away, but he said, "Shhh, shhh, no. Don't turn around. Trust me on this."
She relaxed into his arms, trusting him to make this call for her.
Finally the roaring in his ears died away, and all that was left was the sound of Ava sobbing over her father's lifeless body.
Dylan led Robin out of the cottage, away from the tragedy inside, past Captain Ryan and his team as they swarmed up to the crime scene. He took her on through the meadow until they stood at the edge of the hill, looking out at the sea, and listening to the silence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
One day about a week later Robin made the short drive out to Songbird Cottage.
It was noon when she got there, and the sun was out. She hadn't been back since the tragedy, and felt almost surprised to see the cottage standing in the same spot in the weed-filled field, just as it had for over fifty years, unbeaten by everything fate had thrown at it.
Alonzo snored on the cleared patio of sun-warmed and fire-scorched bricks. Every one of the damaged bricks would have to be lifted up by hand and reversed, so the undamaged side would be faced toward the
sun. It would be a big job.
The round-topped front door stood open to the ocean breeze. The black marks where the flames had caught at the door were still there, marring the beautiful old wood.
The repair list was long. But she had hired a proper contractor to make everything right, and he was at work already.
She patted the old dog, then went inside. The sight of the man there made her heart miss a beat.
Dylan had removed all the plywood panels covering the windows, and the little house was surprisingly bright, with every window open and sunlight streaming in from all sides.
She coughed at the gasoline odor.
"Yeah," Dylan said. "It will get better. Still have a lot of work to do to get the smell out, though."
The brick floor was covered in dirt, and he was spreading more of it around.
"How bad is the damage?" she asked him.
He shrugged. "It's going to take some time." Then he smiled. "You're lucky you can afford good help."
"You don't come cheap," she agreed.
"I'm not sure about that," he said. "Depends on the client."
She didn't respond to that, and he went back to throwing the dirt on the floor.
"What are you doing?"
He pointed to some open bags. It was cat litter. "Soaks up the gasoline," he explained. "I'll leave it for a day or two, then follow up with dishwashing soap, and then, once it's all gone, I'll seal the brick so it's protected from more spills."
"I hope we won't ever have any more gasoline in here."
He shuddered. "No. No more. How was Ava?" he asked.
"Still in shock. But her husband's back in town to help her. I think she'll be okay. She's a strong person."
"So are you," he said.
"Not always."
"Yes," he said. "You always are. You hold up through everything life throws at you."
"It would be nice not to have to be strong," she said slowly.
"I know. Maybe now you'll get a break."
"Maybe I should make a break for myself," she said.
He sprinkled more cat litter around the fireplace. "Yeah?" he said. "How's that?"
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