The Last Fairytale (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 2)

by Molly Greene

  “Goodnight Liv.” Bree laughed and blew him a kiss. “You’re excused.”

  He waved himself out the door.

  They laughed and baked muffins until nearly midnight. Ten batches, each with a different filling. Even when they were covered with dough and dozens of muffins were turned out to cool, Gen refused to reveal what she planned to do with them.

  She headed home with a final chuckle and a cryptic parting message. “Get some sleep. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock tomorrow morning, and you better be dressed and ready to go.”

  * * *

  At the crack of dawn the next day they poured travel mugs of coffee and bundled the baked goods into the back seat of the car. Gen drove east through the city and parked in the asphalt lot of a quiet industrial center near a working stretch of the waterfront.

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re in Dogpatch.”

  “I can see that. What are you up to?”

  Gen set the parking brake. “Grab some bags and come with me.”

  Bree angled herself out of the car and tightened her muffler against the cold wind that slanted straight off the water. She spied the choppy swell of the bay and was glad she’d pulled on gloves; the chill in the air was almost cruel.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the sting of the breeze, she began to make out mounds of cloth here and there. They were people. Dozens of people quietly populated the edges of the tarmac, sitting, standing, leaning against the nondescript buildings. They formed a ragged queue that slowly worked its way to an open door.

  Gen hurried toward the light spilling through that doorway. Bree picked up four of the plastic shopping bags of muffins and lit out after her. She reached Gen’s side and followed her into a cavernous hall.

  The room hushed.

  A hundred pairs of eyes were riveted on them. Although few stopped eating, they watched as Gen raised an arm in greeting and was answered with a nod from an older man who stood near the kitchen.

  The man started toward them, walking as though his feet were sore. Dressed in baggy slacks and a pilled sport coat, he fastened the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie as he approached. His bushy hair and eyebrows had gone completely gray, and his face was the color of cement.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Hello again,” Gen replied. “Martin Richie, this is my friend, Bree Butler. We’ve brought muffins. I was hoping we could stay and help serve breakfast.”

  “Of course. Thank you. This way.”

  “What are you getting me into?” Bree whispered.

  Gen turned her head and whispered, “Your self-pity will evaporate once you get a taste of the circumstances these people live with every day. I thought this was the exact right place for both of us to be.”

  Bree donned the apron Gen handed her. They piled muffins into an empty chafing dish, then stepped into the serving line and doled them out, one by one.

  Bree felt awkward and self-conscious. Gen spoke to every person who passed as though she knew them well. She told herself to buck up and focused on the man before her. She smiled and put a muffin on his plate.

  His watch cap was tattered and dirty and his shabby coat lacked buttons. He was at least two years past a proper haircut. His nails were ragged and rimmed with filth. He hands quaked, shaking the tray, yet his smile was genuine and his quiet voice strong as he thanked her.

  A hundred faces later, she recognized the scruffy, silent pair who’d reached to touch her coat at the police station the night of Ducane’s death. They were young and thin and threadbare.

  They still did not speak, but their faces softened as they shuffled by and bobbed their heads. They’d known her, as well. It seemed an age ago. She felt ashamed she’d ignored them that night.

  The pastries were gone in half an hour and the stretched-thin kitchen staff heaped the empty chafing dish with toast. Gen and Bree continued filling plates until the line thinned and they were no longer needed.

  Bree retrieved the gloves and a wool muffler from her coat, then wound through the tables until she found the boys, eating placidly in the far corner of the room. She placed the things beside them and left.

  Back in the kitchen, Bree traded the apron for her jacket and walked outside. A fog bank hung off the coast, but the mist of the early morning had brightened into a sunny day. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and walked toward the water.

  A concrete skirt held back the bay. The edge that lapped its solid wall was thick with seaweed. Below, bits of Styrofoam and unknown pieces of flotsam mingled with the cast-off garbage flung from a thousand boats, all of it bobbing up and down together, as though the lullaby of the ocean had somehow sent it all to dreamland.

  “Food is a fleeting form of art, don’t you think?”

  Bree glanced aside to see Martin Richie standing close by. “I’ve probably never thought of food as art,” she replied. “Only as a hobby. Or a necessity.”

  “It’s both of those, certainly,” he replied. “It’s also a lesson in detachment. A cook is an artist. Their creations bring pleasure to others, even as their artistry disappears. Meals must be created again and again, day after day. The artist would go mad if they didn’t learn to let go.”

  “You’re not detached, though,” Bree said. “How do you do it?”

  “How do I not?” Richie shifted on his feet, still watching the water. “San Francisco has one of the largest homeless populations in the nation. These people need our help.”

  “I learned something in there,” Bree said.

  “Compassion can move us to do amazing things,” he replied. “Even when accompanied by detachment. You’re welcome to join us any time. I hope you come again.” He touched her shoulder, then turned and made his way inside.

  Bree contemplated a waterlogged broom that had somehow managed to stay afloat. She would give a million bucks for the chance to climb down there and rescue that broom, if only it could sweep away the hours she had wasted crying this past year. She’d probably shed enough tears to fill the bay.

  Every drop felt misguided.

  How was Bree to know that a few days later she herself would float among the strands of seaweed drifting along this rocky shore?

  Chapter Twenty

  “There.” The lead in the two-seat kayak jabbed an oar toward the fog-shrouded coast, barely visible through the heavy mist. The winter ocean that typically pounded Northern California was unusually calm that day, and the riders took advantage of the relative stillness, once again stroking fiercely with their paddles, making good time as their sturdy craft sliced through the deep swells.

  Sea kayaks and the sportsmen they bore were a common site in and around San Francisco Bay. Had the pair been spotted during their sojourn, no one would have given the vessel off Stinson Beach a second thought. Their expensive dry suits protected them from the elements, but they served another purpose.

  The goggles and cold-water hoods obscured their features from the passing eye. This well-outfitted pair had intentions that belied the typical aspirations of the hobby.

  Their thoughts were focused on the shore and terra firma.

  Paddling in perfect tandem, they reached a small cove and pulled onto the sand and water-etched stones that pebbled the deserted inlet. The second in command leaped into the shallows, walked up the beach without a backward glance, and disappeared. The kayak was maneuvered back into the frigid waves. Within sixty seconds of landfall, it vanished once again into the cloudy veil.

  Five minutes later a hiker emerged onto a rutted service road and walked toward a Land Rover with rust in the wheel wells, half-hidden among the roadside shrubbery.

  The driver cranked the key. The four-wheel drive vehicle started with a rumble and a hum, then rolled off the shoulder and stopped.

  The passenger door creaked open.

  The traveler climbed in.

  The faded workhorse lurched into gear and was gone, swallowed by the lush green forest of the Muir Woods.

  Cha
pter Twenty-One

  “Bree, I’m so glad you picked up,” Gen said. “I found an old blog written by a guest staying at the Mountain Home Inn in Mill Valley. It’s just outside Muir Woods. It mentions how nice the check-in lady was, one Catherine Robeson. How about a road trip?”

  “Garcia will put us in jail if he hears about it.”

  “Nah. The post is eight months old, so I called the HR person and our girl is gone. My bet is even if the cops find out she worked there, they won’t follow up. They don’t have time to cover every single old lead. We’d be doing them a favor. So what the heck, let’s drive up. I’d sure like to see if we can find out anything about her.”

  “Well, when you put it that way. God knows I want to do Garcia a favor. Shall we invite Livvie?”

  “Of course. We’ll need entertainment on the drive.”

  * * *

  They asked the staff inside the motel, but no one knew anything about Catherine or where she might have gone. Their luck turned when they walked back outside. A young man wearing a green landscaper’s uniform was working a leaf blower in the parking lot, and when Gen waved him over and mentioned her name, he nodded. He’d known her. Said she might still be living up the road.

  Up the road proved to be misleading.

  The street that wound away soon turned into what any city girl would call woods. As they drove, the distance between houses increased and the driveways grew more obscure.

  Fancy ironwork gates gave way to chain link. Chain link turned into field fencing. But it seemed to Gen that every single address marker may just as well have included a keep out sign.

  Dated by local housing standards, the area sported a mixed bag of architectural styles running the gamut from contemporary to nearly condemned. The lots were measured in acres, which was a rarity and priceless to anyone seeking a modicum of privacy.

  It was a good place to hide.

  Daylight was fading to dusk by the time they found the weedy gravel drive. The numbers were tacked in a vertical line on a four-by-four post that flanked a partially-closed wooden gate.

  To Gen, that meant partially open. Praise those who don’t believe in locks. She swung the wheel and crept in.

  Oliver was out the door and dragging the gate wide before she had a chance to set the brake. Gravity had taken its toll; the leading edge had already dug an arc-shaped trench across the road. He struggled with the weight and rolled his eyes before he hopped back in. “I need more time at the gym.”

  Gen fed the sedan some gas and they cleared the fence line. In seconds, they were driving through a tunnel of leafy limbs that masked the sky and what little remained of the day.

  “Don’t you need your headlights?” Bree asked.

  “Let’s not alert the residents we’re here until we have to.”

  “Good thinking.”

  They cleared the canopy of trees and eased toward the house. True to first impressions, the yard was ratty and overgrown. Gone native, apparently with the occupants’ blessings. Gen wondered what their homeowners insurance company would think about the threat of fire.

  The nondescript single story home was clad with unpainted shiplap siding that looked as if it had withstood thousands of winter storms. Not a light was on. Not a vehicle in sight other than a rusty bicycle leaning against a saggy arbor. Beside it a crumbling bench was nearly swallowed by shrubs. This wasn’t a place kids would visit on Halloween.

  Except on a dare.

  “Wow.” Oliver craned his neck to get a better view. “This is what you call a fixer.”

  Bree slid forward against the back of Oliver’s seat and Gen twisted to face them. “Let’s get out and take a look.”

  “Shall we coordinate our stories in case somebody’s home?”

  “Smart boy.” Bree poked Oliver’s arm. “Sounds like you’ve coordinated stories before.”

  Gen pursed her lips and thought. “Okay, how about we’re visiting from Omaha. We’re looking for our cousin, Susie Anderson. She gave us this address. How’s that?”

  “Susie Anderson. Omaha.” Bree chuckled. “Perfect.”

  Three doors swung open in tandem and they stepped out in a nearly synchronized motion. Gen yawned and stretched as if she’d been in the car for a while, then wandered over to the path leading to the front door.

  Oliver followed.

  The front windows were covered with old-fashioned shutters, the kind with thin slats that had gone out of style decades before. The entry door was half glass and lacked curtains, providing a clear view of the dirty linoleum floor in the foyer. A small table sat against one wall, and the ceramic bowl atop it would be a perfect place to keep car keys.

  It was empty.

  Oliver pushed the doorbell. Silence; it was probably broken. Gen knocked, but no footsteps sounded from within. They retraced their steps to the yard and found Bree peering in a window, hands cupped around her face. She shook her head. There wasn’t anything interesting to be seen.

  They walked around the house.

  The back yard looked like it had all been planted according to some evil landscaper’s dream. The windows were hidden behind overgrown pyracantha shrubs, and the intimidating thorns nixed all attempts to see inside.

  The corner of a detached garage jutted from a tangle of climbing vines about thirty feet away. Gen started toward it in the fading light. “We won’t be able to find our way back if we go much farther.”

  “Is there a flashlight in the car?” Bree asked.

  “Under the driver’s seat.” She heard leaves crackle as Bree turned back to fetch it.

  Oliver stood, hands on hips, surveying the sagging building with more than a little trepidation.

  “Let’s go see what’s inside,” Gen said.

  “I fear there may be spiders in my immediate future.”

  “If they’re big enough, we can name them and keep them as pets.”

  “Euuwww. I’ll stay here and keep a lookout. You go ahead.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Smart.”

  Gen sighed and rattled the knob, then pushed on the door. It gave almost grudgingly. She stood in the threshold and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She breathed deeply. Musty. She wrinkled her nose.

  The place smelled like earthworms.

  A moment later she felt along the wall and found the familiar outline of a switch. She flipped it, then waited for the bare compact fluorescent bulb dangling overhead to achieve its full sixty watts. The corners of the room remained in shadow.

  Not much to see, though, even in the feeble light.

  A dusty workbench along one wall held a rack of screwdrivers, a hammer, nails, and a table saw. A tennis ball on a string hung from the ceiling, an old-fashioned make-do designed to alert a driver exactly where to stop.

  That and a smattering of oil in the middle of the floor suggested that someone garaged a car here once upon a time. One glance told her that the overhead garage door was locked from the inside. The leaky vehicle was no longer in residence.

  “The place smells like dirt, don’t you think, Liv?”

  Oliver moved closer behind her and sucked in air through his nose. “All I’m getting is your lavender shampoo.” He brushed past and ran a finger along the dust on top of the work table, then blew on the spot to obscure the mark he’d made. “The place could use a good spring cleaning.”

  Gen followed her nose to a line of cheap fiberboard cabinets against the wall in the back. The first two sheltered a few bottles of bleach and Epsom salts, of all things. The third unit was empty. She was about to turn away when her eye caught a glint of something shiny just beyond it, and she moved to check out the dark corner.

  Right on cue, a bright beam caught the side of her face as Bree returned.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Will you bring that over here?”

  Bree was beside her in a second, scouring the wall with the light. “It’s a door.”

  “Yeah, with a brand new hasp and a shiny
new padlock on it.”

  “Which appears to be securely locked.”

  “I see that.”

  Oliver eased in behind them to have a look. “We could break it with that hammer over there.”

  “We could,” Gen said. “But we could also take a few more minutes and use a screwdriver to back the screws out of the hasp. Whoever installed this wasn’t thinking anyone would seriously try to break in.”

  Bree and Oliver both turned their heads to look at her. “You’ve done this before,” Bree said.

  Gen grinned. “Not exactly this, but close.” She chose a Phillips screwdriver from the rack on the bench and had the hardware off and the door open in less than five minutes.

  “Smell that?” she asked.

  Oliver breathed audibly. “I do now. Smells like leaf mulch in the woods.”

  Bree handed her the flashlight. She raised it and panned the room, and all three of them drew in their breath.

  The place housed a long, heavy-duty rolling cart, topped with a planting bed. The earth in the bed was packed with growing mushrooms.

  “A spore house,” Bree whispered.

  “What’d you call it?” Gen took a step inside, eager for a closer look.

  “I think this is what my brother-in-law would call a spore house. Gross. I hate mushrooms. How horrible to see a whole bed packed with them.”

  “Yeah,” Oliver replied, “but these don’t look like the cute little buttons we sauté and pile on our steaks.”

  “No, they don’t.” Gen flicked the light around. The walls were painted shiny white, probably the better to keep them clean. Compared to the seedy chaos they’d seen so far, this place was spotless. The far wall held a stainless steel sink. The rolling stock was immaculate, and the floor even more so. “I’m betting on the hallucinogenic type, how about you?”

  “Oh my God, Genny.” Oliver made a hasty retreat into the dusty garage and raised his voice. “Do you think we could get high just by breathing the air in there?”

  That question made both women hasten to join him. “It’s just a guess,” Gen said. “No way to know what they are.”