Which did not mean he felt any more merciful toward the man or woman who’d killed this decent woman for no justifiable reason.
“It had to be quick,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her suffering.”
Some of the tension left Ms. Thomsen’s shoulders. “Thank you for telling me that.”
He nodded.
She breathed audibly for a minute. He was about to make his excuses when she said, “Does the gate record when people come and go? Or does everyone have the same code?”
Interesting that she was thinking so analytically. Almost like a cop.
“No, each tenant has a unique code.” He already knew that much, from previous investigations. “So the answer is yes, we’ll be able to pinpoint arrivals and departures based on what code they used.” Maybe. The gate moved with ponderous slowness. He’d observed before that two or even three cars could pass through once it opened. If the guy was patient, he could have ridden someone else’s tail coming and going and left no record of his presence at all. “You’re wondering where your aunt’s car is.”
“Well…yes.”
He’d been mulling that over himself, and now said, “I had a thought about that.” He jumped out of his squad car and walked over to the row of vehicles that were being parked here presumably because of the security. He ignored the RV on the end and the camper next to it, as well as the aging but well-cared-for Cadillac that inexplicably lacked a cover. Nope, it was the vehicle on the end that was hidden under a canvas tarpaulin. He lifted one side only enough to confirm his suspicion, then let it drop.
Ms. Thomsen had gotten out, too, he saw, and stood watching him.
“White Corolla, rusting bumper?”
Looking numb, she nodded.
“The question is, how did he get out of here?”
“Or her.”
He looked at the niece.
“From what I can gather, most of the people working on the auction are women. Doreen has mentioned only a couple of men.”
She blanched at speaking her aunt’s name, but hadn’t let herself cry yet. He’d begun to suspect she wasn’t the one who’d puked. Marge had looked considerably more rattled than this woman when he arrived.
Ignoring the approaching sirens, he asked, “Why do you assume the killer is an auction volunteer?”
She frowned. “Are you suggesting it was someone who just happened to wander by?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “There were a whole bunch of people already inside the gates when I got here. What if they leave?”
“Marge won’t let ‘em.” He turned when a white van rolled around the corner and stopped behind his city car. “The troops are here, Ms. Thomsen. You said you’re staying at the Harrison cottage? Why don’t you go back there, and I’ll be by to update you later. Say, mid-afternoon.”
She gave a half nod, then changed her mind. “Will you ask everyone to be really careful when they’re working in there? I’d hate to see anything else get broken.”
He stared at her, struck by her coldness. “Why would you care at this point?”
She transferred her stare to him, startling him with the pure ferocity in her eyes. “Because Aunt Doreen cared. She cared a whole lot. And I’m thinking the only thing I can do for her now is finish something that mattered to her. Make it my memorial to her. That, Chief Colburn, is why I care.”
After a minute, he said, “Got it.”
She nodded and walked to her Prius. For maybe thirty seconds his brainwaves altered, letting him see only her. The confidence of her stride, the delicacy of her bone structure, the sway of her hips in snug jeans, the way she carried herself with shoulders squared and head high. Then he blinked and called, “Wait!”
He lifted a hand at the two men and one woman who’d gotten out of the van, but jogged to Ms. Thomsen.
“Is there any chance you – or someone – have a list of what should be in there?”
“Yes, in theory.”
He raised his eyebrows at that.
She grimaced. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. It became apparent to me, talking to Doreen, that while the group was doing a heck of a job begging donations, they weren’t doing nearly so well organizing the stuff once they had it. Apparently somebody had volunteered to enter donations as they came in and work on a catalog, but she’s been full of excuses and not really doing it.”
“And who would that be?”
“Rhonda…Rhoda…something.” She lifted her hands. “I have a list of volunteers with contact info back at the cottage. I haven’t met any of them yet, except for a few I already knew from visits to Doreen.”
“All right,” he said. “See what kind of inventory you do have, too.” He stared at the daunting contents of the storage locker. “Do me a favor, though. Please don’t call any of the other volunteers or accept any calls. In fact, don’t talk to anyone, okay? I’ll want to give each of them the news myself.”
Still remarkably composed, she nodded. “I wonder what happened to the lock.”
“I think the fact that the lock was replaced suggests the killing of your aunt was thoroughly premeditated. He – or she – came prepared. The replaced lock was likely intended to slow down the discovery of the body. Any volunteers who came out here would be puzzled and possibly annoyed because their keys didn’t work, but most of them wouldn’t have demanded Marge cut the lock off.” Which, the more he thought about it, made Ms. Thomsen an unlikely killer. Why would she put the damn lock on, then immediately insist Marge cut it off?
“No. No, I suppose not.” She hugged herself. “No.” She stole a look toward the cluster of people now waiting for him outside the space and the grim sight past them, then hurried the rest of the way to her Prius.
A moment later, she drove around the corner of the building without looking back.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
About The Author
A Note from the Author:
Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson
SHROUD OF FOG (Cape Trouble, Book 1) - CHAPTER ONE
Whisper of Revenge (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 4) Page 27