“Fortunately, the police don’t have to rely on our amateur psychology to decide the case. They’ll use science to figure out if she killed him on purpose, by accident, or in self-defense. Their experts will analyze the scene, Damian’s wound, and the anonymous letter. The police will trace the gun and question Louisa repeatedly. I have more confidence they’ll get to the truth about Damian’s death than about Otto’s.”
“Can you make a case against her as Otto’s murderer?”
Val shook her head. “She had no reason to kill him or to take a gun to his dinner party. Everyone went out on deck after he left the saloon except her. She went to the guest head downstairs. You can get outside from that deck if you go through the engine room and the storage room, but how would she know that?”
Granddad looked up from filleting the fish. “Cheyenne gave her and Damian a tour of the lower deck.”
“Yes, but when she showed me the lower deck, she didn’t point out the door to the engine room. I found out about it only because she and I were looking everywhere for Otto and I asked what was behind the door.” Val glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to leave for Gunnar’s house.”
“Wait. Don’t you want to know what I found out at Cheyenne’s? I looked at the photos on the table. There weren’t any dates or names on the back of them, but I got her to talk a little about the girl in the photos with Otto. She was his half sister, Andrea. Otto’s father divorced his mother, and she remarried.”
Darn. That meant Andrea had a different last name. Hard to find out anything about her death without knowing her name. “Good job, Granddad.”
“Cheyenne told me she’s going through the papers on Otto’s desk and paying off bills. She wants you to send her an invoice for the remainder of the catering bill.”
“I’ll hand-carry the invoice to her tomorrow. I’d like to see how she’s reacting to Damian’s death. I also want to talk to Stacy again. She did something weird at the Browns’ house. When she thought no one was looking, she took a photo of Damian and Louisa’s wedding portrait.”
Granddad stroked his chin. “Stacy looks about the same age as the Browns. Maybe they knew each other years ago.”
“That occurred to me too.” And Granddad could check into it. “Would you like to practice the skills you learned in your online investigator course?”
Granddad’s eyes lit up. “Sure. You want me to spy on somebody, like I did on Cheyenne?”
The mundane task Val had in mind would disappoint him. “Nothing so exciting. Go online and see what you can dig up about Stacy, Damian, Louisa, Cheyenne, and Otto. Find out where they all grew up and went to school. Look for any connections among them. Check where they lived and worked, if you have time.”
“You mean, if I don’t fall asleep first,” he grumbled.
She smiled. “Pessimist. You might discover something exciting that cracks the case wide open. I’ll see you later, Granddad.”
Val went to her room, changed her clothes, and then drove to Gunnar’s house.
When she arrived, he greeted her with literal open arms. “We meet again.”
She felt warm in his embrace. “This time let’s do it right.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a long kiss. Maybe they could ignore the red flags that had popped up between them in the last few days.
* * *
It was nearly eight o’clock when Gunnar set out a cold feast for their dinner. “Call it tapas or a hearty antipasto or just a mishmash.”
Val surveyed the table. A platter with jumbo shrimp, smoked salmon, and thinly sliced prosciutto. Marinated artichokes and eggplant caponata. A selection of cheese that included Brie and Asiago. A salad of baby tomatoes, cucumber, Greek olives, and feta. And crusty bread.
The setup looked familiar to Val. “We had a picnic dinner like this last summer. We ate in the backyard of the B and B where you were staying.” That was just before he moved into this house. Now they were having the same meal before he moved out of the house.
“I remember it. You were trying to solve a murder, and now you’re doing it again.” Gunnar poured wine for both of them. “Anything new on the Titanic collector’s death?”
“A related death.” Val told him about the anonymous letter Louisa received and her shooting of Damian.
Gunnar gaped at her. “Didn’t see that coming. I feel sorry for her and her family.” He filled his plate with prosciutto, cheese, and marinated artichokes. “Now that Otto’s murder is solved, you can forget about it and think about other things.”
Solved? Not yet. “I don’t think the anonymous letter or Louisa’s suspicions about her husband amount to proof that he killed Otto.” Val put shrimp and salmon on her plate. “Granddad is convinced Cheyenne did it or lured Damian into doing it for her. He’s hung up on a love triangle as the motive for the murder.”
“And you’re hung up on the mystery game as the motive. His hang-up is easier to explain than yours. Has he been watching the classic movie station on cable TV?”
“He always does. Why?”
“The station is having a Femme Fatale Festival this month. He’s looking at the world through the filter of that plot.”
Val understood. Just a few months ago, she’d viewed the motives and suspects in a murder through the lens of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. His writing at least had more variety than femme fatale movie plots. “Enough about murder for tonight. Do you have any leads on a place to rent?”
“No.” He concentrated on his plate.
She took his one-syllable response as a sign he’d rather not talk about his house hunt. So she asked about the acting conservatory. As he described the program, which encompassed both classes and productions, she realized it was even more intensive than she’d expected.
“It sounds like a great program,” she said, “and a full-time commitment.” For sixteen months, or even longer if he decided to enroll in the advanced courses.
“I’ll find time for other things, but I can’t pass this up.”
Would she be one of those other things? She forced herself to say something positive. “Washington’s not that far from here. An hour and a half. A lot of people with full-time jobs there commute for that long.”
“But I never wanted to be one of them. Getting a break in the theater, as in most things in life, is about being there to take advantage of opportunities, like I did with the Treadwell Players. If I hadn’t been hanging around as an understudy in January, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to show what I could do with a major role.” He put his fork down. “I’ll need a place to stay in Washington. It doesn’t make sense for me to rent a place in Bayport while I’m in the program. I have accounting clients here, but we mostly communicate electronically.”
But he didn’t mostly communicate electronically with her. Val’s eyes met his across the table. Was this the end of their relationship? No, he’d tell her straight out if it was. “You can come back on weekends or whatever days off you have. I don’t think Granddad would mind if you stayed with us.” She hoped that was true.
He reached for her hand across the table. “I’d like you to come with me. The place I rent in Washington won’t be as large as your grandfather’s house, but it’ll be big enough for the two of us.”
She was too stunned to say anything for a moment. She drank some wine. “I’m more tied down than you. I can’t run the café electronically.” Or keep an eye on Granddad from afar.
“Your assistant manager wouldn’t mind taking over your café contract. She wanted it to start with.” Gunnar studied her face. “I can see you’re not enthusiastic about that. The contract ends in the summer, right? You could finish it out and then move.”
“The contract goes until September.” Val didn’t want to barrage him with all her objections to his idea. She ought to at least give it a few days’ thought. One objection would suffice for now, the one he’d understand best. “What would I do in Washington?”
“You have a lot of talent, and there are many more jobs the
re than here.” He paused, apparently waiting for her response. When she said nothing, he continued, “And we need to spend more time together to know if we’re right for each other.”
If neither of them had reached that conclusion yet, would a change of venue make any difference? “This is a little sudden.”
“You don’t have to decide right away. It’s just that if you’re going to join me, I’ll rent a bigger place, and you could help me pick it out.”
In other words, Take your time, but hurry up about it. “Give me a few days to get used to the idea. For now, let’s talk about something else.”
“You mean murder?” His eyes twinkled. “It’s your favorite topic.”
Sometimes murder was easier to understand than love. “No, food is my favorite topic.”
It struck her as she looked at the cold dishes on the table that this meal and the similar one they’d shared last summer were the bookends of Gunnar’s stay in Bayport. He would never move back here, not while he was pursuing acting as his midlife career, not as long as he was successful at it. And she hoped he was, because he’d waited many years to follow his dream.
Her appetite gone, she pleaded fatigue and cut the evening short.
* * *
As Val went into the sitting room, Granddad looked at her, pointed the remote at the TV, and muted it. “What’s wrong?”
That obvious, huh? She flopped onto the worn tweed sofa. “Gunnar’s moving to Washington, D.C., and he wants me to go with him.” Granddad listened without interrupting as she gave him the details. “So I have a decision to make.”
“One you’re not happy about.”
Was that a clue to what her decision should be? “Like most people, I resist change.” She’d stayed engaged to Tony longer than she should have.
Granddad stroked his chin. “Don’t resist change because of me. It’s been good having you here, but I’ll get along without you.” He patted her hand, which rested on the sofa arm. “You know that I wanted your mother to marry someone local.”
Val nodded. “Chief Yardley.”
“Right, but when she decided on your father, I was happy for her. She chose the life of a Navy wife, moving from one place to another. We missed her a lot, but we were happy to see what a good marriage she had. And she gave me the world’s best granddaughter.” He squeezed her hand. “You can be anywhere, Val, as long as you’re with the right person. Is Gunnar the one you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
A simple yes-or-no question, but Val had a different one-word answer: maybe. “I’ve imagined Gunnar as part of my life here, but I never thought about the two of us being together elsewhere.”
“He didn’t ask you to marry him. I guess he hasn’t made up his mind either.”
Val shrugged. “Couples don’t jump into marriage as fast as they used to.”
“Gunnar jumped into the empty spot after you ended your engagement. Didn’t you tell me he was also coming off a broken engagement?” At her nod, Granddad continued, “A few months apart might help both of you decide how you feel. What’s the rush?”
She decided against telling him why Gunnar had set a timer on her decision—so he’d know how large an apartment to rent. The aspiring actor couldn’t shed his training as an accountant. Her delayed decision meant he’d have to pay higher rent for a larger apartment he wouldn’t need unless she joined him. Or else he’d have to forfeit money to break the lease on a small place if she did join him. The economics of romance.
Granddad had given her good advice, by which she meant he’d reinforced her own leanings.
She sat up straighter on the sofa. “Enough of that. Did you find anything interesting in your online research?”
“No connection between Cheyenne and Damian. Nothing at all about Damian’s early life. As for the rest of them, they didn’t grow up anywhere near each other. I wrote down where they came from and the schools they went to. It’s on a sheet of paper next to the computer. I’ll show you.” He levered himself out of the lounge chair and groaned. “Sitting too long.”
They went into the study.
Val glanced at the notes he’d jotted on a scratch pad. One bit of information popped out. Stacy had graduated from Virginia Tech, the school Otto’s half sister was attending when she died.
Could Otto’s sister and Stacy have been at the same university at the same time?
Chapter 20
Val pointed to the line in Granddad’s notes that listed Stacy’s degree from Virginia Tech. “Stacy told me Otto’s sister was a student at Virginia Tech and died after falling off a balcony railing.”
Granddad’s eyebrows shot up. “Like the young girl in Otto’s mystery. Did Stacy know Andrea?”
“She didn’t say so. Let me work out if they could have known each other. Andrea was a sophomore, nineteen years old, and Otto about ten years older when she died thirty years ago. The newspaper said he was fifty-nine when he died.” Val jotted numbers on a clean sheet in the scratch pad. Based on what Stacy and Trey had told her, she knew how old Otto was when Stacy married him, and how long ago they’d divorced. She worked out Trey’s current age and Stacy’s age when he was born.
Granddad looked over her shoulders. “Got a bottom line?”
“Uh-huh. Stacy would have been a year or two ahead of Andrea at Tech. It’s a huge state university. They overlapped there, but that doesn’t mean they knew each other.” Something to ask Stacy, along with why she’d snapped a picture of the Browns’ wedding portrait.
Val skimmed the other notes Granddad had taken. Otto grew up in Annapolis, served in the Navy after college, and eventually earned a law degree from Tulane University. Cheyenne grew up in West Virginia, but Granddad had no notes about where she’d gone to school. Louisa came from rural Southern Maryland and graduated from the University of Delaware.
Val was intrigued by the absence of information about Damian, in contrast to the details about the others. Based on his mild drawl, he must have come from farther south than the rest of them. Louisa could fill in the missing information about him, but Val wouldn’t ask so soon after the shooting. Tomorrow she’d take Louisa a casserole or another dish so she’d have at least one meal for herself and visiting family.
Val might as well cook it right now. After today’s shooting and tonight’s dinner with Gunnar, she was too troubled to fall asleep. Measuring and mixing ingredients would calm her down. Better than tossing and turning in bed.
She went into the kitchen, checked the refrigerator and pantry, and decided to make a quiche. On second thought, two quiches. One for Louisa, and one for Cheyenne.
* * *
At three o’clock on Thursday, Val rang the bell at Cheyenne’s house. A gray-haired man in neat, casual clothes opened the door.
A neighbor or relative of the Warbecks? Val smiled. “Hi. Is Cheyenne home?”
The man opened the door wider. “Yes. Please come in. Cheyenne’s upstairs, giving my wife a house tour. I got a bum knee, so I didn’t want to climb.”
Val went into the living room with him. “I brought Cheyenne something for dinner.” She set the quiche down on the glass coffee table and sat on the sofa.
“My wife made a chicken pot pie for her. Such a nice tradition, to feed the bereaved.” He sat in the side chair across the room. “We were away for a few days and came home to the sad news about Otto. By the way, I’m Jerry Kindell. I used to work with Otto.”
The name struck a chord with Val. Jerry Kindell and his wife were the couple Cheyenne said Otto had intended to invite to the Titanic dinner. Val introduced herself and said, “I catered the dinner on Otto’s yacht Saturday night. You’d have been there too, I guess, if you hadn’t been away.”
He frowned, puzzled. “We went away Sunday. We would have gone to the dinner if we’d been invited. I really wanted to see Otto’s yacht.”
It was Val’s turn to be puzzled. Cheyenne had told her that Otto had invited Damian and Louisa to the Titanic dinner because the Kindells could
n’t come.
Jerry stood up as his wife and Cheyenne came downstairs. He turned to Val. “We’ll have to be on our way. Good to meet you.”
“I enjoyed talking to you,” Val said. Very much.
He’d given her an important bit of information, though she wasn’t yet sure what to make of it. She knew only that either Cheyenne had lied to her or Otto had lied to Cheyenne about the reason Damian and Louisa had been invited to the dinner. They were the intended guests, not last-minute fill-ins for another couple.
After Cheyenne bid the Kindells goodbye in the hall, she joined Val in the living room. “A reporter called this morning and said Damian Brown was dead. How awful is that? Such a nice man.”
Val searched Cheyenne’s face for a hint that Damian was special to her. No sign of it. “Why did the reporter call you?”
“Because of the coincidence. Damian was on the boat with us when Otto was shot. A few days later, Damian was shot too. Do you know anything about that?”
Val chose her words carefully to comply with what the police had made public. “Damian was shot in his house, apparently by accident.”
“You mean he was cleaning a gun and it went off?”
“That happens a lot.” True, though misleading in this case. To forestall more questions, Val pointed to the quiche on the coffee table. “I brought you a quick meal you can heat up.”
“Aren’t you nice? And Bethany too. She brought over a pizza last night for us to share. I’ll put the quiche in the fridge. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Cheyenne picked up the dish and took it through the dining room to the kitchen. Val followed her as far as the dining table. Most of the photos that had been strewn on the table two days ago were gone. Now there was only a small stack of them—probably the ones Cheyenne had selected for Otto’s memorial service. Val shuffled through the pictures, looking in vain for one of Andrea. She found a photo of Otto as a boy in a baseball uniform, his bat poised for a hit, and a more candid shot of him at the plate when he was older. Viewing the two photos side by side, Val noticed his stance was different. The bat was over the boy’s right shoulder, which made sense because Otto wrote right-handed, but over the young man’s left shoulder. Maybe someone had scanned an old photo of him and accidentally flipped it, creating a mirror image of the original.
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