by Meera Lester
The tone of the argument quickly escalated. Abby frantically pushed the buzzer on the wall, waited, and pushed it again. Nettie appeared on the other side of the glass window, her forehead creased in a frown. Alarmed and shaking her head, apparently at the argument, she told Abby through the speaker, “Be right with you.”
Abby pointed to the counter and motioned for Jack to put the case down next to the jars she’d already placed there. They waited as Nettie disappeared and returned with Chief Bob Allen. He went over to the dispatchers and called out the warring women.
“Who were they arguing over?” Abby asked Nettie as the chief took each woman aside for a talk.
Nettie rolled her eyes. “Bernie in the evidence room.”
Abby burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”
Nettie shook her head. “Mr. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”
Abby shook her head and feigned a serious look as the chief looked over at her. The room became as quiet as a hot jar of jam before the seal popped.
“This way,” the chief said after he opened the security door for her and Jack to enter. “My office is down here at the end of the hall. Officer Petrovsky and I have been interviewing a suspect in your sister’s death, and I’d like to fill you in, Mr. Sullivan.”
“A suspect? Any chance it’s Premalatha Baxter?” asked Abby.
He nodded, leading them to the institutional chairs opposite his massive desk. “She denies any knowledge of the murder.” The chief motioned for them to set the case and the jars on the desk and take a seat.
“You have proof to the contrary?” asked Jack.
“Yes, Mr. Sullivan, we do. Her fingerprint was on the broken teacup that Mackenzie’s dog uncovered. We were able to match the one on the teacup with prints in the state’s system because of a background check on Ms. Baxter when she applied for work in a casino. We can also tie her to the burning car crime scene through that nicotine patch that Mackenzie found in the nearby weed patch. Claims she is a closet smoker, mostly herbs through a water pipe but also tobacco. She conceals her habit and also the patch she wears to quit.”
Abby felt pleased but maintained a solemn expression. “But, Chief, Fiona knew Premalatha smoked. She had to know, because Premalatha and Dak stopped by Ancient Wisdom Botanicals, asking for an herb blend for smoking, the day before Fiona died. I was there and saw the exchange. Fiona told Premalatha that the blend was out of stock.”
“Yes. I read your statement. We’re convinced that we’ve got your sister’s killer, Mr. Sullivan, but we know she had to have help moving the body. We’re still piecing that part of the case together.”
“But you have Dak Harmon in custody,” said Abby. “He’s got to know what went down.”
“He’s not saying. We read him his rights, and he lawyered up.”
“Isn’t it true that the two of them were providing alibis for each other? They were at the commune that morning. They had lunch there together with the leader and everyone else.”
“True,” said Chief Bob Allen. “Premalatha told us that around ten thirty on the morning Fiona died, she tried to phone Fiona to apologize for their public argument at the smoothie shop. Her cell phone records indicate that she made that call.”
Abby had a sudden thought. “How long was their conversation?”
“Less than two minutes.”
“Okay, I’m going to suggest something,” Abby said. She then phrased her theory with flattery for the chief. “You’ve probably already thought of this, but here goes. What if Premalatha went to the cottage and gave Fiona poison in a cup of tea or in a smoothie she prepared in a Smooth Your Groove cup? I’ve been reading up on this, and Jack knows about it, too. This poisonous plant called monkshood has pretty flowers, but all parts of the plant, including the roots, are poisonous. Let’s say that Premalatha makes a tincture from the plant, which they grow up on the commune land, and puts the drops in the tea or the smoothie. Then she convinces Fiona to taste a smoothie recipe she’d like Fiona to approve for the smoothie shop. Seeking Fiona’s approval might have gotten the result she intended. That is, for Fiona to taste the smoothie. Maybe Fiona already had a cup of tea, and Premalatha doctored it, too, or perhaps Premalatha made her a cup of tea if Fiona complained of not feeling well after tasting the smoothie.” Abby took a deep breath and exhaled.
“Go on,” said the chief. His elbows rested on his desk, and his thumbs and forefingers pressed against each other.
“To create an alibi for herself, Premalatha uses her cell phone to call Fiona. Getting a message, she listens and maybe leaves one for Fiona. All the while, she’s standing right there in the cottage as Fiona is dying. Then Premalatha cleans up, putting everything in that trash bag to toss onto the refuse pile where Dr. Danbury stores his trash to be incinerated. And since Dr. Danbury spent the night in Las Flores, celebrating his son’s birthday, there was no one else at the estate the morning Fiona died.”
“That’s right,” said Jack. “Tom told me he’d asked permission from Premalatha to go to Fiona’s cottage that night to discuss their divorce. Also, he said he had that winery renovation job to go to early the next morning . . . the morning Fiona died.”
“For your sister,” Abby said, glancing over at Jack, “it was just a stroke of bad luck that no one was on the property that morning. Premalatha had already decided it would be the last time Tom would spend the night with Fiona.” Abby exhaled deeply and looked back at Chief Bob Allen.
“I’m still listening.” The chief leaned back in his chair and quietly tapped a finger against his desk.
“I think that Premalatha and her accomplice loaded Fiona’s body in her car. They took two vehicles to Kilbride Lake. There they placed Fiona into the driver’s seat but forgot to adjust the seat forward so Fiona’s feet could reach the gas pedal. Premalatha is roughly five feet, nine inches. Fiona was about five-three.”
“Uh-huh,” said the chief. “And so . . .”
“So, Premalatha and her accomplice set the car on fire to get rid of the body and any trace evidence,” Abby said. She looked over at a stone-faced Jack before continuing. “They ride back to the commune, leave their vehicle, probably a motorcycle, in the woods near the commune. That way, they can part company and slip onto the grounds unnoticed from different directions, as if they’d been present at the commune all morning.”
Chief Bob Allen had been staring intently at Abby as she spoke. He sniffed deeply. “Initially, we thought Dak Harmon might have helped move the body. That partial tire print at Kilbride Lake has some similarities to the tread on the tires of the mountain garage loaner motorcycle—the one he uses when his is in the shop and the same one he rode to your house, Abby.”
Abby sat a little straighter. Thought it might.
The chief leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “But you know as well as I do that because tires are so generic and are sold so widely, it would be difficult to tie a suspect to any one vehicle in that location. And that is true even if the print happened to be a good, usable impression. It’s a little too circumstantial. Others could have easy access to that bike.”
Abby nodded. “True, but who would also have motive and means and access to that bike? You said the impression appeared similar to the tread on that bike’s tire.”
“Wish it were a full print, but it’s not. Fingerprints can get us a conviction, but a DNA match would tie up the evidence with a sweet little bow. We have it with the nicotine patch linking Premalatha to the burned car and her print on the teacup. But we all know she had help.”
The chief hadn’t lobbed any cheap shots at her yet, and Abby wondered if he would. Maybe since she’d brought all that honey, he was making nice, treating her like a colleague rather than a cadet. “Somebody drove the body to the lake in Fiona’s car, while the accomplice followed on or in some type of vehicle. Let’s say it was a motorcycle. They would have staged Fiona’s body behind the steering wheel and torched the car. Was an accelerant used?”
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“Yes,” said the chief.
“So, where’s the container? If the killer and an accomplice made their getaway on a motorcycle, they probably used lighter fluid. Easier to take the container with them than a gas can. If Dak Harmon didn’t help with disposing of the body, then who did? Who else had the motive to take Fiona’s life and also had access to that bike?”
Chief Bob Allen rubbed a bushy brow with four fingers of one hand while he stared at Abby, as though staring could elicit from her the answer he didn’t have.
Abby thought for a moment. “Hayden Marks has a motive. Fiona threatened his hold over everyone.”
The chief leaned forward. “Well, we’re not ready to hold the press conference yet, but there was a second print, a thumbprint, recovered from the trash. The bag that held the broken teacup contained a print that belongs to Marks. He’s an ex-felon who served time for grand theft of firearms.”
“Wonder if he knows how to ride a Harley,” Jack mused.
The chief nodded. “Oh, he does. Marks had a previous affiliation with a gang of outlaw bikers.”
Abby smiled. “So that’s it. Hayden Marks puts Fiona’s body in the car. He drives it to the lake. They set the car on fire, and then Marks gives Premalatha a ride back to the commune on that motorcycle.”
“There’s another piece of linkage in all this,” said the chief. “As part of the state’s mandate to reduce prison populations, Hayden Marks was released early. He was sent to the same conservation camp, or ‘fire camp,’ as Dak Harmon and a few other prisoners to help fight California wildfires.”
“So with Baxter and Harmon in jail, why haven’t you arrested Marks?” Jack asked.
“Well, there’s a problem. He’s taken off,” the chief said. “We’ve alerted the local airports, bus terminals, and train stations. And we’ve put out a BOLO on him and that new car.”
Abby chimed in. “Driving a hot new BMW Alpina B-seven isn’t too stealthy. It won’t be difficult to spot it.”
“He probably didn’t have a choice with his bike in the mountain shop, being repaired,” said the chief, rising to lift the case of honey from his desk and to set it on the floor by the window. “Two residents saw Marks drive away from the commune. But we’ll find him. And now with a plausible scenario and incriminating evidence to support it against those three, we’ll soon have them all behind bars. Premeditated murder, with poison as an aggravated factor, is a capital murder charge. That means the death penalty is on the table.”
Jack stood and extended his hand, his eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks for the update, Chief. Finally closure.”
“Good work, Chief,” Abby said, rising from her chair.
“How much do I owe you for the honey, Mackenzie? My missus is going to—” His words stopped with the knock at the door.
Nettie popped in. “Chief, we’ve got a hit on the BOLO. A sheriff in Santa Cruz County is calling. Someone thought they saw the car. Do you want to take it here? Line two.”
The chief pursed his lips. He nodded.
Against a desire to dally long enough to find out more about the BOLO, Abby said to the chief, “We’ll settle up later with the money. Give you some privacy to take that call. Fingers crossed.” She and Nettie walked back to the lobby, with Jack following.
A few minutes later, Abby pulled out of the police parking lot and steered the Jeep on a course into the mountains.
“Getting those killers behind bars is one thing.... Do you think the police will have enough evidence for the court trial?” Jack asked, unpeeling the wrapper from a piece of gum. He offered the gum to her.
She waved off the gum and said, “You can be sure that Chief Bob Allen and his team will do everything they can to bring a solid case to the district attorney.”
“Good.” Jack slipped the gum package back into the pocket of his T-shirt and settled back into his seat. He stretched out his bare, muscular legs. “There was a gorgeous moon and a clear sky last night. What’s up with all this fog today?”
“Microclimates. The mountains are different from the valley.” Abby tapped a button on the radio and turned to her favorite soft jazz station. As she entered the first big turn on the slick asphalt road, she gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “Here in the Bay Area, we can have sun in the valley and fog and drizzle in the mountains. The outside temperature can change thirty degrees from one microclimate to another, like in the summer, driving from San Jose to San Francisco.”
“Oh.” Jack leaned back and closed his eyes, apparently enjoying the ride. “I like your taste in music,” he said. “How far do we have to go now?”
“A few miles,” said Abby. Her tension lessened as they drove toward the summit for the delivery to the wedding customer. A late-season storm was expected to blow through. If they were lucky enough to get any rain in the valley, it would be spotty, but the winds buffeted her Jeep now and already the mountain mist had become heavy, so rain could hit at any moment.
“Where is this Kilbride Lake?” asked Jack.
“It’s not too far from where you’re staying in the cottage. I could take you to see it before we make the delivery, if you like. It’s a really pretty area, although today the lake water is probably choppy and reflecting the gray sky.”
He spoke in a voice tinged with sadness. “It’s where the killers took her and tried to burn . . . I want to see that spot.”
“You got it,” said Abby. She negotiated the curvy road for another half mile, cringing on the approach into the two most dangerous curves. She’d not soon forget that Timothy Kramer in his silver pickup had once forced her off the road, had taken a shot at her, and later had set that wilderness cabin on fire. For an instant, her thoughts turned to that harrowing experience. But then the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Department had found him and arrested him. It was unlikely that local law enforcement would return to those wooded forty acres. Oh, but Hayden Marks could have.
“Oh, my gosh!” exclaimed Abby at the sudden realization. “Mind if we take a brief detour, Jack? I have a sudden urge to check that land behind Doc Danbury’s estate. I think it’s possible that Hayden Marks knows about that area. He could be hiding back there. And that could be why law enforcement hasn’t found him.”
With the two curves behind her, the road again climbed. Abby remained vigilant on the road since the cliff side had no guardrail. The rocky, tree-studded cliffs plunged eighty feet below. On the mountain side, blind curves presented another hazard to drivers. On a clear day, Abby enjoyed the drive, but when there was fog and the road was wet, like today, she hit the brakes a lot . . . and now she needed to use the wipers.
The fog concealed the drop-offs from view but did little to lessen Abby’s anxiety. Despite her defensive driving, the Jeep hydroplaned after reaching the red barn. How ironic, Abby thought. Hydroplaning in an area where the fog bank has thinned and visibility has improved. Still, she navigated the series of curves before the road straightened out again. Then she spotted the NO TRESPASSING sign in white paint on the big board nailed to a tree that indicated the turnoff to the cabin in the woods. She followed the rutted road to the high hill and the stand of oaks, remembering the shot Kramer had fired at her. Shaking off the memory, she peered down toward the clearing where the cabin once stood.
“I can’t make out much of anything,” said Jack, leaning in to wipe the inside of the windshield with his hand.
“I was hoping the fog would be evaporating here, like it was at the barn,” said Abby. She stared at the wispy sheets wafting by in front of the Jeep’s headlamps.
“Ah, Abby, ’tis like we’re ghosts in a netherworld,” said Jack, slipping into his Irish brogue. “No one here to see. No one to bother us. It gives me ideas, it does.”
Abby smiled and drilled him with a playful gaze. “Yeah? What kind of ideas?”
Jack unfastened his seat belt. His eyes conveyed desire. “This, for one,” he said, leaning in.
Abby anticipated his kiss, but it never came. Ins
tead, Jack’s attention was diverted as he turned abruptly to face the source of the lights that had flicked on in the clearing. Abby stared, too. The lights appeared to be the high beams of a vehicle. Whatever kind of vehicle it was, the darn thing was headed straight for them. Abby didn’t have time to debate whether or not to make a U-turn. The champagne-colored Alpina streaked past, swerving at the last minute.
“It’s him . . . Hayden Marks. He almost killed us,” Abby cried out.
“I see him. Go . . . go. Go after him, Abby. He’s getting away.”
“Too dangerous, Jack. The fog . . . can’t see—”
“He’s got to be stopped. Think of Fiona.”
Flipping into a U-turn, Abby hit the gas. “You’re right. For Fiona . . .” And my brother. “Call it in, Jack. The phone is on the console. We need backup.”
Abby drove as fast as she dared in the deadly fog, following the Alpina’s taillights. Jack alerted dispatch. At the NO TRESPASSING sign, the Alpina turned onto the asphalt road and picked up speed. Abby followed. Nearing the red barn, she saw the fog had receded over the edge of the mountain.
“Thank God. I can see.” Abby breathed. “There. There he is,” she said, pushing hard on the gas pedal.
“We’re closing in, Abby. Closing in.”
Abby hardly heard Jack. Her thoughts raced ahead to the two most dangerous curves on the mountain. The Alpina had entered one of them. Then, in a millisecond, Abby heard the crash as the Alpina hit the granite wall. She watched the car flip into the air. Fly off the edge. Plunge down the cliff.
Abby’s heart caught in her throat. Her fingers tightened into a death grip on the steering wheel. She tapped her brakes, knowing if she hit them hard, the Jeep would fishtail on the wet asphalt. She would lose control. End up just like Marks. When she got the car to a nearly full stop, she guided the Jeep into a slow roll onto the narrow turnout.
Jack jumped out. She followed. They raced to the cliff’s edge to peer over. Flames from the Alpina leaped high into the air. Loud popping sounds followed, shattering the mountain’s silence. Abby trembled, and Jack reached out to pull her close. He stroked her hair as they stood staring at the spectacle below.