CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Stacey was in a great mood when she woke up the next morning. She ate breakfast in a mom-and-pop restaurant a few blocks from her motel. Then she walked on the beach and thought about the questions she would pose to Megan Cahill. At nine thirty, Stacey walked down Ocean Avenue to Megan’s house and rang the doorbell. The house blocked the ocean breeze and she enjoyed the warm sun while she waited for Megan to let her in. After a few minutes, Stacey rang the bell again. There was still no response.
The weather was glorious and Stacey decided that Megan had not heard her because she was on the deck, basking in the sun. She tried the door. It was open, a good sign that she was expected.
“Hello,” she shouted. “Mrs. Cahill, it’s Stacey Kim.”
There was no answer. Stacey stepped into the stone entryway, and a rank odor made her nostrils flare. Stacey remembered Jack Booth telling her that there had been an awful smell in the den where Raymond Cahill’s body was found, and a queasy feeling started to grow in the pit of her stomach.
The foul odor seemed to be coming from the living room. Stacey stopped breathing to block the smell and forced herself to look over the banister. Her hand flew to her mouth. Megan Cahill lay on her back. Her white T-shirt had been dyed rust red and her head lay in a halo of blood. Megan’s eyes were wide open and her arms were spread out. Her mouth formed a small circle. She looked as if death had come as a complete surprise.
Later, when she had time to think about what had happened, Stacey was proud of the fact that she didn’t scream, but she’d definitely backed out of the house faster than she ever thought she could move. As soon as she was standing on Ocean Avenue, she dialed 911.
When Glen Kraft walked into George Melendez’s office, Stacey was sitting across from the chief of police, sipping tea from a chipped mug. Glen’s tie was pulled down, and the suit he’d worn in court looked rumpled, as did his hair. Stacey took that as a sign that he’d rushed to her aid and that made her feel good for the first time since she’d seen Megan Cahill splayed on the living room carpet.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” Glen said. “I was in court when you called and I didn’t retrieve your message until we recessed.”
Glen turned to the police chief. “Is Stacey in trouble?”
“No, not at all,” Melendez said. “She’s a witness. You heard what happened?”
“Not really. Stacey’s message just said that Megan Cahill was dead and she found the body.”
Melendez nodded. “I brought her back here from the Cahills’ house to get her away from the crime scene.”
“Someone killed her?” Glen asked.
The police chief nodded.
Glen looked alarmed. “Are you okay?” he asked Stacey.
“I’m still shaken up but I’ll be all right.”
“The killer wasn’t in the house, was he?” Glen asked.
“The medical examiner thinks that Mrs. Cahill was killed sometime late last night long before Miss Kim arrived.”
“That’s one thing to be thankful for,” Glen said. “What happened?”
“Mrs. Cahill’s body was found in the living room,” Melendez said. “She’d been stabbed, but she fell over the balcony and snapped her neck. That’s probably what killed her.”
“God, that’s awful. Was it a burglar? Did someone break in?”
“We don’t think so. There were no signs of forced entry and the house doesn’t look trashed. We’re guessing Mrs. Cahill was sleeping when the killer rang the doorbell. She was probably stabbed when she opened the front door. Then she either fell over the banister into the living room or she was pushed.”
Glen noticed that Stacey had lost color. “Do you need Stacey anymore?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got her statement.”
“Can she leave?”
Melendez nodded.
“Thanks, George.”
Stacey stood. The tea had helped calm her but she was a little unsteady. It was one thing to read or write about a dead body and another to see one.
“How are you really?” Glen asked when they were standing on the sidewalk outside the courthouse.
“Not great.”
“Where’s your car?”
“At the motel. I walked to Mrs. Cahill’s house.”
“Do you want me to take you to the motel?”
“Not really. I . . . I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Glen paused. He looked a little unsure of himself. “Do you want to go to my house? I’ve got a guest room. You can pick up some stuff from your motel and stay the night.”
“Thanks. Let’s do that.” She flashed an exhausted smile. “You’re a good guy, Glen.”
Glen blushed. “Hey, it’s no big deal. Helping damsels in distress is something I do at least once a week.”
Glen lived in a modern box-shaped, two-story house a block from the beach. The front door opened into a living room with a sliding glass door that opened onto a deck that faced the sea. Glen led Stacey upstairs to the second floor and opened the bedroom door. When Stacey was inside, Glen put her suitcase on the queen-size bed and showed her the bathroom. A door opened onto a deck that provided a view of the ocean. Stacey walked outside. The fresh air felt good.
“This is nice,” Stacey said.
“Why don’t you change into something comfortable. Come down when you’re ready.”
Glen closed the door and Stacey collapsed on a deck chair. The house was close enough to the ocean for Stacey to hear waves crashing onto the shore. She hoped that the white noise would hypnotize her so she could forget what she’d seen earlier, but the moment she closed her eyes, a vision of Megan Cahill’s bloodstained corpse overwhelmed her.
Stacey remembered how Megan’s legs had twisted under her and the way the dead woman’s head lay in a pool of blood. She imagined Megan answering the door and the killer rushing at her. Megan would have staggered backward to escape the blows until the balcony caught her at the waist and her momentum pitched her over the railing. Stacey shuddered as she imagined the poor woman’s skull smashing against the living room floor. She hoped that death had been swift so Megan didn’t suffer.
Stacey shook her head to clear it, but the image stayed with her. Suddenly she could not stand being alone, so she went into the bedroom and hurriedly traded her suit for jeans and a T-shirt.
Glen turned when Stacey walked into the living room. Something about the expression on her face alerted him.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I keep thinking about the body.”
Glen hesitated for a moment. Then he took Stacey in his arms. Stacey let herself melt into Glen. She began to sob. It felt so good being held.
“It’s okay,” Glen said.
Stacey stepped back and wiped away her tears.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. Do you want a drink? I’ve got some great single malt scotch.”
Stacey sniffed and forced a smile. “That sounds like a fabulous idea.”
“Why don’t we go out on the deck,” Glen said as he dropped some ice cubes into a glass and poured Stacey a stiff shot. Stacey went outside and sank onto a lounger. Glen followed with his drink. They sipped in silence and Stacey was grateful that Glen didn’t ask her to talk about the murder. But several things were bothering her and she finally brought them up.
“Do you think what happened in the gallery had something to do with Megan’s murder, and do you think the murder has anything to do with Raymond Cahill’s death?”
“Both of those thoughts occurred to me, but I can’t see how her death is linked to something that happened ten years ago.”
“A lot of the people who were involved with the Cahill case were in the gallery. There was Jack Booth, your partner, Kathy Moran, and Kevin Mercer.”
“Don’t forget me,” Glen said with a smile.
Stacey smiled back. “You’ve been my number one suspect all along but I thought it would be rude t
o mention it after you’ve been so nice.”
“Aw.”
Stacey got serious again. “Megan was shocked by something that happened right before she ran out. But what was it? She was arguing with Kevin Mercer but she didn’t run off until Mr. Baker walked up. Could he have triggered her reaction? She freaked out right after she saw him?”
Glen frowned. “I don’t see what Henry could have done to send her running off like that.”
“Mr. Booth told me that he was surprised that Mr. Baker was representing Mrs. Cahill, even though he didn’t have the expertise to handle a death penalty case. Why would he take a case this serious if he wasn’t qualified and why did Mrs. Cahill want him to be her lawyer?”
Glen hesitated. Then he sighed. “If I tell you what I think will you promise to keep it to yourself? I really don’t want to see this in your book.”
“Okay.”
“Henry’s wife walked out on him shortly after Henry met Megan. The divorce devastated Henry. He was drinking. He let himself go completely. His work suffered. I was really worried about him. Then this case came along and it rejuvenated him. Megan is a very beautiful woman and she was even more stunning ten years ago. Henry never said anything to me, but I think he was infatuated with her. He did promise to represent her even though he didn’t have the experience to handle a death case. And Megan couldn’t pay him because the executor of Raymond Cahill’s estate wouldn’t free up the funds until it was clear that she hadn’t killed Ray. Then the case ended before Henry got in too deep, so I don’t know if he would have come to his senses if Megan had been indicted.”
“Do you think . . .” Stacey hesitated. “Is it possible that Henry and Megan . . .”
“Were they lovers? I don’t think so. If she slept with him I didn’t know about it.”
Stacey’s brow furrowed. “I just had a crazy thought. When did Mr. Baker meet Mrs. Cahill for the first time?”
“It was probably the night I met her. Henry and Alma and my parents and I were having dinner at the country club when Ray introduced Megan to us.”
“So Henry knew her before the wedding night?”
Glen’s mouth gaped open. Then he laughed. “You’re not suggesting that Henry was the mysterious third man?”
Stacey shrugged. “It was just a thought.”
“That might be a good twist in your book, but I can’t imagine Henry murdering anyone. And, assuming he was Megan’s accomplice, why would just seeing him freak her out? Also, there’s a problem with Henry killing Megan. You saw him. The stroke has left him weak and unsteady on his feet. Where would he get the strength to stab her?”
Stacey sighed. “You’re right. I’m not making sense. I guess I’m simply exhausted and my brain isn’t working.”
“I’m not surprised after what you just went through. Now why don’t you relax and I’ll see what I can whip up for lunch.”
Glen went inside. Stacey looked out at the ocean and thought about her host. Last night, over dinner, Stacey had learned that Glen had not had a woman in his life since his fiancée had broken their engagement the year before to take a job in Chicago. Stacey thought Glen liked her because he’d gone out of his way to be with her during her short stay in Palisades Heights. Stacey had been attracted to Glen since the day she met him, but she had decided that they should just be friends. She was going to move on when her research in Palisades Heights was complete, and Glen, who had a law practice and a life in the coastal town, was not going to leave. But now, after the murder and the way Glen had helped her, she was wondering whether there was some way to make the relationship work, because she found that she was enjoying her time with Glen more than she’d enjoyed being with any man in recent memory.
“Lunch is ready,” Glen said ten minutes later. He carried a large wooden bowl to a table on the deck. “I made a salad. I figured you wouldn’t want anything too heavy.”
“Thanks,” Stacey told him.
Glen went back inside and returned with two ice teas, napkins, and silverware.
“So,” Glen asked, hoping to distract Stacey from thinking about Megan’s murder, “did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
Stacey laughed. “That was never in my parents’ agenda.”
“Oh?”
“Everyone in my family is an overachiever. My sister is a partner in a three-hundred-person law firm and my brother is a neurosurgeon. I’m really good at science, so my parents decided I would go to medical school.”
“What happened?”
“Everything was humming along. I had straight As in premed, an acceptance to Harvard Medical School, and a fiancé headed to Harvard Law when it dawned on me that I was going to hate medical school and my parents were more enamored of my boyfriend than I was. A month before graduation I gathered my courage and told my parents that the engagement was off and I was going to start teaching English in an inner-city high school in the fall.”
“How did your parents take that?” Glen asked with a smile.
“Not well. I thought they might have a heart attack. They told me I’d be paid a pittance. And they were horrified by the kind of man I’d meet in a slum school. But I held my ground.”
“How did you end up in New York with an MFA?”
“After four years of teaching, I burned out. Secretly, I’d always wanted to be a writer but I never had the courage or financial security to take a shot at a career as an author. In the middle of my last year teaching my grandmother passed away and left me a six-figure inheritance. I applied to the MFA program at the state university and got in, and the rest—as they say—is history.”
“So, are you going back to Portland when you finish your research in Palisades Heights?” Glen asked. The look on his face told Stacey that he had not asked the question out of casual interest.
“A writer can write anywhere,” Stacey answered cautiously. “I could stay in Palisades Heights while I work on a first draft.”
“It would be expensive to stay in a motel and keep paying rent on your Portland apartment.”
Stacey smiled. “Do you know a way I can save on rent?”
“I’ve been thinking, you could work in the spare office at Baker and Kraft like you’re doing now and you could stay in my guest room.”
“I am on a tight budget and that would certainly help,” Stacey answered, fighting hard to keep her tone even. “I appreciate the offer. Let me think about it.”
“Of course,” Glen said in a businesslike manner. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
Stacey told him she’d give the offer serious thought, but actually she’d already made up her mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When the idea of driving to the coast to see Kathy Moran’s exhibit occurred to Jack Booth he had harbored a secret hope that they would end up together, so he’d gotten a room for the night. But Kathy had made it crystal clear that wasn’t going to happen, so Jack spent part of the night alone in the motel’s bar. When he woke up he took a run on the beach to clear his head. Then he ate a big breakfast before checking out a little after noon. On the way to the coast highway he passed Ellen Devereaux’s gallery. Two police cars were parked in front and George Melendez was standing on the sidewalk, talking to an officer.
Jack pulled to the curb and walked over to the police chief.
“What happened?” he asked.
“A hell of a lot for a small town. Someone killed Megan Cahill last night.”
“What?”
“That writer, Stacey Kim, went over to interview her around ten and found the body. Then Ellen Devereaux called and said there’d been a break-in.”
“Do you think the two crimes are connected?”
“I have no idea at this point.” Melendez paused. “Are you headed back to Portland?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I know you’re a civilian now, but you really impressed me when you came down to help Teddy Winston with Raymond Cahill’s murder. Now his wife is dead. There’s probably n
o connection between the two crimes, but you know Ray’s case backward and forward. I could use a second set of eyes in here if the new murder or the old murder have something to do with what went on in the gallery.”
“I see what you mean.”
“The break-in is probably just vandalism, but I’m not a big believer in coincidence. Could you stick around for a bit?”
“Sure, if you think I can help.”
Inside the gallery, chairs had been tossed around, the table that had been used for the hors d’oeuvres had been overturned, and trash cans had been upended. As they passed the Moran exhibit, Jack saw a police photographer taking pictures of gaps on the wall where photographs had hung. Other photographs were strewn across the floor.
Ellen Devereaux was in her office, hunched over her desk, her face tight with anger. She looked up when Jack and the police chief walked in.
“What happened?” Melendez asked.
Devereaux pointed through the office door into the gallery. “I opened up at noon and found the gallery looking like this. Some son of a bitch broke in through the back door and wrecked the place.”
“When did you lock up?”
“Around eleven thirty.”
“Do you have any idea who did this or why? Someone with a grudge, someone who’s had a run-in with you lately?”
“I don’t have any enemies, George. I run a fucking art gallery.”
“Okay, Ellen. I get that, but I have to ask.”
Devereaux’s shoulders sagged and she looked contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just upset.”
“You’ve got every right to be. So, what’s missing? Did you have any cash lying around?”
“I put the checks and cash in the safe, but some of Kathy’s photographs are gone.”
“Are you insured?” Melendez asked.
“The Portland Art Museum insisted on insurance before they’d let us take the photographs. Most of them belong to private collectors.”
“Can the stolen photographs be replaced?”
Woman With a Gun_A Novel Page 17