Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel)

by Johnson, Janice Kay

  There was nothing to suggest who had given it. In fact, as she reached for one item after another, she determined that this box, more than most, was full of a mishmash that ranged from too cheap to bother with – she had a designated corner where she deposited things that were destined for a thrift store or garage sale, if any of the volunteers wanted to try holding one – to far too valuable to have been packed so carelessly. Very few of the items were tagged with a donor. Had they been gathered early on, while somebody – say, Doreen – had believed she would infallibly remember who gave what?

  None of these items had been packed as carefully as they should have been, either. There was a stunning piece of Inuit art, for example, that had its own box but hadn’t been so much as padded with wadded newspapers. That one, too, she put on her ‘take home’ pile, since she’d have to research the artist whose name was scratched on the bottom.

  Near the bottom was a shoebox, one old enough it had to have been in someone’s closet for an awfully long time. It had once held men’s bedroom slippers, genuine suede with flannel lining, in a size 9. Sophie set it on the card table, barely glancing up as Slawinski deposited a huge, cellophane wrapped gift basket and immediately left to fetch more. Removing the lid, she stared in surprise at a tangle of jewelry. Garage sale, was her first thought, but…there was a chain that had tarnished, telling her it was sterling silver, and the gleam of that one might be gold.

  She teased the necklaces apart with care, untangling delicate chains. The first necklace she detached was obviously cheap, a crudely done enamel pendant hanging from a brass chain. Garage sale. But then she separated out a charm bracelet – by the tarnish, definitely sterling silver, with a delicacy that made her think it might be really nice once cleaned up – and a ring. A wedding ring, she realized, feeling her heart give an odd thud as she picked it up and read the tiny engraved script inside: Forever and a Day. Who would dump a wedding ring like this? she wondered, disturbed. Didn’t it figure, there was no procurement form to suggest who had given this box full of jewelry, making it impossible for her to call the donor and say, “Did you really mean to give…?”

  And then her eye was caught by a pendant, sterling silver…no, there was no tarnish, it must be white gold set with a couple of what might be tiny diamonds and a freshwater pearl. It was an asymmetrical heart, and as she stared at it Sophie heard a ringing in her ears and had to blink against spots that seemed to float in front of her eyes. Breathing hard, she bent forward until her head was between her knees, hoping she didn’t pass out. Poor Officer Slawinski would have a heart attack.

  “Ms. Thomsen!” He dropped something with a thud and hurried to her side. She could see his big feet in shoes that needed polishing. “Are you all right? Should I call the chief?”

  She took a couple of deep breaths and then cautiously straightened. “I felt lightheaded for a minute, that’s all. I’m okay.” She thought. Her gaze cut sideways to the shoebox and the silver glint.

  I’m overreacting. This is ridiculous.

  Yes, that necklace had made her think of the one her mother had always worn, but she wasn’t even sure why, beyond knowing her mother’s had been a lopsided heart like that, and she thought there’d been a pearl, too. But the truth was, she couldn’t summon a clear picture of it. Part of her knew she ought to be able to – when she was younger she’d sometimes played with it while she sat on her mother’s lap, admiring it and asking Mommy to tell her again about the day Daddy bought it for her.

  But, like so much else, she’d blocked out any clear memory. Maybe she’d done it because the necklace’s disappearance was part of that terrible day, and she so passionately didn’t want to remember any part of it.

  Goosebumps were still crawling over her skin, and Officer Slawinski hovered, his big, freckled hands opening and closing as if he thought he ought to do something useful with them but didn’t know what.

  Sophie had a picture of her mother in her wallet, but knew without taking it out that the necklace wasn’t visible. Most of the time, it had been tucked inside her blouse. At home in Portland, Sophie had albums her father had given her, but she never looked through them and mostly pretended they weren’t there, boxed on her closet shelf.

  Even if this necklace was identical to her mother’s, it had likely been mass produced, she reminded herself. Her father had said it wasn’t that valuable, she remembered that much. So…this might look like Mom’s, but not be it.

  Only…she didn’t believe that.

  This was Cape Trouble, where Mom had died. If this pendant was identical to Mom’s…it almost had to be Mom’s, didn’t it?

  I’m being ridiculous, but… She tried to calm herself enough to think clearly.

  How could she find out? Call her father? A verbal description, even if he remembered well enough, wouldn’t be adequate. Okay, what if he found a photo, scanned it and emailed it to her…? But she knew he’d be at work right now, so she’d have to wait until evening, and that was assuming he’d kept any photos at all and not given them all to her. And had kept one that showed the necklace clearly. And, since it was rather delicate, she suspected it wouldn’t show up that well in a casual snapshot.

  It would be agonizing to wait until evening anyway.

  Even if it was Mom’s…somebody might have found it later and not connected it in any way to the tragedy of that woman’s death. And without knowing the donor, the necklace’s reappearance didn’t mean much anyway, did it?

  But she couldn’t take her eyes off it. There had to be some way to find out, not later, but now. There were locals who’d known her mother…but twenty years ago, and why would they have paid that much attention to her jewelry anyway?

  Sophie drew in a sharp breath. Elias Burton. He was already an artist then, which made him more observant than normal people. Half the time, he’d had a sketch book with him, and sometimes that easel was set up. She knew he’d drawn her, and probably multiple times.

  Was there any chance at all he’d kept drawings of her mother? Or even painted her in enough detail to include the necklace she always wore?

  Sophie tuned in to realize that Slawinski was saying again, “Ms. Thomsen?”

  She pulled herself together enough to offer him a smile of sorts. “I’m really okay,” she said, even though her heart gave an unpleasant thump every time her gaze strayed back to the necklace. “I need to make a call or two, though.”

  In her purse she found a list of important phone numbers that either Hannah or Naomi had given her. No number for Elias. She called information, only to be told he was unlisted. Naomi’s cell phone, then.

  On the fifth ring, she answered, sounding wary.

  Once Sophie had identified herself and asked if she had a number for Elias, Naomi said, “Oh, sure. It’s in my phone, though. Do you need it right now?”

  “Yes, please.” Realizing Naomi was probably standing in the midst of the café kitchen during the beginning of the lunch rush, Sophie added, probably uselessly, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll call you back in just a minute.”

  Naomi was as good as her word, rattling the number off and assuring Sophie it was no problem.

  Sophie reached Elias’s voice mail. His voice was brusque. “Leave a message.” No cheery assurance that he’d return the call. She could be wrong, but suspected he rarely did.

  Just in case, though, she left a message. “This is Sophie Thomsen. I’d like to talk to you. In fact—” she made a quick decision, “—I think I’ll drive up to your place in hopes you’re there working. If I don’t catch you, well, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.” She gave her number.

  Then, while she had Slawinski occupied loading the things she wanted to take home, she called Daniel, who listened in silence as she told him hastily and somewhat incoherently about what she’d found.

  “Have you touched the jewelry?” he interrupted, his voice hard and unfamiliar.

  “Well…of course I have.” She looked down into the open shoebox
. “I mean, some of it.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “In fact, don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” And he was gone.

  She blinked, wanting to be annoyed at his high-handed assumption that she’d obey but secretly relieved. Of course she could have driven to Elias Burton’s home in the woods by herself, but she was just as glad not to have to.

  When told the chief was on his way, Officer Slawinski nodded stolidly and waited without saying anything. Sophie closed up her laptop and stowed it in her bag. Surely her laptop wasn’t among the “anything” she wasn’t supposed to touch.

  The marked police car Daniel drove during the day rolled to a stop right in front of the unit. He nodded to Slawinski and told him he’d call to let him know when he was needed again, to have lunch and then go on patrol.

  Only when they were alone did he look at the open shoebox and the jumble of jewelry. “This is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it was in there together?”

  “Yes. I, um, had to untangle the chains, so I probably left fingerprints all over the place, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  He grunted. “Strange hodgepodge.”

  “That’s what caught my attention right away. I mean, some of it’s really cheap stuff. But look at the wedding ring. And then—” She tried in vain to swallow the lump in her throat. “I saw that.”

  He scrutinized the heart pendant at which she’d pointed, then lifted his head to study her in the same, unnerving way. “You’re not sure it’s your mother’s.”

  “No.” Once again she felt inarticulate as she tried to explain why she might have blocked out the memory.

  His face softened and he stepped closer, wrapping a hand around her nape and gently squeezing. “I get it, Sophie. Anyway, it’s been a lot of years. But I think it is your mother’s. All I have to do is look at you. You’re trembling. Part of you knows.”

  She shuddered, and when he put his arms around her she let herself lean for just a minute. He was right. Her reaction had been instant and visceral, even worse than when she’d first seen the Save the Misty Beach painting of the place her mother had died. She wanted to be wrong – but she knew.

  He set her away, his hands rubbing her upper arms as if he was trying to warm someone suffering from hypothermia. Maybe she was in shock.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s lock up. I’m going to bring the whole box with us, and we’ll go see Burton.”

  He produced a pair of latex gloves, just as he had the first time she met him, and carefully lifted the shoebox and its contents into another, larger box that had been empty. Then he folded the flaps and set it in the trunk of his squad car. He transferred the stuff Slawinski had just loaded into the back of her Prius to his car, too.

  “I could follow you….”

  He shook his head. “I’ll bring you back later.”

  “I did try calling him,” she said, once they were driving toward the gate.

  “So you said.” He gave her a raised-eyebrow look. “Tell me you wouldn’t have headed up there on your own.”

  “Why shouldn’t I have?” she asked, regaining enough spirit to be annoyed by his implication that she was some kind of idiot. “I could have found my way now that I’ve been there.”

  He stopped and rolled down his window to tap in the code that opened the gate. They both watched as it began ponderously to move.

  “Did he strike you as real friendly?” He drove forward and through the opening, lifting a hand at Marge, who waved at them through the office window.

  Sophie had to hesitate. “He wasn’t unfriendly.”

  “He didn’t so much as invite either of us to step onto his porch. Even in the big city, we tend to interpret that as something less than cordiality.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” she said stiffly.

  As if she hadn’t spoken, Daniel continued. “He was around when your mother died, Sophie. Not just that summer, but that morning. Did you know that he and Benjamin were supposedly the first two people to reach you?”

  She flashed him a startled glance. “I…don’t remember. How do you know?”

  “Billington told me.”

  “You’re saying— But Elias was just a kid.”

  “Seventeen year olds have been known to commit heinous crimes. I’ve arrested a few.”

  She couldn’t argue, which made her suspect she had been naïve. Once she’d seen Elias Burton’s face, memories had flooded back. In them, he had often been lurking in the vicinity of her and her mother. Her mother really was a beautiful woman, with the kind of spectacular cheekbones and style that Sophie knew she lacked.

  Daniel didn’t say much during the drive, and she looked out the side window and brooded. She was aware of his occasional glances, but was too filled with high-wire tension to want to talk.

  This was Saturday, and Highway 101 was busy. Tourist season didn’t reach its height until July, but resorts and inns were already filling up. As soon as Daniel turned off the highway, they left the traffic behind, though, and began to climb into the wooded foothills of the coastal range.

  Once again, Elias Burton’s house gave no clue as to whether its owner was home. Daniel parked, and they both got out and started across the yard. And once again, the front door opened and the artist stepped out before they’d reached the foot of the steps.

  This time he wore faded, paint-spattered jeans and a disreputable T-shirt that had both bleach spots and splashes of paint.

  “You’re back.” He sounded oddly resigned.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked.

  “I’ve been working. I don’t pay attention to the phone when I’m in the studio.”

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she said.

  “Does this have to do with the auction?”

  “No. It’s…about my mother.”

  They eyed each other. His gaze flicked briefly to Daniel and then back to her.

  “I suppose you’d better come in,” he said at last, abruptly.

  Daniel laid his hand on Sophie’s back as they ascended the porch steps and stepped inside Elias’s house.

  She was immediately dazzled by the light-filled, uncluttered interior. Tall windows brought the outdoors in. Hardwood floors gleamed, and walls were creamy white that set off a few large painting. A river-rock fireplace reached for the vaulted ceiling. Above a rough-hewn slab of wood that served as mantel hung a single painting that seemed to be the focal point for the entire room.

  A sound escaped her. Her feet moved with no volition and she walked forward until she stood only a few feet away, staring up at a stunning oil painting of her mother. She was on the beach, the shimmer of blue behind her, and looking over her shoulder as if someone had just surprised her. She had something in her hand – Sophie’s gaze dropped to it, and saw that it was a sand dollar.

  With a jab of pain, she looked back at her mother’s face and found herself staring into eyes more like hers than she remembered. Those eyes were troubled, as if she had been weighing some inner conflict as she walked the beach. The sand dollar, perfect and waiting for her, might have represented an answer, or a dream.

  “I’m sorry,” Elias said behind her, his voice heavy with regret. “I almost took it down after you were here the other day.”

  “You really were in love with her,” she said hoarsely, and this time it was an accusation.

  The silence was long enough she turned to look at him. He gazed at the portrait, but it was more as if he were looking inward.

  “I was,” he said finally. “With all the passion of a seventeen-year-old boy’s heart. Now…she’s a memory.” His eyes met Sophie’s. He shrugged. “I think this might be my best work. I captured something.”

  “You’ve made her look sad.”

  She could see the instant denial on his face, even as he looked past her again at the painting.

  “Not sad.” He hesitated. “At a turning point in her life, maybe.” Was that kind
ness on his face when he focused again on Sophie? “I don’t think your parents’ marriage was a happy one.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you wanted to think that?” she lashed out.

  “Yeah,” he said after a minute. “Of course I did. But I think it’s the truth, too. And I never deluded myself she’d look twice at me. She was nice to me, that’s all. Patient enough to pose a few times. It was embarrassingly obvious that she knew how I felt, which made me even more awkward around her. Her dying the way she did…” For the first time, his face showed discomfort. “It hit me hard. Teenagers lean to melodrama anyway. I thought maybe I could have done something. Said something.” His shoulders moved again. “I wanted to…I don’t know, help you, but suddenly you were gone and we were all supposed to pretend it had never happened.”

  “I don’t believe she killed herself,” Sophie said fiercely.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daniel make a quick sharp movement that made her realize he hadn’t wanted her to say that. It was Elias’s shock that gripped her, though. His eyes seemed to burn. And she suddenly wasn’t sure it was shock.

  “You suspected,” she whispered, and then her eyes widened. Had he suspected...or did he know? She felt herself take an involuntary step backwards, bumping up to the stone hearth.

  The next second, Daniel was at her side, that warm, reassuring hand on her back again. He gave a gentle rub, but when she glanced at him it was to see that all his attention was on Elias. It was the man who touched her, but the hard-eyed cop who studied the artist of the portrait above the fireplace.

  He hadn’t torn that burning gaze from her. “No. Suspected is too strong a word. I didn’t want to believe she’d do that. For a long time, I could still hear you scream. I saw how much she loved you. I couldn’t believe she’d do that to you, no matter what.”

  Daniel stirred. “Billington says you two were the first to reach Sophie that morning.”

  “What?” Elias looked at him as if he’d forgotten Daniel was there. “Yeah. I guess we both heard Sophie. I kind of ran into him in the fog. Old Man Billington wasn’t far behind.” He frowned. “Why were you talking to him about it?”