The timing of the break-in caused me to think that someone who knew about the retirement party had been involved. Maybe someone who saw them leave.
Just hours before Colt was killed.
An icy prickle crawled over my skin. “Yes, it was a bad night all around, and I don’t want to make today worse by taking too much of your time. But do you happen to know who rented the limo last night?”
“Absolutely. Me. Since my husband was hosting the party, I thought giving them a ride to it in style was the least I could do.”
Making Malcolm and Katherine Pembroke two of the last people who saw Colt alive.
* * *
I used the navigation app on my cell phone to make my way north to the address Diana Ferguson had provided me. But once I drove past the abandoned farmland just outside of town, the higher I climbed up the bluff the more I wondered if I’d written the address correctly.
By the time I rounded a bend at the crest of the hill, the drizzle had finally let up, and a sign for Willoughby Manor came into view. Behind it perched a sprawling Tudor estate with contrasting brick accents around the dormer windows, giving them the appearance of eyes staring out at the bay.
Like most of the stately homes that had sprung up here over the last twenty years, only the Douglas firs and cedars lining the back of the property remained as native inhabitants of the bluff. Low ornamental shrubs and a putting green quality lawn now dominated the landscaping to afford an unobstructed water and Olympic Mountains view—what I guessed was a multimillion-dollar one.
And according to the app, I had arrived at my destination.
No way. Unless Eric Caldwell had inherited some serious money, how could he afford this mansion?
My answer came when I pulled out my notebook and compared the 102 I’d written down to the 100 carved into the Willoughby Manor sign.
“Nope, I’m only close to my destination.” Which made more sense, because the Eric Caldwell I’d known had not been to the manor born. Since he had grown up in one of the clapboard row houses near the old mill, far from it.
I knew better than most that people from modest means could go on to experience tremendous financial success and live in lavish homes. My mother was one of them.
She’d also gone on to make some very poor decisions and almost lost her lavish home.
Okay, so maybe Marietta wasn’t the greatest local success story.
If Eric Caldwell had landed on his feet up here and was living his version of happily ever after with Bethany, good for him. It didn’t matter that I had never liked the arrogant prick. A man could change, and for his wife’s sake I hoped he had.
So where the heck was 102 Willoughby Lane?
I saw no other houses, and the thick stand of trees marking the end of the paved road didn’t look promising. But once I passed a weeping willow shrouding the corner of the property, a driveway to what appeared to be a carriage house emerged.
Covered with the same red velvet fudge brick as Willoughby Manor, it looked like someone had replicated the main house as a cozy cottage.
I pulled into a driveway bordered by flowering cherry trees and was immediately greeted by a beagle mix sounding the intruder alert.
“Hello,” I said as I got out of the car. I let him sniff my extended hand but he kept barking, especially as I approached the cutie with the Minnie Mouse bike helmet wheeling up to me on a pink tricycle.
She shook a pudgy finger at the beagle. “Bodie, no.”
He shut up, seemingly content to wag his tail at her, and she beamed at me. “He’s my doggy.”
“Madison!” called a stunning blonde charging out of the house with a toddler in her arms.
Madison wheeled around. “I got Bodie to stop barking, Mommy.”
“Good job. Now go play in the backyard, please.”
The little girl waved at me. “Bye.”
As she and the beagle took off down a slab of concrete adjacent to the garage, her mom turned a cool gaze to me. “We’ve been working on how she’s not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Mom’s implication was clear. She wasn’t happy that I was on her property, but I picked up no true sense of alarm. Since she waited expectantly, casually flexing her knees to bounce her increasingly fussy little one, quite the contrary.
Diana Ferguson had obviously called and told her about my visit to the party store.
“I guess it’s hard not to show off when you’re that cute,” I said to diffuse the situation.
She shrugged, as good as saying, Can we just get on with this?
Taking that as my cue, I held out my badge. “I’m Charmaine Digby with the county coroner’s office. Are you Bethany Caldwell?”
Without so much as a glance at the badge, she nodded. “You’re here about Colt.”
“You’ve heard the news.”
“My mother called to tell me. Do you know what happened?”
“Maybe we should talk inside.” Where it would be easier to take notes.
I got another nod and followed her into a beautiful kitchen of rich cream and gleaming marble, blending classic Tudor architecture with top-of-the-line modern conveniences.
Bethany lowered her son into a pricey-looking high chair that extended the color scheme into the adjoining dining area, and then opened the French door behind her. “Madison, stay where I can see you, please.”
Taking a seat at the other side of the table, I pulled out my notebook while Bethany dropped a handful of fish-shaped crackers onto the tray of the high chair.
While the kid proceeded to gleefully chomp on a little orange fish, Bethany eased into the chair next to him and flipped back the straight hair that had spilled over her shoulders. “What exactly happened to Colt?”
“He died early this morning from an apparent head injury.”
She turned to watch Madison through the French door. “A head injury. Like from an accident?”
“The exact cause of death will have to be determined by a forensic pathologist.” And when that would happen depended upon the availability of the doctor the county contracted with to perform the occasional autopsy.
“I see,” she said on a sigh, staring out the glass.
“I understand that you recently hired Colt as a limo driver.”
Bethany’s gaze sharpened as it shifted to me. “Yes, and?”
“How had things been going?”
“Okay. We hadn’t received any complaints about him, if that’s what you mean.”
“How about complaints from Colt himself about any of the customers?”
“Nothing like that. He seemed to like driving the limo, so…” With a shaky breath, she clamped her mouth shut and stared out at her daughter.
Bethany Caldwell could hide behind the mask of dutiful mother all she wanted. I didn’t need to see her face to recognize a woman who had just censored herself.
“So?” I said over the volume of the clamoring toddler pounding the tray for more fish to stuff in his mouth.
Like an automaton, she reached into a plastic bag and dropped several more crackers in front of him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You were saying something about the job he was doing for you.” She wasn’t, but her kid wasn’t the only one in the room who wanted more from this chick.
“Yeah, well, it seemed to be going better than I thought it would when my husband first suggested hiring Colt.”
“Then this had been Eric’s idea.” Which pretty much matched what Kendra had told me.
Bethany blinked. “You know my husband?”
“I went to high school with him.”
“Then you also knew Colt, and how he didn’t have the best reputation for being reliable.”
“I didn’t know him well, but yes.”
“As you can probably imagine, my expectations weren’t high, but like I said, it had been going okay.”
Scribbling, I captured the gist of our conversation in my notebook. “Had Colt mentioned any trouble he was having with anyone?�
�
She tightened her brown-eyed gaze. “Not to me.”
I didn’t doubt that she had told the truth, but her tone suggested that I needed to direct my question to the other Caldwell adult living here.
“No issues that you know of with anyone working at Bassett Motor Works?” I asked to see how she’d react to the location where Colt’s body was found.
Bethany cocked her head. “Why would there be?”
The reaction was negligible, so I assumed she didn’t know anything about the proximity to where Georgie lived and worked.
I forced a smile. “Just asking.”
“If anything, I’m the one having issues with that place.”
Oh, yeah?
“The limo was in the shop all week with George assuring me that they’d have it fixed for our weekend booking. And what happens?”
I had a sinking feeling that whatever happened had deadly consequences for Colt Ziegler.
“Colt called to tell me that the engine was making a clunking noise again.” She folded her arms tight against her midriff, creating some enviable cleavage exposed by the deep V of her linen pullover.
This information didn’t bode well for the removal of the cowbell thunk coming from the Jag, but I was more interested in the time of that call. “When was this?”
“I was already in bed, so it must have been around ten-thirty.”
I noticed that she hadn’t said we were in bed. “Was your husband home at the time?”
“Up with this one.” Bethany thumbed at the little guy with the orange cracker-crumb lips. “Connor woke up with a fever and was sick most of the day, so I’d taken the day shift, and Eric took the night. Anyway, since Colt’s apartment was near Bassett Motors, he offered to drop it off. Said he could walk home.”
Which explained why I saw a white stretch limo when I visited George Senior this morning. “Did you get any other calls or texts from Colt last night?”
Bethany shook her head. “No, after Connor finally got to sleep, it was a very quiet night.” Her lips curled into a sad smile. “Here anyway.”
I didn’t get the sense that there was anything else that she could tell me, so I pulled a business card from my tote and slid it across the table. “If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
She nodded.
“Also, I’ll need to speak with Eric—tomorrow if possible.”
“You should probably call his assistant to set up an appointment.” She went into the kitchen, opened a drawer near a cordless phone, and returned with a business card with the Ferguson Ford dealership logo.
I read his title: Sales Manager.
Yep, Eric Caldwell wouldn’t be able to afford the mansion next door, but he had been coming up in the world.
“Thanks.” Tucking his card into a pocket of my tote, I took what I figured might be my last look at her kitchen. “This is really lovely.”
“Thank you. We like it.”
“Out of curiosity, was this house a carriage house to Willoughby Manor?”
“No, my parents had it built as a wedding present to Eric and me.”
Really. “It’s darling—a cozy version of their house.”
She squeezed out a smile, and didn’t correct me.
Okay, so that explained how Eric and his wife could sit in the lap of this showplace’s luxury.
I took a step toward the door. “Well, thank you for the information.”
She lifted Connor from his high chair. “I’ll see you out.”
“No need. I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Opening the front door, I caught a glimpse of sunshine glinting off the hood of a copper-colored vehicle on the other side of the short hedge. Since it had a collection of leaves plastered to the windshield, it looked like it had been there for a while.
“Sorry,” I said, returning to the kitchen. “Whose car is out front?”
“Colt’s. I figured he’d catch a ride with Eric tonight and…well…”
She didn’t finish her thought. She didn’t have to.
We both knew why that ride wasn’t going to happen.
Chapter Six
BY THE TIME the gorilla greeter came into view it was just after four o’clock. Since Ray Ortiz kept the same early morning hours as Duke, I knew he’d most likely be en route to his ranch in Clatska. I had no desire to make the hour-long round trip this late in the day, so I added the feed store to the top of my list for tomorrow and turned right on Madrone Way.
Having been raised by a grandmother who was an avid gardener, I learned early on that this street got its name from the giant cinnamon-barked tree spreading its twisted limbs over the peeling Madrone Arms apartment sign. She’d also made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want me to leave our quiet uptown neighborhood and ride my bike down here.
It wasn’t that this apartment building or the one I now lived in three blocks away was inherently unsafe. But as I came to realize just days into my six-month lease, if I woke up to the blare of sirens, it was a safe bet that a member of Port Merritt’s finest was on the way to my new downtown neighborhood.
Such was life in the low-rent district.
But I had my own place for the first time in my life, and it had come to feel like home to me, sirens and all.
I turned into the Madrone Arms complex, where Colt Ziegler had made his home until yesterday, and wondered if Howie or any of his pals had stopped by this morning.
Switching off the ignition to mercifully silence the Jag’s cowbell solo, I scanned the contents of the file Ben’s assistant had given me and saw nothing to indicate that any of the neighbors had been questioned.
Not a shocker. Steve had arrested the primary suspect a half mile from here. There was no reason to canvass this neighborhood for witnesses to Colt’s murder.
But that wasn’t why I was here.
I was supposed to find a witness to the violence Tami claimed had been escalating between Georgie and Colt—an entirely different kettle of fish. My job was to cast out a net and see what I could reel in to strengthen the prosecution’s case against one of my childhood friends.
Sometimes I hated my job.
Climbing out of my car, I could almost hear Steve telling me that this was a waste of time.
Part of me agreed with him wholeheartedly. There was no way that anyone living here could have heard Georgie and Colt in a whopper of a heated exchange without word of it getting back to Gossip Central.
The other part of me—the more pragmatic Char who had met plenty of witnesses reluctant to testify—wasn’t so sure.
Based on the mostly empty parking lot, I had my doubts any of them would be home. Which meant I was going to have to stick around until well after six to give everyone time to return from work.
My stomach rumbled in protest at the prospect.
Blowing out a sigh, I wished I’d had the forethought to pack a protein bar in my tote. Even a few carrots would be good right now.
I didn’t have those either. Dang it.
“I hate today,” I muttered, popping a stick of sugar-free gum to give myself something else to chew on as I reviewed the copy of the police report I’d been given.
It didn’t mention a roommate, but I figured I’d better start with Colt’s apartment—unit 3 on the ground floor.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“He’s not home yet,” said a youthful voice behind me just as the cell phone in my tote started ringing.
With a more immediate need to find out what else this kid knew, I let the call go to voice mail and turned to see a ten- or eleven-year-old girl holding the collar of a big, furry black dog.
I didn’t want to be the one to tell her the reason why Colt hadn’t come home. I’d done enough of that today. “Do you live around here?”
She nodded and pointed to the apartment next door. “There.”
“Does Mr. Ziegler live alone here?”
“No.” Sh
e beamed at the dog. “He lives with Fozzie.”
The dog’s ears pricked up into perfect points at the mention of his name.
“Oh, I thought he was your dog.”
“My mom won’t let me have a dog, but Colt lets me dog-sit Fozzie so we’re good friends.”
Crap. I was going to have to let someone know that Fozzie now needed more than just a dog-sitter. “Is your mom home?”
She gave me another nod, and I followed her inside a tidy apartment that smelled like chocolate cake.
“Mama, this lady wants to talk to you.”
A heavy-set forty-something in form-fitting sweats turned from the bowl of frosting she had been mixing with a wary look in her eyes. By the frown she leveled at the dog I knew I wasn’t the only one she wasn’t happy to see in her apartment.
“Lily, you know I don’t want that animal in here.”
“But he’s lonely,” Lily protested.
Her mother pointed at the door. “Out.” The second her daughter shut the door behind her, the woman took a step toward me. “Are you here about the dog?”
The dog? “No, I’m with the coroner’s office and I was hoping to talk to you about your neighbor, Colt Ziegler.”
Grimacing, she shook her head. “I heard what happened from the police officer who was at his front door early this morning.”
“A uniformed police officer?”
She nodded, motioning for me to have a seat on the sofa. “I had to leave for work, but I got the impression that he was waiting for someone.”
Probably for Steve to arrive with a warrant to search the apartment. “I assume when you got home from work the police were gone.”
She eased into a rocking chair and gave me a sad smile. “You’d never even know anything had happened.”
I pulled a pen and my notebook from the tote at my feet. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about how things had been going around here.”
“Okay, but I probably don’t know much.”
Given how observant she seemed, I doubted that. “May I have your name?”
“Anna Maxwell.”
“And how well did you know Mr. Ziegler?”
Dogs, Lies, and Alibis Page 4