by Joy Avon
In December the cabin had looked much the same as it did now, since Falk wasn’t into Christmas decorations. The thing she hadn’t noticed before was a Tiffany lamp on a side table. It was something out of tune with the rest of the decor. She felt her stomach clench involuntarily, imagining he had a girlfriend now who came here every now and then and had started to change little things.
But if Falk was seeing someone, Iphy would have told her, right?
Callie held her hands behind her back and called again, “Falk? Are you here?”
Falk appeared from the kitchen, holding up two metal sticks with marshmallows on them. Pink and white ones. “To roast on the fire,” he announced. “Here, hold these.” He handed them to her, their fingers touching for a moment. “Do you like iced coffee?”
“Love it.”
“Great. Let me get it.”
She seated herself on the sheepskin and stared into the fire, holding both sticks with marshmallows.
Falk came back, closed the door and handed her a tall glass filled with iced coffee. Clinking his against hers, he said, “Much the same as last time, huh? Murder case.”
Callie nodded, handing him his marshmallow stick. “Better weather, though.”
Falk nodded at the rocking chair. “I’d sit there, but to roast these marshmallows I need to get close to the fire. So …” He sat down right next to her.
Close to the fire, hmm. Callie didn’t dare look at him as she focused on holding her marshmallows where they would get roasted, but not burned. Falk sat so close his shoulder was touching hers, and she could smell the scent of his spicy aftershave. “I have the results from the DNA test. I wanted to tell you first so you can tell Quinn. I don’t want to tell him myself as our relationship hasn’t exactly been … friendly.”
Callie nodded. “Okay.”
Tension swirled in her stomach. What could she hope for? That the dead body wasn’t Monica? That would be a relief to Quinn, but it would explain nothing about her disappearance that night.
Falk took a swallow of his coffee. “Quinn is related to the remains we found on the boat. In fact, closely related. In the first degree. So I guess he is indeed the son of this dead woman who sank with the boat.”
Callie bit her lip, clutching the cold glass. “That will confirm what he thought but also confirm what he doesn’t want to hear. That his mother is dead.”
“Yes,” Falk said. “But I have a corker coming that will turn this entire case around.”
Callie looked at him. The fire threw light on his intense expression, reflected in his deep brown eyes. “What?”
“The remains on the boat can’t be Monica Walker’s.”
“What?” Callie stared at him. “They must be wrong about that.”
“No, they’re not.” Falk turned his stick to prevent his marshmallows from turning black. “I don’t know all the ins and outs about it, but they can detect a lot of things from remains these days. Mostly if people have been in contact with toxic substances.”
“The victim on the boat was poisoned?” Callie asked, completely confused now.
Falk shook his head. “Chemicals that enter the body can get into the tissue and remain there. They can determine for instance, from a person’s hair, if he has used drugs in the past. In this way they have also been able to determine from the remains the divers secured from the boat that the victim was a drug addict. And we know for sure that Monica Walker never used drugs. That wasn’t just what she said or the media believed, but also what we can prove from her medical records. To be part of the series, the actors had to be tested regularly for substance abuse. It was in their contracts. Monica was tested and tested again, for years. The tests all came back negative. It’s impossible that she was using drugs and was never caught. But the team looking at the remains is certain that this person—this woman, because it was definitely a woman—had been using drugs for years. The abuse, combined with eating lots of sugar, as addicts often do, caused damage to her bones. They say this woman must have been in pretty poor health.”
“I see.” Callie stared at him. Her mind worked at top speed to process this new and perplexing information. “But she was wearing a gold sequined top. High heels. That’s what you told me after the body was found. So she looked exactly like Monica Walker.”
“That’s just it. My question is now, how did a drug-addicted woman come to be wearing Monica Walker’s clothes? And how did she end up on the boat that disappeared the same night as Monica? The boat we have been assuming was supposed to take Monica away from here?”
Callie refocused on her marshmallows. She withdrew the stick and blew on a pink one to cool it down. “Maybe Monica wanted to fake her escape? Maybe she paid this woman to pretend to be her and leave on the boat. And the killer who was after Monica killed the wrong woman.”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly. The skull was damaged, suggesting she received a blow to her head. Knocking her unconscious, or perhaps killing her before the murderer sank the boat. Remaining question: Where’s the real Monica Walker?”
“Since the boat vanished without a trace, Monica must have believed her plan had succeeded. And she must have left town in another way, believing that the press would follow the false lead. Which they did.”
Falk nodded. “There’s another possibility though. Monica Walker might have killed the woman.”
“What on earth for?”
“To make sure she could never come back to ask for more money or tell her story and give Monica away?”
Callie shook her head. “If Monica had to be on the boat to kill the woman and sink it, how did she get away from it?”
“She might not have had to be on the boat to sink it. Incendiary devices can be controlled remotely.”
“Would Monica have had the technical knowledge to set it up like that?”
Falk shrugged. “Her lover might have set it up for her. Perhaps Monica had only intended to use the woman as stand-in, but her lover killed the other woman as a more permanent solution. But no matter how we construe what might have happened that night, we have to tell Quinn that he’s the son of the woman on the boat but that she wasn’t Monica Walker and wasn’t a successful TV star, but a heavily addicted woman. Whom, I might add, nobody missed. I’ve looked into missing persons cases around here from that time, but nobody reported a woman of that description missing. So either she came from somewhere else, in which case we’d have to check all missing persons nationwide, or she came from around here but had no one to care for her.”
“Homeless maybe?” Callie suggested.
Falk nodded. “My guess is that when Quinn was born, she was already in trouble. The adoptive parents must have believed they did the best thing possible taking the baby away from this woman, who was perhaps already into drugs or on the verge of being so.”
“But Quinn told me his mother was called M. Walker. Isn’t that really coincidental?”
Falk shrugged. “Maybe this woman was also called M. Walker, and after having seen Monica in a newspaper, she thought she could approach her and ask for money. Then Monica saw a likeness between them and thought up this escape idea.”
Callie pursed her lips. “A woman who used drugs for years can’t have looked like Monica Walker.”
“You can do a lot with makeup.”
Falk thought in silence for a few moments and shook his head. “I feel so sorry for this poor woman who was used in a clever scheme and ended up dead because of it. I don’t very much like Monica Walker anymore.”
“It’s in line with what Otto Ralston told me about Monica’s manipulative character.”
Callie told Falk all she had learned from the former Magnates’ Wives crew member upon her visit to his cottage garden.
Falk ate his marshmallows and listened, washing down the stickiness with the occasional sip of iced coffee. After Callie had finished telling him the story, he said, “So a manipulative woman, who created a problem for herself by stealing someone else’s fiancé and then dump
ing him for another man, decides it’s time to leave the stage in a dramatic scene that could have come right out of Magnates’ Wives. Woman on the run, stolen boat, explosion. Bam—everything over. Did Monica count on the victim dying in the blast and the debris being spread so that we could never reconstruct what happened? Was the woman never meant to get away, but to die in Monica’s stead? The newspapers would write about a tragic accident and Monica Walker would be officially dead and done with.”
“I don’t believe that. Monica worked in TV. She would know from scenarios she had read or seen in other series that forensics are so good that they would sooner or later discover that the victim on board the boat wasn’t Monica Walker. It didn’t happen in the twenties, when you could just put a body in a car, run it off a cliff, and have the police believe that the owner of the car had died in the accident. Besides, I think the boat was never meant to sink. I think Monica was supposed to disappear. Sail away across the horizon. A mystery forever.”
“Well, whatever she planned, it went wrong. Her stunt double, so to speak, died.”
“But Monica might not have known that.”
Falk sighed. “Nobody has been able to find her, so what are we thinking? That we can find her and ask her what happened that night?”
He shook his head. “No, I just see that Quinn is going to have a tough time facing who his mother was and how sadly her life ended with seemingly no one caring whether she was around or not. And I’m left with an investigation that offers too many question marks and nothing solid to go on.”
Callie finished her marshmallows and rubbed her sticky fingers.
“Are you already sorry?” Falk asked softly, keeping his eyes on the fire.
“Sorry for what?”
“Having come back here. Another murder case, all this trouble …”
“I made a choice to come and live here.”
“Yes, of course.” Falk rose to his feet. “Want another coffee?”
“No. Maybe a glass of sparkling water or something?”
“Sure. I’ll have a water too. Need to keep a clear head in case I have to drive later tonight. They’ll notify me if something comes up.”
Callie called after him as he walked away, “Do you never get tired of having to be available, and never for something fun, but always for things like bar fights or accidents or robberies and cattle theft?”
Falk came back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He handed her one and said, “Not really. I just love what I do.”
Callie wanted to pull the glass from his hand, but Falk held it as he probed, “You loved what you did as a tour guide. Won’t you miss it?”
Callie’s throat was tight. She thought of Kay’s panicky phone call and how she had wished she was in Vienna in her stead. To make sure everything went well but also because she missed the whole adventure of traveling. “I’m not sure yet.”
“I see.” Falk released the glass. Instead of coming to sit by her side again, he sat in the rocking chair. He seemed to look at the Tiffany lamp, then he drank deeply and stared up at the ceiling.
Callie said, “So now that we know that the woman on the boat wasn’t Monica, what does that mean for our understanding of Jamison’s death? He had the map marking the place where the boat sank. Did he get that far with his investigation back in 1989, when he was somehow forced to drop it? Did the killer offer him money to keep his mouth shut? Has he been paid off for years? Did he want to come clean?” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe Jamison had an idea that someone died on that boat. He told me he was certain Monica was still alive. He mentioned having proof. What proof? Have you found anything in his filing cabinet to that effect?”
Falk shook his head. “Beats me what the proof could be that Jamison mentioned to you. I did look into phone calls going out, and I was quite surprised by the name that popped up. The last call made from Jamison’s cell phone before he died.”
“Yes?”
Falk looked at her. “Dave Riggs, lighthouse keeper.”
“What?” Callie shot upright. The mineral water almost sloshed over the rim of her glass. “You mean …”
Her mind raced. Dave had admitted to her that he had met Monica. He had been secretive about it. He had been insistent that no one could know.
Had Jamison called him because he knew about Dave’s contact with Monica? But why had it been so essential?
Falk said, “Jamison might have called him about an unrelated matter. But still, I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, I think you should. He turned up at Book Tea the night Jamison was killed, with an odd story.” She told him about their conversation.
Falk leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I think”—he checked his watch—“I’m going to talk to him now. This is just too important to postpone. Maybe he knows something that can help us.”
Callie rose. “Can I come with you? Dave seemed worried about Elvira, like he had to protect her from something. Maybe it’s better if I’m there when you question him. If she gets emotional, I can calm her down.”
Falk thought a moment, looking as if he would rather decline her offer, but then he sighed. “All right, then. I’m not eager for a scene.”
They left the cabin together. Callie noticed the wind had turned chilly, even though it had been such a great day. She felt cold inside too, thinking of Dave Riggs leaving Book Tea mere hours before Jamison died. In what kind of mood had he been?
What had he felt when Jamison called him? Had he gone to the offices of the Heart’s Harbor Herald?
Was he the person who knew what the murder weapon had been because he was the one who had used it on the unsuspecting editor?
Chapter Twelve
At the lighthouse, lights were burning behind the windows of the keeper’s cottage. They seemed to wink at them from the darkness as they drew near, on foot because cars couldn’t reach this place.
This isolated place, Callie thought and shivered again.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Falk asked.
“Of course. Maybe Dave has an innocent explanation for everything.” She caught herself hoping that he would, because she had really liked him—him and his wife and the idyllic existence they had built for themselves here by the seaside.
They knocked at the door, and a few moments later Dave opened it. He was in stocking feet and with his shirt sleeves rolled up. He said at once, “Come on in—the wind is chilly tonight.” Elvira sat next to the fireplace, crocheting. Several balls of yarn lay in a basket at her feet. She smiled at them. “Looking for another lost dog? I haven’t seen any today.”
Falk said, “Jamison called you recently. What was that about?”
The name Jamison seemed to cause a change in the room, as if a glass of water had dropped to the floor and shattered there.
Dave rearranged knickknacks on the mantelpiece.
Elvira crocheted even more furiously.
The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder with every moment that passed.
Falk pressed, “You do remember a call, don’t you? We can prove he called you.”
“I must not have been here. The phone can ring here all it wants when I’m not around.”
“No, you did answer and speak to him. The call lasted a few minutes. We can also prove that.” Although Falk’s tone was still friendly, his posture was tense, his hands held in front of him as if he expected he might have to jump Dave as he tried to make a break for the door.
“Oh,” Elvira said, “now I remember. He called to ask if we wanted to send in some copy for the newspaper about our treasure hunts. I asked him what and how he wanted it sent, and that’s why it took a few minutes, I suppose.”
“So Dave never talked to Jamison?” Falk asked.
“No, Dave wasn’t even at home.”
“Then why did Dave go and see him that night?” Falk shot back.
Looking up, Dave said, “I never went to see him.” He glanced at Elvira. “He did call me and a
sked me to come, but I didn’t go.”
“So he did call you? Elvira just lied that it was about copy for the newspaper.” Falk sounded confused, his brows drawn together.
“Of course Elvira didn’t lie.” Dave spoke fast, his breathing ragged between the sentences. “He called and he talked to her about the copy for the newspaper. In the end, he said I had to drop by. That night. But I never went.”
“And why would you have to drop by?”
“I have no idea.” Dave’s expression was cut out of marble, unreadable.
Elvira said, “Jamison sounded strained, like he was overworked. Maybe he wanted to ask Dave to do some work for him?”
“And he couldn’t ask that over the phone?” Falk shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry about this, Dave, but I’m taking you down to the station for questioning. I want some better answers, and I’m going to record them as well.”
Elvira clenched her crochet hook. “Why? What did he do wrong?”
“I want to ask him some questions without you interfering and lying for him,” Falk snapped at her.
Dave raised a placating hand. “You’re probably right. I’m coming.” He rolled down his sleeves, then looked for his shoes.
Elvira said nothing. Her nostrils were flaring as if she was worked up and only constraining herself with an effort.
“We’re leaving now,” Falk said to Callie.
Callie had come in her own car so she could head to Book Tea after they were done, but she was confused now as to what was the best thing to do. Leave and go home, since she knew Falk wouldn’t allow her to come to the station and be present at the questioning, or stay here and try to learn something from Elvira.
“I’ll leave in a sec. I want to ask Elvira something about the treasure hunts. My former colleagues are looking for a team building activity, and this might be nice.”
Falk looked as if he didn’t buy her impromptu lie, but he nodded. “Okay. See you later.”
Dave walked out ahead of him, his head held high, a calm and assured figure fading into the darkness outside the door.
Elvira said, “A treasure hunt might be a little dull for adults. It’s more of a family thing, with the parents playing along for the children’s sake.”