He indicated the direction with one hand.
Virginia considered briefly. “I think I would have headed for the woods. They’re closer to the cabin, and my odds of losing the killer in the trees at night would have been better there.”
Cabot glanced at her, brows slightly elevated as if she had managed to surprise him.
“You’re right,” he said. “That is very clearheaded thinking.”
“Thank you,” she said, careful to keep her tone excruciatingly polite.
Evidently the small bit of sarcasm went straight over his head without ruffling a single hair because he continued walking her through his logic.
“We can assume that Brewster didn’t head for the woods because there were no indications of violence,” he said. “If she had been killed somewhere on land and then dumped over the cliffs, there would have been signs of a struggle. Maybe an indication that she was dead before she went into the water.”
“All right, I understand your reasoning. Why does it matter where she went over the cliffs?”
“Because it would give us a few more solid facts.” Cabot turned to face the cliffs again. “Now, if she had already made the decision to take her own life, she would have gone toward those rocks. It’s the closest point to the water and there’s a sheer drop. Not much chance of accidentally surviving the fall.”
He started walking toward the craggy outcropping. Virginia folded her arms, hugging herself against the sharp wind, and followed.
Cabot did not follow the graveled lane. Instead he cut straight across the muddy clearing. Virginia trailed a few paces behind, not wanting to crowd him.
He stopped just short of the jumble of rocks, reached down and picked up a small, rain-dampened carton.
Virginia hurried to catch up with him. “What is it?”
“A box of household matches,” Cabot said. “The long kind that you use to light kindling in a fireplace.”
Virginia thought back to the occasions when she had visited Hannah. There had always been a fire going in the fireplace. It was the sort of detail you noticed when you had a serious phobia about open flames.
“Hannah kept a box of matches like that on her mantel,” she said.
Cabot looked back toward the ruins of the cabin. “She set fire to the cabin to destroy her last painting and then she ran for this point on the cliffs. Probably didn’t realize she was still holding the box of matches until she got this far. She dropped the matches just before she jumped.”
Virginia took a long breath and let it out slowly. “The authorities are right, then.”
Cabot looked at the box in his hand. “Yes. But the real question is why she thought she had to take such extreme measures.”
“The locals will tell you that she was more than a little crazy.”
Cabot’s eyes were steel-cold. “The locals don’t know what we know about her history.”
“No,” Virginia said. “I’m sticking with my original theory. Hannah believed that Quinton Zane had come back from the dead. She sent me a warning in the form of her last painting and then she destroyed the picture.”
“There’s only one good reason why she would have done that,” Cabot said.
“She was afraid Zane might see the painting.”
“That’s what this looks like.”
“Maybe the hallucinations finally overwhelmed her mind.”
“Maybe,” Cabot said. “We can’t rule out the fact that she might have gotten lost in a delirium. But we also can’t ignore the possibility that she saw something or someone who made her think that Quinton Zane is still alive.”
He started toward the car. She touched the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped at once and turned. He did not say anything, he just waited.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For believing that Hannah Brewster did not kill herself because she went mad. For taking my concerns about Quinton Zane seriously.”
“When it comes to Quinton Zane, I am always serious.”
CHAPTER 7
Tucker Fleming had never before broken into anyone’s home—the online world provided much easier and far less risky ways to steal. However, he had done the research on the Internet and it was clear that burglary was actually a surprisingly simple, straightforward business.
The trick, of course, was to not get caught.
Virginia Troy’s third-floor condo had not been much of a challenge. He’d had to get past the security system at the lobby door, but that was easy. He’d waited until one of the residents, a woman carrying some large packages, had entered, and then he’d offered to hold the door. His toolbox and his spotless uniform bearing the logo of a nonexistent plumbing company had worked like a charm.
Once inside Troy’s apartment, he’d gotten lucky again. The alarm system was an off-the-shelf piece of junk that used old-fashioned wireless technology—easy enough to jam with the highly illegal device he had constructed using components he’d bought online.
He stood in the center of Troy’s living room and played the narrow beam of his flashlight across the space. It was decorated in various warm shades that made him think of honey and whiskey. Not surprisingly, there were some artworks scattered around the room. The ray of light danced on a glass bowl that glowed with brilliant blues and yellows. A couple of abstract paintings done in rich jewel tones framed the sofa.
He wasn’t here for the art.
He walked across sleek wood floors, avoiding the area rugs so as not to leave an impression from his shoes, and started down a hallway. He was searching for a room that looked like it served as a home office. A businesswoman like Virginia Troy was bound to have one.
He found a bedroom that had been converted into a library. There was a couch that was probably a pullout bed. He was amused to see a lot of actual books on the shelves. Really, who read books these days when the online universe offered an endless array of entertainment?
Sure enough, there was a desk in the corner. A cobalt-blue glass paperweight secured a small stack of invoices, business correspondence and gallery catalogs.
He wasn’t here for the routine paperwork, either.
He opened the first drawer and started looking for the key to the past.
Back at the start it had all seemed so easy, so straightforward—right up until the moment that Hannah Brewster had jumped off the cliff.
Brewster had been his best bet, but with her out of the picture, he had been forced to find a new angle. He could hardly believe his good fortune when he discovered that a gallery owner named Virginia Troy had been Brewster’s only real link to the outside world.
He had known immediately that the name Troy could not be a coincidence. When he learned that Virginia was Kimberly Troy’s daughter, he’d been almost giddy with excitement.
He had immediately started looking into Virginia Troy’s world. He’d told himself he could not afford to rush the process, but he had experienced a jolt of panic when he discovered that she had contacted Anson Salinas within a week of Brewster’s death. There was only one explanation that made sense—Troy had stumbled onto something that made her realize there was a lot of money stashed away. She was looking for the key. Obviously she didn’t know that she possessed it or she would have already unlocked the missing fortune.
The desk did not yield any useful information.
He abandoned the search a short time later and let himself out into the hall. When he went past one neighbor’s apartment, he heard a muffled footstep on the other side of the door. He pulled the cap lower over his eyes. Ignoring the elevator, he went quickly toward the stairs.
Once inside the garage, he let himself out through the service door that opened onto the alley. His car was waiting a couple of blocks away on a side street.
He got behind the wheel and eased slowly away from the curb. There was
one other place he needed to search before he gave up. It would probably be a waste of time but he had to be thorough. There was too much at stake. Brewster’s death had been an unforeseen disaster. Now he could almost hear a clock ticking. He had to get out in front of the situation.
The next step was to get inside the Troy Gallery. He had cruised slowly past the entrance earlier and seen a middle-aged woman working behind the counter—Troy’s assistant, no doubt. He would have to wait until later that night.
Brewster’s last words rang in his head. “You were a fool to come back. The key belongs to the children. Did you really think that they would forget what you did to their families? You’re a dead man. You just don’t know it yet.”
Crazy bitch.
CHAPTER 8
“Yes, there were some guests staying here the night Hannah died,” Rose Gilbert said. “Not many. Third floor is still closed for renovations. But I had a pair of honeymooners who never left their room except at mealtime and a retired couple who were into birding. Why do you ask?”
Cabot let Virginia answer the question.
“Cabot is a private investigator,” Virginia said. “I’ve asked him to look into Hannah’s death.”
Rose grunted. “Had a feeling you weren’t satisfied with what those off-island cops told you.”
“I just want a more thorough investigation,” Virginia said.
Rose nodded somberly. “I understand. It was a shock, that’s for sure.”
Rose was a chunky, solidly built woman in her early sixties who had an aging biker babe vibe, complete with a booze-and-cigarettes voice. Her gray hair was cut short and spiky. She wore denim pants and a faded denim shirt accented with a rugged leather vest. Her belt was studded with a lot of metal hardware that matched the metal studs in her ears.
Cabot figured the big four-by-four parked behind the Lost Island B and B belonged to her. Virginia’s sleek little compact was the only other vehicle. He and Virginia were the sole guests that night.
They had eaten dinner at a small café in town—a thick vegetarian stew and rustic, whole-grain bread. He’d ordered a beer. He was not surprised when Virginia had ordered a glass of wine. It went with the sophisticated gallery owner persona.
When they returned to the B and B, Rose invited them to join her in the vintage parlor for a glass of whiskey. She had apologized for the limited selection. “No point stocking the bar, not at this time of year. Not enough guests. I only drink whiskey, so that’s all I can offer.”
The parlor was decorated with an astonishing array of needlework. There were several large, elaborately embroidered scenes hanging on the walls. He was no expert but the quilt on the back of the sofa looked handmade. So did the area rugs. Crocheted doilies covered almost every surface. Rose Gilbert did not look like the arts-and-crafts type. He figured the needlework had probably been left by the former owner of the B and B, Abigail Watkins.
Rose had lowered herself into the big rocking chair on one side of the hearth. Cabot noticed that Virginia chose a chair that was several feet away from the crackling blaze in the fireplace. He understood. He didn’t have a phobia about fire but he sure as hell had a profound respect for its lethal power.
He had selected a large reading chair across from Rose. He stretched out his legs and sipped the whiskey in a casual manner. Long ago he had discovered that people talked more freely to someone who was sitting across from them, sharing a drink.
“Did any of the guests go out that evening?” he asked.
Rose squinted a little, thinking. “They all drove into town for dinner, same as you two did tonight. But they were back here by eight thirty or nine. The older couple had some whiskey with me but the honeymooners went straight upstairs.”
“When did you hear about the fire at Hannah’s place?” Virginia asked.
“Well, I heard the fire sirens much later that night, so I knew something had happened. And then, early the next morning, one of the volunteers who was searching for Hannah stopped by to ask if I had seen her. At first everyone was sure she had died in the fire, but when they didn’t find a body, they hoped she escaped. Figured she might have run into the woods and gotten lost. But her body washed up in one of the coves later that day. That’s when they decided that she had jumped.”
“Did any of your guests show any interest in the situation?” Cabot asked.
“Some.” Rose rocked slowly in her chair. “They were curious but not overly concerned. None of them had ever met Hannah. They all left on the afternoon ferry that day.”
“Is there any chance one of your guests left the B and B that night and came back without you knowing?” Cabot asked.
Rose peered at him and then looked at Virginia. “You think someone set fire to Hannah’s cabin and then pushed her off that cliff?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Virginia admitted. “That’s why I hired an investigator.”
Cabot waited for Rose to come to a decision. Eventually she turned back to him, shaking her head.
“Why would anyone want to kill Hannah Brewster?” Rose asked. “She was crazy but she was harmless.”
“I’m trying to eliminate possibilities,” Cabot said.
Rose exhaled heavily, drank a little whiskey and rocked some more. “I go to bed early but it’s real quiet around here at night. Almost no traffic, not at this time of year. I’m pretty sure I would have heard someone leave. The parking area out back is covered in gravel and so is the driveway. A car, even one with a quiet engine, would have made some noise. And anyone trying to drive would have had to use headlights. No streetlamps on the island.”
Virginia looked at Cabot. “If there was a killer, he would have had to use a car. I can’t see anyone walking all the way out to Hannah’s cabin, certainly not at night.”
“Especially if he was carrying a large container of accelerant,” Cabot added.
Rose eyed Cabot. “What makes you think Hannah Brewster might have been murdered?”
“If she was murdered,” Cabot said carefully, “there’s a chance that the killing was linked to something that happened a long time ago. Hannah Brewster was once in a cult that was operated by a guy who used fire to get rid of evidence and murder several people.”
“Oh, shit,” Rose muttered. She turned and looked into the fire on the hearth. “I was afraid you were going to mention that cult business.”
Virginia tightened her grip on the glass of whiskey. “Hannah told you about her time in a cult?”
“No.” Rose did not take her attention off the fire. “I didn’t know Hannah Brewster well. I don’t think anyone here on the island did. Also, I’m a newcomer here, so the locals still consider me an outsider. But people talk, just like they do in any small community. After Hannah jumped, a lot of people said that she had always been a little mentally unbalanced. They mentioned that she had once joined a cult.”
“Abigail Watkins, the woman who owned this place before you bought it, was in the same cult,” Virginia said. “That’s why Hannah moved here to Lost Island in the first place. She wanted to be close to someone who had shared the trauma in her past.”
“Yeah, heard something about that, too.” Rose rocked gently. “I can tell you that there was a lot of speculation that Hannah and Abigail were both suffering from that PTSD thing.”
“Virginia mentioned that there is another B and B open at this time of year,” Cabot said.
“That’s right,” Rose said. “Barney Ricks and Dylan Crane have a place in town, the Harbor Inn. I understand they keep it open most of the year, but they were closed that whole week for some remodeling.”
Virginia sat quietly, her expression bleak. Cabot wanted to offer some comfort but there was nothing he could say that would give her cause for optimism. The odds were very, very good that they were chasing a shadow.
He knew all about chasing shadows. He and Anson and Max
and Jack had spent years doing just that. The thing about shadow chasing was that you had to keep going until you were sure there was nothing there to catch.
CHAPTER 9
Shortly after midnight, Tucker Fleming made his way to the front door of the Troy Gallery. He would have preferred to use the rear door, but that opened onto an alley. No intelligent person walked down a dark alley in Pioneer Square at night.
He paused in the vestibule that shielded the front door, and checked the sidewalk. Music blared from a nearby club. There were a few people exiting a restaurant at the end of the block, but they were heading in the opposite direction.
He took out one of the tools he had purchased online and applied it to the lock on the front door of the gallery. He was inside less than thirty seconds later.
Once again he used the jamming device to silence the silly alarm system. It was astonishing how frequently people went with cheap security junk.
The shades had been pulled down in the front windows of the shop, so he took out his flashlight. He made his way through the stark white showroom, weaving a path through a small forest of display pedestals, and opened the door behind the counter.
The back room of the gallery was a different world. In the showroom, individual objects and paintings were elegantly arranged for maximum visual impact. But in the back room, paintings were stacked four and five deep against the walls. Sculptures littered the floor. Art glass in various shapes and sizes sat on wide shelves. There was a cluster of colorful glass paperweights on a table near what appeared to be the door to an employee restroom.
It seemed unlikely that something as valuable as the key to a fortune would be sitting around in the crowded back room of an art gallery. But he reminded himself that Troy didn’t know what she had. He could only hope that, given his extensive research into the cult, he would recognize the key when he saw it. Still, the prospect of searching the cluttered back room was daunting.