Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) (6 page)

By the time she had her table set up and the laptop plugged
in and booted, Daniel had made half a dozen trips and gone back to collect the
heavy-duty plastic shelving unit.  Sophie opened the trunk of her car to grab
the rest of her supplies – scissors, packing tape and masking tape, a roll of
bubble wrap, black markers, a clipboard, paper and pens as well as a packet of
post-it notes.

Last night she’d set up the Misty Beach auction in the
program.  She was able now to enter the first item immediately: the Keurig
coffee maker.  In the description field, she entered some of the features
mentioned on the box, saved and opened a screen for the next item.  By the time
she slit open a carton, Daniel had wrestled the tall shelves into place and was
standing behind her watching what she was doing.

“I thought you were going to assign catalog numbers,” he
said finally, and she glanced up.

“I realized after seeing how inadequate the list of items
was that I can’t yet.”  She gave him a lecture on how charity auctions were
generally structured, with several separate ‘silent’ sections that closed at
fifteen minute to half hour increments.  “Sometimes items are put in more or
less randomly – a five hundred dollar necklace next to a twenty dollar gift
certificate, say.  But I like to establish the sections by value.  Say, items
worth up to a hundred dollars in the first section, a hundred to two fifty in
the second one, and so on.  That gives people more time to look at the pricier
items, think about what they want, bid each other up.”

Again he said, “That makes sense.”

“My problem right now is that I don’t even know how many
items we have, never mind the values.  Plus, I’ll probably package some
things.  Dinner with an overnight stay, a scarf with a pair of earrings, and so
on.  I can’t assign sections and numbers until I can form an overall picture in
my mind.  Which means that, when I’m done with this go-through, I’ll have to
come back, finish my packaging and then, finally, label everything in here with
catalog numbers for easy set-up auction day.  That’s why I’m going to make sure
I know what’s inside,” she indicated the masking tape and felt-tip markers, “so
I don’t have to open anything a second time.”

His grin made her heart bump.  “I always enjoy watching an
expert at work.”

Wow.  She so didn’t want to be attracted to any resident of
Cape Trouble, Oregon.  And the cop who, whatever he said to the contrary, had
to still be wondering if she’d had some reason to dispose of her aunt?  Really
not.

She said briskly, “Why don’t you start opening boxes – the
scissors are right there.  That’ll speed me up, and you can get a look at items
as we go.”

His presence did not speed up her work.  She kept making
typos or would find herself staring blankly at some item – a garden stake, a
set of wineglasses or a piece of art glass without quite being able to take it
in.  She was too conscious of him, sometimes crouched beside her slitting open
a box – which drew the fabric of his trousers tight across the long muscles of
his thighs – or simply standing there looking over her shoulder, breathing. 
She could feel him, even when he was behind her and out of sight.  It was
unnerving, distracting and irritating.

When he pointed out that it was one o’clock and suggested
lunch, she closed her laptop with alacrity.  “How about Naomi Kendrick’s café?”
he said.

“Sure.  Should I drive myself?” 
Oh, please.

“Yeah, fascinating though this is, I’ll have to assign
someone else to you for the afternoon.”

“You mean you didn’t see anything you’re desperate to buy at
the auction?”

He snorted, and she laughed.  She couldn’t quite picture
Daniel Colburn beautifying his living space with a stoneware bowl, buying a
trendy Tom Bihn bag to carry files or going for the basket of spa goodies.  The
donations she’d handled so far were nice enough, but none were worth over a few
hundred dollars.  She certainly hadn’t seen anything she could imagine as a
justification for killing.

After they’d locked up, Daniel followed close behind during
the drive, exiting the facility without having to enter a code, she couldn’t
help noticing.

     Mid-week like this, street parking in charming downtown
Cape Trouble wasn’t impossible to find, although after she backed into a slot,
he had to continue on in his SUV.  He still managed to be waiting for her in
front of Sea Watch Café, however.  Sophie paused to admire the handsome wooden
sign with a hand-painted flower beside the words.  Wasn’t there a flower with
the common name of Sea Watch?  Her mother had liked identifying the flora and
fauna.  Sophie remembered another flower called Sea Blush.    The bloom had
been faintly tinted pink, but was nowhere near as pretty as the name.  She
blinked, startled by the happy memory.  When she thought about her mother, she
tended not to choose memories linked with this place.

     The café was tiny, she saw when they walked in, with
only about ten tables and no actual view of the ocean or river.  Specials were
scrawled on a blackboard by the door and the sturdy, middle-aged waitress
smiled from where she was taking an order from a couple of tourists.  “Chief
Colburn, take whatever table you’d like.”

     He liked, apparently, the one in the back corner rather
than up front by the window, although over half the tables were available.  He
took the seat with his back to the wall so he could see the whole room and the
door as well as passing traffic on Schooner Street.  Sophie didn’t object,
although she’d have preferred one of the larger tables instead of this small
one for two.  It felt awfully intimate here in the corner, their knees
bumping.  He had a way of dominating any space.  It would have been nice if
they’d been by the window, too, so she could have an excuse to look away from
him.

He’d grabbed two menus on the way, and now handed her one
but didn’t open his.  “I’m going to have one of the specials,” he explained,
when he saw her looking at him.

“Oh.  Which one?”

“Macaroni and cheese.  I’ll bet it’ll be out of the
ordinary.”

She made a humming noise of agreement, but decided on black
bean soup and bread.  When the waitress came to take their order, Daniel asked
if Naomi was here and whether she’d be able to take a minute to come out and
talk to them.

“I’ll let her know you’re here,” the waitress said.  Anita,
he’d called her.

“You know her?” Sophie asked in a low voice as Anita hurried
away with their order slip.

“I know everyone.”  He sounded wry.  “Close enough, anyway. 
Anita’s husband is an insurance agent.  The couple sitting by the window
sneaking peeks at us are Linda and Palmer Ellenbogen.  He’s retired, was some
kind of money manager, serves on the city council.  She whips out pictures of
their grandkids at the slightest excuse.  The woman coming in now is Louella
Shoop, a busybody second to none, including Elaine Terwilliger, who is no
slouch, by the way.  Don’t know why Louella didn’t wriggle her way onto the auction
committee so she could stay in the know.”  He went on like that, Sophie
listening in amazement as he told her about a couple passersby on the street
and two men eating lunch and talking intensely and quietly.

“And you’ve been here less than a year?”

“Yeah, imagine living here as long as Louella has.  She
probably knows what brand of toilet paper everyone in town buys.”

“Eww.”

His eyes lit with laughter as he leaned across the table and
whispered in a stagy, horror film voice, “They are watching.  Nothing you do is
unseen.  Beware, Ms. Sophie Thomsen.”

She, too, laughed although she was conscious of shame that
she should feel even a bubble of amusement so soon.  She hadn’t dealt with her
feelings when Naomi appeared from the kitchen and made her way with obvious
unease to their table.

Wiping her hands on an enveloping white apron, Naomi greeted
Sophie but didn’t seem to want to meet Daniel’s eyes.  “I understand you wanted
to speak to me?” she said to him. 

“Just wanted to meet you.  I’m Chief Colburn.”  He held out
a hand, and after a noticeable pause she extended hers and they shook.  “You
have great food here.”

She smiled shyly, seeming to relax.  “Thank you.  I’ve
noticed you in here before.”

“I thought I knew everyone in town,” he said easily, and they
chatted for a minute about the restaurant business, the auction and the tragedy
of Doreen Stedmann’s death.

It occurred to Sophie, listening to them and murmuring a few
comments, that Naomi might have been going out of her way not to meet Daniel. 
When Naomi told them to enjoy their lunches and returned to the kitchen, he
watched her go with an intensity that Sophie didn’t like. 

“Why are you looking at her like that?”  She was pretty sure
there was nothing sexual in his appraisal.

His gaze snapped to her face.  “Just curious.”

“You aren’t going to do anything about it, are you?”

His gaze flicked toward the kitchen, then back to Sophie’s
face.  It was a moment before he said, “No.”

“But you were thinking about it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she burst out.

“She’s hiding something,” he said flatly.

That made her go cold inside.  “Aren’t plenty of people?”
she finally asked, so low her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Sure, but most of us aren’t afraid.”

Then I was right
, Sophie thought. 
I wasn’t
imagining those shadows in Naomi’s eyes.
  “You think she is.” 

“I’ve been on more than my share of domestic violence
calls.  I know that look on a woman’s face.”  His head turned.  “Ah, here comes
lunch.”

Sophie let the subject go.  She was glad to let it go, since
he was going to respect Naomi’s privacy.  If he hadn’t been…well, that would
have worried her.

He spread the napkin on his lap, his navy blue eyes meeting
hers.  “What about you, Sophie Thomsen?  Do you have secrets?”

She managed, almost lightly, to say, “Like I said, most
people do.  But nothing relevant to my aunt’s death, I promise you.”

He kept looking, seeing deeper than she liked, and she
couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away until he smiled.  Faintly, only one corner
of his mouth lifting, but he said then, “Good enough,” and forked up a bite of
his macaroni and cheese.  “Man,” he said a minute later, “that woman sure can
cook.”

Around a mouthful of the soup she couldn’t even seem to
taste, Sophie murmured agreement.

Thank goodness somebody else would be hovering over her this
afternoon.  She wasn’t sure she could have taken three or four hours more of
Police Chief Daniel Colburn.

*****

Daniel was somehow not surprised to arrive at the police
station and spot a sheriff’s department car parked in the small lot.  When he
strolled in, the city’s combination dispatcher/receptionist/secretary, a woman
named Ellie Fitzpatrick, glanced up and said, “Sheriff Mackay is here to see
you.”

He nodded.  “Thanks, Ellie.  Saw his car.”

The other man was in Daniel’s office, sprawled in one of the
visitors’ chairs facing the desk, his long legs extended.  He often sat that
way.  Daniel wasn’t sure how well his damaged left leg bent.  Alexander Mackay
was a little older than Daniel, nudging forty if not over the hump already.  He
was a bigger man than Daniel, heftier although the bulk was muscle and not fat,
and a few strands of silver glinted in his dark hair.  He was a refugee from
metropolitan policing, too, but for a different reason than Daniel’s.  He’d
obviously been badly injured.  He walked stiffly and with a significant limp. 
Some scarring showed above the collar of his uniform shirt, and he tended to
move his left arm awkwardly, too.  Daniel had speculated that he had suffered
burns, but he might have been in a major car accident, or had a number of
gunshot wounds.  Although the two of them were moving slowly toward something
that might be friendship, they hadn’t discussed Mackay’s issues anymore than
they’d discussed Daniel’s.  It was obvious, however, that in a big city police
department, Mackay’s physical problems would have put him out of his job on
disability or stuck forever more on desk work.  He’d chosen another
alternative; he could handle his duties as sheriff of a small, isolated, rural
county without needing to be able to chase down a suspect or break down doors
with a SWAT team.

“Alex.”  Daniel shook his head when Mackay started to push
himself to his feet.  “Don’t get up.”  He dropped into his desk chair.  “What
brings you by?”

The other man’s eyebrows rose.  “Heard about Doreen.  We
don’t get much like that hereabouts.”

“Not since I got here,” Daniel agreed.  “I’ve only had one
murder, and that was a domestic.”

“I remember it.  I haven’t had a single one this year.”

They both pondered the unlikelihood of a nice, older lady, a
long-time resident, being struck down in a brutal crime.

Their very first conversation, Daniel remembered, had
involved planning for a different kind of disaster – a tsunami.  Since Daniel
was from San Francisco and Mackay from Portland, their former disaster
preparedness training had been primarily geared toward earthquakes even though
San Francisco was coastal.  Mackay had diverted Daniel with a description of
the problems police departments had suffered in the wake of the Mount St.
Helens eruption, when ash, sucked into the filtration systems, had crippled
patrol cars.

The two men hadn’t discussed murder, because it was
commonplace for both.  This murder, though, was far from commonplace.

“Just wanted to say, anything we can do,” Mackay added. 
“Doubt you need backup, but in case.”

“Thanks.”   Daniel nodded.  “You never know.  None of my
officers have any experience as investigators.  And this one is a puzzler.  I
haven’t seen many of those.  You know about the auction.”  When Alex Mackay
agreed he did, Daniel described the scene and the many perplexing questions it
raised.  He told him about Sophie and about the other avenues he would be
pursuing, half-hoping for a brilliant idea, but his counterpart from the
sheriff’s department only said, “Let me think about it.  It sure as hell sounds
like it has to be related to the auction.  Who’d have predicted anything like
this?”