Love Is Murder (8 page)

“Please, Steve, don’t do this. Your health is more important to me than anything.”

“I need to. On Monday I’m going to Jackson and getting a mortgage. I need you to sign with me.”

“You’ll be in debt for the rest of your life. You’ll put yourself in an early grave. I can’t go through that again. Not what I went through with your father. Him dying in my arms because we couldn’t get him to the hospital fast enough.”

“Please, don’t—”

“We can sell. That will solve all our financial problems.”

“I’m not selling!”

“Beth, tell Steve that a mortgage isn’t the solution.”

Beth must have stepped into the kitchen, or had been silent at first. “Actually, I’ve been thinking it might be a good option. Not a large mortgage, but ten percent would be more than enough to replenish the emergency funds. I’ll stay here, at least another year, and work out a budget and growth plan. It’s my forte.”

“But it’s not about the lodge, it’s about Steve!” Grace said. “His health.”

“You need to go to the doctor, Steve,” said Beth. “I’ll help you with the mortgage papers—we’ll go to my old boss, he’ll find us a good program. But then you have to promise to go in for the tests.”

“All right,” Steve agreed.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Grace said.

“It’s a win-win,” Beth said. “Steve gets what he wants, you get what you want. Steve, can you help me clean up the guest rooms?”

“Sure. Thanks, Beth.”

“You’ve grown on me. I want you happy and I want you healthy. Okay?”

Lucy didn’t know if Grace had left, and she couldn’t open the door to check. Though she wasn’t dressed for the weather, she went out the side door and walked around the porch to the front door. The snow was still falling, but didn’t seem as severe as earlier this morning. Drifts had accumulated against the porch, and she couldn’t even see the stairs. She shivered and tried the front door, but it was locked.

Dammit, that wasn’t a smart idea. She knocked, getting colder by the second. She knocked again and the door swung open.

Grace said, “What are you doing outside dressed like that?”

“I stepped out to get fresh air and must have locked the door or someone else did. I was only out here for a few minutes.”

She shook off in the foyer, feeling like a wet dog, her long hair already damp against her cheeks. She tucked it behind her ears. “Thanks,” she added when Grace didn’t say anything.

“Beth said your brother was sick.”

“Stomach flu, I guess. I don’t know but he’s finally sleeping again. I think I’ll go check on him.”

She walked upstairs, feeling Grace’s eyes on her back.

VIII.

Fifteen minutes later, Lucy was bundled in ski clothes. She knocked on Angie and Kyle’s door. Kyle opened it. He was disheveled. Angie leapt off the bed and headed for the bathroom; Lucy noted she was naked.

She blushed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to, well—”

“It’s okay. Is Patrick better?”

“Yes, but still queasy. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He closed the door behind her. Angie emerged from the bathroom in a robe. “I need your help,” she said.

“Like when you asked me to talk to Beth about Trevor?” Angie asked.

“Right. I need to go to Patrick’s truck, but I don’t want anyone coming with me. At least, anyone but one of you.”

“I don’t get it,” Kyle said.

“I have to trust someone, and I don’t have anyone else. Alan and Heather are probably fine, but Patrick thinks you’re on the up-and-up.”

“What’s going on?” Kyle asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, not willing to give up the fact that Vanessa was murdered. “But
something
is weird around here, and I think Patrick figured it out but then he was drugged. He’s not sick—he was intentionally drugged. And he doesn’t remember what he did last night.” That wasn’t a total lie.

“Was Vanessa drugged, too?” Angie asked, wide-eyed.

“I honestly don’t know. But I talked to the sheriff, and he’s working on getting deputies here by the end of today, but there’s no guarantee.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kyle said. “What do you need?”

“Well, I need a lookout because I’m going to search the barn. And Patrick’s gun is in his truck. And then—I need to get into the cottage.”

“You’re going to break into Grace and Steve’s house?”

“No, not exactly. I have a key.” She’d taken it from the office where everything was neatly labeled, even the extra key to the cottage. Considering Beth’s immaculate room, Lucy wondered if Beth had reorganized when she came over the summer.

“I’ll be downstairs in five minutes,” Kyle said.

Lucy turned to leave. Then she asked, “Yesterday, when you were dizzy, what had you been drinking?”

“Orange juice, why?” Then he shook his head. “You think there was something in the juice? Is that what Patrick drank?”

“No, but Steve has been dizzy and I saw him drinking orange juice last night.” She asked Angie, “Did you have some?”

“No, and I told Kyle he should have asked.”

“I just wanted some juice. Beth said to help myself between meals.”

“That was your third glass.”

“It was good.”

What could have had that fast of an effect? Or was it simply the quantity? And what would have caused light-headedness or fainting?

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

*

Leaving was much easier than Lucy had thought. She and Kyle traversed the fifty or so yards to the barn. She’d already verified that Grace and Steve were both in the main lodge. Beth was cooking soup in the kitchen for lunch. Lucy couldn’t count on the cottage remaining vacant, but she would have to take her chances.

The wind had died down, but the snow still fell. It was almost picturesque, except that she could barely see the barn. She had never seen such odd light before, almost everything appeared black or white through the thickly falling snow. Everything white, except shadows and trees and buildings that were black and gray. It was both eerie and beautiful.

And silent.

Because there was no wind, it only took a couple minutes of plodding through the snow to reach the barn. Lucy went in through the regular door, which was unlocked; the main doors were braced from the inside to keep them from breaking off in the heavy winds from the night before and this morning. The barn was dark, and she didn’t want to turn on the lights and attract attention. Angie had been instructed to tell anyone who asked that Kyle had walked Lucy to the garage to get something for Patrick, but why encourage followers?

She went straight to Patrick’s car and retrieved his gun.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asked.

“This is just a precaution.”

He looked skeptical. “I don’t like this. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Kyle, I trusted you, I need you to trust me.”

He was torn. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like what’s going on here. Tell me the truth.”

“Vanessa was murdered.”

He paled. “How can you be sure?”

“We can’t until an autopsy, which is why Patrick secured the body in the root cellar. The only people who were in the house during the time of death were Trevor, Beth, Grace, and possibly Steve. Alan and Heather returned from town at four, which is on the tail end of the window, and you and Angie were on a walk. Unless you lied and conspired to kill a woman you’d never met before this weekend.”

“We were on a walk! I didn’t kill anyone.” He was too stunned at her comment to be insulted or angry.

“I also suspect that she was drugged before she was killed. Again, I can’t prove it. But we have a lot of circumstantial evidence to back it up.”

“Why?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.” Why indeed? Lucy was still missing a few pieces to the puzzle. She hoped to find them in the cottage.

She threaded the holster through her belt and tucked the gun inside her thick ski pants. It wasn’t visible with the bulky clothing, but there was no way she’d be able to hide this .45 on her person once inside, even if she wore an oversized sweater. She’d have to think of something.

She walked around the barn, looking for anything that didn’t belong. There were a lot of tools, Steve’s truck, a Jeep Cherokee, and a classic Mustang.

She looked in the glove compartment of the Jeep first. It belonged to Beth—Elizabeth Ann Holbrook. It was registered in San Rafael, California, and Lucy wrote down the address. Beth’s car, like her room, was immaculate. Service records were folded neatly into the pocket on the front of her car manual. The Jeep had been serviced at the same place she’d bought it four years ago. She found a business card holder. Beth had been a manager at a national bank in San Rafael.

She had the knowledge to embezzle, but what was her motive? Jealous of her sister? Needed the money? Nothing in her bank statements seemed to indicate a need of funds, but Lucy knew she could have hidden accounts, could be in debt, could be involved with something nefarious.

Nothing else in the car gave Lucy more information. She next went to the Mustang.

“What can I do?” Kyle asked.

“Look for anything that seems out of place—something that doesn’t belong in a barn or garage.”

In the Mustang’s glove box was the registration. Grace Delarosa, at the lodge. Behind it was an older registration. Grace Anderson, Orlando, Florida. She was about to put it back when she saw there were three other papers.

Grace Ann Summers, Chantilly, Virginia. Grace Brooke Jackson, Monterey, California. The last, Grace Marie Holbrook, with a Phoenix, Arizona, address. That registration had expired nine years ago.

Phoenix. Vanessa was from Phoenix.

Heart racing, Lucy wrote down all the names, addresses, and dates and put them back in the glove compartment. She looked the car, but couldn’t get into the trunk, which needed a key because the classic model didn’t have a trunk release.

“Kyle,” she called.

“It’s hard to look for something you don’t know what you’re looking for,” he said.

“I know. I found what I need.”

“What?”

“Let’s steer clear of Grace for a while.”

“You don’t think—”

“I’m thinking nothing right now except I need more information, and I’d rather not talk to her first.” She also needed to call the sheriff again and give him Grace’s aliases and tell him that she’d lived in the same town as the deceased. Phoenix was a big place, but it was too much of a coincidence.

Lucy thought back to Vanessa’s message to her brother.

You were right. We win
.

What did she mean?

Trevor hadn’t called Vanessa’s brother yet, and Lucy wanted to be there when he did. But if she let on to Trevor that Vanessa’s death was a homicide, she didn’t know what he would do, or if she could control his reaction. It was best to keep the information to themselves.

Leaving the barn, Lucy looked toward the lodge. Visibility was still poor, but Lucy didn’t see anyone walking around on the porch. The lights in the cottage were off. She turned back to Kyle. “I need you to go back to the house and hang around the porch. Delay anyone coming to the cottage.” She looked at her watch. “I need ten minutes.”

“You’re going to search that place that fast?”

“I know what I’m looking for.” Or she had a good idea.

Kyle reluctantly agreed, and he and Lucy parted ways at the short path—at least, she thought the path was where she turned, buried deep in the snow—that led to the cottage.

The door was locked, but she opened it with the key she had taken. More silence, though as she listened she heard a ticking grandfather clock. The hum of the refrigerator. The deep drone of the generator.

She quickly assessed the layout. There were only two bedrooms, no den, and one great room that had a kitchen and dining area attached to it. She went to the room that was obviously Grace’s and immediately searched her drawers.

At first she found only clothing. She went to the closet, which was packed with thick winter clothes. The floor was a mess of clothes that had fallen off hangers and shoes and folded blankets.

If Lucy needed to hide something, where would she hide it? Not under the bed—though she checked there quickly. Grace wouldn’t have wanted Steve to find it, even accidentally.

She thought back to her brothers and how they never liked to talk about “girl stuff”—namely menstruation. Carina had once told her that she used to hide her chocolate in a Tampax box so Patrick wouldn’t steal it.

“He never looked there, didn’t even consider it.”

Lucy went to the bathroom. The bottom drawer was filled with feminine hygiene products. She opened every box and there it was.

Maybe she didn’t know what she was looking for specifically, but she had certainly found it.

A box full of pill bottles. Prescriptions for Thyrolar, made out to Grace Marie Holbrook, and several prescriptions made out to Leonardo Delarosa. She put them out by date—first a basic diuretic, common for high blood pressure. Then lisinopril, which was a stronger medication. That started after his heart attack three years ago. Then six months before his death, the doctor increased the dosage.

There were pills in some of the bottles. She opened one up and it was coated in a fine powder—more powder than would naturally rub off the pills from friction. Lucy looked in the drawer and found a small mortar and pestle—a classic tool used for hand grinding. Such as to grind pills into a fine powder that would more easily dissolve in liquid. And the bitter taste would be masked by a strong drink. Like orange juice.

The front door opened and Lucy quickly put everything back and closed the drawer.

“Angie and I wanted to use the snowmobiles this afternoon if the snow lets up,” Kyle was saying.

“I think tomorrow.”

Lucy breathed in relief. It was Steve. But she didn’t want him to know about Grace, not yet. Not until the police arrived.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Look, Kyle, I’m sorry, I’m just really tired. It’s been a long couple days and I need to check the barn, the wood—”

“Let me help. Please, I’m going to go insane in that house without anything to do.”

“Okay. Fine. I’m just need to get my parka.”