Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (21 page)

“Maybe Lassitor left the light on before he died,” I said, even though I didn’t remember any light from when neighbor Craig Gower showed us Lassitor’s house.

The woman shook her head. “Sometimes the light is off.”

“And it turns back on,” I said.

She nodded. “It flashes.” She stepped over the threshold, raised her arm and thrust a long, graceful finger out. Her finger shook.

I tried to see where exactly she was pointing.

“It looks like you’re pointing just to the right of those firs. A bit toward that really tall Sugar Pine tree. Is that where the light is?”

She squinted toward the tree, then nodded.

“I think that would be closer to Gower’s house than Lassitor’s house,” I said. “Does that seem right to you?”

“Maybe. But in the Middle Ages, people were tortured in castles. They had oil lamps. Oil lamps make an evil glow. This light is evil. So the light could be from the castle.”

“But oil lamps don’t flash.”

“These do,” she said.

I tried to think about what I’d seen inside Gower’s house and Lassitor’s house. “Could it be a light on one of those timers that are designed to make it look like someone is home?” I said.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t come on when it first gets dark. The times vary. Sometimes it turns on at four in the morning. Sometimes not at all. But it always flashes.”

I wondered how often she was up at four in the morning. I also wondered how any light from Gower’s house or Lassitor’s castle could be seen from her cabin. The castle had almost no windows facing this way, and there were enough trees to block any light. Gower’s house was behind an even thicker bank of trees.

I pointed across the highway toward the lake. “At night, you can see lights across the lake at Glenbrook and Cave Rock. Some of them seem pretty bright even though they’re twelve miles away. Could it be you are seeing a light from across the lake? Shining through the trees?”

She shook her head. “No. If it came from Glenbrook, it would be a tiny light. And it wouldn’t flash. This is closer.”

“What is it about the light that makes it seem evil?”

“The light is golden. Like a fallen angel. It is Lucifer. Satan.”

“Satan?” I repeated, not knowing what else to say.

She said, “‘No wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ Second Corinthians.”

I paused. “Have you seen any strange person in the area?”

“You. And Mr. Gower. He might be the Pale Rider.”

“Do you mean that in the biblical sense?”

She made a solemn nod. “Death.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Riding that wheelchair. I think he’s faking it.”

The statement seemed harsh, and her comments taken together seemed to make no sense.

“You think he can walk without his chair?” I said.

She nodded, squinted her eyes. “Maybe.”

“Have you seen anything else unusual?”

She thought about it. “Only the light.”

“How often does it come on? Every night?”

“Sometimes two or three nights in a row. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes four nights in a row.”

“How do you know this? Are you up in the night?”

She nodded.

“Did you ever see this light before Lassitor died?”

“I don’t know when he died. I’ve been seeing it for two weeks. Or more.”

“Do any other lights come on when it comes on?”

“No. Only one evil glow.”

“Yesterday, I was talking to Craig Gower, Lassitor’s neighbor. Afterward, I came over here to talk to you. When I got out of my car, I heard you on your back porch. You were talking and singing. I apologize for overhearing you, but it sounded like you sang, ‘He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown.’ You sounded like you were angry. Or frustrated at minimum. So I’m just curious. What does that mean, ‘He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown?’”

The woman shook her head. “I never said that.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure it was you behind your fence.”

“I would never say that.”

“After that, I knocked on your door, but I guess you didn’t hear my knock. Or maybe it was someone else here at your house.”

“No one is ever at my house but me.”

“Okay.” I turned to leave, walked down her steps, then looked at her again. “Thanks very much for talking to me. I’m grateful for your help.”

“Don’t go in those trees by those houses. There is evil.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Spot and I got back in the Jeep. We drove back to Craig Gower’s house.

I knocked.

Gower came to the door after a couple of minutes. He looked more tired than when Santiago and I visited the day before. But he seemed in good spirits, which, considering his recent history, was admirable.

“Owen McKenna,” he said. “Come on in.” I followed as Gower rolled his chair into the living room and up near the fireplace. The fire was low. He reached into a log bin, pulled out a split, and tossed it onto the coals.

As he moved, I watched his legs. A person faking paralysis might tense their legs as they moved around. But his had a sense of limpness about them. If he was faking it, he was good.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“When Sargeant Santiago and I were here yesterday, I had a question I forgot to ask. I know there are a lot of trees between your house and Lassitor’s, but I wondered if you can see his place from any of your windows. Specifically, if anyone were to visit the castle, would you be able to tell?”

“It depends. If someone came and went when I’m on this first floor, then I couldn’t see them from inside my house. If I’m out on the deck, then I can see through the trees to his driveway.” Gower waved his hand toward the living room windows. “But as you can see, I don’t have the deck shoveled, so that would only apply in the summer. If I’m upstairs, then I can see a bit of Lassitor’s drive and house from a couple of the windows.”

“Have you ever noticed anyone over there?”

Gower shook his head. “But I should add that I don’t look out those windows very often.”

“What about lights? Can you see light from any of Lassitor’s windows?”

“No. The few windows he has are small, and my filtered view is mostly of the drive.”

“Would you see the lights of a car pulling in or out of the drive?”

“Yes. Sometimes when I’d be near those upstairs windows, I’d notice Lassitor or one of his visitors coming or going.”

“You haven’t noticed any vehicle since he died?”

Gower shook his head.

“Do you think that Lassitor might have a light on a timer? Something that turns on at night to make it look like someone is home?”

“I never noticed any when I’ve been over there. But I never looked for one, either. Do you have reason to think that someone has been to his house?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m trying to be thorough. I’ve learned that he made some enemies in business.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Gower said.

“Do you leave lights on at your house when you go to bed?”

Gower frowned and shook his head. “I have no outside lights on at night. I don’t want to add to light pollution. One of the nice things about Tahoe is that it is relatively dark. You can see the stars. Why do you ask?”

“It occurred to me that if some of the other people in the neighborhood ever saw a light from this direction, it might help to know that it didn’t come from your house.”

Gower nodded. “If you’re concerned that someone is going into Lassitor’s house, you could go over and check it again. Then you could look for timers at the same time. Would you like the key? I can’t imagine that anyone would care.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that. It would answer the question.”

Gower fetched the key and handed it to me along with a piece of paper with numbers written on it. “Here’s the alarm code. I can’t imagine that I’m violating anything by giving it to you. I just don’t feel up to going out into the winter weather today.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He nodded, and I left.

The stone castle was exactly as we’d left it the day before. Dark and cold and heavy, the opposite of a cozy Lake Tahoe getaway. I made a quick circuit of all the rooms, looking at all the lamps to see if any of them were on timers. I also paid attention to all of the windows. There were only three that faced toward the old woman’s cabin, and from them I could only see trees.

I also opened desk drawers, kitchen cabinets, and closets. I found nothing interesting.

Back at Gower’s, I handed him the key.

“Thanks,” I said. “No light timers that I could see.”

“I’m curious why you and Santiago are even interested in the house? Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

“Lassitor had an insurance policy,” I said. “That always motivates questions in an unusual death.”

Gower made a big nod. “Ah, now I get it. Perhaps it’s possible that the death wasn’t as accidental as it looked.” Gower made just a touch of a grin. “Your job may be more interesting than I first thought.”

I thanked Gower and left.

TWENTY-NINE

I drove clockwise around the lake, not stopping at my cabin but continuing on to my office on the South Shore. Eager to be out of the Jeep, Spot trotted up the office stairs.

I hadn’t checked my email in a while, so I brought it up on my laptop. It looked like mostly junk mail. I scanned the subject lines and checked all of the spam. I was about to click on purge when I paused.

One of the subject lines was A Photo You Should Know About.

It seemed like a classic junk mail teaser. I didn’t recognize the sender. But something made me uncheck it before I deleted the others.

I went back and opened the email.

It had no photo, just a link followed by a short message.

I didn’t recognize the link, so that reinforced my spam sense. Almost as a reflex, I again went to delete it. Then paused again.

No harm in reading the message.

‘I found your email online. I saw a photo Gertie posted. It said your name. It said you were a private detective. Maybe this isn’t the right Owen McKenna. But you might want to know that Gertie didn’t run away like people at school think. If you want to text me, here’s my number. You could even call.’

I clicked on the link. It took me to a website where people post photos. The page loaded with my photo in the center. I was walking across the street, facing the camera. I recognized the area. It was Gertie’s neighborhood. She must have taken it with her phone as I approached her house. On the sides of the photo were soft, white lines. The window drapes. She’d seen me coming.

Under the photo it said, ‘A man came to visit. He said his name was Owen McKenna and he was a private detective looking to protect me from the big, bad wolf. Like Scruff Boy couldn’t do the job? He was sent by my weird mom. First time she ever cared about me!’

I went back to the email with the phone number.

I dialed. It rang five times, then went to voicemail.

A girl’s voice said, “Hey, Emily here. I’m all busy with Justin Timberlake right now. Probably will be all night. Text me. Maybe I’ll text you back.”

It beeped.

“Emily, this is Owen McKenna calling. I got your email about Gertie. Please give me a call right away. This is very important.”

I left my number twice and hung up.

Five minutes later, my phone rang.

“Owen McKenna,” I said.

“This is Emily.” The voice was so soft, it took me a moment to figure out what she said.

“You’re a friend of Gertie’s,” I said.

“Yeah. Something’s wrong. Gertie hasn’t texted or tweeted. She always tweets what she’s doing. I’m, like, her only follower, so I pay attention. I feel like it’s my responsibility to be a friend to her. I haven’t heard from her since she tweeted that a detective had come by and to check out the guy’s photo. So I went to the website and saw your picture and what she wrote.”

The girl must have been nervous. Or scared. I could hear her fast breathing.

“I thought about it for the last three days,” Emily said. “When she still hadn’t texted or tweeted, I knew something must have happened. So I Googled your name and found your contact email.”

“Thanks for getting in touch with me. I’m sorry to tell you this, Emily, but Gertie’s been kidnapped.”

She gasped. “You haven’t found her?”

“No. We have no clues about where she is. Do you have any idea of how it happened?”

Emily was quiet for a bit before she spoke. “Well, it’s a pretty out-there idea, but maybe she went with the other man.”

“What’s that mean, the other man?”

“The other guy she posted. The other photo.”

“Is there a way for me to see that photo?” I said.

“’Course. It was the last one she posted. Right above yours. Just scroll up.”

I went back to the photo website and scrolled up on my computer. Another photo came into view above mine. It was of a big guy, buzz-cut dark hair, heavy brow that obscured his eye color. He wore a brown bomber jacket that rose at an angle from his shoulders to his neck, lifted by thick webs of muscles. He had on faded jeans and running shoes. The man was smiling, but it looked to my jaded eyes like the fake grin of a predator. Like that of the Dock Artist. I looked at the photo, trying to see the Dock Artist in the face. It was a possibility. But not a certainty.

 To the sides of the photo were the same white curtains as in the photo of me.

Under the photo it said, ‘This could be the wolf the detective told me about, ha, ha. But he’s a hunk, that’s for sure.’

“It looks like she took this photo from the same place as mine,” I said. “Looking out her living room windows.”

“‘Course,” Emily said. “I recognize the neighbors’ cars.”

“All of them?”

“All the cars, yeah. But not the van. That must be the man’s.”

Behind the man, at the left side of the photo was part of a white cargo van facing out of the picture. It looked like a standard, generic cargo van. Just like the one that belonged to the Dock Artist. Just like the one that was in the convenience store security tape. Just like tens of thousands of other white cargo vans.

“Have you ever seen that van before?” I asked.