Murder, Madness & Love (Detective Quaid Mysteries #1) Read online

  "Renée weaves a crafty tale, so rich in the Alaskan landscape and rhythms that at times I got lulled into thinking this was a delightfully 'cozy' mystery. Only then some brutal murder would flash before my eyes and I'd be all like, 'Whoa!' I feel like, beneath the charming world Sarah was desperately trying to recreate, there was this Dean Koontzian edge of crazy that totally kept me on the edge of my seat." ~Mina Lobo (Amazon Reviewer, for Murder, Madness & Love)

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  In loving memory of Lillie Opal Stansberry

  Sarah Palmer becomes Chairman of the Board as investigations into her husband’s death continue.

  (UPDATE NEWS – September 21, 20XX) Sarah Palmer, widow of Michael Palmer, has taken on the role of Chairman of the Board for the Palmer Corporation, one year after the death of her husband. The company, which her husband built from a one-room storefront to a multi-million dollar business resource company, has flourished under the guidance of the former corporate attorney and his best friend, Gerald Kessler. Mrs. Palmer, a graduate of the University of Washington, recently moved back to her hometown of Anchorage, Alaska. Is it possible this talented artist is getting away with murder?

  Despite labeling Michael Palmer’s death an accident, official sources have reported that there is an ongoing investigation into the unusual circumstances. Netta Greenwald, Michael Palmer’s aunt, has also hired private investigators to look into her nephew’s death. Mrs. Greenwald claims Michael Palmer wanted to end his marriage, a plan he shared with her just a week before his death.

  Thrown clear of the Porsche 918 Spyder, Michael Palmer died of a broken neck when his vehicle careened off the road and into a stand of trees. His young wife, Sarah Davis, had generously presented him with the Spyder after his thirty-eighth birthday luncheon at the Herbfarm Restaurant in Woodinville, Washington.

  Estimated speeds were as high as 90 mph, as Palmer broke in his gift, but speed was only a contributing factor. To avoid children exiting a school bus, he swerved off the road, at which point, the vehicle hit a tree and was engulfed in flames.

  While experts believe the car’s brakes had malfunctioned, the fire destroyed any evidence of tampering. The question remains: how could a brand new Porsche, just delivered from the showroom floor, not have working brakes? Various local media outlets suspect Mrs. Palmer of foul play, labeling her a black widow seeking full control of her late husband’s millions, as well as the corporation.

  Will these questions ever be answered, and justice found for the young entrepreneur? Will Sarah Palmer ever be free of the black widow label? Police Detective Terry O’Conner, believes that the evidence is out there and that, while the case has gone cold, secrets never stay secrets forever.

  November 14th—10:00 p.m.

  ebra pulled up the collar of her jacket and stared out at the arctic gale battering the city. “Well, it’s do or die. See you tomorrow,” she said to Ginger, her best friend.

  “Deb, you’ve nothing to prove.” Ginger’s words were barely audible over the sound of the storm as Debra opened the door.

  She stepped across the threshold. “Yes, I do. I have to prove I’m as tough as any Alaskan!”

  Debra waved and leaned into the wind, wishing she had listened to Ginger and bought that ugly parka. Instead, she braved the stinging wind and sleet, resolved that Alaska’s elements would not beat her this time. Her mood quickly shifted from determination to irritation when the cold air tore at her clothes. Sharp fingers of ice brutally needled her in places familiar only with warmth.

  “I hate this place!” she grumbled.

  Determination pushed her forward when common sense should have won out and sent her back inside. You can do this. Halfway through the alley, Debra spotted her car. A co-worker had cleared the SUV of snow. Thank god for friends. Debra pushed the remote button on her key chain to start it and felt a sense of accomplishment. Now all she had to do was master the drive home. Her joy was fleeting, as hands clamped down on her shoulders.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” She barely had the words out before a gloved hand closed over her mouth. Utter helplessness and cold steel, slicing deep, registered in her mind as reality changed from surviving a winter storm to sheer terror.

  “Oh, god.” Debra wanted to cry, but her stifled screams became gurgles, as she choked on blood.

  Released from captivity, she sank to the ground like a deflated balloon. Her hands, finally free from immobilizing fear, reached for her throat. Lifeblood poured between her fingers, and her final seconds moved in slow, deliberate steps. Debra fell back into a soft pillow of snow. Oh, god! Please, don’t let me die. She screamed in her mind because her larynx no longer worked.

  A shadow appeared. Debra tried to raise her leaden arms skyward, to reach for rescue, but they fell limply at her sides when she realized her attacker stood above her.

  “Why? Why me?” She tried to speak, but her jaw only jerked lamely. The words bounced soundlessly in her skull. Critically weakened, she fought to cling tightly to the life being so savagely stolen from her.

  She stared up into the falling snow, but could no longer feel the sting of its chill. The arctic air rapidly extinguished the last embers of her life. Tears froze on her eyelashes, and snowflakes—numerous and unrelenting—began to cover her with an icy blanket. Blood poured from the open wound, sending spirals of steam, and Debra’s essence, heavenward.

  11:00 p.m.

  The falling snow, and its furious hurry to leave the heavens, mesmerized Sarah, and several feet had already fallen, making concentration difficult. A stack of papers lay, untouched, on her desk, a testament to the current object of her procrastination. Quarterly financial reports simply did not hold the ambiance of the snowstorm. Entranced, Sarah could not resist the storm’s inviting whispers. After hours of blizzard-like conditions, the snow now fell gaily, like weightless sparkles of light. As if by magic, the city lights reflected off the clouds and helped to vanquish the blackness of winter to another time. Sarah’s newfound joy began to lift her lingering heartache and, for the first time in a long while, she felt adventurous.

  The unnatural light gave the park across the street the appearance of a fantasy world, where snow angels sang while gnomes and fairies danced. The clock chimed eleven, breaking the spell and spurring Sarah to action. She dressed warmly and hurried to the park to make the season’s first snow angel. Twenty-two of her twenty-seven years fell away as she marveled at the snowflakes caught on her sleeve. Her first real snowfall in eight years—Sarah finally felt welcome in her hometown.

  Joyfully, Sarah played. She fell back on a snow bank, waving her arms and legs to displace the snow around her body, and then jumped to her feet to admire the impression she had created. Pleased with herself, she smiled, gazed skyward, and opened her mouth to taste the cold, wet flakes.

  Wishing she had her sketchbook, Sarah carefully recorded the scenes on the canvas of her mind. With an artist’s eye, she noted the snow-laden trees and bushes, the empty children’s swing and slide, the park benches and the ball field. Sarah immersed herself in this simple life experience, reveling in the reemergence of her creative energy.

  The death of her husband, Michael, a year earlier had left her empty and uninspired. The snowfall and her sudden, unbridled play had filled the black hole inside her heart with longing. Sarah wanted to capture the scene, the city’s night-lights, and the reflected colors of red, green, and orange, and imagined the blue and gray she would need to portray the evening
’s eerie brilliance. On a whim, she created a choir of angels on a snow bank and vowed to put it on canvas at her first opportunity.

  The fun and fantasy ended abruptly with a flashing light, and a screaming siren. Startled back into reality, she felt cold and realized she had played much too long. Sarah headed home, her joy erased by the harsh reality. Despair took hold again. She tried shaking off the darker mood, imagining the negativity floating away with the clouds moving east overhead. But, through the window of his unmarked truck, Sarah caught sight of the officer whose presence had reminded her unhappiness was always within reach. He nodded. She glared at him and trudged defiantly home.

  Midnight

  Detective Steven Quaid had definitely caught the young woman’s attention. The siren and light, meant to scare her into getting out of park, had done the job. She stopped playing and started walking—he hoped—home. Midnight was not a suitable hour to be alone anywhere in the city. And, while Steven understood the draw of the season’s first snowfall, he also knew firsthand the craziness the first snowstorm inspired.

  He wanted to yell at her. Go home! When she looked directly at him, and Steven found himself smiling and nodding, despite his concern. Not the teenager he expected: the woman’s eyes held a sparkle that was obvious, even in the subdued light, and Steven was certain he saw a look of confident defiance in them. He slowed and turned in his seat for another look. But his view of long hair turned white from the snowflakes caught in the curls, while lovely, disappointed him. He wanted to see her face.

  “Damn.” Had he just caught a glimpse of the woman of his dreams?

  Minutes earlier, Steven had spotted her from his apartment window. He smiled once or twice at her innocent play, his own memories of childhood fun tugging at him. A telephone call from the dispatch center had ended any thoughts of engaging her in a snowball fight. The department needed Steven downtown. A body discovered under the freshly fallen snow required his expertise, but, in answering the call, he detoured through the park to warn the young woman about the dangers of playing alone.

  A native Alaskan, Steven Quaid could trace his family’s heritage back to the gold miners who had settled the Alaskan frontier in the late eighteenth century, as well as the natives: the first stewards of the land. His father constantly reminded him of it, insisting a political responsibility existed simply because of his ancestry. His father, Daniel Quaid, a retired statesman, never lost hope that Steven would one day change his mind about being a cop and aim for a more prestigious occupation.

  Steven’s mother, who was a member of the Tlingit tribe, admired Steven’s success, and secretly gave her blessing for whatever choice he made. Steven had been a detective for more than ten years and had decided long ago he would never tire of the challenge each case brought.

  When he stopped at the intersection on the far side of the park, he surveyed the area. Finding the rest of the playground empty, Steven focused on the job before him, and made his way uptown, just five blocks from the park. Within minutes of the body’s discovery, the department had notified him. Once on scene, Steven maneuvered his truck through a maze of aid cars and black-and-whites, and his frame of mind became one of unswerving determination.

  Persistent and shrewd, Steven had unparalleled success in solving mysteries. While he could attribute his unyielding resolve, quick anger, and dry wit from his Irish father, his mother had contributed to his good looks, sharp intellect, and thoughtful manner. Thoughts of his first case haunted him as he approached the scene of this crime.

  Was Anchorage in for another bloody winter?

  Steven located the officer in charge. “Anderson, you the first on scene?”

  “Hawk…I mean, yes, sir,” The sergeant shook Steven’s hand.

  “How’d they ever find her in this blizzard?”

  “A city worker getting ready to clear the alley did his usual walk through for drunks. He noticed bloody tracks, and called 9-11 immediately. The snow covered her, but with some probing and a snow blower, we uncovered the body. We’re lucky this is a busy alley; otherwise, she might have been here until the spring thaw.” Sergeant Anderson paused for a moment, then continued. “The assailant cut her throat, and … well, you can see the mess we have here.”

  Steven realized words could never adequately describe such a scene. She rested in a puddle of red slush. The spilled blood stood out sharply against the whiteness of the freshly fallen snow, and Steven experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu.

  “Cheechako?”

  Cheechakos were what residents called folks who were unprepared for the Alaskan elements, and the victim’s thin leather jacket gave her away. Seasoned residents knew better. Anchorage was a city of some two hundred and seventy-five thousand people. During the summer, many seeking adventure came to enjoy the novelty of the midnight sun, but when the termination dust—snow—on the surrounding mountains appeared in early September, a quick migration south ensued.

  Once the temperatures dropped drastically, they quickly lost their desire for adventure. Long, dark hours and biting cold took their toll, and arctic storms gave witness to the ferocity of the weather. Steven knew that few cheechakos could survive nature’s worst, which required serious determination, common sense, respect for nature, and a definite love for Alaska’s uniqueness—traits few possessed.

  “Yeah, cheechako fits,” Anderson confirmed.

  “What else do we know?” Steven asked.

  D. J. Anderson, a five-year veteran of the force determined to make detective, was eager to please. So it didn’t surprise Steven when D. J. pulled out his notebook full of detailed notes. A native Alaskan from the Inuit tribe, and the first member of his family to graduate college, D. J. worked harder than most.

  “The victim is Debra Johnson, a twenty-eight-year-old cocktail waitress.” Anderson read from his notes. “Married to Cole Johnson. They live in Wasilla, and have two children. Employed by The Piano Bar since July. She left at ten o’clock, four hours before the end of her shift, because of the snowstorm. Her purse and car keys were in the snow alongside her. She’s still wearing her jewelry, and her wallet’s full of cash, so the motive wasn’t robbery. I have all her personal details, because Chancy’s been very cooperative. Oh, and the Chaplain’s on his way to inform the husband.” Anderson handed Steven the victim’s driver’s license.

  “Excellent.” He read over the card. “And the coroner?”

  “He should be here any minute.”

  Steven stared intently at the body, his gaze consistently drawn to the victim’s eyes. Her license told him they were green. Now, they stared heavenward, a muddy gray reflection of the drab concrete buildings that sat like silent sentinels to her horrific death. Steven saw surrender on her face: she had recognized death, stared it down, and accepted her fate. The thought chilled him. They knelt next to her, careful to avoid any contact with the blood.

  “The footprints belong to the city worker,” Anderson explained.

  Steven noticed they were marked evidence, but observed no others. “The snow is wet and heavy, probably obliterating any evidence of the killer’s footprints. Notice the blood on her thigh?”

  “Yeah, like he cleaned his knife there,” Anderson surmised.

  “Exactly, and, although she took a few minutes to die, she didn’t have a chance to fight. He came up from behind her. The direction of the cut, left to right—one deep, well-placed incision. The coroner will tell us the weapon and will get some evidence off her gloves, if we’re lucky.” Steven stood and looked around, taking in the whole scene.

  “Her car was running, and it’d been cleared of snow once. You think she forgot something and went back inside?” Anderson asked.

  Steven pondered the question. “She was attacked on her way to the parking lot. Good observation. What else?”

  Anderson continued his report. “We’ve cordoned off the entire alley and the parking lot, and I have two men gathering evidence, one searching the general area and the other is searching the vehi
cles. We have the permission of the owners; most of them are in the bar waiting to be questioned. You’ve worked with Andy Right and Don McNeil. We’ll collect film from all the security cameras in the area, but there’s not one camera back here—no break there. Still, the others will give us the comings and goings on the main thoroughfare.”

  “Excellent work. Are you interested in seeing this one through to completion?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Anderson stood up straight.

  “Good. I’m going inside. You stay on top of things out here and with the coroner. I’ll see you later, with the rest of the team.”

  “You got it.”

  The police photographer began recording the grisly scene.

  “Beautiful girl,” the photographer commented.

  “Yeah,” Steven grumbled. “They always are.”

  “Notice how she fell,” the photographer observed. “A snow angel. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Steven took notice and recalled the young woman he had seen playing in the park earlier. She had made a choir of snow angels. He left the scene, snow angels with green eyes occupying his thoughts as he made his way to the bar.

  Familiar with The Piano Bar, and its reputation as a stylish venue, Steven recalled the last time he’d enjoyed a drink and a dance here. He knew the owner, Chancy Forrest. Frequented by the upper class and sometimes referred to as Menopause Alley by the younger generation, it was now the scene of a brutal crime. A murder on Fourth Avenue, known for its topless entertainment, would not have been a revelation. He wondered how The Piano Bar patrons would receive the news of murder.

  Chancy and his employees had gathered near the kitchen. The customers were at the back, giving their names and addresses to several officers. Steven joined two other members of his homicide team: Helen Gabble and Joe Donner. They divided the work and began questioning the workers and customers individually.

  Chancy, the owner, claimed that Debra was a happily married mother of two and the sweetest person in the world, who had absolutely no enemies. A favorite with the customers, as evidenced by the size of her nightly tips, Debra was liked by everyone. She planned to work long enough to save for a down payment on some property her husband wanted in Wasilla. He had never noticed any problems with customers, and she never complained of harassment.