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

  “You’re her friend. Why haven’t you come out in her defense?”

  “I’m also her attorney, and, in a court of law, I would defend her, but, as her attorney, I’m not free to do otherwise.”

  “But you’re speaking to me.”

  “Yes, but only after I saw how much you care for her. Besides, Sarah gave her permission—I called her after Netta made your appointment.”

  “Are my feelings that obvious?” Steven asked, now totally unnerved.

  “Not too obvious. Reading people is part of my job. How did you fall in love with her if you doubted her innocence?”

  “Because I was enchanted with her before I knew her. But I relied on information from a friend from the Seattle police force. It’s why I’m here. Now, I know the truth, and it’s my duty to offer her protection, I have to maintain my objectivity. It’s my job, but you’re right—she’s made quite an impact.”

  “Why does Sarah need protection?”

  “Sarah’s the target of a man who has already killed two women. He first killed on November fourteenth, and again on December fourteenth. He sends her a cruel valentine card, and a clue that leaves no doubt he’s killed these women.”

  “There you have it, Detective. You catch this man, and you’ve caught Michael’s killer too.”

  “So you believe Michael was murdered?”

  “Of course. I always have, and so has Sarah. Although, she’s never admitted her thoughts publicly. We’ve both read the accident report. How could a new Porsche not have working brakes?”

  “Which leads to my next question. Why didn’t Sarah sue the dealership, or the manufacturer? She could’ve gotten forensic experts—”

  “We did. Get the experts, I mean. One from Porsche and one of the best forensic mechanics in the country. Sarah paid to fly them here so they could investigate, but the car went missing. They couldn’t prove one way or the other—”

  “The car’s gone? Are you sure?”

  “The car vanished from the police impound lot, and, as far as I know, they’ve never recovered it. It’s why they closed the case so quickly. The department had egg on their face, so they wanted this to go away, and fast.”

  Steven could not believe what he was hearing. He stood and began to pace.

  “Do you have a suspect?” Steiner inquired, watching Steven closely.

  “A former boyfriend. She walked out on him unexpectedly eight years ago. She refuses to cooperate with us, so we have nothing else to go on.”

  “Sounds like you’re on the right track, but Sarah’s loyal. After everything the police put her through when Michael died, you can understand why she wouldn’t wish the same treatment on a friend, ex-boyfriend or not.”

  “You’re a wise man, Mr. Steiner. Thank you for your time and your advice.” Steven reached across the desk to shake his hand.

  “Does Sarah know how you feel?”

  The question caught Steven off guard. “No… I can’t… not yet. I’m in charge of this case.”

  Steiner stood. “Detective Quaid, I like you. You have my blessing. Although, knowing Sarah, your honesty will do her the most good now. Share your feelings with her, detective. She could use the hope.” Steiner walked around his desk.

  Steven had no answer, but Steiner’s words made him think. Could he tell her? No, his job would not allow it. They walked to the door.

  “Take care of her, detective. She’s a very special lady. She deserves to be happy.” He shook Stevens’ hand, and patted his shoulder.

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you.” Steven left with a spring in his step.

  His next stop was the art gallery, where Sarah’s work was on display. He wanted to see it, and needed to understand all there was to know about the woman he loved.

  Her work captivated him. Steven was no expert, but he knew what he liked. Sarah’s comprehension of the beauty of the Alaskan frontier was outstanding. He knew words could not adequately describe the wilderness of Alaska, but Sarah had captured it in her paintings. A raw and sometimes harsh existence intensified by the hues from her brush beckoned him.

  Myrtle Wallenberg’s words echoed in his mind. You just have to look at her paintings to tell where her heart is. For Steven, viewing her art released the emotions he had tried so hard to deny, the beginning of no return, where all objectivity was gone. He remembered his quick assessment of guilt and knew he needed to see her, to apologize, and to let her know he believed in her innocence.

  The breeze was light, the day sunny and the view over the Pacific seemed endless. Cliff House sat a mile off the main road, it was a large cape cod style home surrounded by tall pines and a massive and landscaped yard impressive for its size, but more so for its majestic setting. Early on Christmas Eve, Steven knocked on the door of Sarah’s stately home, and a woman of about sixty answered it. With a bright smile, she ushered him in before asking his name. “Sarah’s out with her sketch pad, but I expect her any time. What’d you say your name was?”

  “Steven Quaid. I’m a friend of Sarah’s from Anchorage. I was in Seattle on business, and had some extra time. I thought I’d drive out and wish her a merry Christmas. See how she’s doing.”

  “Well, Mr. Quaid, I’m Opal. My husband, Cecil, is out buying some last-minute gifts. He always waits until the last minute. Do you have your shopping done?”

  “No, I don’t shop.”

  “No one to buy for?” She asked curiously. “Sorry, just ignore me. I’ve a tendency to talk too much any time I get company.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your afternoon.” He followed her to the kitchen, where the baking of Christmas cookies appeared to the a major undertaking.

  “Not at all. I’m glad Sarah’s making new friends. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” She went ahead and poured one without waiting for an answer. “Here, try some of these.”

  She set a plate of freshly baked cookies in front of him. He sampled one and sighed happily.

  “These are delicious. Mrs. Stansberry, Sarah said you were the best cook this side of the Mississippi, and if these are any hint, I’ve no argument.”

  “Thank you.” A huge smile spread across her face. “Please call me Opal.”

  “How’s Sarah?”

  “Oh, she’s fine, just fine. We’re so glad she went home to Alaska. Going home has done wonders for her, although I still think she’s unhappy. We should’ve expected it, coming back to all those memories. Michael gave her this house the day they married. Did she tell you? They had a love you just knew would last through the ages. It’s such a shame, the way he died. We thought we were going to lose Sarah, too. After losing Mr. Palmer and the babies, she lost her will. Such grief—but Cecil and I, we took care of her.”

  “Why do you think she’s unhappy?

  “Just a feeling.” She put another tray of cookies in the oven. “I must be boring you, Mr. Quaid. If you want, look around, take a tour—it’s a beautiful home. Mr. Palmer did a wonderful job restoring the place. I have to get back to my baking. We go all out. Sarah and Cecil spend Christmas day taking the cookies around to friends, and the nursing homes. They make a day of it. He’s Santa and she’s his helper, and two people couldn’t be closer than those two. She calls him Poppa, and he’s, well, he’s proud.” Her smile broadened as memories took her attention. “Sorry, as soon as the cookies have cooled, we make Christmas Eve a party, boxing and wrapping them. Sarah’s an expert with wrapping paper. She loves Christmas. Oh, dear, there I go again.”

  Steven chuckled, and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “You go back to your baking, I’ll take the tour. Besides, I ate too many, and now I need the exercise.”

  She blushed and waved him off.

  The house was large and roomy. The living room stretched the entire length of the house, and a magnificent view from the two large, bay windows overlooked the ocean. Despite the view, the fireplace was the centerpiece of the room. It was the largest fireplace he’d ever seen, and the carvings told a sto
ry of a time when the Quileute Indians populated the land. It was as magnificent as the old Totems of the Tlingit tribe. He ran his hand over the wood, amazed by the detail, but especially the skill of the carver. All the woodwork, from the door trimmings to the oak floorboards, spoke of the love of the creator and the restorer. The living room gave a feeling of warmth and richness with its homespun rugs and collection of antique furnishings. French doors led to a wrap-around porch, and he imagined the many summer days spent watching the sunsets over the ocean.

  The entire house gave the impression of being a Christmas fantasyland, and Steven imagined Sarah sitting by the tree amongst children, gifts, and tinsel. He was daydreaming about a future with her, and he had not even kissed her yet; at least, not the way he wanted to.

  He followed the oak staircase up to a guest room. The décor was feminine, and held pictures of Sarah’s parents, and Sarah with them on the slopes, but a painting over the bed made the biggest impression. Sarah’s mother, Jody, had a wolf cub in her arms. She was smiling with delight, her smile contagious, like a yawn, and Steven smiled too.

  Jody’s beauty was undeniable, and Steven could see where Sarah got her attractiveness. The strangest thing was the absence of her father from the painting. A smaller photograph of the same scene sat on the dresser, and why Jason was not in the larger portrait, seemed odd. Steven wondered why. The wedding photographs clearly showed that Jason loved his wife. But a closer look at the other photographs showed his absence from any photo that included Sarah, and that spoke volumes.

  In Sarah’s room, another fireplace dominated. Bay windows looked out over the same view, an endless ocean rushing forward to meet the land. Distracted, he jumped when he heard someone behind him. Emma came in, carrying fresh towels. Seeing the confused look on her face, he offered his hand to reassure her.

  “Oh, excuse me. Opal said I could take a tour while I waited for Sarah. I’m Steven Quaid. And you are?”

  “Emma. I’m Sarah’s housekeeper,” she shook his hand.

  “I thought Opal was the housekeeper.”

  “She is. I keep house for Sarah in Anchorage. Cecil and Opal are kin; I came down to help prepare for the holidays.”

  “I’ve seen Sarah’s Anchorage home. A major responsibility for one person.”

  “Oh, I just supervise the help, do some cooking, and try to keep Sarah organized. She works too hard for someone so young.”

  He could see she was beginning to relax. Emma was taller than Opal, but much plumper—and more cautious, he noted.

  “Can I get you something to eat, Mr. Quaid? You look a bit lean.”

  No one had called Steven “lean” since grade school. He smiled at the thought. “I did eat a few of Opal’s cookies, but since I skipped lunch today, something without sugar sounds great.”

  “Then you come with me. We have a roast and fresh baked bread—makes my mouth water just talking about it.”

  Steven followed her back into the kitchen and let Emma prepare him a sandwich stuffed with roast beef, Swiss cheese, and homemade mustard. He complimented Emma on the meal, and then steered the conversation back to Sarah.

  “I’ve heard Sarah’s father taught her that showing emotion was a sign of weakness?”

  Both women had their hands in cookie dough with flour up to their elbows. Opal appeared thoughtful, but answered, “Possible, and makes sense. Explains her reluctance to ask for help. She never shares her worries.”

  “Why?”

  “Sarah grew up alone; her parents usually left her for nine months at a time. She only had nannies, and I understand they changed frequently. She had no one to confide in. I’m sure she learned early on to stand on her own two feet. And, to please her father, she’d have done most anything.” Opal was thoughtful for a minute and then continued, “Only child syndrome. With big families, it’s different. Do you come from a big family, Mr. Quaid?”

  “Yes, I have two sisters, but a very large extended family.”

  Emma finally spoke. “Mr. Quaid, why all the interest in our Sarah? Can I ask what your intentions are?”

  “Steven, please call me Steven. I plan to marry Sarah,” Steven said, surprising even himself with how easily that slipped out. “Just don’t tell her. We haven’t even had a first date, yet.”

  The jaws of both women fell open in surprise. They stared at him, then at each other, and smiled. Emma poured him another cup of coffee. Opal gave him some fresh cookies from the oven. They spent the next half hour discussing Steven—who he was, how he met Sarah, and how soon before wedding bells would ring. He fudged a little on some of the answers, but shared most of the truth.

  “And, well, the wedding will be up to Sarah,” he announced proudly.

  “Her other friend, the one who showed up on Friday to take Sarah to the party, he has an interest in her too, but there’s something shifty about him. I didn’t like him, especially after Sarah returned from Seattle a lot sadder than when she left. Looks like you’ve got some competition, Mr. Quaid, but you have me and Opal in your corner,” Emma assured him.

  “I’m so glad she’s got someone like John to look out for her. Another marriage is just what she needs. I hope you want lots of children, Mr. Quaid.”

  Steven had been lost in thought since the mention of Chase. What made Sarah sad about his visit?

  “Who wants lots of children?” Sarah asked cheerfully from the hall. She entered the kitchen and stopped suddenly when her gaze fell on Steven.

  Sarah came into the room looking healthy. Her golden hair lacked the usual curl, making her look even younger. Her soft cotton blouse and blue denim skirt hugged her curves just the way Steven wanted to. He did not think she was too thin or too pale. She shone like a shiny, new penny, and he had to restrain himself from taking her in his arms and proposing right on the spot.

  “Oh, Sarah, a wonderful surprise! Another friend from Anchorage. I’m afraid we’ve been filling his stomach with food, and his mind with idle gossip.”

  “Mr. Quaid, this is a surprise. Are you here on business?”

  “I had business in Seattle. I drove out to say hello, and see how you’re doing.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. Isn’t your family expecting you?”

  “No, my parents retired to Hawaii a couple of years ago.”

  “Then you’ll just have to spend Christmas with us,” Emma volunteered. “We have plenty of room. I’ll just check the linens.”

  “Of course, Mr. Quaid. You’re more than welcome.” Sarah seconded the housekeeper’s offer.

  “Thank you, I will, but please call me Steven.”

  “Steven, would you like me to show you to your room?” Sarah watched him carefully.

  “Actually, I was hoping for a tour of the grounds. It’s a beautiful evening. Would you mind?” The formality of the conversation was getting to him. Steven wanted to be alone with her.

  “No, of course not.” Sarah put her jacket back on and led the way.

  They left the house and, for a few moments, neither spoke. Steven broke the silence.

  “Emma said you came home sadder than when you left. What happened?”

  “Nothing, really. Scott knows when to take his opportunities. I was an emotional wreck after Friday night, but Saturday, when I had my feet back under me, we couldn’t seem to see eye to eye.” She stopped walking. “Why are you here, detective?”

  “I came to apologize. I’m not quite sure how to do that, though. I spent the weekend investigating Michael’s death. I know everything, and yet nothing, but I’m positive you didn’t kill your husband. You were right: I based my assessment on rumor. I misjudged you. I’m sorry.” He closed his mouth, giving Sarah a chance to respond.

  Sarah began walking again, more than a little surprised at the apology. “I wasn’t expecting—thank you.”

  Steven watched as she continued down the path, and he saw an immediate change: her relief. Her shoulders were straighter, her step lighter, her body more fluid. He had to hurry to catch up.
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  “I know I’ve been less than cooperative. I just didn’t know how to fight the gossip. But you’re sure Michael was murdered?” She turned to face him.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. The evidence, what little there is, still points to murder. I agree with John: the person responsible for Michael’s death and the valentines are most likely the one and the same.”

  She was silent. He wanted to take her in his arms and convince her that he would make things right. Steven never expected the difficulty he would have in being so close to her, or the agony that keeping his distance would cause. He was in love with her, and had been since the first night he saw her making snow angels in the park. He’d seen the free spirit she kept hidden beneath a carefully controlled exterior, and he wanted to set her free, to see her fly without fear. Steven wanted to be her guide. He wanted her.

  “I’m afraid we’re no closer to solving this than before, unless you can recall something new.”

  “Like what?”

  “Did anyone else know about the car?” He waited for an answer, and she appeared to be considering it. “Anyone?”

  “Other than Gerry, no, I’m sorry, I was trying to recall the days before his birthday. I didn’t tell anyone. I’m afraid I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  They arrived at the knoll—the one in the portrait. Steven recognized it immediately.

  “This is where Michael stood,” he immediately regretted his words.

  “Yes, this was our favorite spot. The memories are happy, and I still feel him here.”

  She smiled, and Steven’s heart felt lighter, but her next words surprised him.

  “After he died, I came out here, to Cliff House, and waited. I thought for sure the person responsible would make their move. I expected a run on his company, a power struggle, but nothing. When I announced Gerry was going to be president, there was no argument, no one balked. The transition was smooth, flawless. Then I thought someone had killed him to get to me.” She frowned. “For a moment I forgot I was a gold digger, the black widow. I think most of them were afraid the rumors were true. I know a few of them still believe I killed him. I’ve gone over everything, from the first day I met Michael to the last day I saw him, and nothing—no one has ever even come close to stirring my suspicions. I don’t know why Michael died. I don’t know who gained by his death.”