Secrets Don't Sink, page 13
After I’d gotten off the phone with Holden that morning, I’d rousted Viv out of bed so she could drive me to Darren’s to pick up my car.
She was scheduled for an in-person interview that afternoon with Kimball for the temporary receptionist job. I’d contemplated telling Viv I suspected Kimball harbored a crush on her but had decided against it. If I was right, she’d figure it out on her own.
I’d spent the morning catching up on work that had fallen through the cracks. My contributions for the week were written, proofed, and emailed to Anderson. Phone calls to neglected advertisers were returned with an abundant sweet-talking. I’d missed a voicemail from the Jewish senior center requesting me to cover their widows’ luncheon the following afternoon. After calling to confirm I’d be there, I entered it into The Current’s shared online work calendar. Anderson liked to have visibility on our schedules in case something came up and he needed to get someone to cover a story.
Dani, the forensic artist, had emailed a copy of the sketch and asked me to make certain I was confident about its accuracy before it got passed on to CPD. I responded it was probably as close as we would get. I forwarded the sketch to Mildred, asking if she knew who the man was. I asked her to call me or Holden if she could identify him. I considered sending it to Holden but figured Kimball would send him the official version.
My Volvo climbed the slushy hill with little protest, and I was grateful my dad had talked me into getting all-wheel drive. “Linger” by the Cranberries lilted from my speakers, with intermittent interruptions from my nav. Dolores and I belted out the second chorus together, but I was left hanging when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak to Audrey O’Connell, please?” The throaty voice carried a military cadence.
“Yes, Chief Kimball, it’s me.”
“I wanted to thank you for recommending your sister for the job. I did a phone interview with her yesterday evening, and she’s coming in for a face-to-face in about an hour. It’s looking promising.” She sounded as giddy as a no-nonsense cop could be and didn’t even correct me about calling her Chief instead of Assistant Chief.
“That’s great. I’m glad it sounds like it’s going to work out.”
“It’s against my better judgment to hire a relative of a murder suspect, but I did speak with Nick Anderson, and he verified he’d sent you down to make his slip payment. I also spoke with Gunita at the marina office, who corroborated your arrival time. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t clear you completely. The TOD could have taken place between your leaving the paper and arriving at the marina. It does, however, narrow the window enough for me to consider you unlikely to be the perpetrator.”
“That’s a relief, I guess. Was that the only thing you were calling about? I’m getting ready to head into a meeting.”
“Dani sent over the sketch. She said you believe it’s an accurate representation, is that correct?”
“As good as it can be.”
“And do you recognize the man?” she asked.
“No. Hopefully, somebody does. Are you planning to send a copy to Holden?”
“Why would I do that?”
“He and I have been kind of working together on figuring all this out. He may recognize the guy. I was gonna forward him the copy I got this morning, but I figured as City Manager, he’d be getting the official version.”
“Ms. O’Connell, I suggest you muster a bit of gratitude about the fact I’ve all but cleared you of this murder. Stay in your lane, and let me do my job.”
“We’re all trying to accomplish the same goal, to find Marcus’s killer.”
“If you interfere with or impede my investigation, it will not turn out well for you. In fact, I will take that to be a sign you have something to hide. You and Mr. Villalobos need to back off. Have I made myself clear?”
I didn’t enjoy being chastised. “Gotcha.”
I disconnected the call as my car neared the highest point of the hill where homes were larger and spaced farther apart. From that vantage point, the entire valley was visible, and beyond was a peekaboo view of Puget Sound.
Towering western hemlocks, pines, aspen, and a few interspersed cottonwood trees shrouded the road which still had stretches of snow and ice which had yet to melt. I turned into a lengthy steep driveway, at the end of which the sun shone upon a large single-story modern home with vaulted ceilings and an unobstructed view.
A rocky half-wall separated the front of the property from the rear yard which dropped off like an infinity edge to the snow-covered valley below. Emerald arborvitae shrubs waved their welcome, and I hoped their owner would be as hospitable. Beyond the valley, the white-topped Olympic Mountains rose high in the west while ominous storm clouds hovered above the churning Puget Sound. I reassured myself it wasn’t an omen, just typical winter weather.
What must it have been like for the Coast Salish People to stand on this ridge, observing strangers infiltrate their land? Were they curious? Fearful? Angry? I turned to face the home of Jonathan’s descendent. Had Peter, living in his mansion enjoying the spoils of his family’s appropriation, ever thought about them? Did he care at all?
The slate path was lined with large boulders and shrubs leading to the porch. From somewhere inside, a bloodhound warbled along with the doorbell chimes. A shadow passed the frosted windows, and I prepared my most congenial face. The door opened to reveal a short, thickset man with a balding head and russet walrus-like mustache. My mouth went dry, and my blood ran cold.
Chapter Fifteen
“You lost?”
As I stood face-to-face with the parking spot thief, my mind screamed “run,” but my feet were leaden.
“Are you stupid?” Peter’s disparagement jolted me from my daze.
“Uh, no, I’m not lost.” I offered an unsteady hand. “My name is Audrey O’Connell. I apologize for arriving unannounced. I’m doing a feature on Chattertowne and the Kupit Festival for the Coastal Current. I was hoping you might be willing to give insight into your family’s history.”
My hand hung in the air. Peter’s remained at his side. Both my hand and smile faltered. He brusquely gestured for me to enter. Kimball’s warnings to not interfere with the investigation rang in my mind, but there was little I could do at that point other than let the scenario play itself out.
Few items adorned the walls. There was minimal color and even less warmth. The windows, however, were panoramic.
“Your view is extraordinary.”
“After a while, you get used to it.”
His oversized leather recliner was heavily weathered and appeared to be the only item not meticulously cared for, although perhaps he rarely got visitors, leaving the other furniture barely used.
He waved his hand at the espresso leather sectional which faced the fireplace, and I took that as an invitation to sit. Above the mantle, a framed map of St. Andrew’s Golf Course hung next to a single wooden antique club mounted diagonally onto tartan plaid fabric. Hooks to mount a crosswise club were empty.
“Very cool.” I indicated the showpiece.
He glanced up at it, did a double take, and grumbled an unintelligible response. Perched on the sofa’s edge, I pulled my notepad from my satchel with trembling hands.
“In the library archives, I came across the knife you donated, the one which used to belong to your great grandfather Jonathan.”
“My three-times great grandfather.”
“Right. The Chattertons have an amazing legacy, and I could write about your family based on previously published documents. However, I was hoping to get an insider perspective. Say, for example, if there are any untold stories.”
Peter’s scowl deepened, his face more clearly resembling the man who’d nearly knocked me down on the docks. “Are you trying to dig up dirt on my family? Is that what this is, a hit piece? Another shakedown?” His voice rose an octave and several decibels. He leaned forward, his stubby hairy index finger pointing at me. At least his fingernails looked clean. “You workin’ with that Veracitater or whatever the hell he calls himself?”
My eyes widened at his mention of Marcus. “No, like I said, I’m a feature writer for the Coastal Current.” Digging through my bag for ID and locating it at the bottom, I thrust it toward him, my hands trembling. Adhered to the back was a neon pink reminder to buy tampons. I yanked the note and crumpled it.
He snatched the lanyard from my outstretched hand, examined both sides and raised his head to look at me. “What do you want? What are you after?”
“Marcus Washburn, er, uh, the Veracitater. Did he contact you?”
Peter’s features were so tight his face practically collapsed in upon itself. “Yeah, he called me a while back after that tweaker mom of his died. He was ramblin’ on about some garbage that woman told him. I told him she was crazy, and so was he for believing her, but he wouldn’t drop it.”
“Is that what you meant by another shakedown? Was he attempting to blackmail you?”
“He wasn’t blackmailin’ me, but he was makin’ outrageous claims about what he believed he was owed from me and my family, and there were threats involved.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the exact definition of extortion.”
“It’s all rubbish! Whatever proof he thought he had woulda never held up in court.”
“Did he—” I hesitated, but at that point, I had nothing to lose. “Did he ask you about Nettie?”
Peter’s hooded eyes sharpened like a falcon eying its prey. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Audrey O’Connell.” My voice came out strong despite my fear, instilling just enough bravado in me to believe I might be able to make it out of there…and not on a gurney.
“You from around these parts? Is your family?”
He was probing, but for what I couldn’t determine.
“I was raised in Chattertowne. My dad came to the area for college, met my mom, and never left. My mom’s family’s been here for…well, forever, I guess. Probably since not long after Jonathan arrived.”
“What’s your mom’s name? Who are her people? Tell me their names.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Humor me.”
“My mom’s maiden name was Bristow.”
Bristow,” he repeated. “And?”
“And what?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know. What is this, an episode of Finding Your Roots?”
He stared, unblinking, and I squirmed.
“There are some Harrises in there, and I think my great-great grandmother Aunt Fanny was a Dedeaux.”
A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
“What difference does it make?” I asked. “Can we please talk about Nettie?”
After a long silence, Peter answered with eerie calm. “What do you know about Nettie?”
“If I knew about Nettie, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What did he tell you? Marcus, I mean. Did he offer to cut you in if you wrote an article spreadin’ his theories?” He leaned toward me, his forearms resting on his thighs. “How much money did he promise you’d get after he squeezed it outta me?”
If Peter had uttered the words “an offer you can’t refuse,” it wouldn’t have been surprising. My survival instincts were kicking in, my fight-or-flight response screamed flight, and I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. It would take a finesse I wasn’t sure I possessed but was determined to try and muster.
“Nothing. He told me nothing. He promised me nothing. I’m not here to blackmail you, Peter. I want to tell the authentic story of Chattertowne and your family, not the legends we’ve been fed year after year. I was researching leads for my article, and Marcus’s Veracitater website came up. Unfortunately, the link to his blog about Nettie seems to be dead.”
“Like Marcus himself.” Peter gave a mirthless chuckle and slapped his thighs. “Well, that’s the end of that, then, huh? Can’t stir trouble when you’re six feet under, now, can you?”
I jumped from the sofa, startling us both. “Very true. Hey, sorry to cut and run. I’ve got another appointment…with, uh, Assistant Police Chief Kimball at City Hall. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. She might send someone out looking for me.”
Peter rose. “Kimball can wait. If you’d like, I can make a call and let her know you’ll be late to your appointment. You didn’t get what you came for yet, what you really came to find out,” he taunted. “Come on, Audrey, don’t you wanna know if I killed Marcus Washburn?”
I hesitated before responding. “Did you? Never mind. Don’t tell me anything. Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”
His laugh sounded hollow. “Don’t work like that, Miss O’Connell. You’re really somethin’, ya know that? You think it’s that easy? You ask a question like that, and you think I’m just gonna spill my guts?”
“Ah, yes, well, so sorry, I guess I mismanaged my time. I wish I could stay and play whatever game this is, but I’ve got somewhere to be.” I gave a look of faux chagrin mixed with equally false indignation. I reached down to snag my bag.
“Why don’t you sit so we can finish our conversation, Audrey. Kimball will wait.”
It wasn’t a request. The gun in his hand pointed at me, indicated he either didn’t believe my excuses or didn’t care.
Chapter Sixteen
I was at least twenty minutes from town. A few people knew where I was, but by the time anyone got there, it would be too late. Peter jerked his head and the gun toward the sofa. Holden had been right. I shouldn’t have gone alone, and I needed protection. Unfortunately, those revelations were useless to me now. Easing back onto the sectional, I stared across the coffee table and postured my body to give off what I hoped was an aura of self-assurance. My sole goal at that point was survival.
“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”
“The beginning of what?” I asked. “The beginning of Chattertowne?”
“If you’d like. Tell me what your research has revealed so far. What do you think you know about my family? What do you think you know about Nettie?” He slouched and crossed his arms over his round belly. The gun hung loosely in his right hand.
“Well, I came across a book…”
“Lemme guess. George Hart’s book.”
“How did you know?”
“I shoulda dealt with him years ago. He swore to my father he’d keep his yap shut. The only reason my father didn’t chuck him into the river with a cement block was because my grandfather begged him not to.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but that seems cruelly ironic considering your father took his own life in the river.”
“If you believe that, I got a bridge to sell ya.”
“What do you mean?” If I was gonna die, I might as well go knowing the truth.
“My father was murdered. Nobody commits suicide in the river, ‘specially not in December. If they do, they jump from a bridge. They tried to make it look like his guilty conscience got the better of ‘im, but I know better. He wouldn’t do himself that way.”
“Who benefitted from killing Jimmy but staging it as a suicide?”
“Are you daft?”
I recognized a rhetorical question when I heard one.
“He was connected. A Chatterton family legacy, I guess you could say. He was about to be indicted and they killed him to shut him up, keep him from testifying. They made it look like a suicide to keep the heat off everybody else.”
I leaned forward, momentarily forgetting I had a gun aimed in my general direction. “Who killed him?”
“Let’s just say there are lotsa people in this town who don’t got clean hands. They knew my pops could take ‘em all down. He possessed enough…insurance, shall we say, to burn this city to the ground. Metaphorically speaking, o’course.” His unfocused gaze darted around the room.
“Did Jimmy throw David Washburn into the Jeannetta River with a cinder block tied to his ankle?”
Peter looked at me with amusement. “Look, I’m not sayin’ he killed him. I’m not sayin’ he didn’t. David Washburn was a troublemaker, and his son was an apple off the same tree. David saw things he shouldn’t have, got his hands on information that shoulda stayed buried in the past, and, also like his son, he thought he could make a quick buck by shakin’ my family tree. You wanna swim with sharks, there’s a good chance you’ll end up sleepin’ with the fishes instead.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“So, was that what Marcus was attempting to hold over you? Your father’s crimes and involvement with David’s disappearance?”
“Nah, I mean, he asked about his dad, but I didn’t have the answers he was lookin’ for. Besides, he was more focused on the other story. The one you were fishing around about.”
“About Nettie?” I asked.
“That damn Nettie. Couldn’t keep her legs shut. Took advantage of the poor man while he was still grievin’ his dead wife.”
“I find it difficult to believe Nettie was in any position to take advantage of a white man in the mid-1800s, but you’re saying she and Jonathan were in a romantic relationship?” I did my best to control the eagerness in my voice. It was the type of information I’d been hoping to get from the meeting… minus the hostage part.
“No. I’m sayin’ he was screwin’ her, wasn’t no romance about it.”
“Maybe they were in love.” Why was I arguing with a man holding a gun on me?
“He mighta been. No accountin’ for taste, ‘specially when your options are limited. She was just a gold digger who got herself knocked up, probably on purpose to trap him.”
“Peter.”
“What?” he grumbled, presumably distracted by angry thoughts of Nettie.
“Why are you pointing a gun at me? You’re not going to kill me…like you killed Marcus.”
