Cait drove with a tight knot in her chest. Cops knew fear like any ordinary citizen. She’d wasted no time replacing her police-issued Glock .22 with another after moving to California.
Hands tight on the wheel, she thought about the Mannings and wondered why they adopted Hank Dillon, a troubled boy, when they already had a grown son. There was no doubt in her mind the knife found in her yard belonged to Hank Dillon. What she wanted to know was why whoever it was waited two years to come after her.
Ilia’s yellow VW bug and Fumié’s Jeep were parked in the driveway in front of the house when she returned. Cait continued on and pulled up in front of the garage, hit the electronic door opener, and eased the car inside. A sudden flash of white pain, like lightning, pulsed in her right eye. She shut the engine off and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. Not a migraine! Not now!
She left the garage and went to the back of the house. Feeling light-headed, she entered Tasha’s meditation garden and sat on the marble bench, warm from the sun. She rested her head in her hands until the spell passed, and then she admired the white marble dolphin perched atop a pedestal surrounded by a patch of fragrant lime thyme, blue-red lupine, peach-colored Peace roses, and royal larkspur. Velcro appeared at her feet, her china-blue eyes gazing up at Cait. As Cait stood, she caught sight of a golden eagle in liquid movement across the blue sky and remembered RT’s parting words before he left for another assignment—“A golden eagle is an omen of good things to come.”
Or signifying the advent of change in a foreboding sense.
Or when fate rears its ugly head and swoops down upon you and plants itself in your path.
Her ringing cell phone interrupted her thoughts. Shep’s number was displayed in the window. “Shep. Any news?”
“He’s dead, Cait. Hank Dillon’s family visits his grave every month on the same day he was shot. I talked to the detective in charge of the case and then called the family that adopted Dillon. I have his file in front of me.”
But what about the knife?
Shep continued. “I asked Mrs. Manning about her son Calder. She assumes he’s still out of the country because he hasn’t been there in awhile to see his daughter. Being a war correspondent puts him out of touch for long periods of time.”
“Tell me about the knife.”
“It’s gone, Cait.”
She had hoped she was wrong and that the knife was still where it belonged in the property room. She shut her eyes and massaged her temple. “They keep records. Who signed it out?”
“No one. Unfortunately, an inventory hasn’t been done for several years. I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed.”
Understatement. “How do you lose a knife? There’s a process you go through to remove anything from property.”
“I know. Someone screwed up. It’s possible a family member, maybe Hank’s younger brother Wally Dillon, requested the knife be returned. All that’s needed to get it back is to fill out a form. If approved, it can be returned. I asked one of the clerks to see if a request had been made and granted. I’ll let you know when I hear back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s the same military combat knife. I’ve seen it before. Just didn’t want to believe it.” She heard voices drawing close. “Thanks. At least we know Dillon was in that coffin. I’ll tell Detective Rook. He has your phone number. He may want to talk with you.”
“One more thing. I researched Calder Manning. You should do the same. He’s written interesting articles from war zones, and there’s a photo of him in army fatigues. He’s wearing a helmet, so you won’t see much of his face, but you might get a vague idea of what he looks like.”
“I’ll look at it.” She noticed Ilia and Fumié approaching. “Maybe Manning wanted the knife since it’s military.”
“He shouldn’t have trouble getting another one. Be safe, Cait.”
Ilia and Fumié waited for Cait to end the call.
“Did Marcus tell you about doing a walk-through with me at the Blackfriars?”
“Yes. No problem,” Ilia said.
She nodded. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I have a call to make.”
Cait watched them leave. Fumié’s long hair flowed out like a raven’s wings in the breeze. She thought they made a perfect couple, even if they didn’t know it yet. A Japanese-American graduate of UC Davis, Fumié Ondo had been accepted at a school in Santa Rosa for park rangers but was on hold until her mother recovered from breast cancer. Ilia was a professional photographer.
She phoned Rook. “Shep said the knife is not in their property room. Guess we know what that means.”
Cait heard him release a sigh. “I’ll round up extra officers for your festival this weekend. I’d also like a copy of the schedule of the plays and the names of the actors. And it would be a good idea if you’d get to know them. We don’t want just anyone dressing up in those fancy costumes.” He hesitated. “Keep your phone handy and your gun loaded.”
“You don’t need to remind me. I used to be a cop, remember?” She left the garden and turned down the brick walkway through the towering cypress trees. “I don’t mean to be flip, Rook, but I am responsible for the Bening Estate. I’ll do what I have to do to protect it.” She thanked him for his advice. When she opened the arched gate that led into the theater complex, she cringed at the squealing hinges. “I’ll have Marcus send the information you asked for.”
“You might warn your friends, the Harts, and ask them to keep an eye out for trouble.”
“I will. June knows most of the actors. She can introduce me.”
Cait found Ilia and Fumié waiting outside the Blackfriars theater. She reached into her pocket for the keychain remote. With a touch of her finger, she disarmed the theater. “Watch your step,” she cautioned as she tried to open the door. It appeared to be stuck but eventually gave way. Cait felt along the wall for the light switch.
She loved the intimacy of the theater, with its black painted walls and stage. Wooden shutters, screens, and trellises had been positioned to block sunlight. Tiered benches surrounded the small stage, providing seating for 140 people. The theater reminded Cait of the old fantastical Duke of Dark Corners who disguises himself in Measure for Measure.
“I love this theater,” Fumié said. “It’s romantic. It reminds me of the original Black Swan Theater at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland.”
Cait stepped up onto the stage and looked out over the seating. “I think Tasha had that in mind when she built this one.” Cait had studied Shakespeare at Dennison University, had even tried acting, but couldn’t control her giggling whenever she looked at herself in the mirror and saw all those layers of Elizabethan costumes. She’d chosen a different path after graduation, one in law enforcement. It’s amazing, she thought, how those two paths had merged here in California.
Ilia snapped her picture. “You look so serious.”
She smiled. “Lost in thought.”
“Tasha would have had my head if I’d tried to take her picture,” he said. “Why would someone in the public eye be shy about having their picture taken?”
Cait didn’t know. She’d never met her mysterious aunt. “Good question. RT’s mother gave me an old photo of Tasha taken when they were aspiring actors, and I have a publicity picture of her dressed as Lady Macbeth.” She looked around the small theater. “It shouldn’t take long to go through, but I want to make sure it’s ready by the time the actors arrive.” She jumped down off the stage.
Ilia bent over and picked up a scrap of paper off the floor. “Other than trash, anything in particular we should look for?”
“Loose cords, burned-out light bulbs, cracked benches, anything I could be sued over. I’d prefer to stay on the good side of the stage manager, Ray Stoltz. Fumié and I will be in the back.”
Ilia slipped his camera from around his neck and carefully set it on the stage. “Okay.”
Fumié checked the dressing rooms backstage while Cait checked bathroom and kitchen cupboards for essentials. In the space delegated for the kitchen, she found coffee supplies and enough water bottles to last a month, but she used her electronic notepad to remind Marcus to order more.
Back at the front, she found Ilia on the stage videotaping the room. “You going to use this theater in your next book?”
He grinned. “I’m thinking about it. Free publicity for your festival. I didn’t see anything needing to be repaired, but these windows don’t look very secure, and the door is about an inch off the floor.”
“I know, but the building is alarmed, Ilia.”
He shrugged. “Just saying. At least there’s a high wall around part of the Elizabethan theater.”
Cait turned out the lights and alarmed the theater after Fumié and Ilia went out through the door.
“Do you want to go through the Elizabethan theater now?” Fumié asked.
Cait rubbed her aching temple. “I’d rather wait until tomorrow. It will take much longer.”
“Are you feeling okay, Cait?” Fumié asked.
“Just a headache,” she said. “You two go on. I’ll see you later.”
Cait stayed behind to spend a few precious moments in her favorite place, a place where she could open her heart and her mind among the wildflowers in quiet reflection. Tasha had her meditation garden; Cait preferred the serenity behind the Black-friars theater, where she felt like she was sitting on the edge of the world. A meadowlark trilled. A sudden gust of wind whipped through her hair and over the orange California poppies and carpet of yellow mustard. As she sat on the grass, she rested her chin on her hand and gazed at the majestic and alluring contour of Mount Diablo to the north, she promised herself that some day she would hike the trails all the way to the top and visit the observation deck for a glimpse of the Sierras.
Her phone beeped.
Unable to ignore a ringing phone, she withdrew her cell from her pocket. “Hello?”
After a short silence, the caller hung up.
It rang again.
This time she heard heavy breathing. She stayed on the line until the caller hung up.