Chapter Nineteen
All the house needed, Caprice surmised the following day, was a rotating strobe light in the octagonal-shaped room. It was a silly notion, but it seemed fitting.
Denise Langford, the broker handling the Nautical Intertude house, had called her this morning and told her she had a couple who wanted to look at the property late this afternoon. Kim and David were moving from Delaware to Pennsylvania to be closer to her family who lived in York. They’d love to be near the Chesapeake Bay, but that was just a little too far away from her parents. However, this house in Kismet would give them the nautical feel that they’d like, yet put them in a good location. Both husband and wife were self-employed. He was a video game developer and she was a web designer, so they could work from anywhere. And from what they’d seen of this house online, they thought it might be perfect for them.
And Denise was eager for the sale.
Caprice wasn’t sure why they needed her here, but she supposed she’d find out.
Denise was already at the house with the couple when Caprice arrived. She was sure she was on time. She set her phone on vibrate so any calls coming in wouldn’t disturb the meeting. She found the front door, with its porthole window, unlocked.
After she pushed it open, she stepped inside onto beautiful teak floors. She’d used the colors of the waterfront to decorate—from furniture to wall hangings. This was an eastern seaboard retreat, splashed with yellows, blues, whites, and reds. The downstairs, or main level, was basically one large open space that encompassed the great room, dining area, and kitchen. There was a study and, although it was still open to the other rooms, it was tucked into an alcove to provide privacy. The first floor also boasted, of course, the lighthouse room with its two-and-a-half-story ceiling. The upstairs level held the master suite, in addition to three other bedrooms. An outdoor balcony ran across the second floor and met the widow’s walk, which circled the lighthouse room.
As an additional incentive for this couple, the basement level, which was a walk-in from the back with French doors and several plate-glass windows, housed a large bedroom suite, kitchenette, and sitting area.
Caprice heard voices as they echoed from the upstairs down the circular curved staircase to the downstairs. She heard Denise say, “I understand you both want a home office.”
“We do,” a male voice answered. “Kim likes to be closed up and quiet when she works. I, on the other hand, like activity. That first-floor den would be perfect for me. She could use the lighthouse.”
A woman’s voice responded, “I love the lighthouse. I’m thinking that eventually my parents will move in here with us. That suite downstairs could be perfect for them. But my mother likes floral tones. She wouldn’t go for the Cape Cod atmosphere we like. We’d have to redecorate.”
As Denise descended the last few steps, she spotted Caprice. “Caprice! I’m so glad you’re here. This is Kim and David Wilkins. They like the house a lot. But Kim has some concerns about decorating—in the bedrooms, the lighthouse room, and the lower level. I told her you’re an expert at that.”
Caprice stepped forward and extended her hand. “It’s good to meet you.” She shook both Kim’s and David’s extended hands.
Kim was scanning her outfit and grinning. Caprice had worn coral clamdiggers, a Bohemian-styled bell-sleeved coral-and-green top, and her sneakers with peace signs.
“I love your outfit,” Kim said.
“Thank you.” Caprice was pleased somebody appreciated her wardrobe. “What are your concerns about decorating? You don’t want the nautical theme throughout?”
“David and I like it, but as I was telling Denise, I anticipate my parents eventually moving into the basement. Though it’s really not a basement with that outside entrance and all the out-of-ground windows. That’s what makes it perfect. There’s lots of light down there.”
“And heated floors, too,” Caprice said.
“Really?” David asked. “Denise didn’t mention that. Even more perfect. And just imagine the sunsets from that balcony upstairs. We have friends in New York City who would want to come here just for the view.”
“I can decorate however you’d like,” Caprice assured them.
“We checked out your website online when we saw that you’d staged the house. One of your credits was that you decorated for Ace Richland. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is. I redid a room for his daughter and did his pool area.”
“And you staged the house that Ace bought too, Denise told us,” Kim added.
“I did. His was a wild kingdom theme.”
Kim laughed. “I think my mom would like something sedate—florals in peach and green and maybe cherry furniture? She has a four-poster bed she’ll probably want to move in here.”
“You have to convince them that moving in here with us is the right thing to do,” David said to his wife.
“That might take a year or two . . . or maybe three. But once they see this house, I’m sure they’ll love it too. They’ll have room to roam and not have upkeep. We can drive them to doctors’ appointments if need be. Especially when Dad has his knee surgery, he might be able to recuperate here, which will get them used to the idea.”
“Tell Miss De Luca about the changes you want in the lighthouse room,” David reminded his wife.
“I’d like my office decorated all in blues. It’s my favorite color—from turquoise to aqua to baby blue. Do you think you could make that work?”
“I can make anything work,” Caprice assured her with a smile. “I have a few catalogs in the van. Would you like to see them? Sample books too—for wallpaper and material for upholstery fabric or drapes.”
“That sounds wonderful. Maybe we can take a look out back while you get them.”
“I’ll meet you back here.” Caprice spun on her heels and headed out the door.
This sounded like an imminent sale. It would be great for Denise’s pocket and good for Caprice’s reputation. She liked this couple a lot. They were positive and upbeat and seemed to have a handle on their lives. Denise had confided that David was a multimillionaire because of the video games he’d developed. But they didn’t have an arrogant attitude that some wealthy people adopted. She liked that. She also liked that they were thinking about caring for Kim’s parents.
She was in the back of her van stacking sample books when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She might have let it go to voice mail, but she was hoping Grant would call. Soon. Hadn’t Naomi had enough of Kismet and sightseeing yet?
Maybe Naomi wasn’t going to leave. Maybe Grant wouldn’t call. Maybe—
Cutting off that thought, she also realized she hadn’t heard from Marianne, who was supposed to get back to her with an address for Bronson’s dad’s cabin.
When she checked her phone’s screen, she saw Marianne was the caller. Disappointment stabbed at her, but she ignored it and answered. “Hi, Marianne. Could you find it?”
“I did. It really wouldn’t do me much good to just give you the address. It’s a rural P.O. box near Wellsville.”
Wellsville was located about fifteen minutes from Kismet.
“I have explicit directions. I e-mailed them to you,” Marianne said.
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate this. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do. Remember, I get first scoop if you find out anything juicy. Or if you solve this murder. You’re going to soon be a celebrity.”
“Bite your tongue.”
Marianne laughed. “So what are you going to do?”
It took Caprice only a few seconds to think about it. “I’m talking to a couple now about buying and decorating a house, and as soon as I’m done here, I’m going to follow your directions. I want to talk to Larry Penya sooner rather than later.”
* * *
It was later than Caprice would have liked when she finished up at the Nautical Interlude house. The couple had loads of questions and had pored over her sample books. Caprice knew Denise was chomping at the bit to settle the sale, to actually hold earnest money in her hand. This was all part of the process. Kim and David had to see themselves in the house . . . and enjoy the adventure of it. So Caprice had patiently aided them in finding exactly what they wanted.
After they all said good-bye and Kim and David headed off with Denise to her office to begin the paperwork for buying the property, Caprice headed home to give her animals attention—and supper. Eager to drive to the Wellsville area, she grabbed a container of broccoli salad and ate it outside while Lady ran and played.
Between bites, Caprice said to her, “I wish I could take you along. But I can’t. And Dulcina has a new guest who isn’t used to you yet. Maybe . . .” She took her phone from her pocket and dialed her mom. After her mother answered, she asked, “Are you busy tonight?”
“Need a listening ear?” her mom asked.
“No, I need a pupsitter. I was away most of the afternoon, and I have an errand I need to run tonight. I really don’t want to leave Lady alone again.”
“Sure. Bring her on over.”
Twenty minutes later, Lady happily soaked up Fran’s attention as Caprice told her parents where she was headed and outlined the directions to her dad.
Her father said, “I know that area. It’s near Pinchot State Park. Lots of woods. Creeks. Beautiful farmland too. You should be okay if you follow those directions.”
She should be okay. Of course she should. She was just going to question one of Drew’s friends.
* * *
Dusk was falling as Caprice found the gravel lane Marianne had detailed and turned her van onto it. The narrow road wound around a few curves and then stopped abruptly before a wooded area. No one had told her she’d be hiking tonight.
Once she exited her van, she spied a three-foot-wide path that led through the stand of maples and sycamores. It wasn’t long before the cabin came into view. Even though it was rustic, it was a hidden gem because no one would suspect it was here. It was a square with a slanted roof. She suspected the floor plan would show a loft and an open ceiling. The screened-in porch ran along the front and side of the cabin.
As she approached it, the silence of the woods was broken by male voices. A pickup truck zigzagged along the far side of the cabin, and she realized that either there was another winding entrance that ran around the back or she’d missed a turnoff that circled around the trees.
Who was here with Larry?
Glad she’d worn sneakers that made little noise on the gravel, she stood at the corner of the screened-in porch and unabashedly listened.
“Give me plane fare and a stake, and I’ll just disappear. Linda doesn’t care if I’m gone.”
That was Larry’s voice. His words sounded slurred, as if he’d been drinking. “I don’t have anything to offer Joey,” he added morosely. “Nothing’s holding me here.”
If he was running, did that mean he’d killed Drew?
Then she heard another male voice. “You can’t just leave. We have to stand up to Fairchild together. I don’t understand why he called this meeting now.”
Fairchild? Louis Fairchild, the men’s high school shop teacher? Caprice recognized the second voice too—it belonged to Bronson Chronister.
“Exactly what did Fairchild say?” Larry asked shakily.
“He said he wanted to talk over old times.” Bronson sounded agitated, his tone rising and falling as if he was pacing. “You know what that means. I can’t have that accident brought up now.”
“You weren’t even in the car!” Larry shot back. “Drew and I ran him down.”
“Drew ran him down. You were about as drunk as you are now. I wasn’t in the car, but I knew about it after the fact. The whole mess could ruin my career in politics.”
“We have something worse to think about,” Larry whined.
“What would that be?” Bronson sounded genuinely perplexed.
“Drew’s murder.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that. Neither did you.”
All was silent a few seconds until Bronson asked, “Did you?”
“Not me,” Larry protested. “But I did see Drew that night and I didn’t tell the police. I’d fixed the cord on that light that he said was so expensive. Apparently Drew was messing with it and the cord gave way. It’s old. But he didn’t want his grandmother to know. After Rowena left for the day with her friend, I picked it up and took it to my workshop to repair it.”
“Did Linda see you had it?” Bronson sounded appalled.
“She wasn’t home. She takes Joey to the playground on Sundays.”
“What did you do with it after you fixed it?”
“Drew called me when he was through at that expo. I took it back to the house. But . . .” He hesitated, then went on. “But Fairchild came to the door. He said he wanted to talk to Drew privately. So I left. But I stopped outside to smoke and . . . I heard them arguing. That’s when I headed out.”
“And you didn’t tell the police?”
“If I ratted out Fairchild to the police, I knew he’d tell them about me and Drew and the accident.”
“If you hadn’t spilled the beans to him when you were drunk back then—”
Suddenly the hairs on the back of Caprice’s neck prickled. It was as if a cold wind had blown through the summer night. Before she could react, take a breath, or turn around, she felt something poke the middle of her back. Something hard. Something like the barrel of a gun.
She recognized the voice when Louis Fairchild shouted to the two men inside. “You’ve confessed everything in front of a witness. What do you think we should do with her?”
After a silent moment, Bronson and Larry both rushed out of the porch and down the front steps. They saw Caprice and Fairchild behind her.
“What are you doing here?” Bronson asked her.
She could hardly find her voice, but she finally did. “I came to talk to Larry. I never expected to run into . . . all three of you.”
All three of them had committed crimes. But it seemed Louis Fairchild had killed Drew.
Why else would Fairchild have pretended he hadn’t had any contact with Bronson, Larry, and Drew for years? Why else would he have a gun pointed at her?
Now was no time for cowardice. She needed to get them to turn on each other so she could slip her phone out of her pocket and dial Detective Carstead.
Fairchild’s gun wasn’t tight against her now. That didn’t mean he couldn’t kill her in an instant, but this might give her a little leeway. It sounded as if Larry and Drew and Bronson had been caught up in something as teenagers and they hadn’t known how to get out of it.
Her gaze went from Bronson to Larry, making a point. Then she said, “You trusted Mr. Fairchild back in high school, didn’t you? After all, he was your teacher. But he wouldn’t be holding a gun on me if he can be trusted.”
Bronson shook his head. “I didn’t trust him. Larry did. But he said he’d always keep the secret.”
Larry’s eyes were glazed, but his words were clear when he said in a low voice, “I’ve never been able to forget the sound of the car hitting that old man. Never.”
And that’s why he drank.
“I knew what had happened before Larry told me,” Fairchild muttered. “All those years ago, they thought I didn’t notice Drew’s dented bumper and the piece of material caught on it. I knew about their drag racing. When I heard about the hit-and-run accident, I put two and two together. But by then a friend of Drew’s had fixed his bumper and the car was cleaned up. I found Larry drunk on the bleachers one night and he spilled it all. A secret is a handy thing to have in your back pocket . . . especially when you want to retire.”
Caprice understood that the only reason Fairchild was talking was because he was going to kill her. What would Bronson and Larry do? Let him?
She was panicking inside but she had to keep her wits about her. She could get out of this somehow. She could. She should have texted Grant that she was thinking of him. She didn’t want him to think she’d died hurt and angry.
She wasn’t going to die.
“You were going to blackmail Drew, weren’t you?” Caprice asked in order to keep Fairchild talking as her hand slipped to her pocket. She hadn’t brought her mace gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Drew was making it big, and I wanted some of that,” Fairchild said.
Caprice nodded to Bronson. “Why not blackmail him? He had the money.”
“He wasn’t in the car that night. Larry and Drew were. But I called him out here tonight because now that he has politics on his mind, he can grease my palm to keep me quiet. Enough of this chitchat. You’ve got to go, girl. Apparently my threats didn’t work with you. The woods are dark and deep. Let’s move it.”
But before Fairchild could poke her with the gun again, she caught the appalled expression on Bronson’s face when he realized that Fairchild had intended to blackmail him and that he intended to kill her.
With an angry shout, Bronson rushed Fairchild.
When he did, the gun went off!
Both men staggered, and Caprice didn’t know if either of them had been hit.
Suddenly Fairchild pushed away from Bronson. As he did, she saw Bronson clutch his shoulder. Fairchild stooped to retrieve the gun that must have fallen out of his hand when Bronson grabbed him.
Caprice didn’t need any advice on what to do next. She ran for the woods, yelling at Larry to use Bronson’s phone to call 9-1-1. She grabbed hold of her phone as she ran and pressed the number to speed-dial Carstead. After tripping over a tree root, she caught herself, hung onto the trunk, and rounded another tree.
When Carstead answered her call, she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She rat-a-tat-tatted her location—Elliot Chronister’s cabin near Wellsville. Then she added, “Louis Fairchild killed Drew. I think he shot Bronson. Need paramedics. Get here.” Then she pocketed her cell phone so she could run faster.
Fairchild was in shape, but she was younger. Maybe she could fool him and circle around . . . or climb a tree. As she scurried through the brush, she heard a loud grunt and swearing behind her. Maybe Fairchild had fallen over a tree root. She could only hope. She ran faster, increasing the distance between them.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Carstead wanting her to keep the line open? That would be the smart thing to do. But as she pulled out her phone and saw its glow in the dimming light, she realized the caller was Grant!
He sure picked a dandy time to call. She was torn, but she knew she had to answer. This was the first he’d contacted her since Naomi’s visit. Grant and his call were as important as her life.
Breathless, she asked in a low voice, “Can I call you back?”
But Grant knew her moods and her voice. “What’s wrong?”
They didn’t keep secrets between them. She whispered, “Hold on a minute,” and ducked behind a thick tree truck.
But Grant wasn’t holding on. “Where are you?”
She heard brush cracking, branches moving. If she talked to Grant, Fairchild would hear her. She whispered, “I’ll text.”
Moving farther into the woods and the night, she curled herself behind a sycamore so Fairchild couldn’t see the glow from her phone and quickly texted, Murderer chasing me at Elliot Chronister’s cabin. Dad has directions. I called Carstead.
Pocketing the phone, she moved a little farther through the trees, then decided the best thing for her to do was to climb one. Fortunately Vince had taught her well. In fact, he’d taught her lots of skills that could save her life as well as any self-defense course. She jumped at the lowest branch, caught it with her arms, then used her sneakered feet to scramble up the tree. It was practically dark now, with no moon lighting the woods.
She didn’t know how long she was in that tree. It seemed like centuries. How much distance had she put between herself and Fairchild? Had he gone off in another direction?
She waited and waited and waited, afraid to make a move. Maybe she should climb down and run again. But which way? Toward the cabin? Into the woods? She could run right into him.
Minute after minute slowly ticked by. Then suddenly she spotted a beam of light and suspected it was the flashlight app on Fairchild’s cell phone. Wasn’t technology a wonder? All she could do was say Hail Marys and hope.
Fairchild was obviously trying to be quiet, but she could hear his shuffles through the brush, his low grunt when a branch grazed him or a bramble caught his jeans.
Her body was rigid and stiff. Finally she decided she’d better breathe. She took a few shallow breaths. He was using that flashlight beam in circles but not shining it up into the trees. Maybe he was too afraid he’d trip again. After all, maybe he wasn’t as nimble as she was. The light inched closer to her tree. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t even flinch.
“I’m going to find you,” he called out to the general area. “You know I will. You might as well come out.”
She wondered if he underestimated all women. Maybe that’s why he never married. Or maybe women always discovered his mean streak, because he obviously had one.
He stopped, probably to listen. When he didn’t hear anything, he moved on. Now he kept quiet, maybe thinking he could sneak up on her wherever she was hiding. But the woods were dark and deep, and soon he was farther into them. Now she could scramble down and run back to the cabin . . . maybe even reach her van.
The wail of sirens broke the stillness of the night. The sound was faint at first but grew louder with each second. Thank goodness for GPSs and cell phone towers. Thank goodness for detectives who knew how to find addresses. Thank goodness for Hail Marys and brothers who didn’t mind her tagging along. And self-defense courses.
The siren sounds were almost deafening now in the hushed night. Not caring about scratched and cut hands or brush and brambles, she scurried down the tree, lit up her own phone’s flashlight app, and ran as fast as she could back toward the cabin.
Before she emerged from the trees, she could hear officers shouting to each other. She heard them spreading out through the woods. As she reached the cabin, she spotted Bronson and Larry sitting on the porch steps, Carstead looming over them.
“I’m here,” she called as she waved and approached them. She could see Bronson holding his arm across his chest, blood staining his shirt sleeve.
But before she reached Carstead, another man came running from the makeshift road. A man who was tall with black hair and broad shoulders—the man she loved.
Grant rushed to Caprice and took her into his arms. “Are you all right? What are you doing out here? I don’t know whether to shake you or kiss you.”
She didn’t wait for him to decide. She kissed him.
He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t love her. He wouldn’t be here if he’d made a different choice.
After Grant pulled away, he said, “Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. We can talk later.”
Just then, two patrol officers dragged Louis Fairchild from the edge of the woods. He was handcuffed and looked as if he wanted to murder someone again. They none too gently pushed him toward the patrol car.
Finally Detective Carstead approached Caprice. He gave her a look that said he’d never understand her. He muttered, “Maybe I should put you on the Kismet P.D.’s payroll. Can you meet me at the station and fill me in on exactly what happened?”
“I’d be glad to,” she answered agreeably. She wasn’t shaking now that Grant was holding on to her so tightly. He’d promised everything would be all right . . . and she did trust him.
As Carstead walked away, Grant said, “He likes you.”
She heard that hint of jealousy in Grant’s voice again, and it made her heart sing. Turning to him, remembering Nana’s advice to jump without a net when she knew what she wanted, she gazed into his eyes and assured him, “But I like you. You’re the only man I want to consider a future with. That is, if you want a future with me.”
“We have a lot to talk about,” Grant assured her, pulling her close again. “Naomi went back to Oklahoma. This week put resentment and recriminations to rest. We revived good memories of Sally. But my life with Naomi is in the past. After you and I finish at the police station, I want to talk to you about what comes next for us.”
That was a conversation she couldn’t wait to have.