Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  Then my phone buzzed, and I sat up, coming to full consciousness. It was Mac, telling me the Eelgrass would remain closed today. I forwarded his message to Sam.

  Six o’clock. I fell back onto my dank pillowcase.

  Because housing on Camas Island was scarce and expensive, I’d taken the first place I could get: an elderly mobile home about half a mile from town. Originally, Sam had lived in the second bedroom here, but she’d moved in with Danielle after she realized that her booming social life often left her too bleary to make the trip back to her bed without ending up in a ditch.

  Wan yellow light glowed through my bedroom curtains, indicating sunny skies ahead. I lay there for some time, trying to figure out how I would occupy myself for an entire day without work.

  Pathetic, I know. Better people would walk down to the beach, or take a hike, or binge-watch some TV show all day, but that’s not the way I’m built. I needed to get up and move. And in addition to that, I had no food in the house.

  I dressed and headed down to the Prospector. My route took me past the Eelgrass, where I spied Evelyn standing outside on the sidewalk, peering in.

  “Hey, Evelyn, how’s the peeping?”

  Evelyn gave me a rather savage side-eye. “I’m monitoring, not peeping.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.”

  Inside, technicians in white paper bunny suits performed activities that I hoped involved getting the DNA of the killer and not just my and Lionel’s genetic markers. I turned back to Evelyn.

  “You’re up early.”

  “I wanted to see what was going on here.” Even cocooned inside her puffy jacket, Evelyn shivered. “Dorian and I didn’t always agree about what was right, but he was still family. He shouldn’t have died like that. He was my brother’s grandson, you know.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t liked Dorian, but not even at my angriest would I have thought that he deserved to be stabbed to death in a dank basement.

  “He came to see me Thursday afternoon. He told me he was going to pay back some money he borrowed from me last year, which shocked me half to death.”

  So he must have had something going on? That he thought would get him…

  Aloud I said, “How much money?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “That’s a chunk of change. Do the cops know?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “I tend to keep my trap shut around the fuzz. Our sheriff is a sexist and a bigot.”

  “Then talk to Mac instead. He seems okay.”

  “Mac’s good-hearted, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But there’s something else that doesn’t look good for me. I’m the beneficiary of Dorian’s will.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I made him write one when I loaned him the money, so that after he got killed doing whatever idiot thing he was planning to do, I could at least sell his car and recoup part of my losses after he was dead.” Evelyn spoke matter-of-factly, as though this were a perfectly normal thing to demand.

  “Damn. That’s cold.”

  “You gotta be tough. Otherwise a charmer like Dorian will run all over you.” Evelyn took a quick breath, and I realized she was trying not to cry. She sniffed and regained her normal cranky composure. “I thought drawing up a will would be one of those…what do you call them? Wake-up calls? Teachable moments? Make him consider how dangerous it was for him to get involved with married women and big-time gangsters.” Evelyn shook her head. “He agreed just like that. We went to the bank to get it notarized and everything. He just smiled the whole time, joking, acting like I was some dingy old bat. Now the poor kid’s dead as a doornail.”

  “I think the police really need to know this,” I said. “I can text Mac directly and let him know you want to talk to him.”

  Evelyn arched a brow. “I didn’t realize you were on such friendly terms with the law.”

  “Mac’s a regular customer at the restaurant,” I said, as if that explained it all.

  “All right, then. Do it.”

  I tapped out the message quickly, fingers already stiffening from the cold wind blowing off the choppy sea. The clear day was giving me a much-needed infusion of sunshine and vitamin D, but without the insulating layer of cloud, the sharp wind cut straight through my jacket.

  “I was just going to have some breakfast,” I said. “Do you want to come with me?”

  Evelyn cocked her head as if I’d done something incredibly strange and unexpected.

  “At your place?” she asked.

  “No, the diner.” I gestured down the street at the Prospector.

  “Oh, God no.” She sniffed. “If you’re hungry, come back to the Beehive with me.”

  “The what?”

  “The Beehive—it’s where I live. I’ll cook you an omelette.”

  ***

  The Beehive was a women-only assisted-living facility situated in a long, green one-story building three blocks from the Eelgrass. As we walked through the door, I saw a comfortable-looking lounge with a television. An assortment of unmatched recliners, love seats, and sofas made the space seem snug. Several of these were occupied by old ladies. A couple of them worked crosswords. Another crocheted, while three others seemed glued to the TV screen.

  All but one looked up as I entered.

  “This is Andrew,” Evelyn announced, waving her hand back as though I were some stray dog that had followed her home. “He’s the chef at the murder restaurant.”

  To my surprise, only one of the old ladies seemed scandalized, and she appeared to be mainly irritated at Evelyn.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want to be introduced like that.” She used her cane to push herself to her feet and steady herself as she held out her hand. “I’m Julie.”

  She said the word Julie with a strong French accent, though the rest of her English sounded free of regional inflection. She wore stylish black slacks and a bold red blouse. Her white updo managed to be elegant without appearing stiff.

  Julie’s bones felt frail as a bird’s and her skin fragile as paper. She certainly wasn’t intimidated by Evelyn, though.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  Evelyn headed to the side of the living area, where there was a small kitchen with regular residential appliances. I followed, trailed by Julie.

  “Katie isn’t going to like you in there,” she said to Evelyn.

  “Katie’s not my mother.” Evelyn found a skillet and some butter and eggs. “Only cheese here is Colby-Jack, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine with me.” At this point I was curious what she was going to do. Plus I don’t have anything against Jack, or any other food when applied appropriately. “I’m more of a food nerd than a food snob.”

  Evelyn nodded as though this was the right answer. As she began to beat the eggs, Julie made it to the small table inside the kitchen alcove and sat down.

  “Are you going to make me one too?” she asked Evelyn.

  “You and me can split one,” Evelyn said. This seemed to satisfy Julie.

  My phone buzzed. Mac had replied with a text.

  Drew, I strongly advise you to stop interviewing people about the murder.

  I texted back: I’m not. I just ran into Evelyn, and she told me.

  Mac wrote: You are not to question Evelyn further.

  So I replied: I will not. I’m just sitting here at the Beehive, having breakfast. But if she happens to start talking about it, I’m not going to stop her. That would be rude.

  Mac made no reply for so long that I thought he’d given up. Then finally, a message popped up.

  You are impossible.

  To which I sent a smiley face.

  As Evelyn cooked, I found myself distracted by the deftness of her gestures. Though she was normally stiff, while she cooked her gestures became fluid and more or less perfect.

  “That’s a nice, classic omelette you’re making here,” I remarked.

  “She’s just trying to show off,” Julie said. “Do you know that she cooked for Pi
erre Troisgros? Back in the day she worked in the best French restaurants.”

  “That I didn’t know. I didn’t think women were allowed back then.”

  “A few of us got in.” Evelyn finished sliding the omelette onto a plate and set it before me. “But we had to be tenacious and willing to work twice as hard as any man.”

  “And it helped to be homosexual,” Julie added. “You know, no family or children with birthdays to take off. No romantic interest in any of the men in the kitchen. No distracting boyfriends. Just work, work, work.”

  “Somehow they never noticed the distracting girlfriend.” Evelyn started cracking eggs for the second omelette.

  “They always thought I was dropping by to flirt with them.” Julie laughed, and Evelyn grinned.

  I tried to keep my eyes from popping at this revelation. It wasn’t Evelyn being family that surprised me, so much as the notion that Evelyn had been such an adventurous person. She seemed like such a creature of habit now.

  The doorbell rang, and Julie struggled up to look out the doorway.

  “It’s a flatfoot,” she whispered toward Evelyn. “Big Mac.”

  “We’ve been texting since the murder,” I said. “He eats at my place all the time.”

  I’m not sure why I felt the need to drop this information. Maybe I wanted to impress Julie with my inside track to the sheriff’s department.

  “Oh?” Julie hobbled back to the table, sat down, and leaned forward. “You know, I can’t remember him ever having a girlfriend.”

  “You don’t say.” I tried to keep a neutral face.

  “Not one. Ever,” Julie reiterated.

  “Here’s breakfast.” Evelyn brought the second omelette over. She had only one plate with two forks. As they began to eat, I listened to Mac talking with the old ladies, then to a younger-sounding woman, who I imagined must be the dreaded Katie. I couldn’t make out any distinct words. Then came the sound of cop shoes disappearing down the hall.

  I glanced up to Julie, and meeting her eyes, realized she’d been attempting to eavesdrop as well.

  “I couldn’t hear what they were saying,” she whispered.

  “Me neither,” I said.

  Julie gave a big smile. “Evelyn said you were interesting. I’m so glad you’ve finally come to visit, so I can look at you myself.”

  “You’re welcome to come to the restaurant anytime,” I offered.

  “No, your place is where Evelyn goes to get away from me and read her paper,” Julie said. “I’m a talker, you know.”

  “I didn’t, but I’m gathering that now.” I scraped up a forkful of my breakfast.

  “So tell me about yourself, Drew. Where were you born?”

  “Wyoming. But I moved to Washington State when I was a teenager.”

  “That must have been a huge change. I had a transition like that myself when I left Port-au-Persil,” Julie said.

  “In France?”

  “Canada,” Evelyn corrected. “Though Julie and I met in France.”

  “I went to study design.” Julie spoke as though studying design was the single most provocative action a person could take, which I guessed it might have been at the time Julie did it.

  I’ll admit, I haven’t spent a ton of time with elders—particularly not lesbians. But I didn’t want to offend. Julie seemed nice.

  “Did it work out?” I asked.

  “Like it was my fate! Design led me to Paris, and there I met Evelyn. And we’re married, aren’t we? For two whole years now.” Julie waved her ring finger under my nose. It sported an impressive rock. “Before, we’ve been living in sin for decades and decades. Now I can finally hold my head up when I’m pushing my little trolley through the supermarket.”

  “You haven’t been to the supermarket for anything but a Vogue magazine in forty years,” Evelyn commented.

  “Because of the shame.” Julie put the back of her hand to her head like the heroine in a black-and-white film.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to reply. I’d only just started to perceive Evelyn as a whole person. Interacting with her melodramatic other half challenged my social capacity. Fortunately, Julie seemed to notice my discomfort and reined it in.

  “Do you like living in Orca’s Slough?” she asked, introducing a non-sequitur so breezily that I could easily picture her at home in any sixties’ Parisian soiree.

  “It’s all right,” I replied. “I admit I didn’t expect it to be so murder-intensive.”

  “These tiny island towns are like dormant volcanoes,” Julie said. “They sleep and sleep and sleep, but there’s always a molten mass of resentment and secrets roiling like magma beneath the surface. The pressure builds, then KABLOOEY! The place erupts, and everyone is incinerated. Then the scar heals over, and everybody forgets until…KABLOOEY!” Julie emphasized her point by waving her hands in the air. “You’ve heard about Charlie Lindgren’s murder, I’m sure. Fishing with his brother and then gone into the sea never to be seen again.”

  “Wasn’t that ruled an accident?” I asked. Sam had only mentioned her cousin’s death in passing, but it had sounded like an open-and-shut case of too much alcohol and rough waters.

  “The Lindgren brothers competed over everything.” Julie said it like sibling rivalry was damning evidence. “They even fought over how much more each of them could leave to Samantha. That may have been the breaking point.”

  I started to suggest that fondness toward Samantha didn’t sound like grounds for murder, but Julie wasn’t done.

  “And there’s Sean Mackenzie—”

  “Big Mac’s father,” Evelyn provided quickly. “He was a deputy fifteen or so years ago.”

  “He should have been sheriff, but instead he vanished and that brother of his took over,” Julie announced. “Of course, his children were heartbroken. The big one—”

  “Mac,” Evelyn clarified, and Julie nodded.

  “Yes. He’s been stunted ever since.”

  “He looks robust enough to me,” I remarked.

  “Stunted inside.” Julie clutched the front of her blouse. “In his heart.”

  “Well, I think I hear his big feet clomping back our way,” Evelyn commented, deadpan.

  Sure enough, Mac poked his head around the corner of the kitchen door. Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, but otherwise he seemed as crisp and clean as normal.

  He acknowledged Evelyn and Julie with a slightly wary, “Ladies,” then turned his heavy cop-gaze on me. Steady, unblinking, and—unusual for Mac—unsmiling.

  “Can I have a word with you outside, Drew?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Mac.”

  Somehow we both made the use of our own names sound awkward.

  Mac’s cruiser was parked across the street, and I padded toward it, careful to stay out of his arm’s reach. I wasn’t sure he didn’t plan to just chuck me in the back. I glanced inside, and saw a sheaf of stapled papers on the passenger seat. The title page read: Officer’s Evidence Handbook.

  “Do you recall how you were worried that involving yourself in a police investigation of a murder wasn’t a good idea?” Mac asked.

  I suspected I knew where he was leading with that question, but it wasn’t as if I was chasing down leads or conducting interviews. Not really.

  “I do,” I said. “It was right before you told me that I was a suspect and that I couldn’t reopen my business until you worked out who killed Dorian. How’s that going?”

  “These things take time—”

  “And information from the public. At least that’s what the morning paper said.” I planted my hands on my hips, feeling pleased at having put him on the defensive.

  Mac offered me a silent, penetrating stare.

  “You understand that whoever killed Dorian has already committed murder, right?” he asked. “If they ever felt any reluctance to take a human life, they’re past that now. That’s not the kind of person you want to corner.”

  I didn’t want to think about that. Mac clearly read my disc
omfort because he offered me a sympathetic smile and his tone softened a little. “I suspect you don’t like guys telling you what to do, but I’m not trying to do that at all.”

  “Yes, you are. You clearly are.”

  “No, I am requesting that you resist the urge to interfere. I am worried for you—”

  “So you said, but that doesn’t get me any closer to having my restaurant back.”

  Mac’s expression darkened at my interruption.

  “And I am also worried that you will wreck our case by doing something stupid,” he finished.

  “I’m not stupid,” I said, bristling.

  “No, you are ignorant. You don’t know the rules of evidence or understand how admissible evidence can be outweighed by countervailing considerations.”

  “Countervailing… Did you just read that this morning?” I pointed to the manual on his seat.

  “I did a little refresher. Let’s say you actually hear some information or, God forbid, find a piece of physical evidence someplace: your ignorant actions could render that piece of information or evidence inadmissible, meaning that even if we had the right perpetrator, we couldn’t use in court the evidence you tampered with. Is that what you want? What is your thought process here?”

  “I want to be able to pay my bills! I want to open my restaurant!” The words came out with more force than I intended. “I want to make a scallop special. But can I? No. What’s stopping me? We don’t know who killed Dorian. What can I do, then? Find out who killed him so I can keep going with my own stupid life.”

  Mac cocked his head slightly and said, “Well, no one can say you’re not proactive.”

  “You asked what I was thinking. I told you.”

  “What if I told you that you could go back to work tomorrow? Would you lay off the investigation then?”

  “Can I?” Part of me thought this might be a setup. I leaned forward so we were eye to eye. “Will you let me back in?”

  Mac said, “Yes. The basement will remain sealed, but you can resume business tomorrow.”