A Killer Retreat (22 page)

Rene wandered from room to room, filling the silence with mindless patter, like a desperate realtor trying to sell an overpriced condo to a pair of skeptical buyers. Bruce locked Bandit in a room at the end of the hallway, then followed haplessly behind her.

Her first stop was the kitchen.

The kitchen in our cabin boasted mismatched dinnerware, laminate flooring, and cheap Formica countertops. Bruce's kitchen looked like a photo from
House Beautiful.
Stainless steel appliances contrasted nicely with black granite countertops, and a full set of copper-bottomed pans hung from a ceiling rack above the bamboo center island. Huge windows in the dining area provided an unobstructed view of Puget Sound.

Rene opened the cupboards, pulled out dishes, even looked through
the contents of the refrigerator—all the while offering her pretend realtor's running commentary.

She opened the cabinet next to the sink. “Look at these dishes, Kate.” She pointed to a rainbow assortment of ceramic dishes in bright reds, greens, yellows, and blues. She picked a plate off of the top and looked at its bottom. “These are vintage Fiestaware!”

Bruce stared at her in shocked silence.

She made several positive comments about the Sub-Zero refrigerator, then started opening kitchen drawers and shuffling through their contents, pretending to be interested in the vast array of serving utensils provided by the facility. “We could host a gourmet dinner party here, Kate!”

Rene and I both knew that the only dinners I cooked were the kind you pierced with a fork and tossed in the microwave, but I didn't contradict her.

She abandoned the kitchen and strode purposefully down the hall. “Do you mind if I check out the bedrooms?”

Bruce staggered after her, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “The place is a mess. Why don't I have Emmy show you around after I check out.”

“Nonsense.” Rene smiled sweetly. “We're here now.”

I shrugged my shoulders and mouthed the word “sorry” to Bruce, but I couldn't help but smile inside. No one ever accused Rene of being shy. She walked into the master bedroom and pretended to accidentally shut the door behind her.

Her muffled voice echoed through the wall. “Look at all of this closet space.” I heard metallic rattling. “You even have enough hangers!” Bruce put his hand on the doorknob just as Rene opened it and peeked outside. “Hotels never have enough hangers, you know. My clothes always end up a wrinkled mess.” She closed the door on Bruce's nose.

I heard her open a drawer and rustle around inside of it. “Are there more towels around here somewhere?” Bruce's eyes got twice their normal size. He threw open the door.

Rene walked through it, carrying a beige bath towel.

“You don't know how good you've got it. Our cabin is a dump compared to this. Even your towels are made of bamboo! Kate, feel this.” I reached out my hand, but my fingers barely brushed the uber-soft cloth before Rene snatched it away and thrust it at Bruce.

“Be a sweetheart and write down the information on the tag for me. I
have
to get a set of these for home.” Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but Rene didn't give him the chance. She lifted her eyebrows and leveled a stern look at him. “You'll need a pen and paper.” She wandered into the next room before he could reply.

“Sorry,” I said. “It's easiest to humor her.” Bruce's teeth clenched, but he went off in search of a notebook, which gave Rene enough time to look through two more bedrooms. Both appeared to be unused.

Bruce returned and handed Rene a large yellow sticky note.

“Thanks.” She tucked the paper in her pocket without looking at it and headed toward the Bandit-incarcerating bedroom. “What's in there?”

Bruce's face turned bright red. He grabbed Rene by the elbow and guided her in the opposite direction.

“I wasn't done yet!”

Bruce pasted on a fake-looking smile. “There's nothing left down there but another empty bedroom, and if you open that door, you'll let the dog out.” He walked her back toward the cabin's front entrance, obviously hoping she'd take the hint. “I'm glad you like the space. This and the Retreat House are the center's showplaces. Someday all of the cabins will be like this.”

Bruce stopped at the door, but Rene kept walking. Straight to the living room, where she took off her jacket, slipped off her shoes, and curled up on the couch. I took her cue and laid my coat next to hers. She gave Bruce a sweet smile. “I'm parched. Would you mind getting me a glass of ice water?”

Small muscles quivered at the edge of his jaw. “Certainly. I'll be right back.” He took two steps away then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

As soon as he turned on the water, Rene leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I didn't find anything interesting. Check out the guest bathroom. And find some excuse to get in that back bedroom.”

Bruce's voice carried from the kitchen. “Emmy wants to create a vacation destination that's heavy on amenities but light on the planet.” He returned, carrying two sweat-beaded glasses of ice water—which he handed to Rene and me—and a tumbler of eighty proof amber liquid, which he kept for himself. “She gave her mother and me the best houses—hoping to impress us, I suppose.”

“I'm sure Emmy wants to you to be proud of her,” I said.

Bruce shrugged. “That was part of it, but certainly not all. Emmy
wants me to invest in the center. To tell you the truth, I was considering it, but I don't know any more. I hate to disappoint Emmy, but now that Monica …” Bruce stopped speaking and stared toward the ocean.

I started to reach for his hand but stopped, unsure how he would
receive my touch. I clasped my hands together in my lap and
leaned forward. “I don't know how else to say this, so I'll just blurt it out. I'm sorry about Monica. But I swear to you, I didn't—”

Bruce raised his hand as if to stop me. “Of course you didn't. I was there. I saw how hard you tried to save her. Besides, what possible reason would you have had to hurt Monica?” He pointed toward the sound of Bandit's scratching and whining. “That stupid dog?”

He took a long drink. “Frankly, this all seems like some kind of crazy nightmare. But no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to wake up.”

It wasn't my most compassionate moment, but I saw an opening, and I felt compelled to take it. “Forgive me for asking, Bruce, but who
did
have a reason to hurt Monica?”

He fingered the half-empty glass in his lap. “I keep asking myself that same question. Monica wasn't exactly popular, but hate her enough to kill her?” He shook his head. “No one. It had to be some stranger.” His voice cracked. “And it was my fault.”

“How?” Rene asked.

“I let her go to that spa alone.” His chin quivered. “I sat here in this stupid chair, staring at the ocean, while someone choked the life out of her.”

Rene leaned toward him, looking earnest. “You can't blame yourself, Bruce. You couldn't have known.”

I didn't join her in comforting him. Bruce seemed genuinely grief-stricken, but for all I knew it was an act. Besides, I was too busy biting back questions to ease anyone's suffering, including my own.

I wanted to ask Bruce about that Vicodin so bad my teeth itched
, but I couldn't. Not with Rene present. Bruce was obviously drunk. Maybe even high on drugs. He might be downright unpredictable. I couldn't risk revealing my suspicions about him with Rene in the room.

So I just sat there, resisting an urge to scratch my incisors.

I searched through my list of questions hoping to find something benign, but they all seemed pretty dicey. Stolen any controlled substances lately? Did you know that your lovely deceased wife was cheating? Ever feel an irresistible impulse to strangle a naked, wet woman?

At least I didn't need to ask Bruce his alibi for the time of Monica's murder; he'd already given me that information. If his story was true, Bruce had been in this cabin, sitting on that very chair.

Ultimately, I decided to remain quiet and hope that Bruce would volunteer more information. For awhile, he didn't say anything. When he spoke, his words seemed to come of their own volition, as if Rene and I weren't even in the room.

“It doesn't seem fair, you know. Monica spent her last night sick, and I was so angry with her.”

“Angry?”

He glanced up. “Furious, actually. I was mortified about that scene at the restaurant. I didn't even care that she got food poisoning. I told her she deserved it for acting like such a bitch.” His eyes turned glassy again. “Our last night together, and I acted like an ass. If I'd only known …” His voice trailed off.

Rene unfolded her knees, leaned forward, and placed her feet
solidly on the floor. “That's odd. I wonder why no one else got sick.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked. “You felt ill, too.”

“Yes, but I had a reason. I'm pregnant, remember?”

Bruce hesitated, as if unsure what to say next.

“It's okay,” Rene said. “I told Kate about the baby.” She tapped
a fingernail against the edge of her glass. “You have to admit, though
, it's weird that Monica was the only person who got sick.”

Bruce shrugged. “Not really. No one else ate the salmon. Emmy claims she put it in the refrigerator shortly after she bought it, but salmon can go bad pretty quickly.”

“What did the medical examiner say?” I asked.

Bruce's jaw tightened, so subtly I almost missed it. “What do you mean?”

“I assume that they tested Monica's stomach contents as part of the autopsy. Did the tests show anything?”

He frowned. “Nobody's telling me anything. All I know is that they shipped Monica's body to Anacortes. They won't even tell me when I can take her home. Besides, what does it matter? Monica didn't die from food poisoning. She was strangled.”

“Still,” I said, thinking out loud. “It kind of makes you wonder. Maybe I should have Dale call the medical examiner.”

Bruce sat up straight, spine rigid. “Enough of this topic. I don't want to talk about Monica's autopsy. It's too upsetting.” He drained his glass and stood up. “Ladies, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm exhausted. If you don't mind, I'd like to get some rest.”

Rene stood, but instead of turning to leave, she stepped up to Bruce. “I really
am
sorry about your wife. I didn't know Monica well, but I'm married, too. Losing my husband would be, well …” She swallowed hard. “It would be inconceivable.”

The moment between them seemed somehow private, so I turned to the side and averted my gaze. When I looked up again, Rene's arms wrapped Bruce in a hug, but her face scowled at me. She gestured with her eyes toward the guest bathroom.

I was admittedly a little slow, but I finally got it.

“We'll leave you to rest, Bruce, but can I use your bathroom first? I think I have a touch of the stomach flu myself.”

Bruce's voice sounded resigned. “Go ahead.”

I closed the bathroom door and glanced around the small room.
I'd have to be quick, but there wasn't much to search anyway. The room's
entire contents were a small cabinet, a glass-
enclosed shower, and the requisite commode. The cabinet's slate gray countertop was bare, except for a bottle of organic peppermint hand soap.

I forced some urine from my bladder for effect and peeked behind the shower door while the toilet flushed. Nothing but more soap and shampoo. I turned on the water, washed my hands with the candy cane-scented sanitizer, and glanced up at the mirror.

The medicine cabinet.

It couldn't be that easy, could it? I quietly opened the front.

Empty.

Only one more place to look. I opened the cabinet under the sink, where I discovered cleaning supplies, several rolls of recycled toilet paper, and an almost-f garbage can.

Cringing, I dumped out a pile of used Kleenex, discarded dental floss, and few other items I didn't care to identify.

Jackpot!

The bottom of the can contained several prescription vials, including the bottle of Vicodin with Helen's name on it. I set it to the side and examined another: a cylindrical white bottle with a blue and white label. Digoxin.

A knock on the door startled me. “Are you OK in there, Kate?”

“I'm fine, Bruce. I'll be right out!”

I considered pocketing the bottles, but my jacket was still lying on the couch next to Rene, and there was no place to conceal much of anything in my form-fitting yoga clothes. Instead, I shoved the bottles back into the garbage can, covered them up with used tissues, and flushed the toilet a second time for good measure. I cradled my belly in my arm and tried to look nauseated when I returned.

“That stomach flu must be going around,” I said. “Thanks again for your help last night. Rene and I will get out of your hair now.”

I picked up my coat, grabbed Rene by the hand, and pulled her toward the door. I whispered so Bruce wouldn't overhear. “Let's get out of here.” I forced myself not to run all the way back to the cabin.

twenty-one

“What are you two,
idiots?” Michael stomped back and forth across the living room like a frustrated Neanderthal confronted with the first liberated cave woman.

“Michael, keep your voice down. You're overreacting. I'm perfectly capable of—”

He whipped around and held up his palm. A fountain of spittle spewed from his lips. “Don't even start with me on your independent woman spiel. Believe me, Kate, I know. You can survive just fine without me.” He pointed at Bella. “I'm sure you think she can, too, for that matter. That's not the point.”

I winced. Why bring Bella into this? I had a feeling that Michael was upset about a lot more than Rene's and my visit with Bruce.

Bella whined, clearly uncomfortable with the infighting in her pack. She looked at Michael, then at me, then back at Michael again, as if unsure with whom she should align. I was the Dog Food Provider, but Michael was the Cookie Man, and he had taken her on a hiking adventure. She placed her body between us and tried to diffuse the tension.

I mimicked her actions, hoping that together we'd calm Michael. I licked my lips. I looked down at the floor. I yawned. I considered showing him my belly, but that would have compromised my status as alpha. Besides, I knew it was useless. I'd strained Michael's patience to the breaking point. For now, I'd have to ride out the storm. Michael would calm down with time.

I hoped.

For his part, Sam completely ignored all three of us. He was too busy browbeating Rene.

He threw up his arms, gesticulating wildly. “It all makes perfect sense. One woman has already been murdered on this infernal vacation, why not add two more?”

Bella finally chose sides. She walked purposefully across the room, sat in front of Rene, and glared at Sam. If he wanted to get to Rene, he'd have to go through her first. Evidently I was on my own.

“Now look what you've done,” Rene chided. She rubbed Bella's neck and cooed. “It's OK, sweetheart. He's just a big grouch.” She looked directly at Sam, then at Michael. “Stop yelling. Both of you. You're upsetting the dog.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come up here, baby.”

Bella jumped on the couch and shook her entire body, as if forc
ing water droplets from her deep black coat. She turned a quick circle
and lay down next to Rene.

“Kate and I are both fine,” Rene continued. “We were never in any danger.” Bella sighed and rested her chin on Rene's lap. “You two have a choice. You can stomp around like a couple of macho cowboy jerks while Kate and I ignore you …”

“You will not—”

Rene's look stopped Sam mid-sentence. “
Or
you can stop lecturing, sit down, and help us figure out what to do next.” She paused a moment for effect. “Well, gentlemen, which will it be?”

Sam crossed his arms sullenly but nodded his head yes.

Michael stopped pacing. He barely looked at me when he spoke. “Nothing I say will make any difference, will it?”

A hollow, uneasy sensation fluttered deep in my stomach. Michael wasn't asking about my amateur sleuthing anymore.

I considered several honest responses, none of which would have been adequate. None of which were what he wanted—maybe even needed—to hear.

I could assure Michael that he was important to me, but he already knew that. I could tell him that I loved him, but he already knew that, too. Michael wanted me to promise that someday we would walk together, hand-in-hand, off into the sunset.

Problem was, I couldn't. How could anyone predict the future of a relationship? I was beginning to believe that happily-ever-after only happened in fairy tales.

I took no pleasure in my response, but at least it was honest. “No, Michael, I'm sorry. It won't.”

He stared out the window for several seconds, his expression unreadable. When his eyes met mine, they seemed heavy—dulled by a mixture of worry, resignation, and heartbreak.

My heart broke too.

“I can't stand it when you keep me in the dark, Kate. If I help you, will you at least let me know what you're doing?”

“Yes. Of course I will.” I joined him at the window and squeezed his hands. He didn't squeeze back, but he didn't move away, either. We stood silently together for several moments. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed, pulled out a chair, and sat down. I sat next to him.

Sam spoke. “All right you two, tell us exactly what happened again, from the beginning.”

Rene and I took turns sharing the details of our day's excursions. I finished by describing how I found the bottles of medicine, read the labels, and shoved them back into the bathroom garbage can. “But I don't know if they mean anything.”

Michael frowned. “Kate, it's obviously time to call the police.”

“And tell them what? That I found some perfectly legal bottles of pills while rummaging through someone else's trash? I don't even know if those drugs have anything to do with Monica's murder. She was strangled, not drugged. Maybe Bruce has a painkiller addiction.”

Michael lifted his laptop off of the end table and turned it on. “That would explain the Vicodin, but I'm not sure about other prescriptions. What else did you find?”

“Bruce interrupted me before I got a good look at all of them. I only saw two: the bottle of Vicodin and another labeled digoxin.”

“It's a start. Let me see what I can find.” He typed for a mo
ment then scanned the screen. “According to this, digoxin is a heart
medication.” He kept reading. A few clicks later, he looked up. “Nothing
I see indicates that digoxin can get you high. It's not even a controlled substance.”

“Bruce would have known that,” Sam interjected. “He's a doctor. If he's a drug addict, he's not a very smart one.”

“Maybe there's some other simple explanation,” I replied. “Emmy thinks Helen forgot her prescriptions at home. Maybe Bruce picked up refills for her. Or maybe Helen was at Bruce's cabin for some reason and left them there.”

“One prescription maybe, but several?” Sam looked unconvinced. “I doubt it. And in that scenario, how did they end up at the bottom of a garbage can?”

I shrugged. “Someone obviously put them there. If it wasn't Helen, which seems unlikely, then it must have been Bruce.”

“Not necessarily,” Rene argued. “Monica might have stolen the drugs. She hated Helen. Maybe she thought Helen would get sick without her medicine and have to go home.”

I thought for a minute. “That doesn't explain how Bruce ended up with the Vicodin.”

“What do you mean?” Michael asked.

“Bruce gave me some of the Vicodin last night. That's what made me suspect him, remember? If Monica took the pills and tossed them into the trash, how did Bruce get them?”

“So we're back to Bruce,” Michael replied.

“Maybe.” I sighed. “But other than being crazy suspicious, I don't see how the stolen medications can be related to Monica's death.”

I looked around the room, but no one seemed to have any answers. Rene absently rubbed Bella's ears. Michael tapped at his keyboard and scanned the monitor. Bella snored.

Sam eventually spoke. “What if the stolen drugs aren't about Monica? What if they're about Helen? Bruce might be planning to kill her, too.”

“What would his motive be?” I asked. “Bruce and Helen have been divorced for two years. Besides, Emmy said that Helen always carries extra medication in her purse. Bruce would have known that.”

Michael spoke as he scrolled through the site. “From what I can see here, missing a dose or two wouldn't have harmed Helen, anyway. She'd be able to get a replacement prescription long before she was in danger.” He frowned. “This is interesting, though.”

“What?”

He handed me his laptop and pointed to a page titled “Digoxin Toxicity.” “Read this. Does it remind you of anything?”

I read the symptoms out loud. “Nausea, loss of appetite, vomiting, diarrhea …”

My slow-witted mind finally kicked into gear. “Wait a minute. Monica didn't have food poisoning; she had digoxin toxicity!”

Michael agreed. “Bruce tried to poison Monica. When that didn't work, he resorted to something more reliable.”

I frowned and read the symptoms again. “Maybe …”

“What is it, Kate?” Rene asked.

“That theory certainly fits, but it doesn't feel right. You saw Bruce today; he seemed truly grief-stricken. And he practically collapsed the morning Monica died.” I bit my lower lip. “I could be wrong. Bruce could be the world's best actor. But my gut says he's legit. I don't think he's the killer.”

Michael stood up. “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, we need to call the police.”

Cold sweat dripped down my back and pooled under my armpits. “I suppose.”

“Don't look so glum,” Rene said. “The digoxin doesn't prove anything for certain, but it goes a long way toward clearing you.”

Michael's face darkened. “Kate, what aren't you saying?”

My mouth felt almost too dry to form words. “I think I screwed
up.”

“How?”

“I had my hands all over those bottles today. They'll be covered with my fingerprints. And I've been at the Retreat House twice now. How will I ever convince Sergeant Bill that I didn't steal those drugs and plant them in Bruce's cabin myself ?”

We all stared at each other in echoing silence. Even Bella woke up from her nap and gazed at me with concern.

Michael picked up his phone. “We'd better call Dale.”

_____

Dale arrived at the cabin an hour later with a bag of rosemary chèvre muffins, several goat-shaped dog cookies, and a hazy, half-baked idea. The five of us gathered around the kitchen table, discussed options, and formulated a plan.

I didn't like Dale's idea. The risks of collateral damage were too high for my taste. But in the end, I went along with it. Dale made a phone call, then sent Rene, Sam, Michael, and Bella off to Eastsound, convinced that our plan would work better without them. He waited until both cars had driven off before chiding me.

“I swear, Kate, my goats have more common sense than you, and they're only half as stubborn.”

I swallowed the last bite of pastry. “I screwed up. I know that. But what are you complaining about? You're the one who told me to get involved.”

He crumpled up the now-empty muffin bag and tossed it in the trash. “Talking to a witness or two is one thing. An illegal search is something different entirely.” He pulled a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. “Did you have to put your hands all over the evidence? Didn't your father teach you anything about crime scene investigation?”

I would have argued that since I was a citizen, not a cop, digging through Bruce's garbage was probably legal, if not exactly neighborly. But I knew what he meant. In hindsight, my whole plan had been pretty foolish. “Honestly, Dale, I have no idea what I was thinking. Would you believe me if I said it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

He smiled. “Unfortunately, yes.” He sat back down. “Let's hope our little subterfuge works, or you'll be listening to the prosecuting attorney explain all about fingerprint evidence at your trial.”

We sat together for a few quiet moments, while undigested flour and curdling goat cheese congealed in my stomach. “Dale, this waiting is killing me. Distract me. Tell me more about yourself. John wouldn't give me any specifics, but I know something happened. Why did you leave Seattle?”

“We have more important things to worry about right now.”

“I'm trusting you with my life, Dale. Humor me.”

He sighed. “OK, Kate. You win.” He looked off in the distance, as if reciting a memorized story that no longer interested him. “I was quite the idealist when I joined the PD's Office.” He shook his head wryly. “Rolled my briefcase to the rescue like I was the Lone Ranger.” He took a long drink of water. “Took me ten years to realize that most of my clients were actually guilty.”

“Is that when you left?”

“No, not then.” He smiled. “Though that would have been smarter. I spent the next five years telling myself that the system wasn't broken, but that it wouldn't work unless everyone—guilty and innocent—had an adequate defense.”

“Isn't that true?”

“Actually, it is. But that's a lot easier to accept in the abstract than when you've just helped put a two-time sex offender back on the street.”

I saw his point.

“I started having trouble sleeping. Solved that problem with Ambien and alcohol.”

I smiled. “I'm guessing that didn't help for long.”

He touched his index finger to the tip of his nose. “When that stopped working, I went private. I figured if I was going to sell my soul, I might as well make decent money.” He shrugged. “The thing was, most of my clients were still guilty. The last one was the CEO of a hot startup who liked to slap his girlfriend around. By the time she found the courage to report him, she had a broken rib and a dislocated shoulder. I worked it so Mister Hot-Fists got a slap on the wrist and a fine he could pay from the change in his Porsche's ashtray.”

Dale paused and looked down at his hands.

“Three days later, he killed her.”

I wanted to say something. I wanted to assure him that it wasn't his fault. But only two words came. “I'm sorry.”

Dale looked up, no longer wistful. “I'm not. It changed my life. I quit the firm, took all that money I'd made, and bought some land here. I figured if I was going to save someone, they might as well be innocent.”

“Hence Dale's Goat Rescue.”

“Yep. Those goats never hurt anyone. Humans are the cruel species.”

Soft tapping sounded at the door. Dale gave me a stern look. “Remember, be quiet and let me take the lead.”