The Ghost of Valentine Past (14 page)

C
hief MacDonald pulled
up in front of the beach bungalow and parked his car. He sat there a moment and looked around. All was quiet. He hadn't been back to the modest beach house since that day in the fall, when he had brought Danielle there to meet Will Wayne and confront the secret of the Gusarov family.

MacDonald knew Wayne had petition the court to become Karen's legal guardian and had won. The chief wasn't surprised. There was no other family member left to oversee Wayne's ex-wife's care, and while there was a considerable fortune attached to the trust fund paying for her expenses, Wayne had his own fortune and took legal measures to prove his motives were not monetarily motivated.

Fifteen minutes later, MacDonald sat in the bungalow's kitchen. It was not quite 9:00 a.m. on Valentine's Day.

“Karen is still sleeping,” Will explained as he handed a mug of steaming coffee to the chief. “She had a rough night. Actually, the last few nights have been rough.” Will took a seat at the kitchen table.

“Is it just you taking care of her?”

“Goodness, no. There're several excellent nurses and caregivers on staff; they rotate shifts. To be honest, I'm just here to oversee her care, make sure she gets what she needs.” He picked up the cane leaning against the table and briefly tapped his leg. “I'm afraid I don't get around too well myself. I've discovered the dampness up here is not the best thing for my leg. I've been thinking about going back to Arizona.”

“What about Karen?”

“I'm working on that. I'd like to take her with me, if I can work everything out—legally. I'll set her up somewhere. Someplace close to wherever I land.”

“You won't stay under the same roof with her anymore?”

Will shook his head. “No. When I first got here, she'd have occasional moments when she'd remember Bobby—that boy I used to be. Of course, she had no idea I was Bobby. But now, she's drifted off completely to another place. I realize I'm not getting any younger, and as long as I make sure she's properly cared for, and I regularly check on her, then I think it may be time I move on.”

“She's lucky to have you.” MacDonald sipped his coffee.

“So tell me Chief, why are you here?”

“Did you hear the news?”

“You mean about Peter Morris' murder?”

MacDonald studied Will. “I take that as a yes.”

“I heard it on the radio yesterday. Almost called Danielle, but figured she was probably overwhelmed. Feel awful for her, having something like that happen right under her roof. Any leads on who killed him? According to the news, you hadn't arrested anyone yet.”

“That's why I'm here.” MacDonald set his mug on the tabletop.

Will let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I'm not surprised.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have to assume Danielle told you how I hired a private investigator after receiving several anonymous calls, telling me Morris was responsible for Isabella's death. I'm sure that would put me on top of the suspect list. But if Morris was murdered early Friday morning, as the radio said, I have an alibi. I was here all night with Isabella and two nurses. Didn't get much sleep. Like I said, the last few nights have been rough.”

“Can you tell me a little bit about the private investigator you hired?”

Will picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee before answering. “Logan Mitcham, what about him?”

“Did he find out anything about Morris, in relationship to your daughter's death?”

Absently licking his lips, Will set his cup on the table and looked up into the chief's eyes. “He claimed to have evidence Morris had her killed.”

“What evidence?”

Will shrugged. “I haven't seen the evidence yet. Not sure if I will.”

MacDonald frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“I suppose I would have come to you eventually. But I wasn't quite sure what to do next,” Will explained.

“I don't understand.”

“After Mitcham told me he had evidence Morris killed my daughter, I asked to see it. But he told me I'd never get any satisfaction going through the legal channels, because Morris was so well connected. He suggested I have Morris killed. Said if Isabella was his daughter, that's what he'd do.”

“He told you to kill Morris?”

“He didn't suggest I do it myself, told me he knew someone who could get the job done, but that it would cost me. I told him I wasn't interested in killing anyone, I just wanted to know the truth. He told me to think about it.”

“What was the evidence?” MacDonald asked.

Will shook his head. “I don't know. He never gave me anything. This was on Tuesday. I considered hiring another private detective. I figured if Mitcham was right, and Morris had Isabella killed, then someone in the coroner's office had to be involved. But I didn't want to call Mitcham back—even to ask him to turn over what he claimed to have so far. I felt very uncomfortable calling him, because of his offer to find someone to kill Morris.”

“But someone did kill Morris.”

“Yes. But I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“You said you were going to come to me?”

“Danielle urged me to talk to you, after I told her about the phone calls I'd received. She said you had no love for Morris and would happily put him away.”

“But you didn't come to me, even after Mitcham offered to have Morris killed.”

“His offer to hook me up with a hit man threw me. But it's not like he offered to kill Morris himself. And this all happened just the other day. To be honest, I found myself more angered at the idea that someone in the coroner's office would take a payoff to cover up a murder. I kept asking myself, should I call another private investigator to look deeper into it, call Mitcham back and insist he turn over what he had, or call you.”

“What did you decide?”

“I didn't decide anything. Karen's gotten her nights and days confused, and we've been trying to get her to sleep at night, but she's been keeping us up, and then during the day I'm wiped out. Which, to be honest, is one reason I've realized it might be time to get my own place again and let the professionals handle Karen at night. I really don't have the stamina.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Mitcham?”

“That would have been on Tuesday, when he offered to find me a hit man.”

“You haven't talked to him again?”

Will shook his head. “No.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I would assume you could find him at his office in Portland, or his home. I can give you his office address and phone number, but I have no idea where he lives. If you ask him about his offer to find me a hit man, I'm sure he'll deny it.”

“How did you happen to hire Mitcham?”

“One of Karen's nurses recommended him.”

A
fter leaving the beach bungalow
, MacDonald drove to the police station. On his way there, he called Brian, updating him on his interview with Will Wayne. When he arrived at the station, he found Brian and Joe sorting through the file boxes confiscated from Logan Mitcham's home and office. The private detective still had not been located.

“You told us to focus on any files on Will Wayne's case,” Brian told the chief. “But there's really not much.”

“What do you mean?” the chief sat down at the table with his men.

“Wayne was obviously one of Mitcham's clients,” Joe explained. “But aside from a few notes explaining what Wayne wanted him to investigate, there's nothing about the actual investigation.”

“Not nothing, exactly,” Brian reminded. “There's a copy of an invoice in the file, which Wayne apparently paid. But aside from that, nothing on what Mitcham found regarding Isabella's death.”

“According to Will, Mitcham found evidence Morris had Isabella killed—but he never turned that information over to Will. Maybe he didn't keep case notes in paper files. Perhaps we'll find something on his computer,” MacDonald suggested.

“That might be the case,” Joe said. “But I glanced through his other files, and they all include detailed reports on the various cases he's worked on—notes on surveillances, photographs, all kinds of information. But there is absolutely nothing in Wayne's file.”

“Maybe he has it with him,” MacDonald suggested.

“Or perhaps he destroyed it,” Brian said. “Maybe Wayne accepted Mitcham's offer to find a hit man.”

“He didn't have to look very far,” Joe said dryly.

“You're suggesting Wayne is covering for himself, throwing out the story of a hit man since I asked him about Mitcham?” the chief asked.

“If you hire a contract killer, and then the cops mention that man by name when discussing the murder, and you realize you've a motive and a connection to the hit man, then yes. It might be wise to toss something out there,” Brian said.

“True, but as far as Wayne knows, the only reason I asked him about Mitcham was because he told Danielle about hiring him, and she told me after Morris was murdered and we started looking into people with motives to want the man dead.”

“I doubt Mitcham realizes he left behind his fingerprint,” Joe said.

The chief stood up. “Keep going through the files. Hopefully you'll find something that'll help us locate Mitcham.”

The room's landline telephone began to ring. Brian answered it. When he got off the phone, he looked at Joe and the chief. “They found Mitcham's car.”

“Just his car? Not him?” Joe asked.

Before Brian had a chance to answer, the chief asked, “Where?”

“Parked a couple blocks from Marlow House. In an alleyway behind a vacant house.”

“How long has it been there?” MacDonald asked.

Brian shook his head. “None of the neighbors remember seeing it parked there yesterday.”

MacDonald headed for the door. “Let me know if you find anything.”

Just as MacDonald was about to walk out of the room, Joe said, “Well, this is interesting.” The chief paused at the doorway and turned to face Joe, who held an open file in his hand.

“What is it?” MacDonald asked.

“Seems Will Wayne is not the only person we know who hired Logan Mitcham,” Joe said.

The chief stepped back into the office. “Who else?”

“According to this file, Heather Donovan is one of Logan Mitcham's clients.”

D
anielle had just stepped
out of the shower when she heard, “Happy Valentine's Day, Danielle.”

With a startled yelp, she snatched the towel from its rod, covering herself.

Lucas laughed. “Really Danielle, you're my wife. No reason to be modest.”

“I believe the term is widow,” Danielle snapped. “What are you doing in here? I thought you left?”

“It's Valentine's Day. Surely you remember.” He smiled.

“Yes, I know it's Valentine's Day. So?”

“Valentine's Day was always special for us. It was the day I officially asked you to marry me.” He glanced at her hands. The only ring she wore was on her right hand—a gold setting with an aquamarine stone. Lucas frowned. “Where's your wedding ring?”

“I took it off after you died.”

“What did you do with it?” he asked.

“I gave it back to your mother.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It was your grandmother's ring. I thought it should go back to your family.”

“It was yours, Danielle. Yours to keep. I gave it to you.”

Danielle shivered and wrapped the towel tighter around her body. “Could you please leave? I'd like to dry off and put my clothes on.”

“Fine. But, I think you're being silly. We can talk after you get dressed.” He disappeared.

After dressing and pulling her hair into a french braid, Danielle waited in her room for Lucas to return. Thirty minutes went by. When he didn't appear, she went downstairs and found Joanne just coming out of the parlor.

Danielle eyed the mop Joanne carried. “Good morning, Joanne.”

“I cleaned up in the parlor. There was still a little blood on the floor by the sofa, but I was able to get it up.”

“Sorry you had to do that. I should have done it myself last night.”

“No, don't worry about it. I can't even imagine how horrible it was for everyone, finding Peter Morris in there.” Joanne glanced briefly over her shoulder, into the parlor. “Plus, I feel somewhat responsible.”

“Responsible? What do you mean?”

Joanne rested the mop handle on the floor and looked down sheepishly. “I'm afraid I'm the one who left Chris' knife in the parlor. If I hadn't done that, then maybe whoever killed Mr. Morris would have vented his anger differently. Maybe just sock him in the nose. But to use a knife on him…”

“You put the knife in there?”

“I'm sorry. There was tape stuck in the window frame, and I needed something sharp and narrow to remove it with. I didn't want to use one of the kitchen knives, and I remembered Chris' tackle box on the back porch, and I figured there'd be a knife it there that would work. I didn't think I'd hurt the knife, and I was only going to use it for a minute and put it back. But then I got sidetracked when someone came to the front door. I set the knife down in the parlor and forgot about it. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

“I think we need to tell Chief MacDonald this. I know he's been wondering how the killer got ahold of Chris' knife.”

“I already did. Well, actually, I talked to Joe Morelli. He asked me to come in to the police station.”

“Okay, that's good.”

“I'm really sorry Danielle. I know I shouldn't have borrowed Chris' knife without asking. If you…well, if you don't feel comfortable about me working here…”

Danielle wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Don't be silly. We've all done something like that before. I'm just happy you told Joe. I know he's had his eye on Chris for this murder, and since Chris' knife was the murder weapon…”

“Chris, I don't—“

Joanne's sentence was cut off when Chris walked into the entry hall and asked, “Did someone call my name?”

“Morning.” Danielle turned to face Chris. “I now know how your fishing knife got into the parlor.”

“I do too.” Chris nodded toward the woman by Danielle's side. “Joanne explained when she got here this morning.” He smiled.

“I already made some pancake batter,” Joanne told them. “As soon as I finish up here, I was going to put the bacon on. Chris, you are going to have breakfast before you go, aren't you?”

“That's right, you're leaving this morning,” Danielle said. “It's going to feel…well, different with you not here.”

“Hey, you aren't getting rid of me that easy!”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” Walt said when he appeared the next moment. Both Danielle and Chris flashed Walt a smile—Chris' being more a smirk than a smile.

“I stripped the sheets off and put them and my dirty towels in the laundry room,” Chris explained.

“You didn't have to do that,” Joanne told him. “But thank you.”

“Hey, no problem.” Chris grinned.

“Well, I better get breakfast on.” Mop in hand, Joanne scurried down the hallway.

“I'm going to miss you,” Danielle told Chris a moment later.

“I don't know why you're going to miss him. As he said, just because he's moving out, it doesn't mean we're getting rid of him.” Walt reminded. “And he's just down the street.”

“That's right Walt. And I won't just drop by to visit Danielle. I plan to come see you.”

“Lucky me,” Walt said dryly. He disappeared.

Danielle glanced around the entry hall. Walt was nowhere to be seen. She looked back to Chris and whispered, “You know, I think he's going to miss you. I believe he rather likes having someone more to talk to, than just me.”

“He has Max and Sadie—and even Bella, for the moment,” Chris reminded.

“True. But I've a feeling conversing with animals isn't quite the same thing as human contact.”

“Perhaps…” Chris glanced around. “Is your husband's spirit still lurking in Marlow House?”

Danielle sighed. “I saw him this morning. I don't think he intends to leave until he says whatever he wants to say to me.”

“If you sincerely want him to leave, then why don't you listen to him?”

“What, you think I want him to stick around?”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe. He was the man you once loved enough to marry. The two of you never had a chance to resolve your issues.”

“Issues I wasn't even aware of until he died!”

“Which makes it worse. This is your chance, Danielle. Most people never have the opportunity to confront someone who has died. It's our unique gift.”

“Gift or curse,” Danielle muttered.

“I suspect you don't view your friendship with Walt a curse.”

“Well…no…”

“Then use your gift and talk to your husband—really talk to him. And it's not only for you; it's for him. He probably needs this more than you do.”

“Since when did you start caring so much for my husband? You don't even know him.”

Chris shrugged. “I've never been good at walking away from a spirit who needed my help.”

Danielle studied Chris for a moment. “You mean, like Anna?”

“To me, Anna will always be Trudy, but yes. Although, I have to confess, my motivation for helping her had more to do with wanting to get her out of my life. In the beginning I just wanted to help her—but when my efforts didn't seem to be going anywhere, she became more demanding, and after a while, I just wanted to find something—anything—to get her to move on.”

“I can understand that.”

“So, what are you waiting for?” he asked.

“I don't think Lucas is going to come around while anyone is with me. He made that pretty clear earlier.”

“Then go somewhere where you can be alone. I don't think anyone's in the library, and…” Chris glanced at his watch. “It'll be breakfast pretty soon; so, I suspect the rest of the house will be in the dining room before long. Go.”

“Fine…” Danielle sighed. “I'll see if he shows up there.”

Five minutes later, Danielle sat alone in the library. She was about to call out Lucas' name when he appeared in the room, standing before the portraits of Walt and Angela Marlow.

“I know who he is,” Lucas nodded toward Walt's portrait. “But who was she?”

“Angela Marlow. She was Walt's wife.”

“Beautiful woman.” He glanced from the portrait to Danielle. “Does her spirit haunt this house too?”

Danielle stood up and walked to Lucas' side. “No. In fact, she conspired to murder her husband.”

Lucas arched his brows. “Really? And I thought
we
had some unresolved issues. What happened to her? Was she arrested? Why is her portrait still here? Didn't he want it removed after she tried to kill him?”

“He didn't know about it before he died. She and her brother planned to kill Walt, but then she died unexpectedly and her spirit returned to Marlow House, and she tried to stop her brother from carrying out their plan, but she wasn't able to intervene.”

“He was murdered by his brother-in-law?” Lucas cringed.

“Yep.”

“Loving family,” Lucas muttered. “I wonder if there's a hell after this—when I finally move on, will it be to a heaven…or will my sins send me to hell?”

“I don't believe you are going to hell, Lucas. In Angela's case, she's stuck at the local cemetery.”

Lucas frowned. “Why the cemetery?”

“Consider it a cosmic time out. She's basically under house arrest. Her spirit isn't allowed to move on—nor can she venture past the cemetery.”

“What's Walt's story? What did he do wrong?”

“Walt? Why do you assume he's done something wrong?”

“He's still here. From what I gathered from Meghan, a spirit is supposed to move on—and you just said Angela Marlow can't because she tried to kill her husband. And I assume I couldn't move on earlier, because I was so confused about what had happened—that was, until Meghan helped me come to terms with things.”

“I suspect in Angela's case, she'd be moving on to a much warmer climate had she not tried to prevent Walt's murder.”

“So, there is a hell?”

Danielle shrugged. “I really don't know. I just know there's something more.”

“Why is Walt Marlow still here?”

“He's not ready to move on yet. This was his home. He will eventually.”

“Does this mean I can stick around too? That I don't have to move on if I don't want to?”

Danielle turned to Lucas and shook her head. “No. You need to move on, Lucas. You don't belong here.”

“You're still angry with me, aren't you?”

Danielle sighed. “I don't know what I feel, Lucas.”

“Fair enough.” He turned back to the portrait and studied it a moment before asking, “What happened to our portrait, Danielle?”

“I gave it to your mother.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn't burn it.”

“The portrait meant a lot to your mother. Your death was hard on her.”

“Was it hard on you, Danielle?” When she didn't answer, he said, “We need to talk; I need to explain.”

Heather barged into the library. “Who are you talking to?”

Danielle glanced to her side. Lucas was no longer there.

“Good morning, Heather. I guess I must have been thinking out loud,” Danielle lied.

Walking into the room, Heather stared a moment at the spot Lucas had been standing at. “You know, sometimes I really think this place is haunted.”

Danielle glanced around uneasily. “Umm…why do you say that?”

“For a moment there, when I first walked into the library, I thought I saw a man standing next to you. Just a glimmer. And it's not the first time.”

“Not the first time? Are you saying you've seen this man before?”

“No. But I've seen another man.” Heather pointed to Walt's portrait. “That one.”

“You've seen Walt Marlow?” Danielle squeaked.

“You know I saw Harvey—I even talked to him.”

“Yes…”

“You did too. Sometimes, I think you like to pretend it all never happened.”

“It's just something I'd rather forget,” Danielle said.

“I suppose I can understand, considering you and Lily were almost killed in that fire. But, I have a gift. I know I do.”

“You say you've seen Walt Marlow…have you talked to him?”

“Now you're just making fun of me!” Heather snapped.

“No…I'm not, honest. But you talked to Harvey.”

“Well, this is different. With Walt Marlow, it's just brief flashes. He's there one moment and then gone in the next. Like with the one I just saw. I think I should probably use my oils.”