Whisper of Revenge (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 4) (25 page)

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Cape Trouble, a tiny Oregon Coast town, was named for the
dangerous off-shore reefs.  But some of its citizens seek refuge from their own
troubles…which have a way of following them.

The secrets of the past haunt the present…

Sophie Thomsen’s life had a Before and an After – marked by
the terrifying morning when she found her mother dead in the foggy sand dunes,
an apparent suicide.  Now, twenty years later, Sophie returns to Cape Trouble,
only to find her aunt brutally murdered.  Although she swore never to set foot
again on Misty Beach, Sophie takes over her aunt’s crusade to save the
falling-down Misty Beach Resort and its wild sand dunes and beach from
development.  But Sophie’s memories threaten a killer…who doesn’t dare let her
remember too much.

Having come to Cape Trouble to heal his own wounds, Police
Chief Daniel Colburn investigates the present day murder, but begins to suspect
Sophie’s mother was another murder victim, not a suicide.  Everything he learns
increases his fear for the woman he is coming to love.

Sophie’s fate may be to die in a shroud of fog, just like
her mother before her, unless she can trust Daniel to help her uncover her past
in time.

When it’s never safe to stop running…

One night, in her upscale California restaurant, Naomi
Kendrick overheard powerful men plotting a political assassination.  To save
her life, she made a bargain with the devil…and then ran.

Inevitably, she is found.  More than one enemy descends on
Cape Trouble to learn her secrets…and silence Naomi once and for all.

Detective Adam Rostov suspects she stabbed his partner to
death in her restaurant kitchen.  Pursuing her to Cape Trouble, he arrives just
in time to rescue her from an assault.  He conceals his real purpose in Cape
Trouble to stay close to her.  Because if he can’t keep her alive, he’ll never
find out if she’s innocent or guilty.

Naomi’s instincts scream, Run, but too late, because Adam
isn’t about to let her go.  Not when he has begun to believe she is a victim
and not a killer. Not when she is irresistible bait to draw a contract killer,
a corrupt U.S. Congressman, and a crooked federal agent.  And not when, despite
all common sense, he’s falling in love with the mysterious chef.

Once Naomi discovers Adam too has been hunting her, she must
decide.  Run and keep running, or trust him to keep her safe?  Of course, once
he knows her darkest secret, he may no longer want to protect her…

The faintest creak of the floorboards her only warning…

Emily Drake has clung to her solitude for four long years
after the tragic death of her husband and child, filling empty days stitching
quilts that will be heirlooms for other families, never her own.  It takes a
terror-filled escape from a midnight intruder to open her eyes.  She
desperately wants to embrace life again…if death’s next approach isn’t utterly
silent.

Detective Sean Holbeck is powerfully drawn to his new
neighbor, a woman threatened by an unknown enemy.  He’s already investigating a
murder that he fears is just the beginning.  Until he knows why the victim was
chosen, he can’t stop a killer…or protect Emily, who may hold the key to
understanding an enraged man set on vengeance.

Dark threads of past and present, guilt and grief and pain,
have twisted together until only love and trust might untangle them before a
killer strikes again…

What people are saying about the romantic suspense novels of
Janice Kay Johnson:

•“If you are in the mood for a wonderful romantic suspense
story that will have you so engrossed in it that you lose track of the time,
than look no further.”

-Night Owl Reviews (on Shroud of Fog)

•“SHROUD OF FOG will immerse the reader in a world of
suspense and intrigue. Elements of romance throughout this captivating read
will capture your heart.  Johnson has penned a deeply satisfying story that is
appealing to mystery lovers as well as romance aficionados.  If you are looking
for a tale that has plenty of plot twists and amazing characters that will
remain with you, then you should rush out and get a copy of SHROUD OF FOG!”

-Romance Junkies

•"[G]uaranteed to have you looking over your shoulder more
than once in this explosive, fast-paced thriller."

-Linda Silverstein, ROMANTIC TIMES (on Dangerous Waters)

•"Studded with tension and skillfully riveting, [it]
will capture you from the first page and won't let go until the end."

-Kay Gragg, AFFAIRE DE COEUR (on Dangerous Waters)

•“I’ve never read Ms. Johnson’s work before and all I can
say is I will be finding everything else she’s ever written.  This story is so
masterful it takes you inside this small town and really makes you think you
are there.”

-Sara HJ, HARLEQUIN JUNKIES (on Everywhere She Goes)

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first chapter of
SHROUD OF FOG - and find the entire series available online now.

Why on earth wasn’t Aunt Doreen answering her phone?

Disgruntled, Sophie Thomsen sipped her coffee from the
travel mug as she waited at the red light.  The tinge of worry, she could
probably blame on the eerie effects of coastal fog.  For most of her life,
Sophie had hated fog.  This morning it was thick enough that she felt
peculiarly alone even though she was driving down the main street of Cape
Trouble.  The tourists passing on the crosswalk in front of her appeared and
disappeared, ghost-like and colorless in their anoraks and heavy sweaters.

The morning fog might or might not burn off.  You never knew
on the Oregon Coast, and especially at Cape Trouble, infamous for hidden,
dangerous rocks offshore and the peculiar mist that rose from the river that
flowed into the Pacific Ocean and formed the southern edge of town.  Sophie had
spent enough time here on the coast to guess that yes, the sun would be out in
another hour or two, the sweaters would be shed, the kites and beach towels
would emerge, and some brave souls who didn’t mind standing in waders by the
hour in icy water would be spotted casting their lines in Mist River – named,
of course, for its mysterious propensity for cloaking itself in drifting
tendrils of gray.

She and her aunt had made vague plans to meet this morning
at the storage facility, but hadn’t set a time.  There wasn’t any real reason
to feel anxiety.  One thing you could say for the friendly town of Cape Trouble
– sarcasm fully intended – was that if there’d been a car accident or an aide
car had been summoned anywhere within a ten mile radius, everyone including
Sophie would already have heard every gory detail.

Probably Doreen had simply gone ahead and was happily
working inside the storage unit, sure Sophie would show up eventually.  Aunt
Doreen was very capable of being scatterbrained.  Lucky she’d already given
Sophie the code to get in and even a key to the lock.

The light changed, the green less visible than the red
through the fog.  Sophie looked carefully to be sure the last pedestrian had
stepped onto the sidewalk.  She drove more slowly than usual along Schooner
Street, lined with small seafood restaurants, coffee houses, boutiques and gift
shops, their lighted windows made indistinct through the gray shroud of fog.

Although it had been twenty years since she’d spent more
than a few days at a time here, she knew the town well.  Like other picturesque
Oregon coast towns, Cape Trouble had been commercialized, but the changes were
mostly cosmetic.  The Victorian era homes were nowhere near as grand as those
in Astoria far to the north, but charming enough to be a draw along with the
lighthouse, the broad sandy beach, the never-ending waves, the
much-photographed sea stacks and the whale watching tours that departed from a
pier that thrust out into the river.

Sophie’s family had spent summers here when she was a
child.  Before.  That’s how she thought of it.  Before and After.  Before the
great divide that had riven her life and left her a different person on the
other side of it.  Sophie would gladly never have visited Cape Trouble again,
or even the Oregon Coast, but unfortunately the one person in the world she
truly loved lived here, so she’d resigned herself to those occasional visits.

What she didn’t understand, Sophie thought with the unsettled
sensation she’d had ever since arriving last night, was why she’d let herself
be talked into spending the entire month of June here to help with the auction
intended to raise money for a cause she didn’t personally support.

Not that she could tell Doreen so.  It would mean talking
about things she didn’t talk about.  Not with anyone.

Two stoplights and one turn later, she broke out of town,
heading away from the ocean, the fog thinning as she drove.  She passed first
the Safeway and hardware stores, the laundromat and a pharmacy as well as
neighborhoods of more ordinary houses where the locals actually lived before
reaching the least attractive part of town, never seen by most visitors.  Two
garages, an auto body shop, some kind of metal fabricating business, plumbing
supply, lumberyard, two seedy bars, a wooded stretch and – finally, two turns
later – the sprawling storage facility made up of long buildings encased in
metal siding, covered with metal roofs, and enclosed in a high chain-link
fence.

The metal siding and roof presumably explained Aunt Doreen’s
failure to answer her cell phone.

With a sigh, Sophie rolled down her window, punched in the
eight digit code preceded by a * and ending with the # key, then waited while
the huge gate rolled jerkily to one side.

Sophie glanced again at the notebook page on which she’d
jotted the information.  The auction committee had unit…4079.  The buildings
weren’t clearly labeled, so she turned down the first aisle and discovered
herself passing 1001 on one side and 2045 on the other.  Which didn’t
altogether make sense.  Well, the first row on her right – the 1000s -
proceeded in numeric order, but the ones on her right were given to odd fits
and starts.

She wasn’t the first here this morning.  A moving truck was
being loaded at one space, a plump woman, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen
and a man with a pot belly currently wrestling a sofa up the ramp.  The man was
shouting at the woman and boy, who weren’t lifting their end up as high as he’d
like.  The woman began screaming back just as Sophie carefully maneuvered
through the narrow lane between truck and the storage spaces on the other
side.  She flinched at the language.

Around the corner, another woman seemed to be poking rather
desultorily inside a space that was packed, literally, concrete floor to
ceiling and bare-stud wall to wall with…well, household possessions, Sophie
guessed, glimpsing the white side of some appliance as well the plush back of a
chair, the top of an end table plus lots of cardboard boxes and some bright
plastic tubs.  If the poor woman was hoping to put her hands on one thing,
Sophie didn’t envy her.

That was unit 3006.  On the other side of the next aisle
was…3093.  The 4000s had to be here somewhere, didn’t they?  And surely she’d
spot Aunt Doreen’s aging white Corolla.

Sophie passed other tenants either putting more possessions
into their rented spaces or taking them out.  The place really was huge.  There
were occasional doors that likely opened to short hallways where tenants could
access small spaces – maybe five by ten feet or ten by ten – but most units
seemed be at least fifteen by twenty or more.  And there were parking spaces
for RVs, boats on trailers, cars covered by canvas, a horse trailer and…  She
stared.  Good Lord, was that a carnival carousel?  She’d swear it was.

A last jog, and she found herself facing a shorter row of
buildings that formed an L to the rest of the facility.  And yes, she was
finally among the 4000s.

It wasn’t until she reached the end and turned again that
she discovered a couple of units were caps to the rows, and 4079 was one of
those.  Aunt Doreen’s car was not parked in front.  And she couldn’t miss the
lock clipped over the hasp of the closed metal door designed to roll up.

Well, damn.

Sophie parked and tried her aunt’s number again.  Four rings
and she was back at voice mail.  She had already left several messages. 
Wonderful.  Well, she had the key and she was here, so why not open up and see
for herself the stuff the auction committee had procured?  Not to mention how
well organized the amateur enthusiasts were.

But when she got out and tried fitting the key her aunt had
given her last night into the lock, it didn’t fit.  Not even close.  Sophie
frowned.  The brand name on the key didn’t match the one on the lock, but she
hadn’t expected it would.  She knew her aunt had had copies made of the
original keys so practically every member of the auction committee had one –
something Sophie thought hadn’t been smart.  So she supposed it was possible
the keysmith hadn’t done a good job.  But…so bad the key wouldn’t even go in
the hole?

Had someone replaced the lock in the past few days?  Without
telling Doreen, who was the auction chair?  That didn’t make sense unless the
committee had decided to expel Doreen but hadn’t gotten around to telling her. 
And that seemed unlikely, given that Sophie’s aunt was the moving force behind
the whole enormous effort.

Sophie drove back to the office she’d passed at the entrance
and went in.  A middle-aged woman behind the counter said, “You looking to rent
a storage space?”

“No, I was expecting to meet my aunt – Doreen Stedmann –
here at the space she rented…”

“Oh, you’re Doreen’s niece Sophie.”  The woman beamed.  “I’m
Marge Hedgecoth.  Why, Doreen talks about you all the time!  Says you’re some
kind of fancy event planner.”

“Well…”

“She was so excited that you were coming.”  She frowned.  “I
haven’t seen her yet this morning, although I don’t open until ten, you know.”

Yes, Sophie had noticed the sign on the door.  Tenants had
access to their units from six a.m. until midnight with special arrangements
required for other times, but office hours were more limited.

“She’s probably just late,” Sophie said, then explained that
the key she’d been given didn’t fit into the lock.  “I’m wondering if I might
have written down the wrong number for the space.”

Marge verified that, indeed, the auction committee for the
Save the Misty Beach campaign had rented number 4079, beginning in March when
the first of the donations had begun pouring in.

“Well, Doreen gave me a key, which is unusual, but she
wanted to be sure anyone who needed to drop something off could get in.  So let
me get my cart and I’ll follow you out there.”

She flipped the sign on the door to a picture of a clock
that indicated she would be back in ten minutes and and climbed into a golf
cart parked by the back door.  Sophie was able this time to drive directly –
more or less – to her aunt’s unit, which faced the chain link fence at the back
of the property and the woods beyond.  As Sophie parked again and got out, it
occurred to her that it was really rather lonely back here, blocked by the bulk
of the building from being seen by any other units except the one other that
faced the same direction.

The golf cart arrived.  A small, wiry woman with short,
graying hair and skin that was beginning to look leathery, Marge got out and
confidently poked her key at the lock.

“What in tarnation…?” she muttered.

Sophie saw immediately that she wasn’t having any better
luck.

After a minute her hand dropped.  The two women looked at
each other in something approaching consternation.  “Hmph,” she said.  “I
suppose they’re entitled to change the lock.”

“But Aunt Doreen gave me this key only last night.  Could
she have forgotten…?”

“Did you call her?”

“She’s not answering.”  Sophie couldn’t put her finger on
why she was so uneasy, but she was.  “I went by her house first, and she wasn’t
home.  Her car wasn’t there, either.”

“I’ve a mind to cut that lock right off,” Marge declared.

Sophie stared at the metal door.  “I’ll happily pay for a
replacement lock.”

“Well, then, you just hold on and I’ll be back in two
shakes.”

The morning was chilly enough Sophie began to pace.  Wisps
of fog lingered.  If she went one way, she could see down the aisle at the far
side of the property, which was currently empty.  The other way, she could see
the same people working in their units that she’d earlier passed.  A few
covered vehicles were parked back here, too.  She ended up at the chain-link
fence, staring into a forest that looked surprisingly primeval, considering how
long this area had been settled and that it had likely been clear-cut at one
time.

There wasn’t much forestry on this side of the coastal range
anymore, though; winter storms and ocean winds kept trees small compared to
farther inland and therefore unprofitable.  These were hemlock, spruce and
cedar, she thought, although she couldn’t have told a hemlock from a spruce
from a fir, if the truth be told.  The evergreens were underlaid with shrubbery,
some native, some not.  Oregon grape, she thought, the ubiquitous salmonberry,
huckleberries, the ferns that loved the damp climate, and other bits of foliage
and even a few late spring flowers she didn’t recognize. 

Movement, caught by the corner of her eye, made her jump
until she saw that a squirrel was scampering up the trunk of a tree.  It paused
on a branch to gaze at her with suspicion before darting out of sight.

She was smiling when Marge returned with a pair of
lethal-looking bolt cutters.

Sophie hit re-dial on her phone and, at the sound of her
aunt’s voice saying, “I’m too busy to take this call,” shook her head at Marge,
who marched over to the door and applied the bolt cutters.

Marge appeared entirely too scrawny to cut through a quarter-inch
or more of steel, but with a snap, the lock fell open.  “There you go,” she
said with satisfaction.

Sophie took the lock off, set it on the concrete to one
side, turned the hasp and heaved the door up.  With a squeal and clatter, it
rolled on its tracks.

Beside her, Marge gasped.

The interior was shadowy and astonishingly full, but Sophie
was instantly riveted by the mess.  Boxes were open, items spilling out. 
Smashed ceramic and shattered glass sprinkled the concrete floor.  A framed
picture lay face down, glittering glass around it and a hole stomped through
the back.  Somebody had broken in, was all she could think.  Rifled the
contents without caring what was destroyed.  What a disaster.

Dear God, Sophie thought in shock, had Aunt Doreen seen this? 
Might she have gone to the police?

The committee or her aunt had obviously bought multiple
shelving units, the kind that could be easily assembled and then taken apart to
be moved, because a number of them lined the walls.  Most were still packed
with boxes of assorted shapes.  Peering in, Sophie saw framed pictures
carelessly stacked to one side.  Tall or awkward things filled the middle.  Was
that a cat climber?  A huge basket that had been covered with cellophane
spilled gourmet foodstuffs across the floor.