All Roads Lead To Murder Read online

  Eric was alone and sinking fast, feeling a deep sense of remorse for having failed his brother.

  His brain began to fog over as resignation overtook him. The muscles in his body relaxed, while his determination to win, to succeed, or to live flat-lined.

  He sank, floating like a feather at the will of the water’s movement. It was oddly comforting. No fighting. No competition. Just acceptance for what would be his fate.

  And then a bright light pierced the depths of the dark green water, making Eric look up. His father’s voice drifted down to him from somewhere above.

  “Reach out, Eric,” the voice commanded. “Grab my hand. This time, I promise I won’t let go.”

  .

  CHAPTER ONE

  By the end of June, things at the St. Claire Inn had returned to normal. And by normal I mean that no one had tried to kill me or any of my friends within the last few weeks.

  Yes, I said that.

  Murder had become a rather normal part of my everyday life.

  Case in point.

  My friend Doe and I had recently been abducted by two insane people, one of whom had a history of torturing and killing young women and had threatened to do the same to me. The other was going to turn Doe into mummy dearest from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho–literally.

  But I digress.

  Although summer in the Northwest is unpredictable, July held the promise of a string of 80 degree days. This brought a flurry of activity to Lake Washington, which serves as the backdrop to the St. Claire Inn situated on Mercer Island, just outside of Seattle.

  I own the inn and run it as a bed and breakfast with my business partner, April.

  By June, April and I had finished the plans for a new reception hall to replace our old barn, which had been torched a few weeks earlier by one of said crazy people. Construction was scheduled to begin right after the Fourth of July.

  The fire had consumed the barn and April’s prized bakery, relegating her to the big, homey kitchen in the main building to do all of her cooking and baking. She was at the big farmhouse sink when I rolled in from a trip to the store.

  “Okay, I got everything you need for tomorrow morning’s frittata,” I said, dropping the grocery bag onto the counter.

  My two miniature Dachshunds, Mickey and Minnie, pranced around my feet, demanding attention. I leaned down to give them each a pet. The kitchen door swung open behind me and José, our maintenance man, followed me in with two more bags clutched in his muscular arms.

  “Where do you want these Ms. Applegate?”

  “Thanks, José. You can put them on the table.” I pointed to our drop-leaf table in front of the multi-paned window that overlooked the lake.

  He did as I asked and then turned to me. “I plan to power wash the back driveway today, unless there’s something else you want me to do.”

  I glanced at April, whose back was to me. She was wearing baggy jeans and a long, brightly colored tunic that reminded me of her African heritage. “April?”

  “Nothing for me,” she said with her hands deep in the dishwater.

  “Sounds good, then,” I said to José.

  He started for the back door, but stopped abruptly when the door swung open in front of him. He stared at it for a moment and then turned his deep brown eyes to me. “Chloe?”

  “Probably,” I replied.

  José just shook his head with amusement and left without closing the door.

  The door closed quietly behind him.

  “On second thought…” I said, staring at the door. “That was probably Elizabeth. Chloe would have slammed the door.”

  When I said things had returned to normal, I meant that things had returned to our normal. That included the fact that the St. Claire Inn was haunted.

  In 1962, the inn had been the home of John St. Claire and his wife, Elizabeth. A fire that year destroyed much of the home. Elizabeth, their six-year old daughter, Chloe, their ten-year old son, Fielding, and their dog, Max had all perished. And yet, their spirits had remained.

  Multiple owners since then had reported a myriad of odd occurrences and sightings around the property and moved out quickly as a result. We had become used to them, even complacent.

  April chuckled at my comment. “Shakespeare clearly never lived at the St. Claire Inn.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She turned from the sink, her dark eyes glinting. “I remember a line from Henry the Fifth that lamented about so many horrid ghosts. No one would say our ghosts are horrid. I think they’re rather nice.”

  “I agree. I just wish they could help out more around here. I need the carpets shampooed in my apartment.”

  A chair at the kitchen table fell over backwards, slamming against the black and white tiled floor.

  “Elizabeth,” we acknowledged in unison.

  “Guess you’ll have to shampoo the carpets yourself,” April said with a smile.

  “Story of my life.”

  I replaced the chair, but the dogs still demanded attention. I opened a drawer and grabbed two doggie dental bones. Mickey, my black and tan male, began spinning in circles. Minnie bounced up and down, her little red body vibrating as she tried to grab the bone from my hand.

  “Minnie, sit!”

  She stopped jumping, but didn’t sit. Mickey, on the other hand, got too dizzy to spin any longer and came to a sudden halt, listing to one side.

  “Okay, here you go,” I said with a chuckle.

  I handed them each a snack. They retreated to their bed tucked into the old hearth on the far wall.

  I watched them for a moment, glancing up to where white-washed block letters spelled out ‘GOOD EATS’ over the arched, brick opening to the old fireplace.

  “I love this big kitchen,” I said. “In fact, I think I love my life right now.”

  “Things are going pretty well with David, I take it,” April said. She had returned to her dishes.

  I smiled to myself. “Yes, they are. Plus, I have you and the dogs. What could be better?”

  “And Blair, Doe, and Rudy,” she added.

  She had just named the members of my book club and the people I spent the most time with outside of work.

  “Of course. I love spending time with them. Speaking of…” I said, opening a cupboard to put the food away. “I talked to Doe today. She and Rudy have postponed their trip to Mexico and will be driving one of those big luxury motorhomes across country instead. They’ve talked Blair into going with them.”

  April chuckled as she turned off the water and dried her hands. She turned to me with a broad smile.

  “I’m not sure I’d trade sipping margaritas in Mexico for climbing behind the wheel of a big bus.”

  “No kidding,” I said, putting a jar of preserves away. “But Rudy’s neighbors, the Aberdeens, sold their house and moved to Wisconsin. They need someone to bring their motorhome to them.”

  “And Doe and Rudy decided they wanted to be the ones to do it?” April asked in surprise, as she hung her favorite fry pan on the pot rack over the kitchen island.

  “Don’t forget Blair.”

  “I doubt anyone could forget Blair,” she said with a laugh. “Why is Blair going? That doesn’t sound like a Blair sort of trip.”

  The five of us were all in our mid-to-late sixties and as different as the days of the week. My passion was finding and restoring antiques to sell at the inn. April had a degree in culinary arts and was happiest with her hands dusted with flour. As a retired journalist, Rudy spent much of her free time with her hands around a good book. Doe ran her late husband’s multi-million dollar waste management company, and yet had an aversion to dirt.

  Then there was Blair.

  Blair was the youngest of us at sixty-three and habitually dressed like a high-class hooker. And I mean that in the nicest of ways. Fortunately, she had the figure to pull it off and used it to her advantage whenever she was in the presence of a man—any man. In fact, she reacted to men the way I reacted to chocolate
. While others might allow chocolate to melt on their tongue, I had a tendency to swallow it whole.

  “Blair plans to meet Mr. Billings in Chicago after they drop off the motorhome,” I said. “There’s a big foreign car show there. Anyway, the girls will be gone a week.” I paused to close the cupboard. “They want me to go…but, I’m with you. I’d rather sit on our deck when I have a free minute, preferably with David, and try to forget the horrors of the last few months.”

  Detective David Franks of the Mercer Island PD was my new boyfriend. Truth be told, there hadn’t been much ‘alone’ time since we’d started dating in January. In fact, we’d met during the investigation into the murder of my friend, Martha, and had only been able to sneak in one quick weekend at the coast in between a second and third murder investigation.

  Remember how I said my life wasn’t normal?

  To be honest, I was disappointed I wouldn’t be going on the road trip with my friends.

  “I think you should go,” April said. She hung the towel on a hook and turned her espresso eyes toward me. “You need a break. Your life has been pretty overwhelming for the last few months. David will be here when you get back. Why don’t you do something just for you for a change? Something that doesn’t include chasing killers all over the place.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can’t go,” I replied with a disingenuous wave of my hand. “The inn is booked solid through the summer, and we’re about to begin construction on the reception hall.”

  I silently hoped my argument wouldn’t convince her. After all, I couldn’t bear the thought of my entire book club going without me. If nothing else, a romp across country in a big motorhome would be good for a few laughs.

  “Oh, Julia,” April said with a scolding tone. “I have Crystal and José, and we could bring Lynette on full-time for a week. I think we could survive without you. When it comes to the reception hall, all they’ll have time to do is break ground. I’ll email you pictures. So, go.”

  I gave her an expectant raise to my eyebrows. “What about the dogs?”

  “I’d be happy to take care of them. You should go.”

  “You think?”

  “I think,” she replied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The girls were thrilled when I announced I would join them on the trip. There was, however, the little matter of learning how to drive the big motorhome—a not so comforting prospect for me since I had a reputation for being accident prone.

  Rudy had checked state license regulations, and the states along our route didn’t require a special permit. Good news. Nathan Aberdeen, however, didn’t care. He wanted us to practice before we took his precious RV on the road.

  I couldn’t blame him, since I’d been in several accidents recently. But I was a little nervous about this part of the deal. In my defense, the accidents had all been caused by nasty people chasing or shooting at me. My nervousness stemmed from the fact I was only 5’ 2” tall and feared I couldn’t adequately reach the pedals. The image of me driving the big rig off a cliff was a very real possibility.

  I pushed down my anxieties though and joined the group a few days later when we piled into Doe’s big Mercedes and headed out to meet Nathan at Safeco Field in downtown Seattle. We chatted enthusiastically about the trip and living the life of nomads until we pulled up to where the RV was parked.

  The chatter ended.

  Blair peered out the window, her pretty face pinched with disgust. “Jeez, that’s what we’re traveling in? It’s the Incredible Hulk.”

  I followed her gaze. The RV was large enough to carry an entire NFL team, plus gear. It was also really ugly. The exterior was painted a dreadful Army green with a black swirly stripe that ran from front to back like a hardened scar.

  “At least we’ll be inside looking out most of the time,” Rudy said, staring at it.

  The screen door opened, and Nathan Aberdeen stepped out the moment we emerged from the Mercedes. He was medium height, slender, with a long nose, glasses and receding brown hair. Rudy introduced us.

  “Good to meet all of you,” he said with a nod. “This is my baby.” He turned and placed the flat of his hand on the side of the big rig and glanced up at it as if he was admiring a beautiful woman. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  Silence.

  Count to three.

  “Yes,” Rudy said, filling the dead space. “It sure is. We can hardly wait.”

  Nathan’s angular face beamed with pride. “Mary and I hope to retire in this baby. We just want to be footloose and fancy-free when I finally hang it up.”

  Nathan worked for a big motor parts company and had been transferred to Wisconsin.

  “So…you ready to wheel this thing around the parking lot a few times?” he asked, looking directly at me.

  I pressed my lips together, hesitating. “Um…sure.”

  He climbed the steps and swung open the door, and we followed him into an alternate universe.

  While the outside looked like a prisoner transport vehicle, the inside was another matter. It could have competed with a high-end Manhattan apartment.

  “Wow,” I muttered.

  There was a complete bedroom with two single beds accented with patchwork quilts and a small brass lamp secured to a center bedside table. I opened the bathroom door to find a sink, a toilet and a glassed-in shower. The kitchen was graced with marble countertops, polished cherry wood cabinets, a microwave, a glass stovetop, and an oven.

  The dining table seated four and Nathan showed us how it broke down into a double bed. In between the kitchen table and driver’s seat was a rich leather sofa, which also converted into a double bed. Across from the dining table were two leather swivel chairs, offset by a small game table with an inlaid checker-board. I glanced up to where a built-in flat screen TV hung above it.

  “Look at this carpet,” Doe murmured. “It’s nicer than what I have in my living room.”

  She was staring at a deep, plush carpet with a rich geometric design in bold colors.

  “This is amazing,” I said, running my hand across the burnished wood of the dining table.

  “They don’t call it a luxury motorhome for nothing,” Nathan said. “It even has an air conditioner mounted on the roof. You’ll have everything but a fireplace.”

  “So much for rustic camping,” Blair said, fingering a floral patterned pillow on the sofa.

  “Oh, you’ll still be able to roast marshmallows over a campfire. You can just cook, eat, and sleep in comfort.”

  Nathan gave us a brief explanation about the motorhome’s dashboard, the GPS, and how to use the big rearview mirrors. We followed him outside to learn how to hook up water and electricity and dump the waste water. Lastly, we were each required to take a turn driving around the parking lot before demonstrating how to park and back up.

  I swallowed.

  The moment of truth had arrived.

  Nathan had set up two curved lines of orange cones to serve as a practice track. For a half hour, Doe, Rudy, and Blair navigated them without mishap and then showed how easily they could back up and park the giant monstrosity.

  Then it was my turn.

  In the course of a few minutes, I knocked over two cones, flattened a second cone and dragged it behind me, almost wiped out a small truck parked alone in the back of the lot and then backed the big rig into a parking slot six inches over the line on the far side and slammed it into the fence behind me.

  Needless to say, Nathan was polite, but firm; I would not be allowed to take the wheel of his motorhome.

  Oh, well, I thought. Disaster averted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We were set to leave on Sunday morning. Since I was on call at the inn the night before our departure, David and I scheduled dinner in my apartment to say goodbye. He called to let me know he would be late, so I settled on a simple meal of homemade tacos and rice.

  He arrived just after seven o’clock dressed in dark slacks and a tan, long-sleeved crew neck shirt. His badge hung
from a lanyard around his neck.

  The dogs followed him inside from the back door, whining and pestering him for attention. He handed me a bottle of wine and then leaned down to greet them. In my home, the dogs usually came first, so I accepted this affront with a smile. Once the dogs’ needs had been met, he put his arms around me and gave me a warm kiss.

  “I’m sorry about being late,” he said when we separated. “I got caught up in a case, and I’ll have to go back to the department after dinner.”

  He went to the sink to wash his hands.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Senator Owens’ daughter disappeared from Luther Burbank Park this morning.”

  Owens was a Republican U.S. senator from Spokane and a rising star in congress.

  “You’re kidding. What happened?”

  “All we know is that she was scheduled to join some friends, but never showed. Her car was found later with her beach bag and keys on the ground outside the driver’s side door. We canvassed the park and found someone that witnessed a girl matching her description with a man wearing a ball cap. He was putting her into a dark van. The witness said she appeared sick or drunk, because he had to help her into the vehicle.”

  “Wow,” I said, perching on one of the counter stools. “I just read an article about Senator Owens a few days ago. He’s angling to be the next majority leader in the Senate, but no one likes him. I understand he loves to sue people for the slightest insult until he gets them to back down and apologize. Seems like a bully to me, but I wouldn’t wish violence on anyone. Do you have any leads?”

  David popped the cork on the wine bottle. “Our witness was able to give us a good description of the van. It had vanity plates. We were able to track it down, but it was stolen last night.”

  “Of course it was,” I said with a sigh. “Wouldn’t kidnapping be a case for the FBI?”

  “Not necessarily, but this is a U.S. senator, so they’ve already been notified. She has a boyfriend, so we’re hoping to talk to him.”

  “What about her father?” I asked with a hint of expectation.