Left for Dead (16 page)

“Thanks,” she said. “Call me Claire, okay?”

“Claire,” he said into the phone.

“Well, I’m on a tight schedule right now,” Dottie Herrmann said, opening her front door for him. She let out a labored sigh as Tim stepped into the foyer.

“I promise not to take up much of your time, Mrs. Herrmann,” Tim said.

Dottie Herrmann was in her forties, with short, auburn hair, careworn blue eyes, and a trim figure. She was pale, and rather pretty, despite the crow’s feet around her eyes and laugh-lines around the mouth—which, at the moment, appeared more like frown lines. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt.

Tim followed her to the kitchen, which was incorporated with the breakfast nook and a large family room. The kitchen counter and sink divided the areas. As Mrs. Herrmann cleared a couple of plates off the breakfast table, Tim noticed her hands were shaking.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, moving to the sink. She put on rubber gloves, and turned on the water. “It’s been crazy today. I should have had these dishes done hours ago. I really wish you would have phoned ahead of time, detective.” She started washing the dishes. “You said you’re from Seattle?”

“That’s right,” he replied, sitting at the table, which still had three place mats on it. Behind him was a breakfront cabinet with plates on display—and one shelf full of framed family photos. “My partner and I are here investigating what happened to Claire Shaw,” Tim explained. “I was talking with Mrs. Shaw today. I understand her son, Brian, ran away the day before she was abducted in Seattle. And on that same day, your son, Derek, suddenly left for Europe.”

“It wasn’t so sudden,” she said, not looking up from the sink.

“Well, before before walking over here from my hotel, I called the principal at Derek’s high school in Anacortes. He said no one told them about Derek’s backpacking trip to Europe until
after
he’d left. He said they’d marked Derek absent for three days before the school secretary called you and—”

“Yes, yes,” she cut in. “There was a misunderstanding, but we cleared it up. What does any of this have to do with Claire Shaw?”

“Brian and Derek were best friends. Is that correct?”

“They knew each other,” she allowed, scrubbing away at a pot.

“If Brian was planning to run away, do you suppose he might have said something to Derek?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And now, Derek is incommunicado for the next few weeks,” he said.

“That’s right,” she sighed. “You know, I’ve already had this conversation with Claire Shaw. I’m sorry about what happened to her in Seattle, and I’m sorry her son ran away. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I hope—for Claire’s sake—that Brian comes home. He’s run away before, and he’s always come back.”

“Has Derek ever run away?” Tim asked.

She stopped her work for a moment, but kept staring down at the sink. “I don’t see how that can be Claire Shaw’s or anyone else’s business,” she said finally. She rinsed out some glasses.

Tim glanced at the framed photos on the breakfront. There were pictures of Dottie Herrmann and her husband, and apparently, a daughter, who looked about twelve years old in the most recent snapshot.

Getting to his feet, Tim picked up the picture of a dark-haired, slightly smarmy-looking young man. It was a high school portrait. With the framed photo in his hand, Tim moved toward the sink. “Is this Derek?” he asked.

Dottie Herrmann barely glimpsed at the photograph—before her gaze met Tim’s. Then she quickly looked down at the sink again. “Yes, that’s Derek,” she murmured, shutting off the water.

Tim noticed on the kitchen counter, beneath the telephone on the wall, the Herrmanns had an office “In” box. It was full of bills and scraps of paper. Tim noticed what was on top of the pile. He set Derek’s picture down on the counter, and stared at a form receipt from San Juan Island Charities Pick Up Service.

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR DONATION,”
it said across the top of the yellow slip. From where he stood, Tim couldn’t read the smaller print, but there was a blank after the boldly printed line:
“YOUR ITEMS WERE PICKED UP ON…”
The date filled in was from earlier in the week. Someone had also scribbled at the bottom of the receipt:
“Six bags—Clothing.”

“Would you please put my son’s picture back where it was,” Dottie Herrmann said. She peeled off the rubber gloves.

Tim returned the frame to its spot on the breakfront shelf. “Do you know if Derek kept a journal, a diary?”

“No, but if he did keep one, I think he would have brought it to Europe with him, don’t you?” A tiny smile flickered across Dottie Herrmann’s face for a second. Tim could tell she was proud of her answer.

“Well, Brian Ferguson kept a journal,” he lied. He had no idea whether or not Claire’s son actually had a diary. “It’s a spiral notebook,” he went on. “Brian told his mother he left it here. He hid it under the carpet in your son’s bedroom. Do you mind if I have a look?”

Mrs. Herrmann stared back at him. She hesitated before answering.

“It would be really helpful,” Tim continued. “Mrs. Shaw thinks Brian might have written in this journal something about his plans to run away.”

“Well, I’m terribly busy right now.” She grabbed a sponge and wiped the counter. “I’ll look for the diary later. I’ll call you if I find it.”

“It’ll take less time with both of us looking,” Tim suggested. “Couldn’t we look now? It’ll only take a minute.”

Drying off her hands, Dottie frowned at Tim. “His room’s upstairs.”

Tim followed her up to the second floor.

The walls were bare in Derek Herrmann’s room. Tim could see discoloration outlines where posters and pictures had once hung. Three moving boxes sat in the corner, on the floor. No doubt, they contained items plucked off the near-empty bookcases.

“We—we’re about to paint in here,” Dottie explained.

The closet door was open. Tim noticed some shoe boxes on the shelf, and about a dozen dresses on hangers. Nothing else.

“Pretty interesting wardrobe for a teenage boy,” Tim observed.

“Those are mine,” Mrs. Herrmann snapped. “Derek took most of his clothes to Europe with him. And I needed the closet space.”

“That must be one big backpack he’s lugging around,” Tim said. “Looks like he didn’t leave anything behind.”

Tim knew what had happened to Derek’s clothes. They’d been given away to charity. The Herrmanns weren’t expecting their son to come back—ever.

Dottie Herrmann closed the closet door. “Didn’t you want to look under the carpet?” she asked.

Tim went through the motions of checking along the baseboards for loose spots in the beige carpet. He found some areas where he could lift the carpet edge; but nothing was hidden there. He didn’t expect anything.

“Have you seen enough?” Mrs. Herrmann asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve already taken up too much of my time, detective.”

“I apologize,” Tim said, dusting off his hands as he headed out of Derek’s bedroom. “Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Herrmann. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Dottie Herrmann led Tim down the stairs to her front door, then she opened it for him.

Outside, a teenage girl came up the walkway, carrying a graffiti-covered canvas book bag. In the collection of family photos on the breakfront, Derek’s younger sister didn’t have a magenta streak in her brown hair and heavy, gothic makeup around her eyes. But Tim still recognized her. He guessed she was about thirteen. She wore a ratty black pullover and jeans.

Tim hesitated on the front stoop. Behind him, Mrs. Herrmann still held open the screen door.

Derek’s sister stopped in her tracks. She squinted at Tim, and then at her mother.

“Hi, I’m Tim Sullivan,” he said to the girl. “I’m a cop—from Seattle. You’re Derek’s sister, aren’t you?”

A look of horror swept over the girl’s face. She took a step back.

“Amy, dear,” Mrs. Herrmann said. “Mr. Sullivan was here about Brian. Mrs. Shaw sent him. He’s just leaving.”

Amy Herrmann let out a sigh and nodded. Tim wondered why she seemed so relieved.

He managed to smile at her. “You don’t know what happened to Brian, do you, Amy?”

She quickly shook her head. Brushing past him, she hurried into the house. The screen door shut behind her.

Tim glanced over his shoulder. He could still see them on the other side of the screen door. Mrs. Herrmann gave her daughter a strained, reassuring smile, then said something under her breath. Amy kept shaking her head, then she covered her face with her hands. Mrs. Herrmann put her arms around the girl, and patted her on the back.

When Mrs. Herrmann glanced up, her gaze met Tim’s. She stared at him with unveiled contempt. Then she reached over, and shut the door.

According to the San Juan Islands phone book and a map Tim had picked up at the Deception Visitor’s Center, it looked like Ron and Linda Castle lived approximately a mile from the Herrmanns.

Tim glanced at his wristwatch: three-forty. He figured Al was probably back at the hotel by now, wondering where the hell he was.

Despite the fifty-five degree temperature, Tim was perspiring. He felt his calves tightening as he walked uphill on the gravelly shoulder of Evergreen Drive. There were no sidewalks. Every few moments, a car whooshed by in one direction or the other. The speed limit was 45 mph on the two-lane highway, which eventually wove through the forest to the north side of the island and the industrial area of Alliance. Trees and shrubs lined both sides of the road. Every quarter of a mile or so, a winding cul de sac branched off the thoroughfare, cozy residential inlets with names like Pirate’s Cove Way, Sea Merchant’s Lane, and Smuggler’s Pass Road.

Linda and Ron Castle lived on Barnacle Way. Tim surmised that the folks living on Barnacle Way were in a higher tax bracket than most of their Deception neighbors. As he walked down the snaky cul de sac, he noticed the manicured, sprawling lawns. The large colonial-style homes looked as if they’d been built in the eighties and nineties. They had spectacular views of the harbor, the water, and the other islands in the distance.

Ron and Linda Castle’s two-story, yellow, colonial-style home had an old-fashioned park bench under a Japanese maple tree in their front yard. Two squat gnome figurines stood guard on the stoop to their front door. Tim didn’t see a car in the driveway.

As he started up the front walk, an attractive, older Latino woman came around from the back of the house. She had her hair in a bun, and wore khakis and a denim jacket. She stopped halfway down the driveway and stared at Tim.

“Are you Mrs. Castle?” he asked, cutting across the lawn toward her.

“Oh, God no,” she said, with a little laugh.

He pulled out his wallet and showed her his badge. “My name’s Tim Sullivan. I’m a cop, and I here to—”

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded. “You’re the good-looking one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My friend, Sheila, is the housekeeper at The Whale Watcher. She said two cops from Seattle checked in yesterday, and one of them was cute with dark hair and a dimple in his chin.”

“Well, thank Sheila for the compliment,” he said. “Do you know if Mrs. Castle is home?”

“No, she’s at the Platt Gardens Plaza. Today’s her day to pitch in, till the soil and become one with nature.” The woman said this in such a droll manner, Tim figured she didn’t think too much of Linda Castle or her civic activities. She extended her hand. “By the way, I’m her cleaning woman, Yolanda Martinez.”

He smiled and shook her hand. “Hi, Yolanda. Are these gardens very far from here?”

“About two and a half miles. Do you need to see her highness about something?”

“Yes, I do.” He grinned slyly. “You don’t seem overly fond of your employer.”

“Actually, she’s not so bad.” Yolanda glanced toward the street, where a pickup had stopped at the end of the driveway. “Did you walk here? Do you need a ride to the gardens?”

She introduced Tim to her brother-in-law, Virgilio, who was driving the pickup. There was no room up front, so Tim rode in back with a lawn mower, yard equipment, and big plastic bags full of yard waste. They passed through the commercial area down near the harbor, then continued up another hill. The houses weren’t as stately as in the Castles’ neighborhood: modest cedar bungalows, weather-beaten Cape Cods, and a few ramblers from the fifties.

The pickup pulled into a small parking area near the top of the hill. In one direction, through some trees, Tim could see the water, and the horizon—growing a bit darker as dusk approached.

In the other direction was the park. A sign had been posted by a rock garden entrance:

CITY OF PLATT GARDENS PLAZA

Established In 2002 By The Platt Guardians
For the Enjoyment of the Residents and Visitors of Deception Island, Washington

Tim climbed off the back of the pickup, then came up to the passenger window and thanked them for the lift.

Rolling her window halfway down, Yolanda nodded at the black BMW in the parking area. “There’s the royal coach. She’s still here.” She smiled at Tim. “So are you paying for the ride?”

“Oh, you—want some money?” he asked, surprised.

“God, no,” she said. “I want the dirt. Why do you want to talk with her? Does it have to do with Claire Shaw?”

Tim hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, it does.”

“Nice lady, Claire Shaw,” Yolanda said. “You know, ever since she disappeared on that shopping trip a couple of weeks ago, things have been pretty damn tense at the Castles’ castle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I work for them three days a week,” Yolanda replied, rolling the car window down even further. “And let me tell you, every one of those days lately, it’s been nuts there, just awful. The mister and missus have been so edgy, snapping at each other, snapping at me. They’ve practically been climbing the walls.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ve been worried about their friend,” Tim said.

“That’s just the thing,” Yolanda whispered. “Last week, when I heard they’d found Mrs. Shaw, I thought old Ron and Linda would chill out a bit. I mean, their friend’s okay, time to lighten up, right? But you know something?” She hesitated. “And promise not to quote me, officer.”