Lost Lake Page 3

  Jake smirked. “Every damn day. But that’s me.”

  “Yeah, and you aren’t Sari. She’s not like that,” Mac said. He looked at me pointedly. “We told you, she’s responsible. The gala tonight—this is supposed to be her big night.”

  “And those are the reasons we are taking this seriously.”

  There was nothing more for them to do at the station, so I began shepherding them out, toward the front door. “All I am saying is try to stay calm. I’ll be at the gala tonight. Will I see any of you there?”

  All three shook their heads. Mac said, “Sari comped me a ticket, but I gave it to my sister. I’m on call at the hospital.”

  Ally added, “I wouldn’t be caught dead there. A bunch of stuffy, old rich people. Not my kind of crowd.”

  We left things with me swearing to call them the minute I heard anything, and them giving me the same promise. As I watched them leave the police station, though, something that had been troubling me all morning intensified, and I was finally able to pinpoint what it was.

  One of them was lying.

  Which one, and about what, I didn’t know … but I was sure of it.

  I looked at the picture of Sari Chesney, still in my hand. By all accounts she was a loving daughter, devoted girlfriend, dedicated employee. A mentor to underprivileged kids and an animal lover.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my six years as a cop, it’s that no one is that perfect in real life. Each of us has a side that is mean and nasty. I turned around and walked back into the police station, still staring at the photograph, deeply curious to learn what secrets were hidden behind Sari Chesney’s wide smile.

  At my desk, I started a file on Chesney and decided to start with the mother. It was as good a place to begin as any, especially as Mac had told me that Sari and her mother were close.

  I found the number for Carver Estates and called, identifying myself and asking if Charla Chesney had received any visitors in the last few days. The woman who answered, Miss Rosa, asked me to hold while she checked their visitor logs. Twenty seconds later, she was back on the line.

  “Detective? Are you still there? Sari came by on Thursday. She stayed an hour.”

  “But nothing since then? No visits today or yesterday?”

  “No, ma’am. We keep good records here. Sari’s been visiting her mother two or three times a week since Mrs. Chesney moved in a few years ago. I wouldn’t expect to see Sari again now until Monday or Tuesday,” Miss Rosa said. Her voice grew troubled. “Is there something wrong? Why are you asking these questions?”

  I gave a deliberately vague answer and left my phone number with the woman, in case Chesney showed up. I briefly debated asking to speak to Charla Chesney herself but dismissed the idea; it was much too early to unnecessarily worry her. And if I did need to speak to her, I wanted to do it in person. I had no idea how advanced her condition was, but if she was anything like my grandmother Julia, in-person conversations tended to go better than phone calls.

  My second call was to the Cedar Valley History Museum, where I left a message with Chesney’s boss, Elizabeth Starbuck, explaining the situation and asking her to call me as soon as possible.

  I tackled a few emails and some lingering paperwork from a case I’d wrapped up the previous week, then left for the day. I stopped at the dry cleaners on the way home and picked up my dress for the evening’s gala. The gown was black satin, strapless and long, and when I wore it, I felt like a Hollywood actress in a spy movie.

  In reality, though, the dress was probably a little too snug to wear six months after having a baby. I’d lost most of the pregnancy weight, but the pounds that remained had migrated from my belly to other locations; my hips were wider, my thighs fuller. I hated that I even cared about such things, but I was accustomed to a lean, athletic figure, not a soft, rounded one.

  I carefully placed the dress in the trunk of my car and committed myself to an evening of maximal support wear and minimal intake of cocktails and appetizers. I was lucky to be going to the gala at all; the museum was small, so tickets were limited, and they’d sold out weeks ago. I was attending as the guest of my boss, Chief of Police Angel Chavez. He’d bought two extra tickets and raffled them off at work. I won one; my colleague and fellow detective Lucas Armstrong won the other.

  As I drove through town, evidence of the week’s coming celebratory events was everywhere. It should have felt festive, but a strange sense of doom coursed through me. I tried to shake it, deciding the unpredictable weather was getting to me. Springtime in the high Rockies is sun-soaked and glorious one minute, overcast and frigid the next.

  The clouds that had moved in at Lost Lake loomed over the town now, and an immense shadow darkened the entire valley. The scarlet banners that hung from the streetlamps fluttered in the wind, like flags of an approaching army, and the white event tents that had sprung up in various parks seemed apocalyptic, like fallout shelters in the wake of a disaster.

  I slowed as I drove by the museum. It was a large, rambling building, all turrets and gray river rocks and leaded windows. A handful of people were busy setting out bright orange cones, already preparing the empty lot and adjacent street for what was sure to be a headache of a parking situation.

  I turned left from the main road and headed up the canyon toward home, thinking about the morning’s events, still trying to shake the sense of despair that had settled over me like the iron-gray clouds that towered over the valley.

  * * *

  At home, I found my daughter, Grace, and our nanny, Clementine Major, lounging in the backyard on a blanket, enjoying the last scraps of the fleeing sunbeams. Our basset hound, Seamus, lay beside them. I scooped Grace up and smothered her with kisses until she started shaking her head at me.

  “It’s going to rain,” Clem said glumly. She was unusually quiet, and I wondered what was wrong.

  “I think so. Brody’s not home yet?”

  Clem tucked a few loose strands of her pink-tinged blond hair back into a purple Colorado Rockies ball cap and rolled her eyes. “He texted about an hour ago and asked if I could stay. Something about a conference call running late. It’s fine. It’ll cost you, but it’s fine. But seriously, it’s the weekend. You both should be here at home as a family.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Your wisdom, as always, is appreciated.”

  She smiled wanly and shrugged again.

  I stood there, looking down at the lanky college sophomore with the cut-off jean shorts and the knit sweater that was two sizes too big for her slender frame. She barely looked old enough to be in college, let alone watching my daughter.

  “Are you okay? You seem … distracted,” I finally asked her.

  Clem hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “I’m fine. Just some personal stuff. Boy drama.”

  “Anything I can do to help? I know it’s hard to believe, since I’m practically elderly, but I do have experience in that department.”

  Blushing, Clem quickly looked down at the ground. “I’ll handle it. Thanks. So, if you’re home now, can I go? I have a nail appointment and then Tori and I are going to park outside the fire station and watch the guys clean the trucks.”

  Barely suppressing my own eye roll, I said, “Of course. We’ll see you Monday. And thank you for staying. Grace adores you.”

  Clem stood up and to my surprise gave me a hug. “I like you. You are good people. You pay me on time and don’t give me any grief about my hair. Plus, you’re a cop. A freaking lady cop. You’d be my hero if I had heroes. Which I don’t.”

  As she left, the rain started to come down, first in gentle drops, then in heavy sheets. I put Grace in her crib for a nap and then grabbed a snack. I’d missed lunch and the morning’s hike had left me ravenous, though the crackers and hummus did little to satisfy. When Brody arrived home, he found me in the kitchen working my way through a bowl of chicken pasta salad, listening to the rain.

  “Sorry I’m late, honey,” he asked by way of greeting.
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  I nodded, my mouth full. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  “This damn contractor in Tokyo got our conference call times mixed up and I had to wait around the office. You’d think with all the technology we have, these things would be easier.”

  I nodded again, my mouth once more full.

  Brody was a geologist by training. After nearly twenty years working in the field, in places as remote as northern Alaska and Mongolia, he’d accepted a job at a local consulting firm that dealt in international mining contracts. While the money was nice, it was even better that he was home most of the time, working a normal eight-to-five job.

  Ours was not an easy relationship; an early bout of infidelity on his part had left me with significant trust issues. Her name was Celeste Takashima, and she had an uncanny way of popping into my mind at the most inopportune times. But having him home, beside me in the bed at night, was helping. Of course, watching him with Grace helped, too. Brody was a wonderful father. I hoped that he would make as wonderful a husband; I’d finally accepted an engagement ring from him and we were scheduled to be married in the fall.

  Married.

  A year ago, the word left me with cold sweats. Now, I was starting to consider dresses, a guest list. Flowers and a cake.

  Multiple cakes, if I had my way.

  We talked about the things partners talk about: our day, our daughter, plans for a vacation in the summer. The conversation came easy, and when my cell phone rang, I reluctantly answered it. I immediately had to hold the phone away from my head to avoid bursting an ear drum.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am! You need to stop yelling,” I said in the direction of the phone, still holding it a foot from my face. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  Brody backed out of the kitchen, mouthing “good luck.”

  A few seconds later, the voice on the other end fell silent. I cautiously brought the phone back to my ear. “Who is this, please?”

  “Betty Starbuck. I’m the Director at the Cedar Valley History Museum. You left a message for me earlier regarding my employee, Sari Chesney. I hope she’s turned up, because I have a much more serious matter to discuss with you,” the woman said. “There’s a terrible situation at the museum.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What’s happened?”

  “A rare artifact has been stolen. The Rayburn Diary. I discovered the theft just minutes ago.”

  I grabbed a notepad from the kitchen counter and began taking notes. “Rayburn … as in Owen Rayburn?”

  “Yes. One and the same. Cedar Valley’s very own founding father. Detective, that diary is absolutely priceless,” Starbuck said. She took a deep breath and added, “It is—was—intended to be the showcase of tonight’s gala.”

  “Where was the diary stolen from?”

  Another deep breath, then: “Our safe. I threw a small party on Wednesday for the museum’s board of directors and removed the diary at that time to briefly show it off. It was a sort of special preview event before the larger gala tonight. After the party ended, I personally returned the diary to the safe and locked it. Only three of us have the combination: myself and two employees, Larry Bornstein and Sari Chesney.”

  Sari Chesney.

  “And Wednesday was the last time you saw it?”

  “Yes. I’ve been out with a stomach bug since Thursday morning. Sari worked Thursday and then took a half day Friday. I expected to see her at noon today; there are some last-minute exhibition tasks to finish before the party tonight. Look, I’m not completely heartless; the fact that you’ve said Sari is missing is troubling. At least, it was troubling until I discovered the diary is also missing. Now I’m placed in the unfortunate position of hosting a ruined event and being unable to question my assistant curator as to whether or not she knows where the diary is.”

  “I understand. Look, I’d already planned to attend the gala. I’ll come early and we can talk in person. If the diary hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll take a statement and file a report. We can also do a thorough onsite investigation, check for forensics, but that might mean canceling the event.”

  I had a feeling what her response to that particular suggestion might be.

  “Absolutely not. Come early, by all means, but any kind of formal investigation will have to wait until after the gala. There are thousands of dollars at stake here, and potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars more from future donors who are interested in supporting the museum’s mission. I’ll see you in an hour,” Starbuck said, and hung up.

  Disturbed, I went upstairs to grab a quick shower and get dressed. When I’d left Lost Lake this morning, I had convinced myself that Sari Chesney would turn up within an hour or two. I’d started a missing persons file on her, because her disappearance was odd, but I’d assumed the case would be over before it started.

  Now?

  Now a rare artifact had been stolen from the museum’s safe. Three people held the combination, and Sari was one of them.

  Coincidence?

  Not in my line of work.

  I turned on the shower and let the water get hot, my thoughts running.

  Starbuck had described the diary as priceless … in other words, very, very expensive. Money is a powerful motivator, and while the last thing I try to do is jump to conclusions, I couldn’t help asking the two questions that went through my mind.

  Where are you, Sari Chesney? And what have you done?

  Chapter Four

  Inside the Cedar Valley History Museum, catering staff in black-and-white uniforms were setting up small cocktail tables and longer serving buffets. After the cool chill of the storm outside, the museum felt warm and smelled of garlic and tomatoes. A posted menu told me the event was to be an Italian-themed evening. My stomach rumbled as a server walked past me, his antipasto tray heavy with glistening olives and a vast array of cheeses and meats.

  An older man with a droopy mustache and a starched tan-and-black security uniform pointed out Betty Starbuck to me. She was a diminutive woman with short gray hair, in an emerald ballgown and a gold choker necklace from which hung an opal the size of a robin’s egg. Hers was a timeless beauty and I had difficulty telling if she was sixty-five or eighty, though in the end I decided she was closer to eighty.

  She was off to the side, near a set of musical instruments and a dance floor, scolding a young man in ripped jeans and a T-shirt. As I approached them, I caught enough of the argument to ascertain that he’d set the stage for the band too close to the dining area. The man’s face was beet red. It seemed he’d had enough of her berating him, because as I reached them he gave her the middle finger and stormed off.

  Starbuck shook a fist after him and then turned to me. She looked me up and down, and I knew what she saw: a thirty-year-old detective maneuvering uncomfortably in a too-tight black evening gown, long dark hair pulled up in a haphazard knot, an evidence kit clutched awkwardly in one hand and a bejeweled clutch in the other.

  “You must be Gemma Monroe. Have you found Sari?”

  “No, she hasn’t turned up yet.” I said, and then stuck out my hand. After a moment, Starbuck grasped and shook it. Her skin was cool and her grip strong.

  “That’s a beautiful opal.”

  Her hand went to her necklace and she colored slightly. “Thank you. I don’t usually wear such extravagant jewelry, but it felt as though the occasion called for it. My great-great-grandfather purchased the stone in Australia for his wife. He mined the gold here, in the valley, himself.”

  “A local miner? You’ve got strong ties to this town, then.”

  “Well, yes.” Starbuck looked at me with a funny expression on her face. “I’m sorry, I just assumed you knew … Owen Rayburn was my great-great-grandfather.”

  “I see. No wonder you’re anxious to find his diary.”

  “Incredibly anxious, for a number of reasons. Come on, I’ll show you the safe,” Starbuck said.

  As we walked, I took a moment to glance around and get my bearings,
as it had been years since I’d been inside the museum. The first floor was one enormous open space, with curtains, tapestries, and rice-paper screens serving to distinguish various exhibit halls. Running down the middle of the room was a series of freestanding glass display cases, anchored on impressive granite blocks. Inside each one were the types of object you’d expect to see in a history museum in the West: arrowheads, gemstones, pioneer artifacts.

  Starbuck stopped in front of one of the display cases and put her hand gently on the glass. An engraved plaque screwed into the block read simply “The Owen Rayburn Diary” while dim, recessed lights shone down into an empty black velvet–lined box. “This is where the diary should be. This is where it was Wednesday night, at the private preview event. Detective … you must understand that beyond being an absolutely horrible loss, the theft of the diary is an incredible embarrassment. We rely on other institutions to lend us their artifacts for exhibits. Not to mention the donors … they trust us. Without their support, we’ll be finished by year’s end.”

  “Because of one missing artifact?” I asked as we began to walk again. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Clearly you haven’t spent much time in the museum world, Detective. It’s cutthroat. We all need money, and there’s only so many donors. Unfortunately, this is the latest in a series of incidents to besiege us over the last few years. The Rayburn Diary is a once-in-a-lifetime artifact. It’s priceless. I’ll be seen as untrustworthy, sloppy to let such a valuable item disappear on my watch. It’s absolutely devastating. Especially given my family connection.”

  “What makes the diary so special?”

  “For one thing, it is quite literally a gold mine of information. Not only was Owen Rayburn one of the six Silver Foxes—the founding fathers of this town—he was also responsible for most of the mining operations. There are detailed maps, scientific recordings, business transactions … plus of course personal information, historically important details about Rayburn’s life.”

  Starbuck knocked on, and then opened, a door marked “staff only.” I followed her into a narrow, tidy office. A middle-aged man in a sweater vest and bow tie sat at the desk, pecking furiously at a keyboard with his two index fingers. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Aside from the computer and an unopened bottle of water, the only other item on the desk was an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer and a box of tissues.