Shroud of Fog: (A Cape Trouble Romantic Suspense Novel) Read Online Free

who’d gotten
out of the van, but jogged to Ms. Thomsen.
    “Is there any chance you – or someone – have a list of what
should be in there?”
    “Yes, in theory.”
    He raised his eyebrows at that.
    She grimaced.  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.  It
became apparent to me, talking to Doreen, that while the group was doing a heck
of a job begging donations, they weren’t doing nearly so well organizing the
stuff once they had it.  Apparently somebody had volunteered to enter donations
as they came in and work on a catalog, but she’s been full of excuses and not
really doing it.”
    “And who would that be?”
    “Rhonda…Rhoda…something.”  She lifted her hands.  “I have a
list of volunteers with contact info back at the cottage.  I haven’t met any of
them yet, except for a few I already knew from visits to Doreen.”
    “All right,” he said.  “See what kind of inventory you do
have, too.”  He stared at the daunting contents of the storage locker.  “Do me
a favor, though.  Please don’t call any of the other volunteers or accept any
calls.  In fact, don’t talk to anyone, okay?  I’ll want to give each of them
the news myself.”
    Still remarkably composed, she nodded.  “I wonder what
happened to the lock.”
    “I think the fact that the lock was replaced suggests the
killing of your aunt was thoroughly premeditated.  He – or she – came
prepared.  The replaced lock was likely intended to slow down the discovery of
the body.  Any volunteers who came out here would be puzzled and possibly
annoyed because their keys didn’t work, but most of them wouldn’t have demanded
Marge cut the lock off.”  Which, the more he thought about it, made Ms. Thomsen
an unlikely killer.  Why would she put the damn lock on, then immediately
insist Marge cut it off?
    “No.  No, I suppose not.”  She hugged herself.  “No.”  She
stole a look toward the cluster of people now waiting for him outside the space
and the grim sight past them, then hurried the rest of the way to her Prius. 
    A moment later, she drove around the corner of the building
without looking back.
     
     

CHAPTER TWO
     
    The cottage her aunt had rented for Sophie for the month was
a perfect dollhouse.  It probably dated to more like the 1940s than the
turn-of-the-century, but the lavender paint job with trim in deep purple, white
and sunny yellow gave it a Victorian feel.  The yard wasn’t big, but the garden
was beautiful and at its most glorious right now with antique roses,
delphiniums, foxgloves and poppies in bloom.  A white picket fence bounded the
front yard, the walkway from the street entering beneath an arch covered by a
pale pink, single-petaled climbing rose tangled with a clematis that had
dinner-plate sized sky-blue flowers.  Sophie wasn’t a gardener – she lived in a
condo in Portland – but even she could appreciate the beauty of this yard,
maintained by the owner.
    At first she huddled inside, sipping tea to combat the chill
that had settled inside her, but eventually the sun did come out and she took
her third cup of tea out onto the tiny brick patio in back.  It was soothing
listening to bees hum gently as they moved from bloom to bloom.  Even more
powerful than the fragrance of the roses was the smell of the ocean, salty and
slightly fishy.  The muted roar of the surf was constant, too, part of life here. 
She remembered how, after each summer spent here, she’d had trouble sleeping
when they went home after Labor Day weekend.  She’d felt the absence of the
ocean’s rhythm as if some essential function of her own body had ceased.
    But after that summer – yes, After – she would forever find
the sound to be ominous rather than soothing.
    The cottage was situated closer to the river than Sophie
liked, and she’d been relieved to discover there was no view that direction. 
Coming and going, she wouldn’t have to look across the river at the row of
cabins on the