Woman With a Gun_A Novel Read online

  As soon as he finished lunch, Jack bought a ticket to the Portland Art Museum and walked through the Moran exhibit, paying close attention to each picture. He didn’t see anything startling in any of the photographs.

  When he had been in Ellen Devereaux’s gallery after the break-in, Devereaux had told Jack and the police chief which photographs had been stolen and where they had hung in the exhibit. When she was telling them about some of the photographs it had occurred to Jack that he was standing where Megan had stood just before she fled the gallery. Jack closed his eyes and tried to remember which of the missing photos Megan would have been able to see. He smiled. The old brain was still functioning. Devereaux had told Jack about two photographs. One was the seascape Kathy had snapped shortly before she found Megan on the beach and the other showed a bearded man gazing into a mirror in a bar. Jack frowned. Why would either photo shock Megan so much that she would run out of the gallery? After thinking about the question for a few minutes, Jack decided they wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Two days after their trip to Portland, Glen drove to Lane County for several days of pretrial hearings in a federal case. The first day he was gone, Stacey slept late, then went for a run. The morning was pleasant and there was almost no breeze, but there had been two murders in the now deserted Cahill beach house and Stacey shivered involuntarily when she ran by it. As far as she knew, the police were still stymied in their attempts to figure out who killed Megan. She assumed that there would be an article in the Gazette if something broke and she had not seen anything about the case in the paper in a while.

  Kathy Moran had purchased a house on a cliff overlooking the ocean with the money she’d made after Woman with a Gun won the Pulitzer and her photographs started to sell for outrageous prices. Two miles past the Cahill place, Kathy’s house appeared on the horizon. Whenever Stacey ran near it, she hoped that she would see the photographer walking on the beach. She was convinced that she could get Kathy to open up to her if she could just talk to her in person.

  As she ran below the house Stacey thought she saw someone standing in the window. She pulled up and waved, hoping that it was Kathy Moran and she could attract her attention. The few steps Stacey had taken had shifted her perspective and she found her view obstructed by a reflection in the glass in Kathy’s picture window. Stacey walked backward until she was at the spot where she thought she saw someone watching her but there was no one there. Stacey frowned. She was certain she’d seen someone in the window, but she’d been running and looking up at an odd angle so it might have been a mirage. Stacey waited below the house, hoping that Kathy would walk down to the beach to talk to her. After a few moments, she realized that this was wishful thinking and she continued on her run.

  Once Stacey got into a rhythm, her mind would wander. She was still fascinated by the possibility of making Wyatt Earp’s gun the big clue in her book, and that started her thinking about everything she knew about it. An Internet search had informed her that Major George Schofield had designed the revolver to be shot one-handed by United States cavalry soldiers, who could break open the pistol and reload it while riding. Jesse James and Wild Bill Hickok also used the weapon, and the Schofield Russian was a favorite sidearm of the Russian government. All of this was interesting, but it hadn’t helped her develop the gun as a clue.

  Stacey started thinking about information about the gun in the Cahill case file. There was the photograph of the gun in the article in the Palisades Heights Gazette and the discussion about the gun in the police report that recounted Jack Booth’s and Teddy Winston’s interview with Frank Janowitz . . .

  Stacey stopped in midstride. Jack Booth had told her that Kathy Moran had grown up in Arlington, California, and it dawned on her that she had heard about Arlington, California, before. Stacey reversed course and headed to Glen’s law office. Three-quarters of a mile past Kathy’s house, Stacey happened to glance over her shoulder. Someone was running along the shore a quarter mile behind her. The runner was dressed in black and the cowl of a sweatshirt obscured the runner’s face. At this distance, Stacey couldn’t tell if she was being followed by a man or a woman.

  Stacey turned her head forward and kept running, but she began to worry. She looked over her shoulder again. The runner was still there and seemed to be gaining. Stacey picked up her pace but she felt silly. No one was following her. This was just another person out for some exercise. People ran on the beach all the time. Still, on such a warm summer morning, it seemed odd that this runner was wearing a sweat suit.

  Stacey spotted a beach access that would put her in a residential area a few blocks from Ocean Avenue. She turned quickly and cut across the sand. Her breathing was getting shallow and she gritted her teeth and raced onto the narrow sandy path that led off the beach to safety. When she turned onto Ocean Avenue she chanced a backward glance. No one was behind her. Her legs were starting to cramp and she was breathing heavily so she slowed to a jog. The hum of traffic was comforting and she was starting to make out the buildings on the edge of the business district. She looked around again and was certain she was alone but she didn’t stop running until she was safely surrounded by people.

  Once she was in her office at Baker and Kraft, it didn’t take Stacey long to find the Banker Box containing the file she wanted. She pulled out the issue of the Palisades Heights Gazette with the Raymond Cahill interview and flipped through it. The sentence she was looking for said exactly what she thought it would.

  He has lived his adult life on an estate in Arlington, an upscale, seaside community in California, but he still tried to spend at least a week a year at his grandparents’ cabin. . . .

  Stacey sat back in her chair. Raymond Cahill and Kathy Moran had both lived in Arlington, California. What did that mean? It provided a connection between the two that Stacey did not know existed, but what kind of connection? Cahill was many years older than Kathy. Did Cahill know Kathy’s parents?

  Stacey tried to remember what she knew about Raymond Cahill. He had dropped out of college, he was a millionaire by the time he was in his early twenties, and he’d bought his mansion in Arlington shortly after he struck it rich. Kathy’s parents died when she was young and she had been raised by an aunt in Montana. So Kathy would have been young when she and Cahill lived in Arlington.

  One implication of her discovery suddenly occurred to Stacey. Was it possible that Kathy Moran was not just a witness in the Cahill case? Could she be involved in Raymond Cahill’s murder? If she was, then Megan Cahill was probably innocent. If Megan was innocent, then she was telling the truth when she said that Parnell Crouse killed her husband. There was certainly enough evidence that Crouse had been involved in the robbery-murder. The mere fact that Crouse was in Palisades Heights pointed to his involvement and there was the coin that had been found in the trunk of his car. But how would Kathy, who lived in Oregon, know Crouse, who was raised in Texas before living in Oakland, California? And what motive would Kathy have to kill Raymond Cahill?

  After a while, Stacey gave up and decided to go home and shower. On the way back to Glen’s house, she looked for any sign that she was being followed but she didn’t see anything unusual. By the time she arrived home, she decided that finding Megan’s body had spooked her and caused her to be on edge. After giving it some thought, Stacey was convinced that the person in black was just out for a morning run and not a threat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  After her shower and a quick bite for lunch, Stacey returned to the law office. She couldn’t shake the idea that Kathy Moran was involved in Raymond Cahill’s murder. On the evening that she snapped her famous picture, was she taking photographs for her one woman show or was that a cover? And who murdered Parnell Crouse? Crouse was killed on Monday night. Jack Booth questioned Kathy at the police station on Monday afternoon but Stacey didn’t remember anyone mentioning Kathy after she left the police station. She’d told Booth that she was working Monday night. Did Kathy show up for
her shift? Just as Stacey thought of someone who could answer that question, Henry Baker hobbled in and surprised her.

  Baker was a big man but he seemed frail. He stooped over to rest on his cane, his skin had a sickly pallor, and the left side of his face sagged. Glen’s partner had been in the office a few times since the gallery opening but he tired easily so he rarely stayed long. Other than saying hello, Stacey had not had much contact with him.

  “How’s your book coming?” Baker asked.

  “I’m making progress.”

  “Good, good.”

  Baker hesitated. When he spoke Stacey sensed that he was tamping down his emotions.

  “I understand you were the one who . . . that you found Megan Cahill.”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have been horrible for you.”

  “It was. Did you know the Cahills well?”

  “Not well. I did some legal work for Ray. We played a few rounds of golf. And I was Megan’s attorney for a short time after Ray was murdered. She moved back to California as soon as she could.”

  “But she kept Mr. Cahill’s summer home. Did she use it often?”

  “Every once in a while.”

  “Did you see her when she was in town?”

  “We did meet at the country club. Why do you want to know?” Baker asked. He sounded suspicious.

  “Just curiosity. Finding her . . . in that way. I’d just like to know what she was like when she was alive. I met her briefly at the gallery opening and that didn’t give me much time to form an impression.”

  “She was a good person. Having her husband killed like that on their wedding night . . . It affected her.”

  “Do you have any idea why she ran out of the gallery?”

  “No. It caught me completely by surprise.”

  Baker shut his eyes for a moment and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of energy these days. Best of luck with the book,” he said. Then he walked down the hall toward his office.

  Stacey watched him leave. Baker’s reaction when the conversation turned to Megan Cahill hinted at strong, suppressed feelings.

  Stacey turned her thoughts back to Kathy Moran and the person who might be able to tell her where Kathy had gone after she left the police station on the day Raymond Cahill was murdered.

  There were only a few people in the Seafarer when Stacey walked into the tavern. A large, muscular man was tending bar. His head was shaved and his enormous arms were covered with tattoos. Stacey gathered her courage and took a seat at the end of the bar.

  “Are you Grady Cox?” she asked when the bartender came for her order.

  “I am,” Cox answered with an easy smile.

  “I’m Stacey Kim. I’m a writer.”

  Stacey paused to see if this statement elicited a reaction, but Grady’s expression didn’t change.

  “I’m working on a book that was inspired by Kathy Moran’s famous photograph of Megan Cahill, and a photographer is going to be a character in the book. Kathy Moran worked here when she took the famous photograph and I want to get your impressions of her.”

  “She was a hard worker and a pleasure to be around.”

  “Did you know that she was a talented photographer before she became famous?”

  “She showed her stuff at Ellen Devereaux’s gallery and I’d seen a few of her photos. Kathy even gave me a few for the bar,” he said, nodding toward the wall where some of Moran’s photographs were hanging.

  “I understand you hired Miss Moran as your lawyer before she moved to Palisades Heights.”

  Cox nodded.

  “Was she a good attorney?”

  “She did a bang-up job for me.”

  “I imagine finding Raymond Cahill’s body must have been very upsetting for her.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “Did she tell you about it when she came to work that night?”

  “Probably, I don’t remember. That was a long time ago.”

  “Did she come to work the evening she found Mr. Cahill’s body?”

  Cox stopped smiling. “If your book will be made up, why would you want to know that?”

  “It’s just background.”

  Cox took a hard look at Stacey. “I don’t think so. If you’re looking for dirt on Kathy, you’re in the wrong place.”

  “That’s not it. I want to learn what she’s like. I won’t write anything that will embarrass Miss Moran,” Stacey said as she scrambled to win over the bartender.

  “Look, Miss . . .”

  “Kim. Stacey Kim.”

  “I’m a big fan of books, but you’re going to have to write yours without any help from me. Kathy Moran is a good friend and I’m not going to do anything to hurt her.”

  Cox turned his back on Stacey and walked to the other end of the bar. When she left, he pulled out his phone and dialed Moran.

  “There was a girl in here asking questions about you and Raymond Cahill’s murder.”

  “Was it Stacey Kim?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name she gave me.”

  “What did you tell her?

  “I told her to get lost.”

  “What did she want to know?”

  “If I knew you were a good photographer, were you a good lawyer, if you were in the Seafarer the day you discovered Cahill’s body, stuff like that. I cut her off pretty quick.”

  “Thanks for calling, Grady.”

  They talked for a little longer, then Cox hung up and started polishing shot glasses. Bartenders have a nose for bullshit. Grady didn’t know why Kim wanted to know about Kathy but he knew it wasn’t for any novel. Kathy had gone through enough and he wasn’t going to do anything that would add to her troubles.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Stacey bolted up in bed. Something had jerked her out of sleep. She strained to pick up the slightest sound but there was only the wind. Her heart was beating fast and she took deep breaths to calm herself. It was a dream. She felt foolish and was about to lie down when she heard a faint rattling, as if someone was moving a doorknob.

  Stacey got out of bed. It was quiet now. Was someone trying to get into the house or was her imagination working overtime? Then she heard the sound again. She tried to remember if she’d locked all the doors as she grabbed her phone and dialed 911. While she waited for the operator, Stacey looked around the bedroom for a weapon. Glen’s golf clubs were propped against the wall near the closet.

  “My name is Stacey Kim and I’m calling from 67 Dune View Drive,” she told the 911 operator as she pulled Glen’s driver out of his golf bag. “I think someone is trying to break into my house.”

  Stacey inched into the hall.

  “Why do you think someone is trying to break in?” the operator asked.

  Stacey hesitated. How embarrassing would it be if the police came and this was a false alarm? Then she heard glass break.

  “They just broke the glass in the kitchen door!” she yelled as she raced down the hall. “Please, send someone fast!”

  Stacey ran into the kitchen in time to see a gloved hand reach through the broken pane in the back door. She screamed at the top of her lungs and smashed the club head down on the hand that grasped the doorknob. The intruder grunted and the hand retreated. Stacey looked through the remaining glass panes. A person in a ski mask stared back.

  “Get out!!” Stacey screamed as she raised the club in self-defense. The figure hesitated. Then Stacey heard sirens and the intruder ran off. Just before the burglar disappeared, Stacey saw moonlight glancing off the blade of a large knife. She thought she might throw up. Megan Cahill had been stabbed to death.

  A police car screeched to a stop in her driveway. Stacey ran out the front door. An older policeman with a slight paunch and a younger officer got out of the cruiser.

  “He ran away through the backyard,” she said, pointing around the side of the house.

  “Calm down and tell us what happened,” said the older officer.


  “He’s getting away,” Stacey insisted.

  “Who are we looking for? Can you give us a description?”

  “He was wearing a ski mask and he’s dressed in black. He took off toward the beach.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “He had a knife.”

  The older man gestured to his younger partner. “See if you can catch up. I’ll get a statement.”

  The young officer raced around the side of the house and the older man escorted Stacey inside. She turned on some lights.

  “Why don’t you sit down and catch your breath. My name is Ted Randolph. When you’re ready, tell me what happened.”

  Stacey sat on the couch. Randolph pulled out a notebook and a pencil.

  “I was asleep and something woke me. Then I heard the doorknob on the front door moving. I . . . I called 911 and got this golf club. Then he broke the glass in the back door and I raced in and smashed his hand.”

  “That was very brave,” Randolph said.

  Stacey reddened. “It was very stupid. He could have had a gun. But I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “What did this man look like?” Randolph asked.

  Stacey started to answer. Then she realized something. “I’m not sure it was a man. I just said a man, but the intruder was dressed in black and wearing a ski mask and it was really dark. There’s some moonlight but . . . I can’t give you a description.”

  The younger officer walked in. “I didn’t see anyone. He probably stayed on the side streets and it’s too dark to see footprints if he ran down to the beach.”

  “Okay, let’s check the back door,” Randolph said.