Murder in the Lighthouse (Beachcomber Mystery #4)

20

L ucien poured everyone a cup and set out cream and sugar before joining them at the table, his mind already working through the latest information. He noticed Trish and Theo sitting close together, a sense of camaraderie evident between them. The chemistry between the two was unmistakable as they took turns explaining what Ken had divulged.

“First, you should know that Ken didn’t take any responsibility for the three murders back in 1999. Ken claims that was all Keith. But he did admit to holding back most of the evidence that pointed to his brother from his partner Pete Davito during their time handling the investigation,” Trish disclosed.

“As far back as he could remember, he says that Keith has always displayed a Jekyll & Hyde persona, the nasty disposition winning most of the time. He told us Keith had been increasingly erratic since going off the radar. When they tossed him off the force, it sent him over the edge, an edge he never recovered from,” Theo said. “His resentment kept building up. By the time he went to work at the vineyard, it wasn’t unusual for him to fly off the handle at the smallest thing or blow up at one of the employees. But it was the last straw when Bethany arrived at the vineyard one afternoon and began asking questions. He started to panic. Paranoia setting in. That was a week before her murder.”

Lucien’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Why would she make such a fatal mistake like that?”

“She probably had no way of knowing that her main suspect had been unraveling for years?” Brogan reasoned.

“Why wouldn’t she suspect that? A dangerous serial killer getting worse with each murder?”

“I don’t think he was ever a rational sort,” Trish indicated. “Ken mentioned that Keith had been fixated on the idea that Bethany was getting too close to learning about his past deeds, too close to finding out the truth about who murdered Connie Upland, my sister, and Cynthia Zepp. He was convinced that she would bring everything crashing down around them, and they’d lose the drug operation it had taken them years to perfect.”

Her interest piqued, Brogan leaned forward. “He was more concerned with their drug operation than murdering Sam or Bethany?”

“Sam already knew about Bethany’s secrets, the files she hid from her coworkers. According to Ken, when Keith returned to the villa that afternoon after murdering Bethany, he told his brother that she had confided in Sam about what she discovered in the files as a backup. Not only did he need Ken’s help in disposing of her body, but he also needed Ken to get her car away from Wilder Ranch. Ken emphasized to us that nobody threatens Keith without facing the consequences. Bethany stood up to him and paid the price. And with Sam having access to the same information, Keith knew he couldn’t leave Sam alive. He had to go.”

“Are you sure you have enough evidence to convict this guy for Sam’s death?” Brogan queried. “Is Ken’s cooperation enough? Will having the murder weapon stand up in court? Because this guy is a monster. He should’ve been locked up years ago.”

Theo grinned. “Did you know that Brent installed a security camera on his front porch before he left on vacation?”

Brogan’s brow knitted in confusion. She glowered at him. “I did not know that, Theo. Thank you. What could that possibly have to do with putting Keith away for Sam’s murder?”

“What street does Brent live on? Ocean Street, right across from the pier. Correct? What road runs up to Lighthouse Lane?”

Brogan smiled. “Ocean Street. Ah. I get it. Brent’s newly installed camera must’ve captured Keith’s vehicle heading up the hill to the lighthouse the night Sam died.”

“Yep. He spent a thousand bucks on an excellent quality system with infrared LEDs. Brent’s setup captured Sam’s Subaru heading north to the lighthouse and Keith following him up there. It’s all caught on video, time-stamped, too.”

“Wow. Do you know what that means?” Brogan pointed out, pivoting toward Lucien.

“Yeah. We have our own CCTV now across from the beach,” Lucien proclaimed. “How cool is that?”

“I still don’t understand why Owen Quinn had to die, though. Why kill him?” Brogan asked.

“Owen didn’t like the wine and threatened to write a nasty article about Noir Hills Estates. Owen spent an entire afternoon in the tasting room, sampling every blend they produced, then threatened to ruin them because the wine tasted like crap. He insisted it was flat, tasted vinegary, and smelled like a wet dog. Keith took exception to all that and went to the gardening shed, where he grabbed a box of rat poison. He returned to the tasting room and offered Owen an older vintage, promising it would taste better. Not realizing that Keith had laced it with rat poison.”

Brogan let out a sigh. “And the woman from Nevada driving the Ford SUV, what did she do to upset Keith?”

Trish traded looks with Theo. “Jocelyn Freemont, a fifty-year-old widow and wine lover who had the misfortune of booking a Napa Valley vacation, only to take a side trip one afternoon off the beaten path through Santa Cruz’s wine country instead.”

“That’s a two-and-a-half-hour detour from Napa,” Lucien noted.

“Whatever the reason, on a Wednesday afternoon last February, she took a side trip that went horribly wrong. She stopped at Noir Hills Estates. She thought she hit the jackpot when she discovered she had the tasting room all to herself. But after two hours, she claimed every variety tasted the same, like wet cardboard. That is not a comment Keith would appreciate. After an argument ensued with him, Jocelyn supposedly spit the wine in his face, slapped him for verbally accosting her, and the woman never made it back to her car.”

“Jeez, talk about volatile,” Lucien muttered. “I take it Ken didn’t try to whitewash his version.”

“So far, he’s laid everything on the line. Crossing Keith like this means they won’t serve time in the same prison.”

“Wow. Who else had the misfortune of butting heads with Keith Shepherd? We read online that he killed several employees and buried them in the fields under the grapes. Is that true?”

“Pretty much accurate. He killed four right after he began working there in the span of a year,” Theo said.

“Four that we know about so far,” Trish corrected. “We still have the names of several who we haven’t been able to account for yet. Ken and Keith told various stories about the people who disappeared. Some were let go. Some quit. And some didn’t show up for work. The authorities never questioned either brother beyond that. Upstanding members of the community and all.”

“How sad for the families,” Brogan uttered. “How did all this go on for such a long time without anyone doing anything about Keith?”

Trish sucked in a ragged breath. “The authorities basically looked the other way. They didn’t do a deep dive into any of the missing person reports. Not one. They accepted whatever story the Shepherd brothers fed them, wrote up the standard report about their encounter, and went home afterward. Which is why I’m happy you two got involved. I already told Lucien and Birk how much I appreciated everything they did after all this came to a head. But I wanted to tell you, too, face to face.” She laid a hand over Brogan’s. “You two make an incredible team. It still amazes me why you do what you do. But whatever the reason, I’m grateful.”

“That’s so nice to hear,” Brogan said, cutting her eyes toward Theo. “It’s nice to be appreciated for our skillset and professionalism.”

“I can take a hint,” Theo mused. “But most people in law enforcement will tell you the same thing. Private investigators are usually a pain in the butt.”

“Websleuths,” Brogan insisted. “Lucien and I are websleuths.”

“Whatever you call yourselves,” Theo began, “you’re damned good at what you do.”

They took the compliment from law enforcement to heart, knowing that their unorthodox methods had led them to a successful conclusion.

But when Brent stopped by later that day, he reinforced his disdain for partnering with private investigators.

Brogan ignored the dig as she served him iced tea and raspberry pinwheels in the solarium surrounded by plants and dappled sunlight. “How did you enjoy your time away from Pelican Pointe?” she asked. “Tell us everything about New Mexico we should see if we ever get time to go there.”

“The boys enjoyed the spectacular rock formations and exploring Carlsbad Caverns,” Brent said, biting into his cookie. “These are delicious.”

“Butter cookies with jam,” Lucien added, scooping up one for himself before taking a seat in the nearby chair.

“I just think that ninety-nine percent of the time, private investigators are a waste of space,” Brent continued. “They take people’s money without doing anything of value.”

“I see vacation time didn’t mellow you in the least,” Brogan remarked, a smile curving at the corners of her mouth as she sat across from him. “Believe me, we know how you feel. You’ve told us enough times that it’s no surprise. I would agree that sixty percent of the PIs out there may rip people off. But there are documented cases of them uncovering new evidence, locating new witnesses that weren’t in the original police reports, going through hours and hours of CCTV that law enforcement didn’t bother asking about, and ultimately, their hard work results in providing answers to families that law enforcement couldn’t. Sometimes, they even manage to solve a cold case or a disappearance.”

“I didn’t mean to belittle what you did with the Shepherd case. I knew Keith back in the day and always considered him a bad cop.”

Lucien grabbed another cookie. “But no one in authority did anything about it until he’d murdered three women.”

“Point taken,” Brent agreed, taking a slug of his iced tea.

“We heard rumors that you’d like to hire Trish Vosberg away from her current role at the sheriff’s department,” Lucien prompted, forcing the conversation to the real reason Brent had stopped by.

“Well, she would be an asset to us. We’ve always been short-handed. As the town grows, I don’t like the idea of becoming more dependent on the county in an emergency. And we are growing. Just ask Murphy. Or Nick. Or Logan Donnelly.”

“Or all the new residents,” Brogan said. “Someone even bought Tazzie Crossland’s former home while you were out of town. Is Trish interested in leaving her old job?”

“From what I hear, yes,” Brent replied.

“We could offer the same benefits package we used to get Theo here,” Lucien extended. “The salary is up to you.”

“Well, Trish has twelve years on the job. Theo had twenty.”

“The salary package is up to you,” Brogan repeated.

“So you guys are good with this?” Brent asked.

“We’re fine with it. More than. Our priority is keeping our neighbors safe,” Brogan assured him. “Happy cops make for a happy community.”

After they settled the deal, Lucien walked Brent to his car. When he returned, he found Brogan watering plants in the solarium.

She noticed his demeanor had changed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m glad you asked. Brent pays us lip service whenever we do something good, like putting Tazzie away for murder. Or solving multiple cold cases. But the chances of us ever changing his mind about partnering with private investigators will always stay the same no matter how often we provide money to shore up his department.”

“And you’re surprised by that? Come on, Lucien. Get real. Brent is an old-school kind of cop. He’ll never change the way he is. Everyone knows he’s a grump most of the time. Ask Eastlyn sometime. Or Colt. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just Brent Cody, set in his ways.”

“I know, but it still irks me,” Lucien admitted, dropping onto the sofa. He patted the seat next to him for her to join him. “I guess I just hoped that maybe, just maybe, we could change his perspective. Show him that we can be valuable allies to law enforcement, not just annoyances that he tolerates. I like to think that our work speaks for itself and that we can make a difference, even if some people are too stubborn to acknowledge it. But I guess we can’t change everyone’s mind.”

Brogan set down the watering can and plopped down beside him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “We may not have changed his mind but think about all the good we have done. The closure we’ve brought to families, the justice we’ve helped serve. That’s what matters most.”

“And what we will continue to do,” Lucien added, his eyes meeting Brogan’s. “No matter how many obstacles or skeptics we face, we’ll keep pushing forward. Because there are always more cases out there that no one cared about.”

“More families seeking answers,” Brogan injected into the pep talk.

“Exactly,” Lucien said with a nod, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I can’t expect everyone to see things the way we do. As long as we know we’re making a difference, that’s what’s important.”

“We don’t have to rely on Brent to toot our horn for us. What counts is what we’ve done for the victims and their families. People like the Heywoods know it. Trish knows what we contributed to the Shepherd case without us saying a word. We don’t need Brent fusing over us. Do I need to remind you that Jade has only released the first podcast covering this case? And the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since.”

She reached for Lucien’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re just antsy waiting on the next case.”

“You know me too well,” he admitted. “Going after the next mystery is almost addictive.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” she said. “But I get what you mean.”

Lucien drew her closer and kissed her hair. “I told Birk during our recon mission about how you always seem to get me.”

“You didn’t lie. I’ve had years of experience,” she joked, rubbing her fingers across the stubble on his chin.

As they sat in the peaceful solarium, surrounded by the lush greenery, the room bathed in sunshine, a sense of satisfaction settled over them.

They may not always receive validation from critics like Brent, but they knew their worth. They knew their impact on those they had helped. And realizing that meant the cynics no longer mattered.

Their sense of accomplishment and peace starkly contrasted with their usual chaotic lives. This was a rare moment of tranquility that both cherished deeply. They spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet companionship, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

Lucien fixed dinner outside that night—beef fajitas with warm corn tortillas prepared on the grill. The aroma of grilled peppers and sizzling meat mingled with the sea air, creating an intoxicating blend that spoke of home and hearth.

Brogan picked the wine—a robust, fruity Zinfandel—bearing little resemblance to a particular pinot noir.

They ate, sitting across from each other under a starlit sky with a gentle breeze wafting off the water.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to drink wine again without thinking of a certain vineyard,” she admitted, sipping the jammy red.

“Same here. But the sooner we put the Shepherd brothers in our rearview mirror, the sooner we can enjoy nights like this. Look at that sky. Smell the ocean. I’ve never been as grateful to be home as I am tonight. It’s nice not to be thinking about murder for a change.”

“Here’s to no new murders,” Brogan toasted.

He leaned across the table after raising his glass and tapped it to hers. “I think I found a solution to the seating issue for Thanksgiving. We need a long table, right?”

“One that’s at least ten feet long. That gives everyone a little elbow room.”

“That’s what I figure. I have one in my workshop. It’s left over from a job I did two years ago for the Morrisons on Cape May. They gave me their old dining table. I’d completely forgotten about it. The finish is scarred, and there are watermarks all over the top from decades of use, but it’s twelve feet long.”

“Get out. Really? The top’s not a problem. I’ll just use a tablecloth to cover the top.”

“You’d need multiple tablecloths for this beast. All we have to do a few days before Thanksgiving is move it to replace this one. I still think eating outside is the best option.”

“Me too. We could put this one against the back wall of the house to hold all the side dishes.”

After finishing their meal, they polished off the bottle of wine.

“Tonight is our very own celebration for a job well done. Just the two of us,” he explained as he poured the last drop into her glass. “How about a fire in the firepit?”

“Are you romancing me, Lucien Sutter?”

“I’m trying. You know I was never the smooth operator Dad was.”

“Says who? Have I ever complained?”

“You’re not a complainer.”

As the evening darkened, she watched him gather firewood and kindling from the stack of wood next to the house. While he built up the fire, she cleared away the dishes, making several trips back and forth to the kitchen. On each return trip, she spared a glance his way and realized this was her idea of paradise. Nothing else would ever matter as much as this time together.

Once he got the fire roaring, they huddled in the warm glow of the flickering flames that seemed to dance in time to their laughter.

They talked about their plans for the big day, discussing every detail from the menu to the seating arrangements, finding it funny when Lucien suggested seating his dad next to Maeve. “She’ll talk his ear off. It’ll drive him crazy.”

Not wanting the evening to end, they lingered outside, savoring the stillness of the night and the clarity of the stars. When the fire burned low and the temperature dropped, they finally relented and headed inside.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, they strolled toward the house, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Pausing at the door, Lucien pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. He led her upstairs to bed, the night still full of possibilities.