Death of a Modern King Read online

  I replied, “I’ll see myself out.”

  Erica jumped up and grabbed my forearm, her wet hand as cold as an icy claw. “Don’t go, Miss Day,” she pleaded.

  “I won’t go far.” I patted her hand.

  I joined Randy, who stood dumbfounded near a wide-open pair of glass doors leading into the home. The instant Verity turned her hawk-like scrutiny back to the body, I switched into detective mode.

  I pulled my phone from my purse and took several photos of the scene. With my elbows braced against my lower ribs, I used my body as a rotating tripod and snapped a series of photos for a complete 360-degree panorama.

  The courtyard was the type featured on the covers of architectural magazines or in TV shows about the lifestyles of the wealthy. A lush green hedge formed a fence-like boundary, probably as much for safety as for looks, for it looked difficult to penetrate. The hedge would keep out deer and other large local wildlife.

  The ground was paved in slate stones, a dark contrast to the white statues of cherubs, marble urns of bright flowers, and lounging furniture. Apparently, the decorator had opted for a classic symmetrical theme. Every item had a twin on the opposite side. The courtyard was the picture of perfect symmetry, except for the dead body and staff members.

  Randy didn’t notice me taking pictures. He stared stupidly at the buttons of his shirt and the smear of watery blood along the hem.

  The sound of sirens approaching shook him out of his reverie. He blinked at me and asked, “Should I drain the pool?”

  “Let’s get the front door first,” I suggested.

  “Of course.” Randy led me through the house. The direct route was much faster than my previous journey around the exterior.

  We stopped at the front door, where Randy faced himself in a full-length mirror. He snapped into focus at his reflection, re-buttoning his shirt and tucking the stained hem into his waistband.

  “My jacket,” he said, as much to himself as to me. “I don’t have my jacket.”

  I looked into his watery eyes and caught a glimpse of the abyss. I patted him on the shoulder and spoke soothingly.

  “Randy, you’re in shock right now, but you’re going to be okay. The Koenig family needs you as much today as any other day. How long have you worked here?”

  “Twenty-two years,” he said.

  I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Then you know your job. Trust me, it’s okay if you don’t have your jacket. Just do what you can.”

  “Jacket, jacket, jacket,” he muttered as he opened a nearby closet. He took out a black suit jacket and pulled it on with an expert flourish. He straightened up, smoothed his hair, and buttoned the jacket, transforming before my eyes from a schlubby, soft-bellied lost soul into a straight-backed butler.

  He turned to me and asked archly, “Who are you?”

  “Stormy Day. I’m here with Logan Sanderson. He’s... around.”

  Randy said stiffly, “Mr. Sanderson cannot be wandering around the estate unaccompanied.”

  “Mr. Sanderson is currently chasing down the suspicious man we saw emerging from the hedges right after the screaming.”

  Randy stared blankly. “Suspicious man?”

  “Someone in workman’s clothes and a hat. Could it have been someone on staff? Say, a gardener?”

  “No,” he said. “The only people on the schedule this morning are the ones you saw. Why do you ask?”

  I patted him on the back again. “Just get the door.”

  He opened the door to sirens. The ambulance had arrived. The sirens went quiet as the vehicle slowed to enter the circular driveway that curled around a fountain. A male and a female EMT jumped out and approached the house, gloves on and kits in hand.

  “Right this way,” Randy said graciously.

  He was calm and composed, every bit the dignified butler, escorting them through the stately home toward the courtyard.

  I lagged behind to call Logan on my phone.

  Logan answered, breathing heavily. “What happened?”

  I countered, “Did you catch the guy?”

  “No.” He sounded disgusted at himself. “Is Mr. Koenig okay?”

  “Not by a mile,” I said. “Barring some resurrection miracle at the hands of the EMTs, he’s dead.”

  Logan swore.

  I explained everything I’d seen so far while he made concerned noises.

  When I’d caught him up, he said, “This is beyond messed up.”

  “Where are you?” I asked. “Are you heading back to the house?”

  He swore again. “This is exactly what I was worried about. I told him to be more careful, to stay away from the mansion for a little while, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Ahead of me, Randy and the EMTs were attending the scene. I ducked back into the house and into a quiet alcove.

  I spoke softly into my phone. “Logan, what are you hinting at? Was Mr. Koenig worried about someone killing him?”

  “Stormy, the less you know, the better. Do you hear something?”

  I listened. The interior of the home was as quiet as a library after closing time.

  “All I hear is the air conditioning,” I said.

  “There’s a plane approaching. It’s coming in low, and the only airstrip within a hundred miles is right here in the backyard.” He let out a single dark laugh. “As much as you could call it a backyard.”

  “Hurry back,” I said. “I guess I’ll go meet you by your truck?”

  “The truck!” he exclaimed. “You’ve still got the spare key, right? Go jump in and drive. I’ll meet you on the access road. I’m already about a third of the way to the airstrip. I’ll run along the side of the road so you can see me to pick me up.”

  “We’re going to the airstrip?”

  “You bet we are,” he said. “With Dieter Koenig dead, thirty million dollars are about to change hands. Maybe the death was an accident, maybe it wasn’t. But I need to see which of his heirs are on that plane.”

  Chapter 4

  The beautiful town of Misty Falls, Oregon, isn’t big enough to have a McDonalds, let alone its own commercial airport. We do, however, have a private airstrip on the Koenig Estate.

  I stepped outside, where I could hear the jet coming in for its landing. Some or all of Dieter’s heirs were on that plane. The thirty-million-dollar question was who?

  I jumped into Logan’s truck and started it with my spare key. I started driving down the access road. The jet came in alongside me, aiming for a paved runway strip that ran parallel to the gravel access road. The aircraft slowed for landing but was still much faster than Logan’s truck, even with the gas pedal touching the floor. The plane landed smoothly and taxied out of sight, turning past the hangar.

  I kept lookout for Logan, but he wasn’t on the side of the road where he said he’d be, and he wasn’t answering his phone. I reached the hangar, parked, and jumped out, calling his name. Nobody answered.

  The hangar resembled a topped-off mountain made of corrugated metal. I approached a door that was covered in signs warning against trespassing. The handle turned, but the door wouldn’t open. I knocked and tried the handle again. This time, the handle didn’t even turn. Had someone on the other side intentionally locked me out? I banged on the door in frustration. For good measure, I also kicked it.

  “There you are,” Logan said, running up to join me. He’d loosened his tie and looked sweaty.

  “Someone’s in there.” I gave the door another kick.

  “Easy, tiger. That’s not how you kick down a door.”

  “It’s steel-framed,” I said. “We’d need a battering ram. It’s a shame you don’t have a winch on your truck.”

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you always this intrepid?”

  “Yes. That’s a good word for what I am.”

  He gently pulled me away from the door and knocked on it. “This is an emergency,” he said, his voice booming and forceful yet controlled. “Open up, please.”

>   “The magic P-word,” I said, nodding. “An interesting alternative to kicking things.”

  “I’m not as intrepid as you, so I need my other tricks.” He banged on the door again, repeating his request and identifying himself as Mr. Koenig’s attorney.

  This time, a muffled voice answered with what sounded like, “Hold your horses.”

  While we waited, Logan slipped an arm behind my back and pulled me against him in a half-hug. “How are you holding up, Ladybug?”

  His use of the pet name added a layer of surreality to the moment. I rested my head against his chest, inhaling deeply. His jog around the mansion and to the hangar had made him sweat, and the musky scent was as comforting as his solid body against mine.

  I answered with a croaky voice, “I’m doing better than poor Mr. Koenig.”

  “We’re okay,” he said. “This is some serious business, but as long as we keep our heads, we’ll be fine.” He squeezed me and kissed the top of my head. “When we get inside, I’ll do the talking. Would you mind recording everything on your phone?”

  I got my phone ready and gave him a grin. “My usual rates apply.”

  He looked up at the sky and frowned. “Where did those rain clouds come from?”

  I thought he was teasing me, referring to my family’s running joke that my moods affected the weather, but then I felt a cool spot on my cheek. It was a raindrop from the gathering clouds.

  The metal door suddenly opened with enough velocity to damage a person who wasn’t standing a few feet back, as we were.

  Two men, Dieter Koenig’s sons, stood before us. Both resembled young European princes, with golden hair, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. On the left was the family playboy, Drake Koenig—tall and handsome, forty-something and never married. On the right was Brandon Koenig, the glasses-wearing, conservative, older son who was poised to take over the Koenig empire. I’d never formally met either one, but I’d seen Drake around town, and I’d read about Brandon in the Misty Falls Mirror whenever one of the family businesses was in the news. Drake looked calm and cool, while his brother Brandon’s face was red, especially his cheeks.

  Both of the men had phones at their ears and signaled for us to wait. They didn’t invite us inside the hangar but came out and joined us on the exterior walkway. The rain was little more than mist—nothing to flee from if you were used to life in the Pacific Northwest.

  Logan and I exchanged a look. His expression conveyed the same suspicion I felt. Neither Koenig brother seemed surprised to see us or terribly upset over the news they were getting over their phones.

  Drake finished his phone call first. He nodded briefly at Logan before turning to me.

  “You’re Stormy Day,” Drake said. “I’ve read about you in the Mirror.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It must be such a shock.”

  “He was old,” Drake said. He looked up at the sky and blinked repeatedly. “What I mean is, I knew it was bound to happen someday, but I never expected it so soon. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have left right after an argument.”

  “You were arguing?”

  Drake sniffed and returned his gaze to me. “Nobody was a fan of Dad’s new girlfriend.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry,” I said. I stopped myself out of politeness, though I was dying to ask who the girlfriend was.

  Logan peered around Drake, trying to catch a glimpse inside the hangar. “Did you see someone running in here to hide?” he asked. “Someone in workman clothes? With overalls and a big hat?”

  “Do you mean Ol’ Tim?” Drake asked. “I was looking out the windows when we came in for landing, and now that you mention it, I did see Tim near one of the supply sheds.”

  “I checked the shed,” Logan said. “He wasn’t in there. He just disappeared into thin air.”

  Drake tilted his head to the side. “What does Ol’ Tim have to do with anything? He’s a kooky-spooky sort of guy. If there was some sort of shouting going on, he might have climbed a tree. I’ve seen him do that to get away from Verity sometimes.”

  Logan glanced at me. “I didn’t check the trees,” he said apologetically.

  Drake continued to stare into my eyes. “Stormy, I enjoyed reading about you in the Mirror. They really ought to run more photos with those stories. It would increase readership.”

  Drake Koenig was shaking my hand firmly, though I didn’t remember offering it to him.

  He continued, oozing charm, “Such a pleasure to meet a local celebrity.”

  “Sorry it had to be under these circumstances,” I said.

  Drake released my hand and shrugged one shoulder. “And I’m sorry you had to witness everything,” he said. “You’ll be compensated for your time, naturally. Please send us a bill for your hours this morning, and I’ll bug my big brother to make sure you get paid.” He nodded at his glasses-wearing brother, who was still giving monosyllabic responses over the phone.

  Logan said, “We won’t be charging for today. The visit we had scheduled with your father was purely social.”

  Ignoring Logan completely, Drake kept his piercing blue eyes on me. “Purely social?” He quirked one gold-brown eyebrow. “You weren’t at the house this morning for business?”

  “Just to eat,” I said with a smile. “If you happen to hear my stomach rumbling, it’s because we didn’t quite make it to breakfast.”

  Drake looked over my head, in the direction of the mansion. “That means Dad died on an empty stomach. What a shame. All that food, and he died as hungry as the day he immigrated to this country with barely more than the clothes on his back.”

  Logan said, “I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man, and he will be sorely missed by the entire community.”

  Drake turned and looked him in the eyes. Dispassionately, he said, “Don’t be too sorry, now. You’ll be handling the estate, and that’ll keep you in billable hours for six months, at least.”

  Despite the daggers in Drake’s words, Logan didn’t even flinch.

  “I’ll start shopping for my own private jet,” Logan said. “Speaking of which, where did you come from this morning?”

  “New York,” Drake answered while yawning and stretching. “Long flight across the country. Not that it’s any of your business, but we were visiting a dear family friend.”

  “And your friend will attest to your whereabouts?”

  “Our friend came to the airport and saw us onto the plane. Again, not that it’s any of your business.” Drake adjusted his tie and glanced over at his red-faced brother. “I suppose we’ll be in touch about the estate and all that transfer and trust fund nonsense soon enough. Don’t worry about rushing us a copy of the will. I’ve got the last revision in my files somewhere.”

  “Good,” Logan said, handing Drake a business card. “Please call me if I can be of any service to the family in this time of crisis. Our office will be in contact, of course.”

  Drake tucked the card into his suit pocket. He held his hand out, palm up, before me. “And what about the lady?” he asked me, maintaining eye contact. “Can she be of any service to the family in our time of terrible, heartbreaking crisis?”

  “Any time,” I said, and I handed him my own card.

  Drake took the card, touching my hand and stroking my forearm with the dexterity of a stage magician. I’d only realized the extent of his contact after it was done, when the sweat from his fingers on my skin dried in the misty breeze. His face wasn’t as red as his brother’s, but he was sweating despite his cool appearance.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Drake said dismissively.

  He nudged Brandon, and the two brothers started walking away. Brandon was still talking on his phone, head bent forward as they approached a vehicle that was bigger than a golf cart and smaller than a Jeep—the sort of thing you’d call a dune buggy.

  Drake put one arm around his brother’s back and called to us over his shoulder, “See you around!”

  They climbed into the du
ne buggy, with Drake at the wheel. The tires kicked up dirt and grass as they tore off toward the access road and the mansion.

  I turned to Logan as I brought the speaker of my phone up to my mouth. For the benefit of the recorded memo, I said, “Ladies and gentlemen, that was Drake Koenig, taking the news of his father’s demise with remarkable resilience.”

  Logan reached for the device and touched the red button to stop the recording. He nodded for me to follow him into the hangar, through the door he’d kept open with his foot.

  I followed him in, blinking rapidly in the relative darkness and hoping kooky-spooky Ol’ Tim wasn’t up in the rafters, waiting to drop down on us.

  Chapter 5

  The hangar was big enough to hold two private jets but was currently empty. The barn-style sliding gates at the far end were wide open, and the family’s private jet was visible in the distance. They must have gotten the news as soon as they touched down and decided to park it later. I saw nobody else attending to the plane.

  I said to Logan, “There’s no pilot or crew. Do you think the brothers were flying the plane?”

  “Probably,” he said. “They both have licenses to fly, and I don’t see anyone else around.” He sniffed the air. “Is that gasoline, or booze?”

  We were near the only furnished area within the hangar, a cozy seating arrangement with comfortable leather couches plus a wet bar.

  I inhaled deeply. “Some fumes are blowing inside from the plane, but I do smell hard liquor.” I leaned over the wet bar’s sink and smelled the two tumblers sitting in the basin. “Whiskey,” I said. “And not the cheap stuff, so it wasn’t staff or crewmen.” I pointed to the nearby whiskey bottle, which was a premium top-shelf brand.

  “There’s a story here.” Logan leaned over the sink, examining the tumblers without touching them. “So, the boys are coming in for a landing when they get the news about dear old Dad. Then they lock themselves in the hangar and toss back a toast. Does that seem suspicious to you, or just distasteful?”