3 Requiem at Christmas (9 page)

Juliet blinked. Holtz had a brother? And he was in Tahoe,
also sporting a Buchanan tartan? Well, it made sense since this was where the murder
investigation was taking place.

Harrison kept talking.

“He wanted to stay in his brother’s room because the hotel
is booked, but Captain Denver won’t let him—and I guess he didn’t say no very
politely. And the man is also upset about his car, but what can I do about any
of this? I can’t even give him his brother’s things, because I have no ‘things.’
No one else does either.”

“His car?”
Juliet asked.

“The Jaguar belonged to his brother—Holtz’s brother—the
living brother,” Darby answered, taking a turn and not managing to convey
information any better than her lover. This news brushed Juliet’s mind and then
clung like cobweb. Holtz hadn’t been driving his own car? Could this have been
a case of mistaken identities leading to the wrong man’s death? She frowned and
made an effort to tune back in to Darby. “I don’t know why he is bothering us.
I know grief can take people different ways but this guy seems manic, like the
devil is chewing on his ass.”

“Do we know what the brother does?” she asked after a glance
at Raphael.

“He’s some kind of accountant—big business stuff,” Harrison
said. “He is also the founder of some Scottish charity—alba-gumball or
something. They are having a fundraising dance tonight.”

“
Alba
gu
bràth
,” she corrected
while wondering if the brother was an accountant for Mr. No-neck. A case of
mistaken identity might explain a lot of things if the brothers looked alike.
After all, who was a more likely target: the opera singer or the crooked
accountant? “They are one of the factions working toward Scottish independence.
Usually nonviolent.
No proven connection to the IRA.
And it’s a
ceilidh
.”

Everyone stared at her. It reminded Juliet that they didn’t
know anything about her old job in intelligence.

“That’s a Scottish folk dance and sing-along. Look, the Mass
is for your father, Harrison—honoring his memory as a soldier who gave his life
for our country. You don’t owe anyone anything except a great concert. Put the
brother up front in reserved seating if you want, but the rest of the
Buchanans
and AGB can take their chances with seating like
everyone else,” Juliet said, trying to pour some oil on the turbulent water. It
would have worked better if she wasn’t distracted, but she made an effort to
focus on Harrison’s concerns. “You will make an announcement at the beginning
of the show, right?
About how the tenor part will be sung by
someone else?
Just add that Holtz’s death is a tragic loss for all music
lovers and how you are glad that Holtz’s brother could be with you—then let it
go.
The audience—most of them—don’t
care about the
details. They are here to play dress-up, get drunk, and go skiing. The
announcement should be enough for the brother and Holtz’s friends.”

“Do you really think so?” Harrison asked hopefully.

“Yes.” And if not, they could do something anatomically
unpleasant to themselves.

Darby smiled her thanks at Juliet for calming her stressed-out
lover.

“Well, that’s settled. All that is left to do is confirm
with the candy shop that our sweets will be ready for the party.”

“Where is Captain Denver, do you know?” Juliet asked. “I
think maybe I’ll go have a visit with him.”

“He’s taken a room—Pinewood four. It isn’t supposed to be
rented because of the renovations but they let him have it for his
investigation. That’s third floor near the fire stairs. Do you think you can
get him to be more polite to Joshua Holtz?” Darby asked. “The man is really
broken up.”

“I can but try,” answered Juliet, who had no intention of
doing any such thing.

Should she talk to the brother? Probably, but she didn’t
want to. And what could she, as a stranger, possibly say that wasn’t pointed,
presumptuous, and just plain nosy? And what if Harrison was right and his
feelings weren’t dammed up enough to answer questions—ones she had no business
asking? She didn’t need to be flooded with his grief.

Better to give him a couple days to get used to the bad
news. Anyway, she would meet him at the Requiem. That would look more natural.

She and Raphael climbed back in the elevator. It didn’t
surprise her when Raphael got off on the third floor with her.

They found Pinewood four without problem and their knock was
answered immediately, so immediately that Juliet suspected the tired detective
was expecting room service.

“Oh, it’s you. Come in,” he added without any touch of grace
or enthusiasm.

They moved far enough into the room to close the door, but
didn’t try to wedge Raphael’s chair between the desk and the bed. Pinewood four
was more the size of a large closet than an actual hotel room and had only one
print of something that might have been a dog. There was also a small leak
around the window that moved the heavy curtain and made it seem like the
mountain was breathing.

“Have you identified Mr. No-neck?” Juliet asked without any
polite preamble.

“Yes. His name is Christopher Columbus.” Denver clearly surprised
himself by answering without evasion.

“Really?”
The question was
rhetorical.

“As near as we can tell. Apparently some parents will hang
any name on their kids.”

“And what does Mr. Columbus do?”

“He’s a broker, a dabbler in stocks and bonds. You were
right,
he’s the new kid on the block. He does a little of
this and a little of that—and possibly a little industrial espionage when this
and that fails to pay the bills.” Captain Denver glared at her as if his
blabbing were her fault.

“Don’t give me the evil eye. He isn’t anyone I know.”

But she could find out about him.
If she
had to.

“Well, someone is protecting him—and I don’t mean his
bodyguards. Every time anyone gets close to pinning something on him the
evidence just disappears and the investigation gets shut down.”

Juliet frowned.

“You know that the Jaguar belonged to the brother. Not
Holtz?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “I’ve just found that out. And that
the brother works for Mr. Columbus.”

“Did you know that both brothers are probably members of
Alba
gu
bràth
?”
At Denver’s blank look, Juliet explained about the political movement trying
for Scottish independence.

“So, what are you saying? The English came over and killed
him for that?” Denver asked.

“No. But the group needs money.
Big money
for publicity in the next elections and even more money for general
brainwashing among the voting populace.
Not every Scotsman wants out of
the union with Great Britain. Public opinion must be swayed, and it won’t be
inexpensive to do it.”

“And Christopher Columbus has money. Which Joshua Holtz
looks
after.
” Denver began to look thoughtful. “It
would take a lot of balls to steal from that kind of employer. Of course, maybe
it isn’t the accountant who has the big—
er
, nerve.
Maybe the singer got some grand ideas of his own and muscled in on his brother.
Those art types aren’t always practical.”

Juliet assured herself that he didn’t mean to be insulting.
She didn’t point out that a singer would probably not have had the training to
commit any high-tech money crimes.

“I have also wondered if Holtz was killed by mistake. Was
there much family resemblance between the brothers?”

“Some, I guess. They were the same height. Mostly you keep
looking at the kilt.”

There was a tap on the door.

“We’ll leave you to your dinner,” Juliet said, opening the door
since she was nearest and there wasn’t room for Denver to move past Raphael’s
chair. They had to leave before the man could wheel the cart inside.

“Did you bring the duct tape?” Denver demanded as she shut
the door. “That damn window is leaking worse than ever.”

“So,
art type
, do
you still feel like a whisky?” Raphael asked.

“More than ever,” Juliet affirmed.

“So, do you really think there is any connection to this
Scottish group, or are you simply having fun jerking Denver’s short chain?”
Raphael asked as they climbed back in the elevator.

“Yes—I mean that the society is somehow involved. I suspect
that they are the root cause of this drama, though probably not actively
participating. I’m just not clear on the how and the what.” She added, “I don’t
think this murder is about garden-variety embezzlement and revenge. The brother
is here looking for something—
stuff
—and
it isn’t a suitcase full of money. That isn’t how theft is done in this
electronic age. And if money had been taken over the wires, the brother could
just put it back.”

“And Mr. No-neck’s appearance?”

“Here to supervise the retrieval of missing property personally?
To pressure the brother into giving back what his sibling took in case he
changes his mind and decides to keep it for himself?” Juliet guessed, thinking
of the improbable motives she and Esteban had discussed. None of them fit. “One
thing is for sure. Whatever has gone missing must be worth a lot of money. Or
the explorer and his satellites wouldn’t be here in person. I just wish I knew
a bit more about his sideline of
this and
that
. And who is making the cases and evidence against him go away. It
could be the Feds. That would be their style.”

“You can’t find out?” Raphael asked.

“Not without drawing the attention of the evil eye.
Which I would rather not do, if there is any other way.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“You still have friends?” she asked.

“Yes, but I was thinking that this might be more to
Esteban’s interests and abilities.”

Juliet grinned. She had drawn pictures of No-Neck’s missing
bodyguards while they waited for dinner.

“Yeah, let’s give it to Esteban. He’s bored enough to do
anything if it means getting away from the fair.”

And he might already be on the job. He hadn’t told her
anything about what had brought him to Tahoe ahead of the others, but how many
things could be going on in a small town that required a private detective?

Her room felt different though everything looked the same. Perhaps
the maid had been in to tidy. Nothing was missing, nothing was disarranged.
Things just felt … different. And that made her engage the special burglar bar
on her door before getting ready for bed.

The dark wasn’t as comforting as she had hoped, the hours
filling with breaths which she counted instead of sheep, doing her best to stop
thinking, because it was no longer a productive thing, but rather useless
rumination. It was difficult though to put aside the odd and unpleasant feeling
that, once again, she was being kept from her own life. The murderer had
hijacked her plans for an indefinite period of time. She might have the run of
the town, be able to eat sushi for breakfast and dye her hair blue, but she
wasn’t really in control of her life.

This angered her.

And she missed having a cat on the bed and hoped that Garret
was taking care of Marley, who could be a bit unrestricted in his diet if
denied his tuna for any length of time. He hadn’t yet suffered for eating mice
and spiders, but Juliet really didn’t like it when he killed and ate things and
she had left a large supply of his favorite tuna with the sheriff before
leaving on her trip.

Of course, she could call the sheriff and ask about the cat,
and also see what Garret knew about Christopher Columbus. He was bound to be
curious about their case after speaking to Denver and he had perhaps looked
things up…. It was late though.
Far too late for a casual
call.
Perhaps in the morning.

Giving in to reality, Juliet turned on the television and
set it to the weather channel. There was nothing more relaxing than watching
clouds from a weather satellite, and it was better than the little quarter-inch
rounds of guaranteed rest in the bottom of her purse. They worked like a dream,
but she would be a zombie tomorrow if she used them. That wouldn’t be good.
There was less danger in cross-country skiing than downhill racing, but any
time that one went out into weather that could kill you, it was best to go with
a clear mind.

Morning came around as it always did. It was gray but not
snowing and Juliet decided that perhaps some physical exercise would perk her
up. Certainly she needed something to put some life back in her.

First she called Sheriff Garret to check on Marley and see
what he had discovered about Christopher Columbus and the minions.

“He doesn’t drive and doesn’t have a license—at least not in
that name. He has a personal physician on premises that he doesn’t use himself
but keeps around to patch up his girlfriends after their domestic disagreements—this
is gossip, but I trust it—and somehow he only pays eleven percent income tax!”
This came out sounding indignant and Juliet had to wonder about his priorities.
No-neck’s predilection for violence was so much more a concern in a case where
murder had been done.

So, No-neck had a good accountant, Juliet thought as Garret
continued to grumble. Joshua Holtz better hope that his boss appreciated this
fact.

“Anyone else hanging around him?”
Juliet asked.

“There is also an attorney—a shark that even other sharks
don’t like and think is dirty. He may also be some kind of snitch for someone
Federal. That is more your end of the paddle pool though.”