Alpine Gamble (30 page)

“That's true enough,” Scott agreed, his ire fading. He signaled for another round, but to my surprise, Leo shook his head. I followed suit; Beverly shrugged in apparent agreement with her spouse. “But
Vd
have to be here, working shoulder-to-jowl with Bronsky. Forget it.”

Having wiped her eyes with a cocktail napkin, Beverly was now looking pensive. “It's really up to Blake,” she said, sounding uncommonly meek.

“I'm calling Blake tomorrow,” Scott asserted. “If he insists on a local partner, there must be somebody else. What about Hollenberg?” Scott rested his gaze on me, then Leo.

I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe. It could be Leonard's legacy as a county commissioner. He hasn't done much else. None of the three commissioners has, when it comes to helping the local economy.”

The waitress brought the Melvilles another cognac and Kahlua. I sensed that Leo was growing fidgety. So
was I, since the original purpose of this meeting seemed to have gone by the wayside.

Beverly surrendered her first glass, then turned an anxious face to her husband. “Let Blake make his own decisions. Don't get mixed up in the partnership angle. You don't want to get on Blake's bad side.”

I detected a warning note in Beverly's voice. But Scott dismissed his wife's words with an impatient gesture. “Stop fussing. You're overly protective when it comes to Blake. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself.”

I took a deep breath, then offered Beverly my most sympathetic look. “It's hard to let go, isn't it?”

Beverly's expression grew puzzled. “Let go? How do you let go of family? I wish I knew,” she added, sounding bitter. “Big brothers are forever.”

It was the awkward moment I'd dreaded for the past two and a half hours. We had turned off Alpine Way in Leo's secondhand Toyota and were rolling along Fir Street toward my house. Should I ask Leo in? Would he presume upon my hospitality and make a pass? How would I fend him off? Did I really want to?

But even as I glanced surreptitiously at Leo's profile, another vehicle came to a stop approximately by my mailbox. “It's the sheriff,” I murmured in surprise. “I thought he was in Startup.”

Leo applied his own brakes, then turned into the driveway. “A late date? You should have warned me, babe.”

I assumed Leo was kidding. “Milo has already been here,” I said, somewhat distracted.

“Really.” Motionless, Leo sat behind the wheel. “Did you ask him to come back?”

I fumbled with the car door and finally managed to
get it open. “Don't be an idiot, Leo. Come in if you want to. Just remember, we didn't want dessert.”

I thought I heard Leo sigh, presumably with regret, but maybe with impatience. Milo was already in the middle of my walkway, pacing.

“You still got that Scotch?” he asked as Leo and I approached from the drive. “I feel like celebrating. Blake Fannucci's disappeared.”

LEO
INSISTED
THAT I give him only a finger of whiskey. Milo poured his own. “That Mexican stuff all tastes alike,” he grumbled. “What the hell is a fujeeta anyway? It sounds like a Japanese camera.”

I didn't bother to correct Milo. It didn't matter if he couldn't tell a fajita from a footstool. Honoria's efforts to broaden her lover's experience rarely got beyond the end of his nose.

“Cut to the missing link,” I said, sitting next to the sheriff on the sofa. “What's this about Blake?”

Milo let out a sort of moan. “Sam Heppner phoned me in Startup, just as Honoria and I were … settling in.” He looked askance at Leo, who was lounging in one of the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table. “Toni, our receptionist, had gotten a call from Fannucci this afternoon. She forgot to give me the message.” Milo shook his head in disgust. “Sam found the number after she went home, so he tried to reach Blake in L.A. A woman answered and said she was the manager of the condo where Fannucci lives. Mrs. Simon— the manager—hadn't seen him since this morning when he went out—apparently to Levine's memorial service—but that some suspicious-looking guy in a raincoat and a slouch hat had been hanging around the building. Mrs. Simon had a key so she began checking the units where nobody was home. She'd just gotten
into Fannucci's place, and it looked to her as if there'd been a robbery. Sam told her to call the cops. Then he called me at Honoria's.”

I was bewildered. “Have you talked to Mrs. Simon?”

Milo shook his head. “We're waiting for a call from Santa Monica. That's where Fannucci lives. I'm officially off duty, so Sam can handle it God knows I've earned a break. It's a damned shame if anything's happened to Blake, but I wanted to let you know that I was on the right track after all.” The sheriff wiggled his shaggy eyebrows at me. “You were pretty skeptical when I stopped by earlier.”

For some reason, I remained skeptical. “Blake could be anywhere. He might have taken off for the weekend. How do you know this isn't just your average L.A. break-in? They do have quite a bit of crime, even in Santa Monica.”

Milo savored his Scotch, all but smacking his lips. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Leo regarding the sheriff with a sardonic expression. 'That's what we're waiting for—confirmation,” Milo said complacently. “It's not hard to tell if a burglary is faked. We also have to find out how the perp got in. According to Mrs. Simon, the building's security isn't any great shakes. That's why she's so careful about checking things out.”

“A snoop.” Leo stuck a cigarette in his mouth, then talked around it. “The raincoat and the slouch hat sound like they walked off her TV set. Make sure she's not a publicity freak.”

Milo shot Leo a look of disbelief. “That's crazy. Sam says Mrs. Simon is in her seventies. What does she care about publicity?”

Leo snorted. “You're talking L.A., Sheriff. Everybody wants to be a star.”

I didn't bother to hide my yawn. “It's going on ten,” I said, not discriminating between either of my guests.
“Come up with some credible theories or go home. I'm beat.”

Milo took umbrage. “You've heard my theory. Somebody got screwed over by Fannucci and Levine. They wanted revenge. They got it. End of case, as far as SkyCo is concerned. Now it's all up to the folks in L.A. County.”

It was useless to argue with Milo. I knew it, but Leo didn't. “Levine got whacked here, Sheriff. That still makes it your case. If the killer scurried back to California, so what? You let him—or her—get away.”

Milo lifted one shoulder. “So we sent out an APB. Bond issue or not, we don't have the money or the jurisdiction to do anything else. Besides,” he added smugly, “Sam and Dwight came up with some other good stuff today. Five years ago, VineFan put up a housing development on the edge of Northridge. Several of those houses collapsed in the last big quake. Luckily, nobody got killed, but you can bet your butt those owners got pretty mad.”

I fairly jumped in my chair. “Wait—Scott Melville designed houses in Northridge that fell down. Skye Piersall told me about them. I wasn't sure she was telling the truth.”

Leo and Milo both stared at me, with varying degrees of interest. My ad manager looked intrigued; the sheriff's long face was dubious. As usual.

“Look,” I said, enthusiasm banishing weariness. “Skye may be kind of a drip, but she's been telling the truth. Blake
is
Beverly Melville's brother. Don't ask why he lied—maybe it's just part of his L.A. con artist persona. I'll bet she's right about Scott, too. He designed those houses for VineFan.”

“So?” Milo was unimpressed. “What's any of that got to do with irate home owners? If Scott gets whacked, I'll start another investigation.”

There were times when I wanted to grab Milo by the ears and beat his head against a concrete wall. This was one of them. But I wasn't sure why. Before I could field a righteous argument, the sheriff's cellular phone rang. It was far less annoying than Ed Bronsky's.

Leo and I exchanged expectant looks while Milo spoke into the phone. “Listen, Sam, I'm off … No, I'm not home … Yes, you're bugging me … Tell Henry to stop fussing, he's not a suspect … Hell, he's imagining … Okay, okay, I'll stop by his house on my way home. It's not far from here … Jeez, never mind where 'here' is, you jackass! Just do your job and stop driving me nuts!” Angrily, Milo clicked off.

I started to say something, but Milo was contemplating his empty glass. “Damn, I could use a refill.” He stood up, all arms and legs and indignation. “But I won't. I've got to stop off at Bardeen's.”

“How come?” I asked innocently.

Milo waved a big hand. “Sam Heppner is losing his grip. Why can't he hold down the night shift on his own? It's some dumbassed thing about missing bills at the ski lodge. Henry Bardeen is paranoid, but I'd better humor him so he doesn't sue the county for false arrest or public embarrassment or—”

“What kind of bills?” I queried, interrupting Milo's monologue.

The sheriff was at the door. “How the hell do I know? That ditzy daughter of his probably lost them.”

“Heather's not ditzy,” I murmured.

But Milo was on his way. Thoughtfully, I watched him lope to his Cherokee Chief. “He's self-destructing,” I said, closing the door.

Leo was also on his feet. “Dodge has no peripheral vision. Otherwise, he's okay. You two ever done it?”

I also could possess a one-track mind. “What?” I turned a puzzled face to Leo.

Leo was grinning. “Never mind, babe.” He leaned down and brushed my cheek with a quick kiss. “How about the Seahawks? You think they'll make the playoffs?”

“Not this season,” I forced a smile. “Thanks, Leo. Dinner was great.”

He was at the door, a hand on the knob. “Will the Seahawks
ever
make the playoffs? Will they ever score? Will Leo? Good night, Emma.”

Leo was gone.

I was alone.

Oh, well.

Shortly before eleven I risked a call to Vida. At ten years of age, Roger ought to be in bed. If not, he was probably engrossed in watching television.

“One of the privileges of visiting Grams is getting to stay up past his regular bedtime,” Vida informed me when my second guess proved correct. “We had quite a raucous evening of it, especially after Roger let Cupcake out of his cage. He's so excitable.”

I didn't bother to ask if the reference was to Roger or the canary. Instead I filled Vida in on my own evening, specifically the incidents that related to our current homicide. As usual, Vida sifted through the information, then pounced on what she considered the most intriguing:

“Beverly Melville—you mentioned that she still seems upset. Now why is that?”

“Because she doesn't want anyone to know that her husband and brother have been building collapsible houses in the L.A. area? That could explain why Scott was so anxious to move out of California.”

Vida, however, didn't concur. “No. All sorts of buildings fell down during that earthquake. We don't know if Scott's design was the cause or if it was faulty construction or just plain bad luck. Nothing's really
earthquake-proof. What we do know is that Skye Piersall seems to want to blacken Scott Melville's reputation. Perhaps Blake Fannucci's as well. Yet Leonard Hollenberg saw Skye and Beverly having an amicable conversation. Not that Leonard is the most observant man on earth, but we'll have to give him credit for possessing certain political antennae when it comes to people.”

“I'd like to ask Beverly why she and Skye were huddled together last Monday morning,” I put in, sitting back in my chair and using the wastebasket as a footstool.

“Then ask,” Vida said reasonably. “I wonder if I can't guess.”

I evinced surprise. “What? Why?”

“The common bond between them,” Vida replied calmly. “Stan Levine. Skye was in love with Stan. Stan was in partnership with Beverly's brother and working with Beverly's husband. If you're accurately retelling Leonard's account, it sounds like girl talk. That's almost always about men—or a man. Who else but Stan Levine?”

Vida had a very good point. Maybe CATE wasn't Skye's primary motive for coming to Alpine. Maybe she had somehow managed to use her environmentalist's credentials as an excuse for confronting Stan. Maybe she had given him an ultimatum about their romance.

“She could have been enlisting Beverly as an ally,” I said, knowing that women often do such things in the cause of love.

“Very likely,” Vida agreed. “There was no one else she could ask. Not in Alpine.”

“Blake?” I suggested.

“I don't think so. Skye and Blake seem utterly at odds with each other.”

That was the impression I'd gotten, too. But were the rest of us supposed to believe that animosity existed between Skye and Blake? I remembered my own clandestine romance of over twenty years ago. At
The Seattle Times
, Tom and I were very discreet, hiding our affair from our coworkers. Thus, I often criticized him roundly in front of others; he had probably done the same with me. It was possible that Skye was covering for something else, such as a romance with Blake Fannucci.

But they were an even more unlikely couple than Skye and Stan. “What do you think happened to Blake?” I asked, dismissing furtive love affairs, past and present.

Vida harrumphed. “Nothing, probably. Milo is jumping to conclusions. Blake's landlady or whatever she is sounds like a meddler. Really, Emma, I can't tolerate people who pry into other people's private lives.” I let the remark pass. Before I could say anything, there was a clatter in the background, followed by a gasp from Vida. “Excuse me, I must run. Roger has knocked over his TV tray.”

He probably overloaded it, I thought, but did not say so. I hung up. Now I was truly alone, cut off from Vida by her spoiled-rotten grandson. I should have mentioned his so-called prank with the bucket of water. But I wouldn't give Roger the satisfaction of knowing he'd doused me, nor would I disturb Vida's weekend festivities. Besides, the murder was uppermost in my mind.

Or so I told myself. In fact, I had to concentrate on Stan's death to keep other thoughts at bay. A glance from my kitchen window revealed stars and a half-moon. The same sky hung over San Francisco. But I mustn't dwell on that now. Resolutely, I marched back into the living room, grabbed^ notebook, and sat down on the sofa.