Dead by Any Other Name (3 page)

six

George was sitting at
my desk engrossed in
Horse & Rider
. He didn't even look up when I walked in. What if I'd been a customer? I coughed. He shot me a glance and went right back to the magazine.

“Did you sell anything?”

“Horses are
the
most fascinating creatures on the planet,” he said.

“At least for the next two weeks.”

“Were you born that cynical or is it something you acquired during the nightmare called your life?”

“I can't wait to meet him.”

“Oh, Janet, he's a dream walking. Of the earth—earthy. There's something so primitive, primordial, almost prehistoric about the work he does, you should see him with his horses, the bond, it's mythic. He's going to teach me to ride … as soon as I get over my terror of horses.”

The Sawyerville horse shows ran over long weekends and the town flooded with horse owners, trainers, breeders, and grooms—when it came to the town's economy it was like someone suddenly turned on a spigot. As for the shows themselves, I'd never been, but it was on my to-do list, right after “read
War and Peace
.”

“I just met Senator Van Wyck out on the street. Sounds like he's going to be the next majority leader up in Albany.”

“When you're in love those kinds of prosaic developments don't really matter.”

“What do you think of him?”

George closed the magazine. “Actually, I think he's pretty good. He's a green maniac and I think he really cares about the valley. He's rich, or his wife is, so he doesn't need to kiss quite as much ass. I've been doing a little volunteering for him.”

George was almost as passionate about his politics as he was about his men.

“Hey, my morning run was pretty productive. Check out this jewelry.”

I put the box on the desk and opened it. George's eyes grew wide. “Holy shit, Janet—
score!
”

“Some cool stuff, huh?”

“Wicked cool.”

“I bought it from Natasha Wolfson, Abba said you guys heard her sing a few years ago.”

“Oh yeah, she was
amazing
. So soulful. And captivating. She was really vulnerable, a little bit sad and lost. But she poured it all into her music.”

I filled him in on my visit with her.

“My friend Tony lives up in Phoenicia and he told me that lately she has the world's hottest boyfriend, just like a total knockout. He sees them around town. He says she seems in kinda rough shape, though.”

“Like how?”

“Like high. Either too up or too down. And sort of scared.”

“Do you know anything about the boyfriend?”

“Tony's pretty sure he doesn't live in Phoenicia, somewhere down-county maybe.” He picked through the jewelry box. “Oh, and look at these fabulous silver earrings! I'm going right down to the jewelers and have them turned into cufflinks for Antonio. He'll adore them, they're so . . . stallionesque! Oh God, I'm starting to smolder.”

George leapt up and headed for the door.

“Wait a minute, you still didn't tell me if I had any customers this morning?”

George gave me a pitying look. “Your crass commercialism offends my soul.”

And then he was gone.

seven

I did have customers
the rest of the day and, as I suspected, Natasha's jewelry was popular and I sold half a dozen pieces. That night the valley was rocked by violent storms, at one point a thunderbolt crashed over the town and woke me up—Sputnik jumped up on the bed and curled at my feet. The thunder in Sawyerville always amazed me—it hurtled down the cloves between the mountains and exploded into the valley; according to legend, it was Rip Van Winkle bowling—well, he was rolling strikes Saturday night.

Sunday was another busy day and I slept even later than usual on Monday. Since the store was closed, I lingered upstairs, enjoying my coffee and some quality time with my brood (quality time with Lois meant feeding her). At the civilized hour of 11
am
I called Natasha to arrange to pay her the three grand I still owed her.

There was no answer. I left a message.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang down in the store. I went downstairs—followed by Sputnik with Bub riding rump—and saw Abba outside. She looked disturbed.

“Something very sad happened,” she said.

“What?”

She handed me a copy of the day's
Freeman
.

local woman dies in platte clove

The body of Natasha Wolfson, 29, of Phoenicia, was discovered by a hiker on Sunday in the Devil's Kitchen section of the upper Platte Clove. The New York State Police report no sign of foul play and have made a preliminary ruling that the death was either an accident or a suicide; an autopsy has been scheduled. Ms. Wolfson, a singer and songwriter, is the daughter of nationally known psychologists and authors Howard and Sally Wolfson.

Devil's Kitchen is considered one of the most dangerous climbing spots in the entire state. Within the last year alone, two other hikers have fallen to their deaths. According to police, Ms. Wolfson was not wearing hiking boots.

I went a little numb with shock, and then a wave of sadness swept over me. Natasha was a good kid, she was struggling with some serious demons but she had talent, heart, and most of her life in front of her. Not anymore.

“You okay?” Abba asked.

“Yeah.”

“She kind of got to you, didn't she?”

“If I let every troubled, mixed-up soul who I spent a little face time with get to me, there wouldn't be any
me
left
to
get.”

Abba just stood there for a moment and then said, “Are you or aren't you going to invite me in for a cup of your so-called coffee?”

I nodded.

While I made a fresh pot of my out-of-a-can coffee she scratched
Bub's head, sending him into paroxysms of avian ecstasy. Lois kept her distance—Abba had told Lois on more than one occasion that she had no truck with her “haughty bullshit.” Cats
are
weird, I mean where do they get the nerve?

I handed Abba her cupajoe, she cocked her head and looked at me with those big amber-green eyes of hers.

“… Yeah, all right, she fucking got to me,” I said. “I mean she was so full of life, she had moxie … she sang a little for me, a song she wrote … listen to this.” I slipped Natasha's CD into my player. Her soulful throaty voice filled the store:

Love by any other name

Would hurt the same

We sat there listening and when the song ended, Abba put down her coffee and gave me a hug. Now hugs tend to bug me, they're the goddamn panacea for everything—“Oh, you chipped a nail, let me give you a
great big
hug
!” “Oh, an escaped mental patient slaughtered and ate your whole family, let me give you a
great big hug
!” But this one felt good. Mostly because it was coming from Abba.

“I know you hate these, but tough shit,” she said.

I didn't hug back—I mean there are limits.

Thank God Abba didn't do that end-of-hug squeeze thing, that really sends me up a tree. She picked up her cup and sat in a turquoise vinyl armchair that George had pronounced “kitsch chic.”

I sat behind my desk. “I'm not sure I buy that it was suicide. I know what that level of despair looks like and Natasha Wolfson was nowhere near it. In fact she was focused on the future in a way that is the clinical opposite of suicidal. And I don't think it was an accident. I was with her that morning, she was way too preoccupied to drive all the way up to the top of Platte Clove and set off on a hike. Plus that kid was less of a hiker type than I am. It just doesn't compute.”

“Don't you think the police are looking into every possible scenario?” Abba asked.

“I don't know, Abba, you remember what happened with the Daphne Livingston case.”

“I do.”

I stood up. “Listen, I'm going to head out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Suddenly I'm in the mood for a little hike.”

eight

Hiking is one of
those activities that sound fun in theory. In reality hikes are a huge fat bore; I know because Zack, my alleged boyfriend, has dragged me on a few. The problem is you're stuck on a trail that climbs through woods, and after ten minutes of tromping it's “oh wow, how exciting, more goddamn trees” (I'm sorry but trees are overrated, they're just ginormous weeds). Then there's the fear factor, especially round about late afternoon when you're stuck on some dark narrow track and you know if you dawdle too long the trees will close over you and the woods will swallow you up and you'll never be heard from again. I mean, do you think it's an accident that in fairy tales the woods are always a metaphor for terror and death? Those Grimm Brothers knew what they were talking about. I'll take a nice long walk around a lake, a swamp, or a strip mine over a hike in the woods.

At least with the Platte Clove—which is a narrow gorge between Kaaterskill High Peak and Plattekill Mountain—there's a rushing stream to distract you. Zack lives in West Sawyerville near the bottom of the clove, and we've hiked up it a little ways in the summer to cool off in one of the swimming holes. But Natasha died at the top, so I drove up the narrow seasonal road that runs above the stream. At the top I parked and followed a trail leading into the woods, toward the heart of the gorge and the stream.

The trail zigzagged downward and then began to run along a wide ledge, I could hear the stream but not see it. A little ways farther the ledge narrowed and then the trail was cordoned off by police tape. I slipped under the tape and walked closer to the lip of the ledge. It overlooked a waterfall that I pegged at about 100 feet high. At the base of the waterfall was a pool surrounded
by huge rocks; if you fell you'd smash open your skull like a melon. My stomach turned over. I have this thing about heights—
they scare the shit out of me.

I couldn't imagine Natasha throwing herself off this ledge. I suppose I could imagine her slipping, but that would mean she was up here hiking, which didn't seem at all likely to me. I
could
imagine someone pushing her. In many ways, it would be the perfect crime. One quick shove and it's
arrivederci
, baby. No evidence, no clues except maybe shoeprints, and the storm that night no doubt washed those away. I grabbed onto a tree and craned my neck forward for a better view—
whoa.

“Janet, what the hell are you doing up here?”

I turned around and saw Detective Chevrona Williams of the New York State Police squinting at me, hands on her hips. As usual, she radiated this sexy, understated authority that reminded me of a young Clint Eastwood—if Clint was a black chick. Also as usual, a frisson of
je ne sais
quoi
(oh all right, I
sais quoi
) shot through me. Which was weird, since I'm straight (my only lesbo experience was that night in 8th grade when me and Laurie Goldberg stole a fifth of Bacardi from her parents' liquor cabinet, drank half of it, and diddled each other—just when it was getting fun, Laurie puked). At least I think I'm straight.

“Just admiring the view.”

“And breaking the law.”

I ran my fingers through my curly hair and gave it a quick shake. “Now, detective, has anyone
ever
been prosecuted for crossing police tape?”

“I'm not in the mood for cute.”

Well, I tried.

I ducked under the tape.

“Hi,” I said.

She remained silent. I thought I detected a little quarter-smile, but clearly she was in no mood for chit-chat.

“I'm not sure Natasha Wolfson's death was an accident or a suicide. I think she may have been murdered,” I said.

Chevrona narrowed her eyes and stayed closed-lipped. It always got to me when she did that.

“I spent an hour with her on Saturday. In my opinion she wasn't someone on the verge of suicide.”

“I deal in facts.”

“A person's psychological state
is
a fact.”

“It could have been an accident. This area is called Devil's Kitchen for a reason. See these pine needles? When they get wet they're as slippery as ice. When someone falls on them, they start to slide downhill toward the lip of the ledge and they can't stop themselves. That's how most of the deaths up here happen.”

“That would be a terrifying final few seconds, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah, and during the fall itself they may bounce off the rock walls. No pretty corpses up here.”

“Even though she lived in Phoenicia, Natasha was a real urban type, I just can't see her hiking up here alone.”

She nodded and a little warmth sparked in her eyes. God, she was great looking, with that smooth mocha skin and sleek jawline. Why the hell did I wear hiking boots to go hiking when I could have worn those nice flattering high-heel sandals?

“Have you found any evidence that she wasn't here alone, I mean any fingerprints or shoeprints or anything?” I asked.

“At this point any shoeprints we find will belong to one Janet Petrocelli.”

“Oh God, I'm sorry … I didn't even think of that.”

“This is a crime scene, not a scavenger hunt.”

There was something exciting about being reprimanded by Chevrona, she was just so …
manly
, in a womanly way. If that makes any sense.

“We dusted for anything we could find, but that storm washed away everything—we came up zippo.”

We stood there on the mountaintop ledge for a moment.

“So … how's everything?” I asked.

She looked down, rubbed the back of her neck; when she looked up her natural authority was tinged with that sweet vulnerability that made me want to hold her and tell her everything would be okay.

“Things aren't bad.”

“Are you—”

“Back together with Lucy?”

I nodded. Lucy was her former partner, who left her for a man.

“No.”

There was another pause, filled with her loneliness.

“Okay, listen, do you mind if I poke around a little, up in Phoenicia? Natasha kinda got to me.”

“Lotta stuff gets to you.”

“Yeah.”

We looked at each other—it was
a
moment
. Then she looked down and cleared her throat.

“Okay sure, poke all you want. And if you find anything, let me know right away.”

“Yes, Sir, I mean M'am, I mean Chevrona, I mean Detective Williams.”

She laughed, and it felt like a mountain stream, rocks and all.