Double Shot (33 page)

He was the boy I’d seen in town, of course. Once I’d seen him beside a herd of elk and the other time in front of Town Taffy. He looked just like Arch.
“That threesome doesn’t look as if they harbor murder in their hearts,” Tom observed. “Wouldn’t you say? Pearls or no pearls? Victim’s hair clipped or not? Of course, I’ve been fooled by criminals before. But if one of them was a killer, you’d think they’d at least close the shades.”
I put down the binoculars. “Then why is Ted following Arch?”
“Because his daughter’s dead and he wants to know the piece of her history that’s missing? Because he wants to fill in a piece of his grandson’s history? Had enough?”
“So what’s your theory on John Richard’s murder?”
Tom tapped the dashboard. “I don’t have one yet. We’re missing something. Or some things. We don’t have too few clues. We’ve got too damn many.”
“Right.” Suddenly, I felt dejected. As Tom turned on the car and reversed onto the shoulder, I asked, “So, now what? Do you think Reilly and Blackridge will want to talk to the Vikarioses?”
“Yeah, I do. Another job we can foist off on Boyd. He’s going to be thrilled. So are Blackridge and Reilly. And if this gets out, it’s going to be a mess, even if the Mountain Journal doesn’t have a gossip columnist anymore. I can see the headline now: ‘Who Killed Love Child’s Father?’ ”
“Oh my God.” My thoughts flew to Arch. How would he handle such a thing? The answer was that he wouldn’t Nor would Talitha’s son. “Is there any way to investigate this secretly? There’s got to be.”
Tom took a deep breath. “I’ll Boyd to tell the detectives what our suspicions are, but to keep it extra quiet. How’s that?”
I didn’t feel very reassured. Somehow I’d become mixed into this stew of folks with their secrets, their pain, and their rage, and I felt as if I was winking. Or maybe that was my exhaustion. The day had been long, too long, and I was desperate for food and bed. Tom drove me to the jewelry store and handed me a paper evidence bag from his kit in the trunk. I wrote the jewelry-store owner a note, put it, along with the pearls, into the bag, and shoved the whole thing through his mail slot. I couldn’t wait to get home.
But unwelcome news awaited us there. Arch was ensconced in the living room watching a TV show, but Boy lowered his voice anyway. The medical examiner had completed his preliminary report, Boyd told us. It looked as if Cecelia Brisbane had been strangled.
   
* * *
The next morning, Friday, the tenth of June, dawned with a disconcerting gray haze hanging in the air. The smell of smoke was so strong that I made sure all the windows were closed. I even plugged in some fans to keep the air circulating. Like most mountain homes, we had no air-conditioning, which was probably just as well. The prospect of chilled, smoky air did not thrill me.
Scout and Jake went out with reluctance. They both seemed nervous, sniffing the air and darting tentatively around the backyard. After a few moments, both were pawing to come back in. Don’t tell me animals are unaware of approaching fire.
And it was drawing near. What I’d thought was my own voice, wailing in my dreams as I confronted a dead ex-husband over and over, was actually sirens. According to the TV news, the fire in the westernmost, remotest section of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve had bloomed overnight from eleven hundred acres to two thousand. The fire was spreading faster than they could contain it. Aspen Meadow firefighters had called on Denver departments to send up volunteers. Worst of all, a pair of hikers was missing.
When I ventured outside to retrieve Jake’s water dish, I was greeted by a loud roar from overhead. It was a huge cargo plane, bearing its load of orange fire retardant toward the thick evergreen forests of the preserve. I shuddered.
Blackridge and Reilly were due to pick up Arch at half-past eight, to go to the bank in Spruce and check out the contents of the safety-deposit box. The only thing I had to look forward to was the memorial service for John Richard, which was set to start at one o’clock. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
I took a deep breath but only smelled more smoke. I glanced around the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself. The Furman County Sheriff’s Department’s new emergency reverse-calling mechanism had been widely touted as a foolproof mode of alerting residents to the need for evacuation. Our phones would ring if we were in danger, and we’d be given an hour to pack up our stuff and get out. How much of your life could you pack up in an hour? Your loved ones, your animals, maybe a few photographs. That was it.
The phone rang as I was making my usual double-shot espresso. The demitasse cup I’d been holding slipped away and shattered to smithereens. This was emphatically not because I’d had too much caffeine — in fact, I hadn’t had any yet. I grabbed the phone, sure it was a recorded message telling us to get out.
“Goldy Schulz here,” I said, my voice shaky.
“I know you’re not using caller ID if you’re answering like that,” Marla said.
“You’re up early, girlfriend. I thought you were the sheriff’s department, telling me to round up our crew and get out.”
“Listen up. I have two problems. One is that the smoky air makes it impossible for me to sleep. The other is that the Jerks’ service is today. Remember you asked me to invite Sandee to come with us? Well, I did.”
“I know. She called me.”
“Well, anyway, I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I smiled. “Come on over,”
“Are you making something yummy?”
“This instant, I am starting to prepare whatever you would like.”
“Good. Because I never got a chance to taste what I’m looking at in the Mountain Journal.”
My heart plummeted. I didn’t remember submitting a recipe to the Journal, and anyway, this wasn’t the day for their food page. “What is it?”
“Why it’s you, naughty girlfriend, plastering a strawberry-cream pie onto the face of Roger Mannis, the district health inspector.” I groaned. “You at least could have whacked him with lima bean soup or raw scallops. Why ruin a yummy pie?”
“I lost my head. Just come over, will you?”
She giggled and hung up.
Once I’d made myself a new espresso, I reached for butter-flavored shortening to try a new variation on my crust recipe. I was trying my pie again, but this time in a deep dish so we wouldn’t have another eruption of Mount Saint Strawberry.
Half an hour later, I had placed the new pie on a cookie sheet and was just sliding it into the oven when the doorbell rang. Oh good, Marla. But it wasn’t my friend. Reilly and Blackridge stood on our porch wearing wraparound sunglasses and dark suits. They looked like the Blues Brothers. Was their attire a joke? Knowing them, it wasn’t.
My discomfort showed in my stiff voice as I invited the detectives into the living room. But they were acting very polite, even deferential. I wondered how they felt about the progress of the investigation. I was curious to know how the questioning of Courtney MacEwan had gone. And I was very curious to know if they’d found anything in Cecelia Brisbane’s files, or if they’d come up with a theory as to who had strangled her, and why. But I refrained. I doubted the cops’ newfound civility extended to coughing up answers to my questions.
“Big man upstairs?” Blackridge asked.
“Yes,” I replied. The rushing sound of shower water was clearly audible. “Let me go roust my son. That’s who you’re here for, isn’t it?” Blackridge nodded, and I reluctantly went on: “You’ve heard this rumor about him possible having a half brother?” I got another assent . . . and was that a look of sympathy melting Blackridge’s usually hard eyes? “I’d be very grateful,’ I said hesitantly, “if you wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Arch.”
Reilly exhaled. “We wouldn’t, ma’am. We never would.”
I thanked them and set off up the stairs, where I was surprised to see a freshly showered, tired-looking Arch sitting on his bed. He was neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt. His right hand was closed I a fist, undoubtedly holding the key.
“You’re all ready?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. “Did you set your alarm?”
He straightened his glasses with his free hand. “Yeah. I’m real curious about what Dad was doing.”
I hugged my sides and made my voice low. “Remember we have the service today, hon?”
His look became guarded. “I know. One o’clock. I’ll be ready at half-past twelve, if you want.”
We agreed, and he took off with the detectives for Spruce. I checked on Tom, who was still sleeping. I was thankful that the sheriff’s department had told my husband to take all the time he needed to help me during this bad time. The department wanted their premier investigator back in top form, not worried about his hapless wife.
An unaccountable uneasiness seized me as I made my way back to the kitchen. Something was bothering me, but what was it? This unsolved question, who had killed John Richard, hung like the smoky haze that now enveloped the evergreens and aspens outside. The investigation had produced plenty of suspects — the Vikarioses, Courtney MacEwan, Lana Della Robbia and Dannyboy, whom I was sure had been the suppliers of the cash to be laundered, even though the investigators had yet to prove it. I groaned.
Tom had said that when an investigation stalled, he went over every bit of information he’d already gathered. So I booted up my computer and reloaded the espresso machine. Five minutes later, I was sipping another double shot, this time mixed with half-and-half and poured over ice, as I scrolled through my notes.
When Marla ding-donged our bell and banged on the door — she always wanted you to hurry up and let her in — I hadn’t come up with any new theories. Marla breezed through the door, clad in a pink pantsuit. She pointed to my iced drink.
“That stuff’ll kill you. Fix me one, will you?”
I smiled and followed her to the kitchen.
“My doctor says I should drink herb tea. I told him if I chugged down herb tea first thing in the morning, I’d puke.” Marla smiled when I handed her the latte. She sipped, nodded approvingly, and lifted her chin toward the computer. “What’re you doing?”
“Reading through my file on John Richard. Trying to see what I missed.” I brought her up-to-date on the case, including the shot-up pink tennis ball, the pearls, and the possibility that the Jerk had fathered a child by the former candy striper Talitha Vikarios. Marla whistled.
“I heard about Courtney being picked up for questioning,” she said. “I wonder what she’ll tell the cops, if anything.”
“Ah. While we’re on the topic of wondering, I want to show you something.” I put down my coffee and handed her the pictures from Tom’s envelope. “Does someone look familiar here?”
“I’ve never seen the guy,” she said immediately. “The woman. I know her. Who is she?”
“Ruby Drake.”
“Ruby, ruby, Red Hair.” Marla tapped the photo. “Didn’t recognize her right away. I mean, not with her clothes on. She was at the Rainbow when we went down there. Don’t you remember, she was dancing near us, with a red light? It made her hair look almost purple. I thought she’d been one of the Jerk’s girlfriends, remember?”
“And she sat with us and said she hated the Jerk. Now the firearms examiner says Ruby’s husband, that guy you’ve never seen, was shot with the same gun that killed John Richard.”
“Oh, dear, oh dear. Does Tom know about this?”
“No, but I’ll tell him. He’s asleep.” I sighed and stared at my computer. “I just . . . feel as if I’m missing something else. Say John Richard was laundering money; say it was from the strip club. Even if you tortured him by shooting him in the genitals to tell you where the money was, and even if he wouldn’t tell you, why shoot him right in his garage, instead of when he was strolling along a sidewalk somewhere? Why use a homemade silencer and then drop it in the street?”
I sipped my coffee and frowned. “Whoa.” I put down my coffee and tapped keys, then I read the screen. “Here we go. The letter about the rape. It was sent to Cecelia Brisbane. Why? The day after the Jerk was killed, the note was delivered to me. and then, the day after that, Cecelia turned up dead.”
“It’s weird, all right.” Marla drained her iced latte glass. “Who do you think could help us figure it out?”
“Who would know about the history of Southwest Hospital?” After a moment, I answered my own question. “Nan Watkins. While Tom alerts the department to check out the strip club again, maybe you and I could go visit her.”
Marla strode to the sink and rinsed her glass. “Let’s do it. I know she walks around the lake every morning. Maybe we can catch her.”
“Hold on.” Would Tom count this as a dangerous situation? “You don’t suppose Nan could pull anything on us, do you?”
“Are you asking if a woman in he late sixties, who looks and walks like a large rodent, is going to karate-chop the two of us? The answer is no. Let’s go.”
Marla insisted on taking her Mercedes, as Nan might recognize my van and skedaddle before we could question her. Main Street looked strangely deserted, the stores swallowed in the murky cloud of fire smoke. The lake had turned an ominous, opaque gray, and I doubted we’d see any walkers.
But I was wrong. Marla and I had been huffing along the lake path for no more than ten minutes when we encountered Nan Watkins going in the opposite direction. She was striding along, pumping her arms vigorously. She looked like a short, pear-shaped, gray-haired drum majorette.
“Stop!” Marla called, out of breath. “Nan! I’m dying. Cardiac arrest.”
“Really?” Nan asked, all concern. She halted abruptly on the dirt path and backtracked to us. Her cheeks flamed from exertion, and she was even puffing a bit, which made me feel marginally better.
“No, not really,” Marla retorted. “But our ex-husband is being buried today, and there’s something we have to know before we put him to rest.”
“Something you have to know?” she snapped. “I thought you needed me for a health problem!”
“No,” Marla said, her hands on her hips, suddenly all business. “We need to know the name of teenage girl he raped at Southwest Hospital.”
“What?” Nan looked nonplussed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She licked her lips and looked at the ground.
“Won’t work, Nan,” Marla replied. “The cops have a note the victim wrote to Cecelia Brisbane. If you don’t tell us who it is, we’re going to the sheriff’s department and have them subpoena the information from you.”
“You can’t!” Nan sputtered. “They can’t!”
Marla said, “Wanna bet?”
“Wait,” I said. I looked straight into Nan’s brown eyes. “Nan, my son needs closure on the death of his father. Please. If this woman or someone close to her shot John Richard, it would help us all put our lives back together if we could find that person and get them arrested. Please help us. Otherwise, this person could go over the edge and kill more people.”