Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour (12 page)

After finding the switch to the overhead light, Ray stood a long while and surveyed the living room. A mountain bike leaned on the wall near the door, and a kayak was suspended from the ceiling by a system of pulleys and ropes attached to the exposed wood beams and tied off at a cleat near the fireplace. A Zapotecdesign rug lay beneath a glass-topped coffee table between the hearth and a white leather couch. Bookcases lined the far wall.

“She was neat,” Sue said, looking around. “Everything is in order. But it sort of looks like a guy place—mountain bike in the living room, kayak on the ceiling. It’s sort of your approach to decorating, Ray.” She paused and took in the room. “Are there specific things you’re looking for?”

“Let’s be open to everything,” he said. “And see if there are any drugs. That’s another possible angle.”

Ray crossed the room and studied the contents of the bookcase.

“What are you finding?”

“Krakauer, several Stephen Kings, Jack Driscoll, Jim Harrison, Doug Peacock, Peter Matthiessen, and Edward Abbey, lots of environmental writers. And no Jane Addams, no Bronte; the only poetry is a book by Judith Minty. But Updike’s last book is here, lots of Elmore Leonard’s recent stuff, Tony Hillerman, Dennis Lahane, Larry Beinhart, Carl Hiaasen, and some vintage Chandler. A fairly eclectic collection. She was a reader.”

“Things you like?”

“Most of it, yes.”

Sue pointed at the kayak. “Same passions. You two could have been pals.”

Ray pondered her comment. “I wonder why she kept it in here? It must have been a hassle moving it in and out.”

“What an amazing looking boat,” Sue said, walking around under the kayak and inspecting it from several angles. “It’s like your new boat, isn’t it?”

“Same builder,” said Ray. “It’s a slightly smaller model, the Valkyrie. Would have fit her better.”

“It’s sort of an art object.”

“Beautiful,” agreed Ray. He wandered into the kitchen and scanned the area. With the exception of a toaster, coffee machine, and drying rack next to the sink, the tiled counters were empty. Ray opened a white cupboard and peered at the stacks of dishes, bowls, and coffee mugs—simple, elegantly shaped china in white. In another cupboard he found the glasses and stemware, graceful wine glasses—delicate globes on willowy stems: eight for white, eight for red—and seven thin-walled water glasses. Ray looked around the kitchen and spotted the eighth glass in the drying rack.

He opened the pantry and pulled out several shelves. The spices were organized by type and arranged alphabetically, cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg in a row. Another began with basil and bay leaves and ended with thyme. The Indian-cooking spices were arranged in their own section. Ray thought about his own collection of spices—a random assortment of little bottles, tins, and small plastic bags in a low cardboard box hidden from view on a bottom shelf. He reflected on Ashleigh, and the cognitive style that enabled her to bring such order to her world.

On a low shelf he found raw ingredients organized by type: uncooked pastas together, different types of rice, grain, and flour all neatly stored in plastic containers or Ziploc bags. Vitamins and nutritional supplements were stacked in a small woven basket. Sue peered over his shoulder.

“Wish my kitchen looked like this,” said Ray. “It just makes my head hurt to think about keeping this organized.”

“Mine too,” offered Sue.

Ray opened the refrigerator.

“Gatorade, orange juice,” said Sue peering in, “and soy milk, but no Diet Coke.”

“Coffee beans, three different kinds of mustard, cornichons,” Ray added.

“What?” ask Sue.

“These little French pickles.” Ray removed the bottle and held it in front of her. And then continued to explore. “Some wonderful cheeses, mango chutney. Interesting ingredients. Looks like she did lots of ethnic dishes.”

“How about the freezer? Does she have a stash on ice?” Sue asked.

“No, just some Healthy Choices, ice cubes, and yogurt bars.”

“You’re a trip Ray. Good thing you bring me along.” “How’s that?”

“First you check her bookcases, and then you assess her pantry and refrigerator. Good thing I’m here to remind you of the purpose for our visit.”

“I’m just trying to get a sense of the person.”

“And your sense of people always starts with what they read and what they eat,” she kidded as she pushed open the door of the utility room. A wood rack stood on the floor with panties and bras. “Hand wash,” she said. “Guess she liked black.”

“It’s a great color,” said Ray.

“Men,” responded Sue, shaking her head.

Ray peered into the room: washer and dryer—liquid soap and bleach on a shelf above the machines, broom, mop and pail in the corner. In the cabinet on the opposite wall he found camping equipment, a backpack, two sleeping bags, a small tent, stainless pans, a backpack stove, and a red aluminum gas bottle. He shook the bottle; it was partially filled.

They next moved to the bedroom and bath. “I’ll check the medicine chest. Will you do the dresser?” Ray asked.

David Dowd’s shaving kit, a worn brown leather bag, rested atop the toilet tank. Ray unzipped the bag and removed the contents into the sink bowl: toothpaste, brush, comb, a small can of shaving cream, and a disposable razor. At the bottom was a small plastic prescription bottle. Ray studied the label: Dowd’s name, the doctor’s name, University of Michigan Medical Center, and the drug—a highly advertised anti-anxiety medication. Ray checked the two side pockets, one empty, the second pocket contained two prophylactics in sealed wrappers. He carefully returned the contents to the bag. Ray lifted the top off the toilet and peered into the tank. Nothing.

In the medicine chest, it was unnecessary to remove anything from its carefully ordered interior; everything was clearly visible. His eyes ran along the shelves: a modest collection of cosmetics, dental-care products, and medications—an antibiotic prescribed the previous February, and a wheel of birth control pills, one side of the circle intact.

He looked through the vanity: cleaning products, toilet paper, and Tampax.

Ray walked into the bedroom. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Not really. She had a small wardrobe of quality clothing. One very nice suit, a few dresses, blouses, and sweaters, but it looks like she mostly wore jeans and work shirts. And lots of fleece— jackets, vests, pants.”

“Anything unusual?”

“She didn’t have… well, I don’t know what she would have worn to a fancy party or wedding. And there is no perfume, not one bottle.”

“Is that unusual?”

“A bit, perhaps. But there are no surprises, no stash of drugs or porn, no whips or rubber suits. Well, that’s not quite true. There’s a carefully folded wetsuit on a shelf in the closet. That’s probably kayak gear,” Sue said in a questioning voice as she pointed toward its location in the closet.

Ray walked over and examined the Farmer Jane suit. “Yes, kayaking.”

Sue continued her exploration of the dead woman’s belongings. She pulled open the top drawer of a long modern dresser and motioned toward neatly folded stacks of panties. “Same size and brand, Victoria’s Secret, mostly black, a few white.”

“Why would you bother?” Ray asked.

“Bother with what?” she responded.

“Having two colors, if you like black, buy black.”

“Black shows through, you can’t wear it under some things.”

“Oh,” he muttered.

“Martian,” she responded with a tone of playful scorn. Sue checked the other drawers in the dresser, carefully looking through the contents. “You find anything?”

“No,” he responded. Ray slowly looked around the room, four pieces of furniture: a dresser, bed, and two small night tables, one at each side of the bed. An elegant steel reading light stood on the top of each table. The matching pieces of furniture were modern in design, finished in a matte black, and finely constructed. A thick comforter, dark gray with a soft, glossy texture, covered the bed. He pulled back the comforter, looked under the pillows, and then lifted the top sheet. He straightened the sheet and pulled the comforter back over the bed. Getting down on his knees on the off-white Berber carpet, Ray peered under the bed. He walked around and extracted a book.

“What did you find?” asked Sue.

“It’s probably the book Dowd was reading in bed, hard to imagine that Ashleigh would stash one under the bed.”

“What is it?”

“
Leaves of Grass,
Whitman.” He opened the cover and looked through the first few pages. “It’s a new edition.” He stood and looked at Sue. “These were two very interesting young people.” He placed the book on the night table, regretting that he had disturbed the order of the room.

“Let’s check her office,” he said.

They moved to the last room in the duplex, a room slightly smaller than the one Ashleigh used as a bedroom. A Macintosh computer stood at the center of a simple pine desk, three manila folders were piled to the right of the computer. Ray opened the top folder and peered at the stack of student papers. He showed the papers to Sue, “She was probably going to read these on Sunday night after Dowd left.” Ray could see the sadness in Sue’s face, an emotion he shared.

“Unfinished work and wasted lives,” she said, finally.

“Looks like she was into photography,” said Ray, spying a camera on a shelf behind the desk.

“Digital photography,” said Sue examining the camera. “This Sony is a very new model. She couldn’t have had it more than a few months. We’ll take the CD with us and see if there are any pictures of interest on it.” She slipped the disk into an evidence bag.

They looked through the desk drawers and the file. Most of the papers seemed school related. A few files contained bank statements, income tax returns, insurance records, and monthly reports from Ashleigh’s financial advisor. Ray looked through reports. “Well,” he said after reviewing a few pages, “Ashleigh was a very wealthy young woman.”

“How wealthy?” Sue asked.

Ray showed her the report, pointing out values of the portfolio at the bottom of the sheet.

“Impressive,” said Sue. “But you don’t see any evidence of it here. She had nice things, but there’s no excess. She had enough of everything, but nothing extra. It looks like she was living on her teacher’s salary. Probably even putting money into savings.”

Ray pulled a heavy plastic envelope from the rear of the bottom drawer and poured the contents onto the desk. Sue picked up a passport and opened it. “Nice picture,” she said, holding it so Ray could see it. “Wish mine looked this good.”

Next Sue unfolded an official-looking document.

“What’s that?” Ray inquired, looking through Ashleigh’s undergraduate transcript.

“Her birth certificate. It has her mother’s name, but no father is listed,” she paused and carefully studied the document. “Pretty name,” she observed as she started to refold the document.

“What’s that?”

“Allison. If I ever had a daughter, that would be high on the list of possible names. Allison, it sort of rolls off your tongue.”

“Can I see that?” Ray asked. He opened the document, scanned it, his eyes resting on Allison’s name. Then he handed it back to Sue. She set it to one side as she looked through the rest of the items. She held out a small, faded color photo to Ray. “That’s probably Ashleigh and her mother, there’s such a strong resemblance, same facial structure, same hair color.”

Ray took the photo from her hand and looked at it closely. The colors were faded and the print had a grainy quality. A gangly girl and a woman stood side by side with a flower-covered hillside as a backdrop. Their similarity was striking, clearly a mother and daughter. Ray turned the photograph over, looking for a date or any other information on the back; there was none. He returned to the picture. A wave of recognition ran through him as he studied the photo again. “How old do you think they are?” he asked in a low voice, trying to control his emotions.

“Hard to tell,” she replied, looking at the photo again. “The daughter might be about eleven or twelve; the mother is no teenager. I’d say somewhere in her mid to late thirties.” She gazed at Ray. “You okay? You look sort of strange.”

Ray was slow to respond. “Yes,” he said and then remained silent.

“I guess I’ve allowed the enormity of this crime to come through,” he said, finally. “Once you get a sense of the people, you can’t escape the magnitude of tragedy.” They were both still and then Ray, his tone subdued, said, “We’ll take the computer. I’d like you to search the hard drive. Also, I’d like you to access her e-mail and voicemail.” Ray looked thoughtful. “I’m surprised we didn’t find any correspondence. No love letters or cards, not even letters from women friends.”

“People do e-mail now. I don’t get letters anymore,” said Sue.

“But don’t you have some… some from the past?” he said, thinking about the memento-filled boxes in his spare room. He needed to sort through them.

“No, last time I moved I got rid of that stuff. Bad karma. Do you have any?”

“Well, not for the last few years, but… ”

“Well, there’s your answer,” commented Sue.

“Right,” Ray said, changing the subject. “So, what did we learn here?”

Sue didn’t hesitate. “I think that Ashleigh was exactly the kind of person people have been telling us she was. So far, no surprises.”

“That’s my take, too,” Ray said.

It took two trips to get the computer, files, camera, and other evidence into Sue’s Jeep. Ray came back alone, walked through the apartment one more time, slowly, thinking about the faded photo, the girl and her mother, Ashleigh and Allison, ghosts, both of whom were now his ghosts.

18
Sue stood at the threshold of Ray’s office and peered in; the early morning sun streamed through the thin rectangular windows that ran across the top of the south wall, bringing a bit of warmth into an otherwise drab interior—off-white walls and tan steel furniture. Ray, his back to her, was busily making lists and adding to a complicated diagram with dry-erase markers on a large whiteboard mounted below the windows. He was using a variety of colors, and she could see that he had created a key for the colors on the right-hand side of the board. She cleared her throat to announce her presence.