Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (17 page)

“You remember the details?”

Paul scrolled his browser. “A housekeeper found a body at Prize’s. Not much to chew.”

“The victim was a receptionist named Cyndi Amore, also known as Cyndi Backus. Like a few of our young ladies here, she moonlighted as an exotic dancer in Reno on weekends.”

Of course he liked strippers, but now he understood why he might have overlooked the case. Women in the business of erotica sometimes took unusual risks and sometimes ended up dead. He didn’t imagine a mystery there. Someone had depended on Cyndi for income, or someone loved and stalked her, and the whole thing had resulted in another disaster that raised a mere blip on the collective psyche. “No suspects?”

“From what I hear, no. There’s more, and I bet you haven’t heard this. The housekeeper who found the body in the bed at Prize’s wound up down the hill with her throat slit at a bus stop in Minden, Nevada, on Tuesday morning. She was on her way to work at Prize’s. The Nevada sheriffs haven’t arrested anybody, and I heard from my friend who works as a 911 dispatcher in that area that they haven’t got any persons of interest either.”

“Sounds like she may have seen something. So the two murders are probably connected.”

“Exactly. I always said, though others demurred, you had a brain.”

“Why did Michelle call Nina, Sandy?”

Silence.

“You can’t tell me.” Still, worth a try. He flicked through several browsers, trolling for information on the Minden killing.

Sandy was onto him. “You won’t find the Minden murder on the Net or in the papers yet. Someone’s keeping it quiet.”

“The Rossmoors have friends,” Paul guessed. “But they won’t be able to keep these two stories out of the paper for long, two deaths that hark back to Prize’s.”

“Steve Rossmoor has a lot of power in this town and a few neighboring ones, too.”

Much as Paul despised and envied Steve Rossmoor for his tennis wardrobe, Ivy League background, happy family, and intelligence, he had to respect the man for running a fairly honorable business in a town riddled with its own Western version of the mob. “So Michelle sought legal advice from Nina. Interesting,”
Paul said. “Going back to the attorney who handled her criminal case way back when. I imagine she and Steve have more than a few other attorneys to consult when they need help. Yet they went to Nina.”

“Uh-oh. I hafta go. Joe and I are going to a barbecue in Jackson tonight. It’s a long drive.”

“Any last helpful tips for your son’s employer who respects, supports, and encourages him at every turn?”

Sandy almost never laughed, and she didn’t this time either. “The dead housekeeper’s name was Brenda Bee, the one who discovered the stripper’s body. Lived in Minden. Had a husband named Ronnie. I bet he’s in the phone book.”

“Got it.”

“By the way. Brinkman—he came around with questions. Like, is Paul in love with Nina. Like, is Paul a Doberman who beats people up. Not in so many words. I told him you’re a lamb. He laughed. I didn’t see how it was funny.”

“He’s looking at me?”

“Has a couple canines buried in you. Stay cool, Paulie.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Take good care of Wish.”

“Or else.”

“’Bye, now.”

Well, well, Paul thought, making notes. The minute he finished, he called Michelle Rossmoor at Prize’s. The switchboard tapped him through to her mobile phone.

“Hey, Paul. It’s been a while. You still tall, blond, and handsome?”

“Hey, Michelle, you maintain your babeness after two kids and a demanding husband?”

They both laughed, reminisced for a few minutes, then got to the point.

Paul said, “I heard about the body at your hotel.”

“Did Nina tell you I called her?” Michelle asked.

“No.” He needed to make that clear. Nina had not violated any client/attorney privileges. “Did you call her? Why?”

Michelle was silent, adding up a couple of twos and making four. “I’m glad you got in touch. What a lucky thing. By the way, how is Sandy?”

Despite her looks, she was a smart woman. “As always,” Paul said. “On her horse, riding fast. Now, what’s up, Michelle? You can tell good ol’ Paul. I’m on your side.”

“Steve and I could use your help.”

“Let’s start from there.”

“H
ello, Mr. Bee,” Paul said into his cell phone. In the grocery store at Carmel Rancho Center, he was stocking up on food that wouldn’t rot fast, a tiny bud in his ear connecting him to a man in Nevada. Strangely, nobody stared at him for talking to himself. What a grand new world.

He examined the fresh shrimp. He supposed he could freeze it, but what was the point of seafood if it wasn’t fresh from the sea?

“What? Who is this? A reporter?”

“I’m a private investigator representing Prize’s resort, looking into your wife’s death.” Paul put two pints of ice cream into his cart, one chocolate chip, one vanilla. He browsed for fudge sauce. The fridge needed filling.

“My wife’s murder, you mean. She never should’ve taken that job. So you’re working for Prize’s?”

“Paul van Wagoner is my name. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Bee. I know it’s terrible to lose someone you love.” He did know, and to counteract the mood that thought put him in, he fingered a Spanish vegetable, then sniffed it, taking simple pleasure in the routine.

“I loved the hell out of her; that’s the first thing you should know. My neighbors, the postman—they’re looking at me funny, as if I could ever do anything mean to her.”

“You deserve to know what happened to her and I can help.”

Ronnie Bee burst into noisy tears over the phone. “You think
finding her killer’s going to help? It won’t, you understand? You say Steve Rossmoor hired you?”

“That’s right. Why do you think your wife was killed?” Paul loaded two good Chiantis into his cart and began searching for inexpensive-but-good pinot noirs to fill the remaining space in his wine rack.

“Because she saw the killer. She told me. That’s what is so awful. She told me she wouldn’t be able to identify him or even give any good description! She was nearsighted! He killed her for nothing!” Ronnie Bee lapsed into some creative profanity, which made Paul feel bad again. Still, he had been hoping for that confirmation. There had been the off chance that the housekeeper’s murder was a coincidence, had nothing to do with the death of Cyndi Amore, but the husband sounded definite about the connection.

“I’m coming your way. Any chance we can speak in person?” Paul asked.

A slender woman with a phone glued to her ear had passed by while Paul talked on his phone, close enough for him to smell her perfume, but he had only a distracted grin to gift her with. She drifted away.

Paul set up an appointment with Ronnie Bee for Saturday, clicked off his phone, then tossed the last of his purchases onto the conveyor belt. The woman had checked out already and left his life. Five minutes from contact to rejection, and the sad truth was, that was not a record.

The man in front of him finished up his transaction, loading up sacks with chips, beer, nuts, cheese, and crackers.

Party down, brah, Paul thought. No big game to watch, nothing happening except the usual emotional emptiness.

It struck him that he was in danger of joining the fraternity of the taco chips.

F
riday, early, Paul combed his hair, put on a fresh white shirt over slacks, and hit the office.

Wish Whitefeather, young and tall, lank black hair longer by the day, tied back right now with a leather string, stood up, almost knocking over Paul’s chair. “Whoa. I didn’t expect you so early.”

“My chair likes staying nice and warm when I’m gone.” The antler cup steamed on Paul’s desk next to the huge, flat monitor.

Wish picked up his pecans and his cup, blew over the top of his coffee, and moved everything to his own area. Wish’s table appeared cozier almost instantly, while now Paul’s desk looked rather sterile.

“Hey, no problem that you’re here. There’s room for both of us. Plus, I forward everything to the laptop,” Wish said. “It’s good to see you, Paul. I hear things aren’t going so good up there at Tahoe.”

Wish knew most of Paul’s personal business through Sandy. Paul knew most of Wish’s personal business through Sandy, too, except for the part about the girlfriend.

While Wish paid bills and invoiced outstanding accounts, Paul met with clients down at the Hog’s Breath restaurant, his personal conference area. After he finished with his meetings for the day, he and Wish made lists of things Wish could handle and figured out who on their regular roster they could hire to do some of the routine work. Then Paul headed back to the condo for his bag.

N
ina spent the evening with her brother’s family.

“Yoo-hoo,” she said, slogging up the pathway to their house, Bob following close behind her. Orion lorded it over the semiwinter sky, so clear she could even see the faint patch of nebula in his sword. A sliver of moon helped them up the snowdrifts in front of the house. But the season would change. In a few months, it would be hot. The dead pine needles would let off that dry aroma of theirs, and even the lake would warm enough to let them take dips in it.

Nina’s sister-in-law, Andrea, redheaded, small but huge in purpose, met them at the front door with hugs and kisses. “I’m so sorry about the walkway. We haven’t had time to shovel it out.”

They shook off their coats, and while Andrea hung them up, she told stories of the old folks trapped behind mounds of snow
that blocked entry to their homes, tourists who slipped from side roads into ditches and almost died, bears who bashed in garage doors and bullied through freezer doors, eating everything within reach. Winter at Tahoe was full of such tales, and she seemed to have heard every interesting one of them.

Bob listened politely, accepted a soda, and ran upstairs to visit with his younger cousins, Troy and Brianna.

Games beeped and roared down the stairway.

Nina sighed. “Remember when they used to climb trees and roofs and we were so worried?”

“They’re still climbing,” Matt said, “in a different way.”

“Dangerous in a different way.”

“Ha. You’re so right.”

Matt ran a small fleet of tow trucks in winter, along with a sideline in snowplowing. In summer, he took parasailers out flying on Lake Tahoe. He always seemed busy. Nina remembered his hiring Kelly Strong at a big risk, and how he shrugged off Nina’s caveats. “Everyone I hire has issues,” he had told her.

Andrea, Nina’s emotional bulwark, had contacts with the societally conscious community at Tahoe. She ran a women’s shelter and was dug as deep as an archaeologist into the strata of things in town.

“So, how’s Kelly doing?”

“Shows up. Does her job. She’s good,” Matt said. “I’m not sure I understand her. Can’t figure out if she loves her family or hates them.”

Nina thought about that. “She seems attached to her father.”

“I’d say that relationship is not so healthy.”

“Why?”

“Things she says. Her brother was a killer. She loves the resort even though she won’t have anything to do with it. Her father offers her financial help she won’t accept. Instead, she’s plowing and towing for me. I don’t know. Nothing jibes. She’s from a wealthy family but she lives like a pauper.”

“Hmm.”

“What brings you here, Nina? What’s bothering you?”

“I only come when I’m messed up?”

“Furrowed brow and splotchy flush on your neck, dead giveaways.”

“Work. Life. How I wish everyone had a perfect marriage like you guys.”

Matt and Andrea looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Haha! Okay, Andrea, you handle this one.” Matt, still laughing, went outside to use a new tripod and photograph the stars.

“I hear you took Philip Strong’s case,” Andrea said. “I’m surprised. I know I told you once before he’s a great supporter of the women’s shelter. Every Christmas for at least ten years, he’s given us a generous donation. But your history with that family—”

“He has been important to this community. It’s so complicated. I know. But Andrea, right now, my problem’s Kurt. We’re going for counseling.”

“Good move. Hard for you, asking for help.”

“It’s not my style or his. Do you know someone good?”

“It isn’t anybody’s style.” Andrea dug around in her bag. “Here you go. The man’s name is Buck Tynan.”

“Kurt doesn’t like to talk about his feelings.”

“And you do?” Andrea snorted. She touched Nina on the shoulder. “He’ll get you talking. Buck’s a mediator. He knows how to break through to reasonable solutions.”

“Can he bring us back together?”

Andrea looked out the window at her husband, puffing through the cold, setting up awkward shots, his breath a fog in front of his face. “If it’s meant to be,” she said.

P
aul hit the road for Tahoe at almost midnight Friday. Another mini-storm near the summit forced him off the road at Pollock Pines to put chains on the Mustang, even though he had a perfectly good set of snow tires. He would have toughed it out, but the California Highway Patrol had a roadblock and motioned him over to the side of the road when they saw the vintage car.

He looked around for someone to hire, but the chain gentlemen were all busy, so he got under the dripping fenders on his back and did the dirty work himself. It felt good and marked the break from the civilized valleys. He accepted it all, the icy mud, the snow falling implacably, the cold.

In the wee hours of Saturday morning he arrived at his new favorite casino-hotel, Harrah’s, sacked out. After a few hours of alert visiting with his dark soul, he showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the gaming floor, where he rapidly won three hundred bucks playing Texas Hold ’Em. But it was hard work, and his eyes were red-rimmed by the time eight in the morning rolled around and he pushed open the door to Nina’s office.

Someone had opened up and must be down the hall. He remembered where Nina kept the espresso machine and went into the library-cum-conference-room. The walls were lined with law books, though they were mostly for effect, since almost everything was online these days, and she had the same old used conference
table with the scratches on the surface. After making sure his initials remained etched under one corner of the table, he loaded the espresso machine and started it up. In a moment, hot fumes wafted his way and he gave himself up to the heavenly smell, closed his eyes, and breathed it in.