Scene of the Climb (13 page)

I awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee and an empty loft. Jill had left a pink sticky note on the top of my files next to the coffeepot. It read:

Call Matt ASAP. I sent him these last night. Coffee's on. See you tonight. Smooches.

Pouring myself a cup of Jill's rich brew, I grabbed cream from the refrigerator and sank onto the couch.

Jill had highlighted the page numbers on the bottom of my notes. In the margin she'd written, “Look what I found.
Three pages missing
!!!”

She was right. Three pages of Alicia's file were missing.

I had carefully numbered each page I'd printed out from my Internet search. It was something Mother used to do when I was little. She'd help Pops with his research, organizing his files with different colored pens and writing numbers on the bottom right corner of every page.

Pages 24-27 were missing from Alicia's file.

Alicia must have been the one who went through my files. But why? The only thing I'd found on her were old skiing articles. Could Alicia have killed Lenny? Her arms were all scratched. Maybe she'd cut them pushing Lenny off the cliff. But she was long gone by the time I reached the summit.

Between sips of coffee I sent a text to Matt.

He responded right away. Meet at Marchelle's in 45?

I slammed down the rest of my coffee and raced to the shower. Marchelle's is a coffee and hemp shop Matt and Pops loved to inhabit. It's located in a converted barn, outside of town, close to my childhood home. The shop's a hub for conspiracy theorists and pot enthusiasts. It's also a twenty-minute drive from the Pearl. I had to hustle.

Yesterday's sun had been replaced by a solid wall of iron gray clouds stretching from the skyline to the ground. It wasn't raining, but soon would be. I could tell from the way the wind freed blossoms from the trees, whipping them like confetti dancing in the air. The sky turned darker and darker as if I was driving into the night.

Matt waved from an overstuffed shabby green chair in the corner of Marchelle's when I arrived. He sat next to a wooden stove churning out heat and smoke. His slate gray Nutcase helmet with neon yellow caution signs rested at his feet. Matt and his bike were rarely less than a few feet apart from each other. He rose to greet me.

“I got you the usual,” he said, giving me a hug and handing me a chipped ceramic mug. “Non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte, right?”

He smelled like mint gum and earthy aftershave. His arms were firm and reassuring around me. I stayed in them a moment too long.

Realizing this, I shrugged him off and sank into the chair next to him.

“Non-fat?” I scowled.

He punched me playfully in the arm. “I'm kidding. It's a mocha with extra whip.”

“Thanks.” I grinned. “You're the best.”

“You hungry?”

“Kind of.” I paused. Had I eaten? No, I guess I hadn't. “Yeah, I could eat. You want to split a bagel?”

“I was thinking quiche, if that's okay with you? Marchelle has a sundried tomato and goat cheese special today.”

“I'm in.”

“Okay, be right back. Don't move.” Matt moved toward the rustic counter to place our order.

Was Jill right? Did he really have a crush on me? We'd been friends for so long it was impossible to imagine Matt (or any other male for that matter) lusting after me. I wasn't that kind of girl. I'm the kind of girl who is the best friend. Jill's the one men fall all over.

Matt returned with a plastic giraffe. He placed it on the scratched circular table between us to mark our order and scooted his chair close. “Jill filled me in on the latest.”

I looked around the room to see if anyone was paying attention to our conversation. The space was cluttered with tattered books, hemp clothing for sale, candles, and fliers taped to the walls, promoting upcoming wellness seminars, hemp cloth-making classes, a men's mediation workshop and political house parties.

On the wall behind the coffee counter I noticed one of Gam's ads. Pops must have come in and posted it for her.

An ache, worse than being stabbed repeatedly by a jagged knife, cut through my stomach.

As a kid, Mother would take me to
The O
once a week to meet Pops for lunch. We'd grab ham and cheese sandwiches from Marchelle's and eat them at his desk. I remember puffing up with pride when his editor stopped to shake my hand and say, “Your dad is my best writer. Follow his lead and we'll have you on the team one day too.”

I attribute my burning desire for truth seeking to Pops. When he was on a story, we didn't see much of him. It drove Mother crazy, but she was focused on social climbing and his work helped launch her into new circles. Gam, who is Mother's mother, said it was love at first sight with them. Maybe it was. I don't remember it that way. I remember them like static between radio stations— always searching for the right call letters but mainly stuck on the annoying buzz.

Keep it together, Meg
. I looked away from the ad and returned my attention to Matt.

“I don't know what to think,” I said to Matt, suddenly paranoid people were paying attention to our conversation. Another glance around the room confirmed they weren't. “I keep going back and forth. My boss is acting weird. Gam warned me not to get involved yesterday. I swear someone went through my files. Jill thinks the killer saw me. But at the same time I feel like I'm being ridiculous.”

Scooting his chair a couple inches away from the smoldering fire, Matt wiped smoke out of his eyes and coughed. He put a hand on my knee and looked me intently in the eyes. “Something's up here, Megs. I know it. You need to stop blowing it off and start watching your back.”

Instinctively I turned to look over my shoulder. We both laughed.

A girl with long braids and a floor-length flowered skirt delivered two steaming slices of quiche to our table. She stuffed the giraffe in her apron pocket and gave a little bow as she backed away.

“You didn't need to get two,” I said to Matt, cutting off a bite of the dense quiche and blowing on it. “I would have split one with you.”

Matt blew on his quiche too. “That wouldn't be any fun. Plus you look like you could use protein this morning.”

Yes, I could. The savory quiche melted in my mouth. The sweet tang of the sundried tomatoes blended with the creamy goat cheese. I let out a little groan and dug into another bite. Content to eat our breakfast in silence, Matt kicked back in his chair with his quiche resting on his lap. I devoured mine in about five bites and proceeded to wipe the cheesy residue on my plate with the crust.

I dusted crumbs off my hands and sat back in my chair. “Okay, what did you discover?”

Holding a finger as he chewed his last bite of crust, Matt put his empty plate on the table and reached into his laptop bag. The bag was made of an industrial waterproof nylon in sap green. It had tiny green alien men along its black straps and packs of gum bulging out of the side pockets. He pulled out his iPad and clicked it on. He slid his finger over the slick screen until he landed on a folder. Tapping it once, a spreadsheet appeared on the tablet.

“Look at this,” he said, expanding the spreadsheet with two fingers. “When Jill e-mailed me last night, I went ahead and did more research on
The O
's internal servers into Race the States. Both the cast and crew.” He thrust the iPad into my hands.

“Take a look at these numbers, Megs. Race the States is bleeding out cash. There's no network funding. Dave's fronting the money from his own production company. But his company's in trouble. I found this scanning through files they submitted publically in an attempt to find venture capital last month. No one bit. Race the States is totally broke.”

I scanned through the Profit and Loss sheet. Numbers in the thousands and hundreds of thousands flashed on the screen. Since numbers weren't my thing, it was hard to decipher. But the glaring red negative number on the bottom of the spreadsheet did not require a math mind to interpret it. Race the States was in deep financial trouble to the tune of $2.3 million dollars of debt.

For minutes I stared, barely breathing, with my mouth gaping open, at the screen. This was huge news. Did Greg know? Did Krissy or Andrew know? Obviously Dave knew. He'd been hiding the fact that the company was going bust, but from who and why?

Could this have anything to do with Lenny's death? Now I was more confused than ever.

“What do you think this means?” I asked, handing Matt his iPad.

He carefully placed it inside his messenger bag, grabbing a stick of gum while hunched over. “Want a piece?”

“Not unless you think I need one? Is that a subtle message I have quiche breath?”

Matt tore off the gum wrapper and scoffed. “Not at all.” He took a quick glance around the room again. I could smell the refreshing scent of mint on his breath. “Your friend Dave at Race the States is in it up to his ears. Honestly, I don't know what it means. I'm going to keep looking. But I do know he's not giving you or anyone else the whole story.”

“Do you think this could have any connection to Lenny's murder?”

“It might. And until we know more, you need to be careful.”

I gave Matt a skeptical look. “Now you're sounding like my boss.”

“The boss you have a crush on?”

“Stop it.”

“I'm serious, Megs. We're talking about a ton of money at stake here. People do crazy things when it comes to money, and I don't want you in the middle of it. Remember that story I wrote last fall about the CEO of that biotech startup who was murdered for the technology?”

“Yeah.”

“That's what I'm saying—Race the States probably stands to pull in millions with ad dollars if one of the major networks picks it up. Plus, like Jill said, if you got a photo of the killer on the trail, he could come after you next.”

I swirled the chocolate sludge on the bottom of the ceramic mug.

“Yeah, and about your boss, how much is
Northwest Extreme
paying for sponsorship?”

“I don't know. I can't seem to get a handle on how involved Greg is with the show. I mean, I know he has exclusive sponsorship, but does that mean he put up the million dollars for the prize money, or is that coming from Dave?”

“I don't know. See if you can find out. That could be important.”

Our waitress stopped at our table to clear the empty plates and ceramic coffee mugs. I put my face in my hands and rubbed my temples.

“There's one funny thing I found,” Matt said after the waitress was out of earshot. “Lenny gave himself the name Sweet Nostrils from an online mobster name generator site.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I did you. Wanna know what your mobster name would be?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Dead Eye Maggie.”

“Oh my God. That's awesome. Can you call me that from now on?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you do you?”

“East-Side MP.”

After cracking ourselves up, Matt continued. “Here's what I want you to do—lay low, but see what else you can find out about the contestants. I'm going to head into the office and see what I can pull up on Dave through
The O
's archives and our journalist's toolbox.” He chomped on his gum and bounced his left knee as he spoke. “You see what you can learn about
Northwest Extreme
and I'll text you as soon as I know more. Deal?”

I bit my bottom lip, a habit that drove Mother insane. “You really think I could be in danger?”

Getting to his feet, Matt pulled me up with ease. “Yes, I do. And, I think you should be careful, Megs.”

He walked out the door. I stood by the woodstove, inhaling the scent of old wood.

Three people had warned me to stay out of this mess. First Greg, then Sheriff Daniels and now Matt. Could they all be wrong? Probably not. Something was definitely amuck at Race the States. I was determined to figure out what it was.

None of them had witnessed a man falling to his death.

Plus, I had to do it for Pops. I hated the way that Sheriff Daniels said Pops “went off the deep end” and looked at me with pity. Maybe if I could solve what happened to Lenny, it would help restore Pops' name. I was in the best position to learn more.

Gam always claimed my intuition ran deep. I had an uncanny knack for nailing people on the spot. I'd watch my back, but no way was I going to lay low.

After an uneventful afternoon at the office, Greg called an emergency team meeting in the staff room at 4:00. I'd been caught up in working on my draft, which was now overdue, and didn't notice the time. My cell phone buzzed on my desk, sounding an alarm. It was ten minutes after 4:00. Shoot. I slammed my laptop shut and raced to the conference room.

Everyone was in deep conversation as I pushed the heavy doors open. Sheriff Daniels stood at the head of the table. He glanced at the clock, to me and pointed at an empty chair next to Krissy. I slunk in and hunched my shoulders as I sat.

Sheriff Daniels cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we cannot rule out foul play at this point in time.”

Dave let out an audible groan. No one else made a sound. Krissy tapped her fingers on her knees under the table. Andrew's gaze was fixated out the window. He didn't seem to register anyone else was in the room.

Alicia threw her head on the table and sobbed under her breath to no one, “I'm never getting out of here, am I?”

I noticed Andrew started to say something to her, but stopped himself.

Greg's eyes were focused on paperwork in front of him. I tried to catch his glance, but he didn't look up.

Leaf, on the other hand, held his piercing brown eyes on mine, as if challenging me. I looked away briefly and glanced in his direction again. He was still staring hard at me. I gave him a puzzled look. He shook his head and glared. What was his problem? He'd been avoiding me since I tried to chase him down after the party.

Sheriff Daniels continued. “At this point we're treating this as a homicide investigation. After we're done here I'm going to need fingerprints and to take each of your statements individually.” He motioned to the table where a fingerprinting kit sat ominously.

Andrew scoffed. Krissy examined her nails.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Sheriff Daniels said. “And as a reminder, no one is to leave the state until we get more information from the coroner's office and can make a determination in the case.”

Rain pounded outside the windows, which were sweating from the heat of our combined bodies behind closed doors. Muggy air and tension hung in the room.

“One more thing,” Sheriff Daniels said, pushing up the brim of his hat. “We've copied all the footage you shot. My deputy has your cameras to return, so you can keep filming.”

He glanced at the torrential rain outside. “Guess the good news is that means you'll be able to get out in our lovely Northwest weather.”

“What about the news folks?” Dave asked. “You're not plannin' to let them loose on this, mate, are ya?”

“Good question.” Sheriff Daniels nodded to Dave and addressed the rest of us. “No, we're not informing the media of anything, but as I'm sure you're all aware there's heavy interest in this story right now. I recommend if asked you simply respond by saying, ‘No comment' and leave it at that.”

Dave clapped his hands together. “That's right. Listen to this here, Sheriff. We've gotta keep this under wraps. Can you imagine the ratings?” He elbowed Andrew, sitting next to him still staring out the rain-splattered window. “We can tease it up for weeks.”

Alicia pounded her fist on the table. “Look, I didn't like Lenny any more than the rest of you, but come on, Dave, have a little heart. The man was murdered and you're talking about ratings.”

“Lassie, it's not—”

Cutting him off in midsentence Alicia glared at him as she said, “Stop calling me that. I want off this ridiculous show. I'm done.”

She stood and huffed toward the door. Sheriff Daniels raised his right index finger. “I'm sorry, miss, but you can't leave until I tell you otherwise.”

“This is absurd.”

Sheriff Daniels tipped his hat in Greg's direction, ambled over and put his hand on Alicia's shoulder. “Come with me, miss. I'll take your statement first.”

Alicia brushed his arm off her shoulder and stomped out of the room. “Fine.”

“I'm going to need the rest of you to stay put. I'll try to make this as quick as possible.”

He strolled out of the room. We all sat dumbfounded. Finally, Greg disturbed the awkward energy.

“You heard what Daniels said. I'm jumping on a call. You're all welcome to hang out here or at one of the hoteling stations until he's ready for you.” He looked at his watch. “I'll stay until he's finished with his questioning to lock up.”

Gathering his papers, he stood and turned to me. “Meg, I think there's a box of nutrition bars in the staff room. Can you grab them and bring them in here in case anyone's hungry? And don't forget I need your rough draft.”

Glad for any excuse to be out of the stifling room, I jumped to my feet. I could feel Andrew's and Leaf's eyes burning into me as I went to snag the power bars. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Leaf lean over to whisper to Andrew, who responded with a rough shake of his head and a finger to his lips. What was going on with those two?

The staff room was a total mess as usual.
Northwest Extreme
received daily shipments of sample products from vendors vying for free press. Due to slumping ad sales, Greg laid off the admin whose job it had been (among other things) to go through product samples and deliver them to the appropriate team member. This left the staff room in a constant state of disarray.

Shipping boxes were piled next to the refrigerator, which was plastered with fliers for upcoming runs and bike tours. The circular white-topped lunch table and two of the matching chairs were also stacked with products like breathable ankle socks and neoprene water bottles. A state-of-the-art reclining bike no one wanted to claim rested in front of the soda machine. Products arrived at such a breakneck pace, often times they were left untouched for weeks.

I searched through the cluttered counter with trail-sized energy gel packs in new flavors—blue raspberry and cherry cola. Gross. I shuddered, pushing the box aside. Next I found lemon gum samples enhanced with caffeine and other “naturally occurring” energy boosters. The only place I wanted caffeine was in my coffee, not in my chewing gum. Underneath a box labeled
NEW GOO
I found the nutrition bars. Was “new goo” something one consumed or used to repair shoes? I didn't want to find out.

As I grabbed a handful of bars, I noticed a cracked GoPro camera buried at the bottom of the box. What was it doing here? It looked like the broken camera Dave had tucked in his pocket. How did it end up in the staff room?

I tucked the bars and camera under my arm and headed to the conference room.

“Here you go.” I tossed the bars on the middle of the table. “I recommend the blueberry crunch. It's pretty tasty,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“Thanks, Meggie.” Dave reached his tanned arm for a peanut cluster bar.

“Hey, did you lose a GoPro? I found this in the staff room.” I held up the camera.

Dave bit into an energy bar. “Nope, don't think so. Andrew?”

Andrew didn't even look at the camera when he said, “That's not one of ours.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It looks like it's been used.”

Andrew tugged at the headphones around his neck, but didn't make eye contact with me. “I'm sure. I had to count all our cameras to give to the sheriff. None were missing.”

Dave coughed. “Think I'll step out for a little freshy for a minute.”

Andrew let out a stiff laugh and said something so low none of us could hear. Dave eyed him with a look of warning on his way out the door.

One of them was lying.

My watch read 5:15. Doing quick math in my head, I calculated there were seven of us to interview. Looked like I'd be here a while. I might as well get writing.

I tucked the broken camera into the pocket of my periwinkle wrap dress and returned to my desk.

The common area was deserted. Most of the writing staff set their own hours—often covering events in the evening or weekends. Aside from the small ad sales department, who worked traditional hours, everyone else popped in and out unless we were close to deadline. The week before an issue dropped, the office was a buzz of activity—clicking keyboards and a constantly full coffeepot. Since we didn't have any admin staff, most of us used our personal cell phones for research and interviews. Greg covered our monthly cell bills. It was easier for him to reach us on assignment. At our last staff meeting, he'd told us he was officially cutting out our land lines. No one used them anyway.

I was surprised when I returned to my desk to see the red light on my phone lit up. Apparently Greg hadn't discontinued the service.

Picking up the black phone, I punched in my voice mail code and waited. A gruff voice jolted me upright in my chair. “Listen, you bitch. Stay out of this, or you'll be sorry.”

I looked around the room and shivered. The voice was undistinguishable. Someone clearly had tried to disguise their voice. It sounded like a man's but I couldn't be sure.

Clicking Play again, I listened intently. The background sound crackled and the repeated words made me shudder.

What should I do? Sheriff Daniels was interviewing Alicia in the accounting office. Greg would probably take me off the story if I told him. I couldn't let that happen. With another glance around the room, I pressed the save button and put the phone down.

I shoved the camera in the back of my top drawer. Why would Andrew deny it was one of their cameras without even looking at it? I'd have to tell Sheriff Daniels about it.

Could I really be in danger? Or was someone trying to scare me off? Obviously, someone thought I knew more than I did.

What about the fact that Race the States was in the red? I was on to something. I only wish I knew what and what I should do.

Could it be Alicia? I needed to ask her about my files. Maybe she was done with Sheriff Daniels and I could catch her before she left.

I skirted around Greg's office to see if Alicia was still in the accounting office. She wasn't. Neither was Sheriff Daniels.

Where did everyone go? Goose bumps formed on my arms as I scanned the empty hallway and returned to my desk.

Just as I pulled out my chair, I felt a tap on my shoulder and jumped.

“Sorry, Ms. Reed,” Sheriff Daniels said. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“That's okay. I'm on edge. I just got a nasty voice mail message telling me to back off.”

Sheriff Daniels pulled a chair on wheels from my coworker's desk next to me. He held an arm to stop me. “Wait a minute. Someone threatened you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you save it?”

“Yeah. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course. I need to hear it.”

I picked up the phone and punched my voice mail code. Pushing the speaker button, I set the headset on the base and turned to watch his reaction. An automated female voice-recording came through the speakers. “You have no new messages.”

What? Frantically, I punched buttons. It must be in the saved messages. “Hold on a sec,” I said, turning a deep shade of red as Sheriff Daniels looked at me like I was crazy. “It must be in my saved messages.”

He nodded.

The woman's voice sounded again. “You have no saved messages.”

“I don't know what's going on,” I shouted, looking wildly around the empty office. “Someone must have erased it. I just left my desk for five seconds.”

Sheriff Daniels put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember what they said?”

I couldn't believe this was happening.

“Not word for word, but basically knock it off or I'd be sorry.”

He looked from me to the phone. “I'll take a look around. Run prints on your phone. Have you talked to anyone since our conversation yesterday?”

“No. Not really. I did learn that Dave's in financial trouble, but I didn't tell him that.”

“Good. Don't.” With a quick glance over his shoulder, he continued. “I don't know what you've discovered that has someone spooked, but I don't want you talking to anyone about Lenny from here on.”

I gulped and nodded. “There's something else.” I pulled the broken camera from the back of my drawer. “I found this in the staff room. It looks just like the one I saw on the summit. Andrew and Dave both claim it's not theirs.”

He examined the cracked, plastic GoPro. “Sure don't know how to work one of these myself, but I'll see if my tech guys can scrub it.”

Sheriff Daniels stood. He started to pat my shoulder and stopped himself with his hand midway in the air. “You're free to go. Stop by the kitchen and have your prints taken before you leave. My assistant should have it set up. Ms. Reed, please stay out of this.”

I slunk into my chair and rested my head in between my hands. What the hell was going on? Pulling the receiver off the base, I punched in my voice mail code again, hoping the message might magically reappear. When the automated voice repeated, “You have no new messages,” I slammed down the phone and pushed to my feet.

Someone wanted to scare me. It was working. But as to listening to Sheriff Daniels' request—no way.