Smart House (14 page)

What she really wanted, she thought then, was to collect some of the money the company owed her. Owed her, she repeated. Invest in Margaret Long’s small press, go back to editing the kinds of books no commercial publisher would touch. No one even considered that she had her own dreams, her own ambitions, she thought miserably.

She slipped and grabbed the railing. There was a shady area of the path that was wet; a trickle of water crept across it, vanished in the tough dune grasses that went down to the high-water mark. The tide was lower than it had been the other time she had come down; the beach was wider than she had realized it would get. To the north another headland made one boundary, and the cliff that held Smart House made the other, but today she could get over the rocks in either direction, keep going for hours. She thought again: It isn’t fair, and bit her lip in exasperation. Then she made the last turn off the trail and waded through sand to the hard-packed beach where walking was easier.

In the tide pools there were pink and purple starfish, and multicolored anemones that closed when she touched them, bubbling angrily, she thought. Small pink crabs scurried in their unreasonable sideways motion. She sat on the edge of a rock and stirred the water in a tide pool and watched the frightened creatures until she became ashamed of herself, and then she walked again.

At the northern boundary as she clambered over the newly exposed basalt prominence she stopped to gaze at the next crescent beach, as deserted as this one, with another rocky barrier at the far end. She turned and went back the way she had come. It wasn’t fair. Going back, she did not pause at the many tide pools, some already brimming over with the incoming tide; she strode briskly, trying to think, trying to define what her responsibility actually was.

She reached the southern prominence and stopped again. This cliff rose almost straight up and was broken into massive blocks and boulders only for the bottom twenty feet or so. From above one could look straight down into crashing surf when the tide was high. Now it was possible to climb over the tumble at the base of the cliff and go on, and on, and on. To California? To Mexico? Forever.

She started to climb over the fragmented rocks, and stopped again, this time frozen, mouth open, but no scream issuing. She was too frightened, too stunned to scream.

Wedged in the rocks was the body of a man in a dark suit coat, one hand hanging almost to the surface of a pool captured ten feet above sea level. He wore a gold watch. She could see the back of his head, the upper part of his back, his shoulders, one arm and hand. Hung out to dry, she thought, draped over the rocks because he was wet. The gold watch gleamed in the sunlight. His other hand and arm were not visible. Broken off when he fell, she thought clearly, and suddenly she vomited.

She had no memory of scrambling back up the trail, or of getting back to Smart House, but once inside, it seemed they were all there, and suddenly Charlie was giving orders in a crisp and even reassuring way. It was good he was there to take charge, she thought, because Milton was dead. Then she wept.

Charlie sent Constance and Bruce to the cliff top overlooking the headland. “No one’s to go near it,” he said. “Alexander, call the sheriff and the special investigator from the attorney general’s office. Tell them we won’t touch him if he’s dead, unless the tide starts to move in too fast. I want the sheriff’s homicide crew as fast as they can make it. Jake, Harry, come with me.”

“You’re assuming he’s dead?” Jake asked as they trotted to the beginning of the trail.

“I don’t know. But that damn tide has turned and I want a crew here before it reaches him. If he’s alive, we’ll call back.” They would haul him to high ground if he were alive, but Charlie knew he wasn’t. Beth knew it, too.

On the beach, Charlie and Jake watched Harry climb up the face of the black basalt to the level of the pool, the rock that had broken Milton Sweetwater’s fall into the sea. Harry climbed carefully and very surely. He skirted the pool and reached out to touch Milton, to feel for a pulse in his neck. He yanked his hand back fast, and now he hesitated, clinging to the rocks. He began to work his way back down.

“Jesus,” Jake said in a low voice and turned away to gaze out at the ocean. He was hunched, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as if he were very cold.

Charlie was remembering that the last time he had seen Milton Sweetwater he had been going around turning off lights. When Harry rejoined them, his face was gray. He shook his head.

“Someone has to stay here and make sure he doesn’t get swept away by the tide,” Charlie said brusquely. “Both of you. Don’t go up there again, and don’t let anyone else go up, either. If the water gets to him, give a yell and we’ll get him off that rock.”

He did not wait for agreement or questions, but left Jake and Harry on the beach and started back up the trail. The sheriff would be there soon, and he had a few things he wanted to do before that. The first thing was to have a look at the top of the cliff.

He sent Bruce back to the house, and as soon as he was gone, he turned to Constance. “Anything?”

“No. He wanted to go closer, but I stopped him. I wanted to get closer, too. Doubt that it means anything. He’s dead?”

“Yeah.” Charlie looked at the immense house against the cliff. The greenhouse was visible from here, and two cottages, the servants’ quarters. The red tile terrace circled the house, then down a couple of steps to the landscaped grounds, paths surfaced with bark mulch, some with tiles or bricks. Nothing high grew between the house and the edge of the cliff, nothing to obstruct the view; he and Constance would be perfectly visible to anyone looking out. He turned his back on the house and studied the ground. Here the lawn had yielded to the basalt, and the basalt ended in a cliff. No fence, no guardrail. But why would there be? This was not a family residence; it was a showcase for business people who presumably would have enough sense not to fall off the cliff.

He walked toward the edge slowly, looking for anything. He stopped and got down on one knee to examine brown spots, dull against the basalt that had a surface shine. He looked until he found three more of the brown spots, skirted them carefully, and moved on.

“Is it blood?” Constance asked, keeping back.

“Probably.” Two small areas, four spots, about a foot from the edge of the cliff. He took one step closer to the dropoff” and felt a catch in his stomach, a tremor of fear in his bowels, the way he always did when he first approached a high place with no rail. It passed, and he looked down. Almost straight down here, to the jumble of broken rocks where the land and sea were slugging it out. Harry and Jake were standing where he had left them, both of them turned to face the sea. No one else was in sight, except Milton Sweetwater.

“He could have fallen,” Constance said.

“Or jumped.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “We might as well go in with the others. I just wanted a look.”

The sheriff arrived soon after they reentered the house. He took two deputies down to the beach, with Charlie tagging along behind them. No one spoke to him. The three investigators surveyed the body, consulted, and two of them went back up the trail. Jake, Harry, and Charlie followed. The sheriff was in his fifties, weathered with deep furrows in his face, his skin shiny and hard. He looked like a farmer, or a fisherman, Charlie thought, watching him work. He went straight to the telephone, still not speaking to anyone in the house, and he called for a helicopter, the Coast Guard rescue team. Then he hung up and regarded Charlie with unhappy eyes.

“There’s what looks like blood on the edge of the cliff out there,” Charlie said.

“I’m not on this case,” the sheriff said. “State investigator is. But the tide’s moving in pretty fast. If it wasn’t, I’d just post a guard and wait it out.” He looked beyond Charlie at the others, who had spaced themselves as far as they could get from each other and still be in the same room. The sheriff surveyed them with disgust. “No one’s to go anywhere until Dwight gets here.” He stalked from the room.

And that solved his own dilemma, Charlie decided. He didn’t have to tell the sheriff about the little elevator. The question before had been when to tell him, and the answer was never. Dwight, he thought, Dwight Ericson, the state attorney general’s man. He sat down to wait for him.

Chapter 13

For the next hour they
waited. Now and then someone got up to go to the bathroom, or to get a drink or get coffee, and was accompanied by a sheriff’s deputy, right to the door, anyway. They spoke in monosyllables when they spoke at all. Maddie picked up a book and put it down repeatedly. Bruce paced, sat, got up, and paced again. Alexander twitched and fidgeted. Laura sketched, flipped pages, and sketched again. Harry and Jake were both quiet, subdued, and each one seemed wound so tightly that no spring could hold such tension.

Charlie played solitaire and watched them all. They were staying as far apart as the room allowed, as if each recognized that a touch, a look, might be enough to set off an explosion. The helicopter had come, and they all had watched from the wide windows as it circled, hovered, then dipped down out of sight in a crescendo of noise, and departed again. Now they waited for the special investigator. One of the deputies stood at the window, looking out. And no one had had a chance to ask Charlie if he intended to talk about the game. He gathered up the cards and shuffled, dealt again.

Finally there was a soft rustling in the room, almost like a collective sigh of relief, and two state police officers in uniform entered with a third man not in uniform. He wore a khaki jacket over a tee shirt, and denim jeans. Harry and Jake both got up, and were silenced by his icy survey of the various members of the group. His gaze lingered on Constance and lingered longer on Charlie, who had leaned back in his chair to watch.

“You know the rest of us,” Jake said then. “This is Charles Meiklejohn and his wife Constance Leidl. They’re… consultants. Captain Dwight Ericson,” he finished.

Looking at the newcomer, Constance realized that Dwight Ericson could well have played the part of the younger brother she never had. How pleased her father would have been with such a son. Her father had never even hinted at disappointment over not having a son, but he had taught his tall daughters to ski and shoot, ride horses and milk cows, and had insisted on college and professional careers for them. He would have liked a son who turned out like Dwight Ericson. He was not yet forty, large—over six feet tall—and broad in the chest, narrow through the hips. His hair was as blond as Constance’s, his eyes the same shade of pale blue. She sat and watched as he and Charlie sniffed and circled like two stray dogs even though neither of them moved; she suppressed a smile.

“A consultant?” Ericson said, not quite voicing his utter disbelief.

Charlie nodded. “You’re a special investigator?” His tone said Dwight Ericson was too green, too young, too naive for his position. He stood up lazily. “You know all about the fun and games that went on here last spring, no doubt. No point in going into all that again. But now there’s a third body to consider. Shot?”

Ericson’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.

“I think we’d better talk,” Charlie said.

Ericson hesitated only a second, then turned and led the way out, into the library. One of the state policemen stayed behind, one went with him. The sheriff’s deputy left. Charlie and Constance followed Ericson. Constance knew every eye in the room was on Charlie; everyone wanted to ask how much he would tell of the stupid game of murder they had agreed to months ago. There was no way to reassure them that he had decided not to talk about it; he had told them already, if they had just been listening.

In the library Ericson stopped at a long table and seemed to be considering it. Then he turned and looked at Charlie and Constance more closely. “Meiklejohn. You were in on that Ashland murder case, weren’t you?”

Charlie nodded.

“They brought you in to look into those other two deaths in May?”

“To be precise, Milton Sweetwater came to see us and brought us in.” He pulled a chair closer to the table for Constance and another one for himself. “Ericson, we can work together, or I can poke around on my own, but one way or the other, I’m afraid I’m in.”

Dwight Ericson sat down and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not fighting you. You know the population of the state of Oregon? About three million. And it covers an awful lot of territory. And I’m
the
special investigator. I’m it. Frankly, Mr. Meiklejohn, if you can help, believe me, I’ll accept it.”

Charlie’s nod was sympathetic. “Doesn’t matter, three million, thirty million, you’re always short-handed. I can show you how Gary Elringer, and maybe others, moved around this damn house on the night of the other murders without being seen.”

“They lied about the computer keeping track of their movements?” He looked offended, like a little boy who had just been told the tooth fairy was a myth.

“To a point. At least some of them have lied.”

“What about the shooting? How did you know Sweetwater was shot?”

“Didn’t,” Charlie admitted. “But it was a logical guess. I told the sheriff about the blood on top the cliff. And I sure didn’t see a weapon of any kind. He was a vigorous man, in good shape. Didn’t seem reasonable to assume someone just pushed him off, or that he fell or jumped. The blood didn’t fit those scenarios. Not much left except a gun.”

“Right. Okay, how did they get around without the computer tracking them?”

“Best way to see our find,” Charlie said then, “is from Gary’s office, I think. It was Constance’s idea. She figured out that Gary Elringer would have had a private way to get in and out.” They went down the stairs to the basement.

“See,” Charlie said in Gary’s office a few seconds later. “You call up the television room directory on the computer, and use the secret code and watch!” Ericson made a soft noise in his throat. “We just got here yesterday,” Charlie said, almost apologetically, without a trace of mockery. “Haven’t really had time yet to start digging, but this seems a pretty good beginning.” He pushed the open button with the eraser as he had done before and they gazed into the small elevator with the blueprints and the computers on the floor.

Ericson stepped closer, then snapped, “Have you touched anything yet?”

“Nope. We just found it when Beth came in after spotting Milton Sweetwater’s body. Didn’t really have much time to investigate. But there’s a back door,” he added softly, “and the only place you can use it is on the first floor, exit behind the big walk-in freezer, into the small hallway behind the John and the dressing room. From there it’s a straight shot to the Jacuzzi, or outside through a door in that hall.”

Ericson motioned to the uniformed officer. “I want prints, fast. Everything in there.”

He turned back to Charlie and Constance, and now he paid as much attention to her as to Charlie. “You just figured this out? Or did someone tell you?”

“I think most of them will be surprised by this,” she said thoughtfully.

They moved aside as a second officer came in and the two men went to work on the elevator.

“No one knows yet that we found it,” Charlie said. “I told you we had something for you. There’s this, too. You might want to look for prints.” He took the third computer from his pocket, handling it carefully by the top of the plastic bag. He described finding it and explained what the hand-held computers could do.

Suddenly Ericson grinned, and he looked many years younger. “Okay. What else?”

“Your turn,” Charlie said gravely. “Was either man moved, dragged, dumped? You know what I mean.”

They were playing a game they both understood, Constance knew, neither of them yielding an inch yet, still feeling each other out, gauging how far to go.

“No,” Ericson said.

“Can you be certain?” she asked.

“Oh yes. You look for scuff marks, disarranged clothing, marks on the floor or carpet, shoe polish, bits of thread, things like that.” He glanced at Charlie, but did not go on. “We thought of that, naturally.”

Charlie nodded. “Naturally.”

“And you just figured out how that gizmo works, too?” Ericson asked, pointing to the computer in the plastic bag.

“They talked about it last night,” Charlie said. “Bruce Elringer assumed everyone else knew about it, and they pretty much admitted that they did know, or should have known, but it slipped their minds.”

Ericson made a rasping sound in his throat, as much like an animal growl as a person could make. “What happened last night?”

“I asked questions. They answered some of them. Then everyone split to go to bed. Constance and I could have been the last ones who saw Milton Sweetwater. We watched him turn off the lights. I doubt you’ll get much more than that from any of them. No point in driving too hard until we have a time of death, is there?”

It was a question, but also a suggestion, very nearly an order. Dwight Ericson considered him another moment, then shrugged. “We’ll do what we can.” He started for the door, paused again. “You want to sit in on it?”

Charlie shook his head. “Thanks. Rain check? What I bet they’ll tell you now is that they went to sleep, those we didn’t meet again anyway, and no one heard or saw a thing.”

“Yeah. Bruce Elringer and Jake Kluge were up and prowling. And Bruce claimed he had a gun.” Ericson took a breath and started to leave again. “Bet it’s missing.”

Charlie grinned. “Mind if I do a little prowling of my own?”

“Help yourself. When I’m done upstairs, maybe we can sit down somewhere and have a cup of coffee? See you later.”

Charlie chuckled. Not quite a question, more like a suggestion or even an order. He decided Dwight Ericson was okay. He took Constance by the arm. “Let’s go to the roof for a breath of air.”

They left the office and walked to the main elevator at the end of the corridor, eighteen feet, twenty feet away, but side by side with the secret one. The arrangement on the second floor was like the basement setup: Gary’s suite with the elevator door in the closet was as far from the main elevator as it was here. And on the roof, they were right next to each other, he knew. He wanted to look at the two doors, at the concealment provided there. He had not yet examined that. The housing was a redwood structure on the roof. Charlie walked around it slowly, then entered the storage section. There was the pile of outdoor furniture, several small tables, lounges. From the inside it was not at all obvious that a second elevator had been provided for. From outside, the little elevator was just as invisible, the door perfectly hidden in the redwood siding.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Constance asked after a moment. Charlie was on his knees examining the wood.

“Damned if I know,” he muttered. “We’ll have to wait for Ericson’s men to finish with it, I guess. Are you getting hungry?”

“Yes. It’s after two.”

“How about we continue this search in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Ramos was heaping turkey and ham and cheeses on platters under the supervision of another uniformed officer. Her composure wavered momentarily when Charlie and Constance entered.

“Wonderful!” Charlie said. “What we’ll do, Mrs. Ramos, is make up a few sandwiches and take them into the breakfast room. If that’s okay with you.”

“Or even if it isn’t,” she said and went on arranging a tray with onion rings, pickles and lettuce.

Charlie nodded pleasantly and began to make sandwiches. Silently Mrs. Ramos brought a tray for him, and napkins, coffee cups. She filled a small pot with coffee from an urn and put it on the tray, then went back to the big one she had been working on. In a few moments Charlie was satisfied; he picked up the tray and started out.

“Will you tell the captain I have a sandwich for him in the breakfast room?” he asked the officer who was eyeing the tray hungrily. In a low voice he added, “She can’t stand to see anyone go hungry. Go sniff the ham a time or two.” The officer was already moving toward the worktable before Charlie reached the small hall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast room.

They were just finishing their sandwiches when Dwight Ericson joined them and sat down with a grunt. He stared out the wide glass expanse at the sea where fog was forming again in the distance. Closer, the ocean sparkled.

“Nothing?” Charlie asked, and there was the note of sympathy in his voice that had been there earlier.

Dwight Ericson shrugged. “I wasn’t pushing too hard yet. Not until we get the time of death and the weapon.” He faced Charlie and grinned slightly. “Bruce Elringer says he never owned a gun in his life. His mother backs him up, naturally. Harry Westerman says that Milton Sweetwater always took a gun with him on trips. A thirty-eight. We haven’t found it.”

Charlie glanced at Constance who very definitely did not say I told you so.

She said, “We could probably find a thirty-eight and shoot it over there and see how much sound carries to the bedrooms. But it would be better to wait for the fog to move in, don’t you think?”

Dwight Ericson looked from her to Charlie who raised one eyebrow and said in a kind voice, “You should have something to eat.” He stopped there, although he might have added, “She does that, you see, picks the words out of your mind and says them before you quite get around to it. And puts others in your mind.” But he didn’t say any of this, not with the captain looking at her so warily.

Ericson picked up a sandwich. “It was pretty much the way you called it. Jake Kluge says he was in bed, almost asleep when he heard a noise, he thought, on the balcony. A door closing hard, something falling; he can’t say. He couldn’t go to sleep then and eventually got up and wandered down in time to see Bruce watching you. After he got his drink, he went back up and to bed and fell asleep right away. Period. Bruce says he was up working and got hungry and saw you two in the garden area and stopped to see what you were up to. Period. He didn’t hear anything. No one else heard anything, and no one else was up wandering around. All sound asleep.”

“But those two both managed to get some of that dirt on their feet while I watched,” Charlie said. He picked up another half sandwich. “That end room is Bruce’s.”

“Yes. I didn’t tell him you found dirt outside his door before he walked through it in front of you.”

“Where are they all now?” Constance asked. The house was eerily quiet again. She very decidedly did not like Smart House.