I was sure there were more reasons to be hopeful, but that was enough for now. I looked in on Mom, asleep in her bedroom, with Benny curled up at the foot of the bed.
It was safe for me to turn in.
* * *
* * *
My plan for Sunday was first to stop at my house to scan Genevieve’s letters and email them to Lacey. After that, I’d open the Bear Claw to accommodate Annie’s tour group. Technically, it was Beth’s tour group, but I felt Annie took better care of the members, and not just Pierre. I knew I should cut Beth some slack, since weather had ruined her schedule, but it was Alaska, after all, and weather was always a major factor.
Annie had asked for a special breakfast menu for their last day in Elkview. I’d decided on French toast made from thick slices of cinnamon bread, with two eggs any style and a side of bacon. That ought to get them to Fairbanks, with perhaps a snack stop in Healy.
I tiptoed around the house so I wouldn’t wake Mom. Amazing that she was still sleeping at five a.m., especially when she knew I was home and that Dad was on his way. She had a snack covered, with the banana muffins, but I knew she’d be doing more than that. Or maybe with the rich food I’d heard about on the cruise, she’d go back to basics with plain grilled salmon and dilled potatoes. Right now, she was not sweating the menu.
Benny was a different story. He was at my feet in the kitchen as soon as I started the coffee maker. I poured his food into a bowl and asked him to please keep quiet. I explained that I didn’t want our mom to be bothered with another task, like figuring out what Genevieve’s letters might have to do with the investigation. She’d already done enough, and I wanted her to be able to focus on getting herself and the house ready for Dad. If the Russells were going to stay for dinner, she’d want to do something special for that, too.
I gave Benny a goodbye rub and made sure he had enough food till Mom woke up. I looked out the window at the car parked in front of her driveway. Trooper’s men. How difficult was it going to be to go around them? I was about to find out. I grabbed my tote and headed out the door and down the front steps, walking nonchalantly toward my Outback.
Wishful thinking.
One of the two temp officers was asleep, but the other, whom I knew from around town, stepped out of the car and headed me off.
“Morning, Charlie,” Buzz said. He looked very official in a navy blue jacket with a patch on the arm indicating his status as a police volunteer. His knit hat with its state logo wasn’t quite as elaborate as a regular trooper’s, but it was still impressive.
“Thanks for watching out for us, Buzz. I need to stop by my house for a few minutes to use the computer, then I’ll be going to the Bear—”
“Let me wake Ferguson over here. Then I can go with you.”
“That’s not really necessary.”
Buzz ran his hand across his throat. “Trooper would have our heads,” he said.
“I can set you up with coffees,” I said.
He smiled and held his hand out for my keys. “We can stop on the way.”
I knew I should be grateful for the extra security with a killer still loose and familiar with my house, but these volunteers were cramping my style. I wondered how detailed their reporting to Trooper had to be.
Or how hard it would be to ditch them.
* * *
* * *
Are we going to be watched twenty-four-seven?” I asked Buzz as we drove past the still-closed shops on Main.
“Hey, this steering wheel is heated.”
I took that as a yes, twenty-four-seven.
I had two data points now. If I ever wanted to date again, I’d include “comes with heated steering wheel” in my personal ad for the Bugle.
I took a call from Mom, who apologized for not making me breakfast. She’d heard from my dad that he’d be arriving around six this evening and that the Russells would be staying for dinner. She sounded excited and happy. But she didn’t know yet that she’d have armed company while she did her grocery shopping.
“Do you think we’ll have another meeting?” she asked.
“Maybe a quick wrap,” I said. I pictured Stanley in cuffs, though I didn’t enjoy the visit to the dank, unfriendly station house, even if it was only in my head.
When we got to my house, Buzz found the right key on the ring, unlocked the door, and uttered a family-unfriendly word, accompanied by a low whistle.
“Pardon my French,” he said.
“Funny you should say that.” He didn’t have to know what I meant.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry someone did this to you.”
Seeing the shambles for the third time made it seem almost normal. It was as if the tall gooseneck lamp in the corner belonged on the floor and the soil from the coleus plant was supposed to be spread out on the tile. Only the odor of molding fruit told a story of disorder and inattention.
Buzz made a pass through the house and was satisfied that it was clear of foreign bodies. I blew out a sigh of relief, letting go of fear I didn’t know I was harboring. I hoped this uneasiness wouldn’t last long. It wasn’t like me, or I hoped it wasn’t like me.
“I can clean some of this up,” he offered.
“I doubt that’s in your job description.”
“You’d be surprised. I know the techs have been through here, so let me pick up a little. Okay?”
I thanked him and showed him where my cleaning supplies were. I went to my computer in my home office, listed in the Realtor’s formal notes as a walk-in closet.
Genevieve’s letters were written on small, thin sheets of paper, the kind my parents had used for airmail years ago. Or currently. It had been a while since I’d had that pen pal in Hawaii. As far as I could remember, all we wrote about was homework and the huge gap in temperature as we walked to school. We each envied the other’s environment.
Buzz let me roam freely through my rooms and, thankfully, did not stand over my shoulder while I scanned Genevieve’s letters. The four of them fit on two pages, which I attached to an email.
I found Buzz sweeping up glass in my dining room. The intruder had made interesting choices about where to look for his quarry, as evidenced by what had been broken or tossed around. If finding the cookbook had been his objective, why would he look in a hutch full of china plates and glasses? Odd. Until I remembered where I’d found the cookbook manuscript to begin with: at the bottom of a trunk in Oliver’s home.
I convinced Buzz he’d done enough cleanup. I was eager to get to the Bear Claw, where I knew exactly what needed to be taken care of for a successful day. Unlike police work, especially the faux deputy kind.
I made one more gesture to reclaim my home. On the way out, I pulled the towel from the Bennycam and tossed the offending cloth into the trash.
* * *
* * *
It wasn’t hard to also convince Buzz that he should stay for breakfast with the tourist group. He’d made arrangements for his wife to pick him up afterward, which meant I’d be without supervision for a few hours.
When the familiar white bus arrived with Annie’s tourists, happier than usual since they’d be on their way north soon, I was happy, too. Back in my routine with my staff. This morning, it was Victor and Nina again, supplemented by Rachel and Annie. Which reminded me that I needed to post an ad in the Bugle. I wouldn’t have Annie once the tourists left. And I wasn’t sure that Victor’s girlfriend, Rachel, wanted to be a permanent fixture here. I wasn’t usually this much of a procrastinator, I told myself. These were extraordinary times.
I tied on an apron and joined my kitchen staff, earning thumbs-ups from them. Thanks to the through window, I could hear what was going on in the dining area.
Beth, standing in the aisle between the booths and the stools, had managed to claim the attention of her group.
“All roads are clear and
open,” she said. She neglected to mention that she meant all roads that we care about, but I couldn’t ding her for that. Especially since a loud cheer went up, with overlapping applause, whistles, and woot-hoots.
When the excitement died down, Beth answered questions.
“Yes, there’s still time for flightseeing if you signed up for it.”
“It’s practically a given that you’ll see moose and bears.”
“I’m not sure about mountain goats.”
“Glaciers? Of course.”
“The jet boat tour? I’ll have to check on that.”
“No, we’re not too late for the northern lights.” Beth referred to her official binder. “In fact, they’re peaking just about now.”
At the last phrase, I noticed a few people reflexively turn to look out the window, as if the shifting greens, purples, and pinpoints of starlight of the aurora borealis were now visible from an Elkview diner.
I looked around for the ultra-blond Pierre, who’d come to Alaska specifically to capture the northern lights for his magazine article, but I didn’t find him in any of the booths, nor on the few stools that were occupied. Had he kept track of road conditions and flown off early? Not likely. I glanced over at Annie, who seemed as energetic and merry as the tourists. Keeping track of the Annie-Pierre story was almost overtaking the murder mystery in my life.
Beth had saved the best announcement for last.
“You’ll be able to choose dogs from a kennel and mush your own team. Of course, there will be mushers with you.”
More hoots and whoops, which happened to occur as Nina was serving food. She took a bow, to more cheers and whistles.
The shock of the morning was when Annie told me that Pierre would not be joining the tour leaving this morning.
“He’s giving it another few days, for Max to make good. Or he might just wait for a smaller group to come through and join them. He says those big buses”—she pointed to the long bus in the Bear Claw parking lot—“they give him a headache and he doesn’t like the darkened windows.”
If my memory served, Pierre had only been on the bus once or twice. I supposed that was sufficient to determine whether you liked it or not.
The French toast was a success, with most of the nearly thirty tourists who came for breakfast choosing that item. It might have had something to do with Victor’s declaration as menus were being handed out.
“The bread has been crafted from locally grown cinnamon,” he’d said, barely containing his own laugh.
More than one diner yelled out something about Sri Lanka and who traveled the seven thousand miles to get it?
It wasn’t the first time I was aware of how much Victor loved interacting with our customers. He enjoyed tossing around diner lingo, teasing about the kind of meat he used in meatloaf, and exaggerating the perils of flightseeing. He’d had to tamp down his enthusiasm when Oliver was around. He now had free reign.
I tried to tamp down the old suspicions I’d had about him and stop them from coming to the surface. What was his alibi for Monday afternoon? I remembered Mom’s volunteering to approach him about it, guessing that he was heavily engaged in breaking up with a former girlfriend. I needed to confirm that with her.
At just before nine o’clock, the bus pulled out, hopefully with all passengers, their belongings, and their snack packs accounted for.
Annie fell onto a chair in the kitchen, her arms and legs spread out, as if she’d made a snow angel in the diner air.
“I am so beat,” she said.
I believed her. The tourists tired me out, and I didn’t have them twenty-four-seven. Annie didn’t complain as much as I would have when they needed an extra pillow at three in the morning, or a lemon-scented instead of a lavender-scented bar of soap.
For me, it was a matter of someone needing a bigger or smaller spoon for their soup. Or the occupants of Booth One asking for a shade to be lowered, and those in the adjoining Booth Two wanting it raised. Or any number of small requests that added up to exhaustion, as Annie felt now.
During the rush, I’d checked my phone periodically, looking for an email from Lacey. I was sure she had more to do than the favor I’d asked, but I hoped she’d move me up on the list, for old times’ sake.
Nothing from Trooper, either, about his projected interview with Stanley Burke, but it was early yet.
With nothing new to contemplate, I headed for the piles of dishes in the sink. That was one thing that could be cleaned up to complete satisfaction.
TWENTY-SIX
After the hubbub of Annie’s tourists, complete with the showbiz antics of Victor, Rachel, and Nina, the Bear Claw Diner now seemed like a ghost town at ten on a Sunday morning. All the staff, plus Annie, had split, and the customers who would eventually make their way to the diner for breakfast were still asleep or in church, I guessed.
Leaving me with a much-needed allotment of time and space to myself. Trooper would never have to know that I wasn’t properly guarded.
But it wasn’t long before the free time disappeared with a rash of phone calls. First, Mom called, with a pronouncement.
“It’s official,” she said. “Benny is your cat.”
“What are you saying?”
“He’s walking around looking for you, for his automatic feeder. I think he even misses that camera and red dot game.”
“No way. He loves you.”
“Sure, but he misses you. So here’s what I’m going to do. Fergie, the volunteer bodyguard out front, is going to take me grocery shopping. On the way, we’re going to drop Benny off at your house. That is, his house. I’ll make sure he has fresh water and that all his toys are accessible, that there’s no glass, et cetera.”
“But I’m not there, and I won’t be for at least another hour, until Victor and the girls come back.”
“I know, but his feeder is there, and you’re there with him through your app. Fergie will make sure the house is clear first, of course.”
“Okay, if you really think—”
“I do.” She laughed. “I’m really happy about this, you know. For so many reasons. I was afraid Benny would come back here and not want to leave. I’m thrilled you bonded the way you did. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Dad has always wanted a puppy.”
The truth at last.
I clicked off with my mom, a big smile on my face.
Since I’d already been awakened from my meditative state, I called Trooper to see how his interview with Stanley went, but had to leave a message. I also called Chris to find out if he had uncovered anything I had missed about Burke Press, Stanley’s publishing company. Another message left. I hated to bother Lacey, who was doing me a favor, after all, so I went back to my half-awake state and waited until I could contact Benny.
When Tammy called and asked if she could work extra hours during her spring break, I didn’t hesitate.
“When do you want to start?”
“Now?”
“Perfect.”
Once I knew I’d be going home soon, I had renewed energy and put a pan of bear claws in the oven. Might as well start Tammy off with a good supply, as well as fill the diner with the inviting aroma of melting butter and fresh almond paste for the next customers.
Finally, an email alert sounded on my phone and I found a message from Lacey.
Hi Charlie,
This was fun! I was reminded of all the exercises in M. Ricard’s class. Remember when he took over for Mlle Martine? I’ve done some political translations for the UN project, but nothing as personal as these. Very sad, as you saw with the one that was in English. Let me know if you have trouble opening the attachment. Call me. I’ll be home all day today if needed. Let’s have coffee the next time you’re in Anchorage!
xoxo
Lacey
I couldn’t wait to open the attachment. But it seemed I’d have to, because I’d left my laptop at home and the icon on my phone had been spinning forever trying to open the file. I almost always carried my laptop with me, and I blamed this failure on Buzz, whose presence had complicated my leaving this morning.
As I moved the warm bear claws to the metal rack for cooling, one of them broke apart. How handy, since I wanted to do a taste test before serving them to my patrons. I took a bite. Something in the delicious pastry activated my brain in a different way, inspiring me to read Lacey’s email again.
Lacey was a meticulous grammarian and wouldn’t let a typo pass, even in an informal email. So why was the period missing after “Mlle”? She’d bothered to add it to M. Ricard’s name. While the almond paste took over my taste buds, I remembered the funny rule Mlle Martine had taught us. A period is called for after the abbreviation for Monsieur, but not for Mlle or Mme, the abbreviations for Mademoiselle and Madame. The reasoning, Mlle Martine told us, was that Mlle and Mme end in the actual last letters of the complete word.
“Think of scooping out the inside of the word,” she’d told us. Her version of a mnemonic. “But M. is an abbreviation that leaves out all the other letters of Monsieur.”
Of course! “M. P. M.” in Genevieve’s letters was “Mr. P. M.” Not three initials as you might have in a monogram, but a title—“Mister”—and two initials. Now we were getting somewhere. Another fleeting, wild thought came to me. What if P stood for our own Pierre? But his last name was Fournier. Unless, like Oliver, he had several names. Never mind. Too complicated to think about. There was some progress, however, and maybe Genevieve’s letters held another clue about P. M.
Now I was even more excited to read Lacey’s translations. When Tammy arrived, I was packed and ready to head home to my laptop and Benny. For the first time, it was almost a tie as to which one I’d greet first. I pointed Tammy toward the fresh bear claws and the French toast special of the day. French toast. The irony did not elude me.
Mousse and Murder Page 24