“You can see why she’s annoyed.”
“I checked,” Liam said. “There are no covenants in this subdivision. They can do what they want on their own property. The road, however, is maintained by the borough, and by ordinance they can’t impede the right of way.”
Wy chuckled. “I can hear you getting your ticket book out.”
They pulled up at the stop sign. “Heavenly View Drive,” Liam said.
“Trite but true,” Wy said. “And we live right on it.” She leaned over to kiss him. “This might just work out, Campbell.”
He grinned all the way home.
Fifteen
Thursday, September 5
THE BLEWESTOWN CHAMBER OF COMMERCE opened at nine and Liam walked in the door at nine-oh-one and was still late to the party. Someone was giving a speech in front of a crowd of about fifty people. Liam remained beside the door to watch over everyone’s heads. It was a large room with a desk in front of a door leading to offices in the back. The floor had a tiled representation of Chungasqak Bay on it with a Disney orca frolicking in the water. As appeared to be chronic with Blewestown construction, a wall of windows overlooked the Bay, with an adjacent wall covered in acrylic holders filled with brochures advertising halibut fishing, flightseeing, hotels and B&Bs, restaurants, art galleries and gift shops. Beneath it a newspaper dispenser made out of shellacked plywood held a stack of that year’s Visitor’s Guide.
The speaker was a man, early fifties, brown/brown, medium height, thickening around the middle. His scalp gleamed through a thin combover in the overhead lights. He wore a sports jacket that was one size too small over a button-down and jeans. Like at least half of the people in the room he wore Xtratufs. They appeared to be part of the civic uniform.
He was speaking with enthusiasm, so much so that an already high voice threatened to reach Mickey Mouse territory, but most of the time he managed to rein it in to a level audible to the human ear. “So, ladies and gentlemen, join me in thanking our very own Blue Jay Jefferson for making this incredible donation of $50,000 to the Blewestown Chamber of Commerce!”
There was a round of applause, although the man in front of Liam said to the woman standing next to him, “Blue Jay didn’t even let Berglund get cold in his grave.”
“He’s going to piss off everyone on the south side of the Bay for sure.”
“Been doing that for years.”
“Why has he got such a hard-on for drilling in the Bay, anyway?”
“Who the hell knows? Maybe he owns stock in RPetCo.”
Liam wondered why a big donation to the Blewestown Chamber of Commerce should piss off everyone on the Bay who didn’t live in Blewestown.
An informal sort of receiving line formed as the applause died and as it did Liam could see the object of all the attention. He recognized him immediately as the old fart with the walker he’d seen on the street on Monday, trying to kill the protesters with laser beams from his eyes. He’d also been at Backdraft. Liam watched as he shook everyone’s hand and called them by their first names and asked after their children and grandchildren and brushed off any attempt to compliment him on his generosity. “Aw hell, come on now. It ain’t much but it’s what I can do.”
The room began to empty out and Liam saw another man standing next to Jefferson, and he recognized him, too. It was the old man who had accompanied Domenica Garland to Jeff’s pub. Hilary Houten, that was it. Houten looked a lot like Blue Jay Jefferson but that might have been because both men were in a similar state of decay. Old people always stood out in Alaska because there were so few of them. Alaskan winters weren’t kind to old bones and retirement turned a lot of them into snowbirds. They’d come back just long enough to not lie on their Permanent Fund Dividend applications and head Outside again, for Oceanside or Sun City or Tampa, where it never snowed and sunrise and sunset stayed the same damn time year round, or near enough as not to keep you up all the damn night. Those who had managed not to blow everything they’d earned during the years of big oil spent their winters in Kona, which along about January seemed like a good idea to Liam, too.
All three men had been present at McGuire’s party on Monday night.
The door closed behind the last person who wasn’t Liam and he walked forward. “I’m guessing you are Aiden Donohoe,” he said. “Sergeant Liam Campbell, Alaska State Troopers. I’m in charge of the new post.”
“Of course, of course,” Donohoe said heartily, grabbing Liam’s hand. His was damp and a little slippery and Liam was able to slide right out of it. He looked at the old man on Donohoe’s left. “Mr. Jefferson.”
“Sergeant. We howdied at Jeff’s but we ain’t shook. Call me Blue Jay. Everyone does.” The bony hand was covered in papery skin and had a surprisingly strong grip, and his voice was surprisingly deep. “This here’s a buddy of mine, Hilary Houten. He’s got some fancy dan degree in old bones. For forty years I been telling him to get a real job but he’s even better at ignoring me than he is looking at bones.”
“Everybody’s good at ignoring you, Blue Jay, and a good thing, too.”
Hilary Houten’s hand felt papery and fragile. Liam kept his grip gentle and released Houten’s hand as soon as he could. “Nice to meet you again, gentlemen. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time?”
“What can we do you for, Liam?” Donohoe said, but his eyes were wary.
He would rather have interviewed them separately, but the interaction between witnesses could also prove useful. “I’m guessing you’ve heard about Erik Berglund.”
“Yes,” Donohoe said. “Shame.”
“Shame,” Jefferson repeated, equally without conviction.
“Pudgy little fucker,” Houten said, and thumped the end of the diamond willow cane that was holding him up for emphasis. This close Liam could see that the handle had been inlaid with jade, and the striations of the bark were starkly dramatic. It really was a beautiful piece of work. If Liam ever needed a cane he wanted one exactly like that.
Then Houten’s words caught up with him and he blinked, because Erik Berglund had been more lean and hungry than pudgy. “It appears that the last time Mr. Berglund was seen alive was at Gabe McGuire’s party on Monday night. I understand that all three of you were in attendance.”
Everyone waited for someone else to speak first. No one did. “Are any of you aware if Mr. Berglund had any enemies? Anyone he had annoyed at work, for instance?”
Donohoe rolled his eyes, Jefferson maintained his glare, and Houten snorted. “He said he’d quit his job to come home, but if you check I bet you’ll find they fired his ignorant little ass.” Houten’s voice was high and indignant and wavery in a way that Jefferson’s was not.
“There was almost no one in the Bay area that Erik hadn’t made an enemy of,” Donohoe said.
“Including yourself, Mr. Donohoe?”
“It’s Aiden, Liam, and sure, I was pissed off at him. Have you seen RPetCo’s rig parked up the Bay?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build a resource extraction industry in the Bay that will provide hundreds of jobs, which is not a small deal for a community our size. And if they actually find oil that could be thousands of jobs, direct and support, for decades. And then along comes goddamn Erik Berglund, insisting with literally zero proof that the Bay should be declared off limits to resource extraction of any kind at least until he can prove his thesis. For what? An old trail that might or might not have existed that isn’t even in use now?”
“I did see some of the artifacts he had discovered,” Liam said.
With obvious patience Donohoe said, “We all saw them, Liam, including Hilary here, who has a lot more time on the job than Erik had, and Hilary says they don’t date back more than a century.”
“Mr. Houten?”
“Two at the most,” Houten said in his high, quavering voice, “but that’s pushing it beyond the bounds of scientific credibility. We argued about it. He laughed at me.
” It was clear that the memory stung.
Liam, whose experience with science was more along the lines of crime scene investigations, didn’t know enough to argue with Houten. “The night of the party,” he said, “did Erik have any arguments with any of the other guests? A quarrel loud enough to draw attention?”
“Come on, boy,” Jefferson said. He looked older than Houten and sounded younger, his voice deeper and steadier. “There was almost no one at the party that didn’t have a beef with Erik. Boy might not have known his bones but he did know how to make enemies. Including the host.” His stare was challenging.
“You mean about vacating the right of way that led to the beach and Mr. Berglund’s dig? Yes, Mr. McGuire told me about that.”
“Hah! I’ll just bet he did. Those Outside slickers got every base covered and all the money in the world to pay for ’em.”
“You don’t think I should believe him?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, boy. Where’d you say you were from, anyway?”
“I didn’t, sir, but Newenham, most recently.”
“Hah! You born in Alaska?”
It was a question an Alaskan old fart always asked, always at the beginning of any acquaintance. Alaska old farts could and would bury you with time served. Even if you had been born in Alaska, they could always trump you by having been born in the Territory, with chapter and verse on statehood and how they didn’t vote for it, although let the record show that in 1958 Alaskans did vote for statehood six to one. “No, sir, I was born in Germany. We didn’t move here until I was two years old.”
“Army brat?”
“Air Force.”
“Hah.” It was beginning to sound more like a verbal tic than a judgment and Liam relaxed a little. “You never served?”
“No. Law enforcement was more my style.”
“You one a them flying troopers?”
“No.” God forbid. “But I can handle an ATV pretty well.”
He was going for the joke but Jefferson didn’t take it that way. “How about a boat?”
“Never owned one.”
“Hah.”
Liam judged the job interview over, and said, “Gentlemen, as I said, I’m investigating the death of Erik Berglund. He was, in fact, murdered.”
“How?”
“His body is with the medical examiner in Anchorage. It may be that the guests of Mr. McGuire’s party were the last to see him alive. Did anything unusual happen that evening? Did he argue with anyone there? Did he leave with someone?”
“He was still there when I left,” Donohoe said, and the two old men nodded agreement. “Look, Liam, here’s the thing. Yes, he pissed off, well, pretty much everyone in the Bay, including a bunch of husbands, but murder?” He shook his head. “Besides, killing fights don’t generally show up around here until February, along with cabin fever.”
“And sure as hell nobody at that party would do something so goddamn foolish,” Jefferson said. “All of ’em got way too much to lose.”
Hilary Houten thumped his cane in agreement.
He asked them when they’d left the party and checked their departure times against Gabe and Len’s recollections. He didn’t find any glaring discrepancies. Donohoe said he and his wife had driven straight home, and their two teenagers were still up when they got there. Jefferson said he and Houten had spent the night on Jefferson’s boat, docked in the harbor, and the next morning gone across to Jefferson’s home in Jefferson Cove. Liam repressed a sigh. “One more thing. Do any of you know where Berglund lived?”
“Had a dry cabin out the road,” Jefferson said. “Don’t know where.”
“Well, thanks, gentlemen, I appreciate the time. If I have any more questions I’ll be in touch. None of you are traveling anywhere anytime soon?”
All three looked annoyed. All three shook their heads. Liam thanked them again and left.
In his truck he sat and thought for a moment. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, no matter how much you had to start with. On the other hand, a lot of old, wealthy people wrote a lot of big checks because they weren’t going to take it with them. He thought of the conversation he’d overheard while the presentation was taking place, and wondered.
Sixteen
Thursday, September 5
WY SPENT HER MORNING TEST-DRIVING her new car around Blewestown and environs. She went all the way out East Bay Road, which dead ended in Konstantinovka, a small village of Old Believers, Russian Orthodox who had split from the mother church over the way the sign of the cross was made (or so Wy had read and didn’t quite believe). After the split they had migrated from Russia to, among other places, Alaska. Konstantinovka was a charming town, a village really, with white-painted clapboard houses surrounding a beautiful Russian Orthodox church. The church had a blue and white dome with a gilt cross on top, and the double doors of the entrance were surrounded by painted mosaics of people with gilt halos. If the inside was as beautiful as the outside a congregant might be able to endure standing for the entirety of the three-hour ceremonies.
She turned without stopping and drove back to town, taking her time. It had been dark when she and Liam and Jo drove the road on Wednesday night. Today she could see that it ran halfway between the beach and the bluff. Homes were built on the shoulder of the road and at the foot of the bluff, with some perched on the very edge of the small bluff that sat at the water’s edge. There were more than a few farms and she saw one with rolled bales of hay scattered around a newly shorn field. A nursery advertised a three-for-one sale on their remaining trees. A tank farm backed up a fuel oil business, there were half a dozen storage units, and a warehouse with a sign over the door that read simply “Gear” which had a completely full parking lot. There were more of the inevitable drive-through espresso stands, one small grocery store with a liquor store attached, a sprawling Mormon church, and half a dozen bars, all with enormous parking lots. She passed two restaurants advertising fine dining on their signs, one old, one new, both with signs that read “Closed for the winter. See you next spring!”
She took a quick look down Gabe McGuire’s driveway as she passed but didn’t see anything. Stands of cottonwood marked where the creeks drained. Spruce in all flavors formed dark clumps everywhere you looked.
It was a very spread out community, she thought. As private as you wanted it to be, and evidently some liked it very private indeed. Given the real estate listings she and Liam had seen over the last six months they were willing to pay a high price for it and the taxes that came with it. She wondered what that charismatic Victorian reprobate, Albert Blewes, would have thought of his namesake. He would undoubtedly have become a realtor if he lived today.
She arrived back in town, braked at one of the four stoplights Blewestown boasted (Newenham still had none) and turned left to go down the hill. About halfway down she saw a person who could only be the infamous Sybilla Karlsen, because she was old, female, and naked. She pulled over to the shoulder and got out, slipping her jacket from her shoulders. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “Are you Sybilla?”
The old lady, terribly thin with translucent skin and white hair standing up in a corona around her head, looked around. “Oh, hello,” she said, beaming. “Who are you?”
“I’m Wyanet Chouinard,” Wy said, slipping her jacket over Sybilla’s shoulders. A pickup honked as it flashed by way too fast and Wy had just enough time to give the young man driving it a death glare before it was past. “But please call me Wy. You met my husband earlier this week. Liam? Liam Campbell?”
“Oh my yes,” Sybilla said, allowing herself to be shepherded to the Forester and ensconced in the passenger seat. “What a nice young man. So handsome and so gentlemanly. He gave me a ride home.”
“Yes, he told me. He enjoyed meeting you.” Wy fastened Sybilla’s seat belt.
Sybilla tutted. “I hate these infernal things. They clutch at you so.” She smiled up at Wy. “I can think of more pleasant ways to be clutched.”
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sp; Wy grinned. “So can I.” She went around and got in. On impulse she said, “May I take you to lunch, Sybilla?”
Sybilla smiled beatifically. “Oh my yes, I’d love that—”
“Wy,” Wy said. “Or Wyanet, if you like.”
“What a lovely name.”
“It’s Lakota Sioux.”
“And are you?”
“No.” She hesitated, as Sybilla was of a generation that could find what she said next problematic. “I’m actually part Yupiq.”
Sybilla looked delighted. “Really? Yupiq? We don’t see many Yupiq in Southcentral. Sugpiaq, of course, some Tlingit, and a few Athabascan. But I don’t remember meeting a Yupiq before now.”
Wy thought of her maternal relatives in Icky. “Only half.”
“Close enough for government work,” Sybilla said firmly.
Wy laughed. “Let’s stop by your place first and you can dress.”
Sybilla looked down at Wy’s jacket. “Oh my yes, this jacket certainly won’t do for dining out.”
What would do was a trim wool suit that looked very Jackie O., albeit it was now two sizes too large. Sybilla even had a pillbox hat to match that she anchored fiercely to her scant hair with two enormous bobby pins, and a pair of pumps dyed robin’s egg blue to match the suit and hat which kept falling off because they were too big now, too. The attendant on duty, highly amused once Sybilla had been restored safely to her, advised Wy on places to eat and thus it was that Wy took Sybilla to the restaurant in the three-story hotel perched at the very end of the Spit, built entirely without fear of tsunami. The dining room was at the water’s edge with real cloth napkins and tablecloths. Not bad for rural Alaska.
“I wonder if I’ll ever get used to that view,” Wy said. Seiners, drifters, pleasure craft, sailboats, a Coast Guard buoy tender, all passed in review on the other side of the window.
“I haven’t and I’ve lived here for over thirty years, my dear,” Sybilla said. The server appeared and she ordered a vodka martini with three olives and a steak sandwich, rare. Wy ordered a diet Coke and a bowl of clam chowder. The drinks came immediately—there was a lot to be said for eating out in the off season in a tourist town—and they toasted and sipped.
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