Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "Remind me to tell you about neckties one of these days," Barelli murmured. "Now give."

  Finny yawned. "I gave at the office—or, to be more accurate, at the Bellicombe Mansion and at a Chinese restaurant. From the sublime to the dim sum, that's me."

  "Huh?"

  She gave him a rapid summary of her day's detecting. "I knew there was something going on between them, but the Romeo and Juliet bit caught me by surprise. Sarandon gave old Capulet a run for his money—the last thing he wanted was for Cuffy to marry Kit, and he let more than a few people in on that information. In addition to the big scene at the country club last Halloween."

  "Proving that having money doesn't necessarily mean having manners."

  Finny poked his ribs. "Proving that Cuffy—or Kit—had more than enough reason to murder William Sarandon. He's so much in love with Cuffy he makes the Duke of Windsor look like a lounge lizard."

  "So why was Sarandon so upset at his wanting to marry Cuffy? Seems as though they were made for each other."

  "Right. In a nutshell, the problem was that Sarandon was a trustee of Atwood College, Gloucester, Mass."

  Barelli laughed. "Jeez, you really know how to clarify a situation."

  "Patience is a virtue, sweetie." Finny tucked her legs under her. "The only thing I could find out about Kit that didn't fit the usual rich-kid profile was the fact that he never graduated from Atwood. He left in the middle of his senior year."

  "So?"

  "That year he became friends with a kid from Boston who had made something of a cause célèbre of the fact that he was gay. Guess what student body assumed that because he and Kit hung out together, he was gay, too?"

  Chris slanted a look down at her. "You're joking, right?"

  "Wish I were. Kit said that no matter what he said or did, suddenly he was hung with the label and it wouldn't go away."

  "That's crazy." Chris pulled away from her, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "Just because they were friends?"

  "That's a simplification, but an accurate one, according to Kit." At his look of skepticism, Finny got mad. "Come on, Chris. Look in your own backyard. The kiss of death, no pun intended, is for a cop to be labeled as gay. Am I right? Haven't I sat with you at some of the parties and heard some of the comments? It happens everywhere, with the gentler guys, the slighter guys. Academia, athletics, the artistic community—you name it. You get tagged as being gay and the tag sticks. And now that AIDS has people frothing at the mouth, the issue isn't what kind of person you are, or what you've done in your lifetime. It all has to do with tags and acronyms and stereotypes."

  Chris raised one hand. "Okay, okay, but what about Kit? What happened to him?"

  Finny released a breath. "The assholes at his school would probably have let the thing die down if it hadn't been for William Sarandon. He'd been a trustee at Atwood for five or six years when Kit opted to go there. Kit and Cuffy were already an item, and I'm sure the decision to go to his future father-in-law's alma mater was no accident. When the whole brouhaha about Kit and his friend started up, William heard about it. And being the objective son-of-a-bitch he was, he immediately flew back to Atwood for a private conference with Kit."

  She paused.

  "Finny?" Barelli finally said.

  She was remembering the two of them, Cuffy and Kit, hands entwined on the table, the look between them as Kit told Finny about Atwood. "I was just thinking how ironic it was. Here was Kit doing a decent thing, standing by his friend, and did he ever get it in the ear. Sarandon was in a prosecuting mode and Kit was shaken enough with the school reaction, let alone the appearance of his sweetheart's father. He ended up making the kind of impassioned speech you'd expect from a twenty-two-year-old and capped it by getting teary-eyed with emotion. That cinched it for Sarandon who hadn't shed a tear since he lost money on the ski resort deal. Being a good constitutionalist, he told Kit never to darken their door again and left. Kit withdrew from school not long after."

  Barelli tightened his arm around her shoulders. "And did what?"

  "Came back to Denver, started working with his father's company"—her lips spread in a mirthless smile—"Landauer Interiors, and made the party scene. He and Cuffy were still involved but they kept it sub rosa. It wasn't until the Halloween party last fall that Cuffy was willing to defy her father and act independently. They were married after that little scene. Then Cuffy got cold feet and convinced Kit they shouldn't tell anyone until she got pregnant. She had it all figured out that it would take that to assuage Sarandon's anger. Kit's been trying to get her to go public and hang the consequences."

  Chris's eyes met hers. "Is Cuffy Sarandon's heir?"

  "Apparently." Finny's smile was tired. "You're getting perilously close to the reason Cuffy and Kit don't want to publicize their marriage yet. Kit's genuinely adding to the strength of Landauer's Interiors, but the company does need an influx of cash to finance the expansion he has in mind. Cuffy's scared shitless that if what happened comes out, Kit'll be the automatic successor to the title of number one suspect if I'm able to clear Twee."

  "God, Finny, you've got to admit that he has one hell of a motive. Or even two or three."

  "I know. But he and Cuffy were together when Sarandon was killed. That's what they both say, and I can swear they were after I left you and Abigail at the bar. Plus, I can't believe that Cuffy would have acquiesced to the murder of her father, whatever the situation."

  "Yeah, but I'm not so sure. I've seen people do far worse than that to get back at someone for far less than what Sarandon dumped on Kit Landauer."

  Finny nodded. "I know. But, as a certain policeman I know always says, you've got to trust your guts. My guts say that neither Cuffy nor Kit killed William Sarandon."

  Barelli's lips twisted. "Of course not, babe. Don't you remember? Twee killed him."

  TRIP WIRE

  She smoothed her hands over her skirt and peered up the stairs. The second floor was shadowed and seemed very far from the bottom of the stairs.

  She had a sudden, sharp recollection of the first time Miguel brought her here. He'd taken her picture that day at Curtis Park when she'd gone for the festival. The music had made her cry with homesickness, and he snapped an image of her sadness against the background of motion and color and joy.

  The sound of a door opening started her up the stairs. Miguel would be asleep on the tattered green couch outside his darkroom. He would laugh at her for being worried because he hadn't come home. Or he would have left to take more pictures and she would wait again at home until he was finished.

  A step creaked under her foot. The rubber edging was worn through on the top step. She went down the shabby hallway to his doorway, the frosted glass aglow with the sun from his eastern windows, MICHAEL GUITERREZ PHOTOGRAPHY.

  She knocked tentatively on the door, the noise swallowed by the shadows of the old building. She stopped, and the sound of her timid taps seemed to echo in her head. When the silence filled her mind, she knocked again.

  The knob was cold, but it turned and the door swung open. She walked in. The air was heavy and hot and the smell hit her like a scream.

  Bianca's gaze flicked around the room rapidly, registering the disemboweled file cabinets, spilled proof sheets and prints littering the floor; the desk, top swept clean, drawers yanked out and upended; the door to the darkroom open, liquid oozing out, darkening the faded linoleum. One stream of liquid was red.

  Her legs stiffly guided her toward the darkroom's open doorway, toward something waiting in the shadows. The acrid stench of chemicals mixed with a fetid cloud that threatened to gag her.

  He was lying on the floor, half under the table holding the enlarger, dissected by the shadows cast by the naked bulb overhead. Ribbons of negatives, outsized confetti, lay around him, ends and edges wet from spilled chemicals. The back of his head was a pool of blood and hair, black and red.

  "Miguel?" The name dropped into a pool of silence that threatened to engulf her. She should scre
am. She would if it weren't for the ice. She was encased in ice, from her core to her skin. She could barely breathe, let alone scream.

  She took a step, leaned down to touch him, a part of her brain whispering, He might still be alive, the rest knowing he'd been dead for some time. Her fingertips registered the cold, plastic surface of his forehead as her eyes were caught by the drying lines on the dirty linoleum near his cheek. A B. An R. Her heart nearly stopped. She leaned over him to read what he'd scrawled with his own blood.

  Bianca Run

  Chapter 15

  Finny was snuggled against Barelli, deep in dreams of doors framed in unsanded moldings, doors leading to huge rooms filled with birds, their wings fluttering in pinks and greens and blues. She was going to sand the moldings as soon as the birds stopped flying around the church sanctuary, and then she'd have the key to the door and she'd—

  The shrill summons of the phone chased the birds away, into the ozone, and she was reaching for the receiver.

  " 'Lo."

  "Let me talk to Chris, Finny." It was Apodaca.

  "Chris." Finny nudged his shoulder and held the receiver out to him. "Chris."

  "Yeah, yeah." His hand shot out from under the sheet and fastened onto the receiver. "What?" he barked into it.

  Finny fell back onto her pillow. A glance at the clock radio told the merciless news: 6:03.

  "I thought Trujillo had that covered—" Chris stopped and listened a while. "Jesus, Eddie, how the hell would I—" His free hand was exploring the terrain of his stubbly jaw. "Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. What's the address? All right." He handed the phone to Finny and let his arm fall across his eyes. "Shit."

  "What's happening?"

  "Nothing good." Barelli battled his way out of the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. After a while he reached for the bedside lamp switch. In the sudden small pool of light he looked like a sure loser in the fight to get his engines started.

  "I thought you were off today."

  "Me, too." He scratched the haystack of his hair. "Something's come up."

  "I was hoping that would happen a little later." Finny ran her fingertips down his back.

  Barelli turned to grab her hand. "Wanna take a rain-check on that?"

  "Mmmm hmmm. If that's all I can get."

  "What time is it?"

  Finny glanced at the clock. "Six-eleven."

  "It's all you can get."

  * * *

  "A twenty-six-year-old Hispanic male was found bludgeoned to death in north Denver early this morning. Police have no suspects in the case. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending notification of next of—"

  Finny's hand smashed the snooze alarm lever. After a moment she peered blearily at the light filling the room. The extra half hour of sleep hadn't helped. No more sack time. She had a full agenda today, from sanding cabinets to gathering little bits of information regarding murder. And they say you can't have it all.

  She followed the principles of time management as she wolfed down her breakfast. Prioritize—or was it priorize—that was what she needed to do. She'd dealt with Cuffy and Kit yesterday, to her own satisfaction, at least, and, no matter what Chris said, she was keeping them off her active suspects list for the moment. Her little tete-a-tete with Paige hadn't produced much, from either her or from Ty Engelman, although she was beginning to think neither one of them liked her much. She was good about picking up on feelings.

  Paige had looked fairly chipper yesterday—especially when she was with Ty Engelman—for someone whose husband had bitten the dust. Then there was what Les had told her about Ty. Maybe checking into Sarandon's will would be illuminating. A visit to the county clerk's office might pay off.

  Paige and Ty... the two were apparently pair bonding for all they were worth. What Paige saw in him was beyond her; maybe he had acquired hidden talents. She remembered the way Ty had touched Paige: his hand stuck to her arm as if they were both covered with Velcro. Except Paige had seemed pretty nervous about it. Maybe she didn't want anybody to know about Ty. Finny's lips twisted. If that was the case, she ought to stop looking at him as if he were dessert.

  Finny got dressed and dragged herself out to Corinne's. She'd planned to finish the cabinet doors, then start sanding, but Corinne waylaid her as she came through the back door.

  "Tell me all about the luncheon," she commanded and handed Finny a cup of coffee.

  Forty-five minutes and three cups of coffee later, Corinne was finally satisfied with Finny's descriptions of the decorations, food, and clothes. "And you got to talk to Emeline Hanratty." She shook her head in admiration. "She's been one of Denver's society leaders for over forty years."

  Finny looked at Corinne in curiosity. Small, clad in a flowered housedress, her gray coronet pinned tightly to her head, she was the antithesis of the fashionable set. Perhaps following the exploits of Denver's wealthy was on a par with movie fandom. "Emeline?" Finny smiled. "She looked at me as if I were from another planet, one I should've stayed on. She didn't have any kind words for Twee, either."

  Corinne clicked her tongue. "She's aged, you know. Perhaps she wasn't feeling well."

  "My theory is that she's an old witch." Finny pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. "Oh." She stretched and a yawn overtook her. "I'd better get some work done before lunchtime. At the rate I'm going, your towels won't have a permanent home till the first of next week."

  Corinne pursed her lips. "Murder is more important than a linen cabinet. I'm not complaining, am I?"

  "Hardly." Finny smiled at her in affection. "I think you're just as interested in this whole thing as I am, maybe more."

  Corinne's hand crept up toward her neck. "Well, maybe so. I don't have quite as much to keep me busy now that I've retired." Her hand patted at her chest. "And you must admit that all this crime is most interesting."

  "You'd better believe it," Finny said dryly. "I'll go get started." The phone rang as she went out of the kitchen and she could hear the murmur of Corinne's voice.

  Finny was halfway up the stairs when Corinne called to her. "It's for you."

  "Oh, hell." She turned around and slipped as the runner shifted under her foot. Damn, she kept forgetting to tack the thing down. She'd probably break her neck before the job was finished.

  "Finny Aletter."

  "Miss Aletter, I have Mr. Bartholomew on the line."

  There was a click and Finny barely had time to wonder—Mr. Bartholomew, what the hell?—when his disapproving voice was on the line.

  "Miss Aletter, this is MacKenzie Bartholomew. I'm Mrs. Garrett's lawyer, if you recall."

  "Mr. Bartholomew. This is a surprise."

  "No doubt." He paused and Finny could feel his discomfort as clearly as if she were in the same room with him. "Twee wants to see you right away."

  And he hates it, Finny thought. "All right. I'll get there as soon as I can."

  "You don't understand."

  Finny waited for him to continue.

  "This is difficult." He paused to cleared his throat. "Well, the long and short of it is that Twee is at Mercy Hospital, and I'm hoping—it would be good of you—" He stopped, then spoke quickly. "She, uh, she attempted to—she tried to commit suicide last night."

  * * *

  Suicide. Twee? Finny drove across town to the hospital in a daze. Twee was one of the strong ones; she always had been. The very idea of her trying to kill herself was impossible to comprehend. Twee spent so much time taking care of other people, it wouldn't occur to her to end her own life. How much did this have to do with William Sarandon's death? My God, what if she really had killed him?

  MacKenzie Bartholomew was waiting for her in the hospital lobby. He was dressed as immaculately as before, his lightweight gray pinstripe suit and pale blue shirt crisp armor against the kind of informality represented by the blue jeans and t-shirt that Finny was wearing. She almost apologized for her appearance until she caught sight of his troubled eyes.

&n
bsp; "She's in a confined area," he blurted out, bypassing the social niceties. "They won't let you in without me."

  He turned toward the elevators on the far wall and moved rapidly to press the up button.

  Finny followed. "Why did she do it?" She waited for a moment for him to answer and, when he didn't, she got mad. "Don't think that you'll get me into this without telling me anything. I've got to know so that I don't say or do the wrong thing." She grabbed one of his arms and forced him around. "Talk."

  He shook his head, upset. "I don't know. She wasn't able to say anything at first. When they'd pumped her—her stomach, all she said was she was sorry she'd failed."

  The elevator arrived, its doors hissing open, disgorging two children and a woman who'd been crying. Bartholomew waited for Finny to precede him through the doors.

  "How was it that Twee didn't succeed?"

  Bartholomew hesitated. "Her maid called me," he said finally. "She was excited; I could hardly understand her." He turned his head away from the floor lights to glance at Finny. "I decided a visit might be in order. Twee was unconscious in her bedroom. The maid was gone."

  The doors slid open and the two of them went down the sterile corridor.

  Twee was lying so still that, for a moment, Finny wondered if she hadn't managed to achieve her goal. Then she saw the flutter of a pulse at her temple and knew she was alive.

  Finny stepped toward the bed. Twee's lavender-tinged gray hair was lifeless against the stark white of the pillow. Her skin was gray and engraved with lines of fatigue and the inexorable progress of gravity. "Twee?"

  Her head turned on the pillow, and she was looking at Finny. The expression in her eyes brought Finny up short. She read sorrow and defeat, and the contrast between this and the vital woman of the party—even the confused, haughty one of a few days ago—had her fighting tears.