Borrowing Trouble

by Stacy Finz

  Sloane jerked her head in surprise. For once, all the stars seemed to be aligning. “When was the last time you saw Kevin, Mr. Bucci?”

  “It was right around Halloween. I remember that because he and I laughed at some of the people walking around in the Tenderloin in their costumes. I told Kevin, ‘Don’t those idiots know that they’ll get knifed down here?’ I don’t remember seeing him too much after that.”

  “Do you know where he was living or who his friends were?”

  “He lived on the streets. Sometimes under the Bay Bridge on Fifth Street. His friends were a bunch of junkies who I wouldn’t let in the store. But he sometimes talked to one of my regulars, a musician.”

  “You know how to get ahold of him?” Sloane asked.

  “No. But he usually comes in the store a couple times a week. I could ask him to give you a call.”

  “He can call me collect, Mr Bucci. And here’s the number for my cell.” She asked him to read it back to her just to make sure he’d taken it down accurately. “Thank you for passing this information along. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “So it wasn’t a prank?” Connie said as soon as Sloane got off the phone.

  “Nope. He also recognized our bust as Kevin Fagan. Apparently, he’d been living on the streets of San Francisco—at least until the end of October.”

  “So how did he wind up here?” Rhys had come out of his office.

  “I was waiting for the DNA results before I talked to Greyhound, Amtrak, and Plumas County Transit. But I’ll start today.”

  She got on the phone and started calling every transportation company she could find between Nugget and San Francisco, working on the premise that Kevin probably hadn’t had a lot of money for traveling expenses. At least she had the picture of Kevin that Mrs. Fagan had sent her. Even though it was four years old, she could send it to the companies and ask that they show it to drivers on the route. It might spark a memory. As a last resort she’d check flight manifests, but she’d need a court order for that. For the next couple of hours, Sloane made call after call. Just before noon, Connie waved to her from across the room.

  “A David Salzmann is on line four. He says a Steve Bucci told him to call.”

  “Thanks, Connie.” Sloane grabbed line four. “Hi, Mr. Salzmann, this is Officer McBride. I appreciate you calling.”

  “Steve from Zattrell Liquor informed me of your investigation. I had no idea that Kevin had passed.”

  “We’re not sure that he has, Mr. Salzmann. But he apparently looks a lot like a man who died here in the fall.”

  “It must be him. Did you find the body near my cabin?”

  “Your cabin?” Sloane took a deep breath.

  “Yes. I inherited a small cabin in your quaint little town six years ago. I lent use of it to Kevin.”

  “You must’ve been very good friends.”

  “Not precisely. But we both shared a love of music.” Salzmann took a long pause and Sloane waited him out. “I was a violinist for the San Francisco Chamber Orchestra. Unfortunately, like Kevin, I had a substance abuse problem. I’m now three years sober. Kevin was still grappling with his addiction. And living on the streets is filled with temptation. We both thought my little cabin in the woods would be a good place for him to get clean. Sadly, it doesn’t look like it turned out that way.”

  “When was the last time you were at the cabin, Mr. Salzmann?”

  “Not since six years ago. It’s a dusty, rustic shack, really. At the time I inherited, it wasn’t even worth selling. I’ve held on to it all this time, thinking that at some point the market for a plot of country land might improve.”

  “Where is the cabin? And do we have your permission to search it?”

  “Of course. It’s a little difficult to find.” He gave Sloane directions. She had a vague idea of where it was, but hoped that Rhys, who knew every inch of the area, could find the cabin.

  “Do you know how Kevin got here?”

  “Right before leaving San Francisco he traded one of his Buffet Crampon clarinets for a used Volkswagen Beetle. I helped him with the transaction.”

  “Mr. Salzmann, do you know when he left San Francisco?”

  “I believe he left early November. That’s when I had the utilities turned on at the cabin. But Kevin wasn’t the most reliable person. And I wasn’t sure that he’d actually follow through. In fact, I planned to visit in spring to determine whether to keep the power on.”

  “Kevin didn’t have a phone?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “You’ve been extremely helpful, Mr. Salzmann.” Sloane took down his contact information.

  “Officer McBride, will you please let me know the outcome of your investigation?”

  “I’ll do what I can.” She hung up and headed straight for Rhys’s office. “I’ve got a good lead on our John Doe case. Wanna take a drive?”

  It took them some time to find the cabin, which sat in a remote spot, perched in the pines above the Feather River. Sloane had never been up there before. The area was beautiful, with heart-stopping views of the Sierra, and so peaceful. No cars, no people, only nature.

  “There’s the car.” Rhys pulled up behind the Volkswagen in the driveway.

  They got out and Rhys knocked on the cabin’s front door. When no one answered, he tried the knob. It was unlocked.

  “Hello,” Rhys called. “We’re here from the Nugget Police Department to do a welfare check. Anyone home?”

  Still no answer. Rhys directed Sloane to go around the cabin in case there was a back door. With his gun drawn, he went in the front. No door in the rear. The place was tiny, no more than a couple of rooms. Sloane returned to the front.

  “The place is clear,” Rhys called from the doorway. “Check it out.”

  The musty cabin smelled like rotting food and rodent urine, but it was neat as a pin. There was a sleeping bag laid out on a daybed against the wall and a corduroy couch that had seen better days in the middle of the room. Behind it, next to a miniscule kitchenette, sat a wooden table and two chairs. On top were a bag of needles, a shoelace, cotton balls, a vial of pills, a deflated red balloon tied in a knot at the top, and an opened soda can. Rhys photographed everything with his phone, put on a pair of gloves, shook the can, and turned it so that a used syringe slid out. After taking more pictures, he untied the balloon and poured out a small stream of white powder. The former Houston narcotics detective knew his stuff.

  Sloane searched two brown shopping bags that lined the wall next to the daybed. They were filled with clothes. One had a wallet with Kevin’s Pennsylvania driver’s license. She held it up for Rhys to see.

  “Looks like we’re getting closer to our confirmation,” he said, and continued to take photos.

  At the foot of the bed were two leather instrument cases. The one on top was empty. In the second, Sloane found five pieces of a clarinet stored in individual plush compartments.

  “I thought he traded his clarinet for the Bug?” Rhys snapped pictures of the cases and the instrument.

  “I got the impression he had more than one. We’ll have to ask the Fagans.”

  “No sign of a struggle in here.” Rhys went inside the bathroom and came out. “Nothing in there except a few toiletries. My guess is he shot up, went outside, and died.”

  “But how?”

  “Since the forensic anthropologist didn’t find signs of trauma, I’m gonna guess an overdose.” Rhys looked at the table with the paraphernalia. Apparently, Kevin hadn’t done too well getting clean.

  They went outside and searched the grounds. After four months, though, the likelihood of finding anything constructive was next to nil. Even footprints would’ve been washed away by what little rain they’d had. Rhys traced what seemed like the most probable path from the cabin to the river, with Sloane following. An easy walk, even for someone stoned. Level and less than a quarter of a mile.

  “I heard Brady put in his notice,” Rhys said.

  �
��I suppose you heard about Sandra too.”

  “Yup.” Of everyone she knew in Nugget, Rhys was the most tapped in and the least gossipy. “You thinking of going with him?”

  “Nope.” She didn’t know yet whether she was staying, but Brady had made it clear that he had no intention of asking her to come with him.

  He turned back to look at her. “I’m happy to hear that. But are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He let out a sigh. “I almost made the mistake of letting the best thing that ever happened to me go because I was afraid of commitment. I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you.”

  How had she ever misjudged this man? “I’m not the one afraid to commit.”

  “Ah.” He leaned up against a big shade tree. “I’m sorry, Sloane.”

  “I’ll get over it.” If she cried now she’d shoot herself. “What’s that?”

  Something near the tree was glinting in the sun. From where she was standing it looked like a coin. A quarter, maybe. She walked closer and bent down to get a better look. It was half covered in leaves and dirt. Rhys came over and helped her clear away the debris.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, staring down at what they’d uncovered.

  “The clarinet from the empty case.” They both just stood there staring at it. “I’m speculating that he got high, came out here to sit by the river and play a little music, fell asleep, and stopped breathing.” Rhys looked up at the blue, cloudless sky. It was about sixty degrees. “In November we had some nice days like this.”

  “So this is where you think he died?”

  “Right under this tree . . . with his clarinet.”

  “How awful.”

  “Nah. It was probably painless,” Rhys said. Sloane knew he’d seen the horrors of the drug trade up close. “And at least he died doing what he loved in a scenic spot. I think we should offer the Fagans the opportunity to come see it for themselves.”

  “Just leave everything the way it is?”

  “We’ll take the drugs and the clarinet into evidence, but it’s not a crime scene. The coroner’s office will classify this as an undetermined death, you can bet on it. We wouldn’t be violating any police protocol by letting the Fagans see it.”

  Rhys leaned against the tree once more and took in the area. Sloane had to admit that the spot was so tranquil and picturesque—it smelled like fresh pine needles, bark, and sage—that seeing it might help the Fagans with their grief. The pain of losing a child had to be the worst, but knowing that this idyllic spot was his final resting place could be succor. It sure beat the hell out of a garbage Dumpster or a rat-infested alleyway.

  “I’ll bring them here today if they want to come,” she said, and he nodded.

  Chapter 25

  “They’re out there,” Maddy whispered to Brady.

  “Who?” Brady whispered back. “And why are we whispering?” He was tired from tossing and turning in a tent all night, pissy from taking an ice-cold shower in the state park this morning, and generally in a foul mood.

  “The parents of the missing man.”

  “I thought they didn’t know for sure . . . not until they matched the dental records or the DNA.”

  “The parents seem positive it’s him. It’s so sad.”

  Yeah, it was. Brady wondered how Sloane was holding up.

  It was after eleven and most of the guests had already eaten. “They sleep in?”

  “They got in very late last night—from Philadelphia.”

  “I’ll take them some breakfast.” He’d done omelets because they were easy and he wasn’t up for hard. “You know if they have any food restrictions?”

  “I’ll ask.” She headed to the dining room and returned a short time later. “None. They seem very nice and a little shell-shocked.”

  Brady broke five eggs into a bowl. “Get me out that serrano ham. I’m thinking they need hearty.”

  Maddy stuck her head in the refrigerator. “Brady?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t go. Even if you don’t want Nate’s job, stay at the Lumber Baron. Or open your own restaurant. But you’re family to us. Losing you . . . it’s a big hit, Brady.”

  It moved him knowing that people here cared. At the same time it made him itchy to leave. Not healthy, he supposed. But he was what he was. A screwed-up individual with fears of attachment. At least he knew his weaknesses. “I’ll probably come back,” he lied.

  The omelets were finished and he’d reheated the potatoes from earlier. Muffins and Danish were still out, along with coffee. He carried the plates to the dining room, where he found Sloane sitting with the couple. They were in deep conversation, but stopped when he came to the table.

  He nodded at the man and woman and said hi to Sloane. She returned a faint smile. After leaving, he stood in an inconspicuous place behind the doorway and watched her. Clearly she was in the midst of imparting some heavy stuff. The couple’s heads were bowed as Sloane said something. The man eventually nodded and the woman wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  He didn’t envy Sloane her job. But she did it with grace and empathy. The way her hand gently rested on the woman’s arm, how she spoke softly and calmly, giving the couple time to process. No judgment in her eyes, just warmth and caring. He loved her so much his body ached with it.

  “Hey.” Nate slapped him on the back. “What’re you doing?”

  “Finishing the breakfast service.” He nudged his head at the couple. “They got in late last night.”

  “They the ones with the missing son?” Brady nodded in response. “Come into my office for a sec.”

  Brady followed Nate, who shut the door. “Look, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, but I’m prepared to up the salary to this.” He handed Brady a piece of paper with a figure that made him reel. It was a very nice chunk of change.

  “It’s not the money, Nate. Although if I stayed that’s more in line with what I’d be looking for.” He smirked at Nate, who appreciated a good game of dickering. “There are other places I want to go . . . see, especially now that my situation has changed.”

  “Your stalker?”

  “Yep. I can finally breathe again.”

  “I always figured you’d leave us for the big city,” Nate said. “What about Sloane? You two seem good together.”

  Even though Nate was as much a friend as he was a boss, Brady wasn’t going to answer that. “It’s time for me to move on, Nate.”

  “I’m sorry to see you go. Not just because I wanted you to be Breyer’s executive chef, although I think you’re a moron for turning it down. But hey, buddy, we’ll always have Nugget.” Nate wrapped him in a hug. “I love you, man.”

  Brady chuckled. “You find anyone to replace me at the Lumber Baron yet?”

  “Working on it. There’s some ski bum Emily knows who just finished culinary school. I might give him a try.”

  Brady should’ve felt relief that Nate, Sam, and Maddy wouldn’t be left in the lurch. Instead, a swift punch of melancholia hit him in the gut.

  “We might rent him your side of the duplex too.”

  Brady didn’t want a man living next door to Sloane, not even a ski bum just out of culinary school. “I’m not out of it yet.”

  Nate held up his hands. “Take your time. You’re the one who wants to leave us.” He eyed Brady closely. “What’s up with your hair?”

  “I camped last night. Didn’t have a comb.” Nate cocked his brows and Brady shook his head. “I’ve gotta finish up in the kitchen.”

  On the way to a sink full of dirty dishes, he bumped into Sloane leaving. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Not now,” she said.

  Back in the kitchen, Maddy had already made a big dent in the cleanup. He started wiping down the counters and together they finished putting everything away. In a little while, after the couple had had time to finish their breakfast, he’d clear away the foodstuff and dishes in the dining room.

  “Rhys just called,”
Maddy said. “He and Sloane found a cabin where the young man was living. They found a pile of drug things and think he may have overdosed. But Rhys says they’ll probably never know for sure. His poor parents. Sloane is coming over to talk to them and take them to the cabin if they want to go.”

  “She was already here.” He let out a breath. So that’s what that was all about. Tough thing to have to tell someone.

  “Hey.” Lina came in carrying dirty dishes. “The folks from 207 are done. They’re apparently going with Sloane somewhere. What’s going on?”

  Maddy explained the situation and for the second time that morning Brady worried how Sloane was handling all this. He put up a pot of water to boil and pulled a bag of pasta from the pantry. He’d leave her macaroni and cheese for dinner. After a day like this she’d need comfort food. Later, Brady delivered the dish to her apartment, stowed it in the refrigerator, and had just enough time for a hot shower before getting back to the inn for the afternoon service.

  The whole place was abuzz. Apparently the Fagans’ visit to the cabin had been trying, to say the least. Maddy told Brady that they’d seen their son’s possessions and were convinced now more than ever that Sloane’s John Doe was Kevin. Of course the DNA tests would be the official determiner, which Rhys had requested a rush job on. In the meantime, the Fagans wanted to hold a small memorial for their son at the very spot where they believed he died.

  “They’re not religious, so they just want to say a short eulogy. Their other son is flying in tonight. Sloane’s pilot-program kids want to go.” Maddy made a face. “Rhys thinks it’ll be good for them, and the Fagans said they didn’t mind. I’ll go with Rhys. I think it’ll be nice to show support.”

  “You think we should do some kind of food thing back here?”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that. Would it be too presumptuous?”

  “I don’t know. Should we ask them?”

  Maddy pondered it a minute. “Would you mind calling Emily and asking her what she thinks? I don’t want to bother the Fagans. Emily will know what’s appropriate in a situation like this.”

  “Will do.”

  A little while later Brady had his answer and a kitchen full of the Baker’s Dozen.