Snake in the Glass

by Sarah Atwell

  I knew Denis’s address from the form he had filled out at the shop, and I turned and headed in that direction, hoping that he’d actually be home. I assumed that in the midst of an investigation, he might have decided not to show his face at his department on campus and would be lying low at home. It was worth a try.

  Denis’s house turned out to be a cookie-cutter adobe in a development maybe ten years old. Not awful, but nothing special. There was a car in the driveway, which was a good sign. I parked behind it, marched to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

  “Oh, Em!” Denis said as he opened the door, clearly surprised to see me standing on the other side. “What are you doing here?”

  I pushed past him without waiting for his permission. “I wanted to talk to you.” And scope out your house. “How are you holding up?” It wouldn’t hurt to be civil to him.

  He closed the door behind me. “Okay, I guess. You know the police were here?”

  “Yes, Matt told me. Do you know what they were looking for?”

  “Mostly anything that had to do with Alex and the investments. But they went through just about everything. They were very thorough. I had to spend most of the night putting things back the way they were.”

  “Yeah, they can leave a mess behind. And with your wife out of town . . .” I tried to look sympathetic.

  “Exactly. She’s very particular about how she wants things. She would have gone ballistic if she had seen it the way they left it.”

  Ah. She probably had him well trained. “It’s a lovely place”—which I couldn’t have described three minutes after I walked out—“and she’s done a nice job with it”—if your idea of interior design was beige on beige. “How much have you told her about what’s going on?”

  “Very little. Mostly that Alex and I had run into a little trouble, and that Alex had been killed.”

  “How did she take the news that Alex was dead?” I remembered that Denis had spirited his wife out of town before Matt had learned that it was murdered.

  “She was upset, of course. We go back a long way. We were all friends.” Denis shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how much was safe to tell her, with Alex’s killer roaming around. Elizabeth hadn’t seen her folks for a while anyway, and she had vacation time coming. I haven’t told her about the search here yet.”

  “Denis, did the police find anything, take anything with them?”

  He shook his head. “I told you, and I told them, Alex kept all the records. I had copies, and they took those. But it’s not like Alex was being secretive or anything—I mean, I trusted him. I just wasn’t that interested in the business side of things. I signed the tax forms each year, and I kind of eyeballed them, reviewed the bottom line, but I don’t have a mind for financial stuff. I never really looked at the copies, just filed them. I think the police took those. Hey, you want something to drink? Water, soda?”

  “Water would be fine,” I said. Denis seemed relieved at the opportunity to play host rather than interrogee, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Did they find Alex’s records at his house?” I asked as I followed him into the kitchen. There, Denis opened a cabinet. I noticed that all the glasses were lined up according to size.

  Denis took out a tall glass, filled it with ice cubes from the freezer, added tap water, and handed it to me. “No, but they didn’t say much anyway. Mostly they asked where things were, like my own records. I let them look at everything. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “And they looked in your office, and Alex’s, at the university?”

  “That’s what they said. What are you looking for?”

  “Denis, to be honest, I’m not sure. I just hope I recognize it when I see it. You told the police about Alex’s RV, right? Was it Alex’s or the partnership’s?”

  Denis shrugged. “Alex’s, I think. Though I’m pretty sure he claimed it as a business expense. Does it matter? I never saw it.”

  “We found it. The police are searching it now.”

  “Hey, that’s good, isn’t it? Was there anything there?” he asked eagerly. If I’d hoped for some sort of incriminating reaction from Denis, I was disappointed.

  “Did Alex have any other place for storage? A rental unit somewhere?”

  “Not that I know about. Maybe you can find out from payment records or something?”

  If there was, I was pretty sure the police would track it down. I was rapidly running out of ideas.

  “What about your car? Do you keep anything in that?”

  “The police looked there. I try to keep that neat, because Elizabeth doesn’t like to ride around in a messy car.”

  Another dead end. I remembered the information Frank had gotten at the casino, about the woman—or women—Alex came in with occasionally. “Do you know if Alex was seeing anybody? Is there a girlfriend we should know about?”

  “Not right now. He dated women—I mean, he wasn’t gay or anything—but nobody ever lasted long. I think he really liked to be alone, when you come right down to it. All that time by himself out in the desert or wherever. He thought he was a lone wolf. And most women weren’t too excited about that.”

  I certainly hadn’t seen any feminine touches at the RV—other than the unusual cleanliness, it had screamed “bachelor.” “So there’s nobody else you can think of who Alex might have shared information with?”

  “I’m sorry, Em, but no. I’ve been thinking about this ever since I found out he was dead. I thought I was his best friend. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. I always considered Alex a pretty honest guy. I don’t want to find out that he was screwing me over, or he got me into something illegal.”

  It was nice that Denis felt some loyalty to his late friend and business partner. But my goal was not to find out how nice a guy Alex had been, but to find some thread to follow that might lead to my brother. I was getting desperate. I sipped my water and cast my eyes around the kitchen, looking for an idea, any idea. Had the police sifted through the flour canister? Melted all the ice cubes, in case there was something hidden there? Could you hide peridot in lime Jell-O?

  My eye lit on an untidy stack of mail on the kitchen counter. That would definitely displease Elizabeth, if she saw it marring the pristine purity of her kitchen. “That new?” I nodded toward the pile.

  Denis looked and then all but blushed. “Oh, that’s the stuff from my university mailbox. I stopped by and grabbed it this morning, in case there was anything important, but I didn’t stick around. I know the police have talked to people in my department, and I didn’t want everyone staring at me, whispering, you know?”

  I deposited my empty glass next to the sink and then leafed casually through the stack of mail—apparently the only thing in the house the police hadn’t searched, since it hadn’t been there earlier.

  In the midst of the pile there was a midsize cardboard envelope. No return address, no postmark, so I assumed it came from within the university—or had been hand delivered. I picked it up and felt the contents: thin but hard, square shaped—a CD case? Without turning, I said, “Denis? When was the last time you picked up your mail, before this batch?”

  “Uh, a week and a half ago, maybe more? I don’t check all that often. Most of us use e-mail these days, so the stuff in the box is mainly advertising or university notices, that kind of thing.”

  I turned to face him, then handed him the envelope. “Open this.”

  Clearly bewildered, he looked at the envelope in his hand, then at my face. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Denis,” I said, struggling for patience. “It was in your mail. Why don’t you open it?”

  Thankfully, he did before I lost whatever self-restraint I had. He reached in and pulled out a CD in a case. There was a sticky note on the outside of the case, and I leaned over to read it: “Thought you should have a copy of this stuff—Alex.”

  Bingo!

  Chapter 24

  In ancient Egypt, only pharaohs, high priests, and nobles w
ere permitted to own glass, and used it to decorate their thrones, funeral masks, and mummy cases.

  “What do I do now?” Denis said plaintively. “Do I read the disk?”

  I was sorely tempted. I really wanted to know what was on that disk and whether it would help me find Cam, but I could almost hear Matt’s voice in my head: Do not tamper with evidence. Besides which, I knew the limitations of my computer skills, and I’d probably manage to destroy the precious item before I even accessed a file.

  I took a deep breath. “Denis, this is potential evidence in a murder investigation. You will get in your car, and you will take it to police headquarters immediately. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Tell the person at the desk that it’s important that Chief Lundgren see it as soon as possible. I’ll try to call him now, to let him know you’re coming. Got that?”

  Denis nodded, obviously relieved that he didn’t have to make any decisions for himself.

  I turned away and fished out my cell phone, intending to leave Matt a message, and miraculously got through.

  “Em? What do you want?” Matt all but barked.

  “Nice to talk to you too. I’ll cut to the chase: Denis found a CD from Alex in his campus mail today. I told him to take it directly to your office. Where are you?”

  “Not far—I’m on my way back. I’ll meet him there. Thanks, Em. Uh, you haven’t looked to see what’s on it or anything, have you?”

  “No, sir, I have not. I have not even touched it, just the envelope it came in. We’ll leave it to you and your forensic wizards.”

  “Thanks. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  I turned back to Denis. “Go. He’ll meet you there. Take the disk and the case and the envelope in came in. Put the whole thing in a bag. And take good care of it.” When he had bagged the precious disk, envelope and all, I shepherded him out the front door to his car. I watched his car depart, then went back to mine. I had done the right thing, right? I had followed appropriate procedure.

  I got in my car, and even though half my brain was somewhere else, I made the trip through the gathering dark without mishap. Back at the studio, I pulled into my usual parking space behind the building. I sat for a moment, collecting my energy, then got out and locked the car and made my way around the side to my staircase.

  And stopped in my tracks. There was someone sitting on my steps.

  As a responsible home and business owner, and a woman living alone, I had of course installed floodlights for safety. Unfortunately they didn’t do me much good from where I stood behind the stairs: all I could see was the dark outline of a male figure sitting at the bottom of the metal staircase.

  An outline that looked familiar, even from the back. I moved fast, to the front of the stairs, hoping against hope . . .

  “Cam?”

  “Hi, Emmeline, sister of mine. Hey, that rhymes. How ya doin’?” He grinned, a singularly sweet and silly grin.

  Unquestionably my brother—in one piece, grubby, and (I noticed as I came closer) a little ripe, but at the moment I didn’t care. I just hauled him to his feet and flung my arms around him and hugged as hard as I could, just to make sure he was real.

  And then I pushed back. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded.

  He swayed slightly but didn’t seem to notice. “I was out in the desert. Do you know, you have some beautiful desert around here? I mean, it’s so big and quiet. Except for the lizards. They were kind of loud.”

  My first surge of euphoria over, I took a harder look at him. Something was not right. Even allowing for the dimness of the surroundings, his pupils looked awfully large. Holding him, I could feel heat radiating off him, and his heart seemed to be racing. Heatstroke? Was he on something? What, I had no idea. But he was still Cam and he was still here, and I was ecstatic.

  First things first. “Let’s go upstairs, okay?”

  “Sure, sounds great. Wow, look at those stairs! They just go on and on. . . .”

  As I guided him up the outside stairs, I wondered if he needed medical help. If he’d been wandering in the desert, could he be dehydrated? Should I do something about it? I decided to call the EMTs and then Matt. Better to be safe than sorry.

  I dug out my keys and opened the door. Predictably the dogs went berserk at the sight of their much-loved Uncle Cam, who sat down on the floor and (I swear) exchanged sniffs with them. They rolled around in an orgy of excitement, with staid sober me watching the show. I made a beeline to my phone and called 911, and someone promised to have an ambulance at my door in minutes.

  They were right—they must have been in the neighborhood, because they arrived before I could even reach Matt. I opened my door to a pair of paramedics.

  “What’s the problem?” one of them asked.

  “It’s my brother. He’s been missing for a few days, and then he just showed up and he’s not acting normal. I was worried that it might by hyperthermia or something—he may have been out in the desert for a while.”

  “We’ll take a look.”

  I stood back as they introduced themselves to Cam, who greeted them like long-lost friends, and then did assorted medical stuff—took his temperature, checked his pulse and heart and lungs, flashed lights in his eyes. After a few minutes they came back to me.

  “He’s okay?” I asked.

  I could have sworn they were struggling to hide smiles. “He’s high. Mescaline, most likely.”

  “But Cam doesn’t do drugs!” Had the events of the last week driven him over the edge?

  The older paramedic shrugged. “We see a lot of it around here. But no question, he’s toasted.” When I looked blank, he volunteered, “Baked? Cooked? Wasted? Not much we can do—just keep an eye on him until he comes down. May be a while.”

  “Thank you!” I called out as they went down the stairs. Then I turned to my very stoned brother. “You hungry, Cam? Thirsty?”

  He looked up at me with a beatific expression. “Hungry?”

  “Yes, hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

  “I don’t know. What day is this?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Oh, wow. I thought it was Friday. I ate on Friday, I think.”

  Fred and Gloria were still circling around Cam, enjoying the strange and wonderful scents he must have brought with him. Too bad they couldn’t tell me where he’d been, based on those scents. I decided he could stand to lose a few of them.

  “Cam?” It took him a few seconds to tear his attention from his renewed lovefest with the dogs and look at me. “I think you need a shower. Why don’t you take a shower while I fix us something to eat?”

  “Shower. Oh, great idea. I love the sound a shower makes, don’t you? All swooshy and wet.”

  I held out my hand and hauled him to his feet, then turned him and pushed him toward the bathroom at the back. “Shower, that way.” He ambled in the right direction, with a few small detours, and finally found it, closing the door behind him.

  I seized the moment to call Matt on my cell again.

  “What?” he said, sounding snappish. “Denis is here. We’ve got the disk.”

  “Matt, shut up. Cam’s home.”

  “What?” At least I’d gotten his attention. “You found him? Is he okay?”

  “He was sitting on my steps when I got home. He’s high on something—the paramedics thought it might be mescaline—but otherwise seems to be all right.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there in, oh, half an hour.”

  When he hung up, I turned to the refrigerator. It looked like scrambled eggs and sausage were the best I was going to manage, and at least I had plenty of bread. I fed the dogs, then started mixing eggs and frying sausage. After about ten minutes, I realized the water had been running continuously in the bathroom. Maybe Cam had managed to drown himself like an idiot turkey?

  I moved the sausage pan off the heat and went down the hallway to knock on the bathroom door. “Cam?” I didn’t hear anything other than the water. I opened the door a crack. �
��Cam, are you all right?” We might be brother and sister, but I clung to a few shreds of modesty.

  “Em? I’m fine. I’m wonderful. Your soap smells so good I can hear it.”

  Whatever he was on, he was having a grand time. “Time to get out of the shower, Cam. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll bring you some fresh clothes.” I quickly went into what had been Frank’s room for the last week and riffled through the clothes Cam had left stashed in the dresser. I grabbed some underwear, a pair of sweat-pants, and a T-shirt, and discreetly tossed them into the bathroom on my way back to the kitchen.

  Cam was sitting, clean in body and clothing, at the kitchen table with a heaped plate in front of him when Matt arrived. Cam gave Matt another sweet grin. “Hey, Matt. Good to see you. How’ve you been?”

  Matt and I exchanged glances. “Are you hungry, Matt? I made plenty.”

  “Why don’t I help you?” he replied, taking me by the arm and steering me toward the stove. When we were more or less out of Cam’s hearing—not that he was paying the slightest attention to us, being more interested in feeding bits of sausage to the dogs at his feet—Matt said, “You had him checked out?”

  “Of course. We don’t know where he’s been. The paramedics told me he was high and there wasn’t much they could do for him.”

  “What’s he been like?”

  “Very happy. He said he could hear the soap.”

  “Dilated pupils? Fast pulse?”

  “Yes to both.”

  “Sounds like mescaline all right. Does he do drugs?”

  “Cam? His limit’s about two beers.”

  “He’s been under a lot of stress lately—maybe it pushed him in the wrong direction.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I’ll try, but he may not be making much sense. Or he may not remember much—peyote messes up your short-term memory.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”