Tahoe Ice Grave

by Todd Borg

  “The Sandwich Islands are...?” I said.

  “Hawaii. Captain James Cook named them for his patron, the earl of Sandwich, when he discovered them in seventeen seventy-eight. They weren’t renamed Hawaii after what the locals called the big island until a hundred years later.” Now she sounded winded and I visualized her trying to roll her way around her office.

  “I’ve heard of Twain’s letters, but I don’t know anything about them.”

  “Well, that would be the place to start.” Despite her tiny voice, her disapproval was palpable over the phone.

  “Perhaps I could visit and you could show me the appropriate passages.”

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “Today?”

  She took a long moment then finally agreed to meet me at eleven o’clock and gave me directions to her office.

  Before I left I called Janeen to check in. She said all was well and not to worry.

  I took Spot with me and left early so I could take it slow through the snowfall. I drove north on 50 and crawled up and over Spooner Summit. It was like leaving winter behind in Tahoe as we headed down into the Carson Valley. When we’d descended to the 6000-foot level the snow stopped falling. At the 5000-foot level we drove into sunshine. By the time we got to the valley floor it was warm enough that I rolled down the back window for Spot. He stuck his head out, his jowls lifting in the head wind.

  I drove through Carson City and headed up into the mountains of Virginia City. We climbed nearly as high up as Tahoe, yet the sky remained clear, the sun hot. Across the valley, the mountains of Tahoe were completely obscured by a thick gray blanket of clouds.

  The main street of Virginia City was crowded as always, tourists strolling up and down the boardwalks of the old west town, staring unabashed at the wild-west storefronts, the horse-drawn carriages, the signs advertising garish attractions like the Bucket o’ Blood Saloon.

  I found a place to park near the address I’d written down, left Spot in the Jeep and knocked on an old door. There was an elaborate leaded window in the door made in the shape of a riverboat. I saw movement through the blurry glass. The movement stopped, then came again. I imagined it was Hillary trying to negotiate the space in her wheel chair. The door opened.

  A woman in her mid-thirties with red hair cut in short curls stood solidly on two feet and looked up at me from all of

  five-two or so. She was wearing shiny cobalt blue bicycle shorts and a matching top. A jump rope was draped over her shoulders.

  “You must be Owen,” she said, still breathing hard from exercise. Her eyes were an equally intense blue green with very bright whites. She radiated fitness.

  “Yes. Good to meet you, Hillary. You will be wondering if I’m some kind of a brawler with these bruises, so I’ll tell you up front that I was in an accident.”

  “Uh, yes, I suppose I was wondering. I hope you are okay.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Behind her in one corner of the office was a stationary bicycle. Next to it was a rowing machine. In another corner was a weight bench and a rack that held stacks of free weights.

  “You are obviously a serious athlete in addition to Twain scholar.”

  “Triathlete,” she said

  “Like the Ironman in Hawaii? I’ve heard it is an incredibly grueling race, but I don’t know the details.”

  She grinned. “You swim two point four miles, ride a bike one hundred twelve miles, then run a marathon which is twenty-six point two miles. Last fall I finished in little under twelve hours. Which is a long way off the winning woman’s time of nine hours and some minutes, but still not too bad.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine doing any one of the those, never mind all three.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but it’s no different than doing anything else you are good at. So why the interest in Twain?” She turned and walked through an office space crammed with bookshelves, filing cabinets and three computers sharing two desks. She sat down on the edge of one of the desks, her arm and leg muscles bulging.

  I followed her into the large room. “I’m a detective working on a murder case that involves a family in Hawaii.”

  “The man who was shot in Lake Tahoe.”

  “Yes. Thos Kahale. Several other family members have been killed. I’ve nothing to go on except some information passed down from the victim’s great grandfather. He claimed that when he was a young boy in Kauai, Twain met his family. They provided Twain hospitality in the form of food and drink and guide service up the Waimea Canyon.”

  “What Twain called the Grand Canyon of the Pacific,” Hillary said, nodding.

  “Supposedly, Twain stayed with them for several nights. Big family dinners. Campfires on the beach. Before Twain left he presented them with a gift. A story in the same leather notebook that Twain had been writing his letters in.”

  “The letters to the Sacramento Daily Union?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “The man I spoke with is Jasper Kahale. He is the murder victim’s father and the grandson of the recipient of Twain’s gift. He said Twain told his grandfather that the notebook was what he wrote letters to the newspaper in. I asked Jasper if he had read about that and he said that he’d never heard of them from any other source except his grandfather.”

  Hillary’s eyes were afire. I could see her skepticism wrestling with excitement. “And the story?” Her jaw muscles were flexing, relaxing, flexing.

  “It was called The Amazing Island Boy And His Trick Wood.” I proceeded to tell Hillary the gist of the story about a boy and his magic Koa wood. I also told her how the story was evidently lost to a hurricane.

  Hillary was trying to stay calm, but she was practically bouncing on the edge of the desk. Finally, she got up and started pacing, the jump rope still hanging from her shoulder. “You think the story still exists?” She turned and looked at me, rotated on the ball of her foot, then paced back the opposite direction.

  “I don’t know. The whole story of Twain meeting the Kahale family and then giving them a manuscript for a gift sounds like one of Twain’s tall tales. Further, Jasper Kahale also told me that a hundred years before Twain visited, his family met Captain Cook when he first landed in Hawaii on the island of Kauai. And

  Cook supposedly gave them some tableware, which they loved because Hawaiians didn’t have metal and were fascinated by it.”

  Hillary gave me a wry grin. “Sounds like Jasper is as imaginative as Twain.”

  “I’ve thought that several times. Then again, several people have died, possibly over this item.”

  Hillary said, “The way they supposedly got the manuscript sounds just quirky enough to be true. Twain was no angel, but he was extremely generous at times.”

  “I’m wondering, Hillary, about the potential dollar value of items connected to Twain. If such a short story manuscript by Twain really existed, would it be extremely valuable?”

  Hillary stopped pacing and faced me. “Oh, God, yes. An original Twain manuscript? Undiscovered until now? This wouldn’t be like the Twain story the Atlantic Monthly sat on until recently. This would be unique, a surprise. It would probably draw millions at auction.”

  “How would that take place? Suppose someone finds such a manuscript. Where would they go? Who would they take it to?”

  “First, it would have to be authenticated. If they were new to the game, they’d typically ask around at libraries or museums and eventually get directed to someone like me. I would study it and arrive at an opinion as to its probable authenticity. Then one or more of my colleagues would examine it and verify or dispute my opinion. Soon, it would likely end up at one of the big auction houses. Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”

  “So if someone has such a manuscript, I could possibly track him by waiting until it comes to auction?”

  “Maybe,” Hillary said. “But maybe not. Many collectors wouldn’t take it anywhere. It’s like great paintings. There are rich people who pay enormous sums just to have a p
riceless painting and they want their ownership to be secret. Furthermore, if this manuscript exists and was stolen, the thief would not be able to sell it through a legitimate auction house.”

  “But how would a collector obtain a manuscript from the thief who steals it, if not through auction?”

  Hillary resumed pacing. “There is a black market in literary artifacts just as in other antiquities or in the visual arts. It’s like drug dealers. Private brokers who operate in the shadows, dealing only with known thieves and trusted customers.”

  “Could you direct me to one of these black-market brokers? Preferably one who would know how to sell a manuscript by Twain?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m a Twain archivist. Take me out of my athletic clothes and I’m as nerdy as the next bookworm. I deal with librarians and conservators and museum curators. Not exactly the dark world where thieves hang out.”

  “But you must hear things. Innuendo. Rumors. Point me in a direction. I won’t say where I got the information.”

  Hillary had a pattern to her pacing. I now understood that she followed the lines of the floor tiles, turning left and right at regular intervals, then turning and coming back. She took many steps, a little scowl on her face. Finally, she stopped and turned toward me. “Mind you, this is only a rumor. I can’t stress that enough. And you didn’t hear it from me, is that clear?” Her sudden stern demeanor was surprisingly forceful.

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  “You might look up a person I’ve heard about. I’m not saying this person is a black-market broker. But it is possible. And you didn’t hear it from me. Agree?” I wasn’t certain but I thought I saw fear on her face.

  “You can count on me.”

  Hillary Addison took a single deep breath and let it out. “I’ve heard of a lawyer named McCloud.”

  THIRTY

  Driving away from Hillary Addison’s office, I thought about Lynette McCloud. Brock Chamber’s lawyer and fellow hunter. An expert shot with a rifle. A flashy defense attorney. The new girlfriend of a rich music producer named Algernon Petticock.

  Lynette was overdue for a visit from Spot and me.

  After Spot and I climbed back up into the clouds and snow of Tahoe, the driving became much slower. We were ready for lunch, so we stopped at my cabin.

  When we got out of the Jeep, I heard a tiny bark and looked up to see my neighbor’s toy poodle streaking down the road toward us. Spot stretched his front legs out in front of him and arched his back. His butt stayed up in the air and his chest touched the ground. When the poodle got to him he sprung into the air as the poodle ran under him. Then the two of them raced around in the street. It was odd how a 6-pound dog and a 170-pound dog felt a kinship that house cats and mountain lions could never feel even though the size difference between the two dogs was greater.

  “Treasure! Treasure!” a high, almost operatic, voice called out.

  I looked up to see Mrs. Duchamp standing in her drive wearing a shimmering, metallic gold housecoat. Her rotund shape in the glittering gold fabric had a circus quality to it.

  I waved.

  She seemed to not see me. “Treasure! Be careful! Don’t let that big dog hurt you!”

  Spot and the toy poodle were doing figure-eights in the road. A happier poodle I’d never seen. Then Treasure shot up the road and jumped up on Mrs. Duchamp’s legs. Mrs. Duchamp shrieked, then bent down, picked up her dog and marched inside.

  After I ate a quick sandwich, I looked in the book and called the phone number for Lynette McCloud.

  “Good morning, McCloud Legal Service,” a low-pitched female voice said.

  “Good morning. Is Lyn around?” I said, assuming my only chance of getting through was to pose as someone familiar. It didn’t work.

  “Who’s calling, sir?”

  “Her brother Owen. She’s expecting my call.”

  “Sir, Ms. McCloud is not taking appointments at this time. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be happy to connect you to her voice mail and...”

  I hung up. I dialed Mallory.

  “The music producer McCloud got off weapons charges,” I said when he answered.

  “Algernon Petticock?”

  “Yeah. Where did you say he lived?”

  “You gonna go up there and cause some trouble?”

  “Probably.”

  “Good. He’s on the Nevada side where we have no jurisdiction. I told Diamond about him, but Diamond’s too nice a guy to bust Algernon’s chops. You know where North Benjamin turns off of Kingsbury Grade up by Daggett Pass?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mallory proceeded to give me detailed instructions to the man’s house.

  “Sounds like you been studying the map,” I said. “Lynette McCloud’s heels that spikey?”

  “See for yourself,” he said and hung up.

  “Your largeness,” I said to Spot who was lying in front of the wood stove. “You wanna go for a ride and roust out a lawyer?”

  Spot lifted his head and looked at me with interest. I’m sure it was the word lawyer that did it.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” I said.

  Spot got to his feet and walked over to my kitchen nook. He gazed at the microwave.

  “No Danish,” I said. “Maybe popcorn and beer tonight, but no Danish.”

  Spot hung his head as he followed me out to the Jeep. The storm let up a little as we drove, the heavy big flakes giving way to light flurries, which made it a little easier to see.

  The turnoff to the music producer’s spread had a gatehouse and a large wrought iron gate. The gate was shut.

  I looked at the hinges, wondering if I could blast through with the Jeep. I decided it wasn’t a good idea. Instead, Spot and I could climb the fence, hike around and sneak up. Except, I wasn’t sure that climbing wrought iron fences with points on top was a Great Dane specialty.

  I was still thinking about it five minutes later when a large panel van came down the drive. I didn’t see it at first because the snow was eight feet high on either side of the drive. The lettering on the side said Robertson Linen Service. As it approached the entrance, the gate retracted sideways at a slow, dignified pace. The van pulled out and exited onto North Benjamin. As the gate began its stately glide back to a closed position I gunned the Jeep and scooted through with an inch of room to spare.

  I drove up a long, twisting ribbon of fresh white snow that climbed around granite outcroppings and large red firs.

  The manor was as advertised. Done in retro Medieval Castle, the place had a turret and a fakey looking drawbridge that stretched over a pond. The water wasn’t frozen which meant power circulation and a concealed furnace. The stone walls had little windows from which a princess could escape if her golden hair was long enough to cut off and braid into a rope.

  I pulled around a circular drive made of bricks laid in an elaborate pattern. The falling snow instantly melted when it landed on the bricks. There must have been heating coils under the brick. I parked behind a red Lexus and adjacent to a black stretch limo. Both were polished to a deep shine. Water drops from the snow balled up on the waxed finish like glass beads.

  Behind the limo, sitting in chairs carved of stone at the beginning of the drawbridge were two men who telegraphed bodyguard. The drawbridge had a roof which protected them from the falling snow. There was a boom box at their feet. Both men stood up as I wheeled the Jeep to a quick stop.

  The small one was a white guy, maybe six-two, with spiked blond hair died purple at the tips and a ring in his nose. He probably weighed 215, same as me. His well-muscled torso was dressed in a white jumpsuit, like he’d just come back from tryouts for a Hollywood movie.

  The large one, a black guy, had another four inches of height making him even with me, but he weighed a good 280 and looked like he had done time in the NFL. His hair was long and brown and wet with some kind of goo and looked like squished eels plastered down the back of his thick neck. There were no rings in his nose and, judg
ing from the smooth lines of his tight, black shirt, there weren’t any rings in his nipples or his navel either. Probably wanted them but was too chickenshit.

  I jumped out of the Jeep and walked around to greet them. Rap music boomed out of the boom box.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said. “I’m here to see Lynette McCloud, please.”

  “How’d you get through the gate?” the large one said. Unfriendly.

  “I just spoke to her on my phone. Told her I was at the gate and she pushed the button.”

  “Bullshit, mummy face. Get out or we’ll throw you out.”

  “Mummy face? Okay, we’ll start again. Yo, dudes, I’m Owen, Lyn’s big brother. The Big O, you’ve probably heard her call me. How’s it hangin’?”

  No response.

  “She around? What say you buzz her on your secret decoder rings and let her know I’m here.”

  The small one looked up at the large one. “We got us a joker, Tommy. Does that mean we get to kick his ass before we throw him out?”

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “I’m just kidding you. Anyway, call Lyn and tell her I’ve arrived. Meanwhile, I need my toothbrush. I’m pretty sure I put it in the glove box.”

  They still didn’t move.

  “All right. Don’t trouble yourselves. I can get it myself.”

  They were immobile.

  “What if I say please?” I said. “If Lyn thinks you were stand-offish to me, well, hell, I don’t know what she’d do. Whisper into your boss’s ear, maybe. ‘Algernon, honeypot, your boys weren’t nice to my big brother.’ What if she did that? Whisper into the big kahuna’s ear? Next thing you know, you two will be turning some nice, clean Nevada landfill into a toxic waste dump.”

  Both guys had reddish faces all of a sudden. The smaller guy turned to the big guy. “I’m gonna kick his ass, Tommy. I’m gonna rip those bandages off his face and smash it in. You can join in if you want.” He advanced on me, his nose ring sparkling in the winter sunlight.