by Joan Opyr
“So, Suzy and the sheriff’s deputy. Is it true love?”
“Who knows? It’s lasted longer than most of his relationships. I can’t tell if it’s the great sex or the great information. Suzy loves having that inside edge. He’s like the living embodiment of Hard Copy.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m hard, but I’m no copy.”
“Shut up,” I said. “I mean what about you and Tom? How’s that working out?”
He shrugged. “It’s fun, but I don’t think it’s the real thing.”
I opened my mouth to say I was sorry. Instead I said, “Hold out for the real thing.”
He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “You want to tell me about it?”
“I love her, Tipper.”
“And you’ve spent the past two days proving it.”
“Don’t be crass,” I said. “I’m serious. Besides, we haven’t actually . . .”
Tipper interrupted me by spraying a mouthful of orange juice across the table. “What were you doing that night in the dugouts? What have you been up to for the last forty-eight hours? Don’t tell me you’ve just been sitting around talking!”
“That night in the dugouts, she was upset,” I said. “We both were. She told me . . .”
“She told you she was really a man? I can’t think of any other reason you wouldn’t go for it. This isn’t the Bil I know. This one’s all talk and no action. In fact, I’ve now changed my mind about Tom. There’s a lot to be said for mindless fucking.”
“Will you shut up?” Tipper rolled his eyes and sighed. “Listen,” I continued, “this is serious in more ways than one. The man who died—who was murdered in the Lewis County Jail.” I dropped my voice. “He wasn’t Sylvie’s father, he was Frank Frost.”
I gave him an expurgated version of the story, much like the one Sylvie had told Reginald Brown. I said that she’d recognized Frank in Kate’s kitchen on the Thursday before he died, and I also mentioned the fact that the dead man had three kidneys.
He stared thoughtfully at his now-empty coffee mug. He said, “I knew about the kidneys.”
“Suzy’s flatfoot?”
“Yeah. They must know by now that he isn’t Burt Wood.”
“Yes, I expect they do. Could I have some more toast?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. I mean, no.” More than half an hour had passed since my arrival, and the sounds of Radical Faeries stirring in their beds began to drift down the stairs. “Look, I’m going to make a phone call, and then you and I are going for a walk. Wait here—I’ll be right back.”
As I waited, I thought about Sylvie and what she must be thinking. She might be hurt or furious or both. In any case, I didn’t see how I was going to make it up to her, and the longer I waited, the worse it would be.
“Come on,” Tipper said.
“I’m sorry. I think I need to go. I’ve done something really stupid, and now . . .”
“And now,” he said firmly, “you’re going for a walk. We’re going to get some fresh air into you and clear your head, and as soon as you’re back in fighting form, you can leave here and resume battle. Come on, no arguments.”
As Tipper had predicted, the Captain had abandoned the shotgun in favor of a target pistol, which she was teaching Jane how to shoot. They were both seated on the ground, aiming at a paper bull’s-eye about forty yards away. Jane sat in front of the Captain, who reached around from behind to steady her arms.
“Love is in the air,” I sang softly, “everywhere I look around.”
“And if you lived out here,” he replied, “you’d get every sight and every sound. I wish my mother would Sheetrock the whole house or at least buy a good stereo.”
I laughed. “Where are we going?”
“We’re retracing the mystery man’s steps. When Cedar Tree saw him, he was heading up toward the top of the ridge. Keep your eyes open for clues, Nancy Drew. We’re sleuthing.”
“Lead on, chum.”
We walked along uneventfully. I looked idly on either side of the footpath for jimsonweed, briefly entertaining a fantasy that our dead man might have stopped for a snack. I saw nothing that looked like the plant in the picture Sarah had given me. The path up to the top of the ridge seemed steeper than before, and tall as I was, I still struggled to keep up with Tipper’s long strides. The trees were thick on either side, though the underbrush was dry and easily trod under foot. Just before the ruined house were the remnants of a barbed-wire fence. There was once a gate across the top of the path, but it had long since rotted and fallen to one side. Tipper stopped now and examined it.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. He held a strand of barbed wire between his thumb and forefinger. A two-inch swatch of dirty fabric clung to one of the barbs. “You want to take this back to your lab and give it a DNA test?”
I took the swatch from the fence. It was a belt loop from a pair of blue jeans. A breeze was beginning to pick up. It rustled through the cottonwoods, and their silvery green leaves hummed to us. I wished I’d thought to take Sylvie’s jacket when I’d stormed out of the apartment.
I said, “This could be anyone’s.”
“It could,” he agreed.
Still, it might have been Frank’s. After all, we knew he’d been on the property. “Suzy’s mole might be able to tell us if our victim’s jeans were missing a loop. Do you think he can be trusted to ask a subtle question?”
“Ha!” Tipper said. “Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which fills up first. I’ll try wording the question for him and see if I can get him to memorize it.”
“Good plan. Would you mind walking all the way up to the ruined house? I’d like to take another look around.”
“Sure thing,” he agreed.
We walked in silence to the top of the ridge. Tipper was moving more slowly now, so I got to the foundation walls before he did. I saw them immediately. In fact, they were perched on a corner so I couldn’t miss them.
I picked up the binoculars.
“Lucky find,” Tipper said, coming up behind me. “I wonder who those belong to.”
“My father.”
He raised his eyebrows, and I told him about my time behind the bush, spying.
“Helen Merwin left them up here. While we’ve been poking around about Burt and Frank, she’s been spying on us. I think Kate was being blackmailed.”
The brown eyes met mine and held my gaze for a long moment. “Why?”
“I can’t answer that.”
There was a long pause. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Why Helen? Is there any particular reason she might want to spy on you? Is she . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”
“For God’s sake,” I snapped, “are you barking mad? I have never in my life been that desperate. I’d sooner sleep with Cedar Tree. Or a bucket of razor blades. Or you.”
“Fine,” he said, “there’s no need to get nasty.” He gave me a pinch on the arm. “If I were unkind, I’d point out that you haven’t always been . . . um . . .”
“Lucky?” I suggested.
“Choosy,” he replied, and it was my turn to pinch him. “The question,” he continued, “is if Helen has been spying on you, what are you going to do about it?”
“That depends on what . . .” I began before I could catch myself.
Tipper smiled. “Call it situational ethics. I’d do exactly the same thing. I didn’t expect you to go running off to the sheriff’s department; Sylvie’s got to be your top priority.”
“I don’t suppose I should be counting my chickens, should I?”
“That’s right. You can’t cluck until you fuck.”
“Excuse me?” I said sharply.
He laughed. “Lighten up, Bil, everything will work out. Now that we’re up here, though, don’t you want to look around? If you want to play detective, you’ll have to detect. Police work is about more than being a uniform queen. Of course, being a uniform queen helps.
”
“Just look around, would you?”
We kicked through the pine needles, and once again, Tipper scored.
“What is it?”
“It,” he said, “is a folded piece of paper. Would you care to open it? It might be a wadded-up bit of chewing gum, but I don’t think so.”
The paper he handed me had been folded over and over again, until it looked like one of the paper footballs we used to flick at each other in ninth grade algebra class. I unfolded it carefully. It had been rained on and the corners were still soggy. Despite my care, it ripped.
“It’s a page out of the Cowslip telephone book,” Tipper said. “I can’t read it, the ink’s all runny.”
“It’s more than one page. I don’t think I can get them apart.”
“Can you see what’s on the front and back, then?”
I held it up to the bright light coming through a gap in the trees. “It’s Magnusson through Metcalf on this side, and Rowe through Spencer on the other. I think there’s a page in the middle here, but I don’t have a prayer of figuring out what that one says.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“Maybe.” I thought it might mean a lot. Maguire and Merwin were on the first page, and Rutherford was on the back. The page in the middle might have listed the numbers for Wilhelmina Aldershot, Kate Wood, or Emma Hardy. There was no way of telling.
Tipper regarded me with undisguised suspicion. “I find it hard to believe that you’re keeping secrets from me of all people. I’m your best friend in the entire world.”
It was true, and I would have trusted him with my life.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You know all of my secrets, Tipper. These are someone else’s.”
He nodded, and I hoped he understood.
“Can I look at those pages?”
He stared at them for a minute or two, looking thoughtful. Then he handed them back to me.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t really know what I’m looking at,” he said. “I think it might be a list of suspects. Is that close?”
“That’s close,” I conceded.
“If you and Sylvie ever feel like you want to talk about it, call me. I’m no detective, but I’m a good brainstormer. I’m also discreet.”
“Really?” I laughed.
“When I have to be,” he replied seriously.
A lot of questions were hanging in the air between us, and I wanted to fill the space with some sign that I trusted him. I wanted him to know that if it were just up to me, I’d confide in him completely. I asked, “Tipper, who would want to kill Frank Frost?”
“Someone with something to hide. Find the motive, find your murderer. Your brother makes for an unsatisfying suspect, and according to Suzy’s source, the prosecutor isn’t really interested in him. She’s just trying to make it look like this investigation is going somewhere.”
“She’d also like to put him in prison for something. He’s a pain in the ass.”
Tipper was silent.
I said, “You know in high school, when you lost that fountain pen you loved? You didn’t lose it. I stepped on it with my great big clod-hopping boot. I broke the hell out of it. I tried to find a replacement but . . .”
“Shh.” Tipper smiled and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. Don’t tell me any more secrets. I was just having a jealous fit. I never considered A. J. much of a threat, but I’m beginning to suspect that you love Sylvie better than you do me. That’s going to take some getting used to.” He smiled again. “And I knew about the fountain pen. There were bits of it embedded in the sole of your great big clod-hopping boot. I also knew how bad you felt about it. You’re more important to me than a fountain pen, Bil—even an irreplaceable antique like that one.”
“Oh shit, Tipper, I . . .”
“Go on, you fool,” he laughed. “Antique, my ass. I bought it at a pawnshop in Seattle. I think it cost all of three dollars. Listen, according to Suzy’s mole, they’re questioning everyone who was even remotely associated with either Frost or Wood. Fairfax and Agnes Merwin, Fred Maguire, Millicent Rutherford. They even called your grandmother.”
“Really?”
“Really. That didn’t make sense to me yesterday, but it does now. If the deceased is Frost and not Wood, then your grandmother knew him quite well. He was part of that whole community theater crowd. Didn’t you know that?”
I shook my head.
“You’re no Nancy Drew,” he observed. “If I were you, I’d pay a visit to my prospective bride and discuss your latest clues. Besides, it’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.”
“What are you talking about?”
He grinned. “She called out here looking for you about fifteen minutes before you arrived. She told me you’d gone storming out of her apartment. She didn’t say why, but I can guess. The course of true love never did run smooth. She knows you’re here because I called before we left for our little walk. I told her I’d give you a good talking to and send you straight back downtown. There now, I’ve discharged my duty.”
I stood aside so Tipper could blaze a trail back down the hill. Just as he brushed past me, I reached out and held his arm. “Why would Frost come up here?”
“Shortcut,” he said. “And besides, there used to be a fairly decent house up here until my mother knocked it down. It was dirty and full of spiders, but the walls were solid and the roof didn’t leak. He might have been thinking it would be a good place to squat while he sorted himself out. Back in his day, this was a favorite pothead hang out.”
“You’re pretty clever.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Process of elimination. I have quizzed my mother thoroughly about this and learned that on Thursday, she caught him coming out of one of the guest cabins. He’d clearly snuck back after his encounter with Cedar Tree and slept in one of them.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“Of course I searched it. There was nothing there.”
“Wait,” I said. “One more question. Since you seem to know everything else, who is Suzy’s deputy boyfriend?”
“This is just a guess,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s Donny Smith.”
I was dumbfounded. “You’re shitting me! A nice Mormon boy with a man like Suzy?”
“They make a lovely couple,” he sighed. “Do you think they’ll have a temple wedding?”
Chapter 24
I pulled into Sylvie’s parking lot just after two o’clock. I thought about running up the stairs, but it wouldn’t do to arrive out of breath. Plus my feet were blistered from my morning’s trek. I vowed never to hike in wing tips again. In fact, as soon as I found my lost hiking boots, I was never taking them off my feet.
On the way up the stairs, I began to worry. What if she wasn’t home? What if she looked through the peephole and decided not to answer?
“I should have called from Tipper’s place,” I mumbled to myself.
Still, I only hesitated a moment before knocking. What was the worst that could happen? Several creative possibilities suggested themselves. I was mulling over appropriate responses to each miserable scenario when the door opened.
She stood there, barefoot and smiling. Music was playing in the background and, after a moment or two, I recognized it as Sarah McLachlan’s Solace. One of my favorites.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” I said.
“Were you? Well, maybe you’d like to come in.”
She opened the door wide, and I stepped inside.
“Have a seat in the living room. I’ll only be a moment.”
She came back with two mugs and set them down on the coffee table.
“Haven’t we done this before?”
She smiled and sat down beside me. “It’s déjà vu. If you wait a minute, it will pass. Besides, that’s hot chocolate. I thought it might satisfy your sweet tooth.”
“Sweet teeth, you mean.”
Sy
lvie watched me with a bemused expression I found both uncomfortable and exhilarating.
“I took a hike out at Fort Sister.” I told her what I knew about Frost’s movements, and I showed her the belt loop and the pages from the telephone book.
“He’s been blackmailing your mother. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Someone has,” she agreed. “That would explain the transactions from her account.”
“You don’t think it was Frank?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, cupping her mug in both hands. “I don’t know much about the ins and outs of her finances. She gives me a monthly allowance. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?”
“Will you quit apologizing? A lot of parents put their kids through college.”
“I don’t know anyone else who has an expense account.”
I laughed. She smiled ruefully and continued. “My mother owns a lot of stocks. She inherited some from my grandfather, but she’s bought and sold those several times over. I know she felt guilty about the disposition of my grandfather’s estate—he only left Agnes a thousand dollars. Spite money, she called it. Maybe Agnes changed her mind, and my mother’s now supplementing her income. I do know that my mom’s very good with stocks.”
“Hugh plays the market,” I said. “He’s got about fifty thousand in various stocks.”
She smiled. “When my grandfather died, he left my mother the farm and three hundred thousand dollars. She’s turned that into three million.”
My jaw dropped.
“Now do you see why I’m embarrassed?”
“No, but . . .”
“It’s a lot of money, and the land has appreciated as well. We haven’t had to run a working farm since my grandfather died. That was the year before my father disappeared.”
I was amazed. There were a lot of wealthy landowners living around Cowslip, but I didn’t know any of them personally. Kate Wood had taken ordinary, farm-family wealth and turned it into a fortune.
“Why doesn’t she just pack up and move away from here?”
“Why do you think? My father is bound to have moldered away by now. If she thought to dump quick lime on him, the evidence might have been destroyed in a matter of weeks, but how could she be sure? She stays because she can’t leave.”