“Okay, boy, here we go.” I untied the knots on the rope—not nautical or professional; just knots—but if he moved an inch, he would choke. The whole scenario was disgusting. Diabolical. “I need your paws, buddy.” Worming my hands beneath him, I freed one paw and then the other. “Time to act like a marine, Cinder. Inch out on your belly. Let’s go.”
As he wriggled his way free, my blood boiled with anger. Who had tormented him? In the past few months, crime had crept into the neighborhood. Not violent crime. Petty stuff like painted street signs and toilet-papered trees. Attacking my dog was the last straw. I would patrol the roads and forests nightly, if necessary, to make the area safe again.
I sat up and patted my lap. Cinder climbed into it and let me stroke him. As I checked his body for bruises, the notion that the attack might have been personal scudded through me. Had someone hurt him to scare me because I was helping Gloria? Tom? Vaughn? Beau? I shook off the unsettling notion and nudged Cinder to a stand. “C’mon, boy, let’s go inside and get you some water and a treat.”
While he lapped water in the kitchen, I thanked Wendy and the girls profusely.
Candace said, “We were on our way to the movie, but I remembered I didn’t bring a sweater, and you know the theater. It’s so freaking cold. So we came home and . . .” She was prattling. I couldn’t blame her.
The doorbell rang. I hurried to the foyer. Cinder trotted beside me.
Nick and Detective Hernandez were standing on the porch. Nick’s Wrangler was parked at an odd angle in the driveway. “Candace called,” he said, his tone tense. “Is Cinder okay? What happened?”
Words poured out of me. “The dog was tied up. With a rope that didn’t belong to me. A rope that might have choked him if he moved. There was a dead squirrel, too. Cinder was beside himself. I’m wondering if this has something to do with Gloria and the notes and me investigating. Does the killer know where I live? Did he come here to torment the dog so he could get me to back off?”
“Phil,” Nick said to Hernandez, “go around to the back porch. Check it out.”
Candace popped from behind me. “I’ll show you, Detective.” The Winstons joined her.
As they disappeared, I led Nick into the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”
“I’ll pass. I’ve been downing caffeine for hours.” He bent to pet Cinder, who, by the expression on the dog’s face, was experiencing the sixth level of Nirvana. He adored Nick. “He seems fine.”
“He’ll have nightmares.”
Detective Hernandez tapped on the porch window and beckoned Nick.
“Anything?” Nick asked.
“No discernible footprints. No tire tracks.”
Candace said, “It’s like it was a ghost.”
I shivered.
Nick caressed my shoulder and said, “We’ll canvass the area. We’ll find whoever did this.” His promise sounded lackluster.
Before he exited, I said, “Wait. Did you get the notes I left at the station for you? The ones Gloria received.”
He shook his head.
“I gave them to Zook. She took them to Evidence. Check them out and let me know what you think.”
Chapter 15
Candace didn’t go to the movie with Waverly. She didn’t want to leave the dog’s side. Dinner was a somber affair for the three of us. Throughout the meal of hastily thrown together grilled cheese and soup, Candace and I didn’t talk much. Cinder rested his chin on the thigh of whichever of us spoke. At bedtime, Candace asked to sleep in my room. How could I say no?
When the alarm clock shrieked Thursday morning, Cinder lumbered to his feet. I was relieved when I didn’t find any lingering bumps or bruises around his neck—the rope had been so tight—but I didn’t think he needed to run. Neither of us did.
I showered to clear the cobwebs. As I was zipping my chino shorts, I heard a metallic crash. I dashed down the hall. Candace was in the kitchen on her knees in her nightgown dealing with scattered spoons, forks, and knives and an upside-down drawer.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m a klutz.” She laughed. “I’m nervous about graduation.”
“Graduation,” I cried. “It’s tonight!”
“Yep.”
“I can’t wait.” I helped her pick up the silverware.
When everything was back in place, she said, “Is it okay if Waverly and I go river rafting today?”
“Of course. But we have to be dressed and ready to go by five o’clock.”
“Got it. Um . . .” She gazed at the floor.
“What’s wrong?”
She lifted her gaze to meet mine. “I realize having me out of school is a burden.”
“No, it’s not, sweetheart.” I hugged her and stroked her hair. How could I put into words what I was feeling? I loved having her in my life. I adored her energy and her wit. However, if I were to admit it, yes, I was overwhelmed by the responsibility of caring for a teen. Instant mom. There were no courses for that. I needed to make more time for her.
Cinder padded into the kitchen and nudged Candace.
“Hey, fella. You look good.” She scratched his ears. “What about him?”
I gazed at the dog.
“If you’re worried about him,” she said, “he could go next door to Opal’s while you’re working. She adores him. Her mom’s there, too.” My neighbor was a gifted crafter who worked out of her home.
“Great idea.”
“Can I go online until Waverly shows up?” She grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter. “I thought I’d check out Paiute Indians.”
“Why?”
“Tripp Ambrose got me interested. You know I like learning about the history of Lake Tahoe.”
“Okay, but don’t believe everything you read online.”
“Gotcha.”
“And you have to eat more than an apple.”
“Promise.” Candace stopped in the doorway and turned back, her face pinched with worry. “Whoever hurt Cinder won’t do it again, will he?”
I shook my head. The gesture felt hollow.
• • •
I didn’t leave the house until Cinder was safely situated at the neighbor’s and Candace was in the car with Waverly and her mother. The drive to Incline, with the beautiful view of the lake on my right, eased my jangled nerves.
When I entered the detective agency, my aunt offered me a cup of coffee. I didn’t want it. My stomach was sour. Not to mention the temperature outside was already eighty-five degrees. By midafternoon, the weatherman had promised a surge to one hundred. I was glad I’d donned a short-sleeved shirt and shorts.
Max set the coffee down and handed me a photograph and a memo with a name on it. “Today’s job: serve this guy.” Then she gave me a skinny folder.
“So much for ‘Hi, how are you?’” Quickly, I recapped what had happened to Cinder.
“Why didn’t you bring him here?” she asked.
“The cats.”
“Bother. They’ll adjust. I’m the boss. Next time . . .” She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Not that there will be a next time. How are you?”
“Shaken.” I sighed. “Lake Tahoe isn’t proving to be the relaxing environment I’d hoped for.”
“You’re not here on vacation.”
“I know. I suppose it’s like working at Disneyland. If you see what’s behind the magic, then the magic is gone.”
“Exactly.” She directed my attention to the folder. “Back to work.” She never let me have a pity party for longer than a few minutes. I appreciated that. Wallowing wasn’t good for the soul.
I read the label on the folder: Northwest Construction, one of the firm’s biggest clients. “What did the guy do?”
“He didn’t do anything. He’s an accountant for one of Northwest’s competitors and has intel that the competitor’s CEO was skimming. They go down, Northwest’s stock goes up. Loyal to the company, he would like to bow out of a deposition. Deliver this subpoena by the end of the day. Yo
u can find him on Thursdays at this gym.” She handed me another memo. “That’s all I have.” She swept past me, her lavender muumuu swishing as she moved. No idle chitchat, no discussion.
An hour later, after researching crime in Lake Tahoe to see if there were other dog-versus-squirrel incidents—there weren’t—I stepped outside, prepared to do Max’s bidding. To my dismay, a herd of reporters and camerapersons waylaid me by my Jeep. Each reporter shoved a microphone in my direction.
“Miss Adams, can you tell us about the letters Gloria Morning is receiving?” asked a blonde.
“Is it true that Gloria Morning hired you to investigate?” asked the woman next to her.
“How long have you been an investigator?” a third reporter asked.
An oversized man in work shirt, jeans, and boots hustled into the group and knocked me against the side of my car. I tumbled to my bare knees, scraping the right on the pavement. Shoot. So much for thinking I was smart to have worn cooler clothing. The man tore off before I could get a good look at him.
“Does anyone know who that was?” I asked.
No one did. The guy climbed into a navy SUV and ground it into gear. I couldn’t make out the license plate. Was it the same guy who’d run me off the road last night? Had his attack been intentional?
I shook free of the paranoia—lots of people in Tahoe owned blue SUVs. Most likely the guy—an overly eager reporter—was embarrassed that he’d plowed into me. I threw up both hands, done with the onslaught. “No comment. Everyone, shoo!”
With blood trickling down my leg, I climbed into my Jeep and sped off. I’d administer first aid later.
• • •
While hanging outside the gym in Reno waiting for the accountant to emerge, worry coursed through me. Who had written the notes to Gloria? Who had scared my dog? Had the guy who’d shoved me into my Jeep done so as a warning? I touched base with my neighbor to check on Cinder. She told me he was merrily playing with her beagle.
The glass door to the gym swept open and I spotted my target, a world-weary man dressed in a cream-colored suit. He made a beeline for the parking lot.
I ran after him and yelled his name. He peeked over his shoulder, confirming he was who I believed him to be. Quickly, I thrust a document into his hand. “You’ve been served.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Yes, sir, I can and I have.”
He shook his fist and cursed me, but he pocketed the subpoena.
Job completed, I climbed into my Jeep, tended to my knee injury, and then drove back to the office. On the way, I thought of Nick. Had he reviewed the notes yet? If so, why hadn’t he checked in with me?
I telephoned the station. He wasn’t in. I tried his cell. The call went to voice mail. I hung up.
As I was passing Vittorio’s Ristorante—the restaurant had yet to reopen—I noticed dozens of people swarming the area. Some were taking photos of the building. Some had spread out on blankets in the parking lot and were serving up picnics. The ghoulish scene made me shiver. I was ready to step on the gas when I caught sight of Enzo Vittorio smoking a cigarette while answering a KRNV newswoman’s questions.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled to a stop. After all, Finn Ambrose had recruited this guy for his casino’s restaurant and yet Enzo hadn’t mentioned it to the sheriff. Had Nick or his detectives questioned either man since I’d realized the connection?
After parking along the road, I climbed out of my Jeep and gazed at Enzo. His brother had died two nights ago, yet he didn’t appear to be outraged. He seemed composed and in his element. I supposed time, even a few days, could dampen one’s outrage.
Not far from the duo, a middle-aged cameraman was chatting with a redheaded reporter for KTVN. A cluster of people in swimsuits stood nearby, craning an ear, trying to glean whatever gossip they could. I drifted toward the throng.
The cameraman said, “I heard this place underwent all sorts of reconstruction due to the fire six months ago.”
The redhead nodded. “Get this. Tony Vittorio had a fistfight with the owner of Tahoe Bistro across the street. He accused him of starting the fire.”
I eyed the bistro. Like Vittorio’s, it was only opened nights. Its parking lot was empty.
“Bistro Guy swore he didn’t and countered that Tony was stealing customers,” the redhead continued.
“Bet you didn’t hear this,” the cameraman said, lowering his voice. “Tony’s widow was having an affair.”
Was everyone on a first-name basis with Mr. Vittorio, or did murder make everyone feel they knew the deceased?
“With whom?” the redhead asked.
The cameraman whispered the answer.
“No way,” the redhead said.
“Way. Tony wanted to destroy him.”
“Stop these lies!” Enzo Vittorio shot his arms into the air and stomped toward the KTVN team.
Oho. So the man did have emotions. He wasn’t an automaton.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” Enzo bellowed. The reporter he’d been chatting with followed him. “My brother was an honorable man, and his widow is a saint.”
“Did you hear who Tony Vittorio wanted to destroy?” I asked a zaftig woman in a summer cover-up.
“That hotel mogul, Finn Ambrose,” the woman said out of the side of her mouth. “He and Tony used to be partners in a restaurant. Didn’t you see the news this morning? Ambrose was on channel eleven. He claimed he and Tony broke it off and opened their own restaurants, and then Tony tried to damage Ambrose’s business by using a smear campaign, discounting the quality of the products he used and such.”
Whoa. Did Finn Ambrose kill Tony Vittorio in retaliation? Maybe he hoped by getting ahead of the story he could establish his innocence.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” the woman added.
“You don’t like Finn Ambrose?” I asked.
The woman sneered. “He’s as pretty as a peacock and just as arrogant, if you ask me. And his casino is unfair to its gambling patrons.” She thumped her chest. “I should know. I lost a fortune there last night.”
Before I could ask her if she meant the casino’s staff cheated, she called to a woman carrying a cooler and hurried toward the public beach.
Why hadn’t Finn Ambrose given Gloria the scoop about Tony Vittorio’s smear campaign? Was he worried she would nail him about having an affair with Vittorio’s widow? If that rumor were true, perhaps Finn killed Tony so he could marry the widow.
Except, why would he have sent Gloria a note saying he was killing for your glory if he was in love with another woman?
Chapter 16
As I drove to Tahoe City, I reflected on the facts I’d gleaned so far. Finn Ambrose and the dead restaurateur had been rivals. A rumor was circulating that Finn was having an affair with the restaurateur’s widow. Did he murder Tony Vittorio so he could marry the widow? If the same person committed Vittorio’s and Fisher’s murders, as the letters to Gloria indicated, was it possible Finn Ambrose had a connection to Dr. Fisher? Had his ex-wife been a patient? Did I dare ask Heather to reveal another confidence? She had access to the doctor’s patient list.
Yes, I had to. I owed it to Gloria.
I contacted the office and asked Heather if I could drop by. She said of course.
When I strolled into the office, I nearly heaved from the intense odor of Lysol. Heather must have scrubbed every inch of the place. Her face was blotchy and puffy from crying. She removed a scarf from her hair. “I must look a wreck.”
“Why didn’t you hire a cleaning crew?” I asked.
“I wanted to do it. For my mom.”
“Have you visited the therapist I mentioned?”
“I did. I really like her. She’s says crying is normal. She wants me to join a grief group. I’m not a group-type person, so I told her I’d think about it. She did blood tests and put me on medication. She says I might be suffering from depression, which is normal after a shock.” Heather held her h
ands out. “Aspen, I don’t want to take medicine all my life.”
“You won’t have to. She wants to stabilize you. Take the full dose until you see her again, and then map out a plan, okay?”
She nodded. “Hey, what happened to your knee?”
It had swollen and was throbbing, but the bleeding had stopped. The couple of bandages I’d applied were holding. “It’s fine. I fell.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Listen, Heather”—I faltered; how bold could I be?—“the reason I came in today is I’d like to see a roster of patients.”
Heather’s face clouded. “I can’t show it to you.”
“I don’t want to see their files or any of their diagnoses. Just their names. It might help my client, Gloria Morning.” I told her about the notes Gloria had received.
“You think one of my mother’s patients is the murderer?”
“Or someone related to a patient.”
“The sheriff went through the list already.”
“I’d like to have fresh eyes on it, if you’d let me. Just the names,” I reiterated.
Heather slipped out of the room and returned with a printout six pages long, each page containing alphabetized names, last name first, in two columns. As Nick had warned, there were over three hundred patients.
I scanned it. None of the names of Gloria’s coworkers—Jamison, St. John, Flacks, Regent, or Tamblyn—were on the list. Next, I searched for Vittorio. Zilch. Ambrose was also a bust. I sighed. What had I expected, a flashing neon sign? Okay, if I were truthful, I’d held out hope.
Reviewing the list a second time, I noticed what could have been a misprint. “Heather, this patient”—I stabbed the paper with my finger—“Camille John.”
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