“Oops. That’s a mistake.” Heather placed a hand on her chest. “It should read Camille St. John. The program I used must have considered the St. a middle name. She should be listed in the S’s or removed entirely. She’s no longer a patient. She found another doctor over a year ago.”
“Camille suggested that Gloria Morning interview your mother.”
“Yes, I believe she did.”
“So there was no bad blood between them?”
“Bad blood?”
“Was Miss St. John healthy?” I asked.
“She’s a vegetarian. She—” Heather blinked, her eyes widening in understanding. “Oh, I see. You want to know whether she would have blamed my mother if she had misdiagnosed something female-related pertaining to Miss St. John? Let me check.” She withdrew a file from the shelves and flipped through it. She frowned. “Miss St. John is, um, unable to bear a child, but I doubt she would have blamed my mother for that. The file says she had known her situation for years.”
I gave up on the connection to KINC employees and said, “Without revealing any names”—I didn’t want Heather to get in legal trouble—“could you tell me whether any patient had a miscarriage or died in your mother’s care?”
Heather searched her memory. “There was one accidental death because of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist is under investigation for that one, not my mother. There was one preemie death, but that couldn’t be helped. Its heart hadn’t formed.” She tapped her jaw. “There were two miscarriages, but both of those women got pregnant afterward. No reason for them to hold a grudge against my mother. Miscarriages are common.”
I reviewed the list of names one more time and, except for the fact that Camille St. John had been a patient, discovered nothing new. I thanked Heather and headed out.
The moment I reached my car, I recalled that Heather’s last name didn’t match her mother’s. Hers was Bogart; her mother’s was Fisher. How many on my suspect list had sisters with different surnames or wives who’d retained their maiden names or mothers who had remarried? The number grew exponentially.
I dialed Gloria. When she answered, after a brief hello I launched into my questions. “Was Tom ever married?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Does he have a sister or mother or significant other who lives in the Tahoe area?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I’m trying to find something to link the Vittorio murder to the Fisher murder and wondering if someone who had a beef with Tony Vittorio might have had a loved one who was a dissatisfied patient of Dr. Fisher’s.”
“Tom didn’t have a beef with Tony Vittorio.”
“Right.” I pressed on. “What’s Beau’s sister’s name?”
“Stacy. Simmons. They’re twins. She lives in Arizona.”
I jotted down the information. The surname didn’t sound like one I’d seen on the doctor’s list, but I didn’t have a photographic memory.
“Beau didn’t have a beef with Tony, either.”
“Beau might have been jealous of him.”
“Jealous? Don’t be ridi—”
“Gloria, he’s territorial. If he felt Mr. Vittorio was hitting on you—”
She sighed. “Beau is not a killer.”
“Rick was your cameraman at Dr. Fisher’s interview. Do you know if he—”
“Rick.” Gloria snorted. “He couldn’t hurt a fly. He saves spiders and releases them into the wild.”
Was she going to rebut every theory I had? “Did you know Tony Vittorio and Finn Ambrose were rivals?”
She snorted again. “Get out of here.”
“Ambrose gave an exclusive to channel eleven earlier and said Tony Vittorio used smear tactics to try to destroy the reputation of one of Ambrose’s restaurants.”
“Channel eleven?”
Was that her only takeaway from my news?
I told her I wanted to meet with her tomorrow and suggested that she review her datebook, her list of acquaintances, and her past relationships, searching for anyone who might harbor a deep passion or hatred for her. She agreed.
After setting the time, I ended the call and sat idling in the Jeep wondering why Gloria had mocked all my theories and why she hadn’t known about Finn Ambrose’s contentious relationship with Tony Vittorio. Hadn’t she done her homework? She was nothing if not thorough.
Was there something else she was hiding?
Chapter 17
An hour later, I picked up Cinder at Opal’s and walked him home. He was happy and content. So why did I feel like I was a bad pet mother? Because the sight of him trapped beneath the porch bench would haunt me for a long time.
When Cinder settled onto his pillow, I addressed the pain in my knee. After an ice pack and a couple of Advil dulled the pain, I sat down at the makeshift office in the dining room to review email and quickly realized the one thing Candace hadn’t done this morning was turn off the computer—a requirement. Worse yet, she hadn’t logged off the Internet. Typical teenager. While I prided myself on being open to technology, I valued an individual’s right to privacy and worried about creeps that hacked into computers.
To be safe, I accessed Candace’s account—one of our agreements—and reviewed her incoming emails, which included a few from museums as well as generic sites offering free ebooks. One email from Rorycrazyman caught my eye. So did the last entry, TrippA. Candace hadn’t mentioned exchanging email addresses with Finn Ambrose’s son. I opened the email and breathed a little easier. Tripp had shared a list of websites for Paiute Indians. Nothing more.
I logged off, stood up, and stretched.
Cinder, knowing my work was complete, scampered in circles, then sat and lifted his paw. I offered him a dog biscuit, which he wolfed down, and we headed out for a short walk without a leash.
Whenever I hiked in the fragrant woods, I breathed easier, imagining myself living in the time when my Washoe ancestors experienced Lake Tahoe free of tourists. For ten minutes, I relished the calm, until a squirrel leaped from a tree and Cinder took off after it, yapping as the rodent scrambled up the side of another tree. So much for peace and quiet, I mused, but I was happy that my dog, after his horrific experience, was not terrified of the critters.
On the way home, I noticed a carving at the base of a tree—an Indian with a spear standing over a female lying flat on the ground. A shiver ran down my back. Candace had told Tripp that we lived in Homewood. Had he shared that information with his father? Did Finn Ambrose, worried that I might figure out his connection to the murders, track down where I lived, taunt my dog, and leave the carving as a warning to back off on my investigation?
Ridiculous. How could he be certain that I’d pass that particular tree? I shook my head. Paranoia, as they say, lived in all of us.
Paranoia aside, however, when I returned to the cabin, I decided to take Mr. Ambrose up on his offer to get to know him better. I set an appointment to meet the next day.
• • •
At half past four, Candace rushed in. “I’m home.”
“You’re cutting it close.” I was already dressed in my aqua blue sheath. I ticked a to-do list off on my fingers. “Shower. Hair. Dress. In the car in thirty.”
“What about Cinder?”
“He’s going with us. The ceremony is outside. No one should have qualms about him accompanying us.”
On the drive to school, Candace begged me to let her go with Waverly and her father to Virginia City tomorrow. They were going to take the Pony Express tour. Her excitement was infectious. How could I say no?
Graduation went off without a hitch. Candace had worn the yellow summer dress we’d bought last week. With her hair blown dry and a touch of lip gloss, she sparkled. In the procession, Waverley, because her surname was near the end of the alphabet, was situated as far from Candace as possible. She, too, had worn a summer frock. A week ago, the girls had chatted to make sure they didn’t buy the same dress or, heaven forbid, a dress of the same color. Rory was not pres
ent. He had gone on a short vacation with his family and would return tomorrow. It was the only time his father could get away. Candace confided that a travel memory was more important to Rory’s parents than an eighth-grade graduation ceremony.
Cinder was the perfect gentleman, sitting by my side without a yip or a bark. Nick slipped in just as the procession began and apologized that he couldn’t stay long. He and Detective King had a lead on the Vittorio murder. Max attended along with Darcy and Yaz, who were a study in contrasts. Darcy, who had big eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a wide mouth, had dressed as if she were meeting a judge. Yaz, who, although he’d once served as a buttoned-down marine, was as flamboyant as his art deco shirts and had recently changed his orange hairstyle into a two-tone Mohawk. Everyone joined in the applause as Candace crossed the stage.
In less than forty-five minutes, the principal spoke, a student sang a rousing version of “The Star Spangled Banner,” and all of the students received their diplomas. After the ceremony, the school provided a lovely reception with ice tea, lemonade, and treats.
All through our celebratory barbecue dinner Candace talked about how happy she was to be living with me and heading to high school in the fall. As I nestled into bed, I reviewed the evening, treasuring that Candace and I could share such a wonderful event in the midst of all the drama.
• • •
Friday morning, Candace hurried to the breakfast table and wolfed down eggs and toast. Before Waverly arrived, she dressed in cutoffs and a Lake Tahoe T-shirt and offered to take Cinder to the neighbor’s house—Opal was willing to watch him again until I figured out a better daytime option.
When Waverly and her father arrived, Candace blew me a kiss and tore out of the house. Oh, to have that kind of energy.
I showered and dressed in a red shell and white capris—it was going to be another blisteringly hot day—and then I drove to South Lake Tahoe, taking Highway 28 past Emerald Bay. I arrived at Ambrose Alley by midmorning. The casino’s sparkling silver-and-onyx trim made it look like a gigantic gift box. Massive potted palms guarded the entrance. Uniformed attendants hurried to assist patrons.
Inside, business was booming. I worried that the older casinos on the main drag would suffer. On the other hand, if what the zaftig woman outside Vittorio’s Ristorante had said about Ambrose Alley was true, then Finn Ambrose might not win over South Lake Tahoe gamblers so easily. The new shiny toy might be more attractive at first, but shiny didn’t last forever. Fairness mattered.
The lobby’s bright lights screamed Wake up to all who entered. Rock music, heavy on the bass, thumped tirelessly. The crimson décor didn’t appeal to me—it was over the top—but patrons seemed to find it invigorating.
At the reception desk, a young woman greeted me with a frenetic smile. I hitched my tote higher on my shoulder and gave her my name. I said I had an appointment with Mr. Ambrose. She held up a finger and asked me to wait. Seconds later, she apologized. Mr. Ambrose was busy. However, his head of security would be more than happy to meet with me. She acted like I should be as pleased as punch. I wasn’t.
As I waited for the guy to appear, I glimpsed an oversized man in work shirt and jeans darting around the corner. He resembled the bruiser who’d plowed into me outside Vittorio’s. Did he work at the casino?
Before I could pursue him, a formidable thirty-something with long blue-black hair dressed in black leather jacket, black jeans, and tooled black cowboy boots exited the elevator and strode in my direction. She had a slight limp but covered it with grace. Her intense gaze never wavered.
“Miss Adams, how nice to meet you. I’m Sorcha McRae, Mr. Ambrose’s head of security.”
A female. Interesting. Finn Ambrose was an equal opportunity employer.
“Miss McRae,” I said, hand extended. Luckily my knee was feeling better and my limp undetectable. Otherwise, the woman might have thought I was making fun of her as I moved toward her. We shook hands.
“Please, call me Sorcha. May I call you Aspen?”
I nodded. “Sorcha is an unusual name.”
“It’s Gaelic. It means radiant. When I was born, I had a halo of blonde hair, if you can believe that.” She smiled easily. “Mr. Ambrose—Finn—is truly sorry he couldn’t meet with you. There’s a huge Asian tourism convention coming soon. He’s in a meeting with the coordinators.” She motioned to a cluster of comfortable-looking gray couches. “Why don’t we sit over there and chat?”
“How about you give me a tour of the casino instead?”
“Sure.” She led me through the area that was equipped with one-armed bandits, blackjack tables, and bars.
As we strolled along a black-carpeted wing of the casino teeming with high-end shops, I said, “What did you do before your employment with Mr. Ambrose, Sorcha?”
“You can call him Finn. He’s a casual guy. And what makes you think I haven’t always worked for him?” She grinned, clearly toying with me. “Prior to this job, I was a cop in San Francisco. I had an accident and”—she paused—“I left the force.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. Perhaps the reason for them would explain the limp. “Fortunately, Finn knew my father. When he learned of my situation, he offered me this job.” She led me through another hallway, flanked by hotel offices. “You’re a PI, aren’t you?”
“I work in a PI firm. I have a ways to go before I’m official.”
“You’ve got to start somewhere. When I left the force, I considered opening a private detective agency, but this opportunity came along first. So, what did you want to talk to Finn about?”
“You’ve heard about the Tony Vittorio murder, I assume?”
“Yes, two men from the Placer County Sheriff’s Office came by yesterday, wishing to speak with Finn. Detective Sergeant Shaper and his associate, Detective Hernandez.” She pressed a button and summoned an elevator. The door opened and we stepped inside. After she pressed a security code and the elevator started to ascend, she continued. “What a tragedy.”
“I assume Nick Shaper questioned Mr. Ambrose . . . Finn . . . as to his whereabouts at the time of the murder?”
Sorcha hesitated. “Finn couldn’t meet. He had a flurry of meetings.”
Finn had to be cocky or stupid to put off Nick.
“Did you answer for him?” I asked. I didn’t add, as you’re doing for him now.
“Yes. We discussed the relationship between Finn and Tony as well as the hiring of Tony’s brother.”
“How about Finn’s wife? Was she available for questioning?” I asked, searching for a deeper understanding of why Tripp Ambrose had been so vague about his mother.
“Finn’s wife divorced him some time ago. She doesn’t live in town.”
“Does Tripp see her often?”
“I have no idea.”
As the elevator doors opened, I said, “I heard that Tony Vittorio had a long-standing feud with Mr. Ambrose . . . with Finn.”
Sorcha didn’t move. “No, he didn’t. That was a publicity stunt. They figured if people thought there was a feud, more customers would flock to both restaurants to see what the ruckus was about.” The elevator doors began to close. She shot out her arm to hold them at bay. “Finn and Tony spoke often. They shared a good laugh about the hubbub they were stirring up. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“I also heard that Finn had an affair with Vittorio’s widow.”
“Ha! Finn said you were a woman who gets to the point. Rumors are like fire, Aspen, easily dismissed if there’s no smoke. He’s not having an affair with the widow. He’s engaged to be married to a wonderful woman.” Sorcha stepped out of the elevator and motioned like a tour guide. “This is The Vista, Ambrose Alley’s premier restaurant.”
“The one Enzo Vittorio will oversee?”
“Yes. Soon.”
I gazed at the leather banquettes, chrome-and-glass tables, and plate glass windows providing a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree view of the lake. “It’s beautiful.”
Sorcha crossed the lush carpet
to a window with the view of the western side of Lake Tahoe. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s not just beautiful; it’s breathtaking.”
“Why isn’t it located on the top floor?”
“Finn reserved that site for his residence.”
Pricey digs, I mused.
“Follow me,” Sorcha said. “We’ll get the chef to prepare a snack.” She pressed through a swinging door and stopped cold.
Finn Ambrose stood at the chopping block in the middle of the room, wielding a meat clever. Surrounding him were a number of Asian men and women all focused on the pile of beef lying on the wood block. Finn tossed the cleaver between his hands, and when it was once again in his left, he slammed it into the meat. The visitors oohed collectively, as if the slab had been vanquished.
When Finn caught sight of Sorcha and me, his gaze turned dark. He set the cleaver aside and, with a towel, dabbed at the meat juice that had spattered onto his black-themed floral shirt and taupe trousers. Why hadn’t he donned an apron?
“Hello, Miss Adams.” He wiped his hands and crossed the room to greet us.
“Finn,” Sorcha sputtered, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were here.”
“My guests wanted a demonstration.” He winked at me. “I used to be quite a chef. Self-made. No official training.” He made a magnanimous gesture. “Give us a minute, will you? I want to see my guests out.”
As he led the group toward the kitchen’s exit, my cell phone vibrated in the outside pocket of my tote.
I answered after one pulse.
“Aspen?” Gloria sounded breathy. Panicked. “There’s been another murder.”
Chapter 18
“Who was killed?” I said into the cell phone as I dashed out of the kitchen, registering the shock on Finn and Sorcha’s faces.
“Miranda Tejeda, a schoolteacher.”
“When?” I ran across the dining room to the elevator and punched the Down button.
“Late last night. She was stabbed. With scissors. Someone found her an hour ago.”
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