I gave her the details of my meeting at Finn Ambrose’s penthouse—the flowers sent to Gloria, the upset fiancée—adding that when I was in his office, I checked a recent printout, hoping to match printer smudges to the notes Gloria had received.
“Zilch.”
“Maybe he cleaned the printer,” Max suggested.
“Possibly.” I recapped my dinner with Sorcha McRae. “She was surprised to learn Finn’s ex-wife was dead. She believed they were divorced and the ex had moved out of town. I’m not sure if Finn lied to her or she inferred something that wasn’t true.”
“You should check that out.”
“I will.”
“Anything else?”
I balked, realizing I hadn’t told her about yesterday’s elevator incident, so I did. Quickly. Making light of it. No harm, no foul. “I survived.”
“Obviously. Did authorities investigate?”
“Sorcha showed up moments after I emerged. She told me the unit had been repaired a week ago and that it was probably a glitch.”
“Did you believe her appearance was coincidental?”
I considered the possibility. “She looked as stunned as I was. I did suspect Jules or Finn, but if it was a glitch—”
“I’m going to have Yaz follow up on this.”
“Here’s an interesting thing.” I held up a finger. “Do you want to talk about coincidence? I saw Camille St. John running from the building as I was exiting the elevator. What if she—”
“No, no, no. I do not see her sabotaging an elevator. It would take insider knowledge. Also, I do not see her writing notes to Gloria. First of all, your note writer wants to protect Gloria, which suggests a man with a noble cause. Secondly, stabbing with a scalpel or knife or scissors is not a woman’s typical MO.”
“Camille has a barbed wire tattoo around her wrist.”
“Many women have tattoos nowadays, even one as edgy as barbed wire.”
“But if Camille has done time, she might know someone she could hire to commit murder.”
Max frowned.
“Gloria thinks Camille isn’t happy with her.” I told my aunt about the DVDs I’d viewed in which Camille had lit into Gloria.
“Lots of bosses are domineering. Take me, for instance.” Max chortled and poured herself more coffee. She nabbed a muffin from the refrigerator and came back to the table. She set her mug down with a clack. “Finn Ambrose. There are a lot of unanswered questions about him. I have not met him and yet I do not like him. What does Nick think? Where is his investigation leading him?”
“We haven’t been able to talk. I stopped by the North Lake Tahoe Station yesterday and saw him with Vaughn Jamison. I think Vaughn’s hands were cuffed.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Ha! Can you see that man wishing to protect Gloria? I think he’d rather see her dead.” Even though my aunt lived in idyllic Lake Tahoe, she watched the news with religious fervor. All the news. Every station. “Why does Vaughn Jamison even have the job? He can barely say a sentence without stumbling.” She bit into her muffin.
“One more thing about Camille.” I held up a finger. “She was Dr. Fisher’s patient. I’m not sure for how long, but it is a connection.”
“Have you asked her about that?”
“Not yet.”
Max frowned. “When was the last time you wrote your case notes?”
“Two days ago.”
“How are you keeping all of this in your head?”
“My mental bandwidth is clogged and my head is about to explode.”
She aimed a finger at me. “Do the notes. It clears the mind.”
“Speaking of which, I’m taking the rest of the day off and going hiking at Cascade Falls with Candace and her friend.”
“Good idea, sugar. You’ve been going full speed.” Max rose and bussed our dishes to the kitchen, then sauntered to her cats and nuzzled each under the chin. “While you chill, I’ll dig into Camille St. John. Be prepared to receive a full dossier by tomorrow.”
• • •
With Norah Jones’s “Come Away With Me” playing in my head, I was feeling calmer as I strolled into the cabin.
Until Candace screamed.
Gwen and Cinder charged inside from the rear porch. “What’s going on?” Gwen yelled at me.
“I’m not sure.” I grabbed a frying pan and raced down the hall, ready to bash whoever might be hurting my niece. I shoved her bedroom door open and gaped. Candace was emitting bloodcurdling screams while pummeling her pillow.
“What’s the matter?” I lowered the frying pan.
“Rory broke up with me. It’s a sex thing. I know it is. I hate him.”
“A sex—”
“I won’t have sex with him.”
Gwen, who was lurking over my shoulder, bit back a laugh.
I elbowed her and whispered, “Go and thanks.”
She saluted and zipped out the front door.
Using the sleeve of her T-shirt, Candace wiped tears off her face. “He’s all sweet and nice, and then wham, he’s ghosting me.”
Cinder slinked into the room and tucked his head under Candace’s hand. Automatically, she ruffled his fur.
I said, “Let’s forget about Rory for now and change into our hiking clothes. It’s girls’ day out. No thoughts of boys. We’ll pack a lunch and pick up Waverly and have fun.”
• • •
As I drove the winding road toward Emerald Bay, the girls couldn’t stop talking about how clever and funny Tripp Ambrose was. The stories he wrote. The jokes he shared. The fact that they were exchanging emails with a boy they barely knew disturbed me. I breathed easier when Candace reminded Waverly that Tripp had a girlfriend. By the time we pulled into a trailhead parking lot next to Bayview Campground, Rory and Tripp were history and the sale at a mall in Reno was the hot topic.
I put a leash on Cinder and led the way along a hillside ridge that was fragrant with pine. When we arrived at Cascade Falls, the girls oohed their approval. Even Cinder barked with glee.
Soon after, we chose a spot that provided a beautiful vantage point of Emerald Bay. As I was laying out a blanket and the contents of the picnic basket, the girls shrieked. I darted to them and peered over the edge, fully expecting to see a dead body sprawled on the cliffs below.
“Is that Vikingsholm?” Waverly jumped up and down, her curly ponytail bouncing in rhythm with the hem of her fluted cropped T-shirt.
I laughed in spite of the stress the girls had put on my heart. Not everything was a matter of life or death, I reminded myself. “No, that’s Fannette Island.”
The only islet in Lake Tahoe stood in the center of Emerald Bay. When I was young, I’d created fantastic tales about pirates inhabiting the island’s miniature castle.
“Vikingsholm is the house that stands on the shore,” I said. “We can’t see it from here.”
“Was it built by Vikings?” Candace asked.
“No. It was built in 1929 by Lora Knight, who, along with her architect, went to Scandinavia for ideas.”
“My aunt is the authority on everything in Lake Tahoe’s history,” Candace said. “Is she cool or what?”
I loved that Candace held me in high regard. I hoped the feeling would last.
Candace clutched Waverly’s hand and herded her toward the hiking trail. “We’re going to pick some wildflowers, Aspen, okay?”
“Watch out for thorns,” I warned and returned with Cinder to the blanket to soak up the sun. As I lay there, eyes closed, I tried to think of something other than murder, like Nick, for instance, lying beside me and running his fingers through my hair.
Cinder nuzzled me. He wanted treats. I fed him and then, pushing thoughts both negative and positive aside, concentrated on my breathing. I would be useless to Gloria if I didn’t regroup.
Unfortunately, my cell phone buzzed, yanking me from my momentary relaxation. I was tempted to ignore the intrusion, but the incessant hum was so unnerving that I answered.
“Wher
e are you?” My aunt sounded out of breath.
“Cascade Falls. I told you—”
“Aha, I see you.” She disconnected and a moment later emerged over the horizon, dressed in a work shirt and denim capris. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her in anything but a muumuu.
Cinder bounded to her. She gave him a hug.
“Max, you shouldn’t be hiking with your bad knees.”
“Once a hiker, always a hiker. A little pain is good for the soul.” Perspiration dripped down her face.
“Please don’t tell me you’re here about work.”
Max plopped onto the blanket, plucked a bottle of water from the cooler, and twisted off the cap. Cinder nestled beside her. “The last two hours produced a ton of juicy info about Camille. Even I was surprised how much people were willing to talk. It must be my charming personality.”
“She did time, right?”
Max guzzled the entire contents of the water bottle in one long pull. “About a year ago, she had a disagreement with an undercover policeman in Reno.”
“About?”
“A fee for sex.”
“She was a prostitute?”
“No. It was a misunderstanding. She believed the guy was hitting on her, and being a little kinky, so she jokingly offered him a discount. The cop had no sense of humor and arrested her. She graced the state of Nevada’s penal system with her presence for a single night.” Max chuckled. “She went to a tattoo parlor the next day to commemorate the event.”
“Which means she has no connection to anybody in jail.”
“Correct, but wait. There’s more.” Max held up a finger. “I checked out florists in the North Lake Tahoe area to locate the company that had delivered flowers on Finn Ambrose’s behalf. That tidbit stimulated my gray cells, if I may borrow from Hercule Poirot.” Max loved Agatha Christie mysteries. “And lo and behold, Floral Wizard delivered the roses from Finn Ambrose that landed on Camille St. John’s desk.”
“Jules Marsh was certain he’d sent flowers to Gloria.”
“If I may continue.” Max cleared her throat. “I also discovered that the same florist delivered roses to Gloria.”
“How’d you learn that?”
“I took in a receipt you scrounged up on your latest garbological expedition. I waved it at the salesgirl and demanded an explanation for a misplaced delivery. She was more than happy to straighten out the mess. She listed all the deliveries made to KINC in the past month.”
“So Finn Ambrose sent flowers to both women? His fiancée is going to have a conniption fit.”
“No, my dear. You rush to conclusions.” Max cackled, a clear signal that she had more gossip. “The salesgirl informed me that Gloria received flowers from none other than Miss Camille St. John.”
I gasped.
“May I?” My aunt picked up a sandwich.
“Be my guest.” I’d made enough for an army of teenage girls. “Maybe she wanted to reward Gloria for doing a good job.”
Max shook her head. “You said that Camille was incensed with Gloria to the point of abusing her.”
“Perhaps she sent them to make nice.”
“With the words ‘I love you’ on the card?”
“No lie?”
Max grabbed a handful of trail mix, picked out a red M&M, and tossed it into her mouth. “I also talked to a disgruntled former female employee at the Golden Sun Spa.”
“You are a locomotive.”
“Aunt Max, what’re you doing here?” Candace hustled toward us and stopped short of the blanket. Waverly trailed her. “Is it about the murders?”
“Candace,” I warned.
She fixed me with a glower, the kind good old Rory wouldn’t want to face. “C’mon, I want to know.”
“This is between Max and me,” I said. “Grab some sandwiches—”
“And go away?” Candace hissed through gritted teeth. “Fine.”
That one word fine expressed all her teenage anger better than any other. After the girls foraged in the hamper, they trudged away.
“A curious mind is a good thing,” Max said.
“Don’t encourage her. Go on.”
“Allegedly Camille hit on the former employee.”
“Do you think Gloria rebuffed Camille and hurt her feelings?”
“If so, why not kill Gloria? Has she not mentioned the flowers or Camille’s advances?”
I shook my head. Was Gloria embarrassed, or did she return Camille’s affection? Was that the real reason Beau and she had broken up?
“Have you ruled out Gloria writing the notes to herself?” Max asked.
I considered the notion. Enzo Vittorio suggested that Gloria was fanciful and Beau intimated that Gloria had emotional problems. What if she did like Camille and fabricated the notes because she’d seen Camille hanging on Beau? The notion sounded absurd.
“No, the notes are specific to the murders. Gloria is not a killer. We’re missing something.”
Max chugged another bottle of water. “Sugar, I’ll keep working the issue. As for you? Enjoy those girls. You don’t have much time left before they’re adults. The doubts will be here tomorrow.” She handed me a tuna sandwich and struggled to her feet. “Eat. You’ll need your energy. This killer will strike again. Count on it.”
Chapter 26
An hour later, I phoned the station, eager to tell Nick what my aunt and I had discovered, but after learning that he’d gone home, I decided to pay him a neighborly visit. I dropped the girls at Waverly’s house and drove on. Sensing my mood, Cinder poked his head over the edge of my seat. I petted his nose and cooed, “I’m fine, boy. Settle down.” Loath to leave him at home, I’d taken him along for the ride.
The sun was setting, casting long dark shadows across the road. By the time I reached Nick’s cabin, the sun had set. His cabin, similar in size and shape to mine, had a deck that circled the house. On it were cedar rockers and chairs that he’d made. He was quite an amateur craftsman.
I climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the door.
Glass smashed inside, then a woman screamed, “You jerk.”
Nick yelled, “Sit there. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Not prepared to be in the middle of whatever this was, I retreated toward the Jeep.
But Nick was quick. He whipped open the door and said, “Yeah, what?” When I spun to face him, he said, “Oh, geez, Aspen, sorry.” He peeked over his shoulder and back at me. He tucked the tails of his striped shirt into his jeans and swept a hand through his hair.
“Natalie,” he went on. “She got fired and fell off the wagon.”
Natalie, who had the same bone structure and piercing eyes as Nick, appeared over his shoulder. I’d met her a couple of times. She’d always been in good shape. Today, however, her lipstick was smeared and mascara marred her cheeks. Even from the base of the steps, I caught the odor of whiskey. I was embarrassed to be a witness to her downfall. If I could have found a rock to crawl under, I would have.
Nick turned to his sister and nudged her with his hand. “Wait in the kitchen for me, okay, Nat? Drink some water.” Then he walked onto the porch and shut the door. “What’s up?” His voice was hoarse with exhaustion.
“I wanted to discuss the case. I have some ideas—”
“Save it. We arrested Vaughn Jamison for the murder of Tony Vittorio, Kristin Fisher, and Miranda Tejeda.”
“Why?”
“When he was serving in Iraq—”
“He served?”
“Yep. And he had quite a scuffle with another soldier. It involved knives. The guy lived. Jamison was discharged. Plus he’s left-handed.”
“Why kill Tony Vittorio?”
“Vittorio pulled the plug on Jamison’s interview with him and rescheduled it with Gloria Morning.”
“Don’t you think he would have been mad at Gloria, thinking she’d scooped him, rather than Tony Vittorio? Also, his wife wasn’t a patient of Dr. Fisher’s. She gave birth in Fresn
o, before they moved here.”
“Wrong. Turns out his wife moved to Lake Tahoe before he did. In fact, that’s why he took the job at KINC. Mrs. Jamison was a patient of Dr. Fisher’s.”
“I didn’t see her name on Dr. Fisher’s patient roster.”
“Who gave you permission to check?” He arched an eyebrow.
I flinched at the challenge but kept mum.
“She goes by her maiden name,” Nick said. “Seems she had a bad run with the doc and lost a baby girl. A preemie.”
Was that the preemie Heather had mentioned?
“And there’s one more piece to the puzzle,” Nick went on. “Vaughn Jamison’s name was on the visitors’ log at the Truckee Hospital a few weeks ago. His daughter twisted her ankle. So he could have swiped the scalpel.”
“What about his connection to Miranda Tejeda?”
“His daughter—the same one—goes to school at Mt. Rose Elementary.”
If the principal at Mt. Rose had granted me more time, I might have discovered that tidbit on my own.
“Was the child Tejeda’s student?” I asked. “Was she challenged? Did Tejeda bully her or hold her back?”
“Look, sweetheart, we have his hair at Vittorio’s restaurant, too, and we have trace evidence from the restaurant in his car.”
“What evidence do you have from the doctor’s office or the school?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Doesn’t he have an alibi for any of those times?”
Nick sighed. “He was running on Friday morning. No witnesses. He was driving to clear his head Monday afternoon. Again, no witnesses. And he was home alone on Thursday night. His family went to visit his mother-in-law.”
“So the guy has bad luck.”
“Or opportune timing.”
My jaw ticked with tension. “I think Vaughn Jamison is the wrong guy. The notes the killer sent to Gloria claimed he wanted to protect her. Vaughn wouldn’t do that. He and she have a contentious relationship.”
“Truth?” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “The DA doesn’t think the notes have anything to do with the murders.”
“You think the author of the notes is making lucky guesses?” I exhaled sharply. “C’mon, Nick, that’s turning a blind eye. Gloria—”
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