Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Aren’t there some eco-groups up in arms about you spoiling the area?” I happened to know the Washoe tribe wasn’t keen on anyone scrambling over what they considered a sacred site. A century ago, Indian religious ceremonies had taken place inside the largest of the caves.

  “They don’t mind us. We don’t use any tools. And if we climb, we only use toeholds and fingerholds. That’s the natural way. You’ve got to see the caverns. Some of the stalactites are incredible.” Laila mimed the tapered structures with her hands. “There are red and yellow ones—those are the ones with iron. The white ones are made up of calcium carbonate stuff. I go sometimes by myself, you know, before work. It’s like a spiritual awakening.”

  If allowed, I’d bet Laila would talk for hours about her adventures, but I had more urgent business. “Do you think if you saw the guy who gave you the note again, you’d recognize him?”

  She tugged on her earrings again. “You know, it could’ve been a woman who hired me.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Laila tapped her head. “The voice. It was husky and sounded forced like he was putting on an English accent.”

  The hinges on the wooden door squeaked and Laila jumped. “Hey, boss.” She stood at attention.

  A Dolly Parton look-alike, dressed in western garb and what I hoped were fake pistols in the holster hanging around her hips, stepped outside and stared at Laila with open hostility.

  Laila sputtered. “I was just saying goodbye.”

  Chapter 30

  I left Laila and her boss to hash it out and drove to Incline Bowl. In the parking lot, I squeezed between a forest green Navigator and midnight blue TrailBlazer, both big enough to carry a slew of kids. The bumper sticker on the Navigator read Cavemen do it better. On the TrailBlazer: Stop abortion or else. Seeing them made me recall the SUV that had almost run me off the road the other night. At the time, I’d considered the near miss an accident. Had it been on purpose? Vaughn Jamison drove a Tahoe blue SUV. Gloria might have let slip where I lived. Had he been lying in wait for me because I was helping her? Had he taunted my dog? If he’d hired Laila, that could add one more checkmark to what Nick already considered a closed case.

  I strode into the bowling alley and took a moment to orient myself. The throbbing clatter of balls rolling and pins falling reminded me of times as a kid when I’d bowled with my dad. We would drink soda, eat popcorn, and laugh a ton. My mother wouldn’t go along because she hated the noise, but when we got home, she begged for a play-by-play account. How I missed them.

  Half of the twenty lanes were in use. In the farthest lane, a man with the zeal of a convert bowled by himself. Zoom—the balls sped down the polished wood. Smash—the pins fell. In a room to my right, bells clanged as kids played old-fashioned pinball machines and stereophonic video games. A dozen grammar school–aged children wearing party hats sat at a long narrow table. No doubt about it. The bowling alley was a cash cow.

  As I moved toward the bar area, I spotted an odd twosome on the center lane. Beau was cheering on Tom, who had just rolled a last-frame strike. For two guys reluctant to acknowledge each other’s existence at work, they seemed quite buddy-buddy on a Sunday. After finishing his set, Tom let his bowling ball return into the turnaround and staggered up the stairs in my direction while fetching his wallet from his left rear pocket.

  I stole into the bar, slid onto a stool, pulled a bowl of peanuts toward me, and studied an appetizer menu. I didn’t plan to eat anything, but I didn’t want Tom to know I’d seen him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I kept tabs on him. He moved to the counter, slightly off-balance, and thumped his fist on it.

  “Barkeep.” Judging by Tom’s bear-like size, I had trouble believing that he could have been the person who had given Laila the note. Even hunched in a booth, he wouldn’t look five-foot-six. But Laila had admitted to having too much to drink. Everything she’d said about the person who’d hired her could be off the mark.

  The bartender wiped his hands on a stained towel. “I should cut you off, Tom.”

  “But you won’t.”

  The bartender, who by the look of his red-veined face was a regular imbiber himself, said, “The usual?”

  Tom nodded.

  “You and Beau are going to float out of here.” The bartender filled a pair of plastic cups with Budweiser from the tap and set them on the counter. “Nine bucks.”

  “Keep the change.” Tom tossed a ten-dollar bill at him. As he gathered his drinks, he spotted me. “Hey, there, Miss Private Eye.”

  I turned and acted surprised to see him. “Hi, Tom. Funny seeing you here.”

  “We’re playing some frames. Care to join?” Tom tucked his Cavers Rock T-shirt into his jeans and ran his fingers through his chaotic mass of salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m trying to break my high of one ninety.”

  “Is that Beau with you?” I asked, looking toward the alleys.

  “Yeah, him and me, we play once a week to blow off steam. C’mon, roll a few with us.”

  “Uh, I don’t bowl,” I lied, fearing that if I beat them I might hurt their egos. My father had been a good teacher.

  “Are you doing PI stuff?” Tom took a sip of his beer.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. I want to find out if anyone saw a guy ask a young woman to make a delivery to Gloria.”

  Tom didn’t blink. In fact, his face filled with concern. “This thing with Gloria, is it serious?”

  “This thing?”

  Tom sighed, his fondness for Gloria unmistakable. “The notes. Does the sheriff really think the killer is writing them? Gloria is freaked out.”

  “I’m taking them seriously.”

  “The sheriff isn’t?”

  “It’s debatable.”

  “I heard they hauled in Vaughn Jamison. Wrong guy, if you ask me.” He leaned closer to impart a secret. “Beau wants to marry her.”

  “I heard they broke up,” I said. “He might be seeing Camille.”

  “Uh-uh. That woman would eat him alive. He’s not crazy.” He took another sip of his beer. “Maybe you’ve seen Camille making eyes at him, but there’s no reciprocation. Trust me. I’d know.”

  Okay, I was confused. Was Tom in love with Gloria or Camille? Or both?

  “Does Camille have something going on with Finn Ambrose?” I asked.

  “Heck no. That lily-livered—” He stopped short. “Him and his silk shirts and his oily voice.”

  “What about between Gloria and him?” I prepared myself for what could be an explosive response.

  “No way.” Tom moved closer, towering over me, the left side of his face twitching.

  “So I found out this delivery person”—I hoped to rein in the conversation—“worked for a company here in Incline.”

  Tom ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “I don’t understand why this note-writing dude would pay a messenger.”

  “Anonymity.”

  From the lanes, Beau yelled, “Hey, Tom, let’s get this game going. I’ve got a schedule to keep.” He didn’t acknowledge me. I noticed that his speech was more slurred than Tom’s.

  “Gotta go, Aspen. I’ll catch up to you later.”

  “Wait, Tom. Um, where were you last Thursday night?” The night Miranda Tejeda died.

  “Guarding a cave, why?”

  “Guarding?”

  “Yeah, bats need privacy if they’re going to survive, and there are a lot of gung-ho amateur cavers who don’t understand that. I took the six-to-ten shift.”

  “You were there alone?”

  “Yeah. A buddy I cave with took the ten-to-two. I gotta go.” Tom hooked his thumb, grabbed Beau’s beer, and moseyed back to the alley.

  The bartender drew near and set a napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be?”

  Sure, now he was interested in my order. “Soda with lime.” I offered my most winning smile. “You know Tom and Beau?”

  “Without them, my little girl wouldn’t have braces.” He laughed.
>
  I did, too, eager to bond with him. “So what schedule does Beau have to keep?”

  “He’s got a second job. At the Black Hawk Saloon Mondays and Tuesdays.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Nah. He’s just giving Tom a hard time.”

  I laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “Why does Beau need another job?”

  “To help his sister with her kid.”

  “He’s a saint.”

  “Yeah, he is. Her flaky boyfriend ran out on her.” The bartender spritzed some soda into a glass filled with ice, tossed a wedge of lime on top, slid the drink toward me, and then made change for my twenty. “He doesn’t earn enough at the studio. Tells me he’s real ticked at the ice princess for that.”

  “His producer, Camille St. John?”

  “Yep. If Beau gets another gig that doesn’t task his brain, can you blame him? He makes three or four hundred per night. He’s a single guy, so he can do it. My wife wants me working days.”

  “Does Beau come in here a lot?” My mouth ached from smiling.

  “Him and Tom, the dynamic duo. Sometimes I have to kick them out. They can get a little rowdy.”

  A disgusting notion hit me. Was their feud at work an act? Could Beau and Tom be committing murder together? Was driving Gloria insane their aim?

  Honestly, Aspen. Get real.

  “Do you know a girl named Laila Walton?” I asked.

  The bartender winked. “She’s a fun time.”

  “You dated her?”

  “Nah! I don’t step out on the missus.” He held his palms up in defense. “I just mean Laila’s always laughing, a real prankster. Why’re you asking about her?”

  “I’m a friend of her parents,” I lied. “They want to know who she dates, what kind of trouble she gets into, that sort of thing.”

  “She’s of age.” He wiped down the bar, avoiding eye contact.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Then she’s got a fake ID.”

  I pointed over my shoulder. “She was in here a week ago Friday. Sitting in one of those booths by a divider. She said some guy in a Hawaiian shirt offered her a courier job. Nothing illegal. Know who it might’ve been?”

  The bartender shook his head, stymied. “We’re real busy on Fridays. Lots of guys are here. Could’ve been Tom or Beau or any of those guys from KINC. They all wear Hawaiian shirts on occasion.”

  “Do all of them bowl?”

  “Yeah, Vaughn, Rick.”

  That confirmed that Vaughn frequented the bowling alley and might have been the person who’d hired Laila.

  “Heck, even Gloria comes in to bowl occasionally,” the bartender went on. “I don’t think she bowls very well, though. I think she’s afraid of breaking a nail.”

  My cell phone rang. It was Nick. “I’ve got to take this.”

  The bartender gave me a nod and moved away.

  Nick said, “We need to talk. Your cabin in an hour.” He hung up. No debate.

  My shoulders slumped. He didn’t sound even close to an apology.

  Chapter 31

  As I drove through Tahoe City, a sea of dark clouds gathered above the crest of mountains on the Nevada side. My insides felt as gloomy. My cell phone rang. Camille was on the phone. I answered hands-free.

  Before I could say hello, she railed at me, “You went to Nevada or Bust.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that? I told you everything.”

  “Because I wanted to meet the delivery girl and find out who hired her.”

  “Her boss is ticked off. She gave me an earful. So I’m giving you one. Back off. Gloria does not need your help.”

  “When Gloria tells me that herself, I’ll stop my investigation. And not before.” I ended the call.

  My cell phone rang again. I scanned the readout. Not Camille. Sorcha McRae was calling.

  I answered.

  “Sorry I left in a huff the other night. You didn’t deserve that.” Her words came out staccato, awkward, as if she’d never uttered an apology. “I talked to Finn and he admitted that his wife was dead. He asked why I’d thought she was alive, and I said he’d implied that she was, by talking about her in the present. That surprised him. He said he’s always been candid about it. His ex-wife had an illness. An infection. Tripp was torn up about it. So I guess that explains it.”

  Not really, but I didn’t press. Instead, I pursued another thread. “Did you know Finn sent flowers to Camille St. John as well as Gloria Morning?” I told her how Jules had been upset, wondering to whom he’d sent flowers. Even accusing Tripp of doing so on his behalf.

  “He’s a magnanimous guy. He loves to spoil women. What can I say?” She chuckled. “The life of a PI. It’s definitely more exciting than being a security guard at a casino. Listen, back to the other night—”

  “Forget about it. Water under the bridge.” I turned into my driveway. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  As I pulled to a stop, I spotted Nick standing to one side of the cabin, staring up at the sky, hands jammed into his pockets. I hopped out of the Jeep, shoulders back, chin held high, ready for whatever he was going to hurl at me.

  He pivoted and strode toward me, hand extended. “Truce.”

  To say I was surprised was an understatement. “Why do we need a truce?” I asked, caution leading the way.

  “Because we do.”

  “Is that what was so urgent?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook his hand, appreciating its warmth. “Truce.”

  We stood silent for a long moment, gazing into each other’s eyes. A shrieking bird broke the spell.

  “Got a beer for a humble public servant?” Nick asked.

  I couldn’t fetch a Heineken fast enough and hurried inside. “Want a snack?” I asked while pouring a glass of chardonnay for myself.

  “Sure. Where is everybody?” Standing in the kitchen doorway, he peeked down the hall.

  “Candace and Cinder are on a date with Candace’s boyfriend and the boy’s older sister and Waverly.”

  “Safety in numbers.”

  “Exactly.”

  I put together a plate of cheese, grapes, and seasoned crackers, and ushered Nick to the porch. For a moment, neither of us said anything. I enjoyed the skittering of the squirrels and the breeze thrumming the trees. The knots in my shoulders loosened a bit. My jaw relaxed, too.

  “Looks like rain tonight.” Nick took a swig of his beer.

  “Sure does.”

  As if on cue, lightning lit up the sky. Seconds later, thunder cracked.

  “Want to go back inside?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Rain is a ways off. Fill me in on everything you’ve learned to date.”

  “Why? You’ve arrested Vaughn Jamison. You’ve got your man.”

  “C’mon. You’ve done your due diligence. You deserve to be heard. Bring me up to speed. Just in case I’m wrong.”

  I took a sip of wine and briefed him about Tom and Beau and their rivalry at work, their feelings for Gloria, and my shock at seeing them bowling together.

  “Guys are different from women,” Nick said. “They can fight about the stupidest things, call each other vile names, and remain friends. Next?”

  I filled him in on the delivery person, Laila Walton.

  “Do you want to know my gut reaction?” Nick said. “Tom is your note writer, and Laila is your best bet in proving it.”

  “She said the guy was shorter than Tom.”

  “You said it yourself. He could have hunched down, and he’s obviously in love with Gloria.”

  I set my wineglass on the table. “As for Camille St. John, she could have tucked her hair beneath a cap and lowered her voice. Laila said the English accent sounded put on.” I told him about her tattoo and her anger at me for asking her about her relationship with Dr. Fisher. When I mentioned the flowers and the love note that she might have sent to Gloria, Nick cut in.

  “The florist could have made a
mistake or the receptionist could have gotten the recipient wrong.”

  “I’ll cede the point. How about this little tidbit?” I tapped the table. “Tripp Ambrose, Finn’s son, claims to have an older girlfriend living in Incline. What if it’s Camille?”

  “What difference would it make if he were having a fling with her? That doesn’t throw a spotlight on his father.”

  “Tripp visited us last night.”

  “Here?” Nick stiffened. “How’d he get your address?”

  “The girls were online with him. One of them must have let it slip.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet he was lying about the older girlfriend so Candace and Waverly would feel comfortable. My bet, he likes one of them.” He sandwiched together a bite of cracker and cheese and polished it off.

  I told him about the intriguing lamp Tripp had lugged with him. “It makes me sad how his father ignores him. The kid has talent.”

  Rain leaked from the sky. I grabbed the snacks and my wine and ducked into the kitchen. Nick followed me. I set the food on the counter as rain began to drum the rooftop. Hard. Harder. I considered calling Candace but knew she was smart enough to get in the car and head home.

  Loving the nearness of Nick, I didn’t move. I launched into my meeting with Finn in his penthouse suite. I replayed the interaction between Jules and Tripp.

  “Sounds more like a soap opera than a day in the life of Lake Tahoe.” Nick plucked a grape from the cluster on the platter. “You should submit it to Sob Digest.”

  “Ha-ha.” I recounted my dinner with Sorcha and the alibis she offered on behalf of Finn. “If he drove Tripp to his AA meetings, he easily could have driven away, committed murder, and returned.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Sorcha also told me that the feud between Ambrose and Vittorio was a publicity stunt, but his brother and widow deny that.”

  Nick laughed. “Captains of industry plot to dupe their own families. Film at eleven.”

  “Speaking of Enzo Vittorio, I don’t suspect him any longer.” I recapped Enzo’s alibi for the night Miranda Tejeda was murdered. “Of course, if a different killer committed each of the murders—”