Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “C’mon, Aspen,” Nick rasped. “First, you think it’s Ambrose. Now, you think it’s Regent?”

  I didn’t bridle; I understood why he was angry. “You said he was on your radar, too.”

  “Only because of the notes to Gloria and his business deal with Camille.”

  The valet drove up in Nick’s Wrangler. Nick marched to it, opened the door, and grabbed a bottle of water from the cup holder. He drank the contents in one long pull and slipped behind the wheel.

  I stopped him from closing the door. “Tom Regent didn’t come to work this morning. He was at Incline Bowl when I was asking about Laila.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Nick’s eyes were glassy, unfocused.

  I clutched his arm. “You’re in no shape to drive and certainly in no shape to venture into a cave by yourself. I’ll drive.” I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Chapter 38

  The cave’s opening was barely visible to a passerby. Detective King, dressed in uniform, met us at the entrance and handed us the same kind of cloth booties that encased her shoes. Once we put them on, she led us through the narrow passageway. Fluted stalactites hung from the cave’s ceilings. Mounds of white dripstones covered the floor.

  “I’ve notified Douglas County Sheriff’s Department,” she said. The cave was on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe. “They’re willing to work with us.”

  The cavern was filled with gold formations that resembled a flapper’s fringe skirt. Fifty feet inside, the air grew heavier and the stench of mold was rife.

  King paid no attention to the spiderwebs that brushed against her face. I shuddered—I hated spiders. Once or twice, the detective eyed the bandage on my head, but she didn’t say a word. No doubt she’d seen worse.

  Toward the end of a path, we ducked under an arch and King held up a hand. Two techs were already in the location. Laila, her blue denim shirt and jeans splattered with blood, lay on the ground faceup. A stream of sunlight cascaded through a vent that opened to the sky and highlighted the girl’s tanned face. A backpack was open to her right.

  The muffin I’d eaten at the office threatened to resurface. I braced myself against the clammy wall and drew in deep gulps until the nausea passed.

  “Do you have an idea when she died?” Nick whispered, as if being in the cave demanded reverence.

  “Three to four hours ago,” one tech said. “It’s so cold in here, though, it could be longer.”

  I said, “She left me a message at six thirty.”

  “How’d you stumble on this place, Kendra?” Nick asked.

  “Her boss, who’s quite a character by the way, said the girl talked about three caving areas nonstop.”

  “Is Vaughn Jamison still in jail?” Nick asked.

  “Yes. It’s taking time to process his release.”

  “That rules him out.”

  I said, “You should take a sample of the dirt, in case it matches what was in Camille St. John’s house.”

  “Already done that,” King said.

  Nick knelt beside the body. “What do you think the weapon was?”

  “I thought an ice axe at first,” King said. “You know, the kind that climbers use in the winter. Long and narrow and wider at the end.” She crouched beside him and pointed. “But see the depression? It’s a conical plunge. I’m thinking a piton. Shorter and narrower than an ice axe.”

  “Is all her equipment accounted for?” Nick glanced up at her.

  “A coil of rope, canteen, gloves. No pitons.”

  Nick rose to his feet and brushed off his knees. “Have forensics test the canteen for saliva.”

  “Will do.”

  “Have you found out whether Gloria received a note?” I asked.

  “Funny you should ask. We found a note on-site”—Detective King pulled a baggie from her pocket and handed it to Nick—“but it’s not addressed to Gloria Morning.”

  I peered over Nick’s shoulder as he perused the note. It read:

  You should pick your friends better.

  To her glory, I give my life.

  “He used the word glory,” I said, “but you’re right. It’s not the same. For your glory is the term. Could a copycat have done this? Or is the killer getting sloppy?”

  Nick flicked the paper. “Pick your friends is a pretty disgusting play on words.”

  King grimaced. “Tell me about it.”

  “Tom Regent might own a pickaxe,” I suggested.

  “Already thought of that,” King said, “but Regent isn’t the perp. He’s in emergency at Northstar Clinic. Has been since one a.m. Seems he drove into a telephone pole. Hernandez informed me while you were on the switchback.”

  If Tom was incapacitated at the time of Laila’s death, then he couldn’t have killed her. Who else had the opportunity? I pictured the shadow box filled with Indian artifacts in Finn Ambrose’s office and said, “Nick, do you think the weapon could have been an arrowhead?”

  • • •

  Because Detective King would inform Laila’s next of kin of her death and Detective Hernandez and Nick were preoccupied with obtaining the vital search warrants, I took it upon myself to break the news to Laila’s employer. She might know the names of Laila’s hiking buddies. Laila said she’d seen the guy. When? This morning? Had a group of cavers met up for coffee before going their separate ways?

  On the drive, I phoned Gloria. Although there was an unfinished note in the cave that I was certain was meant for her, that didn’t preclude the killer from having sent a separate one. She didn’t answer. I knew she’d taken a sleep aid, so I left a voice mail asking her to check in with me.

  As I entered Nevada or Bust, I threw my arms around myself for warmth. Like before, icy air spilled from the air-conditioning vents, and also, like before, the desk was unmanned. I heard a woman humming and moved toward the sound. The bathroom door was open an inch. I saw a pair of tennis shoes and bare calves and then a denim-covered rear end. The woman was on her knees scrubbing the white tile floor.

  “Hello?” I tapped on the doorframe.

  “C’mon in,” she said, her voice raspy.

  I pushed the door open further and caught a whiff of Clorox. The noxious fumes made me wince.

  The woman—Laila’s boss—reminded me, yet again, of Dolly Parton, even with a red bandanna wrapped around her bleached-blonde hair. “These kids. What slobs. I would hire adults, but adults expect more than minimum wage. It’s not in my budget. Now, what can I do for—” She took a second glance at me and gaped. “What in the heck happened to you?”

  “I had an accident. It’s nothing.” I swallowed hard. “I’m here about Laila.”

  “That girl.” The woman sat back on her haunches. “Did they find her? What did she do this time, put herself in the hospital? I’m not a fan of her caving and climbing. Too dangerous. I’ve told her—”

  “Ma’am, Laila’s dead.”

  The woman’s face turned the color of the tiles. “Oh, no.”

  “She was stabbed,” I said, prepared for an outpouring of emotion.

  Tears pooled in the woman’s eyes but none fell.

  A second later, a squat, sunburned girl about Laila’s age poked her head into the room. “Hey, boss, I’m back from—” The girl paused. “Why are you crying?”

  Laila’s boss swung her gaze from the girl to me and back to the girl. She stood up, dropped the sponge into a sink filled with other cleaning utensils, and gripped the girl by the shoulders. “Laila’s dead. She was murdered.”

  The girl gasped. “When? How?”

  The boss removed her Playtex gloves and stuffed them into the sunburned girl’s hands. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I’ve got to talk to this nice gal. You clean the bathroom.” She urged me into the hallway and pulled the door closed. “Best thing for the kid is work. No dwelling, I always say. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Aspen Adams.”

  “Eileen.”

  After explaining the situation to her, as best I knew it, I
asked if she would mind providing a list of Laila’s friends so I could personally inform them of her death. Eileen said Laila only had one true friend, the girl who was scrubbing the bathroom. She led me to her postage stamp–sized office.

  “Laila was such a sweetie. We had our squabbles, but I really enjoyed her. She had a head for business, but would she use it? No, she would not. Too busy being young. Came to work during her junior year of high school. She was a bitty thing then. Her hair was dark and long, not that ugly purple hairdo she wears.” Eileen swallowed hard. “Wore. Memories. They’re all I’ll have left of her, aren’t they?” She sighed. “I was forever asking Laila not to take personal calls. The others, too, but do they listen? Social butterflies, that’s what kids are. No focus. I’m not complaining. I’m not, it’s—” Tears slipped down Eileen’s cheeks. “She could’ve taken over this business someday.”

  “Ma’am, do you happen to know any of her caving group?”

  Eileen’s mouth dropped open. “No idea at all. I’ll give it some thought. I’ll—” Suddenly, tears spilled down her cheeks. She fanned her face trying to stem the flow and waved for me to leave.

  I returned to the reception area and heard a thwacking sound coming from the bathroom. I pushed the bathroom door open. The sunburned girl sat on the toilet seat, hunched over, beating her thighs with the Playtex gloves.

  I knelt beside her and quieted her hands. “You were Laila’s friend.”

  “Mm-hm.” The girl wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. “We went to high school together. We were planning on going to college. In Reno. When we saved enough money.”

  “What were you going to study?”

  “Business. Laila and me, we could do anything. I can’t believe she’s—” She pressed her lips together, refusing to say the word gone. She donned the rubber gloves, grabbed a container of powdered Comet, and splattered the floor. Then she wet a toothbrush and began to scour the edges of the room with it.

  “Are you a caver or climber?”

  “Neither. I’m into waterskiing.” She peered at me, her lips quivering. “Are you with the sheriff’s department?”

  “Sort of.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “Did you know any of her caving friends?”

  “No. She had a long line of boyfriends, though”—by the scrunch of her nose, I could tell she didn’t approve of Laila’s choices—“so if you’re searching for suspects, you could start there.”

  “Any of them hurt her before?”

  “Nah. She was little but she was tough. There was a boat painter at the marina.” The girl tossed the toothbrush in the sink and ticked off a couple other men Laila had dated—a bartender at a casino, a fellow spelunker, and one handsome older guy. “What was his name?” She snapped her fingers.

  “Was it Finn Ambrose or Tom Regent?”

  “Neither of those ring a bell. He worked at a restaurant.”

  My pulse skyrocketed. “Enzo Vittorio?” Had I crossed him off my list too soon? Hoping to strike gold, I said, “He’s a chef at Vittorio’s Ristorante.”

  “No. This guy worked at a steak restaurant. He was a waiter. Joe something.”

  I didn’t strike gold; I struck out.

  Chapter 39

  Rather than disturb Nick with what might be wild ideas, I drove to the office.

  Darcy and Yaz were tossing the remains of their burgers into the garbage as I entered.

  “Still working on the financials for you,” Darcy said and exited the bungalow.

  “Thanks.”

  Yaz said, “I’m going back to the casino tomorrow to question a few more people about that elevator.” He threw on his New York skyline dress shirt over his T-shirt. “Got to keep the mustard off the duds.”

  “Smart.”

  “How’s the head?” He nodded in my direction.

  “Achy but functional.”

  “Ice.”

  I nodded. “Where’s Rowena?”

  “Ha! She graced us with two hours of her sweet smile today.”

  “Two? That might be a record,” I joked. “Did she bring something packed with sugar?”

  “Mini Oreos. She is a master briber. She told your aunt she had to run an errand and never returned.”

  “And where is my aunt?”

  “With Candace and the dog. She left you a note. Gotta run. See ya!” He flew out the front door and let it slam shut.

  I read the note. Max, my niece, and my dog had gone to pick up Max’s granddaughter. She had been itching to take the five-year-old boating. Afterward, they were going to buy a pizza for dinner. I could fetch Candace and the dog at my aunt’s house later.

  Knowing my niece was occupied and safe, I dialed Gloria, and again she didn’t answer. I was a little concerned about how doped up she’d sounded earlier. How long could she sleep? Was she all right? Worried that Beau might have figured out I’d talked to his sister and, out of spite, taken Gloria’s cell phone so I couldn’t get in touch with her, I called KINC and asked for him. Marie said he was on his way to his second job.

  By dusk, the office turned as quiet as a ghost town, the silence disturbed only by the steady drone of the refrigerator and the white-noise hum of the computers. Even the cats went into hiding. I popped two Advil to help the stiffness in my neck, a result of keeping my head steady so it wouldn’t throb, and then I emailed Nick the list of nameless men Laila’s associate believed she’d dated.

  I eyed the cold pot of coffee, the cinnamon scent whetting my appetite, but I avoided the temptation. My already sour stomach didn’t need another acid thrown into the mix. I scrounged through the refrigerator and opted for a carton of boysenberry Greek yogurt and a handful of almonds.

  After downing my makeshift meal, I set a poster board on an easel and affixed Post-it notes to it, one at a time. On five of them, I jotted the victims’ names: Tony Vittorio, Kristin Fisher, Miranda Tejeda, Camille St. John, and Laila Walton. Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. I willed them away.

  On other Post-its I wrote my suspect’s names: Finn Ambrose, Tom Regent, and Beau Flacks. Was he innocent, as Gloria believed? I added Vaughn Jamison, even though he had been in jail when Camille and Laila were killed. He could have had an accomplice.

  On another set of Post-its, I entered the weapons: scalpel, knife, scissors, a metal louver from a klieg light, and a climbing or caving tool, possibly an arrowhead.

  On yet another set, I noted the evidence Candace and I had seen on Post-its attached to the file at the sheriff’s office: dirt, mud, metal and clay, as well as dog hair and horsehair. Mud, dirt, and dog hair would have been found at Camille’s. Mud and dirt were definitely evident in the cave.

  I attached lines of string from one Post-it to another.

  From Gloria to Tom and from Tom to Laila. From Laila to the dirt found at Camille’s. And on it went, Gloria to Finn Ambrose to Tony Vittorio and their feud. From Finn Ambrose to Laila, in case the killer had used an arrowhead.

  An hour later, I stood back from my handiwork and grimaced. What a mess. The dreamcatcher hanging over my bed didn’t look as complicated.

  I removed all the string, tossed it into a garbage can, and started over, this time without any string. I concentrated on the first victim. Dr. Kristin Fisher. Who had wanted her dead? She had been caring and attentive to patients. Why kill her?

  Other than Vaughn Jamison, who else did Nick consider a suspect? I berated myself for not expanding my suspect list accordingly, but I had been so fixated on Gloria’s plight and the people who knew her that I’d forgotten what had made me impassioned about my investigation in the first place—the death of my doctor.

  Out of nowhere, I wondered whether the insubstantial suspect list was the reason the police had botched my parents’ murder investigation. The notion made my breath snag. Stop, Aspen. I could not think about my parents now. The case would never be solved. But this one could be. It was my job to help Gloria find closure.

  With great effort, I refocused.

  Dr. Fishe
r. What had driven the killer to choose her first? Nick believed Dr. Fisher’s killer was left-handed. So was the one who had murdered Tony Vittorio, according to the tech at the crime scene. Nick had mentioned the same thing at Camille’s.

  Convinced there was one and only one murderer, I pressed on. Gloria was the connection to all the victims whether Nick believed that or not.

  The Post-it with Beau’s name drew my attention. Was he innocent? In the control room I’d seen him moving a shuttle knob with his left hand while jotting notes with his right. Was he right-handed or ambidextrous?

  Finn Ambrose was a lefty. In the kitchen at the casino, he had wielded the meat cleaver with his left hand.

  I eyed the Post-its and another thought came to me. Brown horsehair was found at Dr. Fisher’s crime scene. Was horsehair found at other crime scenes? Was the killer an equestrian?

  At the computer I opened Google and typed in a string of terms. A page of websites relating to DNA and hair evidence materialized. There were over five thousand. I clicked on a site that claimed even dummies could understand the information. I read the first page, which broke hair evidence down to length, color, thickness, and texture.

  Reading on, I gleaned that each species of animal possessed hair with characteristic length, color, shape, and root appearance. Also, there were microscopic features that could distinguish one animal from another. The article talked about outer hairs—or guard hairs—as well as finer fur hairs, and tactile hairs, such as whiskers. Last but not least, it mattered whether the animal was alive or dead. That prompted me to scroll down further. During the anagen phase, hair was growing. During the telogen phase, the hair was resting. Specifically, these hairs were mostly due to shedding.

  On my way to becoming a therapist, I’d taken a ton of science classes, so I was understanding the material in general terms—namely, that the horsehair found at the crime scenes could have originated from a pelt or, as I’d suspected, even from a vest like the one Beau had worn the day I met him. However, I refused to convict Beau based on that because at least one out of ten people in Tahoe had an animal hide someplace in their house.