by Nina Wright
I understood the reference. She meant her animal trainer guru father, Arthur Smarr, who Dr. David had told me about. But the inventor of The System never met Abra the Afghan hound. She had already vanished into the woods.
“You go ahead,” I told Deely. “I’ll find another way home—after I find Abra.”
To Todd I shouted, “Thanks for everything. Leave what’s left of my credit card with Deely. I expect it’ll melt before you’re done with it.”
He grinned.
I cleared the craft and waved as it rose into the fading sky. On the ground, the engine of the FBI helicopter still thrummed. I could barely hear the ambulance siren when it started up.
Jenx stood next to me, finishing some notes in her pad. “The EMTs think Roy will make it. And Chester’s fine, by the way. Cassina’s taking him home to the Castle as soon as he’s released.”
“I don’t understand why Mrs. Gribble was holed up here, of all places,” I said, indicating the shambling structure in front of us. Now that the excitement had ebbed, I could see how basic the building was—a small, serviceable hunting cabin with a vented woodburner for heat and little more. Not the likely hangout of a woman who owned Jaguars, furs, and multiple lovely homes—and who claimed to be in the market for yet another piece of real estate worth seven figures.
“Uh-oh,” Jenx said. I looked where she was looking. Her blonde head held high, Abra trotted toward us, followed by Brady and Roscoe. Ordinarily, that might have been a good thing. Except she had something grotesque in her mouth. Nothing as mundane as a handbag this time.
“You take it,” I told Jenx. “I’m not touching whatever that is.” I couldn’t even look.
The police chief whipped a couple latex gloves out of her hip pocket and slipped them on while Abra sat patiently, tail thumping the ground.
I closed my eyes. Jenx exclaimed, “Well now, this is interesting.”
“‘Interesting’ as in . . . a decomposing dead rat?” I asked.
“It’s not a rat,” Brady confirmed. “But it is related to what we found at Iberville.”
“Another black Stetson?” I said, afraid to peek.
“Do you want to play Twenty Questions or try acting like a grown-up deputy?” Jenx said.
I opened one eye. Then I opened the other. Jenx was holding Gil Gruen’s head. The head from one of his life-size cut-outs, that is. Definitely the worse for wear, it looked like it had been roughly torn off and cast into the snow and mud of a hard Michigan winter. In fact, it had been trod upon. A muddy boot print was planted squarely across Gil’s grinning face.
“Good work, Deputy!” Jenx said. She wasn’t talking to me.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Abra’s discovery of the head from Gil Gruen’s life-size cut-out probably meant that the cabin was one of Gil’s listings. To find out, I called Tina Breen, my office manager. Unfortunately, her cell phone was answered by a toddler, presumably Winston or Neville, neither of whom proved helpful. So I phoned Odette. She knew every rumor about Lanagan County real estate, if not the actual facts.
“You’re talking about the cabin on the land north of the state preserve?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know the name of the service road.”
“Gil owned that cabin,” Odette said. It sounded like she was chewing. “He used to boast about his deer-hunting weekends there. Have you forgotten?”
“I hope so.” I had strived for years to forget things Gil Gruen said. “What are you eating?”
“Roast buffalo. It’s delish.”
Something else I’d forgotten: the Jamboree tradition of holding a buffalo roast before the bonfire.
“Save me some sinew,” I said. “Back to Gil . . . did he rent out that cabin?”
“I don’t know.” Odette gagged noisily. “Sorry. Bit of gristle. Hold on—I recall Walter St. Mary saying that Gil bragged about it to Mr. Gribble just before they had their big blow-up in the bar at Mother Tucker’s. Gil told him it was secluded. A good place for a tryst. When Mr. Gribble said he wanted to rent it, Gil laughed in his face and said, ‘Too late again, pal. Somebody beat you to it.’”
“I think I know who,” I said. I hated to tell my best agent that Mrs. Gribble the Third had done business with our competitor and was no longer in a position to buy. But the sooner Odette knew, the sooner she could apply her considerable sales talents elsewhere.
“A difficult woman to work with,” Odette said after I’d told her. I could envision the indignant toss of her ebony head. “Impossible to please. And she didn’t return phone calls.”
“She was probably too busy playing kidnapper.” I filled Odette in on what little I knew about Mrs. Gribble luring Chester away and then stealing Leah and Leo.
“Why on earth would she do that?” Odette said. “She didn’t need ransom money. No woman in her right mind takes other people’s babies!”
I suspected that Mrs. Gribble’s motivation was tied to her own illegitimate child, though I couldn’t see how. As much I wanted to be the bearer of juicy gossip, I kept to myself what Roy had said about Bibi having his baby. That story was so good I wanted to share it in person rather than by phone. Plus I needed a few more facts.
I surmised that one or both of the Gribbles had brought Chester to Gil’s cabin after leaving Bear Claw. But I didn’t understand the casino connection, or how Mindy the cocktail waitress had ended up dead in my yard wearing Mrs. Gribble’s fur coat. Who stabbed Thomas McKondin, the nurse-impersonator and pervert? And where on earth was Mr. Gribble?
Odette asked if I planned to attend the annual bonfire, which would start in four hours. I hadn’t missed one yet, and I wasn’t about to break with tradition tonight. Besides, my favorite tourist Nash Grant might be there. And what was more romantic than a bonfire?
I was ending my call to Odette when Agent Smith entered my field of vision.
“Deputy Mattimoe,” he said, inclining his head in what was surely a mock bow. “Good work rescuing Chester Casanova.”
Considering I’d only just learned that Chester had a last name, hearing it paired with his first name jarred me.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m relieved he’s all right. Any luck locating Mr. Gribble the Third?”
“There’s an APB out for him. And we have his wife in custody. She’ll probably tell us his whereabouts, eventually.”
I glanced toward the FBI helicopter; Agent Jones was assisting a handcuffed Mrs. Gribble aboard.
“Could I talk to her? For just a minute? After all, she stole my step-grandchildren.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth. Had I, at age thirty-three, actually used the G-word?
“Why not?” Agent Smith said cheerfully. “If she’s willing to talk to you. But make it snappy. We’re taking her to Lansing.”
Agent Jones had already fitted Mrs. Gribble with a headset. He lent me his so that we could communicate over the helicopter’s racket.
“Remember me?” I said, sitting across from my client and giving her my most leveling glare.
“Of course. You’re a very lucky woman,” Mrs. Gribble replied.
That startled me. “What do you mean, lucky?”
“People like to be on your side. Good people. How do you manage that, Mrs. Mattimoe?”
“I guess I pick the right friends and sometimes the right husband—. Wait a minute,” I said, stopping myself. “I’m asking the questions here.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Gribble the Third made herself as comfortable as possible on the helicopter’s bench.
“Why did you kidnap Chester?” I demanded.
“I didn’t. You can’t steal what’s rightfully yours. Chester is mine, yet he has been withheld from me his whole life. As was his mother before him.”
“His mother? You’re saying you have a ‘right’ to both Chester and Cassina?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Gribble said evenly. “Cassina is my daughter. Chester is my grandson.”
“But your sister, Evelyn Huffenbach
, is Cassina’s mother.”
“Only in the eyes of the law.”
“You mean . . . you and Roy Vickers are . . . Cassina’s birth parents?”
“Ah. He told you we made a baby.” Mrs. Gribble’s dark eyes narrowed. “I only knew Roy for one night. I was working in Vegas, at the club my husband managed—not Mr. Gribble, my first husband. The one who died and left me rich. It was a miserable marriage.”
“Why was Roy Vickers in Vegas?” I asked.
“Believe it or not, Roy was on vacation with his wife. They’d had a fight—over his drinking, as usual, and the way he handled money. Roy came into the Emerald Dream, where I danced. Okay, where I stripped. My husband was out with his girlfriend du jour. Roy kept buying me drinks. Finally it got late, so we got a room. Cassina was born nine months later.”
“Did your husband think she was his?”
“When I started showing, I tried to tell him she was. He knew she couldn’t be. We hadn’t been together in a while. He didn’t divorce me, but he made me give her up. My sister and her husband agreed to adopt her. Evelyn couldn’t have children.”
“You named your daughter Mayzelle,” I observed.
“I certainly didn’t! I named her Cassina—a nod to her Vegas casino heritage. Evelyn changed it.”
“Were you close to Cassina while she was growing up?”
“Evelyn controlled everything. I was allowed to be Cassina’s long-distance ‘aunt.’ Nothing more.” An eerie gleam shone in Mrs. Gribble’s eyes. “My daughter knew she didn’t belong with Evelyn. When she was little, she started running away. By age thirteen Cassina was a ward of the court, placed in foster care. When she turned eighteen, I found her and told her who she really was.”
“Did she believe you?” I said.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Gribble asked nastily. “She reclaimed her birth name and reinvented herself as a singer.”
“So,” I mused, “Cassina knows that you and Roy Vickers are her parents.”
“I didn’t tell her Roy’s name,” Mrs. Gribble said quickly. “And I’ve never told Roy that the famous Cassina is his daughter. Why should I? He took no responsibility for giving her life.”
“He took responsibility for helping us find her son,” I said. “Why did you take Chester?”
“Isn’t it obvious? To see what it would be like to have a grandson. That’s why I took your grandchildren. I never got to hold Chester when he was a baby, but now at least I know what it would have been like. As I said, you’re very lucky, Mrs. Mattimoe.”
Agent Jones stepped up then to reclaim his headset. “We’ve got to go!” he shouted.
“Just one more question!” I turned to Mrs. Gribble. “Why the dogs? Why did you insist that Avery bring Abra and Prince Harry?”
Mrs. Gribble’s expression was indignant. “Your damn dog could identify me. I followed Abra’s story in the Chicago papers, remember? I know she’s a crime-solving canine.”
I surrendered my headset to Agent Jones and allowed Agent Smith to escort me from the helicopter. It was almost dark out, and I needed a ride home. Fortunately, Brady and Roscoe were still at the scene with Abra, so we all climbed into the patrol car together. I stared at the Afghan hound sitting demurely next to me on the back seat. Was it possible that she actually was a good deputy? I removed my battered tin badge and pinned it to her rhinestone collar. Abra flashed me a self-satisfied grin.
Chapter Thirty-nine
On the drive back to Vestige in his patrol car, Brady relayed the good news: Chester had given the Michigan State Police sufficient information about Mr. Gribble that they were now hot on his trail to the next Native American-run casino up the coast.
Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third apparently had a serious gambling problem although, according to Chester, he called it his “pricey hobby.” Mr. Gribble enjoyed his vice, as long as his much older and wealthier wife could afford it. Hence the vanity plate, IMGBLN.
Chester learned a great deal about the Gribbles during his enforced time with Bibi. As she had told me herself, she inherited a tidy sum from her first husband, a Las Vegas club owner who liked the ladies. He died of a gunshot wound inflicted by a jealous boyfriend, leaving Bibi more money than she’d dreamed of. She sold the club and started investing. Some years later, she met a charming gambler who’d squandered his family fortune. She fell for him and became Mrs. Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third. Manny, as she called her husband, had the name and social connections she longed for, provided she could supply the cash. Unfortunately, Manny set to work demolishing her savings just as he had his own.
According to Chester’s report, the two did nothing but fight when they were together, which wasn’t often because Manny was more interested in gambling and otherwise spending money than he was in keeping company with his wife. We already knew that he had planned to invest some of the marital assets in real estate of his own choosing. But Bibi short-circuited that plan by personally tipping off Gil Gruen that her husband had no money of his own. Ever the jerk, Gil took pleasure in publicly humiliating Manny.
Chester told police that Bibi confiscated his cell phone. His first opportunity to escape occurred Friday morning when he distracted Bibi, fished his phone out of her purse, and ran through the casino looking for help. But she intercepted him before he got very far and hauled him off to Gil’s cabin.
“I’m calling Chester right now,” I informed Brady. “I’ve got to hear the rest of this firsthand.”
Fortunately, Chester answered the phone, so I didn’t need Cassina’s—or Rupert’s—permission to speak to him. He sounded like his usual buoyant self. “I’m getting ready to go to the bonfire!” he informed me.
“I’ll see you there. But I want to ask you a couple questions about what happened. Can we talk?”
“Sure. I’m not traumatized or anything. I’ve already been interviewed by the FBI!”
I said, “The police think Mindy the waitress had your mother’s credit card. Do you know how she got it?”
“When we were at the casino, Manny took it away from me and gave it to her.” Chester’s tone turned somber. “I heard a policeman say Mindy’s dead.”
“I’m afraid so. Do you know what happened to her?”
“No. Manny told me that they had a fight. He called her a real bad name. He was mad because he gave her a thirty-thousand-dollar coat, and she treated him like . . . another bad word.”
I was sure the coat he’d given her was Bibi’s.
“He said he gave her a designer purse, too,” Chester said, “but she lost that when he took her to see a house that Bibi might buy.”
I flashed on the Gucci bag that Odette had temporarily sacrificed to win the Gribble account. The one that Abra had later recovered at Pasco Point . . . with a Bear Claw Casino poker chip inside. Abra had the purse when Bibi forced Chester and the dogs into her car. Manny must have seized it later as a present for his girlfriend. But there had been something else in that handbag. Something besides Odette’s ID that either Manny or Mindy had added later.
“So Bibi took you from the casino to the cabin,” I said. “What happened next?”
“Manny broke in while we were still asleep this morning,” Chester said. “He shouted and waved a gun around just to scare us. Even though Bibi knew there was a rifle in a case by the woodburner, she couldn’t get to it till after Manny dragged me out the door. Then she shot at his tires, but she missed.”
“Where was Manny taking you?”
“He said we were going north, casino by casino, till somebody came through with enough money to send me home,” Chester said. “I think he meant ransom. From Cassina or Bibi. Or both.”
I took a deep breath. “So how did you end up falling through the ice a mile from the Broken Arrow Motel?”
“We didn’t drive far before Manny said he needed a little nap. I think he’d been drinking.”
I didn’t ask how the eight-year-old would know. I didn’t have to since I’d witnessed his own mother over
-indulge in front of him.
“Manny pulled off on a dirt road by the Lake,” Chester continued, “and told me he was turning on the child-proof locks. I’m way smarter than that! I waited for him to fall asleep and then, when he was snoring, I let myself out.”
“Good for you!”
“I went down to the Lake because I knew I could walk along the edge and end up in Magnet Springs. Except we were farther up the coast than I thought. I went north when I should have gone south. Then I fell through the ice. The water wasn’t deep, but I got soaked. And I was real cold. So I went inland looking for help. You know the rest of the story.”
“Thank goodness you came to the Broken Arrow Motel!”
“Thank goodness I got away from the crazy lady,” Chester said, “and you were there in the helicopter to save me!”
Chester and I made a date to meet at the bonfire. He promised to introduce me to Rupert, if Rupert felt like talking to locals.
Brady had been on his patrol car radio while I was talking. When I finished my call, he said, “The State Police want to question Mr. Gribble about Mindy’s death. Gil’s, too—if they find the body. First they have to find Mr. Gribble.”
I thought about the third item found in Odette’s Gucci bag and knew I had to see someone at Coastal Medical Center right away.
Chapter Forty
Back at Vestige, there was no point trying to have even a quick conversation with Avery, who had secluded herself in her room with the babies. Deely informed me that Nash was on his way over, but she doubted Avery would let him in. Though tempted to linger for another look at the handsome professor, I didn’t care to get caught up in their domestic drama. Plus, I had pressing business of my own. So I entrusted the dogs to the nanny and drove to CMC.
My first stop was the information desk, where I learned that no one named Roy Vickers had been admitted. Assuming that meant he was still in the Emergency Room, I headed there. Sure enough, a team of physicians was working to stabilize him. All anyone would reveal about Roy’s condition was that he was conscious. I said a quick prayer and moved on to the Intensive Care Unit, which was more chaotic than the ER. I overheard two nurses griping about how woefully short-handed they were that shift, which might have explained why it took almost five minutes for me to locate the unit clerk. Then I told a small lie: in order to see Thomas McKondin, I pretended to be his sister.