As we talked, I clicked through to Rise of the Planet of the Apes on a popular motion picture and television database. ‘Oh, damn. It says here that Rise of wasn’t even filmed in LA. They filmed it up in British Columbia.’ I paged forward a few screens, still unwilling to give up on my theory that Brad had used his Fox connections to steal an ape suit and masquerade as one in Flat Rock. But the Wikipedia entry for the film squashed my theory almost completely. ‘Wait a minute. Listen to this. Rise of … was the first of the franchise to be filmed using something called performance capture.’
‘Uh, what’s that called when it’s at home?’
‘Just a minute, I’m looking.’ I scrolled down the entry, searching for an explanation, then quickly wished I hadn’t. ‘It says here that the actors wear gray velcro body suits with LED lights attached at strategic places. More than fifty LEDs. They’re wired for sound, yada yada yada. The film is then turned over to a New Zealand company called Weta. The guy who made the Lord of the Rings movies owns it.’
‘What does Weta do with it?’
‘They animate it. Those chimps were one-hundred-percent digital.’ I felt like weeping. Poof went my theory, shot down in flames. No Weta magic in Flat Rock Freaking Oregon.
‘Back to square one,’ I grumped.
‘Let it go, Hannah.’
I had no intention of letting it go. ‘Do you think we had a real Sasquatch down there, Jake?’
‘Based on my experience? No.’
‘But, the footprints? Your castings …?’ I let the sentence die.
‘Think Prince Charming,’ Jake said with a chuckle. ‘I can search all over the kingdom until I find a warm-blooded foot to match that cast. Until then it’s just an interesting chunk of plaster.’
‘I’ve seen grizzlies and it wasn’t a grizzly,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘That leaves a guy in a monkey suit.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who, then? And why?’ A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Could it have been Martin Radcliffe himself, setting up a hoax just so he could debunk it?’
‘If it was Radcliffe there would have been no need for him to be wearing camouflage.’
I let that sink in.
‘I think it’s more likely Radcliffe got wind that something was up and decided to set a trap for Jim and Athena,’ Jake said.
‘That’s what Brad suspected, too. But what was Martin planning to do?’ I asked. ‘Come streaking out of his hiding place and tackle the imposter? And what if it actually was a Bigfoot,’ I said, rushing on. ‘Martin didn’t have any tranquilizer darts on him, as far as I know.’ I paused. ‘Maybe he carried bear repellant. I bought a little can this morning, just in case.’
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the headboard, trying to picture the scene, filling in the blanks left by Jim Davis’s film. Davis’s film was, quite literally, only half the story.
Radcliffe dressed up like Desert Storm, waiting quietly in the woods, some twenty feet behind the camera.
A shadowy, faceless someone picks up a branch so quietly that Radcliffe doesn’t even turn around.
A single, powerful swing and whomp!. Down he goes.
‘You still there, Hannah?’
‘What time did Jim’s video alarm go off, Jake, do you remember?’
‘Nine-thirteen a.m. exactly.’
I did the math. ‘Martin Radcliffe was fifty minutes dead by then.’
‘So it appears.’
‘Do you think he saw something? The guy wearing the monkey suit, I mean.’
‘Hard to say. He stared directly at the camera, for sure, but he could have been looking at something beyond the camera too.’ He paused. ‘But with Martin already dead, what was there to see in the woods other than Martin’s body?’
I had to agree. ‘Right. The murderer would have been long gone.’
‘There’s only one way to know for certain what he saw. Find the guy wearing the monkey suit and ask him.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I said. A moment later, I added, ‘I wish we could engineer a repeat performance.’
‘How?’
‘Shhhh. I’m thinking.’
As I turned ideas over in my mind, all I could hear was quiet chatter leeching through the wall from a television in the adjoining room. ‘What if they thought nobody took it seriously – the Sasquatch, I mean? Would whoever it was try again?’
‘It’s hard to say. Has Davis put his camera set up away?’
‘Athena told me he’s moved the camera to another location. He found what he thinks is a Bigfoot nest a bit further downstream. When he was out casing the joint yesterday afternoon something threw pinecones at him, so that sealed the deal.’
Whatever was in the woods surrounding the lodge, I thought, it wasn’t throwing pinecones. It was wielding, like Theodore Roosevelt, a mighty big stick. ‘Jim Davis is nothing if not ever hopeful,’ I said.
While Jake nattered on about my hare-brained ideas and leaving well enough alone, something else popped into my head. ‘There’s something I don’t get. Brad Johnson was shadowing Martin Radcliffe, sticking to the man all weekend like chewing gum on his shoe. I’m surprised the History Channel doesn’t have footage of Martin taking a leak.’
Jake snorted. ‘You’re not going to leave Johnson alone, are you?’
‘Answer me this, then, Detective Cummings. How come Brad didn’t accompany Martin into the woods on Friday morning? Brad says it’s because Martin sent him away and told him he had an errand to run in town. But we only have Brad’s word for that.’
‘Are you going to talk to him then, or should I?’
‘Your turn, I think. See you in the morning?’
After we wished each other a good night I brushed my teeth, pulled a nightgown over my head and went rummaging on the desk for my Kindle. I found it hiding under the bag that contained the FLIR infrared camera attachment I’d bought as a gift for my husband. Still so keyed up I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I installed the device on my iPhone – just snap it in, as easy as advertised – and amused myself for several minutes checking out the hot spots in my room. My computer screen (fuchsia), the light bulbs (white) and the cold seeping out around the door of my refrigerator (deep purple). I practiced taking a few shots then switched over to the App Store. Long before Zombie Vision finished downloading, I fell fast asleep.
TWENTY-THREE
‘At last he came to the edge of the little glade where the camp lay and shouted as he approached it, but got no answer. The campfire had gone out, though the thin blue smoke was still curling upwards … Stepping forward he again shouted, and as he did so his eye fell on the body of his friend, stretched beside the trunk of a great fallen spruce. Rushing toward it the horrified trapper found that the body was still warm, but that the neck was broken, while there were four great fang marks in the throat. The footprints of the unknown beast-creature, printed deep in the soft soil, told the whole story.’
Theodore Roosevelt, The Wilderness Hunter. New York, GP Putnam’s Sons, 1893, p. 446
The next morning, Sunday, I awoke to the sun shining full on my face. When I went to the window to adjust the drapes I was relieved to see no sherriff’s vehicle in the parking lot. Perhaps Detective Lieutenant Cook had overslept. Or maybe she’d packed it in.
The sun, which had been so dazzling a moment before, was packing it in, too. Dark clouds moving in rapidly from the west swallowed it up whole, turning a promising day dreary.
The clock on the bedside table read 8:16. Damn! I had less than fifteen minutes until I was supposed to be downstairs making myself available, so I dashed back and forth the short distance between the bathroom and the closet, washing up and dressing like a woman possessed. Hating the boring person who stared out at me from the full-length mirror, clad almost completely in black, I added a colorful scarf to my outfit, knotting it carelessly around my neck, then headed out the door.
It had almost closed behind me when I realized I’d left my name ta
g behind. I did a quick U-turn, found the name tag hanging on the back of the bathroom door then scooped up my cell phone, still encased in the FLIR. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ I muttered and tossed it into my bag, too.
Avoiding the piles of luggage stacked up in the lobby, ready for the bus that was going to take it to the airport later that morning, I went looking for Debbie. I found her packing up the last of her donuts. I paused at her table, looking sorrowful. ‘I saved one for you,’ she said, taking pity, handing one over neatly wrapped in a napkin.
I lifted a corner of the napkin and peeked underneath. ‘Chocolate! You are a star.’
She beamed.
‘You really should franchise this, you know,’ I said, taking a big, satisfying bite.
‘It’s kind of you to say so, Hannah, but I’m happy as I am. Small scale, know all my customers. Like you. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have no desire to see my face plastered on billboards all over the USA like the Kentucky Fried Colonel or something.’
‘You’re much more attractive than the Colonel,’ I teased.
Debbie pointed at what remained of my donut. ‘You’ll spoil your brunch.’
‘Who cares?’ I polished it off. ‘Where’s the brunch, anyway?’
She waved toward a pair of double glass doors. ‘They’re setting it up on the patio, near the pool.’
‘Isn’t that a bit risky? Looks like rain to me.’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing on the radar, according to your boss. Sun’s supposed to come out again around noon.’
‘Fingers crossed!’ I bid Debbie goodbye, saying I hoped our paths would cross soon again.
I was half an hour too early to connect with some scrambled eggs and bacon so, fortified by the donut, I went looking for Jake instead.
The first person I ran into was Cecelia Cloughly, stepping out of an elevator, dragging a suitcase in one hand and carrying her French horn in the other. A conference tote bag was slung over her shoulder.
‘Morning, Cecelia,’ I said, reaching out for the suitcase. ‘Let me help you with that.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, handing it over with obvious relief. ‘I imagine it goes in the pile over there?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Follow me?’
After we deposited her bag with the others headed for the airport, Cecelia said, ‘I’m leaving in a couple of hours, but if I don’t get to see you before then …’ She extended her hand. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you.’
‘Likewise,’ I said, taking her hand and shaking it. ‘Stay in touch?’
‘Of course.’
As we walked together toward the conference rooms, I said, ‘I’m curious about something, Cecelia. Is Radcliffe’s show all an act? Does everybody agree to go along with some sort of script?’ I paused. ‘There I was feeling sorry for you and Monique, for Prairie Flower and even for blowhards like Randall Frazier. Was it all for show?’
‘I can’t speak for everyone, of course,’ she said, ‘but I’m almost positive that Monique and Prairie Flower were completely blindsided. Monique Deschamps can’t stand the man! You should see what he said about her book.’
I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘But Monique told me Martin Radcliffe ignored her publisher’s request for a blurb.’
‘Oh, that’s true. Radcliffe didn’t blurb it but he savaged it on Amazon.’ Cecelia set her horn down on the carpet, reached into the zippered compartment of her conference tote and pulled out her smart phone. She tapped the screen, waited for it to refresh then handed the phone to me. ‘Read it and weep,’ she said. ‘Monique did.’
Martin Radcliffe had given Bigfoot: Fact, Fiction and Fable a one-star review.
As Cecelia watched, serious and unsmiling, I read:
Miss Deschamps’ book claims to be ‘comprehensive’ but actually contains nothing new or groundbreaking. This heavily biased work is so poorly organized that I was finding myself continually lost, desperately in need of an index which is, of course, lacking. And speaking of lacking, where are the illustrations? The few dark, grainy images the author provides add nothing to our understanding of this complex subject. The publisher apparently has no problem charging big-boy prices for a book that, at a scant 190 pages, could best be described as a ‘brochure.’ And while I’m on a rant, I have news for you. ‘There’ and ‘their’ are two different words. If a publisher doesn’t take the time to properly edit and spellcheck a book, I don’t have enough time to waste reading it.
‘Ouch!’ I said when I’d finished wading through Radcliffe’s scathing prose. ‘If I were a writer that would be enough to make me hang up my pen.’
‘Or bump the man off?’ Cecelia mused.
‘I wonder where Monique was when Martin went down?’
Cecelia shrugged. ‘You might want to ask her.’
‘I plan to,’ I said, handing the phone back.
‘Unfortunately she left this morning,’ Cecelia said.
‘Well, on to Plan B,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment while making a mental note to mention the savage review to Jake. ‘Are you staying for brunch?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Cecelia said, picking up her horn and heading down the hallway. ‘See you later!’
‘Where are you going?’ I called after her. ‘Brunch is the other way.’
Cecelia turned and waggled her brows mischievously. ‘If you promise not to tell, I’ll let you in on a little secret. At the end of this hallway, turn to the right and there’s a beautiful vending machine that carries chocolate bars. Can’t get them anywhere else in this godforsaken mountain outpost.
‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked.
‘I’ll explain later,’ I said, watching with relief as Cecelia trudged down the hallway, lugging her horn and threading her way among conference attendees – not up to any mischief at all, but simply in search of a chocolate bar.
I was so lost in thought that I nearly collided with Brad Johnson as he emerged from the Meriwether Lewis conference room, camera hoisted to his right shoulder. He moved slowly, apparently filming the attendees as they milled around the corridor, chatting, drinking coffee and noshing on Debbie’s donuts. When he saw me he aimed the camera in my direction. My hastily groomed face was not ready for prime time so I waved him off, wondering if Jake had had a chance to corner him yet and grill him about Martin.
Brad pivoted with a good-natured wave of his free hand and chose another victim, a Good Ole Boy wearing a ten-gallon hat, a rodeo roustabout gone to seed.
I found Jake easily enough, sitting on a bench further down the hallway, sharing a cake-style donut with Harley. I sat down beside them.
‘The longer I think about it the longer my list of suspects grows,’ I said to Jake after telling him about Monique’s devastating one-star review. Brad’s camera made another sweep in our direction. ‘Did you talk to Brad?’
Before Jake could answer, Harley, who had been lying quietly nearby, thumping his tail on the carpet, suddenly rose to his feet and barked. A single woof, short and sharp.
Jake’s head spun around. ‘Vas is los, Harley?’
As if Jake’s response wasn’t fast enough for the dog, Harley barked once again and tugged on his leash.
Jake stood up and gave Harley the lead. As I watched, the pair hustled down the hallway following Brad who, with his back turned to us and his camera rolling, seemed totally unaware of the drama going on behind him.
I trailed along behind like a third wheel.
When he reached the main lobby, Brad paused and Harley did, too. Nose pointed, ears erect, the dog sat down next to Brad, skewering the cameraman with his dark amber eyes.
‘Harley’s alerting,’ Jake murmured.
‘Does that mean he thinks Brad did it?’ I whispered back.
Brad lowered his camera and stared at Harley, looking perplexed. ‘What’s up with your dog, Cummings?’
‘Is there someplace we can talk in private?’
‘Sure, but call off your dog. He’s spooking me, man.’
‘What’s up with your dog?’ Brad asked again once the doors whooshed closed behind us.
‘You tell me,’ Jake said. ‘On Friday I ordered Harley to track whoever attacked Martin Radcliffe. The trail dead-ended at the parking lot. But today, well, here you are.’
‘Dog needs his nose checked. I didn’t have anything to do with Martin’s murder. He was my ticket, man! Why would I want him dead?’
Remembering the conversation we’d overheard on the patio the previous afternoon I could think of several reasons, but I kept my mouth shut. This was Jake and Harley’s show, not mine.
‘Perhaps you wanted to step into Martin’s famous lime-green tennis shoes,’ Jake said, giving voice to exactly what I was thinking.
Brad slumped, looking deflated. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’ He stared at Harley for a long minute. ‘I don’t know what …’ he began. Then his eyes widened and his face brightened. He began patting his pockets. ‘Harley’s a sniffer dog, right?’
Jake nodded.
From the back pocket of his jeans, Brad pulled out a slim silver case about the size and shape of a disposable cigarette lighter. As Harley’s back end twitched, Brad slipped off the cap, revealing two neatly rolled joints lying side by side. ‘Can’t arrest me, man. Marijuana’s legal in Oregon.’
‘Sorry,’ Jake said. ‘I guess Harley got his wires crossed.’
Brad shrugged and slipped the case back into his pocket. ‘No problem. Glad we got it cleared up.’
After Brad left, looking smug, I said to Jake, ‘Did Harley? Get his wires crossed, I mean?’
‘It’s possible, Hannah. Harley’s an elderly dog and a bit out of practice.’
‘But you don’t believe it, do you?’ I said, reading the look on his face.
‘At this point, I don’t know what to believe.’ After a moment, he added: ‘You hungry?’
‘Famished,’ I said.
‘Then let’s go see what the buffet has to offer.’
Footprints to Murder Page 18