When she reached the lab, she dusted both sides of the threatening note for prints and found none but her own. That out of the way, she set to work in earnest. The four by six inch sheet had machine sliced edges on three sides. Remnants of a printed heading still remained intact along me torn upper edge—a “T” several spaces to the right of center and a “P” an inch from the right hand border. A lead—slim, and next to impossible to trace, but better than no lead at all.
In a somewhat more optimistic mood, she tested the paper content—twenty-five percent cotton fiber bond—a type commonly used for scratch pads. A trace of padding gum clinging to an edge substantiated her conclusion.
To avoid being distracted, she'd kept the note face down. A kernel of dread gathered as she turned the paper over and studied the killer's printed scrawl.
In mystery stories, writers often spoke of a certain place or thing having an aura. In the past, her scientific mind had rejected the theory. Now, her skepticism vanished. The black smeary letters emanated malevolence.
Not being a handwriting analyst, she could only guess at the implications of the intense pen pressure, the erratic right and left slant of the letters. More samples of the person's writing would be needed before a graphologist could attempt a personality profile.
She reread the data she'd recorded. Before the graphic depiction of crimes on TV, the absence of fingerprints on the note and dog collar would have signified a clever criminal. These days, even the rankest amateurs wore gloves—unless the crime had occurred in the heat of anger.
A couple of ominous questions rose to blot other concerns from her mind. Had the dog been garroted to keep her quiet, or had the killing been an integral part of a premeditated plan?
She repackaged the note, hid it on one of the shelves, and unwrapped the wire used to strangle Cleo. Much to her disappointment, the wire turned out to be 16 gauge aluminum, a common variety available in any hardware store.
She sighed and noted the time—ten o'clock. Simon should be on his way to his appointment with Dr. Tambor. She massaged the back of her neck, moved to a nearby table and gazed down at casts of the footprints she'd found near Prescott's Byway the day after Elise disappeared. Only time and a great deal of work would prove the true worth of the idea she'd had yesterday while watching the little boy on the ferry.
After checking the prints from all angles and taking minute measurements, she turned her attention to plaster impressions of the striations discovered near the dinghy in Orca Narrows. Microscopic examination of the tiny horizontal grooves revealed brownish shreds, thready plant fibers and bits of black seeds.
She glanced at her watch. By now, Simon should be riding up to the fourth floor in the elevator. A hard, cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Keep him safe.
Her hand trembled as she set the impressions aside and snapped off the microscope light. She had to get outside, do something physical that'd keep her mind totally engrossed. If she stayed cooped up, her fear for Simon would grow until she could think of nothing else. She decided to revisit Orca Narrows and gather pieces of shrubbery for comparison with those that she'd found.
She returned to the cottage to stow clippers and storage bags in a packsack. As she cut cheese for a sandwich, the light glinted on the keen-edged blade, the pointed tip. She remembered sitting only a few feet from Mrs. Demetrius while she fingered a deadly looking letter opener. A fine trembling began inside of Amy. Cornered killers did terrible things, Simon should know that.
She jammed an apple in her jacket pocket, snatched up the sandwich, and set off for the trail along the cliff's edge. If she kept moving, perhaps she wouldn't dwell on him.
Gray clouds scraped tree tops protruding from wisps of swirling mist. Below her, a heaving pewter sea smashed into massive boulders, turning them slick and black as seal skin. On a pinnacle, out of reach of the spray, perched long-necked cormorants spreading ebony-hued wings to dry.
Ordinarily, she enjoyed watching them. In her present mood, they put her in mind of black-caped mourners. A shudder ran through her. What kind of a person would deliberately kill a warm, loving animal like Cleo just to send a warning? The answer came to her with stunning force. A brutal one.
She stood stock still and squeezed her eyes tight shut. She hadn't said a real prayer in a long time and even here with only the crows and black birds to hear, she felt shy and ill-at-ease.
She looked up at the forbidding sky. “Please, I'll do anything. Just don't take Simon too,” she whispered.
After a few minutes, she shook herself and started off again, resolving to do what she came to do. As she marched along, her gaze swept from side to side. A week ago Saturday, when she'd been searching for the dinghy, she hadn't had time to properly assess the area.
Where a small rivulet trickled between cattails and tall swamp iris spears, she knelt to study some footprints on a muddy bank. A number of other people had traveled this path since she'd been here. She frowned. Little point in her taking a scientific approach at this late date. Nevertheless she didn't want to overlook something her father, Tom Calder, or the deputy had missed.
All along the way, she clipped bits of huckleberry, beach pine, and juniper, packaging and labeling each before storing them in the packsack. When she reached the rim of the bluff where she'd previously seen broken twigs and crushed foliage, she searched for them. But in the seven days since she'd seen them, wind and rain had erased all trace.
A little farther on, she noticed several short, ivory-colored strands caught in a crevice. She plucked them out with needle-nosed forceps and deposited them in an envelope. Her deductive mind insisted nothing on the cliff could possibly be linked to Oren's case. Still, she'd been taught criminals don't always act in a logical manner.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the precipitous slope she'd scrambled down to look at the overturned dinghy. Farther along, she knew there should be a much easier route. She decided to chance it.
On the other side of a rocky knoll, a patch of Scotch broom narrowed the footpath. Dry seed pods rattling like castanets, the shrub's green wandlike stems surged and dipped in the wind. She paused long enough to snip off some sprigs before squeezing by. A few yards beyond, she discovered the trail she sought.
The path led downward through a deep cleft in the rocks to the crescent-shaped cove. Here, by some trick of wind current, the mist had cleared, filling the narrows with sunshine. It glistened on clumps of slick olive-green kelp where gulls fought over beached crab.
At the far end of the cove, an orange plastic ribbon marked the spot where the dinghy had rested. She scanned the expanse of sand. No shrubbery within thirty or forty yards of that particular section. Bent in a half crouch, she did a foot by foot scrutiny. Sometimes she got down on all fours. Once, she lay on her stomach and rested her cheek on the salt-crusted sand to get an ant's eye view. Satisfied that she'd eliminated all the possibilities, she hurried toward home.
After leaving the bluff trail, she plodded up the long incline leading to the cottage. Halfway there, she heard the phone ringing and broke into a run. She took the steps two at a time, dropped the key and swore. “Don't hang up.” She flung the door open, snatched up the receiver and said hello.
“Where the hell have you been?” Simon barked. “I've been trying to reach you for over an hour.”
He was all right. She collapsed in a chair.
“Well?”
His dictatorial tone sent her temper soaring, until she noticed his agitated breathing. “What happened?”
“I screwed up. That's what happened. I knew I should have insisted on seeing Tambor last night.”
She ground her teeth together. Why did he think he had to be perfect. “Just tell me will you. I'm not going to grade you on your performance, for God's sake.”
“I'm trying to, dammit. The lights were off and the elevator out of order when I got there.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs. A good reporter wouldn't let a dark building keep him
from a good story, and the doctor knew it. “So you acted like an idiot and walked up to the fourth flour. Right?”
“Why not? For all I knew, his suite had a separate fuse box.” He exhaled and went on. “From the looks of Tambor's office, he'd really hung one on. Whiskey bottles everywhere, but no sign of him.”
“So the man got scared and took off. Just our luck.”
“That's what I thought ... until I saw the open elevator shaft.”
She caught her breath. “He ... he didn't, did he?”
Simon swallowed noisily. “The police ... found him ... at the bottom ... of the shaft.”
“Do they think he fell"—she shuddered—"or ... or jumped, or ... Oh, my God! They don't think someone else did it do they?”
“Hah! They aren't saying anything. I'm the one who's been doing all the talking for the last two hours. You know a Lt. Joseph Salgado?”
“I've heard the name.”
“Jesus! The guy has a broken nose and eyes like a Doberman. And he acts like I did it.”
“You told him why you were there, didn't you?”
“Of course I told him, or tried to. I doubt the man believes his own mother. So I took him to the condo and showed him the picture and master charge slip we found. He gave me holy hell for poking my nose in where it didn't belong.”
“I'm to blame too. Didn't you tell him that?”
“Of course not. What good would that have done?”
Silence stretched between them and she knew he must be fighting to regain control. Finally, his breathing slowed. “Sorry I yelled at you,” he said quietly. “But after seeing Tambor dead, then not being able to reach you, I went a little crazy. I just knew you'd got yourself hurt, or ... or worse with one of your damn fool stunts.”
His remark rasped her taut nerves. “Takes one to know one, Simon.”
“Don't start that addle-headed business about being able to look after yourself. It's dangerous out there and you know it.”
Of all the arrogant, high-handed, stiff-necked ... Her irritation fizzled away. He'd worried about her. Cared enough to keep calling. “Let's skip it, okay? Besides, Dr. Tambor's death may clear up this whole nasty mess.”
“I hope so, but—” He broke off and sighed. “I talked to your Dad. He's arranged to rent a van. We plan to arrive on the early morning ferry tomorrow. Amy,” he said in a soft, wheedling tone. “Couldn't you get someone to stay with you tonight?”
“Simon, will you stop"—she filled her lungs and began again—"I'll sleep at Aunt Helen's. What kind of trouble are you planning on getting into?”
“Don't worry about me, I can...” A flat, humorless laugh burst from him. “I'll be well supervised. The lieutenant put a tail on me.”
“Smart man. Remind me to send him flowers.” She hung up and hastened to repack her suitcase. If she arrived at Helen's house before dark, perhaps she could get casts of Oren's footprints. She'd need some of him empty-handed and others with him carrying a heavy weight. If she could prove reasonable doubt of Oren's guilt, then perhaps the authorities would realize Dr. Tambor could have had a motive to do away with Elise.
She sagged against the bed. The evidence against Oren was so damning and this one factor so complex and difficult to substantiate even her father had overlooked it—or had he? She wandered into the bathroom and stood looking into space. Perhaps, in her eagerness to find something that'd clear Oren she'd made an error. She tossed her hair dryer and make-up bag into the suitcase and closed the lid. One doubtful item was better than none at all.
She loaded the car with needed equipment and drove up the hill to put her shrubbery clippings in the lab. Once they were stored away, she checked the windows, locked the doors, and turned on the alarm. If anyone tried to get in or tamper with the security system, a buzzer would go off at the sheriff's office.
On her way out of the driveway, she passed her father's car and made a mental note to call Virgil's Auto Shop. Over the years Virgil had performed miracles on the old clunks she'd owned—he'd know if the Ford's motor had been sabotaged. If it hadn't, the hit-and-run might have been accidental. However, an inner voice told her there was faint hope of that.
Her scalp prickled. Suppose Elise's death, Cleo's strangulation, and her father's assault weren't related. That would mean more than one killer prowled the island. She shuddered at the thought.
Monday, October 31
The next morning at breakfast, Helen read aloud the report of Dr. Tambor's death. Before Amy, Oren, and Helen had an opportunity to discuss it, Tom Calder arrived and demanded to know where Oren had been Saturday night.
After the sheriff had fired several questions at him, Oren fixed him with a hard, cold stare. “I didn't push that doctor down an elevator shaft, if that's what you're driving at.”
“You'd better come up with more than that, Prescott. Your word isn't worth beans.”
Oren flung down his napkin. “Next you'll be saying I ran down my uncle.” He got up and went to stand at the window.
The sheriff bunched his fists on his hips and jutted his head. “Wouldn't surprise me none. None at all. I've seen cold fish in my time, but you top the list.”
“Go to hell,” Oren said without turning around.
“Look a here, hot shot, you can't—”
“Stop it, Tom,” Helen said. “You too, Oren. The two of you squabbling isn't accomplishing anything.”
Amy set down her cup. She would have preferred not to get into it with Calder but someone had to set things straight. “What makes you think Dr. Tambor was killed?”
“He was carrying on with your cousin's woman, wasn't he?”
She regarded him with a scowl. “That's all you've got? When I tried to tell you about the doctor and Elise on Saturday, you didn't give a good God damn.”
A muscle knotted along his long-jawed face. “So what? The picture's changed.”
“Then you'd better get your facts straight.” She stood up and regarded him with a level look. “The doctor was drunk. He could've jumped, or fallen down that shaft.”
The sheriff's eyes flickered and widened ever so slightly. Then he caught himself and his lip curled into a sneer. “Yeah, and he could have been pushed too.” He turned and stalked out.
Later that morning, B.J. and Simon arrived on the ferry and for the next few hours the big house was a flurry of activity. After lunch, they gathered in what used to be her father's bedroom, but now more closely resembled a jungle gym.
Under B.J.'s direction, Simon had rigged up pulleys, ropes, and grab bars. With these in place, B.J. hoped to be less dependent on her and Simon. She eyed them without enthusiasm. Two nights ago, he'd undergone surgery to relieve a concussion. What if he fell?
“Watch this, Amy,” B.J. said. With Simon beaming in the background, he raised himself, swung his long leg cast off the bed, followed with the short leg cast on his right leg, caught hold of a metal railing and pulled himself up enough to get his crutches into place. “How about that?”
She smiled wryly. “Great, Dad. Just great. Now get back in bed.”
Simon winked at her and she frowned in annoyance. “Don't help him with anymore of his hare-brained schemes. Okay?”
Simon flung up an arm as if to ward off a blow, and grinned at her from behind the cover. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He was always so serious his clowning took her by surprise. She kept her face straight, but knew her eyes betrayed her amusement. “I mean it, Simon,” she said with as much force as she could muster.
His grin broadened into a heart-melting smile. “I know. know.”
B.J. plopped back on the bed and settled himself among the pillows she'd stacked. “Lighten up, kitten. I know my own limitations.”
“That'll be the day.”
He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Get your notebook. It's time we had a buzz session.”
She set up his easel and brought out the huge pad of newsprint he always used.
“Fine. Fine. Now you do the
honors.”
An uncomfortable feeling came over her as she stepped into the spot where he always stood and picked up the soft leaded pencil. “Where do you want to begin?”
“Let's start with Elise.”
She drew a circle in the center of the sheet and labeled it.
“Okay, let's see what we've got kids.” He tugged at his beard. “Here's a woman who impressed me as being quiet and soft spoken.
Amy listed the qualities beside Elise's name.
B.J. nodded his approval. “However, Helen found her to be cold as a clam.”
Amy wrote as he talked. “She was also moody and unpredictable.” She glanced at Simon. “Isn't that right?”
He nodded. “Also self-centered and short-tempered.” His features darkened. “There wasn't an ounce of truth in those stories she told that Mrs. Michaels at Dr. Tambor's office. So why'd she lie? I've never met anyone so ... so"—he waved his hand—"forget it.”
B.J. flung him a benevolent glance. “I can understand you and Oren having sore spots. I went through it myself when Amy's mother left without telling me she was going, or why.”
His eyes clouded for a moment, but he recovered quickly and went on. “However, if either of you are holding something back that we should know, I'm not going to take it kindly”
Simon sat up straight, folded his arms and concentrated his attention on the opposite wall.
When Simon made no comment, B.J. took up his recital once more. “In White Bird, you learned Elise had been kind to a retarded boy and his mother.”
“Perhaps something happened there that changed her.” Amy printed “White Bird” and drew a circle around it. She remembered an oversight and said, “Dr. Tambor's office manager is bound to be a key witness against Oren. We need to find out if she's trustworthy or just one of those people who likes to grab attention.” She headed a column with a large question mark and put down Mrs. Michaels's name.
“Ah.” B.J. smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Now, we're beginning to get somewhere.”
“Heard anything more about Elise's jewelry?” Simon asked.
Amy shook her head. “Calder isn't noted for his speed and efficiency.” She made a number “one” off to the right and wrote “jewelry” after it.
With Deadly Intent Page 13