by Bud Crawford
"Yeah, almost. There was something changed in the room, when I went back. Haven't quite got hold of it, but I have the two pictures pretty sharp, it'll be here after a bit."
Ellen shifted to the side of her chair, facing Geoffrey over the round oak table, the quarter-sawn top gleaming under the lamp. "It took me years, you know, before I believed in your parlor trick. It wasn't the possibility I doubted, it was the slow-motion part, like film developing."
"Growing up, it meant I could never lose at those memory games, where you turn cards over and then have to match them. Except nobody wanted to play me, guaranteed loss at a snail's pace. I got quicker at simple things, like cards, but I still have to let my brain take whatever time it wants on complex images." He took another sip of wine. "Ah. Got it. That is interesting, although there are several explanations."
"Got what, damn it?" Ellen slid forward to the edge of her chair.
"No, wait, it'll keep. I want to know your take first."
"Sometimes you really are annoying." Ellen swung suddenly across with a quick backhanded slap aimed precisely at his face. Geoff caught her wrist at the end of its ark, pushed it past his face as he leaned away, steadied her, and let go. "Someday you'll get slower and I'll have to start pulling those," she said. "Okay. I'll play your way, note that a protest was filed." She leaned towards him. "I have no evidence, no basis in fact, no little stereopticon trick to pull out. But I don't buy the heart attack, that's the whole story. It just doesn't work. And, no, one more time, I have no reason I can tell you."
"Fair enough," Geoff took another sip of wine. "I don't have much more, not a hook for a big hat, but I am sure of it. When I went in to see him, after the watch brouhaha, Harold had a flash drive stuck into a USB port on the left side of his laptop, a little key-chain guy, silver with red trim. There was a cover, same colors, lanyard attached, on the table behind the computer. Later, when Toni was trying CPR, it wasn't there. A small stubborn little fact."
"Harold could have pulled it out." Ellen settled back in her chair, and drank a little wine.
"Sure. Or somebody else, Toni, Marti." Geoff turned to Ellen.
"Tell Sprague, see what he turns up?" Ellen kicked off her shoes and folded her legs underneath herself. "Poor baby, poor Stef. This is so horrible for her."
"Even worse if it was a deliberate thing. Always worse that way." Geoff reached across and squeezed Ellen's nearer kneecap. She put her hand over his. "Two o'clock, El, nearly."
He bent forward, untied his shoes, stood up, kicked them off, and lined them up beside his chair. He pulled the purple polo shirt over his head, pulled his belt from its loops, put socks and shirt and cargo shorts into the plastic bag on the floor of the closet. Ellen was in bed, when he turned around, table lamp off, wine glass drained, dress flopped over the arm of the chair, bra on the floor. He finished his glass, turned off the room light and slid into the bed, pulling her body to his until they both were asleep.
~
Ross slipped off the headphones and smiled. He'd been catching up, running fast-forward through the tapes. That was entertainment, Markey's workout with Richter. Should have popped a camera into her office, not just a mic, though the thrust, so to speak, was pretty clear. But Richter was after something he didn't get. She took his wind, left him gasping. Unless the point was to let her know he knew something. Who's using who? He scanned the intercepts, one email out, to Ickes. Nothing obviously special: Richter came by, she said, told me Alden's dead, anything she should do? So he calls back a few minutes later, coming to Asheville tomorrow, he'll talk to her then. It's screwy, some way or another, but too little information, nothing to grab. Might as well wait here for him, nothing seems to be on for tonight. Sleeping in a bed, all night long, praise the lord!
chapter twenty-fourth — friday
Alistair was glad to see Marti. She got in about six, looking less bedraggled than yesterday. He had started the fresh breads an hour earlier and put the twice-risen loaves into the oven. She immediately started washing up and putting away the baking stuff. They worked in companionable silence, as they usually did. Toni looked in briefly from the doorway around seven, nodded and grunted. She was pleased to see Marti home, pleased not to be needed, and went back to bed.
Stuffed French toast was the main course and timing was everything. As soon as the egg bread was baked and a little cooled (it was a challah, basically, except not braided), they cut thick slices. Alistair filleted along one edge and Marti pushed the blend of ricotta, cream cheese, honey, and hot pepper jelly into the cavity. They stacked the stuffed bread and put the platters in the refrigerator. Half-an-hour before serving, they'd sauté each piece in butter, just long enough to brown the crust, then load them on trays to bake in the oven for fifteen minutes, which would be the time to sauté the sausage links. Maple syrup, honey, and black cherry butter were the toppings. Marti prepared platters for each table with little pots for the toppings and carried them into the dining room.
Halved and cored red Bartlett pears were the first course. Marti sprinkled them with citric acid, filled with brown sugar, cinnamon and sherry, and set them on trays in the second oven. Alistair turned the bread oven off, leaving the loaves in to stay warm. Marti decanted the coffees into carafes, filled the creamers, set out cups, saucers, bread plates and silverware. Alistair poured boiling water over the leaves in the warmed teapots and covered them with cozies while Marti brought the pitchers of orange, cranberry and grapefruit juice from the drink box to the sideboard. It was eight.
Honoria and the Farley twins were the first guests downstairs. They sat together at the right-hand table by the window after serving themselves with tea and juice and thin slices of banana nut bread. They sat quietly with their cups and plates, Honoria asking questions from time to time, the sisters responding in alternation. The Herter family took the other window table, energetic and bustling, their energy bound within its own circle. They passed brochures back and forth, studying up for their excursion to the Biltmore House. Dwight sat at the table nearest the door, with a cup of coffee.
When Jerry joined him a minute later, Alistair turned on the oven with the pears, and turned on the burners under two twelve-inch frying pans. He melted a tablespoon of butter in each pan. When the foam quieted he set in two pieces of toast. He set a third pan on the stove sprinkled a little oil as it got hot and laid in half the sausage links. He turned the toast, rolled the links around in the hot oil, turned the gas down and put lids on.
Geoffrey and Ellen sat at the table between the three women and Dwight and Jerry. Ross was across from them, alone with his Blackberry, newspaper, coffee and juice. Stephanie joined Geoff and Ellen. Marti set a sprig of fresh-picked mint on each hot pear-half and served them. Alistair offered yogurt and whipped cream, then left both bowls on the sideboard.
As Alistair finished sautéing the last pieces of stuffed toast and fired up the second batch of sausages, Marti checked the coffee and tea, and began new pots for the ones running low. She cleared most of the dishes from the pear course.
"Oh, Marti, I forgot to tell you." Alistair stopped her from going back to the dining room. "We have a new guest showing up, kind of backwards. He may be here for breakfast today and leave before breakfast tomorrow, just one night is for sure. He's coming to see Mrs. Alden. He's from the office in Charlotte where her husband worked, come to 'offer his condolences.' I got the room ready last night, after I confirmed his reservation."
"Okay, we can handle that." Marti dried her hands.
"'Nother subject, there's a detective wants to talk to you. No big deal, he's just getting statements from everybody, cop routine. He knows about the watch. You can probably just give him a phone call. It's nothing, they just got to check off all the names. Here's his card, Detective Sprague." He watched her eyes.
"Sure, I'll call. James had to talk to him yesterday, he told me about it." She wasn't scared, she told herself, a little nervous but there was nothing to be scared about. "We got new reservatio
ns for the weekend?"
"It may get complicated. We have three rooms coming in, but some of these folks might overstay. I'm not sure what to do. But the Germans, the sisters, Dwight and Jerry and Ross will probably all leave tomorrow or the next day, as planned, can't think why not. So it's just the Fletchers, Mrs. Alden and Honoria, maybe this Ickes guy. It'll work, I hope without having to bump anybody, but there's plenty of rooms in the neighborhood if we have to."
"You want me to check the room for the new guy?" Marti put her hand on Alistair's arm. "I could run up right now."
"Please. I tried to get everything, but I never do. I forget glasses or towels, robes or something."
"I'll be right back." Marti went two-at-a-time up the back steps, directly from the kitchen.
"I'll finish clearing." Alistair said. Everyone had finished, so he got all the first course dishes into the kitchen, as Marti returned. "How'd I do?" he asked her.
"Perfect, except the laundry bag, unless I missed something."
"You never do, sweetie." He hugged her for a second, with one arm. "Let's bring on the toast." They quickly plated and served the main course. Alistair relished, as always, the hushed conversations and the quiet clatter of flatware on china from people enjoying his cooking.
~
David Ickes parked his Porsche convertible, a 911 Cabriolet Turbo, Guards Red, on the street in front of Juniper House. He took a small case from the boot, and walked two steps up through the hedge, along the walkway towards the porch. He looked down at the masses of spring flowers in the beds on each side. Have they been lucky with frosts here, or do they replant over and over? They must have got killed last week, like we did. Looks nice, either way. Hundred eighty dollars a night, place ought to look pretty. It's almost nine-thirty, I could use some breakfast. Wonder if they're still serving?
He climbed the six steps to the porch, opened the front door, and walked into the foyer. Smells like breakfast, he thought, follow the nose. The parlor was a large, two story room, a wood-railed balcony ran around above, with several small groupings of furniture, fresh cut flowers on every table. The smells and the only voices he could hear came from the left, through a doorway. He walked into the dining room, six tables, four chairs each, three occupied tables, one covered with dirty dishes. Three ladies at one, all of them old, one really old; a guy by himself, neat dresser, reading a newspaper; two sloppy guys sitting at adjacent sides, look like construction workers. There's Stephanie with a tall guy and a tall chick, actually kind of a hot chick, in a scrawny athletic way. He preferred more curves. A door opened, at the other end, and a man in an apron came into the room. Jesus, he's huge! Look at that head. Must be six-six, but you could put the head on an eight footer.
"Mr. Ickes?" the giant asked him. "I'm Alistair Vingood, we've met by email, I guess you could say. Welcome to Juniper House."
"Yes, David Ickes, nice to meet you, Alistair." He shook the cook's hand, let go and stepped around him. He set his black leather bag on the floor. "Hello, Stephanie, I came as soon as I heard." She looked up at him, her hands flat on the table in front of her. He leaned forward and pressed his hands down against hers for a second, then stepped back and straightened. "I'm so sorry about Harold. The news hasn't even begun to sink in yet for me. It has to be simply terrible for you."
"Hello, David. Thank you for coming, it's very thoughtful." Stephanie's voice was soft, uninflected. She sat, looking up without moving.
"No, it's the only possible thing. I'll be here as long as you need me, until you're ready to come home. Anything I can do, just ask, both as a friend and as a representative of Metrocor. We don't let our people down at a time like this."
Geoffrey stood and extended his hand. "David, I'm Geoffrey Fletcher, an old friend of Stephanie's. This is my wife, Ellen."
"Good to meet you, Geoffrey, Ellen." David shook Geoff's hand and nodded to Ellen. "I'm glad Stephanie had somebody to be with until I could get here. It's a bad time to be alone."
"Are you hungry, Mr. Ickes?" Alistair's asked. "There's plenty of everything, take just a second to warm it up."
"Well, thank you, I didn't eat breakfast, hit the road to get here first thing. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd be glad for anything. A cup of coffee would be fantastic." He turned. "Is that okay, Stephanie?"
"Yes, eat, of course, I'm fine. There isn't anything you need to do for me."
"Sit down, David, please, join us." Ellen pointed to the empty chair. "Get coffee over there, and Alistair will bring on a breakfast worth being hungry for."
"Thank you, Ellen, I will, if you-all truly don't mind?" He moved his bag away from the chair, and turned to the coffee. His brown oxfords were fresh-shined, he wore a cream-colored wool suit, a pink shirt open at the throat. He was about five-six, nearly that wide, at least two hundred pounds. Like an athlete gone soft, he moved more easily than his bulk suggested. His watch was even bigger than Harold's, all gold and fully on display as he sat at the table, stirring cream and sugar into his coffee.
Alistair set the baked pear in front of him, with knife and fork and napkin. David looked around the table apologetically.
"Eat while it's warm, David. Enjoy," Ellen said. "We'll just watch and remember how good it was. There's nothing hard about sitting here nursing our coffees and full bellies."
Ellen turned to Stephanie. "So, what do you want to do today? Finish the phone calls? I guess we can cross Metrocor off the list." She turned to David. His smile was wide with pleasure, his mouth slightly open, full of pear. "How did you hear, so soon, David?"
"Ellen!" Geoff said. "Let the man chew."
David swallowed. "No, it's okay. I got an email from Madison Markey, who heads our Asheville office. Do you ever meet Madison, Stephanie? She had a visit yesterday from a client of Harold's. He told her what happened. I drove up, not knowing Stephanie was in such capable hands, because I knew I could help in practical ways."
"Practical ways?" Ellen said.
"Well, money, life insurance. Harold's personal policies are pretty considerable, but there are formalities before they'll pay out and it can take weeks. The Metrocor in-house policy, a standard benefit bundled with our health insurance, will pay immediately on my authorization. This can help because joint property, like credit cards or bank accounts, can be frozen temporarily, while the paperwork is done. And sometimes creditors, mortgage companies, utilities, are not as understanding as they ought to be."
He reached across the table and took Stephanie's hands in his. "We can't do anything about your loss, obviously we can't, but we can help to keep other things from piling on. Young people rarely think of drawing up powers of attorney, having their wills up to date, having rights of survivorship on bank accounts."
"David, I really do appreciate your concern," Stephanie said, "but I'm sure everything is fine. Harold was very conscientious. Last fall, around Thanksgiving, we thought I was pregnant, and he made a lot of arrangements. I don't remember everything he told me, but our lawyer and insurance agent will know. He was concerned because of his heart, with a baby coming."
"I hope it will be simple, Stephanie. I know about the life insurance, because Harold consulted with me. For the others, your lawyer knows. But I've seen how tangled up things can get, in a case of unexpected death. I can make you a cash account at Metrocor or I can cut a check for deposit. You can open an account anywhere you like, with you as sole signatory. It isn't enormous, our company policy, two-hundred thousand for people of Harold's grade. But it might help while the other things sort out."
"Two-hundred thousand dollars? That's enormous to me." Stephanie said. She pulled her hands away, touched her fingertips to her throat.
"It's the standard benefit, the only cheap piece of our medical plan. You continue to be covered on Harold's plan, by the way, for six months. I called our agent from my car on the way here, to make sure."
Ellen asked, "David, if two-hundred thousand is 'not enormous' and Harold's policy was 'pretty considerable,' how much
life insurance did he have?"
"I can't say, Ellen, that's privileged information." David looked at Stephanie.
"Well you can tell me, can't you," Stephanie said, "and I don't care if Ellen and Geoff hear."
"Okay, but I'll protect myself and use the car dealer method." David took a card from the pocket of his jacket and wrote on the back. "Here," he handed the card to Stephanie.
"Four-and-a-half million! David! Why? That must have cost a fortune."
"Well, it cost the going rate, given his age and health. The amount is modest, if you consider the lifetime loss of income to his family. It's a sliding policy, smaller payout as he got older, so the premiums would have stayed about even. He was just fifty-four. Had he worked another ten years, not even allowing for promotions and bonuses, the amount is reasonable."
Geoff said, "That is how it's calculated. Hearkens back to the man as sole support, the woman completely supported, and treats a marriage like a business. Numerically, financially, it's about right. It's not what most people do, because it is expensive. In our house, Ellen gets my decoder ring, I get her recipe files. That's it for us."