Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  "No," Dwight said, "I get puzzle fixation. I meant, was that what Harold had, or was there something in the real-world, too? A reason that it mattered?"

  "No telling now, I guess, unless the answer's on the computer," Geoff said.

  "David," Madison put her hand on his shoulder. "I've got to get back to the office." She turned and smiled at everyone. "It was a pleasure to meet all of you, and the conversation has been fascinating, mathematics is always fascinating. I truly do love tables and curves. I'm glad Stephanie is recovering enough to be a little silly. But duty calls for me." She turned to David. "Just for me, though, unless you want to come?"

  "Well," David said, "I drove you over, let me drive you back. Those aren't exactly walking shoes. And I need to pick up a couple things downtown, I left Charlotte without really packing. I know you'll be well looked after, Stephanie. I'll see you this evening, maybe we could take a few minutes and settle the insurance questions. Or tomorrow, if that's better." Madison took his arm and they walked together through the foyer.

  As the door closed behind them, Jerry said, "I can't tell. Did the room just get ten degrees warmer because he left? Or ten degrees cooler because she did?"

  Dwight said, "I could feel her reaching across to me, completely aware of the great gulf of misaligned orientations, but a strong summoning all the same."

  "Yes," Jerry said, "enough to make one wonder, just for a second, have I been wrong all these years?"

  "She just went from face to face," Ellen said, "window shopping. I was assessed, graded, filed away somewhere. That's how it felt."

  "I don't think," Geoff said, "that anybody flunks her auditions. She'll find parts for everybody."

  "Or," Stephanie said, "find some part from everybody. Thanks for the company, you-all. I'm going upstairs now."

  They watched her walk to the stairs, then rise steadily out of sight. Flat black pumps, narrow black slacks, gray cardigan over a yellow blouse, her light brown hair twisted in a low bun.

  "She climbs well." Jerry said. "There's a performer inside the shy shell."

  "Ballet trains both the look and the being looked at," Ellen said. "Watching her makes me think about taking class again, despite a twenty-five year lapse."

  ~

  Seth closed the Juniper House front door softly behind him. He'd been gentle enough the bells had not rung. A surgeon's sensitive touch. The foyer was a shadowy space between the porch and the parlor. He waited while his eyes adjusted. Never been in this room, only for a few minutes in the parlor. Spent a few nights in Marti's bedroom, in the back. Endured Alistair's disapproval a couple times in the kitchen. Kind of liquefies the bones, to know someone so massive and so potent really hates you. Still, he used to come here fairly often to pick her up. They'd go for walks, bike rides, out to dinner, out to parties. He was beginning to lose his life even then, never met a drug he didn't like. He was applying for loans, applying for med school last spring, just one year ago, almost like he meant it.

  He'd come to get her back. He knew she'd been with James Richter last night, and the night before. She called him yesterday afternoon from the phone in his cabin. It took a while, but between his phone's caller ID, and reverse-look-up on the internet, he got the address and main number of the rental company. A purposefully confusing call to their office, and he pulled out the renter's name. The guy having a name changed things. He wasn't paranoid anymore. That was a state of worried uncertainty. Now he knew something. He knew what he had to do. But it wasn't Richter that Marti called yesterday, when the guy accused her of taking his watch, it was him. He was still it, for her.

  So why was he hiding in the shadows here, sneaking through the door? Well, he hadn't exactly worked it all out. Kind of step-by-step thing, take one step and the next one becomes clear. He got here, pretty clean. He was inside. From the time, quarter-to-five, they'd should be finishing up tea. Guests dispersing from the dining room, Marti and Alistair cleaning up in kitchen.

  The two he'd passed on the porch steps, they were probably leaving from tea. Weird little dance on the stairs. He was oozing his way in, they were kind of striding out. All three had minds elsewhere, nobody ready for a collision. Suddenly he was face-to-chest with a seriously sexy lady. Maybe a bit old, a little trampy, but sexy as hell. A nipple two inches left of his left eye, a nipple two inches right of his right eye. He took a step backwards and down. Easier to see both of them from here. He looked up at the woman's face. She was smiling, she seemed very pleased. He mumbled a sound meant to be an apology. "Nobody's fault," she said, and reached out her hand. "I'm Madison." The man with her stepped to one side and watched. "Are you one of the lucky guests, here? Such lovely food."

  He mumbled his name, said he was here to see Marti. "Seth, you lucky boy! Marti is a charming, lovely girl. Of course, a handsome fellow like you would be taken. Well, I work downtown. Come see me if you ever need help with your investments." Her card was in his hand, still. He put it in his pocket, wouldn't want to start by explaining that to Marti. Did Madison mean anything? Why was she coming on to him? The guy broke the spell, stepping forward, forcing Seth almost off the step. He turned to watch them walk down the brick pavers. Without breaking stride, Madison owled her head around and winked, seeming sure he would be looking at her. The pushy little fat man's head was shaking from side to side. He might have been laughing.

  Seth heard voices, many of them, mingled but indistinct. Probably coming around a couple of corners, from the dining room. He took a few steps forward into the parlor, into the light. Actually, there were a couple of people sitting there, out of sight from the foyer. Two ladies, pointing at a little laptop on the table in front of them. They looked up, not questioning he felt, just observing. The little guy he'd spotted sneaking in the back door was there, too, playing with his crackberry. His glance was so carefully non-committal Seth took it as confirmation that the guy recognized him. The voices were clearer, now, getting closer.

  ~

  Geoff emerged from the dining room, Ellen and Stephanie and Honoria a few steps behind. A young man stood uncertainly between the stairs. He gathered that Ross and the Farley twins neither knew nor had spoken to him. Early twenties, jeans, sneakers, striped dress shirt and a down vest. He was unkempt, a bit wild of hair and eye, slender, slightly under six feet tall. He seemed startled, as if he had not expected to be the focus of so much attention.

  "Hi, I'm Geoff. Anything or anybody I can help you find?"

  "Marti. I'm looking for Marti Spence, I'm a friend of hers. Seth Harper."

  "Hi, Seth, I'm Ellen. Marti's in the kitchen. Do you know your way, or can I show you?"

  "No, I know the layout. I usually come in from the gardens, so everything's reversed. Thought today I'd try the front door."

  "She has about ten more minutes." Honoria had turned back, and now reappeared. "I told her you had come. She said, let her get tea cleaned up, and she'll see you out here. I'm Honoria Staedtler."

  Seth tried to smile, to look harmless and not high. When did he become so fascinating? Had they all just finished a really boring meeting and anything looked good that wasn't that? Friendly, outgoing curious people without agendas had not been much in his life this year or last. One more reason, get all that behind him. "Sure," he said. "That's cool."

  "Have a seat, Seth." Ellen plopped back onto the nearest sofa, sweeping her arm to indicate several available chairs. Geoff sat beside her. Stephanie and Honoria sat on the facing sofa, Seth took the nearer of the end chairs. Why had he brought his gun? The holster inside his belt scraped and pinched his leg as he sat. That's going to leave a mark. Crappy leather, scratchy side seam. The woman who hadn't introduced herself, was a dancer, he knew. Marti had described her, playing their novelist game. She seemed perched on the edge of the seat, even though she wasn't. Semi-purposefully he lifted his own bones. Would she pick up on his placement? Two other things about her, she was really pretty, and her husband was the creepy guy who accused Marti of taking his watch. Had been
the creepy guy.

  "Marti told me you were thinking of going to medical school." Honoria smiled.

  He could not help smiling back. "It's the plan, but I don't have the pieces aligned yet. Admissions, finances, little things like that."

  "Don't doctors," Geoff asked, "just take on a million dollars of debt to get them through school, then spend half their careers working to pay it back?"

  Seth said, "That is my plan, I guess. I don't like the system that makes it necessary."

  "You go to war with the army you have, Yoda von Rumsfeld, says." Ellen said.

  "Meaning you can't change the system from the outside?" Seth asked.

  "Meaning, maybe, you could take that on," Geoff said, "but the effort might keep you from ever getting trained as a doctor."

  This is weird, Seth thought. A conversation involving ideas, using diction, without an immediate payoff to anybody. I used to do this. He said, "My sister's argument. Pick a long-term direction, then set an achievable step going that way. Then another."

  "It's okay," Stephanie said, in a soft voice, "if your targets change, as you change."

  "Looking back, as I do, over many targets and many changes," Honoria said, "I think it's important to stay nimble. Find the middle way between bulling forward with your head down, missing the opportunities that open off to the side; and having your blinders on backwards so you only see the distractions and just go rabbity every which way."

  Seth wished the twitching would stop. He was coming off two or three over-lapping highs, and coming on to some serious craving. That was the root of his stasis. The cravings become so distracting that clear thought is impossible until at least one urge is satisfied. He'd get to a place of relative clarity, like now, and want to prolong it. But the only way to keep his body and brain from being completely waylaid, is to go backwards. Epiphany deja-vous: it doesn't work. He remembered an acid trip that either had him standing under the street sign at a particular corner, or going around and around the block trying to get away from it. Flashforward to now. Is it my turn to talk?

  Marti was tugging at her clothes, adjusting after stripping her apron. Seth stood up as she came into the parlor. Has he been sitting there, with guests, talking? Nobody looks freaked out. Must be in one of his good moments, they still happen. Clever handsome college guy. Then he gets antsy, then he takes something, then he goes off in the direction that whatever he took leads him. Couch potato, lately, with paranoia. A few months ago, hyper-active, with paranoia. She wondered why he was here, why he had come through the front? She planned to go to James, tonight. Did he know? Could he trace the phone? She had called from the cabin, about Alden, the heart attack. What does he want?

  "Hi, Marti," Seth said, "thought we could go for a walk, when you were finished with the tea stuff."

  "Good to see you up and about, Seth," Marti said. "Glad you're feeling better. Sure, let's go up to the arboretum."

  I underestimate her, Seth thought. Not for the first time. More goes on under that kinky hair than anybody knows. She's talking to me, past everybody. But we don't want that to go so far the audience starts picking up. He stood, took her hand, said good-by to the little group, and left, Marti in front.

  chapter twenty-seventh

  Detective Sprague was minutes from going home. He'd spent the day at a dim little bar along the Swannanoa River where a knife fight between two customers had left one guy dead and the other in intensive care. The story included an ex-girlfriend of one and an unpaid debt due to the brother of the other one. Neither the bartender nor the two remaining patrons had been able to shed any light on who started it. Bartender said they were yelling. He told them, take it outside. When he looked a few minutes later, and saw they had knives, he called 911. By the time the patrol car arrived, the bar was empty, except for two gents basically too drunk to walk away. No witnesses had come forward from other businesses along the road or passers-by. No charges filed. Just two multiply punctuated bodies, one to the morgue, one to ICU, with a dozen tubes and wires threaded into a dozen new holes.

  Nothing more he could do today. Tomorrow he'd interview family members, friends, see if he could find any of the bar's regular clientele. The guy in ICU won't be talking for a while. Probably never will know if one was more to blame than the other.

  He checked the wire, just to see what he'd missed. Well, the "wire" was a website now, police reports from surrounding counties. A meth-lab in Cherokee County, basement full of marijuana plants under grow-lights in Swayne County, plus a B&E.

  From Rutherford County, an update to a story he'd seen earlier. They'd identified a guy found dead mid-afternoon at the bottom of a cliff. A hiker had seen a colorful lump below the trail and climbed down to look. In the earlier report, all they'd said was, adult male deceased wearing purple sweats and running shoes, no pockets, no identification. Now, somebody had gone to the top of the cliff and found a cabin and a car. Also a wallet (cash and cards intact), a cell phone, and a watch. The driver's license picture and description matched the body, putting aside bruises and abrasions. The face was pretty torn up. But the investigating detective, from the Rutherford Sheriff's Department, was confident that the body was James Richter.

  Cause of death, presumed to be tumbling down a hundred-thirty foot cliff, especially hitting the bottom of same. Obvious broken neck, probable broken back. No trauma evident beyond bones broken and flesh torn from the fall. Cause of fall, unknown, presumed accidental. Time of death early to mid-morning, rendered uncertain because the body was partly submerged in the chilly water of Blister Creek. But cabin and cliff side had been examined and crime-scene tape stretched around the scene. An investigation was underway. Sprague dug in his drawer and pulled out his interview notes with Richter. Cell-phone number matched. As if there was a question.

  Okay. Richter dead. An accident, probably. Not robbed. His broker, Alden, also dead, natural causes, probably. Twenty-four hours more or less. Forty miles apart. Sick middle-aged guy has a heart attack, healthy younger guy falls off a cliff. Autopsy on Alden had come in today, final except for a couple slow-go tissue tests. He'd glanced at it earlier. He pulled out the folder. The heart had failed, no question. Bruising of face and hands consistent with fall from chair, striking the desk edge and the radiator. Some blood inside the nostrils, burst vessels, probably attributable to vigorous CPR administered immediately after death, or to gasping for breath in the minutes just before death. Not inconsistent with suffocation, but no indications that way. No evidence of foul play, no signs of struggle, no broken nails or other signs of trauma. Nobody else's flesh under deceased's nails, no toxins in the blood or urine. A natural death.

  He called Rutherford. Deputy Ramsey, like him, was on his way out the door. Everything had really been in the report, Ramsey said, except there'd been somebody else in the bed the night before. Two dirty wine glasses in the sink, two clean plates in the drainer, four bottles empty from a six-pack of beer, two pieces left from a large pizza. Yeah, there'd been an overnighter. There weren't any discernable footprints at the top of the cliff, but it had rained for about an hour yesterday around eleven o'clock. Yeah, he'd be happy to have Sprague join him out there in the morning, seven-thirty would be fine. Sure bring your forensic guys, he'd been planning to ask for help tomorrow, just to put this thing to bed. Didn't seem to be anything urgent. Was there? Sprague guessed not. Find out in the morning.

  He got Bobby and Cindy lined up. Question for him was, what about the rest of today. It was almost six. He pulled up the website for Juniper House. Tea was at 4:30, too late for that. But desserts were put out around 10:30. There was a chance the whole crew would be there for dessert. If he went, would he just be tipping his hand (whatever the hell his hand was), or would it be a chance to scan for guilty flushes (never had much luck with that). Damn. He wanted to go home, eat supper and drink some Tennessee whiskey in front of the TV. Damn. He'd need somebody. This would be overtime, he'd have to justify it. Later.

  One catch. Ramsey's
overnighter was probably that Spence kid, Marti. He didn't want her driving out to Chimney Rock and finding the crime-scene tape. Story wasn't going to make the six o'clock news, ID was too late coming off the wire. Let's deal out a wild card. He called Juniper House, got Alistair, asked to speak with Marti. He told her he was coming around eleven. Please be available to answer some questions, please don't tell anyone else. She agreed reluctantly. He asked to have Alistair back and made the same two requests. With any luck, they'd keep each other at the inn, maybe they wouldn't tell too many of the guests. If one or both of them was gone, that would be better information than anything he had yet. And it could be interesting to see who they told. He didn't have much to lose, because he basically didn't have anything. He called Patrolman Jenny Apple to meet him at the inn at ten-thirty. She lived in Montford, about four blocks away.

  ~

  It was almost seven o'clock. Andy Ross typed notes into his Blackberry as he listened in real time to the end-of-day tapes from Markey's office. His van was parked in the lot next door. Once again, entertainment quotient very high, information quotient very low. He was getting kind of parched for something he could use. Should he go home with her, or follow him back to Juniper House? Okay, they were leaving together, temporarily resolving his problem. Out to dinner, or back to her place? They hadn't said anything. They climbed into David's red Porsche, Ross followed a couple blocks back. He'd stuck a GPS chip on the car, so he couldn't lose them, but not a mic. They pulled up in front of a fancy downtown restaurant. Ross passed slowly enough to see them enter, then found himself a space in the next block. He waited in the car for a quarter-hour, walked slowly past the front of the Marketplace Restaurant, Porsche still parked. He turned the corner and bought himself a turkey sandwich at the Subway. It was he only chain store in all downtown Asheville. Why was that? He took his sandwich back to the van and waited.