by Bud Crawford
An hour-and-a-half later, they came out and climbed into the Porsche. Both faces were flushed, pleased looking, Ross thought, as if their meal had been much better than his, their wine far superior to his sweet tea. That's the conversation I wish I'd heard, but how much trouble can this be worth? He started the van and followed them to Markey's condo, less than half-a-mile, on the southern edge of downtown. She got out of the car, walked up to the building door, and turned to wave. Ickes drove off as she opened the door. Ross followed the Porsche back to Juniper House, drove a couple blocks past, then circled and drove into the rear driveway just as Ickes was opening the door from the garden into the parlor.
~
Ellen was typing her interview notes into her laptop while Geoff finished the last of the seven plays. The assignment had been a two-act drama, where the second act in some way inverts the assumptions the audience had formed during the first act. It was a master's level assignment, and Geoff was mostly pleased with the results. The last student seemed to have missed the point entirely, until he realized that she had flipped the genders of the two principal characters in a sly unspoken way that almost got past him. Visualizing with actors, as he always advised his students to do, made the device more evident. He'd have to think a little, to decide if she had been too subtle or he'd been too dense. Easily best of the lot, once he'd got hold of it. This kid might do something. He'd ask her about some production choices, stage directions were pretty skimpy. He'd see Craig when he got back, head of theater, sorry, theatre, to see about putting it on for the June series. Hollins loved gender ambiguity, no problem finding actors or a director.
"Sounds like you're snorting good snorts," Ellen said. "What's the occasion?"
"My last play, Marie Quesada's, is really pretty hot. I'm going to get Craig to stage it, I think. I missed the point entirely on my first read."
"You being oblivious makes the play good?" Ellen closed her computer.
"That's why I just did a third read, after figuring it out on number two. See if it stayed strong. I think so. We could test it on you, except you'd start unfairly tipped off."
"Tipped to what? That you're sometimes goony? Give me the thing, I'm done with my chefs."
Geoff stretched the manuscript out towards her, but held on. "Nothing you read leaves this room, on pain of a copyright prosecution followed by excommunication."
"Yeah, yeah, the usual deal with your ever-precious mentorees. Gimme." She pulled the stapled sheets out of his hand, settled back against the headboard, and began reading.
Geoff watched her read, forehead furrowed, body tucked around the text. Twenty minutes later she snorted, looked up and said, "You're right, this is wonderful. I love the voices and I love the sex swap thing. You'll want to work up some stage instructions, it's pretty much all talk. She's going to have to give some clues about how she pictures it, unless she doesn't care."
"I imagine she cares, but she was testing me, I think."
"You never told me the assignment, what was she supposed to do?"
Geoff told her about the inversion.
"And that's what you missed, of course. Actually I was about half into the second act before I realized something had shifted, and I had to look back to be sure. It was well done, the trick part, but that's just gaming the assignment. Point is the play is good, and playable, too."
"You're just going to agree, and not belabor my obliviousness?" Geoff asked.
"Hey, when you're right, you're right."
Geoff dragged the bedspread, Ellen on it, all the way down the bed until her crossed knees touched his. "I'm going to take that in the only possible positive way."
"You'll take it any way you can get it, teacher man." She reached her arms around his neck and pulled him on top of her.
After ten minutes of snuggling and struggling, Ellen said, "Rain-check! Bookmark this, and we'll pick it up right here, right after dessert. It's ten-thirty and I hear rich confections calling." She jumped out from under and straightened her clothes and hair.
"You can just walk away, you creature of interchangeable lusts. I'll need a minute to refocus."
Ellen looked at him. "It's not working yet, I can see that, you'll have to try harder."
"Oh, thank you, thank you. That helps so much."
"Let me tickle, that nearly always works." She wiggled her fingers as she took a step towards him.
"Don't you dare touch, after spurning me, heartless harridan."
"You're not spurned, silly boy, just promoted to be dessert's dessert. You're good to go, now. Follow my tale of peace." She opened the room door. "Oh, hi, Stef." The door closed behind her. Ellen looked back, then turned to Stephanie. "I thought he was ready to come. You going after some dessert?"
chapter twenty-eighth
Jenny Apple turned the corner by Juniper House just as Detective Sprague was parking in front. Ten-thirty, exactly, he thought. She was proving someone to count on, in every way so far. She had her evidence case on a strap over her left shoulder. Unnecessary, he thought, but then, why not. He had filled her in over the phone on Richter's death, and the reason for the nighttime assignment. He wanted as many of the occupants of this inn as off balance as possible, even if he couldn't exactly say why.
"Good evening, sir," she said.
"Good evening, patrolman. Let's share our news with the folks inside."
They walked up the steps together. He opened the door without knocking and preceded her inside. Vingood was arranging coffee urns, the Spence girl pushed a cart with three teapots up to the same table. She looked at the newcomers, looked away, unloaded her pots and pulled her cart back into the kitchen. The Billings woman and the old lady, Staedtler, seemed to be toasting the electricians. They were a couple, he had gathered, gay like half of Asheville. Alden's widow was coming down the stairs, along with her mouthpiece, the female Fletcher. Sprague always rehearsed the names. With a little work he'd have them, but if he skipped the effort they drifted away. The Fletcher man followed a minute later, looking flustered. In the far corner sat the sisters, either very sweet or quite strange, he wasn't sure which.
Ross, the weatherman, came down the left-hand stairs. The German tourist family tumbled in from the garden. They were staying in the converted carriage house, garage it really must have been, since the place had been built in the forties. They weren't here yesterday, out splashing on rafts or some such thing, but the descriptions had been accurate. That was probably Ickes, Vingood had mentioned the new guest, coming down the right-hand stairs. That was all of them, wasn't it? All converging as Marti lifted the dessert trays from the kitchen cart to the refectory table, left side of the room from where he was standing. Absolutely perfectly timed, Sprague thought. Would it make any difference?
Each of the guests had come into the parlor, and separately spotted Sprague and Apple, quietly standing in the foyer. When, after a minute, almost everyone had turned towards them, he and Apple walked half-a-dozen steps forward, past the twin stair landings, and stood just inside the parlor.
"Good evening, folks. Please excuse me and Patrolman Apple for barging in. I'm Detective Lieutenant Sprague, with the Asheville Police Department, for those of you who weren't here yesterday. I have some news for you about a gentleman who visited Juniper House on Wednesday and again on Thursday. He came to see Harold Alden, but I believe several of you spoke with him. James Richter was found dead this afternoon, at the bottom of a cliff in Chimney Rock, near a cabin he had rented. The fall is presumed to be the cause of death, and it's being treated as an accident. The top of the cliff is not fenced, and it drops off very abruptly."
A gasp from the Spence girl, as she fell backwards into a chair. Moving almost as quickly as she fell, Vingood lunged to kneel in front of her, lifted her hands which had dropped limply to her sides and held them together in one enormous mitt. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry." He reached with his other hand and cupped her cheek, lifting her head to vertical. "Look at me, honey, just look at me."
&nbs
p; Apple was writing in her notebook. Sprague had asked her to get down as many reactions as she could, concentrating on the most pronounced. Unscientific and full of holes as a method. But better than nothing, and nothing was all he had.
Sprague resumed. "I would like to talk with you privately in a few minutes, Miss Spence, and with you, Mr. Vingood. But I'd like to make one observation to all of you first, and then ask a question. The observation is that we have had two deaths in the past twenty-four hours. Our best understanding is that Mr. Alden died from medical causes, and Mr. Richter from accidental causes. We believe also that the two deaths are not related, except by happening close together. Unless we find evidence to the contrary, this will be our conclusion. An autopsy will be performed tomorrow on Mr. Richter, we have almost all the results from Mr. Alden's. But as you can imagine, we are now doubly anxious that we overlook nothing.
"We'll come back tomorrow, in a more formal way. Tonight I'd just like you to do two things. Tell Patrolman Apple where you were, yesterday, from about dawn to mid-afternoon. And answer for her briefly this question: do you know anything that would contradict our assumptions about Mr. Alden's or Mr. Richter's death? Anything you saw or heard that suggested someone might have wished to cause harm to either of them, or might have actually done so." He lowered his arms, which had lifted gradually chest-high as he had been speaking. "Now if you could just sort of stay where you are until Apple can get around to you, I'll go with Mr. Vingood and Miss Spence into the kitchen."
He turned to the man he had not met. "Mr. Ickes? Please, if you could wait for me for a few minutes, I'd like a word with you, too, since we didn't get to talk the other day." Ickes nodded, yes. Sprague gestured for Vingood and Spence to precede him into the kitchen. Apple, he noticed, was already speaking softly with the Fletchers.
Vingood held the kitchen door open for Marti, then for him. Sprague noted the stark white apron wrapped snug around the young woman. How does she walk, trussed like that, especially in those steep boots, black leather laced to the knees, must be four inch heels? There were two chairs, he told them to please sit down, he was fine standing, thanks. He'd been at his desk all day.
Sprague looked first at Spence, then at Vingood, then back. "Miss Spence, I am very sorry to bring this news to you. I know you were a friend of Mr. Richter. I chose this way of delivering the news in part to prevent you from traveling again to Chimney Rock and finding the cabin wrapped in crime-scene tape. Do you have anything to add to what you told me this morning?"
She turned to Vingood, who reached out and took her hand. She looked at Sprague without speaking, tears smearing her makeup.
"I thought you might find it easier," Sprague said, "if Mr. Vingood was here. If this isn't the case, I'll ask him to leave us alone. It's more correct procedurally, but this is sort of an informal visit and we can stretch the rules a little, if it makes things easier."
Spence bent forward and wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron, leaving a multi-colored smear of eyeliner, mascara and base. Her smudged face echoed the apron, but the colors were muted on her brown skin.
"No, please, I'd like him to stay. He knew where I was and everything." She snuffled, accepted the tissue Vingood handed her, and blew her nose. "Like I told you, I spent the night with James. I left before he was up, about five o'clock, to come to work, I was here a little before six."
"Yes," Vingood said, "I can confirm that."
"Thank you, sir, but please let Miss Spence speak for herself, for a bit." Sprague wrote in his notebook for a few seconds. "Okay. When we spoke earlier, you told me you weren't sure if you would be seeing Mr. Richter this evening, that you hadn't made any specific arrangements to meet. Tell me what happened after we talked, did you make plans for tonight?"
"No. I didn't talk to him at all today. I tried to call this afternoon, but there was no answer." She pressed her palms against her eyes.
"Take me through what you did yesterday, one more time," Sprague said.
"I was totally freaked by what happened to the guy here, Mr. Alden. I just had to get away, and I went to James' cabin, I guess about one or two o'clock, I didn't look." She took a tissue from Alistair and wiped carefully around her eyes. "But there was nobody there. The door was open, his stuff was just sitting out. There was a note on the table that said he was in town, he'd be back later."
"Was the note addressed to you?" Sprague asked.
"No, just two lines, very neat, very little. I guessed it was for me, I meant to ask him, when he came, but I forgot. Anyway, I was wasted, we didn't sleep much the night before, and I'd been up early, so I just crawled under a blanket on the bed and went to sleep. I locked the door first." She shifted herself straighter in her chair. "I can't believe this happened."
"Mr. Richter's death?"
"Him especially, the other guy, too. It's just freaky. I've never known anybody who died, then two people in two days. One day I guess, really. I can't tell if I'm going to cry or start tearing my hair out or what." Her face contracted, her body bent forward and she sobbed for a minute, shudders rippling through her back like a shaken doll. Vingood placed his hand gently on her back, seeming to absorb her trembling up into his huge unmoving frame.
"I'm sorry," she straightened and wiped her face again. This time there were no tears, but she took another tissue and held it to her face.
"No reason to be sorry," Sprague said. "This would be difficult for anybody. Please continue. You fell asleep?"
"Yeah." She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, lowered her hands to her lap, clutching the crumpled tissue, thumbs squeezed inside her fingers. "It was almost seven, when I woke up. The sun was starting to go down, I was freezing. I'd kicked off the blanket and the room had gotten cold. I stood up and jumped around a little to warm up. I put on a jacket that was there, and turned the heater on. I made some tea. I tried to call James on his cell phone, from the phone in the cabin, but he wasn't in range. There's no reception out there, so I thought maybe he was getting close." She uncrossed her ankles, then crossed them the other way. "But I also thought about going home, because I didn't know for sure he was coming, or that he'd want to see me."
Sprague scribbled notes. Vingood had taken him at his word and said nothing, just reaching out from time to time to touch the girl's hand or shoulder. "Did you call anybody else, or go outside? Did you see or hear anyone around the cabin?"
"No," she said. "It was way in the woods, I'm a city girl. I just drank my tea and ate some crackers and read a magazine that was there. I'm pretty sure there wasn't anybody around, but there are always noises, and I was kind of jumpy, I guess. I turned on the porch light, and kept the door locked. Then, maybe eight or nine, I heard a car and looked out, and it was James."
"You just sat in the cabin for three hours? Did you look at anything besides the Time Magazine?" Sprague held his pencil over his pad.
"It was People, not Time, and there was a National Geographic, too. Some other ones I don't remember. I looked around a little, like in the refrigerator and the cabinets, to see if there was anything to eat. I'd started thinking I didn't really want to drive home in the dark, and it had been a long time since breakfast, and I was trying to decide it I should stay overnight, even if he didn't come."
"Did you notice anything else? Letters or papers or anything that might have any bearing on what happened the next day? You must have been a little curious about this guy."
"Okay, I did snoop a little, but there really wasn't anything. One folder had like stock statements or something, Metrocor this or that at the top. I didn't know what they meant. It seemed like he had a lot of money, but I don't know how to read those things. His name was on them, and there were big numbers, and he'd circled things and made little notes. And there was a notebook, cheap little spiral one, just random stuff, lists of things, and quotes and numbers. I didn't read much, it wasn't very interesting, and seemed like it was private. Except he'd just left it on the table by the bed. I remember a picture of some coin
s, like when you rub with a pencil, funny faces and letters I couldn't make out."
"Were there any clothes in the closets?" Sprague asked.
"Oh, yeah, all these outfits, hung up in sets, like costumes. He was wearing a cowboy rig when he finally got there, pointy boots, big buckle, tight jeans, leather vest. I teased him about it, asked him, where was his hat? He said, I should talk, look at my get-up, he called it, which wasn't anything. Just a wrap-around skirt with a puffy blouse, you know, a belt and a collar thing."