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

by Bud Crawford

  "Not!" Ellen snorted.

  "Too. Except the last. Then he added a couple pieces he guessed he could share with us, since there wasn't a case anymore. Stef may have been spending Harold's insurance a couple days before we all heard David surprise her with the amount of it. The Herters saw Ross climbing up and down the trellis more than once, and there was a bunch of electronic gear in his room. The purpose of it wasn't obvious, probably not weather-related. None of the detectives had a clue."

  He told her about the calendar pages, and Herr Herter's letter. He stopped, closed his eyes. Ellen drove through the snaky twists of North Carolina Highway seventy-four. She turned from time to time to watch the slow motion side-to-side of Geoff's eyeballs under his eyelids.

  "Straight through here, yes? All the way to Chimney Rock?" Ellen asked.

  Geoff opened his eyes, looked at the road signs, down at the map, back up to the road. "Yeah, this is it."

  Geoff reached again for his phone, scrolled down, and pressed the button that said 'Stef.'

  "Hi, kid," he said. "Can you get us into Harold's office?" He listened for a minute. "You're in Asheville? When? Ok, it's just after nine-thirty now. We're almost at Bat Cave on the way to James' cabin. Yes, really, Bat Cave. Sprague thinks you're a suspect, by the way. He found where you'd been calculating on the calendar. Yeah, I kind of thought that was for show, for David and the rest of us. Okay, we'll call when we're close, and you can reel us in. If you're starting now, you'll be there long before we are, except that I'm being driven by a madwoman." He folded the phone shut.

  "So she did know the size of the payout?" Ellen said. "How did you know she did, and why was she calculating right then and there?"

  "Harold told her all the details when he bought the policies. I sussed it out using my manly intuition, it seemed like he would have done, and she sounded too surprised, fake. I didn't think much about it at the time. As for why she was running the numbers right then, what she says is, she was feeling weird because she hadn't managed to find a time to tell him she was pregnant, and she was trying to figure out why that was. She just got to thinking worst-case thoughts wondering, if something happened to him, could she quit teaching, maybe open a dress shop or a dance studio? Both long-time fantasies, easier than teaching, alone with a baby."

  "You believe her?" Ellen asked.

  "Yes, in a word. She's has growed up a lot since we were pals, every way but physically. The wide-eye doe face is the same, and so's the underlying heart, but there's grit and push she didn't have back in the day."

  "Could she kill somebody?"

  Geoff looked at Ellen. "I reckon so, but not now. Not Harold or James or Dwight or me. I think she's tough enough, if she had to. She's packing up her stuff, by the way, going to stay in Charlotte. Says she'll return if she has to, but she needs to be home."

  "Well, I'll miss having her around. But, it's about time for us to go home, too. Except I do want to see the end of this business. Okay, so what is it you four guys share that makes you better dead?"

  "Isn't that obvious?"

  "A stock broker, a scallywag, a gay electrician, and an obtuse but intermittently sexy poet. No, sorry, not obvious to me." Ellen said. "Where's our turn?"

  "Couple miles on. It's not similarity of character, though there's a little of that. Come at it from another angle." Geoff looked at Ellen.

  "You got your memories back, didn't you?" she said.

  "I think a little. Or I just took myself through the same process, and reached a similar place," said Geoff. "I have an idea that fits what we know reasonably well. There are still holes, several tests to make. We're looking for County Road 916, and a sign for Sunrise Properties."

  "And you're going to share this with me now?" Ellen said. "Or not until somebody cracks open your damnfool head again?"

  "Here we are," Geoff pointed at a hand-painted wooden sign. "First left turn off this, two rights, then one left."

  Ellen pulled the van off the pavement onto a gravel road. "Half-a-mile more?"

  "Yeah, that's what Sprague said, also their website." Geoff pressed the button to lower the window and inhaled deeply. "Smells like spring exploding."

  "It's your usual stupid deal, isn't it? You want me to figure it out, now you have. And when I do, you'll know you're right, because you know I will be." Ellen climbed the gravel road fast enough that Geoff had to hold the handle grip, left-handed, to keep from being rocked painfully side-to-side.

  "Here, I think," he said, "pull into that little lot, that looks right. We're looking for cabin sixteen, called Moon Ridge. There." Ellen parked the van and they got out and walked slowly past the Jeep they assumed had been James's, and up the path to the cabin.

  Yellow tape still stretched between the front porch posts, but the tape had come loose at the back door, which was unlocked. They did a quick walk-through, living-dining room full width in front, a bedroom and kitchen shared the rear wall with a bathroom in the center. There was a nose-itching trace of wet creosote from the ashes in the fireplace at the kitchen end of the living room. A few faded oval braided rugs lay on the linoleum, traffic areas were worn gray though the random multicolor flecks. The furnishings were plain, rustic, mismatched, but intact, entirely functional. The structure was solid, weather-tight, without pretension.

  Geoff and Ellen, both wearing thin leather driving gloves, and trying to avoid touching handles and knobs, went through each room quickly but thoroughly. There were reference books, a few magazines, a tidily squared-off stack of flyers from the rock show. They assumed that any computers or cell phones or wallets or keys had been taken by Sprague or the county sheriff. The bedroom closet had several outfits hung together in sets, outdoorsy, cowboy, fancy casual, appropriate shoes underneath, hats on the shelf above. Underwear and socks were neatly lined up in a couple drawers of the dresser, the other drawers were empty.

  The kitchen cabinets held plain cheap cookware, glass tumblers, ceramic mugs, plastic plates. Geoff looked carefully behind each door, taking mental pictures, not aware of having seen anything of much interest. He could go over the pictures later, and see what popped out. There was canned food and condiments on the upper shelves, some leftovers and basic eggs-milk-bread-and-beer in the refrigerator. And there was a box of takeout pizza, two pieces left, orange circles of pepperoni curling up away from the cheese as they dried.

  Neither of them noticed the approach of Deputy Sheriff Ramsey until he was in the room with them.

  "Hello, folks," Ramsey said. Geoff and Ellen both jumped up guiltily from their examination of the cabinet under the sink. "Thoughtful of you-all not to disturb the tape at the front door, but didn't it kind of suggest you weren't supposed to come in here?" His hands were tucked into the back pockets of his jeans.

  "I'm Geoffrey Fletcher, this is my wife, Ellen. Detective Sprague said his investigation had been put on hold, until all the real crimes were solved."

  Ramsey looked at them, ran his eyes slowly up and down, first Geoff, then Ellen. "Yeah, Sprague told me you might be heading up here. Nice gloves, and thanks for not smudging the handles, I saw you open the cabinet with your knife." He extended his hand to Geoff. "No, that's fine leave it on," when Geoff started pulling on the cuff of the glove. He shook Geoff's hand, then Ellen's. "I'm Rutherford County Deputy Sheriff Clyde Ramsey. Sprague said I could show you around a little if I wanted to, or I could run you off if I'd rather."

  He gestured towards the back door and said, "I think if we go out now we've achieved a pretty good balance between not compromising the scene too badly, and giving you two a chance to spot something."

  Geoff and Ellen preceded him through the door and down the back steps. Ramsey reached up and retied the tape across the back door. He turned to face the Fletchers. "So. What were you looking for? Did you find it?"

  Geoff looked at him for a minute. "You guys grabbed the personal effects, I assume, so it might have looked a little different before. What struck me was the anonymity of it, except the clo
thes, of course. Dishes all clean, put away, bed made, no scatter." He closed his eyes, then opened them. "We weren't looking for anything specific, just going on a feeling that if there was any chance of sorting this all out, it would be good to take a look up here."

  Ramsey nodded. "There was a coffee-maker, that we took, and pocket stuff off the tables in the bedroom and kitchen, not much really. There were oddments, strange things with no obvious connection to each other, a box of old coins in plastic wrappers, some fancy minerals, a fair-sized gold nugget. A bunch of little notebooks, listing names and times, a few other notes. Your Sprague, Asheville PD, has all that, we handed it off. If you think of the contents in terms of a Jeep-full, it's about the right overall quantity. Wasn't like a whole lived-in house, for sure. And, as you said, all very clean and tidy."

  "Where'd he fall?" Ellen asked.

  Ramsey led the way around the cabin and took them along the path to the overlook. He pointed to the edge of exposed granite. "We're guessing, right about there."

  Ellen stepped out to the edge and leaned over. Geoff resisted the impulse to pull her back. She was fine where he wouldn't be.

  Ramsey took a couple steps forward to join her. He pointed down. "You can't quite see the road, runs directly under here, his body landed down the bank, where you can see, just at the edge of the water, partly in the water. He had on sweat pants, sweat shirt, tennis shoes. Ten feet to the left we found a coffee mug, that was it. One body, four articles of clothing, one mug."

  Ellen straightened, turned, and walked back towards Geoff. Ramsey backed up, straightened, then turned. "Easy place to fall, slick with dew," she said.

  "Like Dwight off the porch, in the misty morning," Geoff said.

  "And then you get whacked," Ramsey said, "and there's still no case? What's with Asheville PD?"

  "The story, I gather," Geoff said, "is they investigated all the happenings, but found no common thread, no proof any of them wasn't an accident. What more could they do? With real cases piling up."

  "That's not what he thinks," Ramsey said, "me neither. Nor you, obviously. I know Sprague has his ears open on this. He knows something is going on, and he hates that we're all basically just waiting for the next person to be hurt, or worse. Promise me, Fletchers, that if you find something, you tell him immediately. No private adventures, no using yourselves for bait. I don't want to injure your feelings, and I do have some skills in quiet approach, but I was about two feet from you before you knew it."

  Ellen said "Worse, we didn't know it until you said, hello, and we jumped three feet. We take your point. I do, anyway. So, Geoff, care to share your theory with me and the deputy?"

  "You telling on me?" Geoff asked. "I would, really, if I could say it. All I have is an outline of a ghost, a few strands that, if pulled on, may turn out to be connected. That's it."

  "Enumerate the damn strands, dear, we can take it." Ellen's fists were on her hips.

  "I think I'd do what she says, sir," Ramsey said.

  "Okay," Geoff exhaled slowly. "It's improvisational, number one, reactive, the killings and the attacks. They're absolutely connected, but it's after the fact. Number two, James Richter's original question is a key. But I don't yet see how we rule out completely any connection with Stephanie's insurance take, or Alistair or Marti or young Seth in a rage, or the gang of Farley, or the sneaky Mr. Ross. It's much easier in some ways if there's two or three of them working together, otherwise the details get awfully tight to work out; the improbabilities, especially of timing, multiply themselves into something very difficult to deconstruct. But all the permutations of possible allies keeps a lot of balls in the air."

  "So," Ellen said, "you weren't just being modest. It's amazing, in fact, for the immodesty of thinking that mess amounts to something."

  "And she asked," Geoff addressed Ramsey, "why I wouldn't share?"

  Ramsey said, "If you're right, and I'm not sure what that would mean, what comes next?"

  "We're heading to Charlotte," Geoff said, "to see what we can see. It's where James Richter, Harold and Stephanie Alden, and David Ickes all came from. There must be something there than can help tie this together."

  "I know Sprague knows you're going, because he told me so. He says you have his number. Let me have yours, and you get mine." Ramsey unsnapped his phone from his belt, opened it and typed for a moment, then looked up, took Ellen's number first, then Geoff's.

  Ellen shut her phone and asked, "Are we deputy deputies, now?"

  Ramsey smiled at her, then erased the smile. "No you're not. You're victims, and potential future victims. Watch your butts. Pleasure to've met you. I'm in the lot up there." He turned onto the gravel road and climbed soundlessly.

  ~

  They continued along 74A a few miles farther, to Lake Lure, where they picked up a wider straighter state highway, NC-9. Ellen set the cruise control to sixty-five, ten miles over the limit. "Something I can't figure out is what happened to Harold. Somebody probably pushed James off the rock and Dwight off the porch, somebody cold-cocked you, but Harold just fell over. Maybe that one isn't connected to the others."

  "No, it's the first link in the chain, I'm sure of that," Geoff said. "But I can't say how. Maybe Marti flashed him, or Alistair growled, or maybe Stef did tell him about the baby. We'd have heard, I think, if there was a bruise or a crushed windpipe or poison. The autopsy must have been pretty neutral, that's why Sprague's off."

  "You just don't like what happens to your pattern if we take out Harold." Ellen snaked around a slow sedan, closed on two semi's side-by-side, until the front truck to pulled over on the upgrade, then she climbed past and pulled in front, the cruise control uninterrupted.

  "Basically, that's it, I admit it." Geoff turned from watching the traffic to watch Ellen. "The only possibility I see of a natural death, is that it came just in time to keep him from getting killed, which is pretty long odds."

  "For you the pattern is the real thing, the universe out here just a sloppy incomplete approximation." Ellen accelerated to seventy-five, as she passed a new speed limit sign, and reset the control.

  "No, that's not right, the universe is the Technicolor version, with taste, smell and a sound track." Geoff looked over his left shoulder, and grabbed the handle.

  Ellen signaled and cut into the left lane, passed two trucks and a beat-up pickup, and was back into the right lane as a two-trailer UPS rig swept by. "Route 74 to Charlotte in a mile, that's us?"

  chapter forty-fifth

  forty-fifth

  NC Route 74, the Charlotte Highway, aka the Asheville Highway, depending on which way you travel, after a decade of improvements, is mostly four-lane limited-access. There were a few remaining patches of the old two-lane country highway, and some miles of strip-malls with long-cycling traffic signals. Traffic was light and Ellen made good time. Twenty-five miles outside of Charlotte they turned onto interstate again, I-85, their speed picked up a little, but the traffic picked up a lot. Geoff called Stef and arranged to meet at the end of the exit ramp nearest the Metrocor building. It was the eastern edge of town, a couple miles past the airport.

  Ellen spotted Stephanie's green-black Mercedes, and fell in behind her for half-a-mile. Geoff made a note of the mileage and time as they pulled into the Metrocor lot. Stephanie parked four spaces from David's Porsche, there was probably a little sign saying "Alden" still there, like the other reserved spaces near the entrance. Ellen went down a dozen more until she found an open spot with no sign, just past the right hand end of the building. They walked back towards Stephanie, but couldn't see her, so bright was the glare of sun off the copper-tinted glass walls of the building. The front and back walls were arcs that met at each end in a sharp tip. Geoff counted paces, mentally overlaid a rectangle on the lens shape: three or four thousand square feet each, two stories high. Stephanie led them through the heavy glass door. An open stairs swept up on the left behind a pair of elevators in the center of the building. Also down, on the right, so there wa
s a basement.

  The receptionist at the desk in front of the elevators wore a bright red dress and a crocheted wool vest, understandable in the chilly lobby. She stood as they passed. Stephanie waved to her, but did not stop. She led up the stairs and around towards the left-hand hallway. The second-floor receptionist stepped from behind her desk and said, "Mrs. Alden, I am so sorry about your husband."

  "Thanks, Gert. Me, too. These are my friends Geoff and Ellen." She hugged the woman for a second, then continued down the hall.

  The very end, where the curved walls met, was a lobby. That was how they'd solved the question that had been vexing Geoff. Stephanie stopped at a door half-way down on the right, the backside of the building. She reached into her purse for the key. The hallway narrowed as it moved away from the lobby, the geometrical pattern of the custom-woven carpet tapered inwards and the violet lines thinned, making the hall seem longer. A logical development, given the building's shape, Geoff thought, but it was odd to have the elevators look so close, and the disappearing tip look so far. What happens to the brains of people who work inside an optical illusion?