Death Takes a Honeymoon

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Lucky you. Give her time.”

  As we went on chatting. I watched these two faces, so dear to me in their different ways. I could tell that Mom and Aaron approved of each other, and somewhere inside me a little knot of tension untied itself. I was surprised at how good that felt.

  Cissy certainly approved of Aaron. She laid a coy hand on his arm and said, “I’m hungry, sweetie. Why don’t we all go downstairs for a little bite to eat?”

  “I would just love to, Cissy, but I can’t.” He gestured toward the laptop with a convincing show of regret. “I’m on a working vacation, and I have to get back to it. But I’ll see both of you tomorrow, won’t I?”

  I begged off as well, and when Housekeeping came, the ladies got up to leave.

  “You’ll take care of the music, won’t you?” Cissy asked me in parting.

  “I’m not sure—” I began, but then I saw Mom beaming at me confidently, and I couldn’t resist showing off for her. “I’m not sure who it will be, but I promise, Tracy will have her string quartet.”

  Once the glass was cleared away and I was alone with Aaron, I dropped into the love seat and blew out a sigh of relief. “Thanks a million.”

  “You’re welcome a million. Is Cissy your usual kind of client? Your job’s harder than I thought.” He flipped opened his laptop on the conference table and jacked into the Internet connection. “I like your mom, though. She’s got you and your temper pegged.”

  I blushed, remembering my show of temper in his car earlier. “Aaron, I owe you an apology. But you have to understand, Eddie and Mom cooked up that whole story about Boris.”

  “Apology accepted,” he said without even looking up from the keyboard. “But I’m still going to get you back for locking me out. Now, take a look at this.”

  “Why?” This was hardly the kiss-and-make-up scene I’d imagined. “I have calls to make, I really don’t have time for—”

  “Yes, you really do. Trust me. I left the ball game early when this guy in Seattle returned my call. Big expert on the Korean War.”

  Intrigued, I joined him at the table. “What’s that got to do—”

  “Cardinal rule of reporting, Stretch. Follow all your leads, especially with history buffs and old guys in newspaper offices.” He went on tapping as he talked. “While I waited for you in the bar I got busy on the phone, including a call to the local paper here. Didn’t find much about our three smoke jumpers, but I got an earful about Danny Kane’s Uncle Roy. Then I put together everything I’d heard, and look.”

  He angled the glowing screen toward me. It showed a full-color picture of an exotic, ancient-looking headdress, fashioned all in gold and adorned with glass beads and bits of carved jade. Golden chains with links like leaves dangled down from the circular headband, and tall golden branches rose up from it. Their antlerlike shapes gave the piece a wild, barbaric air.

  “Magnificent,” I said. “What is it?”

  “This, my dear Dr. Watson, is a Crown of Silla, a priceless sixth-century Korean artifact. There was more than one, back then, but damn few are still in existence.”

  “And?”

  He struck a key and the screen darkened. “And this one is identical, or near enough, to the one Roy Kane was accused of stealing from the Toksu Palace in Seoul in 1952.”

  “Oh my God.” I sat down. “Julie Nothstine said something about an accusation of looting, but she insisted that Roy was cleared.”

  “Not according to rumor, Stretch,” he said, taking a seat beside me. “According to rumor, Roy Kane brought his golden treasure back with him, and buried it somewhere near his fishing cabin at Tamarack Lake, which is where he committed suicide. And guess what Tamarack Lake is very close to?”

  “Boot Creek?”

  “Bingo. Supposing the spot where he buried the crown was burned over in the fire, and when your cousin climbed out of that tree he found it. And supposing one of the other smoke jumpers...” Aaron hesitated, frowning. “OK, this is the part I have trouble with. One of the smoke jumpers hikes over to Brian, sees him with the crown, and kills him for it? Doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “It doesn’t have to! You haven’t heard my piece of news. Actually, there’s two.”

  I told him both, first about Al Soriano glimpsing a tent amid the smoke, and second about how Danny Kane suspected Todd and the Tyke of murdering Brian. There was actually a third item, the tidbit about the Tyke fooling around with Brian at the Pioneer. But somehow I forgot about that one as Aaron leaned closer, listening keenly, until I could feel the warmth of his body in the air-conditioned room. The excitement of all this investigating was sparking a certain, well, excitement.

  “So I suppose we could join forces with Danny,” I said, trying to stick to business, “but he’s so volatile right now, I’m afraid of setting him off. And anyway, he’s on the wrong track. I’m sure Brian was killed by someone else, not a smoke jumper at all. Someone who knew about the Crown of Silla and... That doesn’t work, does it?”

  “Nope. Thiel finding Roy Kane’s buried treasure would have been a completely random event. No one could have anticipated that, so our mysterious camper was at Boot Creek for some other reason.” He made a face. “Why do people go camping anyway, don’t they have beds at home? I’ve never understood that.”

  Aaron was being facetious, but I considered the question seriously. “Al said the Boot Creek area is hard to get to, so the killer must have been physically fit enough to hike in there.”

  “That sounds like half the guys in this town. At least it’s a small town, so we can ask around. The bachelor party is adjourning to someplace called the Casino Club after the game. It’s supposed to be a local hangout, so why don’t we start there?”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m full of good ideas, Stretch,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss me. I wasn’t the only one feeling distracted here. “Mostly about you...”

  I leaned away. “My dear Sherlock, can you play Mozart’s ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’ on the cello?”

  “Huh? No.”

  “I didn’t think so. That means you have to go away while I find somebody who can.”

  “It’s always something with you, isn’t it? Can you join the party later?”

  “I’ll try. Now go.”

  So he went—after a kiss or two, or six. When it came to kissing, I thought dreamily as the door closed behind him, Aaron Gold was the winner and still champion.

  With that point settled I got back to work, trying Beau again and then sifting my files for Sebastian’s number. Nothing. I even phoned the Paliere office in New York, but with the time difference they were already closed. So I bit the bullet and called Olivia’s room.

  At first she affected not to know where Beau might be. She was an actress, after all.

  “Beau Paliere? Why, I can’t imagine. We were chatting by the pool earlier but—”

  I didn’t have time to play along. “Save it, Olivia, I know the man. Is he still there with you or has he left? Come on, this is important.”

  “He left for the White Pine Inn half an hour ago,” she said flatly. “He wanted to look over the wedding site. You know, I would really prefer that you didn’t—”

  “Not a word. But he wasn’t answering his cell.”

  “Oh, he left it here.” She giggled. “It rang at the worst possible moment, so he turned it off and then it fell under the bed. Do you need it?”

  “No, I need him,” I snapped. “And there’s no cell service at White Pine, anyway. I suppose I could drive up there after him...”

  And have him snub me again? Forget it. I said good-bye to Olivia and sat pondering. After all, what could Beau do that I couldn’t? He wasn’t the only wedding planner around here. I had my own contacts. Surely I could come up with some musicians on short notice. I’d made a promise, and I didn’t need him to fulfill it.

  An hour later, I wasn’t so sure. And neither was Eddie Breen, when I called him at home in Seattle and asked him to help me
out. I’m supposedly Eddie’s boss, but you would never know it, to hear him.

  “It’s Thursday night, for chrissakes! You never did call me back to explain what the hell you think you’re doing over there, and now you want me to find you a classical quartet for Saturday afternoon in Idaho?”

  “Eddie, please, I’ve made a commitment to this wedding. I need to show them what I can do, but I can’t find anyone in Ketchum, or even in Boise, who’s not already booked. Please?”

  “All right, already. I’ll call around.”

  We both called around, but to no avail. I’d almost given up and resigned myself to turning the problem over to Beau after all, when a brilliant idea came to me. Goofy, but brilliant. I called Chief of Police Larabee, and the problem was solved.

  Now I just needed the bride to sign off on my solution before her mother had a chance to throw another fit. Tracy had skipped the softball game, but with any luck she’d be at the postgame party. I was on my way out the door when B.J. called.

  “Muffy, I will love you forever,” she said, her voice low and surreptitious. “Matt’s in the bathroom. How’d you do it?”

  “I didn’t.” It was good to hear her so happy. “You can thank Julie Nothstine. She found the necklace in—”

  “Isn’t that nice,” said B.J., much louder, and I knew her husband was back in the room. “Matt and I are going out for a late supper. Want to come?”

  “I’m still full of hamburger,” I told her. “And anyway, I’m going to the Casino Club. I bet I can find a nice Jewish guy there who’ll buy me a drink.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE CASINO CLUB HASN’T BEEN A REAL CASINO FOR FIFTY years, although illegal poker games persisted there for some decades after that. These days the only games happen at the pool tables, but a framed sketch of some Ketchum residents bent over their cards still hangs in the front hall of the Casino for old times’ sake.

  I passed the sketch on my way in, and stood for a moment adjusting to the noise level and taking in the scene. Especially the scene at the bar, where most of the bachelor party crowd, home team and visitors alike, had gathered to raise their voices in song.

  They were belting out a lewd and lengthy ditty, inventing verses as they went and capping every chorus with a generous glugging of beer. Terrible singers, but excellent drinkers.

  Well, well, I thought. Who knew? Who knew that a citified reporter out of Boston would get along so well with a bunch of ballplayers from L.A., not to mention a swarm of smoke jumpers from Idaho? Of course, the jumpers hailed from all over the country, but I was still surprised to see Aaron bellied up to the bar with Todd Gibson’s arm draped over his shoulders and Al Soriano lighting all three of their cigars.

  I didn’t want to barge in, so I slipped into a seat at the back and bought my own drink. For that matter, I mused as the waitress left me, who knew that a smoke jumper’s bachelor party could be such a good-natured, almost wholesome, affair? The song was more lusty than nasty, and the choir included both female jumpers and many of their comrades’ girlfriends.

  I guess if you’re tough enough to leap from a plane and battle a fire—and if you’re pushing forty, as Jack was—you don’t feel obliged to ogle strippers and drink till you vomit. How refreshing.

  Not that this crowd wasn’t having a good time. As I listened to the high-spirited laughter at the song’s conclusion, and the volley of wisecracks over at the pool tables, I compared the mood tonight with Sunday’s strained gaiety at the Pioneer. No one had forgotten Brian, but tonight the celebration of life, in the form of Jack’s wedding, had pushed death into the background.

  But not for me, not yet. Realistically, I had to admit that the nameless camper might be impossible to identify. But was I willing to let Brian’s death be written off as an accident, one that the victim brought on himself?

  No. I didn’t care for my cousin, and he treated B.J. badly, but no. I couldn’t collar his killer myself, but surely I could stir up enough information to make the police take notice. That was the least I could do, and I was determined to do it. When my wine came—I’d had enough beer for the year—I raised my glass in a private farewell to Brian Thiel.

  “Look, it’s the star of first base!” Jack stopped on his way past my table with Tracy hanging on his arm, looking for all the world like a fond and faithful fiancée. He was freshly showered and glowing with vigor, but she was pretty green around the gills. Tequila is tough stuff. “Trace, you should have seen this catch she made.”

  The bride gave me a deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Oh! I... I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  That much was clear, but it was also clear that Tracy had come to her senses. The bitchy arrogance of this afternoon was gone, replaced by a contrite and even anxious smile. She must be wondering if I planned to spill the beans about her and Domaso.

  Serve her right if I did, I thought, but I knew I wouldn’t have the heart. Or the inclination, given the groom’s recent behavior. At times like this, a wise wedding planner stays out of the crossfire. So I turned my farewell into a salute.

  “Cheers, you two. Quite a party.”

  “Oh, we’re just getting started,” said Jack, and gave me a mischievous wink. You almost had to admire his gall. Then someone waved from across the room and he gave them the finger, but in an amiable way. “Hey, the guys from Montana showed up! Come on, sweetheart, you’ll love these guys.”

  As he towed Tracy away she said over her shoulder, “I need to talk with you tonight, OK?”

  “Sure. I’ve got something to ask you about, too. Come find me.”

  As they disappeared into the crowd, Aaron emerged from it, his face flushed and his eyes shining. He smelled like tobacco, but he looked handsome as hell.

  “Glad you made it, Stretch.” He dropped into a chair. “God, these smoke jumpers are great people. I’m having a great time.”

  “I can tell.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Give me a break, would you? The groom gave out cigars. What was I supposed to do, throw it away?”

  “I didn’t mean that, honestly. I just meant I can tell you’re enjoying yourself. Aaron, am I that much of a nag?”

  He was suddenly serious. “You can be, Carnegie. Sometimes you really can be a nag.”

  I blinked rapidly against the stinging in my eyes. Must be the smoke. “I’m only thinking about your health, you know.”

  “I know that, Stretch. Never mind, I shouldn’t have said it.” He took my hand and gave it a little shake, side to side. “Let’s change the subject. Before I joined the choir, I was asking some locals about Boot Creek.”

  “Did you find out who went camping there?”

  “Well, no. But I did find out why somebody might have been. Turns out it’s a primo trout stream, so fishermen hike in there from time to time. Not often, because it’s hard to get to. And one guy told me about an old hermit who supposedly lives up there and runs people off.”

  “A hermit? Maybe he was the killer!”

  “I thought about that, too, but then the bartender told me it’s just a story the fishermen tell to keep other fishermen away. Pretty soon we’ll be pinning the murder on Sasquatch.”

  “But it’s worth checking out, don’t you think? Julie Nothstine might know if there’s any truth to the story. She’s lived around here forever.”

  “Maybe.” Aaron waved for the waitress. “Excuse me, miss?”

  She came over and he ordered Scotch rocks. It wasn’t his first one, or even his second, as I could tell by the way he suddenly shifted to yet another subject.

  “This smoke-jumping business, it’s really something. One of the guys here is a cardiologist, did you know that? He’s been back every summer for ten years now, just to keep jumping fire. Isn’t that amazing? I mean, dirty, dangerous work that doesn’t pay all that well, and a doctor can’t wait to spend his summer doing it? They get sent all over the west, too, Alaska to Arizona, anywhere there’s a fire. You should hear the stories these guys tell....�
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  Aaron, I realized, had caught the bug. He was falling in love with smoke jumping. I watched him fondly as the words came tumbling forth about the camaraderie and the courage and the exploits. It was Todd Gibson all over again. Not the hero worship, exactly—Aaron was older than Todd, and more sophisticated—but enthusiasm, admiration, and even envy.

  “It’s like war,” he said at one point. “Izzy, my grandfather, he was at Pearl Harbor. All that death and destruction, but he calls World War Two the best years of his life. You don’t get that intensity working in an office, you know? Fighting wildfires is like war, but you’re saving lives instead of taking them. Danny Kane was saying—”

  “Danny’s here?” I stood up and gazed around. Most of the revelers had gathered around one of the pool tables, and through a gap in the bodies I could see that Danny was playing Peter Props. I sat down again and said quietly, “I’m still wondering if we should tell him what we’ve found out, and ask him why he suspects Todd and the Tyke of killing Brian. Maybe he can help us.”

  “I don’t know, Stretch. I’ve been keeping an eye on old Danny, and I think your first impression was right. He’s awfully jumpy. I vote we wait till we know more.”

  “I guess. Let’s go watch them, anyway.”

  I’ve always wished I could shoot pool. Not enough to actually learn the game and practice, but it isn’t the skill I want anyway. It’s the attitude. Pool players always look so cool.

  Aaron and I found a place among the jammed-in spectators. Even Danny Kane, unprepossessing as he was, looked cool as he bent over the table with brooding intensity to calculate his shot. There were only two balls left on the deep green felt, a solid and a stripe. The game was down to the wire, and the crowd was keyed up high.

  “You can do it, Kane, just take it easy.”

  “Aw, he’s gonna blow it for sure.”

  Judging by the catcalls, this was a grudge match. Danny was defending the honor of the smoke jumpers against the Californians. Or at least defending their money. One of the onlookers clutched a fistful of five- and ten-dollar bills.