3 Requiem at Christmas

by Melanie Jackson

  “I can but try,” answered Juliet, who had no intention of doing any such thing.

  Should she talk to the brother? Probably, but she didn’t want to. And what could she, as a stranger, possibly say that wasn’t pointed, presumptuous, and just plain nosy? And what if Harrison was right and his feelings weren’t dammed up enough to answer questions—ones she had no business asking? She didn’t need to be flooded with his grief.

  Better to give him a couple days to get used to the bad news. Anyway, she would meet him at the Requiem. That would look more natural.

  She and Raphael climbed back in the elevator. It didn’t surprise her when Raphael got off on the third floor with her.

  They found Pinewood four without problem and their knock was answered immediately, so immediately that Juliet suspected the tired detective was expecting room service.

  “Oh, it’s you. Come in,” he added without any touch of grace or enthusiasm.

  They moved far enough into the room to close the door, but didn’t try to wedge Raphael’s chair between the desk and the bed. Pinewood four was more the size of a large closet than an actual hotel room and had only one print of something that might have been a dog. There was also a small leak around the window that moved the heavy curtain and made it seem like the mountain was breathing.

  “Have you identified Mr. No-neck?” Juliet asked without any polite preamble.

  “Yes. His name is Christopher Columbus.” Denver clearly surprised himself by answering without evasion.

  “Really?” The question was rhetorical.

  “As near as we can tell. Apparently some parents will hang any name on their kids.”

  “And what does Mr. Columbus do?”

  “He’s a broker, a dabbler in stocks and bonds. You were right, he’s the new kid on the block. He does a little of this and a little of that—and possibly a little industrial espionage when this and that fails to pay the bills.” Captain Denver glared at her as if his blabbing were her fault.

  “Don’t give me the evil eye. He isn’t anyone I know.”

  But she could find out about him. If she had to.

  “Well, someone is protecting him—and I don’t mean his bodyguards. Every time anyone gets close to pinning something on him the evidence just disappears and the investigation gets shut down.”

  Juliet frowned.

  “You know that the Jaguar belonged to the brother. Not Holtz?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “I’ve just found that out. And that the brother works for Mr. Columbus.”

  “Did you know that both brothers are probably members of Alba gu bràth?” At Denver’s blank look, Juliet explained about the political movement trying for Scottish independence.

  “So, what are you saying? The English came over and killed him for that?” Denver asked.

  “No. But the group needs money. Big money for publicity in the next elections and even more money for general brainwashing among the voting populace. Not every Scotsman wants out of the union with Great Britain. Public opinion must be swayed, and it won’t be inexpensive to do it.”

  “And Christopher Columbus has money. Which Joshua Holtz looks after.” Denver began to look thoughtful. “It would take a lot of balls to steal from that kind of employer. Of course, maybe it isn’t the accountant who has the big—er, nerve. Maybe the singer got some grand ideas of his own and muscled in on his brother. Those art types aren’t always practical.”

  Juliet assured herself that he didn’t mean to be insulting. She didn’t point out that a singer would probably not have had the training to commit any high-tech money crimes.

  “I have also wondered if Holtz was killed by mistake. Was there much family resemblance between the brothers?”

  “Some, I guess. They were the same height. Mostly you keep looking at the kilt.”

  There was a tap on the door.

  “We’ll leave you to your dinner,” Juliet said, opening the door since she was nearest and there wasn’t room for Denver to move past Raphael’s chair. They had to leave before the man could wheel the cart inside.

  “Did you bring the duct tape?” Denver demanded as she shut the door. “That damn window is leaking worse than ever.”

  “So, art type, do you still feel like a whisky?” Raphael asked.

  “More than ever,” Juliet affirmed.

  “So, do you really think there is any connection to this Scottish group, or are you simply having fun jerking Denver’s short chain?” Raphael asked as they climbed back in the elevator.

  “Yes—I mean that the society is somehow involved. I suspect that they are the root cause of this drama, though probably not actively participating. I’m just not clear on the how and the what.” She added, “I don’t think this murder is about garden-variety embezzlement and revenge. The brother is here looking for something—stuff—and it isn’t a suitcase full of money. That isn’t how theft is done in this electronic age. And if money had been taken over the wires, the brother could just put it back.”

  “And Mr. No-neck’s appearance?”

  “Here to supervise the retrieval of missing property personally? To pressure the brother into giving back what his sibling took in case he changes his mind and decides to keep it for himself?” Juliet guessed, thinking of the improbable motives she and Esteban had discussed. None of them fit. “One thing is for sure. Whatever has gone missing must be worth a lot of money. Or the explorer and his satellites wouldn’t be here in person. I just wish I knew a bit more about his sideline of this and that. And who is making the cases and evidence against him go away. It could be the Feds. That would be their style.”

  “You can’t find out?” Raphael asked.

  “Not without drawing the attention of the evil eye. Which I would rather not do, if there is any other way.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “You still have friends?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I was thinking that this might be more to Esteban’s interests and abilities.”

  Juliet grinned. She had drawn pictures of No-Neck’s missing bodyguards while they waited for dinner.

  “Yeah, let’s give it to Esteban. He’s bored enough to do anything if it means getting away from the fair.”

  And he might already be on the job. He hadn’t told her anything about what had brought him to Tahoe ahead of the others, but how many things could be going on in a small town that required a private detective?

  Chapter 7

  Her room felt different though everything looked the same. Perhaps the maid had been in to tidy. Nothing was missing, nothing was disarranged. Things just felt … different. And that made her engage the special burglar bar on her door before getting ready for bed.

  The dark wasn’t as comforting as she had hoped, the hours filling with breaths which she counted instead of sheep, doing her best to stop thinking, because it was no longer a productive thing, but rather useless rumination. It was difficult though to put aside the odd and unpleasant feeling that, once again, she was being kept from her own life. The murderer had hijacked her plans for an indefinite period of time. She might have the run of the town, be able to eat sushi for breakfast and dye her hair blue, but she wasn’t really in control of her life.

  This angered her.

  And she missed having a cat on the bed and hoped that Garret was taking care of Marley, who could be a bit unrestricted in his diet if denied his tuna for any length of time. He hadn’t yet suffered for eating mice and spiders, but Juliet really didn’t like it when he killed and ate things and she had left a large supply of his favorite tuna with the sheriff before leaving on her trip.

  Of course, she could call the sheriff and ask about the cat, and also see what Garret knew about Christopher Columbus. He was bound to be curious about their case after speaking to Denver and he had perhaps looked things up…. It was late though. Far too late for a casual call. Perhaps in the morning.

  Giving in to reality, Juliet turned on the television and set it to the weather chan
nel. There was nothing more relaxing than watching clouds from a weather satellite, and it was better than the little quarter-inch rounds of guaranteed rest in the bottom of her purse. They worked like a dream, but she would be a zombie tomorrow if she used them. That wouldn’t be good. There was less danger in cross-country skiing than downhill racing, but any time that one went out into weather that could kill you, it was best to go with a clear mind.

  Morning came around as it always did. It was gray but not snowing and Juliet decided that perhaps some physical exercise would perk her up. Certainly she needed something to put some life back in her.

  First she called Sheriff Garret to check on Marley and see what he had discovered about Christopher Columbus and the minions.

  “He doesn’t drive and doesn’t have a license—at least not in that name. He has a personal physician on premises that he doesn’t use himself but keeps around to patch up his girlfriends after their domestic disagreements—this is gossip, but I trust it—and somehow he only pays eleven percent income tax!” This came out sounding indignant and Juliet had to wonder about his priorities. No-neck’s predilection for violence was so much more a concern in a case where murder had been done.

  So, No-neck had a good accountant, Juliet thought as Garret continued to grumble. Joshua Holtz better hope that his boss appreciated this fact.

  “Anyone else hanging around him?” Juliet asked.

  “There is also an attorney—a shark that even other sharks don’t like and think is dirty. He may also be some kind of snitch for someone Federal. That is more your end of the paddle pool though.”

  “Hm. So, in other words, he’s not someone to invite to the next Fourth of July party.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Juliet said her thanks for the information and also for Garret looking after her cat and then went downstairs.

  After a continental breakfast in the in-house coffee shop, which clearly only represented the North American continent, Julie called on the concierge’s desk which was doing a brisk business that morning.

  The lobby was packed with the kind of people one would expect to see at a ski resort before Christmas when a Celtic fair was happening next door. Juliet caught a glimpse of a hung-over Carrie Simmons, still dressed like an L.A. rapper, staggering by as she waited in line and was grateful not to be noticed by her. The woman made her uncomfortable.

  It was odd how many adult women she had started to notice behaving like Carrie, because the French were just as fashion- and beauty-obsessed as Americans, but somehow they managed the whole thing with dignity. Maybe because they had figured out that youthful packaging did not equal attractiveness. Carrie could take a page from Ninon de l’Enclos, though she never read, so any number of pages from Ninon’s work wouldn’t help in the least. Her self-delusions of eternal youth and attractiveness were hardly comprehensive enough to need psychiatric treatment, but those that she had, she clung to tenaciously. And Juliet wasn’t the person to break the bad news about the appearance of slipping breasts in burnout t-shirts to her. There simply wasn’t language to cover it.

  Carrie wasn’t the only body to be avoided. There was also one of the satellites hanging around—the slightly shorter and broader one dressed in dark skiwear—ostensibly looking at postcards and flyers of local attractions but really doing who knew what.

  One of the rooms—possibly the one wanted by the man in front of her—was being used for a nuptial bacchanalia. The man was the spokesman for a host of orange-clad Buchanans, hunting for a meeting room where they could hold their annual general meeting, one large enough that they wouldn’t have to lie horizontally and stack themselves like cordwood in order to fit, which they were having to do in the closet space they were assigned. And if it could be accomplished that morning, well, that would be excellent. Juliet kept her distance because the ringleader was giving off periodic puffs of body odor and was clearly suffering from advanced bromhidrosis fueled by whisky and garlic. Perhaps he was one of the people camping at the park and without access to a shower who lived on garlic fries because they’re cheap, yummy, and couldn’t be bullied by even the strongest scotch.

  While the argument about the meeting room went into round two, a man in a Campbell tartan walked by and the Buchanans, to a man—and one woman—stared at him with identical expressions of hatred.

  Juliet blinked. Really? Still? But maybe it was healthy to divert hostility to a quarrel that happened centuries ago on another continent. Especially if you were secretly afraid of the era you lived in, as so many people were.

  Her turn for aid and comfort arrived. If pressed, Juliet would do downhill skiing, but she preferred cross-country and using her own skis. It was quieter, a time to think without dodging people and deadly trees. It delighted her when the harassed concierge told her about a seldom-used trail that skirted part of the lake and hurriedly assured her when pressed for a map that she “couldn’t miss it” and to “just look for the trailhead sign.”

  Juliet fetched her skis.

  Once away from the hotel, the scenery was like an Ansel Adams photograph—all blacks and whites with deep gray shadows. She supposed that in spring grass would soften the landscape and add color, but these were hard mountains—very masculine. Her home was in softer hills with gentler tones and colors and shapes.

  The trail began comfortably enough, but as it neared the lake, it narrowed until it began to feel that it was clinging uneasily to the cliff, only one storm away from toppling into the cold water. She was still feeling a little sore after her adventure in the blizzard and began to loaf along, feeling pessimistic about the upkeep and safety of the track the concierge had recommended. There were no markers anymore. Had she gone astray?

  The lake was a bowl open to the sky that reflected back the gray and somehow redoubled the darkness. It gaped like an open mouth, the boulders the teeth that lined the jaws of cold, wet death. This wasn’t a place that made concessions to the careless and Juliet began to understand why it was seldom used—if she was even on a real trail anymore. The waters were lonely, no boats on its surface, no hikers, no skiers, no skaters, no children making snowmen at its edges. There were no humans—except Juliet—to contemplate its cold depth. And if she fell in…. All it would take was one tiny shove.

  One thing was for sure, she had zero urge to paint any of it. This wasn’t a memory she wanted to take home with her.

  Unnerved, she stopped and pulled off her knit hat so she could better listen. Juliet had developed a kind of inner warning system that played Marco Polo when danger was near. In spite of the silence broken only by the occasional drop of snow from the distant trees, Marco was getting a quick Polo. The day had begun to feel an awful lot like her last detour which had ended up with a snowbound car and a dead body. She realized that her calm had almost evaporated and it was ready to abdicate to panic. She was glad that she had brought her gun, though if this kept up she was going to have to buy a holster for it so she could carry it with more ease and accessibility.

  Juliet moved on to higher ground, feeling like a lightning rod on top of the tallest building, but wanting to see what and who was near her. The air was very still and carried sound with eerie clarity. She heard the hissing of skis and had her hand in her pocket and around her baby Glock before Esteban appeared around a bend in the path.

  “You’ve been following me? Why?” she asked, greatly relieved to see him and not one of the satellites.

  “I saw you leave from the line for the ski lift. I’m practicing being secretive and stealthy so I stayed back a little. And because I am also paranoid, I wanted to see if anyone else was following you first.”

  “And am I being followed?”

  “Not that I can see, but I’m feeling uneasy about being away from the crowds.”

  “I know. Me too. Let’s go back. I don’t like the look of this trail anyway. If it is a trail. I think the concierge is confused.”

  “I suppose we should. I was thinking of cutting inla
nd a bit first and checking for tracks. If I were following someone I would do it from the trees.”

  The band of evergreens was only about thirty feet wide and not particularly dense, but there were large stones and it offered enough cover to conceal a man.

  Juliet looked at Esteban’s skis. He wasn’t wearing the cross-country variety. Going inland wouldn’t be easy, though Esteban was certainly strong enough to force the matter if he was inclined.

  “You aren’t making me feel better with this stalker talk.”

  “I wasn’t trying to,” he said, this time without any joking. “I think you have a stalker—and here I am without my telescopic rifle. I don’t suppose that—but of course you are,” he said approvingly when she patted her pocket where she had her gun.

  “The pertinent question is why am I—or are we—being followed? Don’t you think that’s pertinent?” she asked.

  “I love it when you get all logical.” The tone was light but his eyes kept moving over the trees and Juliet found herself studying them too. “I also love that you aren’t arguing about the stalker. I suppose that I haven’t broken any news to you. Your intuition is always excellent.”

  Juliet shook her head.

  “I haven’t seen anything but…. Are they following because I found the body and the killer thinks that I have the stolen Rembrandt with me?”

  “A nuclear device. That one’s better. No one steals Rembrandts any more—too many forgeries.”

  “Better for whom?” she demanded and then shook her head again. Esteban was correct that it wasn’t the right time for an argument. “Is it just because I set off in the direction of the murder and some moron with a greatly exaggerated notion of my physical abilities thinks that I plan on skiing the whole thirty miles over the mountain and then back again to—to what? To discover something at the crime scene that the police missed?” Juliet didn’t care if her voice carried. Let them hear what she was saying.