Trish turned. "I suppose I should. I haven't notified his sister. I wonder if the cops did."
"Is she next of kin?"
Trish nodded. "Yes, but she disapproved of Hugo. She's very conventional. Disapproved of me, too." A smile touched her mouth. "If she could only see me now."
Bianca dried her hands. "I'll show you the desk. There's a clothes closet, too."
The two women went off and I decided I might as well wipe the smears off the kitchen cabinets. I found a sponge and a bottle of spray cleanser (Guaranteed Non-Toxic!) and started squirting and wiping. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was probably a disaster.
I wondered where Hugo had kept his stash of pot. The refrigerator? From the smears on the surface I gathered the police had looked there, too. I wiped the door clean and peered into the freezer compartment. A pint of Ben and Jerry's Tin Roof ice cream and two trays of ice cubes. No baggy. I saw nothing suspicious in the hydrator, either.
I rinsed the sponge and cleaned the cupboard doors. There was no sign of illicit substances on the shelves. A covered glass dish caught my eye, and I lifted it down to the counter. It was a handsome piece of crystal, Venice green, and expensively plain. I lifted the lid. Three pieces of Flower's taffy lay on the bottom of the dish. I wondered if Dale had noticed the candy--probably not if he had searched the apartment before going through Hugo's personal effects. I set the dish on the small table and made a mental note to call it to Dale's attention.
It didn't take me long to clean the rest of the smears. I found a feather duster, gave the living room surfaces a once over, and straightened Hugo's bedding. The place had been tidy when I saw it last.
I was plumping the pillows when Bianca and Trish came back down the hall, Trish stuffing papers into her purse. They came within sight of the dining table. Trish stopped.
"What is it?" Bianca asked.
Trish burst into tears.
Between us, Bianca and I managed to seat her at the table. I had left my handbag in the store, but Bianca came up with a wad of clean tissues. Bianca patted, and I murmured, and we stared at each other. It couldn't be good for anyone to cry that hard.
Finally Trish seemed to pull herself together, though she continued to shiver as if she were cold.
I found a tea kettle and put it on. Hugo had left a box of herb teabags in the cupboard. I brewed three cups. I scarcely knew Bianca and didn't know Trish, so I was feeling distinctly out of place. Perhaps Trish sensed my discomfort.
When I brought her her cup she thanked me. "I'm sorry to let you in for that. It was the candy dish."
I stared at her blotched face and then at the green glass of the dish.
"Organic c-candy..." She cried a little more and wiped her eyes. "Hugo had an awful sweet tooth. We used to joke about it. He was crazy about Flower's taffy."
I lifted the lid. "Only three left."
She took them out. "Then let's eat them. For Hugo."
I hate taffy. I chewed mine--it was some kind of mint--as long as I could stand it and then gulped it.
Trish gave a watery giggle. "I can't stand the stuff. It feels as if it's pulling my fillings out."
Bianca swallowed. "Mine was peanut butter. Kind of nice."
Trish sighed--a long uneven sound. "I gave him the dish when I got the job with the county library. He never kept anything in it but Flower's taffy. Oh God, I wish he wasn't d-dead." She cried some more, but she was no longer helpless with grief. She blew her nose and shoved the damp tissue in her bag. "I'm going to take the dish home with me."
I said, "I have a box it would fit in. Shall I wrap it for you?"
"That would be awfully nice."
I hesitated. "And there's the Zen book. You ought to take that with you, too. He was reading it when ...it was the last book he read, I think." I went to the armchair and closed the Zen master. "It's wonderful if you like gardens."
Trish slewed around, sniffing. "I like to look at them, but Bianca will tell you I have a brown thumb. They never let me work in the garden at the commune."
I brought her the huge book. "You loved Hugo, didn't you?"
She nodded, swallowing. "You're wondering why we divorced, right? I wanted a healthy baby. Hugo's babies...died." She closed her eyes, then opened them and gave me a very direct look. "He had major exposure to Agent Orange. I lost three deformed fetuses. When they told me the fourth was deformed, I had an abortion. Hugo was raised Catholic." She shook her head. "So was I, for that matter, but he just couldn't deal with the idea. So I divorced him."
Bianca said, "Trish..."
She was getting upset again. "I wanted a baby, a nice ordinary kid, so I divorced Hugo. He told me he'd always think of me as his wife. Not in a threatening way, you know--it was just the truth. I thought I might remarry, but I never found anyone I liked half as much as I liked Hugo." She bit her lip, which was trembling.
"But the baby..."
"Artificial insemination." She gave a short laugh. "Hugo hated that. He said it was like cattle, but it's giving me a nice healthy little girl. I don't know the father and don't want to. I think of her as Hugo's daughter."
I was starting to cry.
Trish said, "Can we go? I want to get out of here. I want to go home."
Chapter 8
I jerked upright in my office chair. "My God, we ate the evidence!"
Bonnie handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose. We were in the back room. Trish and Bianca were long gone. I had been telling Bonnie Trish's story, a three-hanky tale if there ever was one.
"Evidence?" Bonnie said cautiously.
I stood, jiggling the computer desk. "Dale found salt water taffy in Hugo's pockets. I just discovered more of it upstairs in the green candy dish."
"The one you wrapped up like a birthday present?"
I had shrouded the candy dish in foam wrap, set it in a small box, and protected it with Styrofoam pellets. Trish could have dropped it from an airplane.
I fumbled in the desk drawer and found the key to the apartment. "I'm going upstairs. Back in a minute."
Bonnie gave a resigned nod. She knew she'd get the whole story eventually.
I had tossed the candy wrappers into the wastebasket by Hugo's reading chair. I retrieved them and sat in the chair. Time to stop emoting. I supposed I ought to call Dale, though the candy was probably not crucial in and of itself. It just confirmed Hugo's little secret.
The dish had been nearly empty, though. If Hugo thought he was going to need a taffy fix he would have headed for the supplier. Did the shop sell its stuff in Kayport?
I wanted a phone. Hugo had kept his in the bedroom/office. I stood up to go back there then changed my mind. I stuffed the bits of paper into my jeans pocket and clattered downstairs instead.
I entered the bookshop from the back entrance. Bonnie was out in the store dusting shelves. I could hear her humming "April in Paris." I grabbed my jacket and purse, and her jacket and purse, and went in pursuit. I found her dusting off World War One.
"Come on, Bonnie. We're going to Seaside."
"Seaside? Whatever for?" She gave a biography of Marshal Petain an extra fillip with the feather duster.
She came with me under protest. Before we left, she made me call the cops. I tried calling Lisa, Dale, and Jay without result. I left messages all over the place. What more could I do?
Seaside is a honky-tonk beach town of the kind people from the city used to take their kids to in the l920s when an excursion train ran from Portland to the coast. The drive from Kayport took about an hour. I used the time to fill Bonnie in, not just about the taffy but about everything, including Bianca's refusal to cancel the workshop.
Bonnie thought I should just quit. I explained about Bianca's ability to radiate guilt.
"What can she do to you?"
"Sue?" I was joking. Then I remembered the high-priced lawyer. Bianca and I had an oral contract. I wished I knew more about Washington law.
Fact. The main drag of Seaside is called Broadway. It i
s one lane wide and runs due west from Highway 101 to the ocean with unmetered parking on both sides of the street. On that blustery day most of the parking spots were empty. I drove down the street very slowly trying to find the Flower's Candies sign.
Broadway ended in a tiny turnaround rimmed with concrete sidewalks. A bronze statue of Lewis and Clark, shrunk to three quarter size, stood in the center. The explorers gazed at the Pacific beyond a sign that informed us we had reached the end of the Lewis and Clark trail. Daffodils encircled the statue. The sandy beach lay a good ten feet below the level of an old-style esplanade. The beach curved south toward a forested headland like something out of Robinson Jeffers. For once it was not raining, but the ocean was dreadnought gray flecked with whitecaps.
I negotiated the tight curve of the turnaround and looped back for another pass at the street. Bonnie suggested we park and walk. The likeliest territory for taffy shops was only seven blocks long. I parked by an empty arcade that was blasting out rap music, and we got out.
We found Flower's Famous Saltwater Taffy tucked into an alleyway between a kite shop and a charming little bookstore. Bonnie pulled me away from the bookstore, which, in any case, was closed, and we entered the shop.
There was an immediate reek of warm chocolate and refined sugar. I blinked and looked around. All the wood surfaces were enameled white and yellow, and the famous taffy in its neat paper twists overflowed faux-country barrels. Miniature silver scoops dangled from plastic cords.
I couldn't see anybody, but reassuring noises emanated from a back room. I approached the glass display counter and saw a bell. A sign said "Ring for Assistance," so I did.
"Pralines," Bonnie purred. In addition to every conceivable flavor of taffy, the glass cases held an opulent variety of fudges, nougats, and, indeed, pralines. The smell was making me queasy.
"Can I help you?" A big woman, who wore a white baker's apron over jeans and a striped tee shirt, gave us a wide professional smile. I could see she found customers an annoying interruption. I knew the feeling. It wasn't exactly the high season, and she probably hadn't yet geared up to meet the public.
I said, "Do you sell your taffy through other candy stores?"
She tucked a wisp of hair behind one ear. "Nope. Just here. We're thinking of starting a mail order line next fall, if you're interested."
I explained hastily that I wasn't a wholesale candy buyer. Then I launched into a muddled account of Hugo's death.
Rather to my surprise the woman didn't toss us out on our ears. She seemed intrigued that her confection had been taken in evidence at a murder site.
"What did you say his name was?"
"Hugo Groth."
"I guess it wasn't on the news last night."
"Probably not." I did my best to describe Hugo. When I mentioned the pony tail and the boils that marred his complexion, her face brightened.
"Gosh, yes. A week ago Sunday, like you said. When he came in I remember thinking he was going to buy fudge. People with skin problems usually do. I was wondering if I ought to steer him to the healthy stuff." She flushed a little. "I know all this candy isn't real good for you. Did you see the sugar-free taffy?"
"Yuck!"
She grinned and relaxed. Candy shop proprietors probably suffer from health nuts the way bookstore owners suffer from self-appointed censors.
"You'd be surprised at the parents who drag kids in here, and then won't let them buy candy with real sugar in it. I mean, why not take the poor little devils to a granola store?" She laughed heartily. Bonnie and I smiled.
"Hugo?" I prompted.
"You say he was killed?"
"Not long after he left here. The sacks of your taffy were still in his pockets."
She made a sad clucking noise. "It's a crazy world."
"Do you remember what time he came in?"
"You don't ask for much." Her mouth compressed in the effort to remember. She shook her head. "Early, I think, but I can't say exactly. We open at ten, so it was after that. Business was slow. I was in and out, making a big batch of fudge."
"Well, thanks anyway. I'll tell the deputy in charge to call you." I got out a notepad and started to write Dale's phone number down for her.
"You could ask his friends what time they was in town."
"What did you say?"
She blinked at my tone. "His friends. They was waiting outside for him--by the kite shop."
I felt a moment of pure exhilaration followed by panic. "Friends. What did they look like?"
She shook her head. "It was raining, see, and the window was a little steamy. I just saw these blurs hanging out by the kite shop, and when he left they left, too. I figured he was going to share all that taffy with his friends."
I drew a breath. "How many of them were there?"
"Two," she said without hesitation. "One tall, one shorter."
"How much shorter?"
The candy maker's mouth tightened. "Look, I got a bunch of taffy pulling back there. I'm sorry your friend got killed, but that's all I can tell you."
I thanked her profusely, took her card, and gave her Dale's number.
Bonnie said in a small voice, "May I buy some pralines?"
The woman made the transaction in silence, handing Bonnie a small white paper bag and her change. "Thank you and come again."
Bonnie promised she would.
The woman turned to me. "I wouldn't swear it in court, mind you, but I think it was a man and a woman."
"The people waiting for Hugo?"
She nodded.
I thanked her, and we left.
She had thrown me for a loop--two loops. I had been assuming Hugo was alone. When I took in the fact that he wasn't, I had leapt to the conclusion that the waiting pair were Jason Thirkell and Bill Johnson. Jason and Bill had admitted they spent the day in Seaside. What man and what woman?
The question kept me quiet all the way to Astoria.
As I drove onto the long drawbridge across the slough on the west side of Astoria, I noticed that the mudflats were exposed. Low tide. Way above us in the distance, the bridge over the Columbia showed pale green against darkening clouds. The wind had picked up.
Bonnie was nibbling a praline.
"Is it good?"
"Yum. Want one?"
"Not without coffee."
The Toyota chugged onto the main drag, and I turned left for the bridge. The ramp coiled up and up, high over the ship channel then swooped down to a long straight stretch. On either side at mid-river, the wind pushed small combers at the exposed mudflats. The bridge is nearly five miles long.
The speed limit on the straight was fifty-five, as for any two-lane highway, but the wind was ripping across the water, throwing spray onto the windshield, so I went slower. I turned on the wipers and gripped the wheel. The car shuddered with every gust, and half a dozen sassy seagulls, beaks into the northwest wind, were pacing us at eye-level. In gales, the State Police close the bridge because waves wash over the roadbed.
The Sunday Hugo was killed the wind had blown a steady twenty-five knots from the south with gusts of fifty. Surely even Hugo would not have ridden a bicycle across the bridge in that kind of weather. How had he got to Seaside? Who had given him a ride?
I posed the question for Bonnie as we finally negotiated the raised section of the bridge over the Washington channel. "I suppose it was too far for him to ride his bike."
"The distance wouldn't have bothered Hugo, but I think the wind would have."
"Maybe he took a bus." That was the logical answer.
"Or maybe his murderer drove him."
"Or murderers."
I settled in behind a slow-moving camper. "The woman did say there were two people waiting for him,"
"Who?"
I shook my head. "Nobody but the two boys said anything about going to Seaside that day, and they denied seeing Hugo."
"A man and a woman," Bonnie reminded me.
"Possibly a man and a woman--or a man and a slight
boy. She wasn't sure. Probably Jason and Bill. Bill isn't very big."
That was idle speculation, of course. I indulged in it because I had a bad conscience. The candy woman was Dale's witness. I had found her for him, but I should have left the questioning to him. I tried to remember whether I had said anything likely to distort her recollections. Bonnie didn't think so. That was some comfort.
So were the pralines. When we got back to the bookstore, Bonnie made a pot of coffee, and I ate one. It was excellent.
Jay and Tom were in the kitchen when we got home, Tom full of his ghastly European plans. He whisked Bonnie off before I could blurt out that I didn't want them to go.
"What's for dinner?"
"It's either beef stew or beef soup. We'll find out." Jay gave me a long, considering look. "Why don't you sit down and tell me the day's misadventures?"
"That's not fair!" Misadventures indeed. I came more or less clean.
Jay bawled me out. He also called Dale--and got through. When Jay hung up he said Dale was coming to the house.
The beef soup was nice--lots of veggies from Tom's garden. I was finishing the dishes when Dale appeared at the back door. I gathered he was taking my information seriously. I gave him the candy wrappers and the woman's business card. He drank a cup of coffee, but he didn't say much, except that everybody at the farm, including the interns, was lying to him. I thought that was probably true.
When Dale left, he told us he was going to interview the candy maker the next day. Maybe she'd remember something about Hugo's "friends." I had barely showered after my run the next morning when Bianca called. She was still adamant that the workshop would go on, so I didn't bother to tell her about Seaside. She said Trish wanted to hold a memorial service and invite Hugo's friends and fellow workers.
"When?"
"Friday. At the farm."
I sighed. "I suppose the police won't release the body."
"No. And Trish needs closure. She's due in ten days."
That made sense, unfortunately. "Can I help?"
She gave me a list of people to contact, mostly gardeners. I had been so much in the habit of thinking of Hugo as a loner, it hadn't occurred to me that other people in the community would also have known him. I told her I'd do the calling, took down the time of the service, and hung up on a subdued note.
Meadowlark Page 10