"Has an alibi." He smoothed his moustache. "At least, she does if we can definitely establish that Hugo was alive until one in the afternoon. I think we will."
"When Jason wakes up?"
"Maybe."
"Then the mutilations and the ice house business were a sort of post-meditation--whatever the opposite of premeditation is."
"Maybe." He drew a breath. "I think Groth had an appointment with his killer at the greenhouses, probably around one or one-thirty. They quarreled for whatever reason, and Groth was killed in the fight. The M.E. thinks he took a while to die from the head wound, as long as an hour, though he would have been deeply unconscious. The body was moved maybe as much as two hours after he died."
Envisaging the scene was making me sick. Or it may have been the Jell-O pudding. "So he was transported to the ice house in the wheelbarrow, and there was a time gap. I don't see that that gets you further along. You still have two suspects."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Del and Keith."
"Five," he said. "Wallace, McDonald, Marianne Wallace, Bianca Fiedler, and Angie Martini. But we're pretty sure now that we're looking for an impulsive personality."
"An improviser." I nodded. "But Angie's alibi--"
"Could be after the fact, or even before it."
"So the timing is crucial. I don't see Marianne."
"She's not very likely--no apparent motive--but she would have had the opportunity." He stood up. "Dale is going to do another round of interviews."
"Tomorrow?" I thought of Bianca's probable reaction and groaned. "That should enliven the morning."
"What's it to you, my sweet? You'll be in Portland."
I groaned again. I also wondered whether I might not return to discover that the show was over--that Dale had made an arrest. It was not that I wanted to be in at the kill, but I didn't want to miss anything crucial either.
We went back upstairs and I met Jason's mother. She was a cocktail waitress and seemed more worried about missing work than about Jason, but that may have been my imagination.
Chapter 14
I drove to Portland International Airport via Interstate 5 and 205, by-passing Vancouver and catching a picture-perfect view of Mount Hood from the Glen Jackson Bridge. Sunday traffic was light on the bridge, and had been on Highway 30, all the way from Astoria to Longview, where I crossed back over the Columbia. The weather was brilliant, our first real spring day.
I took the cell phone with me. The evening before, I had left Jay prepared to spend the night at the hospital. He wasn't beside me when my alarm woke me at five-thirty, so I gathered that Jason must still be unconscious. I didn't call the hospital before I left. It was too early. Once I reached the highway on the Oregon side and saw how beautiful the weather was, I forgot to call.
When residents of the area say "the mountain is out," they mean that the native fog, smog, and low-hanging clouds have finally cleared away, and the mountain, whichever mountain it may be, is visible. Or it may have gone away and come back, who knows?
That morning all the mountains were out. Just before I crossed the Lewis and Clark Bridge at Longview, I saw the truncated cone of Loowit, Mount Saint Helens. Approaching Vancouver, I saw Mount Saint Helens again, its shy twin, Mount Adams, and, a bit farther on, Mount Hood. I thought I also caught a glimpse of Mount Rainier in my rearview mirror, but that may have been an illusion.
I did not forget murder and mayhem, but my mind was tired of running in futile circles. Getting out of the Shoalwater area filled me with something like exuberance. "Nothing is so beautiful as spring."
I swept along in my spring daze, ten miles an hour above the limit on US 30 and five on the Interstate, when I reached it. At the airport, I left the car in the short-term parking facility and headed across the zebra-striped crosswalk to the terminal. As I approached the wide revolving door, a mellifluous male voice welcomed me to Portland International Airport. It went on to assure me that parking was limited to the curb lane for a maximum of three minutes, and that the middle lane was for active loading and unloading. "Violators," the voice said sadly, "may be cited and towed."
Undaunted, I whisked past the clump of smokers standing near a vast concrete ashtray and whirled through the door. I took the north entrance because Hrubek was coming in on a Delta flight. I rode the escalator up behind an impenetrable barrier of passengers with large suitcases, checked the monitor above one of the Delta desks for the gate number, and trotted on in.
PDX is an airport like any other with one small exception. It has a superb bookstore. Powell's City of Books had opened a branch at the airport after the last remodeling session. Most airport book displays are marginally less interesting than the ones at supermarkets. Sometimes an airport has a Barnes & Noble or a Smith's. The Powell's airport branch is a store for people who actively love books. It does very well. It also opens at 9:00 a.m. It was ten of nine.
I drank a cup of espresso in one of the many coffee boutiques, and then strolled across the teal-and-purple carpet to the bookstore. Thanks to my light heart and lead foot, I had forty-five minutes to squander. I admired the displays, chatted with the clerk, bought Jay a pioneer diary in facsimile and Bonnie a guide that laid out walking tours of Paris. I also found a slim collection of Francis Hrubek's early essays I didn't have in stock. As I paid for my loot, I mentioned that I'd come to the airport to meet Hrubek.
The clerk's face lit up. "One of the gods," she breathed. "Do you think he'd autograph our books?"
I had no idea, but I agreed to raise the issue with Hrubek. Then I headed for the D concourse. The remodeled north wing featured skylights that would brighten even a gray day, and that morning the effect was dazzling. I laid my handbag on the conveyor belt of the nearest metal detector and walked through the little gate without setting off the alarm. The man behind me was less lucky. I glanced back and saw him unbuckle his big studded belt. Things have changed at airports since then.
I retrieved my bag and strolled along, shunning the people mover and admiring a row of live trees that marched down the center of the wide corridor beyond the conveyor. Hoardings with cutesy murals of workmen and bemused passengers covered a series of gaping holes. The murals announced in large letters that the holes would transmogrify into pubs and fast food emporia when construction was done. I believed them.
When I reached the assigned gate, I still had fifteen minutes to kill. As I stood waiting, I flipped the essay collection over. A benignant middle-aged face twinkled at me. The nose was long, the mouth curved in a wry smile, the moustache drooped heroically. I thought I'd recognize my quarry. I opened the book to the first chapter and began to read.
A 757 taxied up. The flight was announced. I stuffed the book back in its sack, and the sack in my purse, and watched the passengers stumble up the carpeted ramp into the waiting area. A few grandmothers, one younger man with skis, baggy-eyed salesmen. The bulk of the passengers were business-suited executive types, male and female. No Hrubek.
I waited. More businessmen, several carrying laptop computers. The flight had originated in Cincinnati, but Hrubek lived in Pennsylvania. He had had to make a connecting flight, probably very early, even allowing for the three hour time difference. Maybe he'd missed the plane. I waited.
The passengers dispersed, the airline personnel behind the check-in station shuffled papers and made computer entries. I was about to walk over and ask whether Hrubek was on the flight list when I spotted the gnome.
An elderly man with a cane, back curved, stood at the head of the ramp, blinking through thick spectacles. I went over to him. "Are you Francis Hrubek?"
He squinted up at me. "Who wants to know?" The voice was gravelly and humorous. I recognized the eyes even through the distorting lenses.
I had been assuming that Francis Hrubek didn't drive, like Hugo, as a matter of principle. Probably he didn't drive because he couldn't see well enough to pass the driver's exam.
I thrust out my hand, thinking publishers ought
to be forced to update jacket photos. He had shaved off his moustache. "I'm Lark Dodge. Bianca Fiedler sent me to get you. Welcome to the Pacific Northwest."
He gave me his claw. "Thanks. Lark?"
"Like the bird. Did you check your luggage?"
We began to move, very slowly, down the corridor. I wondered if I ought to ask the airline people for a wheelchair.
"Long flight," Hrubek observed. "Feels good to stretch my legs." We inched along. "I have one suitcase, assuming it didn't get lost in transit. I checked it through. Didn't want to wrestle it into the overhead rack."
"No problem."
We used the people mover. As we passed the security guards stationed by the metal detectors, Hrubek said, "What's this about an accident at the farm?"
The nearest guard turned and stared.
"I'll tell you all about it," I said with resignation, "but let's find your bag first."
He seemed amenable to that. We crept through a swirl of incoming skiers. Off to Aspen, probably, or Alta--Salt Lake City was a frequent Delta stop. Finally we reached the escalator I had ridden up. There were two escalators down. The logic of that escaped me. We had a little hesitation and shuffling but managed to get onto the center track without falling. Hrubek shifted his cane to his left hand and grasped the rail. I stood behind him, silent and, alas, impatient.
A few feet down the escalator I remembered Powell's Books. I was considering whether to mention the clerk's request for autographs, when I glanced at the people riding the up escalator. Two women stood side by side, chatting and blocking the way for a tall businessman with a briefcase. I noticed him first because he was grimacing. Then I saw the women's faces. The man said something and the heavier of the two women turned to him. The slimmer woman took a step upward, her companion moved in behind her, and the businessman passed them, briefcase swinging.
"Mr. Hrubek," I croaked. "Please wait for me at the baggage claim area. It's to your right. I just saw someone I have to speak to."
He turned round, frowning, and stumbled as we came to the bottom of the escalator. I caught his elbow and steadied him.
"Really," I said, "I am so sorry. I'll be back within fifteen minutes."
I pointed him the right way, and he went off grumbling. Then I wheeled round and began to run up the escalator in hot pursuit of the women. One of them was Mary Sadat.
Naturally, in the interim, both women had disappeared and a gaggle of baggage-laden passengers had debouched onto the escalator ahead of me.
"Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me. I beg your pardon." I don't know why people don't stand to the right on an escalator. Near the top, a woman with frosted hair was spending a week in Reno with three matched suitcases. The largest, which could have held a wedding dress, a fur coat, and the World Book Encyclopedia, squatted on the left. When we reached the top, and she began wrestling with it, I leaned my left hand on the stainless steel barrier between the escalators and vaulted over the suitcase.
I came close to smashing her face with my elbow. I also stumbled when I lit, but I scrambled to my feet and ran. I could hear her squawking as I sped off.
The waiting area under the skylight led to D and E concourses. I stopped in front of a comfortable-looking chair upholstered in striped fabric and dithered. Where had they gone? If they had stopped at the Delta ticketing area, they might still be there, standing in line behind a dozen skiers. Perhaps I should wait. They hadn't had suitcases, though.
I was about to sit when I glimpsed them. They had got ahead of me after all. They were strolling away from the security check toward the D corridor. The older woman was laughing. Mary slung her handbag over her shoulder by its long strap. I dashed to the same gate, flopped my purse on the conveyor belt, and zipped through the gate ahead of two startled businessmen. Then I grabbed the purse and ran.
The two women had almost reached the people mover when I caught up with them.
"Mary!" I was puffing a little, more from excitement than the exertion. "Please, Mary. I need to talk to you."
Mary Sadat whirled, hands at her mouth. The other woman had stepped onto the conveyor.
I took a step toward her.
"Oh, no! I can't...Sarah!"
"Please," I said. Mary was going to bolt.
The other woman, Sarah, turned around.
"Excuse us."
I stepped aside and so did Mary as three impatient passengers strode onto the people mover. Such is conditioning. Sarah tried to start back. They trapped her. I could see her mouth working as the conveyor bore her away from us.
I took Mary's arm and drew her over to the adjacent passenger area, which was blessedly empty. "We have to talk."
Mary said nothing. She looked like a rabbit frozen in a hunter's sights. The nearest seats faced away from the corridor, so I walked her around and sat her down with her back to the people mover. I stood over her. "Do your parents know where you are?" By all accounts, they had been frantic.
She shook her head.
I stared down at her pallid face. I could not conceive doing anything that cruel to my family. "Why?"
"She'll kill me, too," Mary whispered.
"Who?"
Her mouth compressed in a line. She shook her head. Her eyes glittered with tears.
The other woman, Sarah, bustled up panting. She had run back the length of the people mover. "Who are you? What are you doing to my sister? Let her go or I'll call the guard."
I turned. "Do that. Mary has been the object of a two-state search by at least three police departments. Maybe I should call the guard."
We stared at each other, and Sarah's face sagged. "She's in trouble, isn't she?"
"Not so far, but a lot of people are worried about her, including her parents." Including my husband.
The older woman's eyes fell. "She begged me not to tell."
"They'll make me go back." Mary began to sob. "She'll kill me, too."
I was getting a little tired of Mary's indefinite pronouns. "Who will make you go back, and who will kill you?"
Mary sobbed.
Sarah moved to her shoulder and patted it. "Now, Mary." The p.a. system announced the arrival of a Delta flight. "Oh, God, I'm supposed to meet my husband."
"Where?"
"Gate Twelve."
"Well, stand so you can see the arriving passengers. When you don't show up, he'll page you or come on down the corridor looking for you."
She sighed.
I said, "You have to explain, Mrs....?"
"Pierce," she said. "I'm Sarah Pierce."
"I'm Lark Dodge. I met Mary at the farm when we were searching for Hugo Groth."
I clarified my connection with Bianca and described my trip to the airport. I was conscious of time ticking away, and of an elderly man with poor vision waiting for me near a strange baggage carrel.
"Then you weren't looking for Mary." Unlike her sister, Sarah Pierce had a faint accent.
"No. Spotting her was pure luck." I didn't specify good or bad.
Sarah heaved another sigh and gave the sobbing Mary another absent-minded pat. "Mary's been hiding. She's afraid--"
"So I gathered," I interrupted, "though I don't understand why, exactly."
Mary said frantically, "No, don't tell her. She works for them. They'll find me and kill me like they did Mr. Groth."
"Who," I said with as much patience as I could muster, "is or are going to kill you? I don't understand."
Mary sobbed.
I looked at Sarah.
She shrugged. "I won't force her to go back."
I said, "Mary is a material witness in a murder investigation. Believe me, the police can force her to go back."
"Sarah?"
Both of us turned. Mary sobbed.
A blond man with a hunter-green carry-on came over to us. He wore Nikes, jeans, and an anorak over a Ragg sweater. He looked puzzled. "What's the matter?"
Sarah said, "This is my husband, Jerry." She turned to him. "I'm sorry we weren't there to meet the plane. Mrs
. Dodge spotted Mary. She knows her." They were a great family for foggy pronouns.
"Uh-oh." Jerry Pierce set his bag on the carpet.
"She wants Mary to go back to Kayport."
Mary sobbed harder.
I said, "I do not personally care what Mary does. I don't have the authority to force her to do anything, either. But I saw her, I know she's alive, and I'm going to let the police know where she is. I not only want to do that, I have to do that."
Pierce said, "Yes, I can see that."
"What do you do for a living?"
He blinked. "I'm a social worker."
"A public employee? Then you'd better call the police, too. If you value your job."
That was the wrong approach. His jaw set.
I backtracked. "I'm just trying to explain to you that this could be a serious matter. If Mary comes forward now, voluntarily, I don't think there will be any penalties, but she's going to have to tell the police everything she knows about the killing."
Mary choked out a muddled statement to the effect that she hadn't seen anything.
"Then why the panic? You didn't witness the killing?"
"No!" she wailed.
I slung my shoulder bag to my other shoulder. "I don't understand." I looked at Pierce and his wife. "And I don't understand how you two could let Mary's parents imagine she was dead. That's what they think. That's what everybody thinks."
Sarah said nothing but her eyes filled with tears.
Great, I thought. It runs in the family.
Pierce said, "Look, Mrs.--"
"Dodge," I said. "Lark Dodge."
"Well, Mrs. Dodge, Mary is with us because she's afraid of her family."
My eyebrows shot up.
"Not of her parents, exactly," he added. "Of her brothers. They bully her. Hell, that's a euphemism. They treat her like a caged animal. And Sarah and I don't owe the Sadats anything. They opposed our marriage, and when we went on seeing each other, Sarah's brothers took me out behind the restaurant and beat me to a pulp. I spent three days in the hospital."
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