by Mary Daheim
Again, brother and sister exchanged glances. “It looked better, staying married,” Thad finally said.
I frowned at the pair. “How do you mean?”
“You know,” Thad said, his jaw thrust out.
I didn't, of course, but I decided to pretend. “Your aunt wasn't a conventional woman.”
“Exactly.” Thad brightened, as if I'd said something brilliant. “You knew her a lot better than we did. The problem is, everything would have been okay if she'd divorced Aaron like we thought she had.”
“And why did you think that?” I asked.
“Somewhere along the line,” Thad began, “like maybe five years ago, she wrote to my mother to say she'd separated from Aaron and was moving, so she had a new address. I didn't pay much attention at the time, I'd just started college up at Western in Bellingham, and I guess Mom and Dad figured Aunt Crystal got a divorce. We didn't know she hadn't until after she got killed.”
“It was really upsetting,” Melody said, her gaze straying to the window. Maybe she was hoping the sheriff would cruise by. “It doesn't seem fair that Aaron gets anything. He meant nothing to Aunt Crystal.”
“He meant enough that she let him come here and live off of her,” I pointed out.
“That's because she was so softhearted,” Thad said.
It wasn't the way I'd have ever described Crystal, but I didn't say so. “It's a matter of law,” I explained. “This is a community-property state. As long as they were still married at the time Crystal died, Aaron is entitled to everything she had except for the bequests she made to the two of you in her will.”
“That's our point,” Thad said earnestly. “That's why we're here. We're sure Aunt Crystal never intended for Aaron to get any of it. We think she made a second will just before she died.”
Candor was my only option. “I don't know. Have you asked Marisa Foxx? I understand she made out the first one for your aunt.”
“I called her right after the funeral,” Thad said. “Ms. Foxx insisted there wasn't a second will, or if there was, she hadn't made it for Aunt Crystal. Anyway, she said that if she had, it'd probably not be a new one, but a codicil.”
“We thought that since you knew Aunt Crystal from way back,” Melody said, sounding pettish, “you might know what she'd done about the will. After all, you were the last person to see her alive.”
I bit back a denial. “I don't know anything about it. I really don't understand why you think there is a second will or a codicil. Your aunt didn't expect to die, you know.”
“She didn't expect Aaron to show up, either,” Thad declared. “That's why we think she would have changed everything.”
“I think you're wrong,” I said.
Brother and sister started for the door, though they didn't turn their backs on me. “You ought to know,” Melody said in a sullen tone.
“No,” I asserted, standing up, “I don't know. And if I were you, I'd think twice about changes in your aunt's will. What if she left everything to her daughter, Amber? What if she cut you both out of your inheritance?”
“Never,” Thad shouted. “We were the children she wished she'd had instead of that weirdo, Amber.”
Melody was looking pugnacious. “Amber ran away a long time ago, about the time I started high school. Nobody knows what happened to her and nobody cares. Anyway, Aunt Crystal wouldn't have left her a dime. Amber was a narrow-minded little bitch.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded, trying to look menacing.
“Because Aunt Crystal told us all about her rotten daughter,” Melody replied, backpedaling in step with her brother. “It wouldn't surprise me if she was the one who killed her mother.”
Apparently, my killer act had bombed, at least with the Eriks offspring. Or maybe they preferred to believe that their cousin had done the deed. That would certainly sew up the inheritance for them if Amber ever resurfaced and took the matter to court.
As Melody and Thad skittered away, they almost collided with Tom on the plowed path to the street.
“Who's that?” he asked, puffing a little as he came through the door.
While Tom eased himself out of his boots, I explained, including how it felt to have someone look at you as if you might have killed another human being.
“Did you scare them away?” He grinned as he sat down next to me on the sofa and held my hands. His fingers were like ice.
“Well,” I began, “that's the funny thing. Melody and Thad acted nervous, but there wasn't much else there. Either they're too shallow to comprehend what it's like to talk to a killer, or they know I really didn't do it.”
“You think one of them did?” Tom asked, wiggling his toes in his thermal socks.
I grimaced. “I don't know. I don't think so. But I have to wonder why they're so insistent about another will or a codicil. If such a thing exists, Marisa Foxx didn't draw it up. If she didn't do it, who did? And wouldn't Crystal have kept a copy? Milo never mentioned finding anything of the sort.”
Tom looked puzzled. “You say these kids insisted Crystal wouldn't leave anything to Aaron? Why not, if she was helping him financially?”
“I don't know, because I didn't know Crystal. Melody and Thad did, if briefly. Another thing,” I added as three people passed by on foot and swiveled in the direction of my picture window, “those kids don't think much of their runaway cousin.”
“The missing daughter?” Tom leaned back against the sofa. “How come?”
“I don't know that, either. I suppose Aunt Crystal told them tales. Melody and Thad are a couple of gullible, smalltown products,” I explained. “Kinship is very important—unless you're in a family feud. I figured that poor Amber was driven away by her ornery mother. But the Eriks kids aren't going to see it that way, not when they get the bulk of her estate.”
For a few moments, Tom was silent. “Melody and Thad don't know who killed Crystal. I'll bet they really don't believe you did it. They may have come by to see how you'd react.”
A couple of cars crept along Fir. I had the feeling they, too, were rubbernecking, out to see what a real live murderess looked like. As if they didn't know, having seen me around town for years.
“None of it makes sense,” I said. “As for drawing conclusions that I must have known Crystal in Portland, I suppose that makes more sense. If I'd actually killed the wench, we might have had a history.”
Tom lifted my chin. “You're bitter.”
“I'm pissed. At Milo and Vida, for getting me into this mess.”
Tom gave a shake of his head. “I don't know, Emma. It sounds to me as if it's working. You've already had a couple of callers. Maybe you can just sit here and have the whole mystery unfold in your living room.”
“Don't be a smart-ass, Tom.” I looked outside as a pickup stopped by my mailbox. A gangly man with a scruffy beard got out and planted a sign at the edge of the street. “Oh, shit!” I started for the door.
Tom was right behind me. In fact, he pushed me aside and headed into the yard, shouting for the man to stop. Unfortunately, Tom hadn't put on dry shoes. He took ten steps before his thermal socks began to freeze on the path. Tom swore while the man in the pickup truck drove off, honking his horn.
“Hand me my boots,” Tom called. “I'm going to get that sign.”
I obeyed. Moments later, Tom stomped back to the porch, sign in hand. It read, YOUL FRY.
“Charming,” I remarked. “I wish I'd be harassed by people who can spell. You should see some of the letters I get. Especially the ones addressed to Emmy Lard.”
“I've seen a few like that in my time,” Tom said grimly. He took the sign directly to the fireplace and stuffed it in the grate.
I threw my arms around his waist. “God, but I'm glad you're here. I'm scared.”
“You? Scared?” Tom hugged me tight. “I didn't think that was your style.”
“It isn't. Not as a rule. But this caper is creepy. Look, it isn't quite four, and it's already getting dark.”
“What?” I was incredulous.
“He's stumped. Or baffled, as they say in the headlines.” Tom paused while he stuffed kindling on top of the wretched sign and a handful of old newspapers. “He can't ask you for help, because you and he are on the outs. Dodge has pride, you can see that. By putting you in this rather awkward position, he knows you'll knock yourself out to help solve the case.”
“That's Machiavellian,” I responded. “Too much so for Milo.”
“Maybe not consciously,” Tom said as he lit a match. “But I'll bet that's part of it. He's feeling desperate. Didn't you say he made a wrongful arrest a while ago?”
“He did,” I admitted. “It could have gotten really ugly, but he bailed himself out.”
“So he's feeling unsure of himself.” Tom sat back down next to me. “What do you want to do first?”
I stared at him. “About what? Solving the stupid case?”
Tom nodded. “Where do we start?”
“I already did. I've talked to Dean Ramsey and Victor Dimitroff and the Eriks family—you're right,” I interrupted myself. “I haven't even officially met Aaron Conley.”
“When should we drive down to Baring?”
I glanced outside. Despite the encroaching darkness, there was no sign of a new snowfall. “Now. The pass is open, and the main thoroughfares in town are plowed. But if we take my car, we'll have to dig it out first.”
“The rental will do,” Tom said, getting up to make sure the fireplace screen was secure. “It has studded tires.”
Ten minutes later, we were waiting at the railroad crossing for the Christmas train from Leavenworth to pass. Every December, the Bavarian-style town on the other side of the summit put on a tree-lighting ceremony. It was an event that Alpine could have borrowed if not stolen, but no one in town could agree on exactly what kind of festivities we should host. Maybe Crystal should have gotten up in arms about that issue. I would have ridden the hobbyhorse right along with her.
I glimpsed happy tourists through the windows. Every year, I promised myself I'd drive to Leavenworth and enjoy the ceremony. And every year, I got too busy to do anything but run in place. Feeling frantic didn't make my spiritual journey any smoother.
The safety barriers went up and we crossed the bridge over the Sky, heading for Highway 2.
“It's beautiful up here,” Tom remarked as we wound our way downhill past small waterfalls that were frozen in place and trees heavy with new snow.
“It's a long winter, though,” I pointed out. “Actually, the snow came late this year. I don't think they've had any yet over in Leavenworth. The altitude there is much lower than in Alpine.”
The cross-state highway was busy on a late Saturday afternoon. The ten-mile stretch between the turnoff to Alpine and the whistle-stop of Baring was familiar to me, but relatively foreign to Tom. He took his time, not risking to get around the slow-moving trucks that blocked our way.
We passed the ranger station, the road that led into Skykomish, and tiny Grotto, with its modest little sign. Then, just as the river edged closer to the highway, I showed Tom where to turn for Crystal's cabin.
“It's peaceful up here,” he said, steering cautiously up the twisting road where the bare vine maples arched over us like a portal. “Except for the occasional murder, of course.”
“Of course.” I smiled a bit thinly. Was Tom trying to talk himself into something? “It's contentious, though. Little things become big things. Cleaning the bird poop off Carl Clemans's statue in Old Mill Park can trigger a small war. The money—all one hundred bucks of it—could be better spent on planting begonias around the flagpole. The next thing you know, the town is up in arms. People who think that little places like Alpine are utopias don't really understand what goes on.”
“I know what goes on,” Tom said as he parked behind the dirty white van that had almost run me down in the middle of Front Street. “I own several small-town papers, remember?”
“It's not the same as living in those small towns,” I said.
Tom didn't respond, but got out of the car and stood gazing up at the cabin. “So this is the House of Death,” he said as I joined him. “It looks pretty ordinary.”
“That's the secret of all these little Edens tucked away amid nature's glory. They're very deceptive.”
Tom knocked three times. We could hear loud music, mostly bass, inside. Finally, the door opened to reveal Aaron Conley, dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He could have been on the beach at Malibu instead of in a snow-covered cabin at Baring.
“I know you,” he said, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “You're from the paper.”
He started to close the door, but Tom had already put out a hand. “Hold it. We just want a few minutes of your time. Don't you want to have your side aired?”
Boom-thump-whump-boom went the bass. I flinched as we stepped inside.
“My side of what?” Aaron said in a sullen tone. “And who the hell are you?” He jabbed his thumb at Tom.
“Turn that thing down,” Tom ordered in an irritable voice.
“What thing?” Belligerence was written large on Aaron's bearded face.
Crystal's CD player—now legally Aaron's—was in a corner, by some bookcases. Tom strode across the room and punched the power button.
“There,” he said, putting out a hand to Aaron. “I'm Tom Cavanaugh, a longtime friend of Emma Lord's. How do you do?”
The return to quiet—and civility—apparently had an effect on Aaron. He shook hands docilely enough, then sat down on the leather couch. The coffee table in front of him bore an almost empty bottle of wine and a bong. I recognized the smell of marijuana.
“What's up, man?” Aaron asked, slouching on the couch.
Not having been invited to sit, I leaned against the bookcase. Tom stood in the middle of the room, hands in pockets. “We hear your alibi's shot,” Tom said in an amiable tone. “Now what?”
Apparently Aaron wasn't on the Presbyterian grapevine or its extensions. “Hey, I don't give a shit,” he said with a little laugh. “I didn't do Crystal. She was cool.”
“Even though she left you?” Tom asked.
Aaron raised both hands. “So? Shit happens. We weren't doing it for each other anymore. What's to save?”
“What about Amber?” I asked.
“Amber?” Briefly, Aaron looked mystified, then he grinned, revealing a space between his front teeth. “Oh, you mean Lolita. She booked. Long time ago.” The grin faded, but his pale blue eyes seemed hopeful. “Has she turned up?”
I shook my head. “No. I take it you haven't heard from her?”
“Hell, no.” He lighted a cigarette, of the legal, if still lethal, variety. “She wouldn't have shit to do with me. Not anymore. She was a real little priss.”
“I thought you called her Lolita,” I said.
Aaron laughed. “That was my perception, not hers.”
“Is that why she ran away?” I asked. “Because you made moves on her?”
“Hell, no.” His face fell. “At least, I hope it wasn't. I never thought about that.”
“Why did she leave?” Tom queried as he sat down on a ladder-backed chair that had thrift store written all over it.
“Amber and her mom didn't get along,” Aaron replied from behind a blue haze of smoke. “You could call it a personality clash.” He laughed again. “Hey, you guys don't really think I killed Crystal, do you? Man, I'm clean on that one. I was puking up my guts in an alley behind some tavern down the road.”
“Really,” I said in distaste. “And now you're nicely settled in. Do you plan to stay in Baring?”
“Why not?” Aaron gave me what might have passed for a friendly grin. Or maybe it was a leer. “I snowboard. This setup's perfect for the winter, a hell of a lot cheaper thanTahoe or even Timberline.”
Mov
ing a pile of what appeared to be literary magazines from a leather hassock, I, too, sat down. “Tell me, Aaron, why did you come to see Crystal?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Like I said, we were mates. As in friends. No hard feelings. I was in Seattle, chilling with some guys I'd met in L.A. I thought, what the hey? I'll go see Crys. That's what I always called her. Crys.”
“You were broke,” I said.
“So? What else is new?” Aaron snickered as he puffed on his cigarette. “That's not a crime.”
“Didn't you find it odd that Dean Ramsey posted your bail?” I asked.
“Ramsey?” Aaron frowned, as if he were trying to place the name. “You mean old Dino. No. He's a straight-up kind of guy. You have to admire anybody who's so totally uncool.”
“Do you think,” Tom put in, “that Dean killed Crystal?”
Aaron looked contemptuous. “Never. That's too weird. Old Dino wouldn't hurt a bug. Besides, why should he care? They split up about a thousand years ago.”
“He doesn't always tell the truth, though,” I remarked.
“Dino?” Aaron scowled. “I don't think so.”
“He told me a lie,” I asserted. “He said he hadn't been in contact with Crystal since she moved here. But that's not true. He talked to her, at least.”
“Could be.” Aaron had turned indifferent as he slugged down the last of the wine.
“Why would Dean lie?” I persisted.
Aaron shrugged again. “Maybe he forgot. Or maybe it was none of your business.” He gazed somewhere in my direction through half-closed eyes.
“Did you know he'd seen Crystal?” I wasn't giving up easily. So far, I considered our visit to Aaron Conley a big fat flop. What was worse, he seemed to be heading for a distant planet. I felt a sense of urgency to get at least a smidgen of information out of him before his spaceship went into orbit.
Aaron picked at something in his beard. “I don't think he mentioned it. But then we never had time for a real one-on-one talk, you know?”
I suppressed a sigh. If Aaron's eyes had been a little foggy when we arrived, what little I could see of them now looked utterly glazed.