Old Chaos (9781564747136)

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Old Chaos (9781564747136) Page 14

by Simonson, Sheila


  “I was the one who called them in.”

  “Inger told me Beth McCormick—”

  “Beth okayed it. It was my idea.”

  Larry gaped.

  “About the records.” Rob maintained eye contact. “There was an irregularity in the county’s approval process when those houses at Prune Hill were in the planning stage.”

  “Is that all?” Larry’s voice squeaked.

  Rob shrugged—and winced. Have to remember not to shrug. “If Inger has a beef, tell her to come to me. I want to talk to her anyway.” But not about the state’s investigation.

  “About the mudslide?”

  About her affair, if any, with Fred Drinkwater. “About the way the county operates,” Rob said smoothly. “We’re in a muddle here because of Mack’s death, and nobody knows the way things are supposed to work in the courthouse better than Inger. I’m ignorant. I always let Mack deal with the commissioners. Tell Inger I’ll be calling her.”

  Larry was frowning, his eyes unfocused. “Uh, yeah, sure. Hey, what’s the word about the developer, Drinkwater? I hear he’s dead.”

  Watch it, Rob said to himself. “Unattended death. That means we have to look into it.” After fifteen minutes of soothing obfuscation, Larry left looking less irate than when he showed up.

  Rob riffled through the pile of photos and took another look at the death scene. Bizarre. Way too peaceful.

  Drinkwater wasn’t sitting, exactly. He was lolling on an upscale deck chair, legs extended on the footrest, towel draped chastely across his lap, arms limp. His head was turned to the right, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open a little as if he had just fallen asleep or passed out. A whisky glass half-full of some cloudy yellow liquid sat on a small table near his right hand. A second deck chair, empty and upright, angled toward him as if someone had been talking with him, but there was only one glass. A third deck chair was shoved back against the wall, perhaps stored there. The water in the spa shone unnaturally blue under the SOCO lights. Bizarre. And something was missing.

  The phone rang. “Lieutenant Neill,” he said, absently and inaccurately.

  “Hey there, Undersheriff.”

  Word had got out. Rob grimaced. “Hi, Jeff. Did the ME have preliminary comments?”

  “Unofficial ones. Hedged around with weasel words.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Somebody used a choke hold on Drinkwater.”

  “No kidding?” Rob rubbed the skin between his eyebrows. “I don’t buy it. Fred would have struggled.”

  “Maybe he did,” Jeff said. “The body voided. There’s minor postmortem bruising, too, as if it was rearranged.”

  “Even so.”

  “Doc thinks he was probably out cold.”

  “Drunk?” That made some sense. If I’d just killed half a dozen people in the name of profit I’d head for the bottle, Rob reflected. Or a bridge to jump off.

  Jeff was giving the blood alcohol level. High but not paralytic. “He may also have been drugged. We’ll have to wait for toxicology.”

  Rob sighed. “Time of death?”

  Jeff chuckled.

  “What?” The ME was notorious for refusing to commit himself on the time of death.

  “The evening after the mudslide. Sometime.”

  That was apparently as useful as the ME was going to be, lacking the rigorous analyses the lab would conduct. Patience, Rob told himself, signing off.

  It was getting dark out. He finally left an hour later, having e-mailed everyone their reassignments and touched base with the state investigator. Then he went home to Meg. Halfway there, what was missing from the death scene photographs came to him. Nude or fully clothed, Fred Drinkwater would not have been caught dead without his cell phone. It should have been lying on the small table alongside the hypothetical second glass. Somebody had rearranged things, all right.

  Kayla drifted in and out of doped sleep. The plastic surgeons had harvested a segment of bone from the iliac crest of her pelvis the previous day. They would use it to reconstruct her cheekbone, but they thought she ought to heal a bit before they performed the first of what would be several surgeries on her face. She had wanted them to go in and get it all over with, but that wasn’t likely to happen. How long, she wondered—when she was able to wonder. Mostly she just drifted.

  The pain in her pelvis more or less balanced the pain in her cheekbone, leaving her, she thought dopily, suspended over a pit of pain. Something wrong with that image.

  Image. “Have to change my image,” she muttered.

  “No shit? What do you have in mind?”

  She blinked her good eye—her remaining eye. “Charlie.”

  “That’s me.” He was eating something. “Would you like a French fry?”

  “That stuff’ll kill you.” Her mouth watered. The surgeons didn’t want her to chew yet.

  “Naw. I’ll suffocate under a pile of student lab reports first.” He popped another fry into his mouth. “I brought your mail.”

  “Mm. Snail mail?”

  “And e-mail. I printed the e-mail up for you. Lots of good wishes. I zapped the penis enhancers and the Christian debt removers first. What the hell is Christian debt? Forgive us our trespasses?”

  “Ow. Don’t wanna laugh.”

  “Okay.” He chewed peacefully.

  That was the good thing about Charlie. One of the good things. If you didn’t want to talk, he didn’t force conversation. Her eye closed, and she sank into comforting darkness. She woke to nightmare again, drowning, reaching out.

  “Hey, Kayla.”

  “H-hold me.” It was amazing that she didn’t mind it when Charlie saw her cry. And he didn’t try to sweep her into his arms and carry her off on his white horse either—just let her grip his hand hard. The vision of Charlie as a White Knight tickled her, and she gave a watery giggle.

  “That’s better. Okay now? It’ll fade.”

  A lot you know. The resentful thought surfaced, but she was grateful.

  He looked at his watch. “I have to leave. Your mom will be here tomorrow, right?”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Sure you do. Tell her you need a new television—digital, big flat plasma screen, satellite dish.”

  That did make her laugh. Kayla never watched TV. She saw too many old people anesthetized by Jeopardy! and the soaps. The thing was, Charlie didn’t watch the tube either. Too busy with his precious rocks. “Oh God, your dissertation! Weren’t you supposed to defend it this week?”

  “Tonight.”

  It was five p.m. according to the big wall clock. She stared at him. “Are you out of your mind? Get out of here. Go read a book or recite your mantra, or whatever you do to prepare for intellectual crises. I may be a self-absorbed bitch, but I’m not that greedy for attention.”

  He stared back. His eyes were an utterly dazzling blue and never mind that they were shadowed with sleep-deprivation.

  “Go away. Now. And call me,” she said, “as soon as you know.”

  He didn’t say anything, but the smile he gave her took her mind off her misery for the next three hours. That was when he called.

  Though Meg did her best with dinner, it was a glum and mostly silent affair. Rob made a stab at helping with the dishes but wasn’t up to their usual banter. She suppressed her irritation. He had a right to gloom.

  At ten she sent him upstairs to lie flat, which he promised to do, though she could hear him talking on his cell. Maybe he was calling his daughter. That thought reminded her to call her own child. When she did, though, she found that Lucy was studying for a big examination—all her exams were big these days. Meg clicked her phone off and went to make sure the front door was locked, an urban habit she was unable to shake. She saw a light come on across the street and took the phone from her pants pocket.

  “Hey, Charlie, you’re home early.” He usually got in around eleven.

  “Oh, hi, Meg. How are you?” He sounded odd, as if he were at the bottom of a
well or floating in space.

  “Fine. How’s Kayla?” Maybe something had gone wrong with the bone harvest.

  “Uh, sore and grumpy. Uh. I think she’ll be okay.”

  “Want a cookie?” Meg had baked in anticipation of cop swarms in her kitchen. The swarms hadn’t materialized yet, but they would. Rob’s new investigation team was meeting next day.

  “Sure. I’m hungry.” He sounded surprised.

  “Come when you’re ready.”

  “With you in ten.”

  Charlie was definitely spaced, Meg decided. Probably tired— that was a long drive, especially with side trips to the hospital. She started a pot of coffee and heaped a small plate with cookies. She could hear creaking noises upstairs. Rob pacing the floor. Maybe it helped him think, but it wouldn’t improve his back.

  Oh stop fussing, she told herself and went to the kitchen to await Charlie.

  He took longer than he said he would.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She waved his apology away. “Coffee?”

  “Uh, sure. I, uh, had to call my dad.”

  She poured a mug full and went to the fridge for milk. “You look dazed. What’s the matter?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. “I guess I don’t believe it’s over. They accepted my dissertation. I don’t even have to revise it.”

  Meg gasped. “What? They made you defend it tonight? Oh, Charlie!” She gave his shoulders an impulsive hug, and the coffee on the table slopped. “That’s wonderful, in spite of the lousy timing.”

  “Hey!” Laughing, he grabbed a paper napkin and mopped. “Dad was pleased. Jealous, too. He has a master’s in education, but he always wanted to go for a science degree. Started a family too soon, I guess.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Well, it’s a little hard to tell.” He looked at Meg over the rim of his cup. “She had a stroke when I was in high school, so she doesn’t speak much, but she made rah-rah noises and hummed the Wisconsin fight song.”

  Meg was shocked. She forced a smile.

  “For some reason she’s always been able to remember tunes.” Charlie shook his head. “The brain’s a funny thing.”

  “It is,” Meg said gently, “and there’s obviously nothing wrong with yours.”

  Charlie’s ears turned red, but he grinned and saluted her with his cup. “Cheers.”

  “What am I thinking?” Meg darted to the liquor cupboard. “This calls for single malt.”

  “Scotch?” Charlie drooped, wistful. “You mean you don’t have Jameson’s?”

  “What’s the occasion?” Rob stood in the doorway wearing the white karate outfit that always reminded Meg of pajamas. “Hi, Charlie.”

  Charlie lifted his glass. “Sláinte.”

  Meg explained, watching Rob’s face. His eyebrows shot up. Then he looked blank. After a moment, he smiled. “That’s good news. Congratulations, Dr. Neill.”

  Charlie took a swallow. “It’s Dr. O’Neill, thanks.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  Rob burst into laughter. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Maybe you just adopted him,” Meg said helpfully and poured Rob a very small glass of whisky.

  THE WOMAN WHO entered Meg’s office at the library the next afternoon was the kind who always set Meg’s nerves on edge. Everything about her matched, from the crown of her exquisitely tinted hair to the soles of her spectator pumps, so retro and so right, they defined retrocity. She wore a raw silk pantsuit in a subtle shade that couldn’t be called beige, and her beautifully preserved and manicured hand—extended for a genteel handshake-bore a ring with a stone not quite as big as the Ritz.

  Meg pressed the flesh. It was warm.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. McLean.” People often made that mistake. Meg had never married. The woman’s voice fluted—a bit high, a bit girlish. “I’m Dede Marquez, Kayla’s mother.”

  “I hope Kayla’s bone graft is going well,” Meg ventured.

  “Ah, it’s early days. I consulted her surgeons, of course. It will be some weeks before they do the actual graft.” Unbidden, Mrs. Marquez sank onto the patron chair beside Meg’s desk. “I wanted to thank you in person for visiting my poor girl at the hospital. I had no idea it was so far from Klalo.”

  “Neighbors sticking together,” Meg murmured.

  Mrs. Marquez looked at her as if she had said something quaint but smiled graciously. “You took pity on my child, so I thought you might take pity on me, too. I’m staying across the river at the Columbia Gorge Hotel. Will you have dinner with me tonight? Otherwise I’m doomed to a book and room service.” A fate worse than death.

  Meg’s mind raced. She was a little tired of accommodating Rob’s non-schedule. She could leave stew in the oven and a message on his voice mail. What the hell?

  Three hours later, suitably rigged out, she drove her Accord upriver. The low, narrow span over the Columbia to Hood River made her nervous. Like the Bridge of the Gods at Cascade Locks, it was a two-lane toll bridge. None of it was elevated, fortunately, but the roadbed was a steel grate, open meshwork through which you could see the water if you were so inclined.

  The car’s tires hummed one note on the approach and a higher pitched sound where the drawbridge crossed the main channel. Though they didn’t skid, the tires felt as if they might. There was little traffic. Sullen gray beneath the grate, heavy with snowmelt, the Columbia powered its way west. The tollbooths with their metal bars blocking the exits lay on the Oregon side. Meg handed over three quarters, waited for the bar to lift, and made her way along the freeway to the small resort hotel, which was notable for its food and its view of the river.

  It was a pity she and Dede Marquez had nothing in common other than gender and a certain willingness to be pleased. In the course of the evening, Meg came to understand that Kayla’s mother had made a lucrative career of marriage, that she never read anything other than fashion rags and People magazine, and that she loved her only child without the least understanding of what made Kayla tick. At least she was trying. She wept a little about the damage to Kayla’s face, but she had faith in cosmetic surgery, so she wasn’t inconsolable.

  About halfway through the entrée, Dede dropped her fork onto her plate with a delicate clatter. “Oh, my word, it can’t be.”

  Meg craned. Cate Bjork had just entered with a casually dressed couple of about her own age, both of whom looked sullen. The man was shorter than both women.

  “I wondered where Katie wound up.”

  “Katie?”

  “Now what is her surname? She married that banker.”

  “Bjork.”

  “Goodness, do you know her?” Dede beamed at Meg as if she had just passed a social test. “Whatshisname is such a dull man, almost as dull as my ex. I married an investment banker, too. Very wealthy, very boring—the longest five years of my life. You have no idea. Katie and I suffered together. A dear, dear friend.”

  But not in touch.

  Dede rose. “Forgive me, Meg. I won’t be a minute.” And she strode across the room to the table where the maître d’ was seating the commissioner and her guests.

  Meg ate slowly and watched body language. Dede was gone more than one minute and less than ten. Meg thought she met with a cool reception. When she returned her cheeks were flushed, but she didn’t say anything negative.

  She picked up her fork and toyed with a morsel of veal fricandeau. “Just imagine. Katie tells me she’s a county commissioner now. What in the world is that?”

  Meg explained. Briefly.

  “Ah. Sounds dire.” Dede took a gulp of a wine that should have been savored. “Well, it will give her something to do with her time while she sorts out her family troubles. Apparently Lars has Alzheimer’s. He’s nearly eighty, you know. Much older than she is.”

  Meg thought that over. She hadn’t had much contact with the elderly man at Beth’s dinner.

  “Lars’s son Warren has locked horns with her before. Th
at’s Warren with his wife at Katie’s table. Lars’s children blamed her for their parents’ divorce. Kids do that.” Dede chewed and sipped, then added, with relish, “She has power of attorney, though, so my money’s on her. It was shrewd of her to move Lars north.”

  “Did she move him, or did he move her? Alzheimer’s progresses fairly slowly in the early stages.”

  Dede’s eyes narrowed. “Good question. No offence, but I have a hard time imagining Katie choosing Klalo. Seattle, yes. How long have they lived here?”

  “Five or six years,” Meg said. “She’s been active in Gorge preservation groups and environmental causes. She was elected to the Board of Commissioners in December.”

  “She was big in the Sierra Club at home.” Dede gave a girlish giggle. “Home! Listen to me. Home is Los Cabos now.” And she gave Meg a detailed picture of just how wonderful it was to live in Baja and what a lovely condo her new husband had bought for them to retire to.

  Meg listened with what she hoped was a sympathetic expression on her face and watched the commissioner quarrel with her middle-aged stepson. Or rather, since nothing about Cate Bjork betrayed either tension or hostility, Meg watched the stepson quarrel with Cate.

  Rob ate his solitary dinner around eight, tidied the dishes, and settled down at the kitchen table to brood over photocopies of Fred Drinkwater’s financial records and Linda’s report on them. Every few minutes he found he had to walk around to ease the cramps between his shoulders, so he gave up in disgust and walked to the municipal pool for a swim. Swimming was about the only form of physical exertion his doctor had not warned him against.

  He didn’t swim laps. He tested assorted muscles with three breast strokes here, one butterfly there, half a lap on his back with his legs doing most of the work. The crawl was too wrenching.

  The Olympic-sized pool, gift of a philanthropic lumber baron shortly before the last planer mill closed, boasted times set aside for family swims, youth training, senior aquatics, and so on. Nine p.m. was the hour Mack had claimed for his deputies’ fitness program, and two rookies from the uniform branch were dutifully plowing their way up and down the far lanes. Otherwise the vast expanse of water was empty of life. Cops were more likely to use a gym. Rob made a mental note to remind his people the pool existed. Then he gave himself over to wallowing, which was symbolically appropriate.

 

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