by Mary Daheim
I let the explanation pass, speaking only when the sheriff sorted through what he'd earlier identified as pull tabs from the beer cans.
“Look at those,” I urged, leaning on the edge of Milo's desk. “They aren't from aluminum cans. They're too thick. Those are from Stan's binder. Somebodywanted it destroyed so that we wouldn't have a sample of his handwriting.”
Milo swore under his breath. It seemed that he was beginning to see the light. “Then those bills at the ski lodge—they were stolen for the same reason?”
No longer on such firm ground, I grimaced. “Maybe. In a way.”
“Well?” Milo drummed his latex-covered fingers on the desk.
My smile was now pretty thin. “We'd better go up to the hot springs.”
But Milo wasn't about to take even the mildest of orders. “Oh, no! I'm not wasting two hours climbing Spark Plug! The only way I go back is in a copter, and I'm not requesting one from Chelan County again.”
In all honesty, I couldn't blame Milo. “Okay,” I said, sinking into one of the sheriff's visitor's chairs. “Then let me tell you how I think Stan Levine was shot when nobody else was there.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE ITEMS FROM the campfire had been replaced in the evidence bag. Milo had removed his surgical gloves and discarded them in the wastebasket. We both had mugs of dreadful coffee and lighted cigarettes. Obviously, the sheriff had settled in for the long haul.
“The problem is,” I began apologetically, “that I don't know much about firearms.”
Milo grunted.
“But I think I know how the murder was committed so that the killer could have an almost perfect alibi.”
Milo arched his eyebrows.
“It was the birdhouse. It was big enough to accommodate spotted owls. A handgun would fit inside. The trigger was cocked and attached to something so that when Stan went up to look inside—which would have been at about eye level for him—he tripped a wire or a cord so that it fired. That's why he was shot through the eye.” I paused, flinching at the thought. Milo simply stared at me. “I don't know exactly what caused the gun to go off, but that's why the birdhouse had to be burned along with Stan's binder and the phony party stuff that was supposed to be left by teenagers. The birdhouse would have shown traces of gunpowder or whatever. As for the gun itself, it could be anywhere along the mountainside. If a piece of cord or string was tied to the trigger, it was probably burned in the fire.”
Milo blew out a big cloud of smoke. I stopped talking, waiting for some kind of response. When it came, the sheriff's manner was matter-of-fact:
“That's pretty damned complicated. How could the killer know Stan would be the one looking in the bird-house?”
“Who else? Stan loved birds. Leonard put the house up, but he's too short to see inside. It was just a matter of time until Stan took a peek.” Again I stopped. My earnestness must have showed. Milo took a deep breath.
“It sounds crazy,” he said, but his expression showed interest. “Once a Ruger .357 Magnum's trigger is cocked, it'll fire under the slightest pressure. But the gun would have to be held in place somehow. Like a vise.” Milo's forehead creased as he concentrated on his own reconstruction of the crime. “The bolts—that's what they were for. Leonard wouldn't have needed more than a couple to anchor the birdhouse. But the vise would have to be bolted down. Now where is the damned thing? And the gun?”
I was flushed with excitement over Milo's willingness to take my theory seriously. “Would you have to be a gun expert to carry this out?” I asked.
Milo gave a snort of disgust. “Hell, no. You'd just have to ask the right questions. It'd take some time to set it up, but that wouldn't be a problem if it was done after Fannucci and Levine posted that sign at the trailhead. Leonard would be the only one likely to go up there, and you could hear him coming from a mile away.” Milo fingered the half-dozen telltale bolts. “I should have guessed these were put in at separate times. Two of them are rusty. The other four are clean.” His head jerked up and he gave me an ironic look. “Okay, maybe we know how. So who did it? Or have you figured that part out yet?”
I couldn't quite tell if there was sarcasm in Milo'svoice or not. Before I could answer, his phone rang. He gave a shrug, then picked up the receiver. His face fell almost at once.
“The hell you say …” Fumbling, he stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah … No shit… Where? … No, I don't know the area … What?… Who? … Oh, right, yes, I know who she is … Sure, we can do that … Thanks … I'll get back to you.” Milo got to his feet. “That was Santa Monica. An hour ago the California Highway Patrol pulled Blake Fannucci's body out of his Maserati. It went off SRI just south of Big Sur. I've got to tell Beverly Melville. I guess she really is his sister. I'll get back to you, Emma.”
Milo might not have known the treacherous piece of highway around Big Sur, but I did. Much of it was hairpin curves carved into cliffs high above the Pacific Ocean. “White-knuckle driving,” Ben had called it after we'd taken a trip down the coast from San Francisco to Los Angeles when Adam was about ten. It seemed to us nervous native Pacific Northwestemers that every car with California plates had passed us going at least twenty miles an hour faster. We didn't know if they were more expert or more reckless. But what we were sure of was that this was no route for the fainthearted.
I didn't try to hang onto Milo or beg to come along. Instead I went out to my Jag and followed him at a discreet distance to Icicle Creek. He was already inside the Melville house when I arrived.
A stunned-looking Scott opened the door. Beverly and the sheriff were in the living room. I could hear her strained, shocked voice, making the usual self-protecting denials of a truth too terrible to bear.
“I'm sorry, Scott,” I murmured. “I was with Sheriff Dodge when the news came in.”
“I don't get it,” Scott said, bewildered. “Was heheading north? That's the inside lane on SRI. Blake shouldn't have gone off the road unless he was forced.”
We had entered the living room. Beverly stared at us with wide, horrified eyes. Her face was ghastly pale. Then her gaze wavered for an instant before it riveted solely on Scott.
“He was forced,” she said in a choked voice. “By me. It's my fault that Blake is dead. I did it.” Her body sagged and she would have fallen if Milo hadn't been there to catch her.
Scott jumped over a stack of fabric samples. “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted. Then, realizing the enormity of his words and his wife's fragile state, he helped the sheriff settle Beverly onto the sofa. “What's happening?” he asked in a small, miserable voice.
Beverly's eyelids fluttered open. “Oh, Scott,” she moaned, reaching for his hand. “It's been so awful___
What can I say now that it's finished?”
Milo frowned at me over the Melvilles' heads. Nervously, I signaled for the sheriff to keep quiet. He made a face, but stepped back a couple of paces. Scott was smoothing the blonde hair off Beverly's forehead and offering calming words.
“Is there anything I can do?” Milo finally asked.
Scott turned slightly, then looked again at his wife. “A glass of water? Some wine?”
Beverly, however, was struggling to sit up. “No, I'm all right. Go ahead, Sheriff. Do whatever it is you have to do.”
Milo's long face showed complete confusion. “Excuse me, ma'am,” he said formally. “Are you making a confession?”
“I told you,” Beverly replied in a hollow voice, “I killed Blake.”
Milo and Scott were both looking jarred. The sheriffcleared his throat. “I see. And Stan—did you kill him, too?”
Beverly didn't seem to hear the question. She was fixated on her husband's hovering face. “There's some brandy left from our party the other night,” she said quietly. “Maybe I could have some of that.”
Scott stood up, hurrying to wherever the Melvilles kept the liquor. My nerves were ragged. I couldn't hold my tongue another second:
“Beverly
,” I said in a harsh, overloud voice, “you didn't really kill your brother. You called to warn him, and he was scared. I don't know how or why his car went off SRI. But I do know that he murdered Stan Levine.”
We were all drinking brandy, including the sheriff. After the first few sips, Beverly opened up. Yes, she had guessed from the beginning that Blake had somehow shot Stan. A rented helicopter, she'd figured at first. It would have suited her brother's imagination and flair. But the how wasn't as important to her as the why. There had been hints, innuendos, veiled fears from Blake that the partnership with Stan was coming to an end.
“I wasn't convinced until Monday morning when I met Skye Piersall for coffee in Startup,” Beverly said, her color now partially restored. “Skye confided that although she and Stan hadn't seen much of each other lately in person, they'd been talking a lot on the phone. They'd decided to get married. Stan had been begging her to marry him for years, but she refused, because of the business he was in. She simply couldn't live with a developer and her conscience under the same roof—or so she put it.”
As Beverly paused for breath, I nodded. “Stan's forged journal was full of enthusiasm for the spa project.If he'd actually kept a journal, it probably would have shown that he was saddled with doubts.”
“Exactly,” Beverly agreed. “Skye said that basically Stan was a builder. He wanted to make things for other people, to improve their lives. That's why he joined the Peace Corps. I saw that side of him, so did Scott. He was a visionary, and his projects with Blake fulfilled a need. But according to Skye, his heart was no longer in it. He was ready to walk away.”
Over his brandy snifter, Milo was clearly puzzled. “So Blake killed him because he didn't want to break up the partnership? That doesn't make any sense.”
“I think that was only a small part of it,” I put in. “Blake was angry with Stan for what he considered a betrayal. They'd been together in VineFan for over twenty years. It was like a marriage. But to carry the analogy further, Blake was cheating on the side.” I turned to Beverly. “This is a guess, but did Stan know you were Blake's sister?”
Beverly laughed, a painful, mirthless sound. “No. As close as the business partnership was, Blake and Stan rarely socialized. The first time I met Stan was about six years ago, when Scott started working for them. Blake introduced me as his ex-wife. I thought it was a joke. But he told me later not to let on to Stan that I was his sister. I could never figure out why, but then Blake was always doing inexplicable things. When we were children, I had to pretend to his friends that I was the next-door-neighbor kid. Fooling people was just part of being … Blake.”
I shook my head. “Not in this case. It was part of a scam. I think Blake milked VineFan's accounts for his own purposes. He probably told Stan he had big alimony payments to make. Neither the corporation nor Stan had anywhere near the money they should have had.” I glanced at Milo for confirmation.
“Right,” the sheriff replied, somewhat reluctantly. “Now that Blake's dead”—Milo bowed his head, apparently in respect of Beverly's feelings—”we can check into his personal accounts. Maybe we'll find quite a chunk stashed away.”
I gave Milo a smile of approval. “Stan wouldn't go on forever believing that VineFan's profits were being eaten up by an ex-wife. Coming to Alpine was risky with you two here.” I nodded at both Melvilles. “I suspect it was Stan's idea, not Blake's. Everything was falling apart for Blake. His sister was on the scene, so was Skye Piersall, and Stan was about to end the partnership. For all I know, if Stan had insurance, one of his beneficiaries was Blake. Business partners often do that, as a hedge. Blake saw a chance to cut loose, to take his money and run.”
Beverly hung her head. “He did mention Switzerland recently. I thought he was joking. He often did.”
Scott set his empty brandy glass down with an indignant gesture. “It was those houses in Northridge. Part of it, anyway. Blake hired the contractors. They had a questionable reputation. There are at least three big lawsuits pending right now. I'm named in two of them, but I'll be damned if they'll find fault with my designs. The homes would have been completely safe if the builders hadn't used cut-rate materials and squirmed around the local codes.”
Beverly put a hand on her husband's knee. “I know. It's made me crazy, thinking that my brother dragged you into all that. I doubt that Stan knew what went on with that project.”
“Jeez.” Shaking his head, Milo stood up in his less than graceful manner. I rose from the footstool where I'd been sitting and hurried to his side. To my surprise, the sheriff took my arm. “We'll be heading out now,folks. Again, I'm sorry. Is there anything else I should know? If not, we'll be in touch.”
The Melvilles couldn't think of anything. They both still seemed rather dazed. Milo and I left them to mourn and mull and meditate on their losses.
Out in the street, Milo kept me in tow. “Come on,” he said, loping along. “I'm three doors down. Let's have a serious drink.”
As usual, Milo's living room looked as if he hadn't done any cleaning in weeks. The newspapers stacked next to the couch bore dates from late May. The beer cans and TV dinner packages were probably more recent, but less appealing aesthetically. I pushed aside several issues of Sports Illustrated and fishing magazines to make room on the couch. Milo settled into his favorite recliner, a patched navy number that creaked under his weight.
It wasn't yet noon, but the bourbon didn't seem like a violation of my code never to drink before lunch. I'd earned it, though the moment felt more like a wake than a celebration.
“Birds,” Milo said, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. “You put this all together because of birdsT
“And Roger,” I said, giving Milo my blandest look. “His stupid stunt with the bucket gave me the idea about the rigged-up gun. The birds were always there, flitting around in the back of my mind. I knew something didn't fit—it was the bluebird. A non-birdwatcher would make that kind of mistake. Stan never would.
“There was the birdhouse, too,” I went on. “That actually was the kind of thing that drunken teenagers might do. They can be cruel at that age, especially kids whose parents have been put out of work because of the spotted owl. But once we figured out that the murdersite had been trashed by someone else, it didn't make sense. Unless, of course, there was a reason to burn the birdhouse.”
Milo held up a hand. “Hold it—did Blake go up there Monday night with all that trash from the lodge and march around in those extra pairs of shoes? Is that why he reported somebody trying to break in?”
I nodded. “Blake had to embellish everything. Maybe he thought that if he was seen sneaking around the lodge, somebody might get suspicious. If he reported a prowler, then there was someone else to blame. For all I know, he went in and out of his own window.”
“Speaking of the ski lodge,” Milo interjected, making room for his glass on the overcrowded table next to his chair, “what about those bills? Who pulled them?”
“It had to be Beverly. I'm sure she'll admit it now. She went to see Blake last Sunday night. Heather saw her, but didn't recognize her. The Melvilles haven't been in Alpine that long. Then Chaz was on duty Thursday night, and Beverly showed up again. The fire alarm went off—probably Beverly's doing, too—which took Chaz away from the front desk. I imagine Beverly wanted those bills to prove to herself that her brother couldn't have killed Stan. Or else at that point she knew he had and was trying to help him.”
Milo snorted. “Some help! The bills gave Blake his alibi.”
“That wasn't the point. Blake wanted the bills destroyed because he'd signed some of them, like the one for grapefruit juice. Blake had to sign for it to secure his alibi. But I remember now that he also signed for our lunch the previous week. He didn't want his handwriting compared with the journal. Nor did he want anyone to see Stan's, for the same reason. Meanwhile, he was giving out a tall tale about not being able to write because he'd injured his thumb. Blake wanted toleave as few samples as possible of h
is own penmanship, as well as Stan's. The forged journal was supposed to create the illusion that Stan was completely thrilled over the spa project. That was vital in hiding Blake's motive. It's not that hard to copy somebody else's signature, but writing several original paragraphs requires a master forger. Blake was a lot of things, but not that.”
Sipping at his Scotch, Milo ruminated. “What put the wind up Blake when Beverly called, I wonder?”
My answer didn't come readily. “Her certainty, maybe. She might Have begged Blake to turn himself in. She may have threatened to talk to you. Beverly's an honest person, unlike her brother. She's been a mess ever since Stan was killed. I doubt that she could have lived with the knowledge for very long.”
Milo stretched and yawned. “I wonder if Blake went off the road on purpose. Maybe we'll never know. I'd better check back in with the California Highway Patrol. And Santa Monica and my own people.” He slumped a bit in the recliner, his expression sheepish. “Hell, Emma, what do I say to them?”
“That you heard if from a birdbrain?” The flippancy didn't sit well with the sheriff. “Okay,” I went on, somewhat irked. 'Tell them whatever you want. The evidence is all circumstantial and the killer is dead. Just close the case so that everybody in Alpine can stop suspecting everybody else.”
Milo's hazel eyes threw me a challenge. “And how can I do that without going to the local press?”
I was dumbfounded, not so much by Milo but by my own obtuseness. In the past two hours since I'd unraveled the mystery of Stan's death, I hadn't consciously thought of the solution as a hot story for The Advocate. Where was my nose for news? What had happened to my priorities? Why had I bothered, if not to break out the big black headlines?
There was Stan, of course, an intelligent, decent man whose idealism had contributed to his murder. There was Truth and there was Justice and there was plain old-fashioned curiosity. But most of all there was Milo, who had pigheadedly refused to veer off the beaten path. Or trail, in this case. I hadn't wanted to see him self-destruct.