by Linda Welch
“Should be able to.”
Should I warn her about the cops? No. Not right now, anyway, it might make her self-conscious. “Stroll along as if you’re out for a walk, but keep your head down.”
“So I’m anonymous. Right.”
“What about me?” Jack piped up.
“Stay with Maggie. Whether the family initially go to their home or someplace else, they’ll eventually end up at their house and we’ll need her to pick up me and Mel when we come out, so she follows in her car till we get there. I don’t think she should park right outside, so maybe up the road a ways, and as she can’t see us from a distance but you can, you need to tell her when to come get us.”
“Got it.”
“Maggie, I reckon we’ll be in there at least a couple of hours. Unless someone is conveniently walking in your direction, you’re going to have to drive past the house and think of a reason to stop the car next to us and get out so we can grab you.”
She toothed her lower lip before saying, “I can do it.”
She pulled her hood down over her forehead and took us across the cemetery diagonally until we reached the path cutting in front of the church. She went at a swift pace, shoulders hunched, neck bent, as if braced against the cold air. Right past the church without hesitation.
Mel and I watched her and Jack exit the cemetery and walk east, until they went out of sight. It seemed Maggie didn’t want to walk through the grounds and meet Misty again so was going around instead.
I looked closer at the woman whose aura I clutched as we went onward to the burial site. She seemed drained, subdued, operating on an automatic level. The other mourners were quiet. The priest said a few words to send Ethan on his way and a phantom pain ached in my chest when Anne took a small plastic Buzz Lightyear action figure from her coat pocket and laid it on the casket. A keepsake, saved all these years because Ethan loved it as a boy.
Anne, her daughter and a middle-aged man stayed after everyone else left. The guy must be related; he and Anne shared the same blue eyes and square chin, the blunt nose and fair hair. They watched the casket lower into the ground. The man’s fingers wrapped Anne’s upper arm and he led her away. Susan followed with her eyes on the gravel path.
The mourners waited in the parking lot and drove in a procession behind Anne’s car.
“I’m so tired, Gordon,” Anne murmured.
Gordon Shepherd, Anne’s brother.
“I know, sweetheart. You can rest soon.”
Where was Avery and why didn’t anyone comment on his absence?
Ivy Grove Estate surrounds the Snake River Golf Course in South Clarion. It’s a ritzy neighborhood where every home stands on half an acre. Houses are in a variety of styles from Pueblo to European chalet to Tudor and a dozen more, and all are huge with manicured grounds, swimming pools and tennis courts.
“No!” I moaned as I spotted a white van parked at the curb on the boundary of two properties. I focused my gaze as we passed it and turned along the drive belonging to a big white Greek Revival style house. Were I not mistaken, a cop or two watched the Magnusen home from the van. I anxiously watched for Maggie’s car as we parked in front of the house.
She drove past and kept going when the road curved at the crest of the hill. As Anne got out of the car, Mel and I with her, the Mini’s hood poked into view facing us as Maggie parked. I sagged on Anne with relief. The way the road angled, Maggie and Jack could see the Magnusen house but the cops couldn’t see Maggie. I doubted Maggie knew the police watched the house from the white van, parking in the right spot was a coincidence.
The Magnusen home looked impressive, with pedimented gable, heavy cornice, decorative pilasters and an entry porch with columns. Cars lined the circular driveway, and a couple in the street, but it was a small group for an after-funeral gathering, perhaps fifteen people.
Mel looked up as we entered the foyer. “Oh, I like this.”
With burnished maple floors, carved moldings and big fireplaces in the east and west reception rooms either side of the foyer, the interior exuded rich, homey warmth. Anne and her daughter stood at the open door as everyone else trooped inside. The daughter took control of outerwear, piling it in two high-backed chairs either side of the front door. Anne removed her coat and hung it in a closet. She didn’t speak to the guests, only smiled weakly and nodded when they said a few words.
“Okay, Mel, time to mingle. If we can mingle.”
“Off we go.” Mel released Anne’s aura and took a hesitant step. And another.
We were okay. I let go of Anne and moved away. When Anne went left of the staircase in the foyer and through the reception room, I followed her to a dining-room adjacent to a big kitchen. The guests headed for dishes of finger foods and hot casseroles on the dining table while Anne brought jugs of fruit juice from the fridge and started a coffee maker.
“Where’s Jasper?” a teen girl asked Susan.
Susan’s eyes flooded with tears and her lower lip quivered. “He ran off.”
“No!” from her friend. “Did you call animal services and put an ad in the paper?”
Susan wiped her eyes with her fingers. She kept her gaze on her knees. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay here.”
She fled the room. Her girlfriend shrugged and crossed the room to join another teenage girl.
Poor Susan. She lost a pet.
Though I kept my ears open, I didn’t hear anything interesting. Indeed, the guests said hardly a word. They proffered their condolences to Anne and nibbled the food. Three left after ten minutes.
Either everyone was incredibly depressed or something made them hesitate to talk.
I did catch Avery’s name said in a low voice but didn’t zero in on who spoke.
I decided to look through the home and found four bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. Susan lay on her belly on the bed with earbuds plugged in, listening to an MP3 player, her expression blank. Her laptop sat open on the bed. I lingered for a few minutes, hoping she’d check her Facebook page or whichever social network kids her age inhabited, thinking I might learn something from their chatter. But she was deep into her music, or her thoughts.
I came downstairs and rejoined the gathering which had shrunk to seven people. Two more guests bid Anne farewell and the remaining five got to their feet and told her they should be going. Anne looked at them from where she sat with her brother on a loveseat. Her reddened eyes slightly unfocused, she smiled and thanked them for coming.
Alone with Gordon, Anne sniffled and said, “Not much of a turnout for Ethan.”
Gordon hugged her with one arm. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“I expected more of his friends.”
“I imagine their parents talked them out of it.”
“They think Avery shot that woman.”
My ears perked. “Whoa!”
“She means you!” from Mel.
“Did he, Anne?” Gordon asked.
“I . . . I think so. Why else did he run away?”
“Where is he?”
Anne shook her head as if to dispel unwelcome thoughts. “Please, Gordon. I’ve been through it with the police, the neighbors, reporters badgering me. Now you? I have no idea where Avery is.”
She lowered her face to her hands and burst into tears. Gordon’s arm tightened on her shoulders as she sobbed.
“He was alone, Gordon. All alone in that horrible place. Where did he get the knife?”
“The boy? Did he kill himself in the jail?” Mel asked.
“From another inmate, I expect,” Gordon looked past Anne’s head with stony eyes. “I hear you can buy just about anything in there.”
“But what happened? What did he experience that was so awful he took his life?”
Unless the prison authorities knew and released information to the press, we’d probably never know what drove Ethan to commit suicide. Despite what he and Jamie did, I felt sorry for him.
Was it suicide, or did another inm
ate off him? I have heard jail time is worse than prison. Throw a kid in with repeat offenders who have more control of the environment than the guards do, anything can happen and does.
Chapter Nine
A rattling noise from the front of the house made Ann and Gordon look up. Anne sprang to her feet and Gordon’s arm fell away. Her response to the noise troubled him.
“It’s the mail,” she explained.
Which didn’t account for why a mail delivery made her rush to the front door. Gordon heaved up from the loveseat.
“No, I’ll get it.” Anne flung her hand at Gordon.
Clearly puzzled, he sank back.
Mel and I stuck on Anne’s tail. She swept a pile of mail off the floor and sorted through it. Most of it went on a small table but Anne held on to three magazines.
“I won’t be a moment,” she called to Gordon as she made for the staircase.
Mel and I swapped what the hell? looks and skimmed after her.
“Did you see what they are?” I asked Mel.
“One of them: Wilderness Way.”
“Wilderness Way? It’s a survivalist magazine.”
Anne trotted downstairs to the basement. Mel and I sailed behind her. The stairs ended in a large den with a passageway and several doors leading from it. Everything a den should be, with a pool table, bar, refrigerator, big screen television and comfortable armchairs. An open fire blazing behind a fire screen sent ambient light over polished oak. A big window provided a panoramic view of the mountains.
Anne went to the fireplace, shifted the screen away and threw the magazines on the flames. Wringing her hands, she stood and watched them catch alight.
“American Survival Guide, Survivalist and Wilderness Way,” I murmured as the magazines smoldered. Why burn them in a hurry? Why burn them at all?
She didn’t she want Gordon to see them.
“Tiff, look.” Mel stood near the bar and gazed at the wall.
I joined her and squinted at the framed certificates proudly displayed in neat rows, gilt-edged awards for marksmanship with rifle and pistol.
“That’s where I heard Avery’s name! He’s Clarion’s reigning Dead Eye Dick. He’s held the Clarion Annual Fair marksmanship title against all comers these past seven years.”
“Oh my god! His son died in jail and you put him there. So he tried to kill you.”
“How did Avery learn I investigated the case?” Although I owned something of a rep in the private sector, I performed the work I did for law enforcement strictly under the radar. I spoke to the victims, fingered the killer, and Mike knew where to look for evidence. When he could justify bringing them in for questioning, it was in the bag. The number of perps Mike Warren couldn’t break can be counted on one hand.
No wonder this family interested Clarion PD. The son commits suicide while in jail and the woman who put him there is shot. The father, who happens to be a marksman, disappears at the time of the shooting. And even his wife thinks he did it.
But what about those magazines? I shot to the fireplace and looked at them. Shiny paper doesn’t burn well and they still smoldered, the edges black and curling. I doubted the flames could burn me so bent in as close as possible. “I wonder if Avery has subscriptions. Is he a survivalist or a wannabe?”
“Nothing upstairs makes me think this is a survivalist’s home. I’ll check down here.” Mel zipped across the basement and through the dividing wall.
If Avery was a survivalist, surely his family and neighbors knew, so why destroy the magazines?
“Nothing,” Mel said. “No stores, no nothing.”
I cupped my chin in one hand. “Hm. Survivalists believe in preparing for a disaster, in the ability to provide for and defend their families, and live off the land if necessary. And a minority are paranoid about the whole thing. They keep it to themselves because when the great disaster hits, they don’t want to share supplies or fight those who try to take it away from them. Perhaps Avery is one of those. His wife knows, probably his daughter, but nobody else.”
And she didn’t want it to get out so she burned the magazines.
“Ahem,” from Mel.
I turned to see her standing against the wall, hands clasped behind her back, looking pleased with herself. “Don’t survivalists have fortified hideouts in the mountains?”
“Not necessarily fortified, though I saw television shows about compounds where folk live year round. Many of them are in mountainous areas, some in the desert.”
Mel’s eyebrows twitched and she jogged her head a little. I stared—would I ever get used to seeing her face in motion?
“Ahem,” she said again, bouncing her head to one side more energetically.
I crossed the space and stared at the framed photos on the wall and my mouth came open. “Well, I’ll be darned.”
One photo showed the entire family posed on the porch of an A-Frame cabin. The picture was snapped in summer; they wore T-shirts and shorts as they smiled for the camera. The other photo showed a winter scene of the cabin taken from a distance. Snow off the steeply pitched roof piled around the cabin and icicles dripped from the eaves. Blue spruce and leafless scrub oak massed behind and on the left, through a break in snow-dusted pine, a black line supported by upright posts skimmed a bare white slope.
“I think. . . .” I concentrated on the photo. “I know that place. See on the slope, Mel? It’s a ski lift on Nordic Meadow Resort’s east face.”
“The ski resort!” Mel said gleefully. “It’s been there forever. Skiing in winter and the golf course in summer.”
“You’ve been there?”
“No, silly.” Mel flapped one hand at me. “I saw their ads in the newspaper.”
She squinted to look at the photos. “But the cops must know about the place.”
“Yep,” I agreed.
I closed my eyes and concentrated, glad that although physically challenged, my brain still worked.
After a minute I opened my eyes. “Anne burned the magazines because she doesn’t want anyone to know Avery is a survivalist. Presumably, that includes the police. But they’ll know about the cabin and have checked it out. If it’s Avery’s base and the cops have seen it, there’s nothing to hide. Why burn the magazines?”
“The cabin isn’t Avery’s hideout. Anne doesn’t want anyone to suspect they have another one.”
“Right.” I grinned at Mel.
Then she made a face. “But where does it leave us?”
Dejected, I drooped. “Nowhere.”
“Anne, are you coming up?” Gordon called from upstairs.
Anne jumped. Grabbing a poker from beside the fireplace, she prodded what remained of the magazines deeper into the fire and tried to move a few logs over them. “Coming,” she called with a final vicious jab.
We followed her up the staircase at a slower pace. Our investigation had hit a wall and I didn’t know where to turn next. Should I ask Maggie to take me to Avery’s cabin? I presumed Clarion PD already tore the place apart.
My forehead creased; I could look at the cabin with a ghost’s eyes, poking into every inch, tiny places where something interesting might be hidden. The police are good at this stuff, but I’d found clues they missed before now.
Yep, I know, clutching at straws.
Upstairs, I told Mel, “I’m going to ask Maggie to take me to the cabin but I think it’s important one of us sticks with Anne. Perhaps Avery will call her. Can you stay and shadow her?”
“Me?” She frowned. “Can’t Jack do it?”
“Jack is going to Clarion PD. I think we also need someone there. Of course, if you’d rather be at the PD, fine with me.”
“It was so boring last time.” A slow smile widened her mouth. “Jack can do boring. I’ll stick with Anne.”
“Atta girl.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“I no way came near calling you a dog!”
“It’s what you say to Mac: atta boy.”
I gave her my back. �
��For crying out loud, Mel.”
She grumbled away behind me. I waited her out.
“How are you going to get outside?” she finally asked.
“I hope Gordon leaves soon.”
But Susan left before Gordon. The girl trotted down the stairs and called out, “I’m going to Nina’s, Mom.”
Anne came into the foyer with Gordon trailing her. Warmth flushed her cheeks as she smiled fondly at her daughter. “Don’t stay out too late, honey.”
Gordon made a sound in his throat. “Don’t you think you should stay with your mother, today of all days?”
Susan scowled and Anne spoke quickly. “It’s all right, Gordon. Susan is coping in her own way. I understand.”
Susan flashed a grateful smile and opened the front door. I made a wild grab and caught her aura.
“I’ll be back for you, Mel,” I had time to say as Susan whisked me through the door.
I released her when we reached the sidewalk. Susan plugged in her earbuds and walked south.
I looked up the hill at the Mini. And waited. And waited. I doubted Jack saw me clearly but I waved anyway. After half a minute longer, the Mini crept down.
It accelerated as it neared the house. When it came level with me, a small notebook flew through the open window. Maggie braked, exited the car in a rush and left the engine running while she trotted along to retrieve the notebook from the neighbor’s front yard. She brushed snow off it as she came back to me.
I snagged her and we got in the Mini.
“Where’s Mel?” Jack asked.
“What took you so long?” I asked Maggie, and added, “You and Jack were arguing.”
Maggie put the car in gear and we pulled away from the sidewalk. Her voice brimmed with sarcasm. “How did you guess?”
“Easy.”
“He told me you were here but wanted to wait till Mel came out. I decided not to when he said you were waving.”