Double Shot

by Diane Mott Davidson

  At the light on Main Street—there was only one, so locals just referred to it as “the light”—Tom eased the sedan to a stop. I turned to him.

  “What did you say, Tom?”

  “Goose chase. Eat outside. Deck. All of the above.”

  “Be serious for a second. Something about the pearly moon.”

  The light turned green; Tom accelerated. “All right then. How’s ghostly moon?”

  I was reaching for a memory. I’d seen something. Something as luminous as a ghost. Something that hadn’t belonged where I’d seen it.

  “The Vikarioses don’t live far from John Richard’s rental. Could you just swing by there?” I begged. “I think I dropped something. In the street, not at the house.”

  Tom shook his head. “It’s a good thing I’m crazy about you, Miss G. Then again, maybe I’m just plain crazy.”

  The moonlight cast a pale light over the granite-and-moss rock pillars flanking the entryway to the country-club area. We passed a few cars—luckily, all the gapers had left their decks—and within moments were crunching over the gravel washout on Stoneberry. The evergreens, aspens, and Alpine roses ringing the cul-de-sac shrouded the pavement in darkness. When we stopped in front of the rental, Tom drew out a Maglite from the floor of the backseat. He held it in his lap for a moment, as if unsure if he should give it to me.

  “What did you drop?” he wanted to know.

  “A piece of jewelry. Several pieces of jewelry. They’ll just take a sec to find, if they’re still there.”

  “You don’t wear jewelry, Miss G.”

  “Are you going to give me the light or not?”

  When I slid out of the front seat, I snapped on the Maglite and tried to remember exactly where I’d seen what Tom is always telling his investigators to look for: something out of place. The smoke seemed to have dissipated, thank God, and the mountain breeze was sweet as sugar. Alpine roses by the curb bobbed to and fro. I trod gingerly over the asphalt and lustrous flood of gravel, sweeping the Mag as I went.

  And then I saw them: a spill of pearls glowing in the moonlight, among a fall of creamy rose petals. I directed the flashlight’s pool of light to where the wash of tiny, uneven stones had deposited the oyster’s perfect nuggets. I reached down and picked them up, one by one. When they were securely in my pocket, I turned off the flashlight and returned to the sedan.

  Maybe they were nothing. Maybe they were something. Should I bother Blackridge and Reilly again?

  If the pearls were significant, there was a logical explanation as to why the crime-scene investigators hadn’t found them. Everything—grass, trees, pavement—had been coated with dust when I’d discovered John Richard on Tuesday. The pearls would have been easy to miss. But that night the hailstorm had bathed away the dust. Gravity and a stream of dirt had swept the pearls out of John Richard’s yard and into the street, where anyone looking could have found them.

  19

  So they’re not yours,” Tom said. “What good will a handful of pearls do you? Scratch that. What good will pearls do the investigation?”

  “It depends on what kind of pearls they are. Pearls from the Persian Gulf aren’t cultured. Cultured pearls, which are the great majority of the pearls sold in this country, usually come from Japan.”

  “And you’re going to tell me how you know this, right?”

  I gave him a sheepish smile. “I grew up as a middle-class girl in New Jersey, and then went to a girls’ boarding school. You don’t think I know from pearls? On the way home, we can drop some of them at Front Range Jewelry, leave the owner a note.”

  “Humor me. Your theory is that if Courtney’s the killer, they would be…what?”

  “Cultured. But if we’re looking at, say, Ginger Vikarios, it could be something else together. Holly Kerr and Ginger Vikarios are inseparable, now that they’ve reconciled. Ginger Vikarios’s life was ruined by her daughter having a child out of wedlock. And if my theory, and Ted’s theory, is that the Vikarioses just discovered that the Jerk impregnated their daughter, then that certainly would be a motive for murdering him.”

  “So…how do the pearls fit in?”

  I sighed. “If the pearls are from the Persian Gulf, then Holly could have given them to Ginger! Holly has more pearls in her house than Tiffany’s.”

  Tom chuckled and started the car. “Thin, Goldy. Wafer thin.”

  “I don’t know from wafers.”

  “Clearly. But you’re going to have to tell the detectives investigating the case about finding the pearls. You might not want to share these theories, though.”

  “You can tell Boyd tomorrow. I don’t want the cops to know I was here. Now can we please make our other stop?”

  He grunted assent and pulled out his spiral notebook. He looked up the address he’d jotted down and eased the sedan around the Stoneberry dead end. It was a good thing, too, because lights had begun to wink on in the houses rimming the cul-de-sac. Several faces appeared at windows.

  I certainly didn’t blame the Stoneberry residents for being nervous. Their neighbor had been murdered and his house had been vandalized. I just didn’t want these folks to call the sheriff’s department to come out and check on a car belonging to an investigator from…the sheriff’s department.

  When we had wound down one street and then another—the concept of blocks was foreign to Aspen Meadow—Tom drew to a stop under a streetlight. The wind rustled the aspens close by as Tom peered up at the sign for Club Drive. When he turned right, the smell of fire smoke drifted into the car. I exhaled, suddenly thankful that Boyd was staying with Arch.

  The country-club condominiums had been built along an embankment that sloped down from Club Drive. Facing east, the condos could not boast the coveted view of the mountains, but some of them overlooked the golf course, and their clever design as multi-storied duplexes gave them the look of large, mountain-style houses. Like the clubhouse itself, their beige exteriors—no change of color allowed—and cedar-shake-shingle roofs screamed Upscale Mountain-Resort Holiday Inn, but for retirees who wanted proximity to the clubhouse, they were perfect.

  When Tom slowed to read mailbox numbers, I wondered how, exactly, the rift between the Vikarioses and the Kerrs, not to mention between the Vikarios parents and their daughter, Talitha, had been healed. Had Ginger written an angry letter to Holly, Your husband impregnated our daughter out of wedlock, and now we’re ruined? Or had Ginger been so dumbfounded by Talitha’s claim that she’d been embarrassed even to ask Holly if it could be true? Holly must have heard the story from someone. Knowing that Albert couldn’t have fathered Talitha’s child, Holly’s forgiveness and generosity toward her old friends—a club condo alone cost half a mil—didn’t look like a payoff at all, no matter what Nan Watkins said. It looked like true charity—all the more so because it wasn’t widely known.

  Tom pulled up to a dark driveway, turned off the lights, and cut the motor. My palms were damp. Tom lifted the binocs and focused. Then he moved them slowly until he stopped and refocused. He waited for what seemed like a very long time, but probably wasn’t more than five minutes.

  “Bingo.”

  “What?” I demanded. “Show me!”

  He pointed to the northernmost of a set of three duplexes, then handed me the binoculars. “Condo on the left of the far one. Lower level. Looks like a family room. Shades are up, windows open, TV on.”

  As I’d learned on an ill-fated birding expedition, I wasn’t too adept with binoculars. Still, after a few minutes I was able to make out Ginger, clad in a dark top and pants, sitting in a rocking chair. Ted was perched on a couch directly across from a brightly lit color television. On a coffee table in front of him, I could just make out…three glasses? My fingers began to hurt. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

  “I’m not seeing,” I said. “Oh God.”

  Just then, a young teenager—maybe fourteen—strode into the room. He was holding what looked like a bowl of popcorn. Ted and Ginger both said some
thing to him, and the teenager laughed. He had toast-brown hair, glasses, and a thin face.

  He was the boy I’d seen in town, of course. Once I’d seen him beside a herd of elk and the other time in front of Town Taffy. He looked just like Arch.

  “That threesome doesn’t look as if they harbor murder in their hearts,” Tom observed. “Wouldn’t you say? Pearls or no pearls? Victim’s hair clipped or not? Of course, I’ve been fooled by criminals before. But if one of them was a killer, you’d think they’d at least close the shades.”

  I put down the binoculars. “Then why is Ted following Arch?”

  “Because his daughter’s dead and he wants to know the piece of her history that’s missing? Because he wants to fill in a piece of his grandson’s history? Had enough?”

  “So what’s your theory on John Richard’s murder?”

  Tom tapped the dashboard. “I don’t have one yet. We’re missing something. Or some things. We don’t have too few clues. We’ve got too damn many.”

  “Right.” Suddenly, I felt dejected. As Tom turned on the car and reversed onto the shoulder, I asked, “So, now what? Do you think Reilly and Blackridge will want to talk to the Vikarioses?”

  “Yeah, I do. Another job we can foist off on Boyd. He’s going to be thrilled. So are Blackridge and Reilly. And if this gets out, it’s going to be a mess, even if the Mountain Journal doesn’t have a gossip columnist anymore. I can see the headline now: ‘Who Killed Love Child’s Father?’ ”

  “Oh my God.” My thoughts flew to Arch. How would he handle such a thing? The answer was that he wouldn’t. Nor would Talitha’s son. “Is there any way to investigate this secretly? There’s got to be.”

  Tom took a deep breath. “I’ll tell Boyd to tell the detectives what our suspicions are, but to keep it extra quiet. How’s that?”

  I didn’t feel very reassured. Somehow I’d become mixed into this stew of folks with their secrets, their pain, and their rage, and I felt as if I was sinking. Or maybe that was my exhaustion. The day had been long, too long, and I was desperate for food and bed. Tom drove me to the jewelry store and handed me a paper evidence bag from his kit in the trunk. I wrote the jewelry-store owner a note, put it, along with the pearls, into the bag, and shoved the whole thing through his mail slot. I couldn’t wait to get home.

  But unwelcome news awaited us there. Arch was ensconced in the living room watching a TV show, but Boyd lowered his voice anyway. The medical examiner had completed his preliminary report, Boyd told us. It looked as if Cecelia Brisbane had been strangled.

  The next morning, Friday, the tenth of June, dawned with a disconcerting gray haze hanging in the air. The smell of smoke was so strong that I made sure all the windows were closed. I even plugged in some fans to keep the air circulating. Like most mountain homes, we had no air-conditioning, which was probably just as well. The prospect of chilled, smoky air did not thrill me.

  Scout and Jake went out with reluctance. They both seemed nervous, sniffing the air and darting tentatively around the backyard. After a few moments, both were pawing to come back in. Don’t tell me animals are unaware of approaching fire.

  And it was drawing near. What I’d thought was my own voice, wailing in my dreams as I confronted a dead ex-husband over and over, was actually sirens. According to the TV news, the fire in the westernmost, remotest section of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve had bloomed overnight from eleven hundred acres to two thousand. The fire was spreading faster than they could contain it. Aspen Meadow firefighters had called on Denver departments to send up volunteers. Worst of all, a pair of hikers was missing.

  When I ventured outside to retrieve Jake’s water dish, I was greeted by a loud roar from overhead. It was a huge cargo plane, bearing its load of orange fire retardant toward the thick evergreen forests of the preserve. I shuddered.

  Blackridge and Reilly were due to pick up Arch at half-past eight, to go to the bank in Spruce and check out the contents of the safety-deposit box. The only thing I had to look forward to was the memorial service for John Richard, which was set to start at one o’clock. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.

  I took a deep breath but only smelled more smoke. I glanced around the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself. The Furman County Sheriff’s Department’s new emergency reverse-calling mechanism had been widely touted as a foolproof mode of alerting residents to the need for evacuation. Our phones would ring if we were in danger, and we’d be given an hour to pack up our stuff and get out. How much of your life could you pack up in an hour? Your loved ones, your animals, maybe a few photographs. That was it.

  The phone rang as I was making my usual double-shot espresso. The demitasse cup I’d been holding slipped away and shattered to smithereens. This was emphatically not because I’d had too much caffeine—in fact, I hadn’t had any yet. I grabbed the phone, sure it was a recorded message telling us to get out.

  “Goldy Schulz here,” I said, my voice shaky.

  “I know you’re not using caller ID if you’re answering like that,” Marla said.

  “You’re up early, girlfriend. I thought you were the sheriff’s department, telling me to round up our crew and get out.”

  “Listen up. I have two problems. One is that the smoky air makes it impossible for me to sleep. The other is that the Jerk’s service is today. Remember you asked me to invite Sandee to come with us? Well, I did.”

  “I know. She called me.”

  “Well, anyway, I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  I smiled. “Come on over.”

  “Are you making something yummy?”

  “This instant, I am starting to prepare whatever you would like.”

  “Good. Because I never got a chance to taste what I’m looking at in the Mountain Journal.”

  My heart plummeted. I didn’t remember submitting a recipe to the Journal, and anyway, this wasn’t the day for their food page. “What is it?”

  “Why it’s you, naughty girlfriend, plastering a strawberry-cream pie onto the face of Roger Mannis, the district health inspector.” I groaned. “You at least could have whacked him with lima bean soup or raw scallops. Why ruin a yummy pie?”

  “I lost my head. Just come over, will you?”

  She giggled and hung up.

  Once I’d made myself a new espresso, I reached for butter-flavored shortening to try a new variation on my crust recipe. I was trying my pie again, but this time in a deep dish so we wouldn’t have another eruption of Mount Saint Strawberry.

  Half an hour later, I had placed the new pie on a cookie sheet and was just sliding it into the oven when the doorbell rang. Oh good, Marla. But it wasn’t my friend. Reilly and Blackridge stood on our porch wearing wraparound sunglasses and dark suits. They looked like the Blues Brothers. Was their attire a joke? Knowing them, it wasn’t.

  My discomfort showed in my stiff voice as I invited the detectives into the living room. But they were acting very polite, even deferential. I wondered how they felt about the progress of the investigation. I was curious to know how the questioning of Courtney MacEwan had gone. And I was very curious to know if they’d found anything in Cecelia Brisbane’s files, or if they’d come up with a theory as to who had strangled her, and why. But I refrained. I doubted the cops’ newfound civility extended to coughing up answers to my questions.

  “Big man upstairs?” Blackridge asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. The rushing sound of shower water was clearly audible. “Let me go roust my son. That’s who you’re here for, isn’t it?” Blackridge nodded, and I reluctantly went on: “You’ve heard this rumor about him possibly having a half brother?” I got another assent…and was that a look of sympathy melting Blackridge’s usually hard eyes? “I’d be very grateful,” I said hesitantly, “if you wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Arch.”

  Reilly exhaled. “We wouldn’t, ma’am. We never would.”

  I thanked them and set off up the stairs, where I was surprise
d to see a freshly showered, tired-looking Arch sitting on his bed. He was neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt. His right hand was closed in a fist, undoubtedly holding the key.

  “You’re all ready?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. “Did you set your alarm?”

  He straightened his glasses with his free hand. “Yeah. I’m real curious about what Dad was doing.”

  I hugged my sides and made my voice low. “Remember we have the service today, hon?”

  His look became guarded. “I know. One o’clock. I’ll be ready at half-past twelve, if you want.”

  We agreed, and he took off with the detectives for Spruce. I checked on Tom, who was still sleeping. I was thankful that the sheriff’s department had told my husband to take all the time he needed to help me during this bad time. The department wanted their premier investigator back in top form, not worried about his hapless wife.

  An unaccountable uneasiness seized me as I made my way back to the kitchen. Something was bothering me, but what was it? This unsolved question, who had killed John Richard, hung like the smoky haze that now enveloped the evergreens and aspens outside. The investigation had produced plenty of suspects—the Vikarioses, Courtney MacEwan, Lana Della Robbia and Dannyboy, whom I was sure had been the suppliers of the cash to be laundered, even though the investigators had yet to prove it. I groaned.

  Tom had said that when an investigation stalled, he went over every bit of information he’d already gathered. So I booted up my computer and reloaded the espresso machine. Five minutes later, I was sipping another double shot, this time mixed with half-and-half and poured over ice, as I scrolled through my notes.

  When Marla ding-donged our bell and banged on the door—she always wanted you to hurry up and let her in—I hadn’t come up with any new theories. Marla breezed through the door, clad in a pink pantsuit. She pointed to my iced drink.

  “That stuff’ll kill you. Fix me one, will you?”