by Ed Ifkovic
The manager was talking to the chief. “Never in this hotel. What do we do? Our guests…”
The chief said nothing.
There was clamor in the hallway as Irina and Hank flew into the room. I jumped, startled. The brandy snifter crashed to the floor and shattered. I looked at the manager, but he was nodding at me: Pay it no mind. But Teddy, fastidious, hurried to pick up the pieces.
Irina rushed toward me. “Edna, are you all right?”
The remark surprised me. “Yes, of course.” I breathed in. “Irina, Hank, I am so sorry.” I reached for Irina’s hand.
Hank looked wild-eyed, moving back and forth, approaching the chief of police, then looking at me and Clint, as though uncertain where to look. I was waiting for him to say something, but he wore a blank look on his face, someone slapped, stunned.
Chief Rawlins said softly, “I’m sorry, Hank, Irina.” The tone suggested an intimacy used for old friends.
“But we don’t understand.” Irina sounded helpless.
Silence.
Then Hank mumbled, his voice trembling, “They called us to the hospital but Sonia was already dead.” His voice sounded faraway, disbelieving.
Chief Rawlins still spoke in that soft voice. “You spoke to Orville, Hank?” Hank nodded. The medical examiner? The coroner?
Hank nodded numbly and said, “In Edna’s room?” He looked at me, puzzled, as though I held answers. For a moment I closed my eyes—I saw brilliant lightning flashes, sparks of electricity.
“’Fraid so,” Rawlins acknowledged. “Someone got there before Miss Ferber was to see her.”
Irina spoke. “Edna, why was she seeing you?”
I cleared my throat. “She had something to tell me. She was a little mysterious in her note to me.” Looking at Hank, I had a sinking sensation. He had been drinking. His eyes, though teary now, were bloodshot, droopy.
Chief Rawlins asked if Hank or Irina had any idea who’d do this, but the question, said so matter-of-factly, seemed preposterous in the small, cramped office. He swallowed and looked at neither parent. “Does she have any enemies?”
Hank babbled a bit, his voice cracking, and blurted out, “Of course, she had enemies. Any journalist has enemies—it comes with the territory. She was a fiery editorial writer, Joe. You know that. She liked—sensation…” He stopped, seemed to be thinking. “But people don’t kill over something she said.”
Chief Rawlins jerked his head back. He lowered his voice. “Who knows?” He scratched his chin, thinking. “But we can pursue that later. I’ll want to go through her papers at The Gold, okay? Her apartment. Maybe something she was writing…”
“I think she had an idea who killed Jack and Sam,” I announced.
Everyone stared at me.
Hank looked concerned, squinting at me. “Then why wouldn’t she tell me about it? I’m her father—I run the paper.” A long pause, but Hank went on. “You’d think…” He stopped, swallowed his words. He was sweating. “That makes no sense.” Again, his voice trembled, and Irina, standing at his side, reached over to touch his sleeve. But he shook free of her touch, angry now. “Who would do this to my baby?” His voice now broke. “Who? Dammit.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, but seemed to waver. He made little gasping sounds, trying to catch his breath. His dull glassy eyes looked to Chief Rawlins for answers.
Suddenly Irina was weeping, folding up, and Hank grabbed hold of her, pulled her into his chest. The two of them rocked back and forth, and I felt intrusive, witnessing such raw grief, both of them sliding into sloppy sobbing. Irina said something to me, but her words were incoherent. Hank reached out and gently rubbed her tear-flooded cheeks. It was as touching and simple a gesture as I’d ever seen, but it reminded me of a father dutifully placating a distraught child.
I heard footsteps running in the hallway, and Paul fell into the room. I watched him, the twin brother, the quiet moody one who disliked his sister. I watched as he ran past his father, maneuvering himself around the big man, until he virtually wrestled his mother from his father’s hold, embraced her, and she found herself sobbing into her son’s chest.
“Mother, they just told me.” His voice was squeaky, dry. “I can’t believe this.”
“Our Sonia is gone,” Irina bawled.
“They told me she was…” He seemed ready to say murdered but stopped, the word sticking in his throat.
Irina obviously finished his sentence because she dissolved into new spasms of sobbing, her head buried against his chest. There it was, then: a tableau of mother and son, both tight in grief, and looking up, I found myself watching the sweating, tipsy Hank, a man suddenly removed from this family portrait.
He looked ready to slug his son.
A deputy rapped on the doorframe and Chief of Police Rawlins nodded at him. The young man, red-cheeked and cherubic, motioned with an index finger, and the chief excused himself. I could hear them in the hallway, the two men mumbling at each other. In the room, Paul kept saying, “Tell me what happened,” over and over. No one answered him. At one point, looking over his mother’s head, he caught my eye, and again he mouthed the words: What happened? His eyes looked dull, curtained. I turned away.
What happened, indeed: I had entered my own hotel room, an old woman ready for slumber, and toppled over a body.
Chief Rawlins walked back into the room, and I noticed his gait—a loping, shuffling walk I imagined Charlie Chaplin executing. I realized that the man was nervous. He cleared his throat, and everyone waited.
A slow drawl. “It turns out we have a witness who…”
A flurry of excited voices, Hank yelping, Paul audibly breathing in, a gasp.
“What?” From Paul.
His mother grabbed at her throat.
“One of the guests on Miss Ferber’s floor”—his eyes locked with mine and I realized I was looking guilty—“just told Deputy Jamison that he was coming out of his room sometime after eight, down the hall from Miss Ferber’s room, and he saw a man leaving her room, shutting the door. He stopped, he said, because he’d dropped his keys, bent over to pick them up. That’s when he heard Miss Ferber’s door opening. He paid it little mind, he said, but he knew it was Miss Ferber’s room because his wife had pointed it out earlier that day and she told him Miss Ferber was the author of Show Boat, was a real famous writer, and she got angry with him because he’d never heard of it or her and…”
“Chief Rawlins—” I interrupted but stopped.
Sheepishly, he continued, “Anyway, the man coming out of your room was facing the door, hunched over, turned away, hidden like. A man bent over. But he had on a parka with the hood up, which struck the witness as real funny, and then the man moved away as fast as he was able, rushing down the back stairwell that no one uses, which also struck the guest as odd. It’s like a fire exit and it leads to a parking lot, deserted. Everyone else walks…”
I held up my hand. “What do you mean ‘as fast as he was able’? A curious thing to say, no?”
The chief gulped. “Well, seems the man had trouble walking. He had a limp and…and was leaning on a cane…”
I got dizzy, my hand flew out, and I realized Clint had taken hold of my other hand. I looked at him. I saw fright in his eyes.
“I mean…” I stuttered.
“We got a description of his parka. A burnished red one, with some wolf fur trim around the hood, and some Native beading and embroidery on the edges.” He paused, bit his lip, and refused to look at anyone. He didn’t look happy.
Of course, he was describing Noah West’s famous parka. The limp, the cane, but especially the distinctive parka with the Qwich’in markings. Noah’s personal statement—his flagrant assertion of his Native background, in Technicolor. Everyone in the room understood that. He wore it everywhere.
My hand reached for the cup of tea. It rattled on
the saucer as I picked it up. The brew was ice cold now.
No one said anything. Then, quietly, Hank said the word everyone was thinking. “Noah.”
“Impossible,” Paul thundered as his father looked at him. “Not the only red parka in…”
“Paul…” his mother said.
“I mean,” Paul went on, “you’re describing our friend.” He was challenging Chief Rawlins. “Noah West.”
The chief nodded. “I’m afraid I thought of him, too.”
“Impossible,” Paul emphasized again. “There’s something wrong with all of this. There has to be.”
Struggling, I offered, “Surely, there are others in Fairbanks who limp, who…”
Hank seemed in a trance. “Noah.” A shaky, sad voice, blurred by whiskey.
Irina looked at her husband. “Hank, really.”
Hank, loudly, “Noah.” Sharper.
Paul fired at his father, “Surely you can’t believe it’s Noah. Dad, we’ve known him all our lives. It’s Noah we’re talking about. Our Noah. Our friend. A member of our family.”
Hank looked up, his faced covered with tears. “What was he doing coming out of Edna’s room?”
“Hank, you’re assuming it was Noah,” I said in a rush. “There is no proof.”
A garbled, furious voice. “Didn’t you hear the description? For God’s sake.”
“What reason would he have?” Paul stared at his father.
Hank, tight-lipped. “She told him—a separation. They fought—here. In the hotel. Yesterday she told me—told him. He loves—loved her— obsessed, he lost…”
Irina touched Hank on the arm. “Listen to yourself, Hank. You know Noah. We all do.”
“Dad, you’re not thinking straight.” Paul was stammering.
Hank looked at his son, his cheeks crimson. “Maybe I am.”
I spoke up. “Hank, you’re jumping to conclusions.” I glanced at Clint. “You’re a rational man.”
Hank stood with difficulty, swung around, frantic now. “But there’s a chance he killed my daughter, and all of you are blind to it.”
“But it’s Noah, Dad.”
He bit his lip. “Christ, Paul, you read the papers. Family members kill other family members all the time in moments of madness, of passion. Lovers snap. Minor spats erupt, things said, tempers flare, a hand strikes out…Noah…”
“Hank,” Chief Rawlins cautioned, “take it easy. We’ll question Noah West, of course.”
Hank exploded. “Question him? What about arrest? What? Are you afraid of him? For Christ’s sake, Joe, he’s out there and my daughter is dead—dead.” He stopped, looked disoriented. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. What’s going on here?” He grabbed at his head, closed his eyes. “Somebody has to pay for this. Somebody has to. My baby girl. Maybe they fought. Maybe.” He looked at the chief. “They told me at the hospital someone clubbed her on the head with something.”
“Dad.” Paul walked toward him, but the look on his father’s face stopped him cold. “You can’t just accuse Noah.”
He yelled. “He wears a parka like that.”
Paul raised his voice. “Look, I saw Noah tonight outside and we talked for a few minutes.” He looked at the chief. “We talked about some Native politics, and he was in a cheerful mood. He mentioned how Sonia was excited about her trip today—knew he’d want to hear all about it. He has friends in Tanacross. He laughed about that.”
“Did you see him walk away?”
“Well, we shook hands, and I walked away. He said he was going home. He acted like he always acts…easy-going. Not like he planned to slip upstairs and…you know.”
“What time was that?” the chief asked.
“Must have been around seven or so. I wasn’t paying attention.”
I was quiet. I looked at Clint, who spoke in a voice that seemed far away. “Noah don’t hurt nobody. Noah left around then.” He cleared his throat. “That boy ain’t no killer.”
Hank looked at Clint. “Everybody can be a killer.” Said bitterly, coldly.
“Hank,” Irina spoke quietly, “think what you’re saying. You’re a little…irrational.”
Hank looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “Our daughter is dead and you defend the man who struck her down.”
“We don’t know if No—”
Suddenly he sank back onto the cot, pushed the palms of his hands up against his temples. He closed his eyes. “Christ, what’s going on here? Will somebody tell me what’s going on here? Noah said he loved her.” He looked up, his expression that of a stupefied child. “But love can make people kill, right?” He waited. “People can lose it, right? Good boys fall apart. Look at Sonia. She’s beautiful. Everyone talks of how beautiful she is. Noah used to tell me that he couldn’t live without her. He made her happy. Wouldn’t live without her.” He looked at me now. “She said no. Lovers get off balance. Angry words—irrational action. Striking out.” He stared into my face and I wanted to turn away, so raw his look. “Tell me, Edna. You liked that boy, too. Tell me, why would he kill my little girl?”
I said nothing.
Hank covered his face and started to sob.
I heard Chief Rawlins tell Deputy Jamison that they needed to bring in Noah West for questioning. At my side Clint rustled, struggled to stand. I saw him tug at his side, wince, his body jerking from a sharp pain. “Where are you going?” I whispered.
“I gotta get to Noah before the cops do. I gotta be there. Just in case something happens.”
I was frightened. “What can happen?”
“I just wanna be there with that boy.”
Chapter Twelve
“He warn’t home,” Clint told me late the next morning when we met for coffee at the Gold Nugget Café across the street from the Nordale. “I banged on his door. I mean, the lights was on, but he ain’t there.”
I was worried. “That was after midnight. Where could he have gone?”
Clint’s eyes twinkled. “A young man, good-looking, maybe a girl.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Not with the way he’s in love with Sonia. He…” My voice trailed off.
“What?” Clint swallowed a forkful of pancake.
“I was going to say he would somehow feel it was a betrayal, but how would I know that? I scarcely know him.” I sighed as I smiled at Clint. “Perhaps I’m a romantic.”
Clint scoffed. “I was thinking maybe he got one of them whores on The Row, you know by the…” Now he stopped, his eyes flashing. “What in Jesus’ name, Edna?”
My face tightened, my lips a thin line, disapproving. “Clint, really.”
“Don’t mean to offend you, Edna, but this is Fairbanks, you know. Whores is part of the local economy. Used to be legal, fact is.” He chuckled.
My tone icy. “Could we talk of something sensible?”
Clint tried to look contrite but gave up. “As I was walking away, the cops pulled up. I didn’t linger.”
The front door opened, a sudden burst of chilly air, and Chief of Police Rawlins stood in the doorway, looked around, spotted us, and walked over. “May I?” I nodded, and the officer slid into a seat. When the waitress bustled over, he waved her away.
“Officer Rawlins—” I began.
“Miss Ferber, pardon me, but I thought I’d fill you in on what we learned.”
“Really?” I didn’t expect such sharing. “But why?”
He shot a look at Clint, who was watching my face. The officer reached for a cigarette, lit it, and watched the gray smoke drift away from the table. “Truth is, it was your room where it all happened. I mean, you a guest and all. Just wanted to give you some reassurance.” I waited as his eyes followed the cigarette smoke. “I don’t want you worrying about your safety.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
He rapped the table and ch
ecked his watch. “The killer was hiding in your room, waiting. He came up the back staircase that no one uses. He got in, simple enough. Sonia knocked, the door opened, and she expected to see you. She started to back out, maybe, ’cause we found a tear in the shoulder of her blouse, like she was grabbed, then pulled in. A little bit of a struggle, some nasty bruises on her arms. But the killer knocked her down, then clubbed her on the head, a couple of heavy blows that probably stunned her, then killed her. Blood smeared on the carpet.” He looked away. “Even on the doorframe.”
I took a sip of coffee, breathed in. My hand on the cup trembled. “What kind of instrument?”
A heartbeat. “A cane.”
I shuddered. “You know, I knew you’d say that. How can you be so sure?”
He nodded, impatient, glancing at Clint whose face was frozen. “You make me run ahead of my story, Miss Ferber.” He lowered his voice. “Well, we figured the killer had to have her blood on the—instrument. We found a towel in your bathroom smeared with her blood. Killer wiped off the instrument.”
“Interesting. So the killer was in no rush to leave.”
“Probably was, truth to tell, but you can’t walk out of the Nordale, even by the back door, with a bloody cane.”
“You keep saying cane.”
His eyes held mine, then shot to a frowning Clint. “This is what I gotta tell you, ma’am. Deputy Jamison located a cane this morning, tossed into the alley next to the Lacey Street Movie House, laying in some rubbish, some beer cans, just tossed there. Steel-tipped head, heavy-duty oak, solid, thick. No fingerprints, of course, wiped clean, but traces of blood on it.”
My voice rose. “That can be anybody’s cane.”
“True.” He eyed me, his look penetrating and hard. “You seem hell-bent on distancing Noah West from the murder, ma’am.”
“Yes, I am. That young man could never do such a thing. Something I know to my core.” My voice shook.
The man deliberated for a moment, but then decided to say nothing. He snubbed out the cigarette and thumbed the pack in his breast pocket.