Butter Off Dead Page 21

  The hell with caution. I grabbed a spare fleece jacket from my car and dashed toward her. Wrapped it around her shoulders and ushered her into the passenger seat. Blasted the heat. Her teeth chattered.

  “Stomp your feet.” I wriggled out of my own puffy purple coat and wrapped it around her legs. Handed her my gloves, her fingers so stiff I had to tug them on for her.

  “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” Probably not high on the list of hypothermia prevention tips, but it would calm her.

  I dug under my seat for a water bottle. “What happened? What are you doing out here?” Miles from home. Even a track star like Zayda would not run far in this weather not properly dressed.

  And then I realized where we were. At the end of Larry Abrams’s driveway.

  “Zayda, what happened? Are you hurt?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. Shook it violently.

  Without saying a word, she protesteth too much.

  I locked her in and headed down the long lane. Dylan had said other kids were giving her a hard time. More of that? “What are you doing out here anyway?”

  “Nothing. I just had to talk—details for the Festival.”

  By the time I reached her red SUV, her breath had returned to normal and I thought the worst had passed. No other vehicles except Larry’s white Cadillac stood in front of the cavernous log home. “Are you sure nothing happened? Nothing you need to tell anyone?”

  “You can’t call the police. Don’t call the police.” She clutched the door handle, ready to run.

  “Oh-kaaay.” Why would I call the police? “If you say you’re okay . . . Keep the sweater for now.”

  She started her car and I followed her out, driving in tandem toward town. She turned on her road and I kept going.

  Places to go, secrets to spill.

  • Twenty-five •

  Seventeen was not old enough to make every decision. And I did not believe that Zayda had gone running off into the frigid five o’clock air without coat, hat, or gloves because of “nothing” or “details.”

  But the puzzle of Zayda George would have to wait. I parked beside my brother’s Jeep. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Nick opened the gray steel door to the metal building. “After you, little sister.”

  Turned out he’d been summoned for more questioning. He agreed that I could stay.

  That’s good of you, I thought. Since I’m here to save your be-hind.

  “First, your phone.” Ike pushed Nick’s silver-clad iPhone toward him and Nick slipped it in his pocket.

  “Second, complete firearms report came back from the crime lab.” Ike rested his hands, fingers loosely entwined, on top of a document in the precise middle of his desk. “As I think we’ve told you, we recovered a .38 caliber revolver, recently fired, at the scene. Underneath the display cases.”

  No, you did not tell us that. Not all of it. Kim had refused to tell us where the weapon had been found.

  “Ms. Vandeberg was shot with a .38 caliber firearm,” he said. “The ME recovered two slugs from the body. I’m sorry if this is upsetting, Nick.”

  “If it’s upsetting?” Nick look incredulous. Kim stood guard in her simple but stylish black pantsuit. Arms crossed, she studied us, face giving away nothing.

  “The firearms examiner matched them to the weapon we recovered.” Ike continued as if Nick hadn’t spoken. “From the pattern of gunshot residue on the clothing, she concluded that the victim was shot at a distance of one to three feet. Suggesting that either she knew her attacker, or he—or she—managed to get quite close to her.”

  I shuddered, afraid to imagine the horror of Christine’s last minutes, but unable to stop myself.

  “The GSR—gunshot residue—tests of your hands were inconclusive,” he said.

  “Meaning what?” Nick leaned forward in his squeaky vinyl chair. “They can’t prove I shot her, because I didn’t. But you don’t want to admit that.”

  Blink and you’d have missed Ike’s flinch, it was so slight.

  “It was a cold day. The shooter may have worn gloves. Yes”—he said, before Nick could interject—“we took yours and tested them. No residue, inside or out. But the shooting occurred some time before we first made contact with you. You could have worn other gloves and discarded them, or wrapped the gun in a scarf. Simple hand washing removes most GSR.”

  “You also tested Zayda,” I said. Ike kept his eyes on Nick, but I glanced at Kim and read her face: also inconclusive.

  “Of course, that’s not what’s most interesting,” Ike said, his baritone cool, almost icy. Kim had told me once, on a ride, that the deputies call him Sheriff Cucumber behind his back. “Again, I apologize for speaking so indelicately.”

  Nick made a slight motion that told me “apology refused.”

  “We found three sets of fingerprints on the gun: Ms. Vandeberg’s, an unidentified set—some clear, some smeared, and yours.”

  Never had I been so glad to be sitting. Never had I been so glad for sturdy construction. Because I felt like the roof had fallen in.

  Nick slumped in his seat, his face pale. Finally, he spoke, eyes closed, drawing his fingers down one cheek. “You found my prints because I gave her that gun. I taught her how to shoot, last fall after she moved to the church property. Jack Frost is a hothead, and I was worried.”

  Kim’s eyes flicked from Nick to Ike and back.

  “Any proof?” Ike said.

  Nick paused, remembering. “Just a couple of kids we saw at the shooting range. The one who picked up the books,” he said to me. “Looked like he was teaching the girl.”

  “Dylan Washington.” Zayda’s boyfriend.

  “Find who matches that print,” he told Ike, despair turning to anger. “That’s your shooter.”

  “Believe it or not, we thought of that. It’s not in the system.”

  “And you’d rather blame me than track down who it belongs to.” Nick’s voice rose. “Just like fifteen years ago. When you couldn’t find the driver who ran my father off the bridge over Jewel Bay, you tried to blame him.”

  Ike’s eyes darkened. “Reconstruction found no skid marks or yaw marks on the road surface, and was ultimately inconclusive—”

  Nick shot forward in his seat, one leg back, ready to launch. “Your favorite word. The reconstructionist said the driver’s side damage indicated impact on an angle sufficient to push his car into the guardrail. Pushed so hard he broke through and dangled over the icy water. They didn’t find skid marks or yaw marks because the road was covered in snow and ice. You argued he lost control, hit the rail, and spun, causing the left-side damage himself.”

  I had never heard any of this. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hear it all. I wanted them to shut up.

  “I never blamed him, Nick,” Ike said, his tone low and controlled. “That was one theory, one possibility we had to consider. But I’ve never stopped searching.”

  “Well, I hope you’re searching harder for Christine’s killer. There’s only so much my family can take.” As Nick stood, Kim slumped against the wall, her face as gray as the dingy paint.

  “Take my chair, Detective. I’m leaving.”

  “No.” I grabbed his hand. “Stop this. You don’t have to like him, Nick. But we have to tell them what we know. All of it. Starting with the logbook.”

  Kim recovered her composure, and perched on the corner of Ike’s desk. Nick sank back into his chair. After a long moment, he opened his pack and withdrew the slim green-and-black log. “I was working Saturday, as I told you. But not in the Jewel.”

  “We know that,” Kim said. “The phone records show you were somewhere near Rainbow Lake when Erin called you.”

  “My sister,” he continued, “followed me Tuesday morning—”

  “You knew?” He hadn’t let on.
<
br />   “Borrowed car, borrowed hat—lame disguise. She’d begun to suspect that I wasn’t in the Jewel when she called me, after she found Christine. Yesterday, she confronted me, and today, I took her out there to show her what I found. I’ve been tracking a pair of young gray wolves who’ve taken up residency in the woods above Rainbow Lake. They’ve mated, they’re getting ready to build a den. My field notes establish everything.” He laid the book on Ike’s desk. “Saturday, I turned my phone back on when I got back to my Jeep. Erin called less than five minutes later. My GPS coordinates will match your cell tower records.”

  “Anybody see you?” Ike said. “Notes can be created after the fact, and wolves aren’t reliable witnesses.”

  My brother’s ears smoldered.

  “He took pictures,” I said. “The camera notes the time and date. Or are you going to say those can be faked, too? But there is a witness. Tell them, Nick.”

  He breathed out heavily through his nose. “I promised my source anonymity, for his own protection. You know how crazed some people get over wolves. Can you keep this under wraps?”

  “Can’t promise till I hear what you have to say, but we’ll do our best.”

  After a long hesitation, Nick relayed J.D.’s report of spotting the wolves. Reluctantly, he agreed to leave the log to be reviewed as evidence. He handed over the card from his camera, showing the dates and times he’d photographed tracks, the kill, and the wolves, but also the metadata, so they could convince themselves that the info hadn’t been falsified.

  We were all exhausted when Nick said one last thing. “Don’t blame my sister. She’s been urging me to tell you. In fact, you came here to tell them yourself, didn’t you?”

  I peeked at the time on my phone. “Partly. Also, I figured out what the thief was after. Sort of. But the Film Festival starts in forty-five minutes and I’m a mess.”

  “Better talk fast, then,” Ike said. But his eyes held a twinkle.

  That was a challenge I could handle. I whipped through my theory: The burglar and the killer were the same person. He or she knew Iggy had a valuable art collection.

  “So far, nothing new,” Kim said.

  “Iggy’s family—actually, her husband’s family—had a long relationship with Charlie Russell and his wife, Nancy, and other artists of the era. I think the killer was after a piece that once belonged to the Russells. Maybe a gift to them—an item that didn’t stay in the Russell house or studio, or go on display in the museum. There’s a photograph of the Russell house that shows the black-and-gold crane tapestry that hangs in the back of the church. I’m sure it’s the same. Nick’s identified another piece of Christine’s that we think may have belonged to the Russells as well.”

  Nick set the chop on the desk. We left out the part about him taking it. Tampering with a crime scene and all that.

  “This morning, I called the state historical society. The Rings visited the Russells at Bull Head Lodge, when David Ring, Iggy’s late husband, was a boy. They signed the cloth screens the Russells used as a guest book. Kim, you remember seeing them, on our high school tour.”

  Wordless, she nodded.

  “Lrss,” Christine had said. “Shop” and “lrss.”

  “Russell was famous for writing illustrated letters to family friends, especially to the children. I think Iggy had a letter Russell wrote David, and someone—I don’t know who—wants it. Someone who’s been digging into Russell history, hoping for a big find. We—you—need to identify those people and track them down.”

  “You think that person went to the church to try to convince Christine to sell, and when she refused, shot her with her own gun?” Kim said.

  “They struggled. That’s how it ended up under the display cases.”

  “How did this person get in?” she asked, her tone doubtful.

  “How do you propose we identify these mysterious collectors?” Ike asked.

  “That, I’m not sure,” I said to Kim, and then to Ike, “both Iggy and Christine died before finishing the inventory. It may be listed there—or not. I’m hoping she consulted an appraiser or an art expert, since she planned to leave some of the collection to the Art Center. The chief curator at the historical society is new so he didn’t talk to her, but he promised to check with his staff.”

  Ike made a note. “We’ll start there, then talk to her lawyer and the Art Center. And bring me that photograph of the tapestry.” He glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow. Your public awaits.”

  “Thanks. You coming, Kim? Kyle will be there—his GTO is in the documentary.”

  “I—don’t think so. Too much to do here.”

  “One more thing,” Nick said, and I gripped the arms of my chair. “That is the original stone chop, but there’s a copy. Iggy had a bronze casting made, with a patina that resembles stone, to keep after she donated the original. I’m pretty sure it was in the display case in the church, and I’m willing to bet it’s missing.”

  * * *

  The corollary of Fresca’s Law of Acting As If is to completely ignore the possibility that you might be sorely undressed. My mother, however, does not recognize that corollary, and gave my stretchy black cargo pants and lime green fleece turtleneck a disapproving look from top to toe when I entered the Playhouse lobby for the opening night reception.

  I smiled brightly. At least I’d found a floaty turquoise scarf in my office to dress it up, and a change of footwear. I’d fluffed my hair in the bathroom mirror, and successfully scrounged in the bottom of my bag for a pink lip gloss.

  No matter. In Jewel Bay, plenty of folks—especially the male of the species—consider fleece jackets and hiking pants dress-up clothes.

  “This is so much fun,” the owner of Village Antiques told me. “What a great idea!”

  “Christine’s brainchild,” I said, and she touched my arm, her eyes soft.

  “Great food.” Her husband, the town pharmacist, gestured with a half-eaten cheese pastry.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Donna Lawson, the liquor store owner, raising a glass.

  The lobby sparkled. A jazz trio played movie themes. Older folks pointed at Larry’s posters, reminiscing about movies they’d seen. Others studied the display showing off the Film Club goals and projects, and chatted with Club members, dressed to kill.

  Criminy, Erin, enough of the morbid clichés.

  The Bijou sign added the perfect retro-hip touch. I headed for the buffet and was reaching for a crostini when my sister grabbed my arm.

  “Erin, where have you been? Big problem. The toilets are backing up.”

  “Crap,” I said.

  “Exactly,” she replied. “Two kids are mopping up, and Ned’s on the case.” As a veteran barkeep, Ned Redaway knew a thing or two about old plumbing. He was also a veteran of the board of directors that runs the community-owned theater, and had been involved up to his eyeballs in the latest renovation. The one that expanded the restrooms and cost a bundle.

  At that moment, Ned emerged from the women’s room, wiping his brow with a red bandanna. “Sorry, girlie. I think the sewer line is froze.”

  “Frozen? But those lines are buried.”

  “Cold as it’s been, sh—sorry. Poop freezes. Can’t do nothing about it tonight.”

  Seriously. My next project ought to be a petition to repeal Murphy’s Law. “We’ll block the doors.” We muscled garbage cans into place as barricades. I jumped onto a painted bench and clapped my hands for attention.

  “Thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate the Food Lovers’ Film Festival, and to support the Jewel Bay High School Film Club.” I clapped again, and the audience applauded and raised their glasses. “Unfortunately, the weather is complicating things. Seems the sewer line is frozen.”

  Chuckles and groans from the crowd.

  “Obviously, we can’t ask you to hold it the entire evening, so Snow
berry Gallery will keep its restroom available until the screening starts. And the antique shop across the street?” The owner waved her hand, signaling agreement. “If you get desperate during the show, Applause and Chez Max are the closest restaurants, both open this evening. Thank you for understanding. There’s more to eat and drink, and in a few minutes, we’ll move this show into the theater.”

  Odd that the freeze hadn’t affected the neighboring buildings—yet, anyway—but no time to dwell on that.

  Ned offered his hand and I hopped off the bench. “Girlie, you got a knack for solving problems, by jingo.”

  “Thanks, Ned. This town keeps me in practice.” My stomach reminded me that I’d been aiming for food when the fit hit the shan. I retraced my steps and wolfed down two crostini and a cheese pastry. I grabbed a glass of Prosecco and mingled, thanking donors. Nothing happens in Jewel Bay without donors.

  So I made the rounds, mingling, chatting, sipping, and thanking. And trying to ignore the sticky patches under my armpits.

  “Good job.” I snared a taste of sushi. Max had made three types of rolls, working the paddlefish caviar in after all. Wendy beamed, the white chef’s toque she wears for special occasions bobbing. “Everybody loves the food.”

  I stood at the edge of a small circle gathered around Larry Abrams and sipped. The bubbles tickled my nostrils, and I suppressed a sneeze.

  “Collectors save history,” he said. “Or bits and pieces of it. Some things people instantly recognize as worth preservation. Journals from the Lewis and Clark expedition, for example. The gifts they gave the Indians. Amateur archaeologists still search along the trail for physical evidence.”

  “Didn’t they find a military button a few years ago?” Donna said, “Near a possible campsite?”

  “Wish I could find that missing cache.” The pharmacist chuckled, referring to a bit of Lewis and Clark lore.

  Across the room, Zayda George stood on tiptoes, scanning the crowd. She’d piled her blond hair high and wrapped the knot in an orange band that matched her stretchy pink-and-orange top. Cute look, frazzled expression. Maybe I could talk with her tonight and figure out what had happened this afternoon. Figure out whether her parents needed to hear about it. Or the police, as she’d implied, then insisted otherwise.