Mousse and Murder

by Elizabeth Logan

  In the end, I’d decided the law was not for me. Whether the decision was borne out by being dumped by my lawyer fiancé for his adorable young paralegal, I couldn’t say without a lot of therapy I wasn’t willing to invest in. If Benny couldn’t figure it out, who could?

  As usual, Benny turned his furry body around and around on my dark blue bathrobe. I heard myself entertaining counterarguments meant to bolster my confidence. Certainly finding Oliver’s killer swiftly would also bring a swift close to the notion that I had anything to do with it. I could only guess that others might suspect me, especially anyone who’d ever seen me have it out with Oliver, not just yesterday, but on and off through the last months.

  Victor, his sister Nina, and many regular patrons were on the list of those who knew of our contentious relationship. I’d once heard Manny, of Manny, Moe, and Jack, arguing with Oliver about his arguing with me. I’d had no idea he’d been paying attention to what went on in the kitchen. If anything, I considered him Oliver’s friend, since the two of them often ate lunch together when their schedules coincided.

  Those I knew very well, like Annie, were off the list, but all the others might well be labeled suspicious, even in some small way. I desperately wanted to take Chris and his journalistic pen off the list, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that yet.

  Mom had said she’d text me any auxiliary contact information she had for Oliver. Now that I knew of her hitherto secret reading habit, I made a note to ask her for a bibliography to jump-start my investigation.

  But the first order of business was to let Trooper know he had a willing partner in the job ahead. As soon as I had a few hours of sleep, I’d be ready to help him solve our friend’s murder.

  FIVE

  Absolutely not.”

  Trooper’s voice came across the phone line louder than the industrial-strength blender I’d bought for the diner’s ice cream shakes.

  I could have blamed my mom for urging me to insert myself into the investigation. She made me do it, Trooper. Or simply bowed out, grateful I had an excuse to give Mom for keeping my distance. A mandate from law enforcement, in fact.

  Some might have called it stubbornness, some determination, still others foolishness. But whatever it was, I’d spent a good deal of energy talking myself into accepting Mom’s assignment, and I wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

  “Can we talk about it over rhubarb pie?” I asked Trooper. “I still have some of Mom’s preserves from last summer.”

  “Not fair, Charlie. I’ll eat your pie, but I still won’t let you interfere with this case.”

  “It will be ready after the breakfast rush.” And it’s not interfering, it’s helping, I added to myself.

  Besides, I’d already begun, in a way, by looking through Mom’s files. As I expected, her records were impeccable. But it seemed that Mom had hired Oliver on something other than a completed application. Oliver had written his name, address, and Parisian credentials, with one reference from a professor. I had to applaud her good instincts, but wished there were useful information. This would never have passed muster if he had been applying for a government security clearance.

  Annie’s crowd was due any minute, agitating for coffee and bear claws at a minimum, but I found time to dig out one pie’s worth of strawberry-rhubarb preserves from the canning closet. Then I pulled out another jar, in case someone else needed motivation today.

  Victor had come in early, happy to help while I figured out how to replace Oliver. Or replace Victor, if he moved into Oliver’s post.

  Elkview didn’t have the attraction of Anchorage or Fairbanks, though it had become a second gathering place, after the larger Talkeetna, for climbers on their way to and from Denali. There were not a lot of chefs clamoring to work in an Elkview diner. It had been different at my old job in San Francisco. With no effort on the manager’s part, the news of an opening would spread around the city’s major restaurants. When I gave my notice, a steady stream of hopefuls made its way into the manager’s office within a few days.

  Here in my hometown, I might start with a CHEF WANTED sign in the window and move up to an ad in Chris’s paper, the Elkview Bugle, as well as papers in Anchorage. Neither seemed the right thing to do when Oliver hadn’t been laid to rest yet.

  I’d received the text from Mom with the name of Oliver’s older sister, Kendra Burke, whom he’d never mentioned to me. Mom had added the tag “administrator,” though she hadn’t said what exactly Kendra administered. The latest address Mom had was in Anchorage, Alaska’s largest city and, most tourists were surprised to know, the fourth-largest city in the US, by land area. There would be a great many job opportunities for administrators in all fields. She could be anywhere.

  In Mom’s text was also the name of an ex-girlfriend of Oliver’s, Lana. Oliver had never married, but apparently always had a girlfriend. When I asked about the tall, thin, presumptive relative who’d visited Oliver in the diner a month or two ago, Mom said he had no brother that she knew of.

  Annie called while I was gearing up to help Victor in the kitchen, and Nina, who’d also clocked in early, at the tables.

  “I heard,” Annie said. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. It’s awful.”

  “Is it in the paper?”

  “My paper hasn’t come. You know my second cousin—”

  “Is Doc’s receptionist, nurse, and answering machine. I know. And Doc is also—”

  “The medical examiner, yes. Flo wouldn’t have said anything to anyone else. You should have called me last night.”

  “It wasn’t until after midnight that I heard, Annie, and I didn’t know if—”

  “If Pierre and I—?”

  “Well, yes, Pierre and you.”

  “Not yet,” was all she’d say.

  Wasn’t I lucky to have a friend I could speak with in shorthand?

  * * *

  * * *

  The bus with Annie’s guests pulled up and behind it Annie herself, with Pierre, in her pickup. I figured Annie would tell me more about their evening whether or not I asked.

  I didn’t have an exact count from last night, but there seemed to be more people climbing down the bus’s steps today. Maybe due to rave reviews for last night’s mooseloaf? I could only hope. In any case, I was glad Tammy and Bert had made enough bear claws and crepe batter for a small army.

  In minutes, the diner was almost at capacity, with only one booth free when a climbing foursome came in, all in worn and nicked parkas that had seen their share of ice and mud—a sharp contrast to the clean and shiny parkas of the tour group.

  We’d had word that the weather and road conditions to the north were not good enough for traveling. Instead, today would be a day of hiking locally. It was bound to happen: one of the tourists exclaimed, “But it’s snowing.”

  “It’s Alaska,” said another, thus sparing a native from reminding the travelers where they were.

  Another tourist was smart enough to recognize the four pros, three men and one woman, when she saw them. She talked the four into giving informal advice on the nearby trails. I noticed that Beth, the tour guide, seemed miffed when one of the climbers took over, planting himself on a stool in the center of the diner, rippling through the pluses and minuses of all the nearby tracks, trails, and loops. He included the skill level needed, the elevation, and the total mileage commitment, and even the types of trees found at different heights. He described birch, spruce, cottonwood, in ascending order. There was an outburst of laughter when he designated one trail as having a “low avalanche hazard.” He took a final round of applause with aplomb. I hoped Beth would get her fair share of gratitude before the trip was over.

  I snapped to attention when the Bugle truck pulled up. Its driver unceremoniously tossed a bundle of newspapers in front of the diner. I threw on my jacket and slipped outside through the back door, eager to see what, if any, coverage th
ere was of Oliver’s murder. I dragged the bundle inside and extracted the top paper. I took a seat on a stool at the freezer end of the kitchen and scanned the headlines.

  News from Anchorage about their tripod watch: the ice on the Tanana River was due to break up soon and tip over the tripod standing on it. The lower forty-eight has its Groundhog Day; Alaska has its tripod weather beacon and its Marmot Day. I skimmed a heartwarming tale of a grocery clerk who adopted a child about to age out of the foster care system. I barely noticed that the governor’s budget was rejected a second time. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the word “murder” in a heading, directing me to page four. I rustled the paper to that page, not caring whether the folds stayed neat. The story was about a killing in Palmer, the hometown of the couple my parents were traveling with. A man was stabbed to death over an undisclosed incident that had taken place twenty-five years ago in Utqiagvik, the northernmost city in the United States.

  Who waits a quarter of a century to exact revenge? For that matter, why do Elkview Bugle subscribers need to read about it in column space that could have been devoted to the slaying of one of its own? I crumpled the paper into a messy ball and tossed it into the recycle bin just outside the back door.

  “Hey, that’s my livelihood you’re trashing.”

  Chris’s voice, teasing as it was, surprised me. He’d parked his beat-up pickup, crossed the parking lot, and arrived at the trash bins before I saw him. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with the lack of meaningful coverage in our local paper, his paper, I might have been embarrassed.

  “What’s the story?” he asked, pointing to the blue container where the Bugle had landed.

  “My question exactly. Technically, where’s the story?”

  “You mean about Oliver.” His face turned somber.

  He followed me into the diner and we took seats at yesterday’s ad hoc dining area. With a pang of sorrow, I realized we didn’t have to worry what Oliver would think of the arrangement. Or of the ketchup.

  “Trooper says you’ve got some rhubarb pie,” Chris said. I could tell he was doing his best to keep me stable, whatever that meant.

  “Not yet. And are you two joined at the hip or what? Did he send you to talk me out of wanting to help with the investigation? I want you to know, I’ve already got some notes. I have phone numbers, and also I looked up some stats on crime in the state and in this area, as well as the rate of solving them. Trooper’s foolish if he doesn’t recognize that he needs help.”

  “I agree.”

  “He’s in over his head. He needs us.” I paused, cocked my head. “You what?”

  “I agree with you. I’m on your side.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I have resources at the paper; you have the personal knowledge—and, well, you’re smart.”

  It might not have been the nicest thing anyone ever said, or at all true, but in my current state, I needed to believe any compliment that came my way.

  “We need to convince Trooper,” I said.

  “That’s easier said.”

  “It shouldn’t be hard for you. You’ve been buddy-buddy lately.” Not that I was peeved or anything about the way Trooper and Chris seemed to have some important secrets.

  “It was just a coincidence that Trooper and I were working on a story about how all the law enforcement agencies work together in the state, and then Oliver went missing and I happened to be there when he found out.”

  I tried not to show my embarrassment at jumping to conclusions. I put my energy elsewhere and came up with an idea.

  “We need to devise an investigative plan before he tells us we can’t.”

  “I’m in,” he said.

  I looked out at the tables. People were chatting and eating. A good sign. It seemed Annie had already taken over management duties. She caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up that said everything was under control. I realized we needed an IOU signal and made a mental note to do something special for her when this energy drain was over.

  I returned my attention to Chris and my mug of coffee. He had positioned his tablet back to back with my laptop and had begun to make notes. A quick study.

  “We need to list all the possibles,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’m leaving you and me off the list.”

  “Did he ask for your alibi, too?”

  “Only for the thirty minutes we were out of each other’s sight yesterday. He’s part of that feature I’m writing on law enforcement. He has many years of service and has been involved in all kinds of incidents. I’m on sort of a protracted ride-along.”

  “It’s unnerving, isn’t it, when he views you as a suspect?”

  He mimicked a shudder passing through his shoulders. “Imagine how a guilty person would feel.”

  “I don’t know, maybe nothing,” I said. “If they’re cold enough to kill another human being, do they even have feelings?”

  “Good point.”

  We abandoned the heavy talk and got to work, filling in a chart with the names and contact information that we had. Chris had access to databases available only to members of the press. “And other privileged groups, like law enforcement,” he said.

  “Trooper might already have all this,” I said.

  His phone pinged. A text message came in at the same time that my phone rang. Chris stepped away to check his message while I accepted my call. It dawned on me that we had different motives for pouring ourselves into Oliver’s case. For Chris, it meant being on the front lines, able to report minute-by-minute progress and, ultimately, have a scoop on the result. Was he hoping that the Elkview Bugle would get its name on the map with a Pulitzer? Would it be disqualified if the Pulitzer committee found out that the Bugle was named for the bugle, the cry of the elk, a high-pitched screech made by the male elk during mating season?

  Why was I suddenly so keen on participating in a murder investigation? How presumptuous of me to assume I knew Chris’s motive when I was unsure of my own.

  My call was a quick one. While I waited for Chris to finish his, I snuck a visit with Benny via my cell phone. I decided to lay off the laser dot game for another block of time. I’d bought him a robotic mouse that I could operate remotely. I wasn’t surprised that it didn’t hold his attention.

  “You’re smart enough to know it’s not a real mouse, aren’t you?” I asked Benny. “And therefore it’s not as tasty.” Benny shot a look of disgust at the robot and marched away across the kitchen floor. Poor Benny. I was terrible company. A neglectful pet companion.

  I remembered that a couple of weeks ago, a diner customer told me her cat loved to fetch.

  “I thought that was a dog thing,” I’d said.

  “Yes, but cats like it, too.”

  She told me she discovered it when her cat was pestering her while she was on the phone. She tossed a hard candy wrapped in cellophane into the next room and the cat brought it back to her. She threw it farther away; the cat fetched again. It was worth a try with Benny as soon as I got home. For now, I signed off with him, promising I’d be home at a decent hour tonight.

  “You look like you have news, too,” Chris said, when he’d hung up.

  “You first,” I said.

  He wiggled his cell phone in the air, showing me the source of his information. “We don’t have to worry that Trooper is getting way ahead of our chart. Major snowmobile accident near Girdwood, involving broken ice and a couple of passenger vehicles.”

  “Is that Trooper’s jurisdiction?”

  “It’s not completely clear, but it’s all hands on deck, no matter what. Even Josh, Trooper’s deputy who looks like a teenager, is being pressed into service. So Trooper won’t be giving much attention to a homicide in Elkview. On my to-do list is a piece on the state’s law enforcement program. Especially on the paucity of personnel in the small villages. Something
like one in three communities have no cops closer than a half-hour flight away.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re on the job.”

  Chris pointed to my cell phone, now resting on the table between us. “How about your call? Something pertinent to Oliver’s case?”

  I smiled. “My mom’s on her way home.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Our connection hadn’t been the best, but from what I gathered, my mom would be arriving in Anchorage sometime tomorrow evening by way of Seattle, by way of Amsterdam, and starting out in Vienna. I assumed she’d call from Seattle, where the connection was sure to be better. Part of me wondered if she’d faked the bad connection, the first unclear one of their trip, so I wouldn’t have a chance to try to dissuade her from cutting her vacation short. I did hear “I” a lot, rather than “we.” Dad hadn’t interacted much with Oliver over the years, except to withstand Mom’s periodic rants about him. Knowing her, she’d convinced him to stay on and finish his business with Barney Russell.

  For another twenty-four hours or so, the coast was clear for Chris and me to fill in the details of our investigation. I’d talked things over with my full-time staff and decided that we would operate the Bear Claw as normally as possible for the next few days, using our usual cadre of reinforcements that we brought in when entire buses unloaded on us, a phenomenon that was on the upswing ever since Annie had reopened her parents’ inn. When we knew the details of Oliver’s service, which might in fact be up to Mom and me, we’d close the diner for the day to walk-in patrons and arrange for a gathering of family, friends, and regulars who knew and cared about Oliver.

  At Chris’s prodding, I set Nina up with the rhubarb pie ingredients and recipe, in case Trooper did drop in. And in case Chris had a craving. It boggled my mind the way Chris stayed so fit, given the number of calories he consumed in front of me, let alone the rest of his day. Today he was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt that strained around his biceps. Not that I was paying particular attention.