We spent another hour—long enough for the pie to be prepared and come out of the oven—dividing up our suspect list and working out a strategy.
I volunteered to talk to Doc Sherman, our local physician and, when necessary, medical examiner. “Annie’s cousin works for the Doc,” I reminded Chris. “He might be willing to tell us more about the condition of, you know.” When did I become squeamish? When I knew the person who had the condition, I guessed.
“That works,” Chris said, not forcing me to finish the sentence. “I was thinking I could make contact with Kendra, Oliver’s sister, with the idea that I’m interviewing her for the paper.”
We carried on, filling my laptop and Chris’s tablet with notes and ideas for lines of inquiry, doing searches for addresses and social media profiles. What a team, I thought, wondering if Chris had any idea of following up sometime later, much later, with a date. I decided I’d give him a month, then broach the subject myself.
We’d been friends on and off since high school, though we’d never dated. Chris had hung with the jock crowd; I’d been on the debate team. Not that I was smarter; sometimes what we did in high school had little to do with later choices or what we’d learn about our talents and real interests. It was certainly true of me—short-term law student followed by chef and restaurant manager. If I thought about his future at all, I pictured Chris marrying Kelleyanne, the head cheerleader, and coaching Little League. Wasn’t that how it usually turned out? I couldn’t remember how I had pictured myself.
One thing for sure: now was not the time to think about that.
I caught a glimpse of Annie now and then and, aside from feeling guilty that she was doing my job, I was impressed that she gave equal time to all the tables, not lingering at the captivating Pierre’s.
Just before nine a.m., Beth called an end to breakfast and the tables cleared. Nina took the pie out of the oven, and at the same time Trooper Graham strode through the back door.
Chris and I scrambled to close the covers on our devices, stuff the sticky notes into our pockets, and paint on innocuous smiles. So much for confronting him with our plan.
Trooper chuckled. “Thought so.”
We hemmed and hawed—“We were just catching up on the news”—then the three of us had a laugh that cleared the air.
SIX
It didn’t take long for the six of us in the diner to demolish a whole pie.
In deference to the fact that we were an investigative team at a business meeting, though Trooper hadn’t quite bought into the idea yet, Victor, Nina, and Annie took their half of the pie to a booth at the other end of the diner. I figured Annie was disappointed that Pierre had joined the tour group, bound for a day of hiking, instead of hanging out with her, but she seemed in okay spirits.
Trooper gave us an update on the situation in Girdwood, which seemed a complicated traffic accident, an amalgam of an impaired automobile driver and allegedly faulty snowmobile equipment.
“On top of that, some hikers wandered off onto a mushing trail.”
Uh-oh. Our knowledgeable patrons had earlier warned Beth’s hiking group, as I thought of my recent breakfasters, that the rule was strictly enforced: hikers were to yield the right-of-way to dog teams. I hoped the group had paid attention.
“One fatality from the traffic accident,” he reported, “and he was an elected official from Anchorage. Can’t release the name yet, but there’s a mountain of paperwork and the political fallout to deal with.”
Trooper pointed out that more resources might be poured into a district assemblyman—“Oops,” he said—than an Elkview diner chef.
Whether it was the delicious, warm rhubarb pie and excellent coffee or a simple acknowledgment of the enormous tasks before him, Trooper seemed amenable to having some help with Oliver’s case.
“Nothing dangerous, you understand?”
We nodded. We wouldn’t dream of it.
“I’m serious. For instance, neither one of you goes anywhere alone if it involves the case.”
Chris and I looked at each other and, though we couldn’t see through the covers of our devices, looked down at the spots where our plans lay, our gazes seeming to burn through metal.
“I was planning to see the Doc by myself,” I said, with somewhat of a pleading tone.
“Doc is not going to tell you anything without a badge.”
I mentally scratched Doc Sherman off my list. This was not going as well as I’d hoped. I thought of piggybacking on my mom’s opinion of my investigative skills and reminding Trooper that I’d had a course in depositions in law school. On second thought, I decided, I should leave it to my mom herself to convince her old friend the trooper that her daughter had extraordinary talents as an interviewer.
“Oliver’s sister should be okay seeing me,” Chris said. “I’d talk to her as a reporter.”
“Kendra?” Trooper shook his head. “Is she on your list of suspects? You have made a list of suspects, I assume.”
“We have,” we both said, like two middle schoolers, excited to have the right answer for the teacher.
“We thought of her more as a source of information,” Chris said.
“You never heard of siblings taking a shot at each other?” Trooper paused while I silently acknowledged that I had. Chris tapped his fingers on the table as if counting the number of sibling murders he could think of. “Well?” Trooper continued. “She’s a suspect until she’s not, and you don’t go there alone.”
I didn’t know about Chris, but I wished we hadn’t waited for the pie. We would have been on the road by now, carrying out our plan, without Trooper’s nonnegotiable admonishments. Sitting across from him now, with three witnesses close by, it would be hard to claim ignorance of his rules. As it was, we promised to stay together, and to let Trooper know ASAP of any information that was newer than what we might hear on the radio or read in the paper.
“Or on your phones,” Trooper added, with an air of coolness, as if proud that an old guy like him knew about smartphone news apps.
Trooper stood, stepping out from the table. “Okay. Now stand up.”
We did.
“I’m going to deputize you. Raise your right hands.”
We did.
“Repeat after me: I solemnly swear to uphold the laws of Matanuska-Susitna Borough in the State of Alaska, so help me God.”
We repeated it.
“Wow, I didn’t know that was a thing,” Chris said.
“It isn’t,” Trooper said. “But it felt good, didn’t it?”
He donned his hat and left.
* * *
* * *
We’d been tricked by the weather gods into thinking the snow was over for the season. Lately, temperatures had been in the forties—practically flip-flop weather. But today the Department of Transportation issued an extensive list of warnings. Even though only light snow was predicted, we heard reminders of frosted surfaces, frozen slush, icy patches, and black ice.
“Stay back two hundred feet from snowplows and other snow removal equipment on the roadways,” warned a weatherman, in the happy tones of someone who finally had something exciting to report.
With all of that in mind, Chris and I headed for the Bugle office.
Chris and I agreed we’d start with an easy one, the recorded history of familial murder aside. The Bugle had all the databases it was legal to download, and we expected to find Kendra Burke’s current address and place of employment without a problem. While Chris did that, I wandered the modest-sized newsroom. Not abuzz as I’d imagined from TV dramas. A mere half dozen people, each working solo, seated at desks with laptops and a mess of peripherals, and the occasional blooming plant.
The walls were covered with articles someone had thought worthy of framing. Maybe each newsperson got to pick her or his proudest moment. I checked them out. A profile of a
local stand-up comic, signed by said comic; a successful effort, spearheaded by Bugle staff, to save a historic house in town; a photograph of a winning kids’ baseball team, with a trophy proclaiming them the best in the borough. An article and a set of images featuring Sitka’s famed onion-domed St. Michael’s Cathedral, a remnant of early Russian control of Alaska.
I was mesmerized by a set of photos documenting a group of climbers starting out in Talkeetna, the town where climbers came to stage their expeditions to Denali. Photos showed them eating a hearty breakfast, then boarding a plane that would take them to the base of the Kahiltna Glacier at around seven thousand feet, and then climbing another thirteen thousand feet to the summit.
I was shivering from my intense scrutiny of icy mountains and waterfalls, as if I’d been scaling the peak myself, when I heard Chris call out.
“South Anchorage Realty. A small branch of a major player that’s based downtown, it seems. I’ll take her home address also.”
“It’s a little scary how you can get all that so quickly.”
“It’s a good thing I’m trustworthy,” he said, pulling his knit cap down over his eyebrows.
“A sinister look if I ever saw one.”
“Truthfully, it took a little longer than it should have to find Kendra. I figured Kendra Burke might be too common, so I added ‘Whitestone’ as a middle or maiden name. That’s Oliver’s last name, right?”
“Right.”
“I got nothing. ‘Kendra Burke’ worked, however.”
“Interesting.”
It was time to embark on our first official interview. Too bad Trooper hadn’t really made us official. Maybe if there had been a Bible in the diner? And a couple of badges in the cutlery drawer?
* * *
* * *
It might have made sense to combine the two upcoming reasons for heading to Anchorage—to interview Kendra, and to pick up my mom at the airport tomorrow evening. But we were both eager to put Oliver’s killer away and to do our part in making sure that happened. Besides, there was no telling when Mom would arrive, what with all the connections necessary to complete her trip.
The next strategic question was whether to call ahead to Kendra.
“It makes sense. It’s a two-hour ride,” Chris said. “What if she’s on vacation?”
“What if it spooks her?”
“That would be assuming she has something to hide.”
“It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Being deputized,” I said.
Chris laughed. “Let’s go. It’s only a two-hour ride.”
We settled on heading for the real estate office at ten, giving us time to pack our standard traveling-in-Alaska emergency bags. My auto parts duffel lived in the trunk of my car permanently. One could never tell where the next service station would be, whether it would be open, or if it would have fuel if it was open. Every native I knew carried spare parts—hoses, tires, pumps, gas can, spark plugs among them—and knew how to use them. My duffel wasn’t quite as large and high-tech as the famed Gamow bag that fit an entire person who needed a change in altitude to treat mountain sickness, but I wasn’t planning on scaling Denali today.
My second duffel was for the day’s trip. Crackers, cheese, chocolate, and of course two carefully wrapped bear claws. I threw in a couple of less-than-perfect tangerines. Fresh fruit was scarce at this time of year. Vacationers to the lower forty-eight were known to smuggle in a pear or a mango as souvenirs. Summer was our produce season, when we could expect zucchini the size of Benny, thanks to all-night sunshine.
I checked the first-aid kit and declared the bags ready to go.
I felt confident leaving the Bear Claw in the hands of my staff. Victor was in an especially good mood, high-fiving Nina when she ordered Adam and Eve on a raft.
“Two eggs on toast,” Victor explained to a small boy on a stool, who sat mesmerized at the whole kitchen scene. Victor and Nina had a running contest to see who could out-jargon whom when it came to retro expressions for diner food.
Lurking in my mind was the inescapable awareness that Victor’s life was so much easier with Oliver gone. Even the simple pleasure of kicking around expressions for butter—like the unappetizing term “axle grease”—wouldn’t have been allowed with Oliver present.
“This is not a schoolyard,” he might have said. Or maybe an even more cutting blow: “No wonder you’re a cook and not a chef. This is serious business.”
I pushed away the thought that Victor was angry, ambitious, or vengeful enough to take drastic steps. After all, I reminded myself, Victor could simply have quit and found employment elsewhere. Alaska wasn’t the easiest state in which to find work, but the corridor between Anchorage and Fairbanks certainly had enough diners and restaurants to accommodate one more cook. He must have known that I’d give him an excellent reference.
Once packed, I took a few more minutes at home to say a proper goodbye to Benny. I knew he’d have a special treat tomorrow when his first love returned. I considered taking him to the airport with me, but couldn’t count on his understanding the reason for the trip and, therefore, behaving well in his carrier—not his favorite venue, so I usually used it only for going to the vet. I could wait to make the airport decision. For now, I made sure his feeder was full and that the Bennycam was pointed in a good location for maximum viewing area while I was on the road.
Chris’s vehicle had seen better days, and it didn’t take much persuading for him to agree to make the trip to Anchorage in my Outback. Especially since I offered to let him drive.
“I have to get me some new wheels,” he said, sounding like a whiny fifth grader. I was relieved to see a smile that indicated he wasn’t serious. I’d been back in town for less than a year, and this journey south would be the longest number of consecutive minutes I’d spend with him, and we’d be confined to a vehicle. It would be a bummer if he turned out to be unpleasant company.
Chris settled into the driver’s seat without adjustment, his legs apparently matching mine in length. He slipped his hands into heavy gloves but removed them when he realized I had a heated steering wheel.
“I think I’m in love,” he said. I had no doubt he meant with my Outback.
We took the quickest route, the multilane George Parks Highway, Alaska Route 3. We cruised past more than one saloon by the side of the road, rumbled across a bridge over a gulch, and noted many signposts pointing to random locations, including the North Pole, which was far from where we were headed.
I’d made this trip often enough, sometimes just for a fresher bit of produce than what reached us in Elkview, but I seldom took the time to go off the beaten path. Today, though our mission was not a pleasant one, I was in the passenger seat and it was impossible not to focus on the landscape. Willows, cottonwood, elm trees seemed to float by without a break. And for a short time, we stopped to observe an enormous moose walk—plod—down the grassy median strip, baying as if he were not having a good time. Unlike the almost musical elk’s cry, the cry of the moose was a low, grunting sound, more of a growl. I hit the app on my phone to alert the animal control people. I figured I wasn’t the only one doing so, but better too many calls than none at all when the poor moose was probably just looking for help getting home.
I looked beyond the trees to the mountains. I hadn’t been west of AK-3, the Parks Highway, since I was in high school. Maybe it was the photos on the Bugle wall that got me thinking. Maybe it was the fact that Oliver never traveled much for pleasure either. He’d taken a brief European vacation just before I returned home. I remembered my mom telling me he’d had to cut the trip short for some reason and had never gone back to Europe. Or to anywhere outside of Elkview. Now it was too late. I wasn’t planning on dying soon, but I resolved right then to do more touring. A life not just feeding tourists, but joining them, being one.
It was easier than ever, wasn’t it, to p
lan a tour in our grand state? One search could bring up tour after tour. Chris paid attention to the road, I hoped, and drummed his fingers to a Vanessa Carlton album—his self-confessed teenage crush—while I imagined myself fishing, kayaking, hiking. I’d probably stop short of scaling Denali, but I used to love to hike and ride my bike. When I lived in San Francisco, there was always a group of friends willing to walk or ride in Marin Headlands, enjoying the peculiar wildlife. Or tackle one of the more than two dozen trails through the Presidio, the national park at the Golden Gate Bridge. I still had friends in the Bay Area who’d been nagging me to fly down for a visit. As soon as we found Oliver’s killer, I told myself, there’d be no stopping me.
“We’re here,” Chris said, pulling into the office parking lot. “I think you fell asleep.”
“Actually, I took a trip, from the Seward Peninsula all the way down to San Francisco.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“Invigorated.” I spied a café right next door to the real estate office and steered us toward it once we got out of the car. “But I do need coffee. And thanks for doing all the driving, by the way, Chris.”
“My pleasure. I’d even be glad to drive you around the Seward peninsula if you like.”
What? How am I supposed to take that? As a joke, or the world’s sweetest pickup line?
Luckily a server greeted us with menus before I needed to respond with anything other than my best smile.
* * *
* * *
Our coffee stop included bear claws, in keeping with my goal of testing them everywhere and comparing them to mine.
“No comparison,” Chris said, tapping into my thoughts.
Mousse and Murder Page 6
