Mousse and Murder

by Elizabeth Logan

  “It’s hard to believe all our wild guesses got us to this point.”

  “This point” was three fifteen. Almost time to meet Kendra. We packed up to head back to the real estate office. I was impressed that Chris grabbed some napkins and wiped off our table. After Ryan What’s-His-Name, who lived as if he was used to a crew of servants, I was easily impressed.

  “What do you mean by wild guesses?” Chris asked. “I call it following a careful trail. Besides, do you know what I sacrificed for the sake of this research?”

  “Do tell.”

  “A restored 1952 Hudson Hornet patrol car. It’s downtown in the Alaska Law Enforcement Museum.”

  “If I’d only known.”

  “Actually, I’ve been there a number of times. Great exhibits of old uniforms and an entire history of the state troopers.”

  “To which we almost belong.”

  A text from my mom interrupted the banter.

  Nooooooooo.

  Lana in old addy bk. Bad news Gert by email.

  Will call tomorrow morning.

  I showed my phone to Chris and walked him through the messages. “I’m guessing the extra-long ‘no’ is in reference to whether she knew Oliver was adopted. She’s probably wondering why not, since she’s known him for years and years.”

  “Death is like that. It exposes all kinds of secrets,” Chris said, too somber for me at the moment.

  “I guess I’m lucky I haven’t had a lot of that in my life.” I went back to my mom’s text. “In case you don’t know these particular secrets—Lana and Gert are old and new girlfriends of Oliver’s. Bad news could mean anything, I guess. Lana is bad news or Gert is bad news or there’s bad news about Lana, or . . . I wish I could reach her by phone, but no luck.”

  “I wonder also what your mom means by ‘tomorrow morning,’ since she’ll be traveling through a few time zones.”

  We walked quickly, almost in step thanks to our long legs, an advantage on a thirty-degree day like today. Alaskans are among the few people who know enough to bundle up even to walk the length of a city block. I was glad I had a few layers on as the wind whipped around, the frigid air attacking the few inches of my cheeks that were exposed.

  “What do we want to know from Kendra?” Chris asked, holding his scarf tight around his neck. “She would have graduated high school before Oliver was even a freshman. Though she might know when and why he switched to Whitestone. Maybe it’s his birth name.”

  “But he’s Quinlan at eight and eighteen.”

  Chris agreed that was a mystery Kendra might be able to help with, besides telling us what she knew about the latest two girlfriends.

  “There’s also what she plans to do about a service for Oliver. Maybe she’d like our help with that, assuming she’d have it in Elkview. I know my mom would want to be involved.” As we approached the office, I could have sworn I smelled stale leftovers with onions, though I knew it was unlikely the odors could waft this far. “We should have invited Kendra to join us at the café, instead of going back to that awful lunchroom.”

  “You’re spoiled by that special diner you live in.”

  “True that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I needn’t have worried about that awful lunchroom.

  “I’m so sorry, folks.” The young woman behind the desk made a special effort to appear sorry, raising her very blond eyebrows and tilting her very blond head. “Kendra was called to a last-minute meeting over at city hall. Something she couldn’t get out of.”

  I felt Chris’s hand on my arm, just in time to stop me from ranting about how we’d waited two and a half hours. How we could have been home by now, before it got dark. How she had our cell phone numbers and could have called or texted us to let us know.

  “Maybe we can continue another time,” Chris said.

  “I’ll let her know.” The young woman turned away in time to avoid my scowl.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chris let me gripe all the way to my car.

  “I’ll bet she’s hiding in that lunchroom. She knows we’d never go back there if we didn’t have to.”

  “I wonder what she has to hide?”

  “I’ll bet I know.”

  “You don’t think—” Chris sounded incredulous.

  “Remember Trooper’s warning,” I said. “‘She’s a suspect until she’s not,’ and now that she’s fled from us—”

  “That’s a little dramatic, but not too far off base.”

  “She’s officially ‘not not,’ if you know what I mean.”

  “It kind of scares me that I do.” He paused. “Know what you mean.”

  We gave each other a mutual nudge, bumping shoulders, which felt strangely pleasant.

  EIGHT

  Chris had driven the whole way from the diner in Elkview to Anchorage. I wanted to take my turn at driving duties and ferry us home, but Chris insisted otherwise.

  “I never get a chance to drive a new car like this.” He laughed. “A heated steering wheel? Come on, Charlie.”

  “I guess it’s a little over-the-top.”

  “Not for me. And I haven’t checked out all the other features. I might want one of these. Think of this as you letting me test-drive.”

  I agreed, mostly because I was feeling guilty for leaving Benny home all day. If Chris were driving, I could pay some attention to my cat. Maybe I could finally interest him in the new robot mouse I bought him.

  Worst of all, though, I was afraid Benny would find a way to rat on me, so to speak, and let my mom know I’d been neglecting him. He had his ways, and I was sure I didn’t know all of them.

  I warned Chris that if he drove, I’d be talking to Benny more than to him.

  “No problem. I’d like to meet him sometime.”

  Points for Chris.

  I checked in with Benny via the camera and hit the laser dot app first. I’d read that it was a good idea to let the laser dot fall on something solid now and then, so the cat feels like he’s been successful in catching his prey. To that end, I’d left a few toys around on my living room floor. A bright green spindly ball. An old-fashioned stuffed-animal-type mouse. A fish-shaped crinkle-sound toy. A catnip yellow banana toy. If Chris thought it was strange that I laughed and cheered each time Benny’s paws landed on a toy via the laser dot, he kept quiet about it.

  “Do you have a pet?” I asked Chris after engineering a particularly fun wrestling match between Benny and a fleece-wrapped upright ring.

  He shook his head. “I always did as a kid. Hamsters, dogs, frogs. Whatever my mom would let me take in the house. But now I live alone and I don’t spend much time there, so . . . to answer your question, no, but you’re sure making it look like fun.”

  More points for Chris.

  We hadn’t driven far when Chris asked, “Do you need to get back to the Bear Claw right away?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A little side trip. It won’t take long.”

  “I’m game.”

  “I can almost guarantee there’ll be game.”

  I liked his sense of humor.

  We detoured west and ended up at a place I hadn’t visited since I was a kid on field trips. A few miles of twisting, turning roads that ran along the Eklutna River brought us to the beautiful, glacial Eklutna Lake. The late-afternoon sunlight seemed to skim the surface of the water. It was Alaska, so of course we saw game, represented by more than one moose and a pair of mountain goats. Mosquitoes, the stuff of legend in the state, weren’t due in full force for about three months, in mid-June.

  I enjoyed watching an old guy kayaking across the lake in a bright yellow vest to match his one-man ship, a few backpacking hikers, and—nearly overgrown by tree limbs—the carcass of an old Buick.

  We took the end
s of a wide log and placed it in position to serve as a bench, at least as comfortable as the metal chairs in the café in town, with the added advantage of facing the lake. A sobering moment, thinking of the origin of this lake, from glacial activity, now the source of drinking water for Anchorage and a little-known ice-skating rink in winter.

  Still, it was just a body of water, and therefore fair game for skipping stones. I couldn’t wait to take my dad on when he came back. He thought I was hopeless at it, and I was, until now, under Chris’s tutelage.

  The cove shielded us enough from a cold wind to allow time and space to talk and solve all the world’s problems, as well as a few of our own. I learned a lot about Chris, the man beyond the jock I thought I knew in high school. His parents were gone now, his siblings spread over the lower forty-eight. He’d joined the army shortly after high school and had been stationed at the Fort Wainwright base in Fairbanks, now one of the largest training camps in the U.S., he explained.

  “It was Mr. Dudley’s history class that inspired me,” Chris said. “Learning about our country, how people died defending what we take for granted.” He turned to face me. “Not that I wanted to die. But, you know, it was post nine-eleven, and I wanted to do my part.”

  “You were so much more noble and patriotic than I was. What I remember of Mr. Dudley’s class was the day he brought in MREs.”

  Chris laughed. “Meals Ready to Eat. I remember that, too.”

  “When I heard that a water-activated flameless ration heater was included with each entree, I knew my mom’s diner could do better.”

  “I ate my share of MREs, and believe me, you were right.”

  The conversation turned to the tragedy that had brought us together, wondering when to brief Trooper, whether we should make a follow-up phone call to Kendra or let her make the next move, how we’d go about dealing with Lana and Gert.

  “My mom will be here in the next twenty-four hours, hopefully,” I said. “She has a lot of history with Oliver, and I’m sure she’ll be eager to help.”

  “It’s really important to you, solving this case, isn’t it? You seem determined.”

  “I’m not happy being considered a suspect, for one thing.”

  “You don’t seriously think Trooper pegs you for a killer? If he does, why is he letting you be part of the investigation?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s some kind of trap, where he figures this way he can watch me and maybe I’ll slip up and incriminate myself.”

  “That’s a stretch. Not that you asked my opinion.”

  “Not that I asked, but I’m happy to have it. Whatever helps. And it’s not something I can talk to my mom about.”

  “Speaking of that, I’ll be glad to take you to the airport to pick her up.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t even know the flight she’s on or when she’ll arrive.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Great, then. I’ll let you know the time.”

  It was a nice end to a very nice detour. Also a welcome offer to have company to the airport, especially if it turned out to be in the middle of the night. It didn’t even matter if the offer was due to me or to my well-heated Outback.

  * * *

  * * *

  We returned to the Bear Claw feeling productive from our time doing research in the café and refreshed from time spent with our state’s natural beauty. An enviable and rare combination.

  Chris pointed to his battered pickup and grimaced. I hoped at least the heater was working, even if neither seats nor steering wheel were heated. “You sure you don’t want to trade down?” he asked. Then a hug, more or less platonic, as my mom would say, and he was gone.

  I’d just missed the rushed dinner hour, lucky me, and walked in on Victor cleaning up. Nina was in the front booth with her laptop, the table strewn with books. I presumed she’d already done her share of the work for the day. She gave me a wave, but since she didn’t remove her earbuds, I assumed she didn’t need to hear anything from me.

  “Yo, boss,” Victor said. “Great day.”

  He had the music turned to such a high volume—another Oliver no-no, and no wonder Nina needed her own music source—that I couldn’t tell whether he was telling me he’d had a great day or asking if I had one.

  “Great,” I said, covering both options.

  “A nice crowd, mostly Annie’s inn people. They sure love that cherry cheesecake mousse. There’s not a portion left. I want to try the chocolate version next time if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure. Just add cocoa powder to the shopping list.”

  “Annie just left. She kept trying to reach you. I told her I got through earlier, so I didn’t know what was wrong.”

  I wasn’t up for sharing with Victor my by-the-lake-and-out-of-touch time with Chris, notwithstanding the fact that I was his boss, not the other way around. “I might be out of juice,” I said, and fiddled with the charging station at the back of the kitchen for effect. “Do you know what she wanted?”

  Victor shrugged. “Something about the Swiss guy. He’s MIA, I think. And you have a ton of other messages, too. I left them up front.”

  Nina was ready for her turn with me. She reached under her textbooks and pulled out an arty sign she’d created from markers we kept on hand for patrons under ten.

  “What do you think?” she asked me.

  I read her careful script, which said there’d been a death of a staff member and our hours would be sporadic for the next few days. Our telephone number was listed below and people were encouraged to call to be sure we were open before returning.

  “Thanks, Nina. This is just what we need,” I said, willing myself not to release the tears I felt welling up.

  The ever-sensitive Nina put her arm around my shoulders. “I know this hard for you. I want you to know I’m here for you. I can work extra hours, whatever.”

  I thanked her and turned to the sounds from the kitchen: Victor hanging up saucepans and utensils. He slapped his hands together in an I’m-done gesture. He came around to the customer side of the diner. “Oh, I brought in a friend, Charlie. A great cook who’s between jobs right now. I didn’t think you’d mind. You can even take it out of my pay if—”

  “Of course not. That was good thinking, Victor. Maybe I can meet her tomorrow?”

  “How did you know it was a her?”

  “Just hoping,” I said, earning a chuckle from Nina.

  I knew that eventually I’d have to get serious about finding a full-time replacement for Oliver. I’d made some notes on a job description but didn’t have the energy it took to finish and post it. Too soon to acknowledge that Oliver was never coming back. Too real.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told Victor and Nina. “At some point tomorrow evening I’m going to have to pick up my mom at the airport in Anchorage, and I’d appreciate if you could cover here.”

  “No prob.”

  After Victor and Nina departed, the diner was empty except for one scruffy-looking guy with a mug of coffee and a newspaper in front of him. Many walk-ins used the Bear Claw as a warm refuge. Usually fine by me, except that this evening I entertained far-reaching thoughts about whether he or someone like him might be Oliver’s killer. A random guy instead of the people on the list Chris and I had been working on. That would be easier to take, more reassuring than believing that someone we all knew, considered a friend, could be a murderer.

  I checked in with Benny—“It won’t be long now. Go get yourself a treat, because when I get home, I’m going to dump a lot of anxiety on you.” I couldn’t be sure he heard me, since he was out of camera range, but I knew he hadn’t run out of food or water and could paw himself a treat whenever it pleased him.

  It didn’t take long to go through my messages, all from suppliers checking on inventory, and thankfully not the “ton” Victor had
referred to.

  When Random Guy left, sending me a friendly goodbye wave from a distance, I took a turn around my place, filling the sugar canister from a fifty-pound bag in the back room, wiping spots here and there on the Formica counter. I settled up at the register and left messages of my own to my suppliers. A down jacket had been left on a coat hook attached to a booth. I crumpled the slippery lavender garment into a box under the register at the front. Our version of a lost-and-found department. I couldn’t imagine anyone forgetting a jacket once she opened the door to the freezing weather, but maybe our delicious, hot moose stew took the place of a layer of clothing. I’d have to remember that line the next time I needed to write up a new ad.

  All in all, the siblings had done a better-than-usual job of tidying up. They’d tied up the garbage and disposed of it in the dumpster, I assumed, but there was still paper trash in a medium-sized container by the back door. I bent to lift the liner and its contents and noticed a stack of envelopes of different sizes, all opened, some bound together with a rubber band. The correspondence with a visible front were addressed to Oliver Whitestone. There were also notepads with Oliver’s name printed along the top. I recognized the pads as having been among the gifts I’d given each employee at Christmas.

  I straightened up, took a deep breath. This was Victor’s doing. He’d taken it upon himself to clean out the middle drawer of the old desk in the staff area, the drawer everyone knew was Oliver’s. Oliver kept it locked, but everyone knew the old-time skeleton key that we kept in the small filing cabinet could open anything that was equally old-time.

  Since the container held clean paper waste only, I was able to sort through the contents and scoop out the envelopes and papers that were from Oliver’s drawer. I carried them to my briefcase, holding them with a clenched fist, as if they might float back to the trash. I was glad Victor had left. I needed time to relax my jaw, to balance this with the good work he’d done for me, especially in the last couple of days.