Mousse and Murder

by Elizabeth Logan

  Had it only been yesterday that I’d seen Oliver’s sister brandishing a rifle, with Chris and me at the wrong end? Here was another instance of my mom’s failing me: I couldn’t hide behind her. The fact that she’d worn flat-soled boots and mine had a wedge heel didn’t help. I felt exposed to Kendra and as nervous as though she still had a gun trained on me.

  Kendra accepted my mom’s hand when she offered condolences, but managed to avoid taking mine.

  “Oliver loved working with you,” she told my mom. “Thank you for coming.”

  It was now or never. I moved my mom aside as gently as I could and approached Kendra, one hand already deep in my tote, grasping the two envelopes, ready to whip them out.

  “Kendra,” I said. “These appear to belong to you. I found them while going through Oliver’s things at work.” I managed to whisper the phrase “at work.”

  She gave me a withering look and asked, “You found them where?”

  Another guest was nearby and seemed surprised when I moved out of the way to give him access to Kendra.

  I cut my losses and drifted over to Gert.

  “It’s awful,” I told Gert. “We really miss him at the Bear Claw.”

  “He was a big man,” Gert said, surely referring to his personality and not his physical size. She was wearing a navy blue peacoat that might have been the most formal item in her closet. It was possible that I was envious of Gert’s physique, since my ratio of gym sign-ups to gym appearances was embarrassingly high.

  “What a strange coincidence,” I said, “that he died the day you came into the diner looking for him.”

  “Yes, we were supposed to go to my friend’s fiftieth birthday party that night. She was very disappointed, but”—she shrugged—“of course, we didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. But I thought you were going to the movies?”

  “Oh, right. I was thinking of another night.”

  “Did you go without him?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. I stayed in.”

  “On birthday party night or movie night?”

  Gert’s back stiffened, like Benny’s when he feels trapped. “Both. But why do you care? Why all the questions?”

  A black-suited gentleman took center stage, sparing me the need to account for my not-so-subtle interrogation. Gert took the opportunity to walk away. With an appropriately soothing voice, the man in charge suggested that we all make ourselves comfortable in the main chapel.

  I caught up with my mom, who leaned in to me and whispered, “Let’s split up.”

  I assumed this was a tactic she’d learned from Agatha Christie, so that we could each survey a different part of the chapel. I gave her a barely perceptible nod, CIA-like, and took a seat in one of the middle rows of highly polished benches. In the spirit of good detection, I didn’t watch where she ended up.

  I’d seen smaller side chapels on my trek down the long, wide center aisle. One of them had an enshrined Bible that was larger than the lectern. I wondered why Kendra hadn’t opted for one of the less massive chapels, given the small number of guests. I counted a dozen people in front of me. When I cast a furtive glance behind me, I saw about the same number, including Trooper, who was slinking into the back row. We were too far away from each other in the cavernous chapel to connect, but I felt his gaze nevertheless. I noticed he was in his dress blues and hat, not the logo windbreaker I usually saw him in.

  I looked in vain for Chris, thinking he might see me and join me in my otherwise empty pew. Maybe he was following the same rule as my mom, distributing resources for the investigation. I opted for that interpretation.

  Kendra had planned an extensive program of musical selections. I had the thought that she was making up for the dearth of speakers by filling in with hymns. It was to be expected that not too many of Kendra’s circle would make the drive from Anchorage to the Chapel of Atonement, more than two hours’ drive on a good day. And some late-season precipitation was predicted for today, which could mean anything from sprinkles to icy rain. Besides that, there had been virtually no time to gather Oliver’s loyal customers.

  I used the musical interlude to assess those present vis-à-vis viability as a suspect.

  Gert was directly across the aisle from me, her hands in the pockets of her thick coat. She’d already made the suspect list when I considered how she’d dashed into the diner asking for Oliver on the day he was murdered. My newly suspicious mind had decided she was motivated by the need to be remembered as wondering where he was, even though by then he was dead. Today she went up a notch on the list when she told me a different story about that aborted date. A simple misrecollection? But it had been only three days, and while a movie date might be easy to forget, missing a friend’s fiftieth birthday party wasn’t. I considered whether to pursue that line of questioning at the reception following the service. In the end, it depended on whether there was enough of a crowd around me, in case she was a killer.

  Victor had always been high on my list, since, other than Kendra, he was probably the only one who benefited from Oliver’s absence. He now sat in front of me and to the right with Nina. He’d texted me earlier that Rachel, who’d never met Oliver, would stay behind and do some cleanup and be available in case a vendor showed up. We’d also need her if any guests took us up on our offer of dessert at the Bear Claw.

  I had the idea that the minister of the chapel could announce the invitation, after the wine and cheese reception following the service. Rachel would get a text with an alert to start the coffee, the ovens, and the cherry cheesecake mousse if we had any takers. The graveyard-shift team of Tammy and Bert were also on call for the possible memorial crowd.

  Annie, who was a few benches ahead of me, was always willing to step in. She’d texted me earlier that Pierre’s car part had come in and he’d be leaving soon. A sad-face emoticon followed.

  It took me a minute to identify the man sitting next to Annie. Not Pierre. Neither he nor any of Annie’s tourists had ever met Oliver, so I didn’t expect them to attend. A closer look told me that Annie’s seatmate was Manny, the local-resident third of the Manny, Moe, and Jack trio, looking dapper in a suit. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him right away. I wasn’t surprised to see him, since I remembered that he and Oliver sometimes had lunch together when their schedules allowed, even if Moe and Jack were not around.

  Still no Chris.

  So what?

  Back to my focus on the suspect list for Oliver’s case.

  I wondered if one of the women I couldn’t identify in the ad hoc congregation was Lana, Oliver’s ex-girlfriend. My mom had said she’d recognize her, and maybe Mom was even now assessing Lana’s behavior. Why hadn’t I thought to quiz my mom about what to look for when sizing up a potential suspect? Despondency? Sly smiles? Engaging in cheery conversation or withdrawn and stoic? Was there a way to tell crocodile tears from genuine ones? Was there a class I could take in case I found myself in this situation again?

  It wasn’t pleasant, but I had to think of my next in command after Oliver. Victor’s candidacy as a suspect was awkward to consider, as was that of anyone I thought I knew well. Who wants to suspect someone with whom she has daily contact, trusts with her business and her patrons? Victor was very thoughtful and supportive of his sister, helping her with college funds. Did real cops consider sibling bonds when dealing with the profile of a murderer?

  In a struggle, if it came to that, it was hard to say who’d have the advantage. Oliver was heavier than Victor by a lot, but Victor was more fit and more agile.

  Another big factor leading me away from Victor as the killer was his age. Oliver was fifty-one years old, Victor barely thirty, in a position to wait his turn to take charge of the kitchen. But the speed with which he took Oliver’s name off the new menu and emptied Oliver’s desk drawer was suspect in itself.

  Come to think of it, I hadn’t sorted through
the envelopes I’d retrieved from the wastebasket that day. My head hurt from having to remember so many details. I needed a spreadsheet. Or a secretary. Or to give up trying to play detective.

  But with all the players surrounding me in the chapel, I couldn’t resist.

  Kendra was front and center, with the man I assumed to be her husband. Why had she rushed to have this service? So no new evidence would surface that might incriminate her? I wondered about her financial situation. Had she been counting on her inheritance from Oliver? It would be useful to know what her husband did for a living. Were they in debt?

  Most nagging question: how did a badgeless temporary deputy find out the answers to these queries?

  Second most nagging question: What if the killer was no one I knew? Not in the Elkview community. A friend or colleague of Kendra’s. One of several people scattered in the pews who I couldn’t identify. A Mr. or Ms. X, who might also be the real reason for Oliver’s reclusive life?

  Worse, what if the villain was a random killer? Someone passing through town who didn’t even know Oliver.

  In all these cases, I’d never find them. Isolating a few people from the population of a state with more than seven hundred thousand people seemed an exercise in futility.

  While I pondered these heavy questions, Kendra stood and walked to the podium. Burgundy was definitely her go-to color. She could have been a television weather lady in a dark long-sleeved dress with a cowl neck and narrow belt. The look was more contemporary than the fifties-style mint sweater set we’d seen her in at her office.

  I could barely hear Kendra’s eulogy, only catching words like “devoted brother” and “generous friend” and “sorely missed.”

  When she returned to her seat, the man with her took her place. His outfit was like that of all the other men in the assembly: a dark suit, light shirt, and tie. How easy for men, I thought, not for the first time.

  “Good morning,” he said. With the light focused on him, standing there, tall and thin, I knew a split second before he said it. “I’m Stanley Burke, Oliver’s brother.”

  I remembered the two occasions when he’d come to the Bear Claw, months ago. One time looking for Oliver, the other time finding him there and fighting with him. And a third, when I saw him in the lobby this morning, thinking he looked familiar. I wished I’d paid more attention during his brief visits.

  A wave of irritation hit me—yet more questions in a case with nothing but. Kendra, Kendra. Did you forget that one small detail when we met? And why wasn’t he mentioned in the obituary? What else are you keeping from us? Why are you so not transparent? Don’t you want your brother’s killer brought to justice?

  Stanley Burke was most likely Kendra Burke’s real brother, assuming either she was not married or she’d kept her name if she was. In any case, it would make sense that she’d protect her blood brother if he’d murdered her adopted brother.

  Although his voice boomed, I could hardly pay attention to Stanley. I concentrated instead on checking out my mom’s reaction, but she’d been dwarfed once more by those around her. I looked for Chris and saw him sitting where Trooper had been, apparently having arrived late. And Trooper—it seemed he had sneaked out early and missed this little addition to the suspect list. Besides that, Moe and Jack had arrived when I wasn’t looking, and I saw them now in one of the last rows. While not as formal as Manny in his suit today, they both looked considerably more cleaned up than when they swung themselves down from their rigs for lunch.

  I did what any millennial would do. I buried my smartphone in the folds of my coat, with only part of the screen and keyboard visible, and sent a text to Trooper.

  Oliver had brother Stanley Burke.

  Will find out where he lives.

  After closing hymns, the next step in Oliver’s final day was to carry his ashes to the columbarium. A covered walkway led to an enormous area lined with separate niches for storing and displaying urns. Nothing was small-scale in the Chapel of Atonement, including the final resting place for the ashes of its clients.

  A plaque at the entrance advised that there was accommodation for more than eight thousand urns of cremated remains in nearly five hundred feet of wall with curves and turns in several places. Some of the niches had room for more than one urn or a vase of flowers, at the pleasure of the deceased’s family. The documentation also listed notables whose remains were held here. Alaska city mayors, sports figures, educators, and more than a few explorers were listed, with the corresponding location in the maze of stone.

  The family—who actually knew for sure how many members there were?—of Oliver Whitestone, born Quinlan, aka Blanchard, had chosen a one-urn corner cube with what seemed to be a plexiglass door. A small chorus of young people sang a hymn, and the gathering moved once more, this time to an elaborate hall where wine and cheese and plates of canapés were offered.

  It was not an orderly procession from the pews through the walkway to the columbarium proper. I noticed people siphoning off to visit the more compact chapels and gardens on the way, perhaps to meditate, perhaps to find a rest area. As for me, I wormed my way to the side of Stanley Burke. Not a difficult feat, since we were both taller than the average mourner present today.

  “My condolences on the loss of your brother,” I said, mimicking my mom’s sentiment to Kendra. “It must have come as a shock.”

  “You were his boss, right?”

  I nodded. “For the last year, yes. I’m Evelyn Cooke’s daughter, Charlotte.” I held out my hand and, unlike his sister, he accepted it graciously. “Oliver worked with my mom for many years.”

  “Well, you probably both know that Oliver could be difficult.”

  I thought it an odd comment on a recently deceased family member. But, of course, Oliver was not Stanley’s blood relative. “Was he in any particular trouble that you know of?”

  Way to be subtle, Charlie.

  “You mean other than putting everyone else in danger?”

  “I didn’t know. I wonder if the police are aware of this? As you know, they’re investigating his death. Maybe you should—”

  We’d reached a fork in the road, in more ways than one.

  Stanley veered to the right and gave me what might be considered a tiny salute. “Excuse me. I’m going to find my sister.”

  And, I supposed, find people who genuinely wanted to offer condolences and didn’t just want to interrogate him.

  For the moment, the only thing I could do, stranded as I was in a tangled web of columbarium nooks and crannies, was test a canapé.

  Servers in black-and-white uniforms had been weaving among the guests carrying trays of decorative canapés that would have done Oliver and his French cuisine training proud. I spotted mascarpone with sprouts and onion on a cracker, smoked salmon mousse with mustard and dill on toast, herbed biscuit bites with ricotta and seeded jam. Recipes and aromas reminiscent of my own culinary training came back to me. This was not diner fare, and it forced me to question issuing an invitation to the Bear Claw.

  I slipped a miniature deviled egg into my mouth and closed my eyes for a moment to analyze the ingredients.

  “Pretty fancy, huh?” Chris was next to me.

  I put my hand to my mouth to prevent unpleasant spraying and nodded. “I’m rethinking my idea to have a little gathering at the diner.”

  “Don’t be silly. The Bear Claw was Oliver’s place, not this setup.” He reached out to a passing tray and nabbed a canapé with chopped Greek olives over something white. “Mmm.” He smiled. “You should get the recipe for this one.”

  Without warning, he leaned in to me. “Did you make the drop?”

  I laughed. “The pigeon has landed.”

  It was the best I could do on short notice.

  I let Mom follow through on what we’d initially decided. She handed the man in charge a slip of paper. He tapped
on a piece of wood that was part of the wall, and once he had our attention he read from the note.

  “Everyone is welcome to share a final goodbye to Oliver at the Bear Claw Diner in Elkview, where he plied his craft for twenty years.” The address followed; then he nodded toward me and my mom. “Thank you, Ms. Cooke and Mrs. Cooke.”

  The modest crowd headed for the Chapel of Atonement exit.

  Though I couldn’t be sure what the count would be, I texted Rachel:

  crowd on the way. approx 30 min.

  cherry cheesecake mousse, limited menu in case, lots of coffee.

  Mom and I convened in the parking lot and headed for the diner in my Outback.

  “That was nice,” Mom said. “And I’m glad we’re going to do this at the Bear Claw. I doubt Kendra and Stanley will come, but they may be shamed into it if, for example, friends of theirs from Anchorage want to come. They can’t very well say they’re not interested. And they—by ‘they’ here I mean cops—say that the killer almost always shows up at funerals, and the Bear Claw now is part of the memorial celebration, so let’s be on the lookout.”

  “For what?”

  “For anyone who doesn’t belong, for one. Someone we can’t account for as a friend or a relative. Also, anyone who asks about the investigation. Sometimes that means they’re really interested because they care about the victim; sometimes they’re just voyeurs; but other times they are the killer and want to know if the cops are close to finding them out.”

  “It sounds tricky.”

  “It is. But you’re good with people.”

  I was tempted to remind her of my failed engagement to a particular “people,” Ryan What’s-His-Name.