“It wasn’t there,” Chris offered.
“Nope. And he has no idea where it is. Nobody broke in that Manny could see.”
“Someone’s trying to frame him,” Jack said.
That was a leap the size of Alaska, but it wasn’t my place to judge.
“Can you think of anyone else Trooper should be looking at?” Chris asked. “Maybe someone who knew about Manny and Oliver and wanted to settle a grudge against Manny, and took it out on his son?”
“Nah. Maybe if it was him,” Moe said, and punched Jack’s shoulder. Jack pretended to fall off the couch.
I figured we’d gotten as much as we could get from Manny’s pals. I had to get home and call all the lawyers I knew.
“Hey, do you want to come upstairs and see the view I got?” Moe asked, more relaxed now that the heavy questioning was over. “It’s spectacular. That’s what the Realtor guy called it.”
I checked out the so-called stairway that led to the loft. It was a strange arrangement where one section of ladder ended at the wall, forming a kind of landing. A second section adjacent to it spanned the distance from the landing to the loft. I didn’t need to see Denali that badly. If I did, I knew of safer lookout spots.
Chris to the rescue. “You know, Charlie, we have that appointment that we’re already going to be late for.” And to the men: “What if we do that next time? We’ll come back with a six-pack and celebrate Manny’s release.”
We left to cheers, pats on the back.
How lucky I was to be partnering with Chris, the researcher, the army vet and ex-MP, and now the spinner of yarns—an expert at getting us out of tricky situations.
* * *
* * *
The GPS had a slightly more difficult time leading us out from Moe’s property. It wasn’t programmed for reversing NEXT LEFT. NEXT RIGHT. NEXT LEFT. TRAIL. Together, though it taxed our memories, we got back onto the road and headed back to town.
“Lunch?” Chris said.
“Is that the appointment we’re going to be late for?”
“You bet.”
“I can open the diner.”
“Nah, let’s give the diner a rest. It’s had a hard week.”
There was only one other choice in Elkview, and it was a good one—Aly’s Café, on Main Street. I knew the menu by heart and decided on a chicken and asparagus crepe, coffee, and cookies. All special at Aly’s.
After our morning on what Alaskan Realtors called zero- bed zero-bath properties, Aly’s looked luxurious: a sweeping, bright room with ten or twelve tables and an espresso machine that reminded me of the one in Oliver’s kitchen. The overlapping aromas of coffee and melting butter were the perfect welcome after the stress of the morning. I thought of Manny and hoped his stress would be over soon.
I had a feeling Chris’s order was also familiar to him—a ham and cheese crepe with mustard sauce. At one time Mom had tried buying cookies from Aly to sell at the Bear Claw, but the investment proved too costly and she returned to in-house baking whatever she offered for sweets. Like the amazing cherry cheesecake mousse that Oliver introduced and then wanted deleted from the menu. That little issue still bothered me.
Since there was no one waiting for a table, we sat for a while with our devices and planned our next moves. I spent some time reconnecting with lawyers I knew. Even if Manny had asked for a public defender, it would be some time before he’d be assigned one. I hoped to head that off with someone I knew and trusted.
Chris worked on a list of questions to ask Manny.
“I’d like to know how Manny got from checking out orphanages and foster homes to a magazine with a list of chefs,” he said, as if talking to himself, his fingers attacking the keys of his laptop. I couldn’t imagine how that was helping him resolve his issue, but then, I wasn’t a researcher.
I struck out with the first attorney, whose voicemail directed me to call the number of her assistant. Then more failures in the form of, “Nice to hear from you, but I’m crazy busy.” I was about to give up when I got a call back from Willow Yazzie, a former classmate, and one who’d actually finished law school and passed the bar. She’d set up practice in Anchorage. For some reason, Willow thought she owed me a favor from our law school days and was willing to meet with Manny, and represent him pro bono if it came to that. Whatever I did for Willow back then had paid off, even if I couldn’t recall what it was.
Now I was eager to visit Manny and tried to hurry Chris along. But he wasn’t ready, so I moved to another table, where there was a nearby charger for my smartphone. I checked in with Mom and Annie, who sent a quick text back, complete with misspellings.
All ok. Here with your mom and gert. Couldn’t conect with K and S in Anchorag.
I couldn’t put my finger on why, but seeing the text gave me a feeling of relief. At some level, I didn’t want my mom to be involved in these interrogations. I wanted her back on the Danube with Dad, or at home, taking a nap with Benny on her lap. Maybe I would just put my foot down and tell her that at dinner this evening. She was too old for this. Or, rather, I was too young, and still needed her.
And me?
What should I be doing instead of acting like a trooper’s deputy?
How about some work that would benefit the diner that was now mine? Looking to fill the vacancy left by my head chef, for one thing. What was it that all the books I’d read on management said? Promote and market your business, keep statistical and financial records, assess and improve profitability, network with customers, employees, suppliers, and sales representatives. In general, make improvements to the running of the business and develop the restaurant.
Had I done any of that? Not really. Not with any enthusiasm. I couldn’t really blame the investigation of Oliver’s death for my shortcomings, however. I’d been coasting on my mom’s great legacy.
It was time I took the reins.
Right after I helped Manny get out of trouble.
NINETEEN
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in the Elkview station house. Like most police and state trooper stations in Alaska, ours was a simple low wooden building marked by an enormous metal tower with a dish antenna at the top. And lots of parking spaces.
When I first arrived in San Francisco after culinary school, people would ask me, “What’s the main difference between here and Alaska?” Expecting, probably, “the weather,” or even specifically, “ice and snow” or “it rains all year.”
But I’d answer, “The parking.” My cocktail party line was always, “In SF, there’s one parking spot for every one hundred drivers. In Alaska, it’s the opposite.”
That might have been an exaggeration to get a laugh, but it didn’t seem like one when you were driving around a couple of blocks of San Francisco hills four times, hoping to catch someone just leaving a spot.
Chris parked the Outback in one of the one hundred spots open in front of the station house. Again, a slight exaggeration.
“Are we ready for this?”
I nodded. I hoped I wouldn’t break down if I saw Manny in dire straits. But what other kind could he be in?
“Do we even know whether Manny has been arrested? Did Trooper just take him in for questioning?” I asked Chris, who seemed so much more in tune with this kind of situation, former MP that he was.
“We don’t know,” he said, furthering my discomfort. “Trooper didn’t handcuff him, but it was two to one, with the deputy backing him up—and where was he going to run anyway?—so that doesn’t mean much.”
Great.
I bundled up, though it was all of ten feet to the front door. Scarf, gloves, hat, a complete set knitted by Annie years ago when she thought San Francisco might be colder than Alaska. But it was a good thing I was protected, since the sign on the door said USE NEXT ENTRANCE, with an arrow pointing to the right. That meant an extra ten feet.
>
“They’re just trying to make it hard for us,” I told Chris. “What if they don’t let us see him?”
“What if they do?”
Now he was just being annoying.
* * *
* * *
We were both right, in a way. A woman who seemed to be falling apart in tune with the building’s peeling paint on the outside and shabby furniture on the inside ushered us into a small, unpleasant room that was surely designed to be a deterrent to committing a crime and ending up here ever again. She told us we’d be able to see Manny in a little while and asked if we wanted anything to drink. Water? Coffee?
She seemed relieved that we were both “good, thank you.” I couldn’t have been more grateful for that second espresso at Aly’s. Or for the diner dessert waiting for us at home.
Happily, she hadn’t taken our devices from us, though she did act suspicious of us until she was able to close the door behind her. Chris and I got to the task of making calls, checking boxes on our to-do lists.
I had a text from Willow, reminding me to advise her new client not to talk to anyone, specifically law enforcement. I hoped we weren’t too late on that score. Willow promised to leave Anchorage first thing in the morning. I said I’d meet her here, thus committing myself to another stint in this room.
After what felt like hours, I wandered into the hall in search of the woman who came with the building, to try to get a message to Manny. Something like “Don’t talk until you see me.” No luck, however. I noticed her desk looked to be locked up for the night, though it was only midafternoon.
Josh Peters, Trooper’s deputy, appeared and caught me reading the bulletin board we’d passed on the way to the waiting room. The notices were a mishmash of good news (a bake sale to benefit the local grammar school and another for law enforcement widows and orphans) and bad news (several overlapping WANTED posters). Did I want to know what they were wanted for? I decided against reading the fine print.
“Can I help you with something, Charlie?” Deputy Josh asked me.
I supposed What do you think? would not be a good response. I needed him on my side. Josh had that fresh-out-of-the-academy, or even fresh-out-of-high-school look, with blond hair and pink cheeks that looked like they’d never felt the blade of a razor.
“I was wondering when we might see Manny? Arnold Quinlan?”
“I know who he is. He should be ready for you in a few minutes.”
I didn’t like his attitude, but I was trying to be sensible. I realized another not-good response was probably Can you tell him not to talk to any cops or troopers?
I settled on “Can you tell him his lawyer will be here first thing in the morning?”
I hoped that covered the law about not questioning someone who’s asked for a lawyer. Surely, if I announced that his lawyer was on her way, that meant he’d asked for one. Maybe if I’d stayed in law school one more semester, it would have paid off today.
Josh nodded. He didn’t say yes or no. I suspected he wasn’t sure of the law, either.
Back in the waiting room, I reported on my adventure to Chris, who was half-asleep, thanks to an overheated room. It was often that way in states that had winter—you were always going from too cold to too warm and back again.
I took a seat, resigned to however long it would take to see Manny. Annie texted again for her and my mom, taking the rules seriously. That was Annie. I felt bad that she had to deal with this at the same time that Pierre was on his way out of her life, but maybe the investigation was a good distraction.
As for me, I wanted him gone, the sooner the better. I needed Annie to come out of this, whatever it was, with nothing even close to heartbreak. Peine d’amour. Why did I remember that, and not much else, from high school French with Mademoiselle Martine? Maybe because I’d had some peine d’amour myself, not that long ago?
When the lady who’d closed up her desk showed up in the doorway of the waiting room, alone, her hands crossed in front of her wide midriff, I knew what was going on.
“I’m sorry,” she said, showing no such emotion. “Visiting hours are over.”
I felt my face redden, even more than it was from the overheated room.
“I don’t see hours posted,” I said, pretending to examine the bare dingy walls, looking for signs that verified her announcement.
“You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I’d like to speak to your boss,” I said.
I felt Chris’s hand on my shoulder, pressing me toward the door. “You know what?” he said to the matron. “We’ll be back. What’s a good time?”
“Any time,” she said.
“This is any time and you’re throwing us out. Any time can be now, right?”
“Thanks,” Chris said, nodding to the woman. He continued to steer me in the direction of the hallway that led to exiting the building.
“Is Trooper Graham around?” I asked over my shoulder. One last attempt to gain some respect.
But she had already turned away, her head shaking like a bobblehead doll.
Chris finished his job of keeping me out of jail, his hand on my shoulder until we were clear of the building.
“Charlie. Think about it. Josh What’s-His-Name is on duty,” he said, when we were in the parking lot, out of earshot. Unless that big tower of an antenna was a listening device. “He’s her boss at the moment. He wasn’t about to give us access.”
“Coward that he is. His name’s Peters.” Spoken through my teeth.
“I know his name. Why give him any more power? We’re coming back with Lawyer Willow, anyway, right?”
“Right.”
I buckled into my Outback and crossed my arms over my chest. The memory of Kendra Burke doing a similar thing to us in Anchorage earlier in the week only caused me to fume more intensely. I started on a plan, to tell Trooper what had transpired, to ask him to reprimand his station house crew, to do something.
Chris had started the vehicle but left it in park. “Go ahead, scream. You know you want to,” he said, and covered his ears with both hands.
I had to laugh. “Let’s go,” I said. “You’re losing valuable steering wheel heat.”
* * *
* * *
Thanks to the stiffing we received at the Elkview station house, we were early for the planned dinner meeting at my house. Chris dropped me off at home, transferred himself and his belongings to his pickup, and left to run errands.
I was glad for a little free time to work on two very important goals before the crowd gathered. One, to bond with Benny, and two, to sift through the papers Victor had tossed in the trash as soon as he heard Oliver wouldn’t be returning to the Bear Claw. I had a feeling there were only bills, paid or unpaid, and junk mail Oliver hadn’t gotten around to dumping in the trash outside the diner. Still, it was a loose end I needed to take care of.
Benny heard my key, of course, and greeted me as if he (a) loved me and (b) wanted food he couldn’t reach. The Special of the Day was a treat my mom had whipped up, made of salmon, eggs, and flour and baked in a standard temperature oven. Mom winged it with most of her cooking and baking. If I wanted an exact recipe, with measurements, I’d have to watch her the next time she prepared it. Whatever it was. For now, I poured out the last crunchy pieces of the salmon treat into Benny’s bowl and watched him enjoy them.
I took out the wire wand with a feather, beads, and bells, the old-fashioned kind without a motor, one he’d had since the day I met him. I waved it around in wide arcs and watched him jump for the neon green feather. Definitely more exercise for him than for me. I was glad he still enjoyed it. After about five minutes, when Benny decided to sit and watch the action around him instead of attacking, I put the wand down and moved him toward the last crumbs of his salmon treat.
I’d read a story in a pet magazine about a cat who’d saved the fam
ily silver collection. Taffy, of Cleveland, Ohio, was home alone when an intruder broke in. The thief began stuffing a sack with items from the dining room hutch. A large teapot, a vase, a pitcher, silverware, candlesticks, trays. Even Taffy’s silver bowl, taken out on special occasions, went into the sack. Taffy took a flying leap, jumped on the culprit’s back, scratched at his neck, and wouldn’t let go. Or so the story went, although all the parents saw when they arrived home was a man passed out on the dining room floor. They guessed that Taffy’s attack caused the thief to stumble and hit his head on the mahogany table.
I looked down at Benny, now moving toward my lap. “You could do that, right, Benny?” I asked. “It would be a piece of cake for you. Not that you like cake.” I lifted him and we sat chatting for a while. Solving the world’s problems with my beautiful orange and white tabby seemed easier than solving the local problem of who murdered my friend.
* * *
* * *
I woke from a short nap to find Benny asleep, having made himself comfortable on top of the box containing the crystal dinner bell Mom had brought me from her shopping excursions dockside. I’d stuffed tissue paper on top of the open box, providing just the right amount of crinkle, thus forming the perfect ad hoc bed for him.
I made myself a mug of coffee and took my overstuffed tote bag to a comfortable chair. I took advantage of the opportunity to clean out the wrappers, cough drops, tissues, and loose change that had accumulated over a week or more, which left me with the papers from Oliver’s desk drawer.
I had no expectations of finding anything as interesting as what I’d discovered in the secret drawer at the bottom of Oliver’s bedroom chest. We’d yet to follow up on the two-volume potential cookbook, which was on my dining room table. Had Oliver ever published the cookbook? When? Under what name? The to-do lists seemed to keep getting longer, which was not the typical fate of to-do lists.
Mousse and Murder Page 18
