In keeping with Oliver’s spirit of hiding the cookbook volumes, I decided to bury them myself. I kept a long plastic storage box under my bed, junior high style, with things that were private for one reason or another. I slid the box out now and placed the volumes next to my own diaries and letters I’d prefer were kept out of the public eye until I’d left the earth.
The trash from the diner wastebasket had held no envelope as large as the ones Oliver had used for his pseudo wills, the papers leaving his house and vehicle to Kendra. Now that I knew there was a brother as well, I wondered why Oliver had left nothing to Stanley. Nothing we’d discovered so far, anyway.
I went back to my chair and wisely positioned a wastebasket near it. To the personal debris from my tote, I added a catalog of kitchen supplies with items circled that would never be bought. I smoothed folds and wrinkles from several coupons for ten percent off this or five dollars off that at a local grocery store, most of them expired, and scrapped them. I dumped more than one sticky note with indecipherable messages to or from Oliver.
One last bundle remained, this one with more promise: a small stack of handwritten letters. I looked at the date and stopped to do the math. The first one was dated twenty-five years ago. To Oliver, from a Genevieve Moreau, return address in France.
What right did I have to read a personal letter, especially one that Oliver chose to keep handy, so to speak, in his locked desk drawer at work? What possible connection could this have to his murder a quarter of a century later? But I couldn’t rule anything out, I reasoned. It wasn’t as though I was going to use the contents of the letters for a nefarious purpose, or to embarrass him in any way.
I opened the first envelope and found a letter, in French. So much for that, unless I could catch Pierre before he drove off toward the aurora borealis. There were three more from Genevieve, all around the same date, all in French. The writing was dramatic, as the sentiment seemed to be, with some words underlined, or all in uppercase. The last one, the shortest one, was mostly in English. I smoothed it out on my lap and read:
Ollie dear,
Ah, le livre de cuisine.
I am sorry I can not convaincs you to stay, mon amour.
But I understand. You do not feel safe from M. P. M.
I will say it. He is NOT a nice man.
But why can you not burn the book? Then he would leave you alone.
Surely there are other books de cuisine?
Peut-être one day you and I will be together. If not in this life . . .
G.
How sad. I hated the fact that Genevieve and Oliver would never be together. There was no longer any doubt that Oliver had been running from someone, or had told G. that he was running from someone, and had still been running. From someone with the initials M. P. M. I didn’t want to dwell on what she might have meant by the last phrase.
A lot of help that was. There was no one on our suspect list with first initial M, except Manny, and his real name was Arnold.
Maybe Miss, or Mademoiselle Genevieve was no longer with us either. Even so, I was very sad after reading the letter and thought hard about whether I needed to have the other letters translated. Could there be a clue, beyond the initials of who was after Oliver? Who was to say that M. P. M. had come to Alaska to murder Oliver? Why now? Maybe he had never left France? Was he, or she, French or American or some other nationality altogether? Was M. P. M. also a chef? The culinary school attracted students from all over the world.
I knew enough French to able to translate the first sentence—who didn’t understand that cuisine was related to food and cooking? It was practically an English word. It wasn’t much of a leap to connect this letter, and the reason Oliver was running, to the cookbook we’d found hidden in his home.
The most immediate question was whether to share the letters with any of the team. Mom, surely, but who else was completely trustworthy? Chris was close. Annie was even closer, but she wasn’t always rational when she was involved, or wanted to be involved, with a guy. Pierre would come in handy at this point, translating Genevieve’s letters, but his rapport or lack thereof with Benny hadn’t been tested.
After my experience at the station house, how could I even trust Trooper? Not that he was untrustworthy exactly, but there was his allegiance to the law to consider. And Deputy Josh was a huge question mark for countless reasons.
Not that any of them were likely Oliver’s killer, but there was more at stake if Oliver’s personal letters were at risk of going public. Too lazy to return them to my under-the-bed box, I slipped them back into my now clean and orderly tote, their disposition to be determined later.
I thought back on my to-do list. Victor was still a question mark. I couldn’t see myself having a serious conversation with him, asking him for an alibi.
All of this mistrust left a bad taste in my mouth. One that might be overcome only by my secret stash of Belgian chocolates. I made sure Benny was out of the room when I opened the cabinet, just in case his superpowers were at the ready.
TWENTY
It didn’t take long for my house to smell like the Bear Claw at dinnertime. Fortunately, I liked the aromas that filled the air in my diner. Mom had come back from her travels with Annie and immediately started on the next meal. I figured that, unlike my dad, she was not crazy about cruise fare.
“Too fancy,” she’d said on the phone the first night. “Who needs food you can’t pronounce?” She’d paused. “Oh, I know. Your father. I’m hoping he’ll have had enough steak and French sauce for the rest of the year.”
Mom prided herself on her many recipes for moose meat, and mooseloaf was one of her favorites. Throw in red potatoes and carrots, suitably seasoned, around the sides of the pan, and it was a meal that was hard to beat for most Elkview born-and-raised.
While the oven was doing its thing, the other members of the team checked in, depositing their contributions to the meal. Annie arrived with a green salad she’d thrown together that looked like a menu photo from a classy restaurant. Chris was a little late because he had to finish a story for the morning edition of the Bugle, but he’d picked up a loaf of Italian bread and a bunch of flowers on the way. Irises, which I’d admired the day we took that side trip to Eklutna Lake. I told myself not to make too much of the gesture, but it was hard not to.
Trooper came empty-handed except for his hat and a sheepish grin. When he called Chris and me aside, I was pretty sure what to expect.
“I understand things didn’t go well for you this afternoon?”
“You mean that we were treated like not even criminals should be treated?” I asked. “Oh, and by a couple of people whose salary I contribute to? Is that what you mean?”
“That’s what I mean,” Trooper said, while Chris smiled.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I told Chris.
“Sorry,” Chris said. “I was as upset as you were, but I didn’t see the point in burning that bridge.”
“The old Charlie is back,” Trooper told Annie and my mom, who’d come to see what the fuss was about. “For a while, I thought you’d lost your spirit,” he said to me.
“Believe me, if Chris hadn’t held me back, more of my spirit would have been all over that dingy building.”
“Why don’t we all have a seat while dinner’s cooking?” Mom said.
In other words, Calm down, Charlie, is what Mom meant.
Maybe I did overreact, but Trooper had brought up the station house issue. And I had already calmed down a bit, thanks to Benny, who had since wandered off. Although he liked Annie and Trooper and potentially Chris separately, Benny tended to retreat when there were too many people in the house at the same time.
I suspected he was in the back bedroom, Mom’s at the moment, where I’d installed his new tree, one more elaborate than I’d ever have bought. A friend from San Francisco had sent it to
him when she heard Benny had come to live with me. More of a cat condo than a cat tree, the plush brown residence had a small “house” on the middle level, where he often slept. The other levels had different swinging items. A mouse. A fish. A ball. Very scratchable mesh ladders connecting all the levels. My friend had offered to sign Benny up for extensions if he asked for them. I checked the literature that accompanied the complex and saw that “extensions” meant more levels, another house, more hanging attractions. I declined for now. I wouldn’t want to spoil him.
“Let’s see if we can make it up to you tomorrow,” Trooper said, taking me away from my imaginings about how Benny might be enjoying himself on the elaborate tree in the back room and to what the rest of us had been talking about. “You have an attorney coming in from Anchorage to represent Manny?”
“If they let us in.”
“Now, Charlie,” Mom said.
“I know. Trooper is playing nice, so I should, too.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Annie called out. She’d slipped away at the first sign of discord, much like Benny.
“Just in time,” someone said, as we moved to the chairs around the dining room table.
* * *
* * *
Chris and I started off the business part of the evening with a recap of Manny’s fate, which our team, as we liked to call it, had been informed of, one at a time. We agreed we would not spread it around. We reported on the meeting with Moe and Jack. Thinking back, all we’d gotten from them was the content of the phone call between them and Manny. We’d learned what got him pulled into the station house—the fingerprints in Oliver’s garage and the missing gun—which, of course, Trooper would have been able to share.
Trooper wasn’t talking much, however, at least not right away.
I was tempted to expound in more detail on the travesty at the station house, but what would have been the point? There was always tomorrow morning to set it right.
Mom and Annie had the most interesting and informative day. They were ready with a full report on Lana and Gert, Oliver’s most recent girlfriends.
“Gert admitted that she was planning on leaving town with Oliver,” Mom told us. “She wasn’t sure why Oliver had to leave on such short notice. At first he said he was just getting tired of the cold and asked if she would be interested in moving with him.”
“All she knew was that he was headed for one of the lower forty-eight,” Annie added. “But she was willing to go along with him wherever, even though she had a feeling he was running away from something. Or someone.” She took a deep breath and smiled a longing smile. “It was so romantic.”
Sure. Romeo and Juliet romantic, I thought. And we all know how that ended.
“Gert was very apologetic. She was especially sorry she lied to you, Charlie. She forgot she’d already made something up about why she was looking for Oliver. And then she was so upset about Oliver’s death, she gave out a different reason,” Mom said. “She honestly didn’t know what had spooked Oliver. I’m tempted to believe her.”
“Me, too,” Annie said. “And, not that it matters right now, but Gert said she wasn’t lying about no longer working on the drive-in theater.”
Gert’s story would account for the lack of luggage and clothing in Oliver’s house. Since the heavy clothing was still in his hallway, I suspected they were headed far south, maybe diagonally opposite Alaska. Say, Florida? It was impossible to know.
I was sorely tempted to mention the letters from Genevieve, but I wanted to talk to Manny before spilling out any more of Oliver’s secrets. If Manny had no clue about M. P. M. or Genevieve, I’d rethink my strategy.
“The same with Lana,” Mom added when Annie had finished. “I would definitely cross her off the list. She’s practically engaged to a guy who’s been helping with her online business and was just coming back from a crafts show in Fairbanks with him over the weekend.”
“I just don’t see her dropping in on Monday afternoon to kill Oliver,” Annie added.
We were inclined to agree.
It was time to get something from Trooper. He did have two helpings of mooseloaf, after all, and was already asking about dessert.
“Did you say that Oliver’s vehicle, his new SUV, was found near his body?” I asked.
“I never said.”
“Well, can you say now?”
Everyone laughed, which was a nice cover for my total lack of humor.
“I guess I ought to contribute a little to the discussion, huh? If I want some of that surprise dessert you were talking about.”
“We didn’t talk about dessert,” Mom said.
“Well, you could now.”
More laughter as Annie confessed that, besides the cherry cheesecake mousse, there was rhubarb pie, a Trooper favorite. “I’ll dish it out,” Annie said, already on her way to the kitchen. “But talk loud enough so I can hear. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“We did find Oliver’s vehicle a few yards from his body,” Trooper said.
“Was it by any chance packed with luggage—clothes and stuff maybe?” Chris asked.
“Maybe.”
“Trooper!” I’d been in a dustup with myself not to lose it. Trooper wasn’t helping.
“Okay, I guess I owe you that much. Oliver’s SUV was packed, all right. But not the way you’d expect if he’d really planned it out. Things were just kind of thrown in a couple of suitcases, some duffel bags. It was almost as if he were going on vacation rather than moving. No household things, for example. No bedding. Bare minimum toiletries.”
Chris and I glanced at each other. We’d both already guessed some of that. We’d seen the array of appliances and specialty kitchenware in Oliver’s house. The setup looked as complete as you’d find with any major supplier, wholesale or retail. And the bed wasn’t stripped. Neither was any small furniture missing, items you might take with you on a permanent move.
“That’s not the way Oliver would have packed if he weren’t in a big hurry,” Mom said. “And in so much of a hurry that he didn’t pick up Gert.”
“Or he was on his way to Gert’s when someone stopped him,” Annie said, from afar. She seemed determined to stick to her romance-novel approach.
“Was there any cash?” Chris asked.
“No cash. Not a penny,” Trooper said.
“It must have been a robbery, then,” Annie said.
“Not a robbery to start with, I’ll bet,” Mom said. “Once Oliver was no longer alive, they also took his money? What kind of people are we dealing with?”
It wasn’t very often that I saw my mom angry, so angry that I worried about her. I moved to sit next to her and took her hand until I felt her breathing slow, and she assured me with a look that she was fine. Oliver’s death had brought out strange twists in the relationships of those he left behind. No one would have predicted that I’d be the stable one for my mom, if only for a moment.
Who was it? Who stopped him? I found myself squinting, as if by concentrating hard, I might be able to see who killed Oliver. Was it a man or a woman? Tall or short? Only one person or a group? I hated that we were barely an inch closer to finding out.
Tonight we had eliminated Manny’s two trucker pals, plus Lana and Gert. That was some progress, but not nearly enough to suit me.
As Annie was handing out dessert, Chris turned to me. “Those envelopes you found in the trash? The ones Victor tossed? Was there anything there that could help?”
I held a quick debate with myself as everyone waited for my answer.
I shook my head. “Nothing so far. Bills and things,” I said. Another not-lie, like the one I’d told my mom at the beginning of the week.
Luckily, no one pursued the topic and I didn’t have to create a bigger lie.
The meeting broke up after dessert. Chris took a call and departed first. Annie left the rest
of her salad with us but took a container of mooseloaf with her.
“I doubt Pierre has ever tasted this,” she said.
Trooper took whatever we were willing to pack for him.
“Will you be there tomorrow? At the station house?” I asked him.
It was one of those situations—he knew that I knew that he knew what I meant. Would he support our efforts to see Manny?
“What time do you figure?”
I did a quick calculation. Willow had said she’d leave first thing in the morning, which meant around eight. I needed to allow for a bit of rush hour traffic, though she’d be mostly traveling in the opposite direction.
“Around eleven should be good.”
Trooper nodded, donned his hat, and left.
As our dinner guests thinned out, Benny approached and headed for my mom’s ankles, which were in front of a sink full of dirty dishes.
I urged her to leave the dishes and come to the living room with Benny and me. “Cooks don’t do dishes, remember?”
She picked up Benny and carried him to her own old chair. “Don’t you wish he could talk?” she asked me, never breaking her scratching rhythm.
“Or at least type out a note,” I said.
“We know he’d have great advice.”
“I guess we just have to listen.”
All three of us sat back to listen to one another, no words needed.
* * *
* * *
I suppose we should make a plan for the weekend,” Mom said. We were ready for bed, saying our last good-night to Benny. “I think I’d like to go home tomorrow morning, get the house ready for your dad.”
My parents’ home, my childhood home, was less than a mile away, south of Main Street, but I knew I’d miss my mom. It had been wonderful to have her around, even though it wasn’t all cheery. I hoped I was mistaken when I thought I heard Benny utter a soft wail. It was going to be hard on him, too. I resolved to be extra attentive to him once Mom was back in her home.
Mousse and Murder Page 19
