Then to Arvid, "I'll see if I can drop my budding artist here at a playmate's house. After that, you and I can run over and make growly noises at the White Bison Bed and Breakfast. Maybe we can turn up Amber's belongings."
"Sure. Hey, after that how about we hit the Calico for lunch?"
"Sounds like a plan. While we eat, you can educate me about these so called works of art you and Jessie think are worth making such a fuss over."
After lunch, Arvid and Russell stood side by side under the wagon wheel chandelier in the rustic lobby of the White Bison Inn. They had their arms folded across their chests and feet spread wide, looking at the B&B owner, Clarence Vilhauer. Both men treated Vilhauer to their best 'annoyed cop' expression.
"But it wasn't a dark haired Indian girl like the fellow on the news said you were looking for, so why would I call you?" Vilhauer whined. "I'm telling you, the only lone female who stayed here that night was white. She was white. A tiny blonde woman, older than college age, with a mop of curly hair. Sexy gal. The name she gave was Monette Weber. She didn't have a reservation. She said she saw our sign out on the highway. I always ask how they heard about the B&B, because I like to know where my ad money does the most good."
"Was she alone?" Russell asked eagerly.
"Yes, but she did say a friend would be sharing the suite, so I should plan on two for breakfast." The pot-bellied man gave an exasperated shake of his head, causing both chins to quiver like poorly set gelatin. "Heck, I figured some guy was going to show up and join her, but not even the girl turned up for breakfast."
"Did she tell you she might miss breakfast?"
Vilhauer shook his head in the negative and grimaced. "And I'd made my signature French toast, potato pancakes and enough Canadian bacon to feed all of Edmonton—even fresh squeezed orange juice. My potato pancakes alone are worth getting up for. You see, I take the potatoes and grate—"
"Did Monette Weber give you the name of the friend who'd be joining her?" Russell interrupted.
"No. And I didn't ask. I didn't need it, and I try to be circumspect. People like their privacy." He looked down at his feet, shuffling one foot. "But like I said, the way girls are nowadays, they're so slutty, I figured it would be some guy."
"That happen a lot here, Mr. Vilhauer?" Russell asked with slanted eyes.
Vilhauer held both hands out palm forward. "We don't encourage that kind of behavior here. I run a clean place. But man, that blond was hot." The man gave a lecherous leer and fanned his face with a pudgy hand. "Woman like that wouldn't be alone for long, if you know what I mean."
"Hmph. Did you notice if she had anyone come and visit during her stay, even for a few minutes?" Arvid asked.
"Nobody I noticed. Course, they could have come in by the back stairs. Most guests use the entry by the parking lot."
"How about your check-in process, Mr. Vilhauer? Do you have contact information and a vehicle listed?"
"Yep. I have an address in Denver listed as her place of residence. I can pull the info up for you, and the vehicle was . . . let's see. Hmmm." He thumbed through an old fashioned rolodex. "Yeah, she had a motorcycle. Little tiny gal like that, and she had a big Harley. Well, big for a little slip of a thing like her, anyhow. It looked like the one they call an Iron 883." He shuffled his foot. "Used to ride myself," he said.
"We'd like the license number she gave you for the cycle, and can we look at the room she used, sir?" Russell asked.
"Uh, sorry. I can make a copy of this for you, but she paid for the room with cash, and we didn't write down anything except 'motorcycle.' Oh, but I recall they were Colorado plates. You can look at the room. But you'll be disappointed. Nothing was left behind, and we cleaned it the next morning. Several guests have used that room since then."
Russell and Arvid looked at Vilhauer expectantly. The man sighed, opened a drawer and withdrew a key.
"But, I'll be happy to let you in. It's empty right now, anyway."
Arvid and Russell followed Vilhauer down a wide hallway covered in cedar and decorated with framed photographs of nostalgic Montana ranch scenes, mostly cattle drives and cowboys. Stopping at room six, he inserted the key and pushed the door open, gesturing for them to enter. The room was a double. A multicolored log cabin quilt covered each queen bed, and a snowy white sheepskin rug was tossed with elegant casualness over the end of each.
"We couldn't get a white buffalo, of course, so we made do with sheepskins," Vilhauer commented. "Heck, most tourists think they're the real deal. I'd like to know where they think all the albino buffalo come from. I mean, duh."
Fifteen minutes were enough for Russell and Arvid to completely search the room. Nothing. No sense trying for prints, either. The room had been used by other visitors, and the maid informed them she had wiped every slick surface, including door knobs and faucets, with cleanser after each guest's departure. It was a total bust.
"Well, at least we know she wasn't traveling alone," Russell said. "Let's call Blanche and have her contact the Denver P.D. with Monette's address. See if they've located Monette Weber's grandma—and find out if she knows where she is. If they have, we can ask the granny to email us a couple recent photos of Monette. Also contact info. Pics of her closest friends. We can print the photos out and come back with them—make sure Vilhauer identifies the one of Monette as the right person. Have him look at the other photos, too, just in case he's seen one of them hanging around."
"I'll do that." Arvid pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed the station number and waited for Blanche to pick up. His stomach rumbled, and he grimaced at Russell. "Need some lunch. Remember, today's the day Alice makes her famous huckleberry pie. Cuts it into six pieces, too, not eight."
"What's this?" A cranky sounding female voice said. "Now you're calling me to give me menu information? By god, now I got a hankering for a piece of Alice's huckleberry pie. You'd better bring a piece back for me."
"Oh, sorry about that, Blanche," Arvid said. "Didn't hear you pick up." He relayed Russell's requests. "If we can't get the photos from the granny," he said, "call Jack Reynolds and see if Amber's parents can locate some and email them to us."
Then he ended the call as Blanche said, "Don't forget, Arvid. Huckleberry pie."
Arvid muttered under his breath. Then gave a disgusted shake of his head.
"So Russell, how about that lunch? And don't let me leave Alice's without an extra piece of pie. Blanche don't like me much, so I'm trying to earn a few brownie points. Course, maybe she just don't care for big, good looking Norwegians."
Grant Kennedy looked through the box again, disappointed, thinking he must have missed something. Blanche had helped him locate the archived files from 1915 to 1930—old musty boxes he hauled up one at a time from the basement storage area and set on a folding card table in Blanche's office. The boxes smelled of mildew and were stuffed with disorganized, hand-scrawled notes on yellowed paper. A few folders included crackled black and white photos. But none of the archives held anything whatsoever from 1918 to 1924.
He looked over at Blanche, who sat reading a romance novel, the genre evident by the amorous couple pictured on the book jacket. The big woman's face wore a rapt expression.
"Blanche," Grant began, "Was there a fire in which Sage Bluff records may have been destroyed? Or somewhere else old file folders may have been stored?"
"Not that I know of, Agent Kennedy," Blanche said in her little girl voice.
"Well, unfortunately, the years I need don't seem to be in these files."
"Would you like to go back downstairs and look again? I'll come with you."
"Maybe," Kennedy said. "Yes, I think we'd better check one more time. See if the files from those years wound up in the wrong box."
"Sure," Blanche said, looking up at him over her reading glasses and fluttering her lashes. "I'm real good at searching the records. If they're there, I will absolutely find them for you. Absolutely. But, I think that someone back then probably just didn't think they
were worth keeping."
"You might be right, but I'll feel better if we do a more thorough search, Blanche, if you don't mind." Grant pushed his chair back and stood, raising his arms in a stretch that tightened his blue dress shirt over a muscled chest.
"Oh, no, honey," Blanche said in a simper. "I really don't mind a bit."
Grant reached the door to the basement ahead of Blanche, opened it and reached into the gloomy space. He yanked the pull chain, which turned on one bare light bulb to illuminate the steep steps.
As they trudged down the dingy stairway, he heard Blanche mutter enigmatically, "Maybe I'd even go five hundred."
Chapter 21
Calico Café, Sage Bluff, present day
Arvid put down his cell phone. Russell looked questioningly at him, raising one eyebrow. "She's fine. She was calling from Inspiration Point. She had a flat on the Greyhawk."
"Well, heck, I suppose she needs someone to go get her? That's the trouble with her running around all over the country by herself. Women!"
"Anybody can have a flat, Russell. A good Samaritan changed it for her, some burly guy who runs his own mechanic shop in Tennessee."
"Hmph," Russell said.
"He thought the tire might've been ruined on purpose. I think we should have Lou down at the repair shop take a look, just out of curiosity."
"We could, but stuff like that happens all the time. It doesn't mean someone was out to cause Jessie trouble. Especially not way in Yellowstone." Then he squinted at Arvid. "You realize you have a big glob of huckleberry or something on your uniform? What'd you do, bring Blanche's piece of pie back on your shirt?"
"Oh, poop," Arvid said looking gloomily down at the uniform shirt stretched over his girth. "Good thing I have a spare uniform in my office closet. I'll have to drop this by the cleaners on my way home."
"Say, Arvid." Russell said with a puzzled expression on his face, "Why was Jessie calling you, anyhow?"
"She said she was just checking in. Wanted to let us know she was on her way back."
"But she must have had your number with her."
Arvid scratched his head. "Nah, probably got it from Blanche or looked it up on one of those smart phones. Hey," he said, changing the subject, "Next thing you know, they'll have a smarty phone app that can air up your tire if you get a flat."
Chapter 22
Abrahmsen's home, present day
Esther Abrahmsen stepped over a cockapoo the color of a dirty mop stretched out by Arvid's foot. "Shoo, Minnow." She fluttered her hand at the little dog. "Shoo!" The dog squinted its eyes, flopped one paw over its face, and rolled to its side on the hardwood floor. She scowled at the dog, then at her husband, setting the plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes down in front of Arvid with a thump, accentuating her displeasure.
"I know you're worried about Jessie O'Bourne, but why on earth are you suspicious of Russell? You can't seriously think that nice man had anything to do with that poor grad student's attack. For Pete's sake, he's a fine cop. And Russell is your friend."
Esther walked back to the stove to dish her own plate. Arvid's eyes followed her with appreciation. Today, Esther had on designer jeans that fit snug against her willowy form, and a black knit top decorated with music notes, treble and bass clef symbols. Her white hair was cropped short, spiked with gel into a punk rock look. Several bangle bracelets hung from one wrist. She looked back over her shoulder at him, waiting for his response.
"Are you listening to me, Mister?"
"Ja, I know, I know," Arvid said in a placating tone. "Amber could've been attacked by someone we don't have on our radar. But the girl told Jessie O'Bourne she was afraid of the police. Deathly afraid, Jessie says. The two rookies we have on night duty are cleared. They both have ironclad alibis for the night of the attack."
"What kind of alibis?"
"A three car pile-up out on the highway and they were stuck until the tow trucks hauled the totaled cars away."
"So you're thinking the only one left is Russell?" She gave him a look of disgust. "Heck, you aren't even thinking about Baxter. It could be a cop from Baxter. "Russell might have an alibi—"
He looked at Esther with the expression of a child whose brother just ate his chocolate Easter rabbit. "Russell is the only one who don't have an alibi. Just says he was home with his son. I hate feeling suspicious of Russell. He's a likable guy, and he gets his job done. That little boy of his is great. Russell takes good care of him, too. But, Esther, I'm just saying, what if?"
"What if? 'What if' seems to be your catch phrase lately, Arvid. You think Russell hit that girl on the head and left her for dead? I know you. Even after six years, you're still thinking of Jessie's brother again, thinking Russell had something to do with his accident, aren't you? Am I right, Arvid?"
"Huh," Arvid grunted, frowning down at the laden plate. "Yup." Arvid gave his plate an even dirtier look, the schooled his features into a bland expression and looked up at her. No sense making her mad as hell.
Esther nudged mop dog with her foot. Minnow rolled again onto his back and curled his front paws over his chest. "Aren't you ready to let go of that idea? In the past six years, you've never found anything to indicate it was anything other than a tragic accident. Not one thing, Arvid. And you've been feeding this moocher at the table, haven't you?"
"Hmmm," Arvid muttered noncommittally. He looked around the cheerful kitchen, thinking about his friendship with Russell. He wondered how he could care so much about another person, but when it came to trusting him, it read like a whole different book. Kevin's death had somehow slammed a door between himself and Russell. And driven an even bigger wedge between himself and Sheriff Stendahl, who had insisted Arvid close the case.
"Maybe I'm just getting paranoid as I get older, Esther, but yeah. I admit it's bothered me since the day Kevin was shot. Something about his death smelled bad as field fertilizer."
"Those two were like brothers, Arvid. You said so yourself."
"That don't matter. Look how you and that sister of yours bicker." He pointed his fork at her, a fork laden with meatloaf and dripping catsup. "You practically yank each other's hair."
"We do not," Esther said emphatically. "We just like to fuss at one another. It isn't fighting."
Arvid rolled his eyes. "Well, sometimes even brothers have major disagreements. I know they'd been at each other's throats that week because I saw Russell get right up in Kevin's face in the station parking lot. You know how Coach Anderson loses his temper and reams the referee after a bad call? Well, I only saw it through the window, but the body language was the same."
"You never mentioned that to me," Esther said in a surprised tone.
"Well, at the time I thought I was crazy to think Russell would do anything to hurt the O'Bourne family. But I asked Russell about it anyway, after Kevin died. He looked me right in the eye, Esther, and lied through his teeth, denied there'd been any argument. Lied through his teeth. To me, his friend."
"What did he say exactly, honey?"
"Said they were just talking sports." He put the forkful of food into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Russell's not only the one who found the body, but it was odd the way Russell and Kevin's fiancée Trish got married so soon after he died."
"I'll give you that point, Arvid. But maybe they were just a comfort to each other. Sometimes it happens when two people have lost someone they both cared about."
Arvid grunted and mixed melting butter into his mashed potatoes, the fork making a furrow like golden wheat in a field of snow. "Yeah, but do you think she cared about Russell? She couldn't have cared much. By God, she took off right after their son was born." He snorted. "Left Russell to raise K. D. by his lonesome. Don't think the gal's ever been back."
Arvid took a bite of the stirred, mashed potatoes. I wonder . . . . Then he put down the empty fork.
"Esther, I'm no T.V. detective, but the angle of the bullet didn't look like it could have been an accident. Nobody knew why Kevin had the gu
n in the barn to begin with. The ground around the body was disturbed, kinda like there'd been a struggle. And where the gun was laying after the so-called accident just seemed wrong." He shook his head. "Aw, I can't explain it. I guess it was more of a feeling that something was off."
"I still think it was an accident, or he committed suicide," Esther said. "People do things on impulse when they're depressed. It was too bad there was no note, but unfortunate as it is, people don't always leave an explanation for those left behind."
"Suicide. Yeah, it's sad." Arvid reached for the meatloaf dish and slid another slice onto his plate. When Esther glanced to her plate, he surreptitiously flicked a tiny piece onto the floor near Minnow.
"Suicide is a heartbreaking thing," Esther said. "Worse than an accident. Worse than murder. And I saw that Arvid Abrahmsen. You're going to make that dog fat, and guess whose turn it is to mop this weekend."
Arvid gave her sorrowful look.
"Don't give me those puppy dog eyes. It's your turn."
"Aw, okay." He grinned at her. "Anyhow, it wasn't suicide. The gun couldn't have landed where it did if Kevin shot himself, honey. Besides, Kevin had life figured out. He had a girl. He had a good job. He had good friends."
"Maybe he was depressed anyway. People get chemically depressed."
"Everyone I spoke to said they'd never seen Kevin in a gloomy mood—not ever. Oh, well, everyone except Blanche."
"Blanche from work?"
"Yeah, Blanche claims she saw Kevin down at the bank, and he was in a foul mood the day before the accident. 'He looked awful', she said. But something about it just didn't ring true."
"Why do you say that, honey?"
"Seemed to me that Blanche was just being overdramatic. Wanted to chip in her two cents just to be in the limelight for a sec." The Sheriff was satisfied, Arvid remembered. He wanted the case closed. 'Cut and dried', he'd said. "But there was something about the way Russell acted every time we discussed Kevin's accident that month that just didn't ring true, like he was acting a part."
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