An Old Faithful Murder

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Not much, just something a little weird …”

  “What?”

  “She said that she thinks that it’s bad for Darcy to be with his mother. That she thinks—that is, the maid thinks—that his mother drives him crazy.”

  “Why did she think that?”

  “She was nervous about mentioning it. But she explained that whenever Darcy spent much time with her, he got frantic. I asked her to be more specific, and she was hesitant to continue. But when I had convinced her that I was worried about Darcy, she told me that twice she had seen Darcy leave the room terribly upset. The first time was before six this morning, when she came on duty. She was walking down the hall when Darcy ran out of his mother’s room and down the hall to the laundry room. She went by and said he was furiously smashing his fist into the cement wall, crying horribly.”

  “My God.”

  “She waited in the hallway until the sobbing had stopped and he seemed to have gotten himself under control, and then she went in and tried to cheer him up with some small talk about cleaning or something—they’re pretty much the same age, remember.”

  “And did it work?”

  Kathleen shrugged. “She said that he seemed a little more relaxed when she left, but that a few hours later she was walking by the room, and he was screaming at his mother and then he dashed out again. That was when he left this morning, and you know how he was when you ran into him in the woods.”

  A ranger came over to add another log to the fire.

  “Got to keep this thing going with a storm coming in.”

  “Will we lose our power?” asked a man joining the group. Susan looked up at Call Me Irv. He had turned in his cowboy boots for ski boots, but the hat remained the same.

  “Very unlikely. We used to be without power for much of the winter up here, but there’s a new generator and new underground wires, and we have pretty good emergency backup equipment, so we don’t worry too much.” He slammed the door of the black stove. “But we also like to be prepared. It doesn’t pay to get too cocky with Mother Nature.”

  “But if we did lose our power …” The doctor followed the ranger back to the desk, asking worried questions as they went.

  “What an obnoxious man,” Susan commented.

  “That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. Guess who the doctor was who examined Darcy this morning?”

  “How would I …” She looked across the room. “Not Dr. Cockburn. He’s a psychiatrist, for heaven’s sake!”

  “He went to medical school.” Kathleen shrugged. “And maybe the fact that he’s a psychiatrist is a plus for Phyllis.”

  “Why?”

  “What if she thinks Darcy killed his father and she’s working on making sure that his defense is incompetence by reason of insanity? It is possible,” she added when Susan didn’t say anything.

  “I suppose so. But just because she thinks he did it doesn’t mean that he did.”

  “It must be someone in the family, Sue.”

  “There are a lot more people in that family,” Susan insisted.

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  “I think we should try to talk to each one of them today. After all, they want me to investigate, so I’ll just go ahead and investigate. Jed and the kids are going to look for moose on a ranger-led ski trip, so I’ll just go over to the lodge and start knocking on doors.”

  “Jerry could go with Jed, so if I feed Ban, I’ll be free for a while, too. What do you want me to do?”

  “Good question. Do you think they know that we investigate together?”

  “No one has mentioned it to me if they do. I suppose we could assume that they don’t. Why?”

  “I’m sure they think I’m completely incompetent, but if they find out you were once a detective in the state police and that we work together, they may change their minds.”

  “So we won’t tell them, and we’ll hope they don’t find out. I can keep asking questions, though.”

  “Fine. Too bad the rangers aren’t talking, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe there’s another way to find out what they know. The staff live together, you know—rangers and kitchen help and everyone else. I’ll try to make more contact with them.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll talk to each family member and take some notes—that way I can report what I learn to you—and you can get as much information as possible. Where shall we meet?”

  Kathleen glanced at her watch. “How about my room in two hours? If we’re done then, fine. We’ll just decide what to do next. If one of us still has more people to talk to, at least comparing notes may help us know just what to ask.”

  “Good thinking.” Susan stood up and stretched. “It feels good to get organized, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, maybe the first thing you should try to find out is just where they found Randy’s body.”

  “Oh, I know that. Everyone was talking about it back at the lodge. You must have left too early to hear the announcement. He was found by the corner of one of the cabins near the ice cream shop. The body was totally frozen and covered with a pile of snow. He had probably been there ever since he vanished.” She looked at Susan, who had resumed her seat. “Sue? Are you okay?”

  Susan looked up at her, horror on her face. “I skied into him the other day, Kathleen. I ran into his body. Only, it was soft—it wasn’t frozen. He must have just been murdered. He might not have been dead. Maybe …” She caught her breath, forcing herself to utter the thought. “Maybe if I had investigated further, I could have saved him.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “My husband is an alcoholic—although he hasn’t had a drink in years. I’m very proud of him. But he was once totally out of control; any stress at all could set off a major binge. And most of the stress came from his family. That’s one of the reasons we’ve been living abroad.” Joyce Ericksen shifted uncomfortably on the chair where she sat, and looked across the room at Susan.

  Susan had parted from Kathleen more determined than ever to find out who had murdered George Ericksen and Randy. Leaving Kathleen in the lobby, she had run into Joyce Ericksen, who, she discovered, was anxious for a chance to talk. Very anxious. It turned out that the one person in the Ericksen family whom Susan would have considered the least likely suspect had an excellent motive for murder.

  “You see,” Joyce explained, “it was his family that made Carlton crazy, and when he was crazy, he drank. And that made him more crazy.” She stared at the floor for a few minutes and then continued, her voice trembling. “Yesterday he had the first drink he’s had in years—years,” she repeated. “And it was all that man’s fault. George Ericksen was a horrible, evil man! And he did terrible things to Carlton! But my husband didn’t kill his father. He couldn’t do that! You must believe me!”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it from the beginning,” Susan urged. “I’d like to help, but I really don’t know very much about the family.”

  “I can only explain from my own point of view. And I’m afraid I’m prejudiced.” Joyce had regained control of herself.

  “Prejudiced?”

  “I hated George Ericksen. Sometimes I think I’ve grown to hate the entire family.”

  “Look …”

  “It wasn’t always like this,” Joyce went on. “When I met the Ericksens, I thought they were the most extraordinary family ever. And they were. They were enchanting.” She smiled at the memory, picking at the end of her long braid.

  “Carlton and I met during my sophomore year of college. We fell in love almost immediately, and he took me home to meet his family in June, after school ended. They’re from Chicago, you know, from one of those big suburbs that line the lake north of the city. But they had a fabulous summer house up in Door County, Wisconsin. It was actually set in the middle of a cherry orchard. It had been a long winter that year, with a late spring, and there were still blooms on the trees the day we arrived. As we drove up to the house, Phyllis, Jane, Charlo
tte, and Darcy came walking toward us through rows of pink blossoms, and I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful. To a kid from a small town in northern New Mexico, they were quite a revelation.” She smiled. “I remember thinking that they looked like an illustration in a book of fairy tales I had as a child. And about as real, I discovered later. But when George came down the steps of this gigantic log cabin dressed in jeans, a faded chambray shirt, and bright red suspenders, I was totally, completely enchanted.

  “That night, after my first sophisticated dinner ever—fabulous beef bourguignonne, salad with fresh herbs, homemade French bread, and strawberries and cream—was the first time I ever saw Carlton drunk.”

  “You mean he drank too much whenever he was with his family?”

  “Not always. Not in the beginning. I only remember one or two times that first week. Although I was just twenty, and I’m not sure I would have recognized the symptoms of a secret drunk—but I learned them later, I can tell you that.”

  “When did you get married?”

  “The next year. Carlton got his degree and was accepted for graduate school in Chicago. I transferred to Northwestern. We rented a tiny apartment with a large bay window near campus, and all hell broke loose—as they say.” She sighed. “At the time, I was so young, so immature, and so insecure that I assumed everything was my fault. But it was the drinking. And living so close to his family.”

  “I don’t understand,” Susan said, feeling guilty about intruding on what was obviously still a very real pain to this woman.

  “I think I do, but I honestly don’t know how to explain. Naturally we saw the family from time to time. And I think they were wonderful at first.” She looked out the window at skiers who were passing by. “I say I think because I’m not really sure. George and Phyllis helped us move into our apartment. George spent a day spackling and painting the walls, and Phyllis brought over her sewing machine, set it up on a card table—our only table—and made us beautiful batik curtains from fabric she had brought back with her from Thailand that summer. They were extraordinary: gold, purples, and reds printed in stars and moons and flowers.”

  “They sound remarkable.”

  “They were, but they were also very ornate—and our tastes ran more to Danish modern when we were young. In fact, Carlton hated them, not only the way they looked but because they blocked out almost all the light in the apartment. He didn’t say anything, though, but George guessed what his son was thinking and pulled him aside the day they went up, and insisted that his mother never ever find out how he felt. He really made a big deal about it, and—and what I came to think of as the inevitable happened.”

  “Carlton got drunk.”

  “Roaring. I … I don’t think I could believe it at first. We had been given a magnum of champagne as a wedding gift, and he sat in our only chair in our only room and drank the entire thing—and then threw the bottle at those curtains.” She shook her head. “It took me days to wash out the stain and sew up the rip he made in them. And I would swear that Phyllis peeked at that spot every time she came over. I hated those curtains and was thrilled when the damn things rotted. Naturally, it took years. We moved and moved, and each time Phyllis would come over and alter them and then rehang them on new windows. And she would see the patches, and George would glare at Carlton, and Carlton would get drunk, and I would sew up the new rips. I got pretty good at patchwork back in those days.” She started to laugh, surprising Susan. “I actually got interested in handwork, patching and repatching that batik. I taught patchwork and quilting and fancy stitching to a group of women in Paris. And it all started back then.”

  “Along with Carlton’s drinking.”

  “Yes. I began to dread all the inevitable family occasions—holidays, birthdays—and in a large family, there are a lot of occasions.”

  “Carlton got drunk at them.”

  “Every single one. I remember a party for Darcy. It was his ninth or tenth birthday, and he was crazy about Star Wars figures at that time.” She paused. “Anyway, Carlton got completely plastered, put on an old black cape that his father had worn as a young man, and claimed to be Darth Vader. Darcy loved it and insisted he be allowed to stay costumed no matter what his parents said. So Carlton ran around the whole house, going outside and scaring the ponies that had been hired to give the kids rides, and finally passing out in a pile of hay and manure by the driveway. It didn’t thrill Phyllis and George.”

  “No, I guess not. But why did you stay with him? Why did he stay near his family?”

  “I stayed with him because I loved him—and even then I knew a Carlton who was sober … the Carlton who wasn’t with his family. But why he stayed by his family is a more difficult question to answer.

  “I’ve thought about it for years. Maybe the answer is simple; and maybe hate is more powerful than love, and Carlton hated his father and mother. Or maybe he was more insecure than most adult children and he needed parents longer than most people. I thought they were destructive; I thought that for years. Now I don’t know. All I know is that when Carlton is with his parents, he becomes self-destructive. I don’t know why. But I don’t think it’s gotten much better over the years. Our answer was to leave. First Carlton worked on the East Coast and we saw them rarely, but then George retired, and he and Phyllis became more mobile and visited the family around the country. So Carlton got a position at the Sorbonne in Paris. Phyllis doesn’t fly, so Paris is farther away for her than for most people.”

  “And you hadn’t seen them for …” Susan began.

  “Seven or eight years. The kids have been back to the States at least once a year, and have stayed in contact with their grandparents, and aunts and uncles. Carlton stopped drinking almost a decade ago—I don’t think C.J. probably even remembers seeing his father drunk—and Carlton keeps in touch with the rest of his family through frequent letters and less frequent overseas phone calls. I know it’s a strange situation, but my family is together, and my husband is productive and sober. Being normal isn’t that important anymore.”

  “And everything was fine until this week.”

  “Yes. Everything. I was a fool to agree to this trip.”

  “How did it get arranged?”

  “I really don’t know. We moved back to the States, thinking that Carlton had the drinking under control. And we saw his parents as we passed through Chicago in the fall, and everything was fine. Then George called about a month ago and explained that Phyllis really wanted the whole family together for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. We talked it over and talked it over. Phyllis called once or twice urging us to go. It seemed that everyone else had agreed to the plan, so in the end, we did, too. Yellowstone Park isn’t a place with any family connections; there’s a lot to do here, so no one has to spend more than dinner with the family.…” She shrugged. “We really thought Carlton could handle it.”

  “And then …”

  “And then the same old things came up.” She shook her head, and Susan thought there were tears in Joyce’s eyes. “Carlton began so well. The first night here I turned around and he was standing next to his father in the lobby and they were laughing together.” A tear fell down her cheek. “I’d never, ever seen them enjoying each other—not for a single moment. It was wonderful. I was sure we’d made the right decision.

  “The next morning, I noticed a fifth of vodka wrapped in wool socks in Carlton’s drawer.” She stopped again, and Susan wondered if she was going to be able to continue. But after a moment, she did. “He didn’t drink it until yesterday. I don’t think he drank anything until yesterday. But I know enough about drunks to know that no one knows anything about them when they’re drinking.

  “But Carlton was upset over all the fighting about Darcy and Randy—we all were. And the dinners and evenings together were longer and more difficult than we had ever thought they could be. I am so thankful that your family was here—it kept our kids out of all this to a certain extent. But Heather knows her father i
s drinking again, and she’s worried about that as well as the murders.… Damn it, I would give anything to live the last month over. I wish we could go back to the beginning and decide not to come. But that’s the thing about this family. They are so damn difficult to say no to.”

  “Why?” Susan asked gently.

  “I don’t know. George talks about how hurt Phyllis will be, and Phyllis says not to worry about her, but that it’s George’s feelings we should be concerned with, and in the end, people seem to do things they don’t want to do. Talk to the other kids—they’ll tell you the same thing. It’s insane. But Carlton would never have killed his father!”

  “Then who did? It has to be a family member, Joyce.”

  But Joyce was crying too hard to answer.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Like her sister-in-law, Jane Ericksen found Susan and suggested a talk. Unlike Joyce, she was calm.

  “Mother has this idea that you could help find Father’s murderer, and she wants all of us to speak with you,” Jane explained, settling back on a leather couch in the corner of the lodge’s lounge. Today she was wearing plum leggings and a green, purple, and gold tunic with gold chains around her arms and neck. She tucked her long, elegant legs underneath her and slung one arm gracefully across the back pillows.

  Susan sat down, waited, and admired the performance.

  “I really cannot believe that someone in our family killed Father. I know that’s what that tacky little ranger Marnie thinks, but she must be wrong. After all, I’ve known these people my entire life!”

  Susan refrained from mentioning that someone had had a lifelong relationship with most murderers. She was beginning to wonder if Jane was reading from a prepared speech. She sounded more like her always-in-control sister, Charlotte. Until now, Susan had regarded Jane as the more impulsive one, but she suspected that she was going to have a difficult time finding out what she needed to know. So she sat back to listen to what Jane wanted to tell her.