Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "You mean the guy who just left? Les Trethalwyn?"

  "Yeah. So," he added, "tell me what you know."

  "I was with Twee," Finny began. "She followed me outside and I was behind Les Trethalwyn. I saw Ty and Paige out there; they were behind me." She paused. "Let's see, I've met only about a million people tonight, so the names are fuzzy. I know that the little gray man Twee was talking to when I saw you at the bar was near the front of the crowd."

  "Former Commissioner Nielsson." Barelli eyed her with respect. "Have you figured out who did it yet?"

  Finny scowled at him. "No, but if I were a betting woman, I'd put my money on Paige Dexter."

  "Why?"

  "Because she's a bitch on wheels and it's always so satisfying to put that type away."

  "Damned courts want more than that to convict." Barelli stood up and rolled his shoulders. "You want me to get somebody to drive you home?"

  "How long are you going to be?" Finny stretched her jaws in a yawn.

  "God knows. Probably it'll be dawn's early light by the time we talk to everybody at least once."

  Finny's eyes moved around the room. "Everybody who?"

  Barelli sighed. "Cleary's got a bunch down in the basement area. The 'mother-in-law apartment' is what some real estate type called it. Want some coffee? There's some down there."

  She shook her head. "I suppose you need the car." At his nod she yawned. "I think I'll take that ride. I'm supposed to build a linen cabinet tomorrow." She leaned briefly into his hand as it cupped her cheek.

  "I'll be right back." He started to turn away, then stopped at her hand on his arm.

  "Twee wanted me to work my wiles on you. She thinks you ought to let Paige Dexter go home since she and Sarandon were married."

  "I just did," Barelli said. "She and her daughter left a few minutes ago."

  "I like Cuffy. I never did get a chance to tell her how sorry I am." Finny shook her head. "What a way to have your father check out. She was already upset at the kind of publicity he was getting after the Parmetter case."

  "Yeah."

  At the flatness in his voice, Finny raised her head and looked at him. "We were talking to each other nearly the whole time her father was supposedly cleaning off the wine I spilled all over him."

  "Come on, Finny, you know how the game is played. I can't talk about any of this right now."

  "She's a good kid, Chris."

  "Uh-huh." He pulled her off the stool by one hand. "Come on, let's get you that ride."

  One of the patrolmen had brought her home, saying little, and she had tumbled into bed as the clock was chiming two. Who could find it unusual if the thought of the evening's entertainment had kept her awake until three or so?

  The faces had floated through her mind each time she'd shut her eyes. The anxiety in Cuffy's face when they'd talked about the notoriety that came with being her father's daughter; the charge in the air when Paige Dexter had greeted Ty Engelman; the trouble aging Twee Garrett's indomitable countenance. Hell and damn, and the party had been for her.

  Finny slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to eat while she drove to work and grabbed the thermos in the dish rack by the sink. She filled it with coffee, twisted the stopper tightly, and set it on the counter. She pulled out a carton of yogurt and an apple and put them in a sack. She would go to work and build a lovely, graceful cabinet for Corinne Danovich. That, at least, was something she could do.

  It was Barelli's job to sift through the snarled threads of motive and opportunity. He and Eddie and the others would reach a conclusion and that would finish it. Justice would triumph and a new cabinet would hold treasured linens. God would be in his heav'n. And William Sarandon would still be dead.

  Finny picked up her lunch and tucked the thermos under one arm, grabbing her handbag on the way out, pulling the door shut behind her. Her pickup started on the first try and she backed it into the alley. The sun was bright on the quiet streets. A dog barked down the block. She pointed herself in the direction of the Danovich three-story dinosaur on the West Side.

  Finny drove toward the mountains. Tired and sad, she was unable to erase the troubled faces from her mind.

  Chapter 5

  The shining teeth of the saw blade sliced through birch molding. Finny turned off the saw and set it down on the floor. When she blew the sawdust off the cut end, the clean, sharp scent of the wood rested on the air like sunshine.

  She whistled absently between her teeth as she climbed up the stepladder until she could reach the top edge of the linen cabinet. Roughly triangular in shape, the cabinet nestled in the northwest corner of the second-story hallway connecting the four bedrooms originally built for the daughters of Arnold Kenston, an early mercantile force in Denver's history. According to Corinne Danovich, the present owner of the house, at least one of Arnold's daughters had fully shared her father's interest in economic issues, with herself as primary commodity.

  Finny traced around the edge of the back molding with a pencil, then descended the ladder. She rummaged among her tools for her coping saw, and carefully cut along the light mark. The crown molding along the top edge of the cabinet repeated a pattern used throughout the house, particularly in the butler's pantry off the kitchen.

  She was done drilling nail holes in the molding when Corinne's reedy voice drifted up from downstairs. "There's a phone call for you, Finny."

  "I'll be right down."

  The worn Oriental runner moved under her feet on several steps as she pounded downstairs, and Finny made a mental note to tack it down.

  "It's a man. He didn't say who," Corinne murmured as Finny came into the kitchen. She was slicing up a chicken at the slate counter, her small, lined face atwitch with curiosity.

  Finny nodded and picked up the receiver. "Finny Aletter."

  "You'd better sit down, sweetheart." Barelli was definitely awake and edgy, judging by the crispness in his voice. "Twee Garrett's confessed to killing William Sarandon."

  "What?" At the shocked sound, Corinne turned toward her.

  "She and her lawyer came in about an hour ago."

  "You've got to be kidding." Finny's mind was swirling with images from the night before. "Dammit, Chris, there's no way—I don't believe it."

  "Take it easy. It's a little hard for me to swallow, too. Just a minute." Barelli had put his hand over the receiver, Finny concluded from the muffled noises in her ear. Then he was back. "The DA's office is falling all over itself. Johnny Seavers wasn't looking forward to our investigation of the country club set."

  "But why, Chris? Why? What possible reason could she have had?"

  "Evidently Judge Sarandon did dirt to Herbert Garrett some years back. Pulled out of a business deal that put Garrett in deep shit without hip boots, according to Twee. Seavers is smiling so big his gums are sunburned."

  "That's bullshit, Chris. Twee would have a hard time stepping on a spider, unless one of her pet causes were involved."

  "How much of a pet was old Herbert?"

  Corinne was keeping her eyes carefully on the knife slicing through, gristle, her narrow shoulders square with the effort at nonchalance. Finny turned her back and lowered her voice. "Revenge on the grand scale? Number one: she's about as likely a killer as Winnie the Pooh; number two: if she decided to commit murder, she damn well wouldn't do it at a party in her own home. She's not stupid or crazy, Chris."

  "Well, not stupid. I don't like the feel of it either, babe, but Seavers likes his presents wrapped and tied with a bow. Twee gave him this one and then unwrapped it for him."

  "Yeah, but wait a minute. I was there, remember?" Finny was thinking feverishly. "Twee and I split up when I ran away to hit the rest room. Then I talked to Ty and Paige came over."

  "Finny—"

  "Just a minute. Ty took about five to ten minutes. Then I ran into the judge. He chewed me out—that was about five minutes—and he left to get cleaned up. Cuffy and I talked."

  "I gotta go—"

&nbs
p; Finny's voice had slipped into retrospective abstraction. "I saw Twee when I went to the bar for refills. You were talking to Abigail Hunter. I took the drinks back, Kit showed up. Let's see, Twee ambushed me right after that. She'd been talking to Commissioner Whatsis.... When the hell could she have killed Sarandon? There wasn't any time, Chris. I'm almost sure of it."

  Barelli's voice was impatient. "But why would she say she had if she didn't?"

  "Why would she say she did if she did?" Finny countered swiftly.

  "I don't know." He was sounding harried. "Can't talk anymore, gotta go."

  At a thump from the counter, Finny glanced over in time to see Corinne halve the chicken carcass with a small cleaver. "Chris, what about physical evidence? Fingerprints, all the Sherlock stuff?"

  "The skewer was wiped, there was nothing on the body, and, given the seventeen thousand footprints around the scene, we were surprised Sarandon died of a stab wound. I've got to go."

  "Wait. What about dinner?"

  "Looks like a strong maybe. If I can't make it, I'll call. And I put a chicken in the Crockpot."

  "Swell." Finny averted her eyes from Corinne's efficient disassembly of her poultry victim.

  "I know this is tough for you. We'll talk more tonight. 'Bye."

  Finny replaced the receiver.

  "Is there a problem?" Corinne's milky blue eyes glimmered with curiosity. Her age-spotted hands had stilled on the pile of chicken parts.

  "Hmmm? Oh, no. No problem." Finny positioned the plain black telephone back in the center of its shelf. "I may have to stop a little early today. I've got some business to take care of."

  "Whatever you need to do." Corinne glanced down at her hands and began dropping pieces of chicken into a paper bag. She was a perfect accessory to the lovingly restored kitchen: gray hair in a sparse coronet, wearing a flowered housedress with a white apron and her narrow feet in no-nonsense black-laced Etta Jennicks. Her face was lined with fine tributaries etched by numerous go-rounds with experience. "I read about the judge's death." She glanced at Finny from the corners of eyes snapping with interest. "The morning paper said the party was for you."

  "Did it?" God, here we go again, Finny thought. It hadn't occurred to her to check.

  "That society writer had a whole big piece on it."

  "Could I take a look?" Tomorrow's headlines would make Abigail Hunter's story look like an Easter egg roll.

  Corinne was already wiping off her hands on a terry dishtowel. "Of course. Just let me find it." She scrabbled through the neat stack of papers on the sideboard, retrieving the relevant section with a little crow of triumph. "Here it is."

  Finny barely glanced at the formal head shot of William Sarandon displayed beside a headline in thirty-six-point type. Her eyes were skimming the article under Abigail's boldface byline.

  " '—stabbed with a skewer near the heart through his silk Gucci tie,' " Finny read aloud, subsiding into a mutter. " 'His controversial decision in the Parmetter case was cited by several sources as a possible motive... When we're ready for the press to know something, we'll tell them,' said Denver Police Lieutenant Christopher Barelli, severe in an off-the-rack gray suit." Finny threw down the paper in disgust. "Bitch. She said she'd get him."

  She retrieved the newspaper, absently folding the sheets before replacing them on the table. The whole thing was fantastic. Twee was probably capable of killing. Most people were if the right buttons got pushed. But it seemed an awfully long time between "push" and "shove." One thing was certain, though: Twee was a fierce partisan. Witness her determination to help Finny in her new career, and her belief in the goodwill of Paige Dexter (speaking of bitches), and she had been determinedly protective of Paige and Cuffy last night. How far would she go for the people she loved?

  "Corinne, I do need to leave," Finny said suddenly. "I'll be back in the morning."

  * * *

  Finny couldn't get in to see Twee. She'd raced home, assumed professional camouflage with her most conservative business suit, white silk shirt and all, and braved the elegant fortress that was the Denver Police Administration building.

  The young policewoman at the reception desk in the lobby, unmoved by her sartorial splendor, was polite but firm. "I'm sorry, Miss Aletter, but it's impossible. The only people who can see Mrs. Garrett are her lawyer and representatives of the DA's office. No exceptions."

  Barelli wasn't in and Eddie Apodaca wasn't riding a white charger when he came down from Homicide to the cavernous first floor to talk with her. His brown eyes danced in genuine amusement when she asked him to help her get to Twee.

  "Un-unh, Finny. No way, no how. This little case is hands-off territory. The DA's office is runnin' it tighter than a Gestapo fire drill."

  "Eddie, it's important that I talk to her."

  "Sorry, no can do."

  "Thanks," she said dispiritedly. She jammed her fists into her jacket pockets and turned away. Then she remembered what the officer in reception had said, and turned back. "Eddie, hold it." He stopped on his way to the elevator and waited while she crossed the floor. "If I get permission from her lawyer can I see her?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Where do I find out who's representing her?"

  Eddie wasn't smiling as he pulled a pen from his pale yellow shirt pocket. "You gotta promise no tricks."

  "Huh?"

  "Don't 'huh' me," he said grimly. "Chris may've forgot some of the stunts you pulled when Elliot Fulton was killed, but I got a longer memory. Promise."

  Finny crossed her heart, then glanced into Eddie's eyes and got serious. "I promise. Look, I just think something weird is going on here—"

  "I definitely do not want to know. Stay here a minute." Eddie walked quickly to the reception desk and spoke in a low voice to the officer behind it. She handed him the phone receiver. He was back in a couple of minutes.

  "Here's her lawyer's name, and his address. Do me a favor: forget where you got it."

  "Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate it."

  "Yeah? Then remember your promise."

  The address had brought Finny to the Denver Tech Center, a mixed architectural bag of metal and glass structures springing up on either side of I-25 like mechanistic mushrooms among the southward crawl of suburban housing developments. The offices of Bartholomew, Erickson, and Fannlowe, Attorneys-at-Law, were nestled in a building that, if supplied with booster rockets, could have spurred a whole new rash of UFO sightings. Its sheets of copper-colored glass reflected the bright afternoon light, shining heat onto rows of fast-food restaurants crouched at the edges of the capillary network of streets and overpasses radiating from the highway like split ends on a bad hairdo.

  After a forty-five-minute wait overseen by an angular, young blond woman who looked more suited to a hockey field than to the anonymous, plush furnishings of the reception area, Finny had been admitted into the inner sanctum of Twee's lawyer. And no further.

  "Miss Aletter, I haven't time to indulge in fruitless conversation." MacKenzie Bartholomew's face was closed tighter than a childproof medicine bottle. "Mrs. Garrett gave me specific instructions. She refuses to see anyone except for myself. As her attorney, I must respect her wishes."

  "Wrong. As her attorney you must act in her best interests." Finny pushed herself out of the overstuffed leather chair threatening to swallow her. She leaned against the front edge of Bartholomew's desk, a slab of black urethane big enough to go undercover as a parking lot. "Can you honestly tell me that you believe Twee killed William Sarandon?"

  "I can't honestly tell you anything," Bartholomew said precisely. "Nor will I." His bald head reflected the light of the fluorescent panels recessed in the ceiling, and his small, pale eyes glittered at her under ferocious gray eyebrows. "If that's all, Miss Aletter..."

  Finny's fist struck the desktop. "Goddamn it, you were there last night! Didn't you see her? She didn't have time to kill Sarandon and I think I can prove it. Not only is Twee screwing herself, she's keeping the police from l
ooking for the real murderer."

  Bartholomew pushed his dimpled swivel chair away from his desk and stood up. His three-piece blue pinstripe suit rearranged itself gracefully to accommodate the new position. "I suppose you think you're acting as a friend. Let me assure you that this is none of your business. I suggest you busy yourself with something else." He came around the desk. "I'll see you out." His hand closed around her arm with unexpected strength, and he urged her through the door, conducting her to the outer office.

  "Miss Scranton, Miss Aletter was just leaving. If she has any difficulty finding her way out, please call the security guard to help her." Without taking further notice of Finny, he went back into his office and closed the door.

  TRIP WIRE

  She walked past the Westwood housing project, pretending she didn't hear the child screaming from one window open on the street side. The square, boxy redbrick buildings of the project were punctuated with blue-trimmed doors and windows. The paint had been applied with care—there were no splotches on the windows—but the buildings were tired and an air of defeat clung to them as surely as the heat clung to the air.

  Three children chased another child across grass drying in the day's summer fire, one shrieking, "I'll fucking kill you, asshole. You don't deal straight with me, you fucking die." The two little girls running beside him giggled, one chiming in, "You asshole."

  Without Miguel she would have to try to get into a place like this one. If she could, which wasn't likely.

  Traffic noise penetrated in a hot, heavy stream from Federal Boulevard, where she'd left the bus, through the three-block buffer of bustling Southeast Asian restaurants and markets, past mom-and-pop businesses and auto parts stores. A siren slashed through the stampede of cars and trucks, their horns blaring like animal cries, and answering howls went up from dogs all over the neighborhood.

  Bianca stumbled as she went up the concrete steps to the door of the dishwater-gray frame house. Her key stuck in the lock and she had to work it a little to get it to draw back the deadbolt. Miguel had installed the lock after the break-in five months before.