Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "What do you do now?" Bianca asked.

  "Hmmm? Oh—look around, I guess." Finny walked through the archway opening on the gargantuan living room. The track lighting over the paintings was off, leaving creativity in shadow. The long table that had groaned under so much food two nights ago was pushed up against the wall. It was empty from end to shining end but for a crystal bowl filled with gilded ivy leaves. Finny wondered if Twee had filled the bowl before she confessed to murder or if such esthetic touches were delegated to the staff while she turned herself in.

  The coliseum masquerading as the living room was silent, smaller for the lack of tumult. No string quartet, no people posturing for photographers. Without people, the room was able to display its smaller treasures: glass shelves filled with miniature birds in varying poses; a shadow box filled with ceramic thimbles; in one corner an etagere whose shelves held Russian Easter eggs, ovoid drops of rainbow colors.

  Finny looked back at Bianca, who continued to make like a shadow. Did she expect her to scoop up some of the smaller items and secret them in her pockets? "I suppose the police went over what happened Tuesday night, didn't they?"

  The maid nodded.

  "And they searched everything?"

  "Si." She began to move toward the kitchen and Finny followed her.

  "Have you thought of anything else since then—anything that might help Mrs. Garrett? I mean, did you see anybody acting suspiciously, or anything that sticks out in your memory?"

  "No." Bianca went into the kitchen, crossing the shining blue tiles to the stainless-steel sink. She picked up a rubber caddy filled with cleaning supplies from the Delft tiles of the counter. "I have much work."

  Finny came up beside her. The astringent bouquet of household bleach was the woman's only perfume. "Think for a minute. Were you heading back into the kitchen when the woman who found the body ran into you?"

  Bianca nodded.

  "Before that, when you were getting the tray, did you see anything odd? Or hear anything?"

  Bianca seemed to shrink. Her eyes were trained on the gleaming faucet. "Senora Garrett tells me to get the dirty dishes. I get a tray in here and go out there." She gestured toward the living room. "That is all."

  "Did you see Judge Sarandon go outside?"

  "No. I saw nothing." Her narrow shoulders were stiff.

  Finny watched the closed face. "Did you see anyone go outside?"

  Bianca looked at the floor. "No."

  "Are you sure? Think," Finny urged. "It could help Mrs. Garrett."

  Bianca shook her head. Finny could feel the fear emanating from her.

  "I must work now." Bianca's hand reached again for the caddy of cleaning supplies.

  Finny spoke slowly. "You seem afraid, Bianca. Is there something I can do to help?"

  "No, no. I am not afraid." She spoke feverishly, walking toward the door. "Senor Bartholomew, he says to do my work like always. You must go, please."

  Finny followed her. "Would it be all right if I looked around first?"

  The girl paused, and the telephone chimed from the kitchen. She nearly ran to catch it.

  Saved by the proverbial, thought Finny. What was wrong with the girl? Sure, she'd stumbled across a dead body, which had to be one of life's less glorious experiences, but she acted as though she was facing a firing squad.

  "Si, Senor Bartholomew," Finny heard Bianca say. Oh, swell, Mr. Congeniality himself.

  "...a woman called Al-letter," Bianca said, and then her voice dropped into unintelligibility.

  After a few minutes, Finny heard the click of plastic on plastic, and Bianca reappeared. She still wasn't looking at Finny.

  "Senor Bartholomew, he says you should not be here. He tells me you must leave."

  Finny's lips twisted. "I'm not surprised."

  For the second time Bianca's gaze met her own. "You will go? You won't make trouble?"

  "I may look like a jerk, but I don't always act like one." Finny turned to leave, then stopped. "Here's my card. If you think of anything that might help Mrs. Garrett, will you call me?"

  The girl took the card and looked down at it. She nodded.

  "Thanks."

  * * *

  "—guess I'm just afraid." The voice was soft and thick with tears. Finny listened in spite of herself, her hand stopped short of the tuning knob. "All my life I've been an outsider. I guess I'm afraid to trust anybody."

  "That happens to a lot of people, Angie." The radio psychologist's voice was warm but brisk. "I would point out that it's only through taking risks that good things happen to people. You might want to consider getting some professional help. If money is a problem, you can get excellent services through your local mental health center. And now I must break; thanks for calling. Thank you for listening to KGBY. We'll be taking more calls after this word from our sponsors."

  "Three-minute therapy." Finny muttered. The light ahead turned yellow and she geared down. "Fits into the commercial structure." She turned off the blaring pest control jingle set to the melody of "I Love Paris."

  So the maid was a wash. That meant that she'd have to play the old dot-to-dot game: who was connected to whom, and what kind of shape was formed when all of the lines were drawn in?

  She turned off University at Quincy and drove east. A stop at a 7-Eleven had resulted in a large Coke and a memory-refreshing look in the phone book. Kit Landauer was at least in it, and he might be willing to give her a phone number for Cuffy Sarandon or Paige Dexter, neither of whom was listed.

  As she drove through the land-use patchwork quilt of Cherry Hills, past alternating pasture land and housing developments, Finny rehashed the meeting with Landauer at Twee's party. He'd seemed interested in her until he'd learned that Chris was a cop, which she'd interpreted as snobbery until now. And what about his reaction to Cuffy Sarandon? He's been angry and aggressive, both suspicious in light of subsequent events.

  Finny turned into what appeared to be a narrow country lane until she reached its end. The modern wood and stone structure perched on the gentle hill overlooking a combination of pasture and marshland had as much to do with the deceptive entrance as champagne to potato chips. The bronze XKE parked in front of the house was like a large lion guarding its lair.

  The doorbell played the first bar of "Three Coins in the Fountain." The butler who appeared in response came, consequently, as no surprise. "Does Mr. Landauer expect you?" His voice reverberated to full effect, which did surprise Finny, since he was barely an inch taller than she and anorexic in a black suit.

  "No, he doesn't expect me. But I'm certain that he'll want to speak with me. It has to do with Judge Sarandon's killing."

  The butler nodded. "Very well, madame. I will inquire."

  Inquiring minds want to know, Finny thought. She was familiar with the phenomenon.

  She couldn't tell by his expression as he returned if the audience had been granted. "Come this way," he said, and measured his steps to the double doors that loomed across the foyer. He pulled them open and stood aside for Finny to enter. "Mr. Landauer will be here presently. You may be seated."

  Kit Landauer had had the good sense to decorate his living room around the view framed by the enormous window. The peaks of the Continental Divide, huge, majestic, as removed from the petty concerns of the million-plus humans simmering at their base as the gods whose sentinels they resembled, dozed in the late summer sunshine.

  Finny wandered across the silent room wondering, as she often did, how the early pioneers had felt as they inched painfully across the Great Plains in their Conestogas, watching the small hills silhouetted on the horizon continue to grow until they loomed over them like the gates of heaven. Why hadn't they just said "never mind" and spun a one-eighty for the return trip?

  The oversized needlepoint brocade sofa called to her, but before she could sit down, she saw the pictures clustered on the dark wooden table. Ovals and squares, most of gold, or could it be platinum? Smiling faces—a shot of a woman on horseback.
Finny lifted the frame to look more closely. It was Cuffy Sarandon.

  "Finny."

  She looked round. Kit Landauer was casual in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt, but his manner was definitely black tie. Tired black tie, at that. The skin around his eyes was puffy and lines bracketed his unsmiling mouth. "Did Hanson offer you anything?" he asked as he crossed the room in a loose-gaited walk.

  Ah, Hanson was his name. "No, but I'm fine."

  "Well, then, what can I do for you?" He motioned her onto the sofa and waited a half beat for her to seat herself before he took his place at the other end of the tapestried expanse. He settled his tanned legs easily between the sofa and the brass and glass table where pink roses nodded from a cloisonné vase.

  "I need to talk to you about what happened Sunday night," Finny said.

  Kit shook his head, his golden curls waving like ripe wheat in a breeze. "Why? I've told everything I know—which is nothing—to the police."

  Finny cleared her throat. "You seem to have known Twee for a while. I'm hoping you'll have some insight into what might have prompted her to confess to killing Judge Sarandon."

  Kit's eyes widened. "I'd have to guess that she confessed because she did it."

  "Do you really think she could have?"

  Impatience flashed in his face. "I take it you don't?"

  "No, and for a number of reasons, the primary one being that I was with her, or saw her during the time she would've had to have killed him."

  Landauer raked a hand through his hair. "I just assumed..." He laughed shortly. "I can't think of a reason in the world she'd admit to killing Sarandon if she hadn't done it."

  "What if she were covering up for someone? Doesn't that sound more like something Twee would do?"

  "What's the point of this, Finny? If the police are satisfied with her story, and you should know, what's your problem? Twee wouldn't be the first person to have a breakdown and kill somebody." His gaze frosted over. "And you aren't exactly privy to the past histories of Twee or the others involved, are you?"

  Finny held on to her temper. It must be irritating to be questioned by an outsider. "I'm just covering all the bases... and one of those bases seems to me to be that Twee is a generous woman. Just the kind of person to take the rap for somebody she loves."

  The animation on Landauer's perfect features would have done credit to a department store mannequin. "I'm not sure what you're implying. Who knows what kind of person Twee is? I've known her since I was a child, but that doesn't mean I have any idea of what goes through her head on any given day." His eyes met hers coolly. "What fascinates me is that you're so certain about the whole thing. That, and why you'd come to me about it."

  Finny raised a brow. "I would've thought you'd be a natural choice." Her lips curled at Kit's look of surprise. "Your relationship with Cuffy. I assumed you were close to the whole family."

  Landauer's hand tapped a message on one knee. "I can't imagine where you got that idea."

  "How about the way you talked to Cuffy the night of the party? And then there's that photograph of her there on the table."

  "I'm afraid you got the wrong impression. Cuffy and I went to Kent together and attended many of the same social functions." Kit stood up smoothly. "You'll have to forgive me. I have a great deal to do today."

  Finny was slow in getting to her feet. What was this? "So much that you can't take time to help a friend?"

  "Not at all." His gaze didn't meet hers. "I just don't see the point to all of this. I'm as upset as you are about Twee, but I don't think things will be any better because you go poking around in what doesn't concern you."

  Finny had been following him out of the room. At his words she stopped. "Wait a minute. It does concern me. What I really came for is Cuffy's phone number. If you wouldn't mind giving it to me, I could—"

  Landauer wheeled around and came back toward her. At the look on his face, Finny didn't have any doubts about whether he was capable of violence.

  "I think it would be to your advantage to conduct your inquiries elsewhere." His voice was low and civilized. "Twee is an adult and will have to take her own chances with this thing. It has nothing to do with Cuffy or with me. Do you understand?"

  Finny didn't relish being close enough to him to count the pores in his chiseled nose. She nodded and took a step back.

  "Good." Landauer turned back to the door and walked through it gracefully. "I really must say good-bye now. I'm very busy." He held the door open for Finny. "I wish you well in your efforts to help Twee. I can't imagine why she would lie about such a thing, but I hope for your sake that she did."

  Finny slipped through the door, wincing at the sharp click of the latch as Landauer closed it behind her.

  My, my, Mr. Landauer was quite a piece of work, she thought as she threaded her way back to Quincy. For all the urbanity of his words, his face had held nothing but savagery when she'd mentioned Cuffy Sarandon. He'd come on like that at the party, too. Little Boy Blue to the world at large, then gangbusters about Cuffy.

  Funny how asking questions had established a whole new sport: throwing Finny Aletter out of the place. That was fine as long as Finny Aletter got something out of it, and so far, she hadn't got nearly enough to justify the exercise.

  Finny geared down as she came to a stop sign. She'd always had a fairly low threshold of boredom, and that had definitely been reached. It was time to pick up speed in the old recreational snooping, time to find out what the hell was going on.

  TRIP WIRE

  Her hand was tight on the receiver; her other hand trembled as she punched in Miguel's phone number, yet again. With each of the rings a little more of her control dissolved. "Hello?"

  As soon as she heard his voice she felt hysteria bubble to the surface. "Miguel, she was here, asking questions."

  "Who was there? What're you talking about?" The quick, sniffling sound of her breathing told him she was crying. "Slow down, jita. Who was it?"

  She took in a breath. "The one at the party—ella se llama Aletter."

  "What the hell did she want?"

  Bianca took comfort in the irritation in his voice. If he wasn't afraid, maybe she didn't have to be. "She said she wanted to help Senora Garrett, that she didn't think she'd killed Senor Sarandon."

  "Shit."

  She listened to the sound of his breath, her eyes focused on the flat blue of the wall.

  "What did you tell her?"

  "What could I tell her? I know nothing. Senor Bartholomew called while she was here and told me to make her go."

  He didn't say anything. Then, "As long as they think Mrs. Garrett did it we're okay. But if this woman finds out something and gets the cops to ask questions, they'll look at you again."

  "And then you," she added.

  "I told you, I wasn't the one."

  "You were so angry."

  "Chica, I went with you into the house."

  "Si. But then—"

  "If you love me, you trust me. There's no other way."

  Tears filled her eyes. "Si, te amo. But you don't tell me everything, Miguel. I can feel it."

  His anger filled the silence. "Why do you imagine things to scare yourself? Aren't things bad enough without that?"

  "Si." But she waited for him to deny her claim.

  "Call me later."

  She hung up the phone and leaned her head against the wall.

  Chapter 8

  Finny headed her pickup onto I-25, toward the spires of buildings forming downtown Denver. The day was sparkling, a brisk breeze having cleared the air of smog with the thoroughness of a dustrag shaken out a window. The cash register profile of the United Bank Building drew the eye like a bloodstain on a snowbank. It was the only significant architectural variation in a pipe organ skyline of tall glass-and-steel rectangles.

  It was nearly eleven when she got to the main branch of the Denver Public Library. However tacky it was to admit it, her collection of books contained neither the Denver Social Reco
rd and Register nor Who's Who. And she'd be willing to bet her left earlobe that Paige Dexter and Cuffy Sarandon were in one or both of them.

  She spent the required ten minutes circling the block for a parking space. In the Civic Center, the library was cheek by jowl to the Art Museum, and within spitting distance of the City and County Building, the state Capitol, and the Colorado State History Museum. Not much of that spit ever landed in an available parking place, hence the wild expression in the eyes of locals and tourists alike.

  Finny left the library some half hour later, both earlobes intact. Mrs. Paige Dexter Sarandon (nee Paige Dabney Dexter), graduate, University of Oklahoma, B.A., member Alpha Chi Omega and at least ten other organizations. She had two telephone numbers listed, one for her residence, and one for an office at the headquarters of Dare to Care.

  Cuffy was listed under both Paige's and William Sarandon's names, but not to the extent that her address and phone number were included. Apparently she hadn't earned her own listing yet. Finny pondered briefly on what qualifications were entailed, then thumbed through the book for Kit Landauer.

  Lamb, Land, there it was, Landauer, Christopher Swain. Born in Denver, partner Landauer & Landauer Interiors, attended Atwood College. Apparently no degree, thought Finny. Member Summit Club, Wellshire Country Club, Boardmember, Rocky Mountain Trendsetters.

  Finny jotted down Kit's business number, then leafed through the book for anything else she could find. It wasn't much. Ty Engelman wasn't listed. Les Trethalwyn was. Born in Cardiff, Wales, attended University at Warwick, Graduate of University of Toronto, B.A. director, Denver Arts Consortium. Member, Summit Club. Hmm, he and Kit must be buddies.

  A quick check in Who's Who added nothing more. Finny slammed the book shut. As reading matter went, it was Boredom City, but it gave her something to work with.

  When she came out of the library the carillon bells on the City and County Building were chiming the noon hour. Sunlight was streaming onto Civic Center Park, lighting to a blaze the beds of petunias, their ruffled petticoats of purple and pink fluttering in the light breeze that played across the grounds.