by Sue Henry
“I’d bet anything Hardy Larsen was part of that conversation. Did he tell his story about being in an Anchorage bar when it happened?”
“Not while we were there, but…”
As if conjured by the mention of earthquakes, every dog in the yard outside unexpectedly began to bark or howl, and there was suddenly a tremor that interrupted Alex and reminded Jessie of the one that had shaken the Other Place two days earlier. She sat up straight on the sofa, alert, eyes wide.
“They really hate quakes,” she said, as the mild shaking decreased, disappeared, and the canine cacophony faded as well.
Leaning back, Jessie ask a question. “So you still have no idea how and why Donny’s body would be up there?”
“No idea at all. Wish I did. It seems an odd place for him to have been. But here’s a question for you. Who uses that trail besides the local mushers?”
Jessie frowned in thought as she considered the query.
“Hikers. Hunters, sometimes, though they’re not supposed to hunt in populated areas. I know one guy who shot a moose up there somewhere a couple of years ago. I won’t bother to tell you who.
“It used to be okay, but not anymore. Every year there are more and more small groups and communities of houses going up as more people move out here. I’m beginning to feel as if we live in town, not scattered rural cabins like the days when I first moved here. If I hadn’t just built this house, I’d consider moving somewhere else. I could probably get a lot for this piece of land and the house. I’d be willing to bet it won’t be long until the new people begin to complain about our kennels being so close to where they live.
“But that’s not what you asked, is it?
“Some of the neighbors walk their pet dogs once in a while, if they don’t want to use the trail that runs next to the road. I’ve seen a few kids on their bikes, though it’s pretty rugged for that in some places. I don’t think the majority of people who aren’t mushers even know those trails exist.”
“That’s pretty much what I assumed,” Alex said. “The other thing I’m considering is that it could be possible that Donny was with someone from the Big Lake area. Though I can’t think what he would have been doing that far out. But if he was there for some reason and wanted to come here, it would be quick and easy to take Carmel Road or Sunset Avenue, both back roads that run through to Knik Road.”
Jessie nodded agreement. “That’s true. I wonder how many people use those roads. I’ve driven Sunset a few times this last winter to get to Lynn Ehlers’s kennel off the Parks Highway, while he was keeping most of my dogs. It’s shorter than going through Wasilla.”
“Well,” said Alex, finishing his lager, getting up from where he had been sitting, and stretching his tall, lean body to ease the ache in his back. “Time for some more of that stew, I think. It’s been so long since lunch my stomach thinks my throat’s cut. Let’s forget the biscuits and go for crackers instead this time, okay?”
“Okay with me,” Jessie said, nodding toward the kitchen, where the kettle of stew was keeping warm on a back burner of the stove. “There’s still some of that Ben and Jerry’s left for dessert, if you want to dig it out.”
“Oh yeah?” Alex grinned. “So you’re gonna force me to eat ice cream just to get rid of it, right?”
“No. I could share it with Tank, if that’d make you happier.”
“Not a chance. Ice cream has gotta be terribly bad for dogs. Probably for you too. I think I can force myself to clean it up for you.”
“You wish!”
CHAPTER NINE
BEFORE GOING TO BED THAT NIGHT, JESSIE WRAPPED A JACKET around her shoulders, stepped outside, and stood on the front porch to assess the weather.
It had not snowed again. The temperature had risen to several degrees above freezing and she was not happy to hear snowmelt dripping from the roof of her house with an almost musical sound as it dribbled into the puddles that had formed on the ground below. Through a thin layer of high cloud, the moon hung almost full, a cold, pale circle that looked as if it were caught in the bare branches of a tall birch to the left of the driveway. She could see a heavy band of dark cloud moving slowly in from the west, which would be disappointing if it carried rain to melt off the new snow and make training dogs with a sled impossible again.
The kennel yard was very quiet, each dog in its box, curled nose to tail on the thick straw bed on which it slept.
Well, she thought, no use crying over milk that isn’t spilled yet. It could get colder and snow again before morning.
But somehow she didn’t really think it would. This time of year the weather was frustrating, hovering unpredictably somewhere above or below freezing, as if attempting to adjust to whatever prevarication the weatherman had put forth in his guesstimate for the next twenty-four hours.
A car went by on the road at the end of the drive, its tires making a wet, slushy sound on the pavement. Some late-returning soul on his way home, she assumed.
Its passing drew her mind to Alex’s idea of someone with Donny Thompson, coming on the back roads from Big Lake to Knik Road. It could have happened, but even if it hadn’t, she realized, transportation would have been necessary no matter what route was taken to reach this out-of-town location—they would have had to park their vehicle and/or his motorcycle somewhere. If they had intended murder, they certainly wouldn’t have parked it in the place closest to where she’d found his body—her driveway. Where, then? Could he—they—have ridden it up the hill?
It still made no sense to her that Donny had been left where she found him, on the hill behind her house. Why would someone kill and leave him there? Who—and why? Or had he gone up by himself, hidden his bike, then shot himself on the trail where someone would be sure to find him soon enough?
It was all speculation and questions, and she wasn’t sure she really wanted answers.
With a frown and a shiver, no answers, and one last long look at the moon, hanging like a dim lantern in the birch, Jessie turned, went back inside, and, still uneasy, carefully locked the door behind her.
She was standing in the same place early the next morning, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand, a piece of toast in the other, another disappointed frown on her face as she once again listened to water from melting snow falling from the eves of the house. Though the rain that had fallen instead of snow in the night had stopped for the moment, everything was wet and a low mist seemed to cling to the brush beneath the trees. The snow she had enthused over two days before was now mostly slush where it lay on the ground, which was largely bare and totally unsuitable for sleds.
From the unwelcome sound of dripping water, her attention was caught by the low mutter of a motorcycle in low gear just before it appeared, turned in, and came slowly up her drive to stop in front of the house beside Alex’s pickup.
Killing the engine, the driver swung himself off and lifted the helmet from his head, allowing her to see his face.
“Good morning,” he said. “You Jessie Arnold?”
“I am.”
“Trooper Jensen live here?”
“He does.”
“Well, I’m Jeff Malone. And I understand he’d like to talk to me about Donny Thompson.”
Less than an hour later, Jensen and Becker were sitting in an interview room at the office of the Alaska State Troopers in Palmer, taking a formal statement from Jeff Malone about what he knew concerning Donny Thompson’s whereabouts and contacts on the previous Friday night.
“From what we’ve heard and you’ve told us, you and Donny were in the Aces Wild early in the evening.”
“I met him there at six, like I said.”
“His brother confirmed that the two of you went over to La Fiesta for Mexican food just before seven o’clock and were planning to go on to Oscar’s in Wasilla—where you say he stayed another hour and a half, right?” Jensen asked.
Malone nodded. “About that. He left sometime between nine thirty and ten.”
“Tell me a
bout that. Any particular reason that he left?”
“Well, he said he was going home to Sutton, because he had to be there to do some work for his dad on Saturday.”
“And you?”
“I stayed there. You can ask Cole Anders. Oscar was out at the Other Place, so, as usual, Cole was tending bar in town. He knows me and that I was there for another two and a half or three hours. The girl I’ve been dating came in just before Donny left and only stayed a few minutes. She was driving and I didn’t want to leave my bike, so she went on home. I played another game or two of pool, then left to go to her place about eleven thirty and stayed the night.”
“What’s her name? And where does she live?”
“Robin Fenneli. She has a place on Bodenburg Loop Road off the Old Glenn Highway.”
“What’s the address?”
Malone shook his head. “I know how to get there, but don’t know the address. It’s one of those old log houses a mile or two around the loop on the butte side of the road. Been in her family for years. Her grandfather built it.”
“Phone?”
He spilled that out easily, making it obvious that he actually knew the woman well enough to have memorized her number.
Except for the small sound of his pencil, the room was quiet as Jensen added to the notes he had been taking in his pocket-sized casebook.
Becker broke the silence for the first time.
“You know Donny Thompson pretty well?”
“Well—yeah. We went to high school together, see, but he was a year ahead of me. My grandfather was a coal miner in the early days and my folks lived in Sutton until a few years ago when they moved to Wasilla. Out there we all knew each other, but Donny and I have always been friends.”
“So you rode the school bus in to Palmer High School?”
“Yeah. There weren’t enough of us in Sutton for a high school. Donny’s brother Lee was a year older, so he rode it with us for a couple of years till he graduated. Their family was about the largest in town—seven of them, counting their mom and dad.”
“Anyone you know who had problems with Donny—might be likely to shoot him?” Jensen asked, changing the subject.
“Shit, no! There were a couple of guys in high school who gave him a bad time for a while, but that was a long time ago and those guys gave almost everybody a bad time. You know—football jocks who thought they were hot stuff and got off on making things rough for other kids—nothing serious.”
“How about the bikers he hung around with?”
Malone shook his head. “Naw, most of those guys aren’t as tough as people seem to think. We hang with them off and on. Most of them’re a pretty good bunch, actually. Nobody had a problem with Donny to my knowledge, and I think I’d know if they did.”
Jensen gave him a long narrow-eyed look, knowing from past experience that Malone’s assessment was more positive than realistic for a few of the hard-core bikers with attitude, who maintained a well-earned rough reputation. He let it ride, however, and took a different tack on his next question.
“Donny into anything illegal? Drugs? Gambling?”
“Ah—well…oh, hell. We both tried a little pot for a while, but not for a long time. Nothing else. Any gambling we did was on pool games, or bets on the Super Bowl—maybe a poker game once in a while. You know, the usual small stuff.”
“So you have no idea who might have wanted him dead—or why?”
“Not the slightest. It doesn’t make any sense. He pretty much got along with everybody. Could it have been some kind of accident?”
“Could he have shot himself? Did he, to your knowledge, own or carry a gun?”
“I can’t imagine that he’d do himself—had no reason that I know of.” He hesitated slightly before saying, “But I guess you never really know everything about anyone, do you? He had a rifle for hunting in the fall, but no handguns. His dad won’t have handguns around. Says they cause more trouble than they prevent.”
There was another short silence before Becker asked thoughtfully, “Was there anyone in the Aces Wild or Oscar’s on Friday that you would have avoided? Who might have caused Donny trouble, or who left about the same time he did? Bikers maybe, guys you don’t know, or wished you didn’t?”
Jeff frowned as he tried to remember.
“It was Friday night, so both places were pretty busy. We had to wait a couple of games after we got to Oscar’s before we got a turn at the pool table. There was a woman there that Donny was interested in—a redhead. But I think she left just before he did. I don’t remember her name, if I ever heard it, and I have no idea who she is, or where she lives. Oscar or Cole might know. But there wasn’t anybody asking for trouble. Oscar won’t put up with it—eighty-sixes anyone who starts anything.”
Jensen leaned back in his chair, thinking.
“Did you happen to notice if Donny’s motorcycle was gone when you left the bar?”
Malone frowned and shook his head. “You know, I didn’t even look,” he said. “Had no reason to. I just assumed he was riding it home. The lot was crowded, so we hadn’t parked our bikes together. His was in a wide space between two cars, kind of in the middle of the lot. Mine was closer to the building, couple of spaces from the door. I just took it and headed for Robin’s without looking for Donny’s.”
“What color is his bike?”
“Black and green.”
“Yours?”
“Just black.”
“Most of the Road Pirates’ bikes black and green?”
“No, only a few. Most are just plain black, but a few put the logo on them somewhere.”
There were a few other minor clarifying questions before Alex closed his notebook and tucked it into a jacket pocket, but nothing that gave the troopers any help, except to establish the times and places where Donny Thompson had been the first part of that night.
“Well,” he said to Jeff Malone. “I have your address and phone, so I know where to find you if I need more information. If you learn anything I should know, get in touch, okay?”
“Absolutely. I’d like to know who killed Donny as much as you would. I sure hope you catch whoever it was. Donny was good people. There’s gonna be a big hole in my social life without him around.”
He shook hands with both troopers and they stood together and watched as he went out the door.
“Not much help,” Becker commented. “I don’t know. There’s something about him coming in so quick without our hunting him up. You think he’s on the level about what he told us?”
Jensen nodded. “Yeah—pretty much I do. Still, until we get an answer to this one, he stays on my list. Sometimes you just can’t tell, and there was a hesitation or two, as if he wasn’t telling us quite all he knew—or wanted us to know. And he’s evidently convinced that Donny didn’t shoot himself.”
Leaning back in his chair, he thought for a long moment, then gave Becker what seemed a combination of frown and reluctant grin.
“What I’d like to know is what made him come looking for me, instead of letting us find him with questions. What he told us was that he really had nothing significant to tell us, right? So why did he feel it necessary to hunt me down at home just to assure me he had nothing that would help? He didn’t ask a lot of questions, so he wasn’t looking for information. Who told him we wanted to talk to him? Something about it doesn’t sit quite right with me. You?”
Becker agreed. “Won’t hurt to keep him on the list. Maybe he’s just an overzealous sort. Or maybe, as he said, he wants to know who killed his friend. Could get in trouble asking questions of the wrong people, if that’s the case. Maybe we should have warned him.”
“I think he’s smarter than that—a lot smarter,” Jensen said, then turned to the phone and dialed a number.
Becker raised a questioning eyebrow.
“No, not Malone. We’ll keep an eye out for any meddling on his part, but right now I want to know if Donny’s motorcycle was still in the parking lot at Oscar’s,”
Jensen explained as he waited for an answer to his call. “It could be, if he left there with someone else. When Cole locked up and left he’d probably remember if it was. It’d be gone if he really headed back to Palmer and from there to Sutton, or still there if, for some reason, he changed his mind. If he did, he might have gone somewhere with someone else. Not much chance, but worth checking.”
Unsuccessful at reaching Cole Anders after several rings, he hung up, then dialed another number.
“Hey, Jess,” he said. “Would you do me a favor? I can’t reach anyone at Oscar’s in Wasilla.”
A pause while he listened.
“Yeah, I know it’s closed this early, but I thought someone might be there restocking. So would you drive over there, see if there’s a green-and-black motorcycle still in the lot, and call me back here at the office?”
Another pause.
“Yes—Donny Thompson’s. He evidently rode his bike Friday night and I just need to know if it’s still there. If it is, he may have left with someone else. Yes, please. Take your cell phone and call me back when you know, okay? Thanks, love.”
Jessie hung up the phone, put on a jacket, took her cell phone and car keys, and headed out the door.
She had washed, dried, and put away the breakfast dishes on autopilot, her thoughts focused elsewhere. The question of Donny’s missing motorcycle was still bothering her, and, with Jeff Malone’s unexpected early arrival, she had not had the time or inclination to broach the subject to Alex before he left for the office. Now it seemed like mental telepathy that he should call and be looking for it.
If Donny had ridden it to town from Sutton on Friday and had not gone back there since, it had to be somewhere. Could it be somewhere he had parked and left it before hiking up the hill to where he died—somewhere close by? That he had ridden it up an unfamiliar trail in the dark now seemed highly unlikely. If he had parked it near the highway, wouldn’t she have seen it on one of her training runs? So where was it? Maybe it was still, as Alex wanted to know, at Oscar’s pub in Wasilla.
