by Sue Henry
Setting the mug down, she hurried to the door and out onto the broad front porch to look up and see the sky full of clouds as white as the flakes that were silently, evenly falling through the quiet air. Perhaps this time they would continue, get larger, and stick, not simply disappear in a day or two. Maybe, just maybe, it was finally the start of winter and the sledding she loved. She could let Alex go on with his case. It would be easy to stay out of his way if she could get busy training her teams at last.
She went back inside, put on some upbeat music, and got busy with dinner and setting the table for three.
Up on the hillside, Jensen and Becker had searched the crime scene again, from where Jessie had sat on the log to the whole of the area around the spot where the body of Donny Thompson had been turned over in the trail by her sled. Aside from the missing yellow crime scene tape and one useless scuff mark near where he had lain, there was nothing but the rose someone had left on newly fallen leaves next to some that were still faintly stained with his blood.
The rose, however, protected in plastic and tied with white ribbon, was still unwilted by the cold and gave them a bit of evidence that might help identify the person who had left it. That person had evidently handled it barehanded, for there were a couple of fingerprints on the plastic that could possibly be retrieved. Hopefully, they would not turn out to be simply those of the florist, when they found the one who had sold the flower to the mystery person who had left it.
Besides the reported blood alcohol level, the coroner’s report confirmed a low amount of methamphetamine in his system. It also identified a number of bruises and contusions to his head and upper body that told them he had had a fight with someone.
Alex frowned. “It certainly appears that someone knocked him around a fair amount.”
“But he gave whoever did it a hard time as well, from the condition of his hands.” Becker handed over a photograph of the dead man’s hands, which showed more lacerations and abrasions. Several of the knuckles on his right hand showed cuts that, from the coroner’s assessment and comments, had bled prior to his death.
“So we should keep an eye out for some guy—or guys—who’ve obviously been in a fight. And who could have been at one or more of the two or three places we know he was seen that night.”
“Might have another word with Cole Anders at Oscar’s in Wasilla and Jeff Malone, who may know who Donny was at odds with.”
“Right. He might also remember when both Donny and Jeff Malone left. I’d like to verify that Malone really spent the night with his girlfriend, as he says he did. I’ve still got a feeling that guy knows more than he’s telling us.”
“You’re probably right. Let’s go into Wasilla and talk to Anders. He’ll be there by now to take care of the after-work drinkers.”
“Good idea.”
But as they walked together down the hill Alex revised the plan. “Why don’t I go see what Anders remembers about Friday night and you go see if you can track down Malone’s girlfriend? We can compare notes tomorrow morning, unless you hear something I ought to know sooner.”
Becker agreed it would be more efficient and was soon leaving in his pickup to see if he could find Robin Fenneli.
“He said to thank you for the dinner invite,” Alex told Jessie, when he went into the house to change clothes and tell her where he was going.
“Why don’t you come along? We can have a brew and you can probably work in a pool game while I talk to Cole Anders.”
She agreed and turned the oven heat down so it would slowly finish cooking the meat loaf while they were gone.
“Did you notice that it’s almost snowing?” she asked as she put on her coat and followed him onto the front porch.
“Not enough so you’d notice,” he told her with a grin. “I think your imagination is working overtime in the direction of getting back on a sled. It’s not snowing now.”
Jessie sighed. “Well, it was—just a little. Maybe there’ll be more tonight.”
“Could be, but I wouldn’t hold your breath over it. It’s gotta be like that old saying about how watching a pot never makes it boil, isn’t it?”
She shook her head at that idea and shrugged before climbing into the passenger side of the truck.
“You may be right. But it has to snow sometime, and sooner than later, I hope.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ABOUT THE SAME TIME ALEX AND JESSIE WERE ON THEIR WAY TO Oscar’s pub in Wasilla, for the first time since learning about the death of his brother Donny, Lee Thompson had bellied up to the bar at the Alpine Inn in Sutton and asked Pete the bartender to bring him a Budweiser.
“I was really sorry to hear about Donny,” Pete said, setting the beer in front of him that, brought from the cooler into warmer air, immediately developed condensation that ran down the sides of the cold bottle.
“Yeah, well…thanks,” Lee told him, frowning at it as he wiped a finger down the side closest to him, leaving a clear line on the glass before picking it up to take a long swallow.
“How’re your folks doing?”
“About as you’d expect, I guess. Mom’s taking it pretty hard. So’s Sally. She and Donny were tight growing up together with the other three of us a little older. But you know Dad—he’s stiff upper lip, as usual. They’ll be okay in time.”
“Well, if there’s anything…just let me know.”
Pete hesitated for a second or two before asking, “The cops have any idea yet who killed him?”
“Not that I know of,” Lee growled, with a resentful glance at Pete’s question. “But I will! You just wait. But I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Sure, Lee. Sorry. Just set back the bottle if you want another,” he said as he moved away to answer a summons from farther up the bar.
It being a weekday, the Alpine Inn wasn’t crowded. Only half a dozen people occupied the tall stools closest to the front door, two of them women casually dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, the other four men on their way home from work from the look of their clothing—one in Carhartt overalls over a faded green sweatshirt.
They had all looked around when Lee came in, nodded to him, and watched, most trying to seem not to, as he moved away from them to the other end of the long bar, clearly not wanting to hear their sympathy or answer their questions about his brother.
This behavior was not typical of Lee, who was usually a friendly sort, with a smile and a word for almost everyone.
One of the women gave the other a questioning look that got only a shrug in return as she turned back to her gin and tonic.
“How’s Helen?” she asked in a quiet voice that wouldn’t be overheard.
“Not good. But would you be if it were your youngest? Sally’s the one who seems most upset by it. She and Donny pretty much grew up together as the last of the family and were pretty close. Still are—or were.”
“Don’t know what I’d do if it was either one of mine,” the other woman said thoughtfully. “Wish there was something we could do. Helen’s such a dear soul.”
“I heard that Bill wanted Donny cremated, but Sally threw a fit when she heard, so there’ll be a burial, I guess.”
“I heard that too. There’s the funeral Saturday, and you know that just about everybody’ll be here afterward for potluck. That’ll be the best time to let them know we’re all here for them.”
In murmured tones, the two went on to discuss what food they planned to bring to the potluck, their eyes drawn back to Lee as Pete took him a second beer when he set back the empty bottle. Noticing, he gave them a bitter glance and turned his shoulders so his back was toward them, clearly resenting the attention.
As they resumed their quiet conversation the door opened and another man came into the bar.
The women watched him walk across and take a bar stool next to Lee, laying a hand on his shoulder as he sat down.
Lee shrugged it off irritably, but the two men soon had their heads together in a clearly private conversatio
n, pausing only when Pete set a pair of beers in front of them.
“Isn’t that…?”
“Yeah, Jeff Malone—an old friend of Donny’s. Used to live out here, but he moved into Palmer when his folks left Alaska for Oregon over ten years ago. From what I hear, he spent most of the evening with Donny the night he was killed.”
“Interesting. You suppose he knows something about it he’s telling Lee?”
“Who knows?” She finished her drink and pushed her empty glass away, shaking her head to refuse another in answer to Pete’s questioning look, and stood up. “I’d better get on. Charlie’ll be home for dinner pretty soon and I left a chicken in the oven.”
“Me too—going home soon, I mean. See you later—Saturday, if not before. If you need anything for that casserole, give me a call.”
Watching her friend go out the door, she then gave the two men at the other end of the bar another quick look. It was impossible to hear what they were saying, but, from the look on his face, it seemed that Lee was aggravated over something Malone was telling him. Giving up her surveillance, she finished the last swallow of her drink, put a tip for the bartender beside the empty glass, and left the Alpine.
In Wasilla, at Oscar’s, Alex had spent a few minutes talking with Cole Anders concerning who had been in the pub the previous Friday evening and their arrivals and departures. Most of their arrivals Anders could estimate, as he had been working behind the bar near the front door, but with the usual Friday-night crowd it was difficult, if not impossible, for him to recall when most of them had left.
Gena, the barmaid, filled in a few of the departures, but she had also been working hard serving drinks to those at the tables, and shook her head helplessly when she tried to remember.
“I honestly have no idea what time a lot of people came and went. I know Donny and Jeff Malone came in together and were both here for an hour or two in the middle of the evening and that Donny left first. Other than that, I’m not much help. Sorry. Friday’s always slammed.”
“Well,” Alex told them, “that’s okay. You’ve helped some. I didn’t think there’d be much joy in finding out anything specific. You’ve both confirmed some things for me and that’s good.”
“Do you have any idea yet what happened to Donny—or who…?”
He stopped Gena with a smile and shake of his head as he told her, “I can’t talk about an ongoing case, you know.”
“Yeah, I figured that. But it was worth a try. Good luck with it. Donny was usually pretty fun to have around and we’re all going to miss him.”
With a smile at the renewal of the Killian’s he had emptied and handed back to Anders, Alex turned away to look for Jessie and picked her out of those present, not at a pool table but in the opposite corner of the room, in a dart game—with Lynn Ehlers.
Dismissing a mild pang of jealousy, he began to make his way between tables and chairs to reach the two. His feeling of suspicion, he knew, had no reasonable foundation, as Jessie had made adamantly clear more than once. But on his return to Alaska from Idaho a couple of years earlier, he and Ehlers had confronted each other unexpectedly and uneasily in Jessie’s empty house, each wondering what the other was doing there with her not at home.
It had all worked out. But Jensen was aware that if he weren’t around as a solid part of Jessie’s life, Ehlers would be glad to take advantage of the opportunity to make himself available to her as more than just a friend. He also knew that as long as he and Jessie were a couple, Ehlers would keep his distance, romantically speaking.
It never hurts to walk your fences to be sure they don’t need mending, Alex told himself with a grin as he moved in the direction of the dartboard on the rear wall, and the two people taking turns tossing darts at it.
“So who’s winning?” he asked, settling into a nearby chair to observe the rest of the game.
“He is, damn it,” Jessie told him. “I’ve obviously been spending much too much time at the pool table lately.”
Alex watched and refused a round, appreciating the chance to sit and pretty much do nothing, though he had little to add to what he had already known about Donny’s presence at Oscar’s the night he was killed. I’ll have to talk to Malone again, he told himself. I think there’s more there than he let on.
Startled by a hand on his shoulder, he turned to find Gena standing next to him.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t know if it’d help you, but I just remembered that I noticed Donny was interested in a woman who was here that Friday—talked to her a lot, but she wasn’t having any of it, finally left with another guy, though they hadn’t come in together. I think it was her way of escaping Donny. Her name’s Stevie Duncan and I think that, if you don’t know her, Jessie does, because she helped build Jessie’s new house after the old one burned a couple of years ago. About five four, red hair?”
He nodded, remembering being introduced to Stevie sometime in the past.
“Thanks,” he told Gena. “That might be something useful. I’ll check it out.”
She gave him a smile and was gone to answer a call for drinks at a nearby table, so he turned back to watch Jessie put two darts in the center circle, but miss with the third, then lose another game to Ehlers as all three of his flew accurately.
“That’s it, Lynn. I’m going to practice a lot before I play you again.”
“Two out of three?” he asked, grinning.
“Not a chance, but I’ll buy you the drink I owe you. You need another, Alex?”
“No,” he said. “I’m good, thanks.”
As she turned away to look for Gena, his cell phone rang in his pocket. Checking the identity of the caller, he found it was the dispatcher at the troopers’ office.
“You better head for the hospital, Becker’s been in an accident.”
“What happened—and where?” he asked, leaving the last of his lager on the table as he abruptly stood up.
“Evidently someone ran him off the road this side of the Matanuska River Bridge on the Old Glenn Highway. His truck went into the ditch. He’s pretty beat up, head injury and a broken arm. Wasn’t wearing his seat belt, so he’s lucky it’s not worse.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know, and he can’t tell us anything at this point, but Pritchard caught the call and said to tell you a bullet shattered the driver’s-side window. He’s waiting for you with a witness at the scene.”
“I’m on my way—there first, then to the hospital.”
“Check with me as soon as you know anything, please. The commander’s gone to the hospital, but wants to hear.”
“You got it. Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Alex swung quickly toward the door.
As he reached the front of the room, pulling on his jacket as he moved through the people at the tables, Jessie turned from the bar, where she had been paying her game debt to Ehlers, and saw him and the concern written on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Becker’s been in an accident and I’ve got to go,” he told her. He turned to Ehlers, who was standing beside her. “Lynn, would you take Jessie home? I’ve got an emergency to attend to.”
“Sure. No problem.”
There’d better not be, he thought, but only said, “Thanks.”
“Call me when you know something and can,” Jessie requested. “Anything else I should know? Is it really bad?”
“I don’t know. Not good, but it doesn’t sound life-threatening. I’ve got to go.”
At her nod he took himself hurriedly out the door with a long-legged stride.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BY THE TIME JENSEN REACHED THE PLACE WHERE BECKER HAD gone off the road in his pickup, a large department tow truck was already winching it out of the ditch and onto the flatbed designed for transporting vehicles. He knew it would be taken to a lockup yard, where it would be examined in detail and he could see it later, so he turned to look for the officer in charge.
&nb
sp; Round-faced with bushy eyebrows, Trooper Keith Pritchard was heavyset and shorter than Jensen. He raised a hand from the opposite side of the road, where he was questioning a young man who was holding up the bicycle he had evidently been riding toward the bridge when the accident happened.
The young man was taller and lean, with the well-muscled legs of a serious rider. His bicycle was, from the look of it, top of the line and well maintained.
“Becker?” Jensen questioned as he approached the two.
“At the hospital by now,” Pritchard told him.
“How bad?”
“Concussion at least. Broken arm. He got thrown around pretty good. Why’s a cop not wearing his seat belt? Jeez!”
“I’ll go and find out as soon as we’re through here,” Jensen said, and turned his attention to the young man with the bicycle. “Who’s this?”
“This is Terry Larsen,” Pritchard said. “He’s Hardy’s boy. You know Hardy Larsen?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody? Did you see the wreck, Terry?”
The young man shook his head. “Got here just after it happened. I called 911 on my cell. But I saw the guy on the bike that must have run him off the road. There wasn’t any other traffic coming toward me.”
“Bike?”
“Motorcycle, one of those Harley hogs with ape-hanger handlebars and black leather saddlebags—headed for town.”
“Who was driving? You recognize him?”
“No. He had on a helmet with a dark faceplate. Makes ’em all look alike.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Leather, like the saddlebags—black, all black.”
“Any chance you got a plate number—or a partial?”
“He went by really fast and he was on my side of the road. Swerved over just in time. I thought he was going to run me off, so I didn’t have a chance to give the plate a look.”
Pritchard, who was recording the conversation with a small handheld cassette recorder, spoke up when Alex hesitated.
