“But the name?”
“Oh, yeah. In his last letter home, when he summoned his family to join him, he said something like, ‘If I hadn’t lost Alice, I’d never have found the treasure,’ and so his family—his wife and ten sons, if you can believe it—christened the lake Lost Alice Lake when they arrived to help with the mining. The town itself, when it grew up, was called Walter’s Ford. That’s what it was until fifteen years ago when the council voted to rename it Heaven, hoping to attract more of the tourists who tended to pass us by as they zipped between Denver and Grand Junction and some of the ski areas. It worked, too.”
“That’s quite the story,” Hart said, his tone saying he suspected at least part of it was fiction.
“Don’t you go dissing our local legends,” I said with a mock glare.
He held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Do you miss Atlanta?”
He gave it some consideration, and I was struck again by his quality of stillness. No fidgeting fingers, jiggling foot, or facial tics. A man who was comfortable in his own skin. Or a hunter in a blind, staying still so as not to startle his prey, I heard Maud’s voice in my head. He is a cop, after all. I told Maud to shush.
“I miss some things about living in a big city, and about the South. I can’t get a decent biscuit anywhere in this state, and I’d like to be closer to a major airport, but all in all, I like the pace of life here better and I sure as heck don’t miss the traffic or the gang problems.”
We crumpled up our lunch bags and rose to dump them in the bear-proof trash can. Without talking about it, we turned and strolled toward the lakeside trail. Close to the water, I could see the pebbled bottom and spot fingerling trout lurking in the waving lake grasses. A border collie running with her master galloped up to sniff at us and we patted her. She loped away when her master whistled.
“Leave anyone important behind?” I asked casually. Just because he didn’t wear a ring didn’t mean he hadn’t left a live-in girlfriend behind. Or worse, had a live-in girlfriend planning to follow him out here as soon as she sold their place or found a new job.
“My folks moved to Montgomery, Alabama, when my sister’s husband died in a fire. He was a firefighter. She was pregnant with her second and they moved to help her after the baby was born.”
“How awful!” I said, almost unable to imagine how horrible it would be to lose a husband that way.
“It was grim, but it’s three years ago now and she’s doing better. The boys keep her too busy to think about it much, as far as I can tell. Other than that, I’ve got a brother in England with the air force, and that’s it. No other ties.” The look he slanted me told me he knew what I’d really been after. “You?”
“You haven’t looked me up in some police database?” I kidded, half hoping he had, because that would show he was interested. My record was clean, other than a parking ticket or two.
He laughed. “I prefer getting to know my friends in person. Our computers don’t have any of the good stuff, anyway, like what you majored in and why, or who your favorite band is, or why you live in Heaven, or what you’d do if time and money weren’t factors.”
“Wow. All that on a first da—lunch? Let’s see. English, because I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and I’ve always loved books. It was a default major, mostly. I added up my credits when CU told me I had to declare a major and I had more English classes than anything else, so voilà.” I shrugged one shoulder, feeling a bit sheepish about not having been more focused, not having more of a plan. “Favorite band: Maroon 5. Yours?”
“Garth Brooks.”
“That’s not a band.”
“Performer, then.” He stooped to pick up a stone, drew back his arm, and skipped it. It hopped six times before sinking.
I clapped lightly. “I live in Heaven because it’s home. I did a semester in Italy, and I tried working in Chicago right after college, but I felt . . . alien. I lasted nine months with an ad agency before coming back here. I don’t think I could live anywhere else.
“Mom and Dad live here in town and I see them regularly, although I have my own house.” I didn’t want him to think I lived in their basement and mooched off them. “Three sisters and a brother. One sister here, one in Grand Junction, and one in Denver. My brother, Derek, brews beer. He and a partner just bought a building that’s been about fifteen restaurants over the past ten years and they’re going to open a brewpub.” I’d invested in it and I was keeping my fingers firmly crossed that it wouldn’t fail as quickly as the other restaurants had. I’d have to declare bankruptcy—okay, not quite—and Derek would be crushed. “Grand opening’s in August. I’m in charge of the party. You’re invited. Actually, everyone in town’s invited.”
“Wow, I felt special there for a moment.” Hart grinned down at me.
“You are special,” I assured him, returning his grin. “You’ve got a personal invitation from the master brewer’s sister. Most other people will just get the announcement in the Herald.” I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get going if I was going to meet Kerry at Ivy’s place. Suspecting Hart wouldn’t be pleased to hear I was headed to Ivy’s house, I said, “I’ve got to get going. Appointment.”
“Yeah, me, too,” he said. “Duty calls.”
As we walked up the hill to his SUV, I asked, “Anything new on Ivy’s case?”
His face tightened and for the first time I felt him draw back. “That case is closed.”
“But the tea I brought you!”
“Is being tested. It’s not like we’ve got access to a lab that can turn things around in a day. This isn’t New York or Atlanta. Not that we got results quickly there, either”—he grimaced—“but that was due to backlog, not lack of facilities and experts. Anyway, the case—I’ll call it dormant instead of closed. We’re not actively working it. Everything points to suicide.”
Hart opened the door for me and touched my arm as I got in. “I’m sorry, Amy-Faye. I know it’s hard.”
I nodded. We didn’t say much on the drive back down to town. Hart pulled to the curb outside my office and said, “I enjoyed it. Any chance you’d like to be my tour guide again sometime?”
I shook off my sadness about Ivy and smiled. He was easy to be with and attractive in a way that was growing on me. “Sure. Heaven’s bigger and more complicated than you would expect,” I said, acting all serious, like he was in danger of wandering into gang territory or a red-light district, neither of which existed in Heaven. “It’s best to have a reliable tour guide.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. I’ll call you.” He smiled as I closed the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
I watched as he drove off and then dashed for my van, parked around back. If I didn’t hustle, I’d be late. I might have exceeded the speed limit a tad, but I arrived at Ivy’s town house in time to see Kerry emerge from her old Subaru Outback. There was no sign of Ham. Kerry held up a key ring as I approached and explained.
“Ham dropped these by my office. Said something came up and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get here.”
“Hot damn,” I said. I hadn’t been looking forward to another encounter with Ham Donner. “Let’s get to it.”
We approached the blue door and paused on the stoop. Shoving her sunglasses atop her head, where her short, gray-flecked brown hair kept them secured, Kerry gave me a doubtful look. The skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I’m not so sure about this, Amy-Faye.”
In truth, I was having doubts as well. Still, we were here. “We’re not going to hurt anything,” I said. “It can’t hurt to look.”
“I guess.” Kerry fitted the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. She gestured for me to go first.
I froze for a moment, remembering the scene when I was here last. Would someone have cleaned up the vomit? Holding my breath, I
stepped into the hallway. A pile of mail, mostly advertising circulars, had been swept aside by the door. At first, everything looked normal. No sign of Ivy’s last moments marred the hallway. A faint odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils, and I realized Ham had hired someone to clean up. Thank goodness. I moved farther into the hall and Kerry entered behind me, pulling a clipboard from her tote. Something in my peripheral vision caught my attention and I turned to my right. The living room–dining room combo looked like a yeti had run amok.
All the couch and chair cushions were on the floor, their stuffing spilling out where someone had slit them open. I tried not to think the word “intestines” and vowed to quit reading serial-killer books. The furniture was shoved out of place and the drawers of the buffet hung drunkenly. A pile of table linens and place mats mounded in front of the buffet testified to what the drawers had held. A splatter of cranberry glass from a broken candy dish winked redly in the sunlight slanting through half-drawn blinds. It looked too much like blood and I took an involuntary step back, bumping into Kerry.
“What in the world—?” Kerry surveyed the chaos.
“I’d say either Ham needs to get his money back from the cleaning crew, or we’re not the first people to think of searching Ivy’s house.”
“It is just criminal the way people take advantage of other people’s tragedy,” Kerry said, her voice hard with anger. “Look at this! Some lowlifes heard about Ivy’s death and took the opportunity to break in and rob the place. And they didn’t even have the decency to do it neatly. They had to wreck the whole place. What is it with people these days? I’ll bet the kitchen’s a disaster.”
Before I could say anything, she bustled off in the direction of the kitchen. I followed. She was right. We stood on the threshold and looked at the mess. The cupboards and drawers hung open with their contents scattered around the room. Shards of colorful Fiestaware mingled with shattered glass and dented pots. Worse than that, all the canisters had been dumped on the floor, along with the food from the fridge. Open cartons of ice cream and containers of yogurt oozed onto the floor, mixing with flour and sugar and cornmeal to form a gelatinous mass. A bruised apple rested by my foot. A sour odor suggested that the mess had been there for at least a day. It was going to take a keg of Lysol and an army of cleaners wielding shovels, mops, and scrub brushes to muck this place out.
Kerry balled her hands on her hips. “Criminal,” she repeated. “Believe it or not, though, this isn’t the worst I’ve ever seen. Once, I got a listing on a house for a bank that had foreclosed on it, and the owners had knocked holes in the walls, clogged all the toilets, and spread the contents of the cats’ litter trays all over the carpets. They had four cats. It reeked. Disgusting!”
I noticed a trail of flour-coated footprints leading from the kitchen toward the stairs. “Look,” I whispered. I didn’t know why I was whispering since the smell of spoiled dairy products told me this hadn’t happened in the last couple of hours.
“We need to call the police,” Kerry said. “I doubt they’ll be able to catch the kids that did this, but at least they can try.” She pulled out her cell phone.
“You think it was kids?”
She shot me an impatient look. “Who else? Professional burglars wouldn’t bother to make this mess. They’d have been in and out. It was probably teenagers, looking for cash or electronics or prescription meds, who got off on vandalizing the place when they were done looting.”
She was probably right, but something about the whole scene gave me the creeps. I didn’t believe in auras or any of that nonsense, but I shivered. “Wait a minute before you call the police. Let’s check upstairs first,” I said.
“Why?”
I shrugged, not really sure. “Just to see where they went.” I pointed at the flour footprints.
“I’m telling you they went straight for the medicine cabinets,” Kerry said, following me to the stairs. “When I hold an open house now, I tell the owners to make sure they take all the meds out of their cabinets because people come through and steal them, hoping to find oxycodone or Percocet. Even Valium and antibiotics have street value.”
I had no idea being a Realtor provided such a diverse education. Careful to avoid stepping on the flour footprints, we hugged the wall as we climbed the stairs. The flour prints had faded by the time we reached the top. We poked our noses into the first room on the left, a guest bedroom, at a guess, which had received the same treatment as the living room. Feathers lay in drifts where they’d been liberated from the pillows. The next room was a bathroom, and Kerry gave an “I told you so” “Hah!” when we saw the mirrored medicine cabinet gaping open and empty.
“The police took some of her meds,” I told Kerry. “They thought Ivy overdosed on something.”
She sniffed, annoyed at having her theory discounted.
The last room at the end of the hall appeared to be Ivy’s bedroom, and it was untouched except for a nightstand whose drawer had been upended on the bed, dumping condoms, pens, lotions, and a couple of suspense novels onto the crocheted bedspread. The rest of the room was pristine.
“Huh,” Kerry grunted. “They must have gotten tired of wreaking destruction.”
“Or they got scared away,” I suggested, edging toward Ivy’s dresser while Kerry poked through the nightstand.
“Could be.”
Careful not to touch anything—I’d read enough mysteries to be wary of fingerprints—I studied the framed photos resting on the polished cherry surface. There was one of Ham and Ivy as teens and another of a couple I thought might be Ivy’s parents. A third showed a group of girls lined up near a tennis net and I remembered Ivy played tennis in college. I was trying to spot Ivy in the photo when I thought I heard something from downstairs. It wasn’t a distinguishable sound like a creak or a door closing, but there was a change in the house’s atmosphere. I froze.
Chapter 9
Kerry noticed it, too. “Ssh,” she hissed, even though I hadn’t said anything. We stood as still as ice sculptures, listening hard. I heard a heavy footstep and a muttered curse. Someone was definitely in the house.
“Now would be a good time to call the cops,” I whispered to Kerry.
“You think?” She had already dialed the number.
As she spoke to the 911 operator, the hall floor creaked and someone began ascending the stairs.
“Oh my God,” Kerry said, eyes wide.
“What do we do?” I asked. “Hide or fight?”
“He might have a gun. We have . . . a clipboard.” She held up our only “weapon.”
Of one accord, we dashed for the closet. I slid aside the mirrored door and we groaned. The closet was so stuffed with clothes that a paper doll couldn’t have squeezed in there. How did Ivy ever find anything? I wondered pointlessly.
“Bathroom!” Kerry pointed and we scurried across the room to the open door of the master bath.
Whoever was in the house had reached the upper level. I heard a strange crunching, shuffling noise from down the hall and puzzled over it until I realized the intruder was stepping on or through the debris on the hall bathroom floor. A sharp ping sounded, like he had kicked something that banged against the tub. He was angry.
Ivy’s master bathroom was small. It held a toilet, a vessel sink on a single cabinet vanity, a medicine cabinet, and a tub shrouded by a ruffled Little Mermaid shower curtain with a flame-haired Ariel, a cranky-looking Sebastian the crab, and a host of other fishy characters. A green towel was draped over the shower curtain rod. No linen closet or big hamper to hide in. Since neither Kerry nor I was likely to fit in the vanity under the sink, we both stepped hastily into the tub and pulled the shower curtain closed as quietly as possible. I winced at the muted jangle of the curtain rings sliding across the rod. To my nervous ears, it sounded like clanging cymbals.
“The Little Mermaid? Really?” Kerry whispered.
&nb
sp; We fought off a fit of the giggles, more a reaction to our scary situation than to the odd shower curtain.
The sound of the bedroom door being slammed back so it smacked the wall shut us up. Hardly daring to breathe, we listened as the intruder stomped into the bedroom, muttering curses. It seemed to be only one man. If he didn’t have a knife or gun, maybe Kerry and I could take him. Kerry held the clipboard with both hands at head height. Her face was grim.
The man stepped into the bathroom, brushing against the door. His shoe slapped the tile. The odor of stale cigarette smoke filled the room. Could it be—? The cigarette smoke made me think it could be Ham, and it made sense that Ham would be here, but I wasn’t sure enough to step out of hiding.
Before I could decide if I should risk peeking around the shower curtain, the unmistakable sound of a zipper froze me. The toilet seat smacked against the tank and the man began to pee. Kerry and I exchanged horrified looks. After a long, embarrassing thirty seconds, the man sighed, flushed, and began running water in the sink. That made me doubt it was Ham—he didn’t strike me as a hand washer. I was beginning to think we could outwait whoever it was, but then the towel over the shower curtain rod jumped.
As he tugged at it, the shower curtain slid aside three or four inches. Not waiting to find out if he’d seen us, Kerry sprang from the tub and brought the clipboard down on the man’s head. She got tangled in the shower curtain, so the blow wasn’t too hard. Ham Donner staggered back, eyes wide with surprise, and put his arms up to ward off another blow. I grabbed for Kerry’s arm, saying, “It’s only Ham; it’s only Ham,” but I tripped on the edge of the tub and jolted forward, knocking into Kerry and Ham. The three of us went down in an ungainly pile, half-covered with the shower curtain. My knee slammed into the tile floor and I yelped.
The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco Page 9
