The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco

by Laura Disilverio

  Hart blew out a long, exasperated breath. “You sound like your friend Maud. There’s no ‘truth’ to uncover. Ivy poisoned herself. End of story.”

  “What about the tea from her office?” I began hotly. “It—”

  “Was tea. No oleander. It was a harmless herbal concoction sold to millions by a retailer called Teavana. I got the report this morning.”

  I was quiet for a moment, absorbing the news. If the tea at her office was undoctored, did that mean that Ivy had, in fact, committed suicide? Wait . . . “What about the ledger page?”

  A line appeared between Hart’s brows. “What ledger page?”

  I stared at him. “The one Ivy mailed to herself. The one written in code that I dropped off at the police station Friday night. I wanted to see you, but Officer Ridgway said you were in Grand Junction.”

  His frown deepened. “I didn’t get it. Maybe Ridgway passed it to Chief Uggams. I’ll track it down when I get back to the station. How, exactly, do you think this ‘ledger page’ relates to Donner’s death?”

  He listened to my involved story and the Readaholics’ combined thoughts on the page with a neutral expression tending toward disbelieving by the time I was done. Reading his face, I finished on a defensive note, using Maud’s logic. “It doesn’t make sense for something so strange not to be connected to Ivy’s death.”

  “Amy-Faye.” He paused as if to temper his words. “Amy-Faye. You intercept a letter at Ivy’s house that you think she mailed to herself. There’s been no handwriting analysis, so we don’t even know that much. The letter turns out to contain a page your conspiracy-fiend friend Maud says is coded. You leap to the conclusion that it’s related to Ivy’s death because the two things happened within a day of each other. Faulty logic. If I walk into the Salty Burro and two minutes later it bursts into flame, it doesn’t mean that I had anything to do with the fire. Just because two events occur within close proximity doesn’t mean there’s a causal relationship.”

  I would have interrupted, but he held up an “I’m not done” finger. “Even if Ivy did mail herself the page, it doesn’t mean there’s anything mysterious about it. Maybe it’s something she requested that required her to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to receive it.”

  I’d never thought of that. “But—”

  “Maybe she plays chess, or some other game, long-distance with a friend and the ‘code’ is chess notations.”

  “It’s not. I’d recognize chess notations; my sister’s a grand master.”

  He looked interested at that. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, so it’s something else. My point is, you and your friends have built this elaborate ‘murder in small-town America’ plot out of—if not thin air, then something remarkably similar. You have no proof. You’ve watched too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote. This is not Cabot Cove.”

  He had me questioning everything I’d accepted as fact until I remembered my trump card. I played it triumphantly. “The handwriting on the ledger page is Clay Shumer’s. Kerry recognized it.”

  That gave him pause. After a long moment, he said, “Look, I’ll dig up the page when I get back to the station and have a look at it. Then we’ll talk again. Until then, leave this alone. If you’re right and the threat is linked to Ivy’s death, you don’t want to go poking around anymore. Chances are it’s related to something else entirely—”

  “How many people do you think are that mad at me?” I asked with some indignation.

  He grinned and I felt a flutter in my abdomen. “No telling. It’s most likely a prank, but I’m taking it seriously. Keep a low profile until you hear back from me, hm?”

  It wasn’t until after he was gone that I realized I hadn’t told him about Flavia Dunbarton and her conversation with Ivy about a big, scandalous, criminal story. Simple oversight? Or my reluctance to point him in Flavia’s direction against the reporter’s will? I would wait and see what Hart had to say after he examined the ledger page, and then decide whether or not to mention Flavia.

  Right now I had a five thirty appointment with Madison Taylor at the country club where the reception was being held. Resolving to be congenial and professional, I gathered up my files and purse and headed out, telling Al to hold down the fort.

  “The fort’s going nowhere while I’m in charge, boss,” he said, grinning.

  Chapter 17

  The Rocky Peaks Golf and Country Club, known more familiarly as “the Club,” was five miles west of Heaven, several hundred feet in elevation lower than the town. It featured a links-style golf course that had significant elevation gains and losses over the course of its eighteen holes and that cost more to play than my monthly utility bill. This being Monday, the course was closed for maintenance. The pool was still covered at this time of year—it didn’t open until Memorial Day—but there were people thwacking balls on the tennis courts, despite the chilly temps. The main club building, dating from the late 1800s, was built of enormous logs and furnished in lodge style, as were too many of the homes and vacation cabins in the area. Why on earth did living in the mountains mean all the decor had to feature moose, bears, and forest colors?

  A broad veranda wrapped around the lodge on all four sides, and I crossed it to enter the lobby. A cavernous room with a stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole bison provided a focal point on one beamed wall, the logs blackened by smoke, and a bar, all copper and polished wood, took up the opposite wall. Danny, the bartender, waved to me and I waved back. Four huge chandeliers made of intertwined deer antlers lit the room. I didn’t spot Madison immediately and was headed for the restaurant to begin a conversation with the manager about the reception details when I heard Madison’s voice behind me.

  “Oh, my.”

  I turned to see her staring up at the antler chandeliers.

  “How many deer did they have to kill to make those?” She sounded distressed.

  “They don’t kill them,” I said. “Deer shed their antlers each year. You can find them in the woods . . . kind of like driftwood.”

  “Oh.” She laughed at herself. “That makes me feel better. Although that guy”—she pointed to a snarling grizzly head mounted over the door we’d come in—“is enough to take the edge off any celebration. Do you suppose he was from around here?”

  “Half a century ago,” I said. That bear had cost the hunter his leg, so the story went, in the mid-1960s. We still had bears in the area, plenty of ’em, but I didn’t want to make Madison nervous. If she was going to live here with Doug—a big “if”—she’d run into one sometime.

  She smiled and tucked her blond hair behind her ear. “Glad it wasn’t yesterday. Anyway, hi, Amy-Faye. Doug says you and he got the guest list all sorted, so I guess we can move on to the fun stuff. I’ve got to go back to New York at the end of the week, so we need to get it all figured out today.”

  I led her across the lobby to the restaurant and introduced her to the manager, Wallace Pinnecoose, a quiet, highly competent man with the calm demeanor of someone who’d dealt with uncounted bridezillas, food poisonings, kitchen fires, and other emergencies too numerous (or well covered up) to mention over the course of his forty years in the restaurant industry. Within minutes, he and Madison were deep in conversation over the menu, table linens, and other details, with me interpolating a suggestion from time to time.

  “If you want a reception line, it works best in the lobby,” I said.

  “Sounds good. Oh, and I don’t want anyone flinging birdseed or rice at us. None of those fertility rituals.” She laughed. “It’s not like Doug and I want kids anytime soon, or even ever, necessarily.”

  I bit my lip. I knew Doug wanted kids, at least three of them. We’d discussed it numerous times while we were dating. Madison was young, I told myself; she’d grow to want kids, maybe after she made partner and felt more secure in her career. None of my busi
ness, none of my business . . .

  Wallace intervened with a question about the passed hors d’oeuvres and we got back to the business at hand. Ninety minutes later, we had all the details hashed out, and Wallace escorted us to the bar, where he offered us a drink on the house and then excused himself. That was his habit whenever I brought a client out here to set up an event. I didn’t particularly feel like having a drink with Madison, but she ordered a cosmopolitan, so I asked for an Angel Ale, one of my brother Derek’s brews that the Club kept on hand.

  “We’re selling a lot of these,” Danny said, sliding the bottle and a frosty glass onto the bar in front of me. “I’m looking forward to the brewpub opening.” He presented Madison’s cosmo with a flourish and a smile. She smiled back, not immune to his black Irish good looks and charm. Danny’d been in Heaven for three or four years, now, tending bar at the Club, and I don’t think anyone knew where he’d come from. His skill with a shaker and his popularity with customers, male and female, gave him job security at the Club. He had a way with women and could banter like nobody’s business, but he was careful not to overstep the line or piss off a woman’s husband or date. He could just as easily talk hunting, golfing, or the Avalanche with the men without letting the conversation bore the women they were with. Quite a skill set. He occasionally moonlighted as a bartender for my events when he wasn’t working at the Club.

  “What brewpub?” Madison asked, sipping her drink.

  I told her about my brother and his new business venture. “Oh, fabulous,” she said. “Of course Doug and I will be there, unless we’re in New York that weekend.” She pulled out her phone and put the pub opening on her calendar.

  I suppose I should have been grateful, for Derek’s sake, but I found myself growling inwardly at the way she was already taking over their social calendar, making decisions without consulting Doug. None of my business, none of my business . . .

  “So, A-Faye,” she said. “Do you mind if I call you A-Faye? It’s how Doug refers to you and it’s just so cute. Tell me—”

  “I prefer Amy-Faye, actually,” I said. Only my friends call me A-Faye.

  “Oh, well, sure.” She accepted my correction with a smile. “I totally get it. I hate when anyone except my dad calls me Maddy. So tell me about Doug when he was in high school. I know he can’t have been as perfect as he and his mom make out. I mean, it’s high school and he was a jock.” She smiled conspiratorially and leaned in so her hair swung forward in a golden swath. “Surely there’s a good story or two? You must know them all since you were so close.”

  I worked at the bottle label with my thumbnail, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t make me look like a total jerk. I didn’t feel like sharing any of my memories of Doug with his bride-to-be, no matter how pleasant and engaging she might be. I didn’t want to be her friend. Not yet, anyway. Maybe by the time they were celebrating their thirtieth anniversary. I pulled up a couple of lame recollections of pranks Doug had played on folks, and a story about the time he and a friend had sent a portapotty from a house construction site tobogganing downhill to its final resting place in the Club’s swimming pool.

  “Was anyone in it?” Madison asked, wide-eyed.

  “The pool or the portapotty? Neither, actually. It was midnight.”

  “Goodness, that just doesn’t sound like my Doug,” she said.

  That’s because he was my Doug back then.

  “Why, if something had gone wrong, he could have been sued. What if someone had gotten hurt? I’m sure it cost a lot to clean out the pool.”

  “Mr. Elvaston and Charlie’s dad made Doug and Charlie do all the cleaning,” I said with a reminiscent smile. “Took them two whole weeks of after schools and weekends.” I’d been pretty sure Doug was going to smell like chlorine forever. The memory made me smile.

  “You still care about him, don’t you?” Madison asked, studying my face.

  “Of course.” I tried a carefree laugh. That didn’t come off, so I chugged some beer and choked. Through my coughing, I said, “We’ve been friends forever.”

  “So you don’t mind that he’s marrying me? I know you guys have history, and if it’s too painful, well, we’ll completely understand if you want to back out of organizing the wedding. I’m sure there must be someone else we could hire, especially now that you’ve got it on track.”

  The “we, we, we” really got to me.

  She gave me a kind and understanding look, full of sympathy—real or feigned?—and I squared my shoulders. I’d be damned if I was going to melt into a maudlin puddle of unrequited love in front of her.

  “Madison, don’t be ridiculous. It was over years ago. Years. I’m sure there were men in your life before Doug, but you’re not pining for them. You’re probably relieved, like I am, that you didn’t make the mistake of marrying one of those men when you were too young to know what real, lasting love was. Is. I feel really lucky that Doug and I are still friends and I’m glad he’s found you. As a matter of fact, I’m seeing someone myself.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d strung together so many lies at once. I emptied my beer.

  “Really?” Madison perked up. “I didn’t know. Who is he? I’ll put him down as your ‘plus one.’” She pulled out her phone, ready to make a note of my new boyfriend’s name, and looked at me expectantly.

  “His name’s Lindell,” I heard myself say. “Lindell Hart.”

  Chapter 18

  In the van twenty minutes later, after escaping from Madison, I banged my head on the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had I let her goad me into telling her I was dating Lindell Hart? One lunch didn’t exactly add up to a hot romance. Twilight had closed in while we strategized for the reception, and the evening’s chill seeped through my sweater. I started the van and cranked up the heater. Maybe I could tell Madison that Hart couldn’t come to the wedding because it was against his religion. No, the service was nondenominational, so that wouldn’t work. I could tell her he was on duty that day. Or . . . the thought came to me as I made the turn onto Paradise Boulevard: I could actually ask him to go with me. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I wouldn’t have to tell him we were supposedly “dating.” I’d just casually mention the wedding and suggest it might be a great opportunity for him to get to know folks. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. It would be far, far better than showing up at Doug’s wedding all by my lonesome.

  Flashing lights caught my attention. They strobed from partway down a side street. What was going on? I slowed and craned my neck as I passed the turning. A fire truck was parked halfway down the block and firefighters were coiling up a big hose. Water puddled on the street. The truck blocked my view of the buildings and I rolled down my window to ask one of the gawkers what had happened. The acrid stench of smoke drifted in.

  “It’s the police station, Amy-Faye,” the man, a friend of my father’s, said. “I don’ think it was anythin’ big, though. Didn’t take ’em but a couple minutes to put it out.” He sounded a shade disappointed that there hadn’t been a major conflagration.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Nah. Closed up this time of night.”

  I’d forgotten that the station wasn’t staffed at night. There was an officer or two on duty, I thought, but they were in patrol cars, not the station, and emergency calls were routed from somewhere else. Mesa, maybe. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I said. The man waved, collected his wife from the ring of looky-loos, and headed up the sidewalk. I continued on my way home, trying to fight off the uneasy feeling that seemed to have worked its way into me with the smoke.

  My phone rang as I got out of the van, and I looked at the display. Maud. My uneasy feeling intensified.

  “Did you hear about the fire at the police station?” she asked when I picked up.

  “I drove past it.”

  “Well, I heard about i
t on the scanner and made some calls. Care to guess what caught fire?”

  “No.”

  “The evidence room,” she said. “And I’ll bet you my new Toshiba that the ledger page burned up. It’s toast. Tell me you think that’s a coincidence.”

  “Was it arson?”

  “Looks like faulty wiring, although obviously they haven’t done a full investigation yet.”

  “Faulty wiring sounds like a coincidence.”

  “Oh, Amy-Faye.” Maud’s weary sigh implied I was too naive for words. “There’s no such thing as coincidence. Wait and see.” She hung up.

  * * *

  Disproving Maud’s theory that there are no coincidences, I found myself in line behind Detective Lindell Hart when I stopped in to the Divine Herb for coffee Tuesday morning. His curly brown hair was damp at the hairline and an image of him in the shower popped into my head, flustering me.

  “Heard you had some excitement at the station last night,” I said after we exchanged greetings. “In fact, I drove past as the firefighters were finishing up. Will you be able to work there?”

  “It reeks, but yeah. Only a couple of rooms were affected, the evidence room and one office. My office and the chief’s, as well as our waiting area, are fine. Smoky, but fine.” He peeled the lid off his cup and blew on the coffee while waiting for me to pay for mine. I dug out my wallet, and when I did, something fell to the floor. Hart bent and came up with the Baggie of tea.

  “Your stash?” he joked, holding it out to me.

  I spilled coffee on my hand. “Ivy’s,” I said. “Ivy’s tea. She brought it to my house for the book club, the night before she died. She must have left it by accident. Brooke found it night before last—it had gotten shoved behind my flour canister—and I was planning to give it to you. I put it in my purse this morning and was going to swing by your office later.”

  Hart gave me a look that seemed to question my story. Taking an evidence Baggie from his pocket, he put the tea Baggie into it. “Might as well test this, too,” he said, voice neutral. “Just to be thorough.”