by Kate Wilhelm
"I can only repeat what I said before," Brice said wearily. "On Friday I drove to Portland for a business meeting with associates from my company. We had dinner together and talked until about ten-thirty. I went to bed around twelve. I had to make notes about the meeting; it took a while. On Saturday morning I checked out, drove down to Salem and had breakfast there, and then drove home. I gave the sheriff copies of the log of my trip and my receipts. And they already took our fingerprints, they said for elimination purposes. That's all I can tell you."
Caldwell had been listening intently, consulting a notebook from time to time. He nodded. "Your firm is Hartmann and Fine Financial Services?"
"Yes. The head office is in Bellingham; there's an office in Spokane, one in Olympia, in Portland, Salem, and here in Eugene. A representative from each office attended the meeting."
"Your company in trouble?"
"No. It's not like that! If you read the newspapers, you know how the market's been for over a year, crazy swings up and down. We have clients who get antsy when it gyrates like that. We've been having these meetings once a month over the past year. Purely routine."
"You always go?"
"No. There are three of us here in the Eugene office; we take turns. They aren't exactly pleasure jaunts, Lieutenant. It happened to be my turn."
Caldwell nodded, as if everything Brice said checked out with the notes he had. Then he said, "I understand that some of the associates share rides. Do you do that?"
"No," Brice said stiffly. "Dave Fulton is in Salem, and I would have stopped and picked him up, but I planned to stay over Friday night, and he didn't. So we drove up separately."
"Do you usually stay up there overnight?"
"That was the first time," Brice said. "The other times I went I didn't get home until after two in the morning. We never know when the meetings will end, and no matter when I go to bed, I'm awake by six-thirty. I decided to stay and get some sleep this time since Abby would be gone."
"Did you check in at your office here in town before you drove up to Portland?"
Brice's impatience was clearly strained almost past endurance. "I already told them. No. Abby didn't have to go to work until nine, and we lazed about that morning. I left when she did."
The lieutenant asked more questions: where he had stayed, the names of his associates, where they had met, had dinner, where he had had breakfast. All things Brice had gone through with the sheriff, all things already in his notebook, Abby felt certain. Brice's tension was almost palpable; she took his hand and held it. At first he was as stiff and unresponsive as she had been all week, then he squeezed her hand and she could feel his tension ease. They were both like that, she thought fleetingly, coiled so hard and tight that a word, an expression breeze might make either of them erupt in some unpredictable way.
"Okay," Caldwell said at last, and turned to Abby. Connors, you want to tell me about Friday?"
She moistened her lips and released her hand from I grasp, which had grown increasingly hard. "I was at the with friends."
He smiled at her. "In just a little more detail, maybe?
"Jonelle, Jonelle Saltzman, picked me up when I go work at about two, and we drove out. To Yachats. Emma son and Francesca Tremaine came out a little later. We walked around, ate dinner, and talked until very late. On Saturday deputy came to tell me. Jonelle brought me home."
"This is something you do often, go spend the week with your pals?"
"Once a year, sometimes twice."
"Who made the reservation?"
"I did. At the Blue Horizon Cottages."
"Why that weekend?"
"Since Brice would be away, and the others could make it seemed a good time."
"When's the last time you folks were at the Jake, Mrs. Connors?
She moistened her lips again. "August."
"I understand your father called you on Friday morning Is that right?"
She nodded.
"What did he say? How did he sound?"
"He asked if I could come over for the weekend, and I said I couldn’t." She realized that the other detective, the woman, was watching her hands, and she glanced down and saw them clutching each other almost spasmodically. She flexed her fingers and spread them, then Jet her hands rest in her Jap. "If I'd gone, it wouldn’t have happened," she said in a low voice. "I could have gone there instead of to the coast. If I—"
"For God's sake, Abby! You might have been killed, too," Brice said. "You couldn't have stopped the maniac who shot him. You would have been killed with him."
"Do you remember exactly what he said that morning?" Caldwell said, ignoring Brice.
She nodded. "He was happy and excited. He said, 'This is important. I have something to tell you.' He was laughing and happy. And I said I couldn't."
"Did he say what was important?"
She shook her head. "I asked if he could come to town on Saturday, that we could all have dinner Saturday night, and he said he'd just stay put and work."
Brice put his arm around her shoulders, squeezed her shoulder lightly. "Lieutenant Caldwell, tell her she couldn't have prevented what happened out there. It wasn't her fault."
Abby avoided glancing at him; he sounded desperate, pleading. A glance now might be the cue that would make her erupt into tears. And she was determined not to cry, not now. Get through this, that was all that mattered.
"Tell me about the dog," Caldwell said, paying no attention whatsoever to Brice.
Brice squeezed her shoulder harder.
"Spook? What about her?" Abby asked.
"Mr. Halburtson said she barked during the night, all the next morning. Did she bark a lot?"
Coop Halburtson was the nearest neighbor to her father's cabin; he always heard Spook when she barked. Abby shook her head. "No. Just if a raccoon came around, or a cougar, or a stranger, something like that."
"Did the dog stay out every night?"
"No. Sometimes there are bears, or cougars.... He kept her inside. She has a dog door and can come and go when she wants to, but he always locked it at night." She added, "She, Spook, tangled with a skunk once and he said... he said he never wanted that to happen again." She looked down at her hands; they were clutching each other hard.
"Mrs. Connors," the lieutenant said then, "from all v been able to find out up to now you're probably the one was closest to your father. You lived with him for years your mother moved to Seattle; you kept in touch. Did he ] enemies? Did he ever tell you about anyone who might ] wanted to harm him, kill him even?"
She shook her head.
"Do you know where Matthew Petrie is?"
She looked up, startled. "No. I haven't seen him or he from him since ... since we were divorced eight years ago.
"Why did your father give Petrie a check for fifteen thousand dollars the day after you divorced him?"
Caldwell didn't look menacing, merely puzzled, but suddenly Abby began to feel as if he had been building a trap, luring her toward it gently, effortlessly even, but knowing exactly what he was after, where he intended to lead her. She shook her head again. "I don't know anything about that. Dad didn't have that kind of money back then. Who told you that?
Caldwell shrugged. "You see, when it comes to a murder investigation, we have to go through a lot of history—records, bank records, things like that. It came up. Did your father and Petrie have a big fight before Petrie took off?"
"Not a fight. Just yelling back and forth. But Matthew wouldn't have a reason to come back, to hurt him." Then she whispered, "You've been going through all his papers, his private affairs, everything."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Connors, but it's part of the routine. We have to try to tie up some loose ends."
Abruptly Brice stood up. "I think this has gone on long enough, Lieutenant. The sheriff summed it up. Some psyche probably high on meth or something, went to the cabin an shot Jud. The dog barked and the guy got away. It has nothing to do with Abby or with the past."
Caldwell eyed him
speculatively, then nodded. "You’re probably right. Occam's razor, the simplest solution is most often the right one, but we're stuck with routine, like most people. We just have to follow up if there are a lot of loose ends." He looked at Abby once more and asked, "Do you know why your father got cashier's checks a couple of times a year for the past seven years, who they were for?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"See? A loose end. Was he giving you an allowance, paying for your schooling?"
"Yes. He said it was his job, to see that I got an education even if it took a lifetime to do it." She blinked rapidly, then ducked her head again. "But not cashier's checks, just a regular check every month."
Brice was still standing, his face flushed with anger. "People get cashier's checks for a lot of reasons. He traveled a lot; maybe he didn't like to use credit cards or carry cash with him. What's that got to do with his murder?"
"Over a hundred thousand dollars, walking-around money? And he did use credit cards, you see. So, a loose end."
"A hundred thousand?" Brice sat down hard.
Caldwell nodded, then said, "More, actually. One hundred forty-five thousand. Just one or two more things, and we're out of here. I talked to Harvey Durham, your father's attorney and executor of his estate, and he said you weren't aware of the codicil your father added to his will years ago. Is that right?"
Abby nodded.
"Do you have any idea why he added it?"
"No."
"Strange thing to add. You inherit it all, act as his literary executor, continue to get your monthly allowance, but you can't touch the principal or sell anything for six months. He never mentioned that to you?"
"No. Harvey told us on Monday."
"But you knew you were his heir?"
"Yes. After my mother remarried, he told me he had changed his will. We... we laughed because he didn't have anything to leave except the cabin and his papers."
"Did he tell you about the designation with the thirty-day contingency clause?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Did he confide in you at all about his finances, the sales of his work, how much he was making in the past few years?"
"No. Lieutenant, he never talked about money, not when he didn't have any, not when he did. It just wasn't important to him. He began to travel, and he bought me a new car, a Toyota Supra, two years ago, and bought a van, a sports utility van, but even that wasn't really important to him. More like a necessity, living back in the mountains, as he was. I don't know how much he was making, or what he was doing with it."
She had a flashing memory of the time Brice had suggested that his company would be happy to advise Jud about stocks, mutual funds, whatever.
Jud had laughed. "There are three people that, if you use their services at all, you should make sure are not related to you. Your doctor, your lawyer, and your money manager. But thanks."
Caldwell had asked something else, she realized, something she had not heard. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Did he stay here with you when he came to town?" Caldwell repeated.
She shook her head. Jud had never spent a single night in this house.
"Did he stay with Willa Ashford?"
"I don't know," she said faintly. "You'll have to ask her."
Finally Caldwell stood up. "Just one more thing, Mrs. Connors, then we'll leave you in peace. As I said, we've had to go through his papers, records, all that. But the problem is, you're the only one we know who can look over the cabin and make sure nothing's missing, that things are pretty much like he kept them. Can you go out there with us tomorrow?"
"Jesus!" Brice snapped. "For God's sake, can't you see what this is doing to her? That's too goddamn much to ask!"
Caldwell kept his gaze on Abby. "The crime lab technicians have gone over things, there's nothing left to see. It's been padlocked ever since the sheriff got there, but we need someone like you to have a look around before anyone takes a notion to break in or something. How long a drive is it from here?"
"Two hours," she said. He was just doing his job, she thought bleakly. That was all it meant to him, another job to get over with, move on to something else. Then she thought, that was what she wanted, too. To find out who shot her father in the face on Friday night. She nodded.
"Good. Nine? Is that okay with you? We'll pick you up at nine."
She nodded again. She remained on the sofa, with her hands clasped tightly, when Brice took them to the door.
"I just don't think you should come," Abby said to Brice after the officers left. "There won't be anything for you to do, and you must have a ton of work to catch up on."
"I don't want you to go off with them alone. Let's take the box, give your father his burial, then close up the place for now. We can drive Jud's van home."
"No!" She took a breath, then said calmly, "I'm not ready yet, and not with them along. Not with police watching. It... it has to be private." She realized that she had already decided to bury her father's ashes alone, not with anyone else present. It had to be private. She was not aware of having thought it through before, but the idea was firmly implanted in her mind. Maybe she had known ever since the day Jud had told her his wishes, an implicit part of his instructions, unstated but communicated.
"Okay," Brice said. He looked almost rigid, his mouth tight with frustration. "We'll leave that for later, but I should be with you when you go back the first time. I don't care what they've cleaned up, it's going to be hard for you to go back."
The doorbell rang, and he glanced at his watch. "Christ, it must be that agent. We'll talk about this when I get home, okay? Call me if you need anything. I'll be at the office all afternoon." He went to admit Christina Maas.
Abby met Christina in the foyer, surprised to see the woman enter with a roll-on suitcase and briefcase, dressed in a black pantsuit with a silvery blouse, ready to travel. Or to move in?
"I have a five o'clock plane to L.A.," Christina said. "So I checked out of the hotel already. I can get a cab from here, can't I?"
Brice said sure, call for a cab when she was ready to go; he blew Abby a kiss and left the two women in the foyer, where Abby regarded her guest with suspicion and even hostility. Christina had been one of Jud's women, she knew with certainty, and she didn't know how to act with her. How to treat her. Clearly Christina had not shed many tears over Jud's death; her makeup was too perfect for that, untouched by human tears. She was tall, five feet ten, almost too thin, with what Abby thought of as big-city style, New York style; her hair was pale, nearly platinum, beautifully coifed and moussed, her nails manicured, ivory, a heavy gold chain her only jewelry.
"Is there someplace where we can spread out some papers?" Christina asked, glancing into the living room, dismissing it.
Abby nodded and led the way to the breakfast table, where she began to pick up the coffee cups. Now, in a better light, she realized Christina was older than she had first appeared. Tiny lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed her in spite of the makeup. Forty-something, not pretty at all, just smart looking.
"Abby," Christina said, watching her wipe the table, "we might clear the air before we start. Jud told me you suspected that we'd had an affair, and that you didn't approve. I'm sorry. I cared for him very deeply, but it was over a long time ago, and afterward we became good friends as well as business associates." She sat down and placed her briefcase on the floor.
"The police questioned me yesterday about Jud's work, how he got paid, now much, when, everything. I told them exactly what I'm going to tell you. Better to tell them up front than wait for a subpoena." She was brisk, businesslike, as if to say there should be no doubt about this meeting; it was purely business. "You’re the literary executor. That means you have to approve any deals I make, or reject them. It means that you can choose to have a different agent handle his unpublished work, if you want to go that route, but I'll still handle everything I handled in the past—foreign sales, for instance. The movie deal I'm
negotiating now. I can make the deal, negotiate, do it all, but you have to approve and sign the contract."
Abby listened to her mutely, hardly able to comprehend the meaning of her words as Christina continued to talk about the agreement she and Jud had reached, and what it meant now that Abby was the literary executor, the contract that Abby would have to sign agreeing to the arrangement with the agent.
