by M. K. Wren
Loanh. Why hadn’t she joined the rush to his room after the shadow visitor opened his door and Heather sounded the alarm?
Yes, Loanh might be Al’s accomplice, but on the other hand she might be the mastermind and Al her intended victim. Had she been willing to sacrifice A. C.—and Lucas and Conan, when they appeared unexpectedly—to rid herself of Al? Of course, if a share of A. C.’s estate was part of her motivation, A. C. was not an incidental victim.
Al and Loanh’s marriage was obviously on shaky ground, and Conan wondered if Al had threatened a divorce, wondered where that would leave Loanh financially and in terms of the family she said was so important to her, wondered about the brief conference with Mark Friday afternoon that left him looking so worried.
It wasn’t likely that Loanh would know anything about explosives, which simply meant that if she were guilty, she’d had to find a willing expert as an accomplice. But like everyone at the lodge at the time of the explosion—again, except for Will and Lise—Loanh could have detonated the explosion by radio.
It was even possible that Loanh had prepared the questionable toddy and asked Tiff to deliver it to Conan. Tiff and Loanh were friends, and Tiff would have carried out that task if Loanh asked it of her, especially since she seemed to be a few drinks past second thoughts. When confronted by Will, perhaps Tiff had pointed an accusing finger at Demara, the outsider, to avoid implicating her friend.
Conan watched the flickering amber shadows on the ceiling and turned his suspicious thoughts on the one person who would be the most obvious suspect if A. C. was the intended victim and his estate the motive: Kimberly Kaiser King. She wouldn’t be the first woman to marry a rich man twice her age, then hurry his demise so she wouldn’t be burdened with an aging husband while she enjoyed the prime of her life with his money. She had worked for King and Ryder Construction for years and might know something about explosives, or at least know who to seek out as an expert accomplice. And she, too, could have signaled the explosion by radio without ever leaving the lodge.
But would Tiff have delivered the suspect toddy for Kim and lied for her afterward?
Did the toddy have anything to do with anything? Possibly it was exactly what it seemed: bourbon, lemon juice, sugar, and water.
But what about the missing Nitrostat?
Conan irritably pushed the covers aside and sat up, then opened the drawer under the side table, noting the flashlight that was standard equipment at this exclusive hotel. But it was the gun that held his attention. He took it out of the drawer, handling it gingerly. His fingers were not only rosy, but as sensitive as if the nerves had been laid bare, and any pressure, even the sensation of icy metal, was painful.
A friend with the Oregon State Police had recommended this weapon to him: a 9 mm Ruger P-85, dull black down to the heavy plastic grips. Its magazine held fifteen cartridges, and it was loaded. It always was. Conan felt a grudging respect for the uncompromising precision of its engineering. It was an instrument designed exceedingly well for one purpose: killing people.
And he resented the realization that before this damnable blizzard ended, he might be forced to use this instrument for the purpose for which it had been designed.
Chapter 13
A wan light was seeping through the muslin curtains when Conan felt Heather leap off the bed. No barking this time.
“Good morning.”
It was Will Stewart who stood by the bed, offering that greeting. Conan blinked his eyes into focus. For a moment, he thought he was at home and the dull roar outside was the breaking waves of the Pacific.
But only for a moment. He sat up, recognizing the savage undercurrent in the sound. The storm had not abated.
“Will. What time is it?”
“About eight-thirty. How’re you feeling?”
Conan flexed his hands and shrugged. “I’m all right.”
Apparently Will wasn’t willing to accept his word for that. He had his medical case with him and insisted on taking Conan’s temperature and blood pressure, and listening to his heart. Then he examined Conan’s feet and hands. Conan waited patiently, noting that Will had built a fire. Still, the room was far from warm.
Finally Will put his equipment away. “Lookin’ good,” he said almost cheerfully. “No blistering. Some of the skin might get crusty and slough off in a few days, and your fingers and toes are going to be sore, but nothing a little ibuprofen can’t control. I’ll leave a bottle. You can take up to four tablets at a time. You get any sleep?”
“Probably as much as anyone else. Did you try the radio this morning?”
“Mark did. Still nothing but static and country western.”
“Is everyone else up and about?”
“Yes. In the kitchen. Except Loanh. I checked on her a while ago, and she’s still in bed.”
“Sleeping?”
“No. She says she’s just not ready to talk to anybody yet.” He frowned, pushing his fingers through his red hair. “Okay, if you’re going to rise and shine, I’ll give you a hand.”
Conan was grateful for Will’s helping hand, since his own hands made even simple morning ablutions difficult. And grateful for electric razors. He was also grateful for Will’s assistance in getting dressed, although Will insisted on enough extra layers to make him feel like Charlie Brown in winter, including two sweaters topped by one of A. C.’s red plaid Pendleton shirts and two pairs of soft wool socks between his tender feet and the scuffs.
Before he left the room, Conan went to the window and pushed aside the curtain. He could see nothing; the inside of the glass was filmed with ice. But the sound was there: a sustained, panting rumble.
As he made his way downstairs—carefully, with Will dawdling at his side—Conan was conscious of the lodge as an isolated bastion in some frigid, pulsing plane of existence that didn’t make sense in the world he accepted as real. He heard the hum of the generator from the garage, but it was overwhelmed by the wind. In the atrium, a wan light filtered through the multiple panes on either side of the door, panes opaque with ice. The living room was in cavernous twilight, the heavy drapes drawn across all the windows, even the French doors, a small fire burning in the fireplace amid gray ashes. The grandfather clock chimed its stately preamble and tally of the hour. Nine o’clock. The sonorous sounds seemed to die too soon, as if there were no echo in this room. He couldn’t hear the come-and-get-it bell. Apparently someone had muffled the clapper to stop its incessant clanging in the wind.
Light emanated from the kitchen. The swinging door had been propped open, and Heather lay sphinxlike just outside. Conan leaned down to pet her before he went in. She was inclined to follow him, but Lise, who was coming out of the pantry in the corner to his left, said firmly, “No, Heather. Stay!” That was no doubt in deference to Kim.
The kitchen was as chilly as the rest of the lodge, yet it had a comfortable, rustic ambiance, despite the shining new refrigerator and range on the lefthand wall, the microwave, blender, and other high-tech accouterments on the tile counter, the stainless-steel sink on the far wall. The beamed ceiling and oak floor pertained here as they did throughout the lodge, and the cabinets were decorated with wrought-iron strap hinges. The big bay window on the west wall, curtained in muslin with a scalloped edge embroidered in blue, surrounded a nook lined with banquette seats upholstered in pale blue leather, enclosing three sides of an oak table.
Mark occupied one of the two ladder-back chairs on the kitchen side, while Tiff, looking like a refugee from a war zone, bundled in mismatched layers of clothing, a purple scarf confining her ebullient hair, sat on the banquette at the far end of the table. Kim, similarly bundled, but with a better eye for blending colors and textures, worked at a chopping board near the range. Farther down the counter, Lise was buttering slices of bread. Demara stood at the door that opened onto the deck, and she seemed prepared to depart at any moment. She was wearing a black parka, with someone’s brown wool pants stuffed into maroon suede boots too stylish to be borrow
ed, as was the small, matching purse hanging from a narrow strap over one shoulder. She had pushed aside the curtain on the door’s window and was staring out, although Conan doubted she could see anything.
No one had been speaking, but when he came into the kitchen the silence seemed to intensify as everyone turned to look at him. He felt as if he were, by his very existence here, a confirmation of tragedy.
And for someone, he was a liability not yet dealt with.
Will sat down at the north end of the table, while Conan chose the other ladder-back chair. Lise asked, “Would you two like some coffee?” They both nodded.
Mark studied Conan dubiously. “I guess you’re okay.”
Conan didn’t try to answer that.
Tiff only glanced at Conan, then said to Will, “I’m so worried about Loanh. I mean, this just isn’t like her, she’s so much stronger than she seems, you know. I mean, she usually is….”
Kim turned, and there was no hint of redness or puffiness about her extraordinary blue eyes, no hint that she had yet wept. There was instead a tightness in her features that made Conan wonder if she was capable of speaking. She was, and her voice was steady. “I’m microwaving scrambled eggs for anyone who’s hungry.”
Will held up his hand. “Sounds great, Kim.”
And Conan realized he was ravenous. “Sounds great to me, too. Thanks, Kim.”
“Me, too,” Mark put in, avoiding his wife’s disapproving gaze.
There were no other takers. Kim began breaking eggs into a bowl. “There’ll be no toast. The toaster takes too much electricity.”
Lise brought coffee for Will and Conan, then returned to her buttering, and into the silence accumulating in the room, Demara asked, “For God’s sake, how long is this going to last?”
“Only God knows, Demara,” Kim replied. “I remember a blizzard in The Dalles when I was a kid that lasted four days.”
There was no satin, only harsh panic in Demara’s voice, as she repeated, “Four days! Jesus, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you don’t have a phone in this place. We can’t even call anybody for help.”
Lise said, “Demara, even if we could call for help, no one could reach us. Look, we have food and heat and shelter. We’ll be fine.”
“But Lucas and the others…” She glared at the door and its opaque window. “What are we supposed to do about them?”
Mark said flatly, “What can we do? They’re dead.”
That from Mark was evidently such a reversal that everyone stared at him, amazed. Apparently, Conan thought, Mark had passed the stage of denial.
Tiff took her husband’s hand but, mercifully, remained silent. For a while, the only sound was the rasp of a whisk against the bowl as Kim whipped the eggs, then, after she poured them into a glass skillet, the bleat of the microwave as she set the timer. But Tiff seemed incapable of remaining silent for any length of time. She sighed gustily, said into her coffee mug, “I suppose the police, or whoever, will want to…to exhume the bodies.”
Will spluttered as he choked on his coffee. “Tiff, that’s a hell of a thing to bring up now.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose…well, I was just, you know, thinking out loud, and I’m sorry if…but the body is only a vessel for the soul, you know, at least that’s the way I think about it, and—”
“Darling, it’s all right,” Mark said gently. “Maybe the bodies are only vessels, and I’d like to see Dad and Al and Lucas stay where they are, undisturbed. I think Dad would’ve liked the idea of being laid to rest on his mountain.” Tears formed in his vague, hazel eyes, escaping to course down his soft cheeks.
Demara went to the pump thermos on the counter by the sink, filled a mug with coffee, then carried it to the table, and Will slid around the banquette to make room for her. She said, “The police won’t let him rest, Mark. Not any of them. I remember what happened to…a friend of mine a few years ago. Max Steinberg. He was a sweet man, a prince. Anyway, his son and daughter-in-law were killed when their Cessna went down in the Sierras. The air rescue people said the wreckage was scattered all over the side of a canyon. There was no way anybody could’ve survived, and Maxie said just to leave them there in peace.” She paused to sip her coffee, then went on bitterly, “But they wouldn’t do that. They had to send a search team in, and two people on the team got hurt before they reached the plane. But they brought the bodies out—what was left of them. Poor Maxie. He’d had a heart condition for years, and the strain was too much. He died of a heart attack before his son was buried.”
Lise brought the buttered bread, silverware, and paper napkins to the table, offering no comment on Demara’s story. Conan saw her compressed lips and knew her steel self-control was being sorely tested.
“But that’s awful,” Tiff said as she took a piece of bread and began nibbling at it. “I mean, shouldn’t the family have the final say on whether—you know, on the final resting place?”
“I suppose,” Mark said absently, “the insurance company wouldn’t pay on any life policies if there was no proof of death.”
Demara shrugged. “That’s what they told Maxie.”
“Well, life insurance isn’t an issue where A. C. is concerned,” Kim said irritably. The microwave signaled for her attention, and as she spooned the eggs onto three plates, she added, “He didn’t have any life insurance. Didn’t believe in it.”
Mark said, “I wonder if Al had life insurance. Probably did, since he has…had dependents. I don’t suppose Lucas did, though.”
He seemed to expect Demara to answer that implied query, and she stared at him, a cigarette between her fingers. She took time to light it with an elegant gold lighter, sent out a puff of smoke, and said, “How should I know whether Lucas had life insurance? Why would we ever talk about that kind of thing?”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t. Nobody ever expects…oh, thanks, Kim.” This as Kim placed before him a plate of steaming scrambled eggs filled with mushrooms and topped with melted cheese and parsley.
Lise served Conan and Will, and Conan reached for his fork, wincing when he inadvertently hit the edge of the table with his fingers. The sensation was much like an electric shock. It took a while to figure out that he could hold the fork against his palm with the lower part of his thumb. It was awkward, but functional.
With a moue of distaste, Tiff watched Mark dig in to his breakfast. “Oh, Mark, really, you know you shouldn’t be eating eggs.”
He ignored that, and for a time he and Will and Conan devoted themselves to the unhealthy but delectable repast. Kim went to the counter for a pack of Marlboros and sat on the banquette next to Demara, while Lise busied herself cleaning up the dishes.
But Mark hadn’t lost his train of thought. “I’ll have to talk to Woody Lavery. He’s an estate attorney. Golfing buddy. Seems to me that if Dad’s next of kin insist, the medical examiner would accept the deaths without trying to…exhume them. I mean, that’d be hellaciously expensive, and since there’s no possibility of foul play…”
He was looking directly at Conan with that. But Conan didn’t have a chance to respond. Kim said, “Mark, there may or may not be insurance involved, but there is damned sure an estate. Rather a sizable one. A. C.’s remains won’t be left in peace, and you know it.”
Mark frowned uncomfortably, and Conan tried to think of a tactful way to frame his question, but to his relief Will bluntly asked it for him: “How sizable, Kim?”
“The total is around forty million, but only half of it can be considered liquid.” She apparently realized the others were staring at her and added defensively, “I was A. C.’s personal accountant. He liked to keep things in the family.”
As Conan awkwardly spread blueberry jam on a piece of bread, he said casually, “I hope he made a will.”
“Of course he did,” Kim said. “Mark drew it up. A. C. kept that in the family, too, even if Mark isn’t an estate lawyer.”
Mark wiped his mouth with a napkin then explained pedantically, “It was a simp
le will, so I thought I could handle it. Dad just wanted his assets divided equally between his wife and his children or their heirs.”
From the sink came the crash of a breaking dish, a muffled cry, and Lise turned, demanded, “What’s wrong with you people? How can you talk about life insurance and estates and exhuming crushed bodies as if they belonged to people none of you had ever known?”
In the stunned hush that answered that question, Heather whined uncertainly and circled in the doorway. Lise loosed a shuddering sigh and strode toward her. “I’d better let Heather outside.”
After a moment of confusion, Lise’s departure triggered a sudden exodus. Kim caught up with her in the living room, tentatively touched her arm. “Lise, I’m sorry. Look, everyone has their own way of coping.”
Lise nodded and continued to the atrium, where she opened the closet by the staircase and got out a rope leash, while Will hovered mutely near her. Conan ambled toward the door, watching as Demara started up the stairs. Tiff was right behind her, explaining to anyone who happened to be listening that she was going up to check on Loanh.
“I’m turning off the generator,” Kim announced. “We’ll have to ration the gasoline. We have about twenty gallons left now, but we don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here. That means no electricity for heating. Or cooking, except for the microwave and the coffee maker. How’s the wood supply, Will?”
“So far, we’ve gone through maybe half a cord. That leaves us a cord and a half, so I guess we better be careful with that, too.”
“Very careful. Lise, would you hand me that tan parka? Yes, that’s the one. Thanks.” When she shrugged into the parka, she opened the door to the garage. “I’ll get some wood while I’m out here.”
Will said, “I’ll come help you in a minute.” But she was already gone, closing the door behind her.
Heather pirouetted and barked in anticipation, and Lise smiled as she knelt to snap the leash on her collar. “Yes, baby, you get to go out in the most miserable weather you’ll ever see, and you think that’s fun, don’t you?”
