The Alpine Xanadu

by Mary Daheim

  “Don’t rush to judgment,” Milo advised. “If Wayne’s truck was the pornmobile, every teacher and parent in town could be a suspect.”

  “Why kill him? Why not report him to you?”

  “You expect people to be rational? You know better.”

  We went by Edna Mae’s house. “She mentioned the porn to me.”

  “Edna Mae looks at porn? Maybe that’s how she gets her thrills.”

  “No. She said it was found in two basketball players’ lockers.”

  “I’m surprised. Those kids can’t find a loose ball on the court.” Milo pulled into my drive. “You stay put, okay?”

  “I might run some errands,” I said.

  “Emma …” His hazel eyes were stern.

  “Hey, I’m not an idiot. Really.”

  “Yes, you are.” He mussed my hair. “I mean it.”

  “I know,” I said, getting out of the Yukon. “You be careful, too.”

  To justify my presence at home, I put in a load of laundry. Milo had never gotten over his habit of leaving his clothes on the bedroom floor, a trait I’d tried to overlook when we’d been together the first time. It didn’t bother me anymore. At least not much.

  Then I followed up on my hunch. Journalists get them, and sometimes they’re right. In all my years of reporting, I was batting .300—not bad for a ballplayer, but not good enough to win a Pulitzer Prize for turning the hunch into an award-winning story. Milo was right about a fee for public records, but I knew from experience that there were sites you could access for free or on a trial basis. The first one I found for the state of California offered three introductory hits. I typed in Jack Blackwell’s name. Nothing. Maybe his first name was John. I tried that—and got zip. I only had one freebie left. Jack might be a nickname. His dark coloring might indicate he was part French. Without much hope, I typed in “Jacques.” The screen informed me there were three documents on file that were included in the introductory offer. The first was his birth certificate, June 4, 1947, Redding, California. The second was a marriage license for Jacques Eugene Blackwell and Jennifer Ann Hood, May 10, 1973, Dunsmuir. I was shocked, not because my hunch had paid off but because Jennifer didn’t look much over forty. Even if I added a few years, she must have been a child bride. Jack would have been twenty-five. I went for the third document—a no-fault divorce decree granted on September 24, 1974, in Redding. Maybe I’d found my dark horse.

  But had I found Wayne Eriks’s killer? I closed the site and tried to come up with a link between Jennifer and Wayne. Nothing, except for the mention of some smoke near the PUD van not long before she heard sirens. Why had she brought up the subject in the first place? As I recalled, we hadn’t been talking about Wayne’s death.

  I dialed RestHaven’s number and asked whoever answered if Jennifer was at work. She wasn’t, the brisk female voice informed me. Could I get her home phone number? No, RestHaven didn’t give out the staff’s personal information. I identified myself, adding I’d planned to invite Jennifer for dinner tonight but had to postpone. The voice softened, saying she’d take my number and have Jennifer call me.

  There was nothing I could do except wait. Meanwhile, I called Harvey Adcock to ask him about the school board meeting. If Vida or Mitch had been in town, I would have let one of them do it, but I was the designated inquirer. Fortunately, Harvey was home and not at his hardware store.

  “I can’t help much,” he said. “Karl was candid, telling us about the filth found in some of the students’ possession. He did show us a couple of photos, and yes, they were porn.”

  “Adult or kiddy?”

  “Adult. Women undressing, probably taken through windows. Oh, my, I don’t want to think of anything involving children! That’s worse.”

  “You never know these days. Did Freeman or anybody else find out where the kids were getting it?”

  “A few students have been asked, but they claim to have gotten it from someone else or found it by accident. We’re holding another meeting next week, but no date or time’s been set.”

  “May I go public with that?”

  “No, please don’t. It’s an internal matter involving children—most students are under eighteen. It’s embarrassing faculty, parents, the youngsters, and the school board, too. I shouldn’t have told you this much.”

  “Harvey,” I said sternly, “surely you’re reporting this to the sheriff?”

  “Not yet,” he replied, sounding shocked. “We have to discuss it.”

  “You did that. What next? Torture the kids until they come clean?”

  “Certainly not!” Harvey sounded as upset as if Durwood had driven his car right through the hardware store. “Please try to understand.”

  “I do. So does Dodge,” I said. “In fact, he’s on the case right now.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes, which is why I’ll be putting your information online as soon as Dodge gets back to me.” Unless, of course, Milo told me to stick it in my ear for now. “I doubt Effie Trews will object. She already went public.”

  Harvey didn’t speak for a long moment. “Don’t quote me. Please.”

  “Fine. You’re an unidentified source. Good-bye, Harvey.”

  To work off my anger, I finished cleaning Adam’s closet. I’d gotten everything off the floor by eleven-thirty, when the doorbell rang. Maybe Harvey wanted to plead his case in person. Opening the door, I found a distraught Cookie Eriks almost falling across the threshold.

  “Oh, Emma!” she cried. “You’ve got to help me!”

  I grabbed her arm and gently pushed her into the easy chair. It seemed to swallow her up. I hovered over her, noting the red eyes that indicated she’d been crying. I asked if I could get her something to drink.

  “Water,” she said.

  I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, added some ice, and went back to the living room. “Take your time,” I said, sitting on the sofa.

  Cookie sipped from the glass, took a rumpled tissue out of her rain jacket, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and stared into space before speaking. “The sheriff’s at our house with a warrant. He said it was for evidence about Wayne’s death. I couldn’t stand it. I left. You were kind to me when Wayne was suspected of killing Tim. I don’t know where else to turn. Are you and Dodge engaged?”

  I involuntarily fingered my wedding ring. “We’re married. That doesn’t mean I know everything about what he does on the job.”

  “You’re …?” Cookie dropped the tissue. “Oh! Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Now Tiff has to deal with … the sheriff.” She jumped out of the chair. “I should go.”

  I stood up, too. “No.” I spoke quietly. “You wanted to talk to me. My marital status hasn’t changed who I am. I gather you trust me. Sit and try to pull yourself together. If nothing else, I can listen.”

  Cookie was clearly at war with herself, which was better than being at war with me. Finally she collapsed back into the easy chair. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “I can guess,” I said, also sitting back down. “It’s about Wayne, isn’t it? He wasn’t a very good husband.”

  She nodded. “That’s not the worst part. He wasn’t a good father, either. He …” Cookie had taken out another tissue and was shredding it. “This is so hard.… I tried to put it in a letter to Vida, but … I couldn’t.”

  A vague memory came back to me. “Did you write to her twice?”

  Cookie’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “I read your first letter while Vida was gone. Another letter followed saying the problem was solved. You described yourself and it fit you.”

  “Does Vida know?” Cookie asked, her voice verging on panic.

  “I doubt it. Vida’s had her own problems. Sexy magazine photos weren’t the real issue, right? Were the pictures taken by Wayne?”

  Cookie drooped in the chair. “Yes. Not just women—children, too. But that’s not the worst part.” She winced. “He abused Tiff when she was yo
unger. That’s why she glommed on to Tim right out of high school. She ran away from home a few times, but never got very far.”

  I tried to hide my shock. I’d expected porn, but maybe I was naïve. As a longtime observer of human depravity, I should’ve guessed. I phrased my next question so it wouldn’t make Cookie defensive. “You must’ve been afraid to tell anyone. Is that the reason you were so upset when Wayne was arrested for Tim’s murder? Did you think Tim knew what had gone on with Tiffany?”

  Cookie nodded. “He did. When Tiff got pregnant, she started taking out her anger on Tim and told him about her dad. Tim confronted Wayne, who denied it, of course. When Tim was killed, she blamed her dad and felt responsible. Tiff thought she’d ruined everything she and Tim had together.”

  Tiffany’s self-absorption after moving home was explained. Back then I’d thought she was just a spoiled brat. She was spoiled, but not in the way we’d thought. “Did Wayne molest Tiffany after she came home?”

  “No. I think he knew that if he did, she’d report it. She was terrified what he’d do when Ashley got older. That’s why she moved in with Jack.”

  “But that didn’t work out,” I said. “Was Jack abusive? Physically, I mean. He has a reputation for it.”

  Cookie sighed heavily. “He threatened her. She borrowed some money from him to buy clothes. He got mad. That’s when she left him.”

  “That was probably smart of her.” I paused, realizing I still wasn’t sure why Cookie was sitting in my living room and shredding yet another tissue. “Given everything you’ve told me and that the authorities should have been notified long ago, why are you so upset now that the sheriff’s searching your house for Wayne’s porn?”

  Cookie squeezed her eyes together. “He won’t find any. We burned it. Mel hauled most of it away.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She opened her eyes, but looked at the floor. “Because I think Tiff’s still on the edge after everything that’s happened. In fact, I’m afraid she may confess that she killed Wayne.”

  TWENTY

  COOKIE ERIKS, WHO I HAD THOUGHT TO BE NOT MUCH MORE than a cipher in the Eriks-Rafferty lash-up, had dumbfounded me with one shocking revelation after another.

  “Why would Tiffany do that?” I asked, it being the only question I could think of after her latest bombshell.

  “Because she did,” Cookie replied with artless candor. “I went to see Marisa Foxx for advice, but she told me I needed another kind of lawyer. I didn’t know what to do next.”

  I’d managed to kick my brain into working order. “You mean she killed him? How?”

  “Well …” Cookie crossed her legs and swung one foot in a nervous manner. “She’d found some awful pictures he’d taken of her in the bathroom. Tiff got so mad she rushed out of the house. She knew he might still be working at RestHaven or somewhere close by. It turned out he’d gotten soaked by the rain and was changing into dry clothes. She showed him the pictures. He laughed.” Cookie paused, though her leg was swinging even faster. “Tiff said she was taking the pictures to the sheriff. He grabbed her and she fought him, and then she got hold of the wire—she knew enough to wrap it in his undershirt, which was on the floor—and she stabbed him. He fell. Despite the undershirt, she burned her hands—not badly, just enough to hurt, but she threw the wire and the shirt into the river. Then she got out of the van.”

  I recalled what had looked like a rag hanging on a branch over the Sky. I waited for Cookie to continue, but her leg had stopped swinging and she had started to cry. “Did she come home?” I asked.

  “No,” she gulped, wiping her eyes. “She just stopped by to get some of her things. She went to Jack’s house. Ashley was with me.”

  “She could drive with burned hands?”

  “I guess.” Cookie had stopped crying, but she looked even worse than when she’d arrived.

  And I was confused. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The second autopsy revealed Wayne had been poisoned.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Cookie declared, suddenly showing a spark of defiance. “It was self-defense, really. Dodge will understand. You can explain it better to him than I can.”

  “That’s not up to me,” I said. “I’m his wife, not Tiff’s lawyer.”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose she needs a lawyer. I wonder if Mr. Doukas would represent her, even though he’s sort of retired.”

  I refrained from commenting on Simon Doukas. “You might want to call him when you get home,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint.

  Cookie mulled my suggestion. “I will. But I won’t mention Dad.”

  “Your dad?” I said.

  We had both stood up. “Yes. He helped Tiff when she needed him.”

  I nodded. “Durwood’s a fine man,” I remarked as she moved slowly to the door. Except when he drives, I thought.

  “Thank you, Emma,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  After closing the door, I leaned against it. What was Cookie trying to tell me? Did she even know what she was talking about? I paced the living room for a few minutes, wishing I could talk to Milo. Maybe he was in his office. I picked up the phone and called him.

  Dwight answered. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding at all contrite. “Dodge is interrogating someone. Talk to him when he’s not working.” He hung up.

  Despite Vida’s attitude, I wished she were home. It occurred to me that she might come back this morning. I dialed her number, but got the usual message to leave every detail except my shoe size. Disappointed but undaunted, I headed off along Fir Street under a pale winter sky almost directly overhead. The Parker home looked as it usually did—comfortable and welcoming. But I wasn’t sure their hospitality would last very long. I was on a mission I wished I could avoid.

  Dot greeted me with a surprised smile. “I thought it might be Vida,” she said, ushering me inside. “She said she’d come back early if Meg and her husband had dinner plans.”

  “Is Durwood home?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s giving Dippy his lunch. We’re going to miss the little fellow. But at least we hope to see more of Ashley.” She led me down the hall and into the kitchen. “You have a visitor,” she said to Durwood, who was scooping what looked like banana off Dippy’s chin.

  “Almost finished,” he said, offering Roger’s child a last bite of chicken. “This little guy likes his chow. Not fussy like our girls were.”

  Dot lifted Dippy from the high chair, which he’d almost outgrown. He protested loudly and kicked his feet, but she whisked him away from the kitchen. “Nap time,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Should I put the teakettle on?” Durwood asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m fine. Am I interrupting your lunch?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, leading me into the living room. “Dot will read to Dippy until he settles down. We don’t have lunch until after one anyway. When I retired from the pharmacy we changed our routine a bit.”

  I again sat down on the plaid sofa; Durwood eased himself into the recliner. “Cookie came to see me a little while ago,” I began. “She was very upset. Maybe confused, too. She told me quite a tale.”

  Durwood looked at me over the top of his half-glasses before lighting his pipe. “Did she now? Cookie’s not very imaginative.”

  “Do you mean she wouldn’t make things up?”

  He smiled, his round face cherubic. “She’s not a liar. Why don’t you tell me about her story?”

  “It’s about you helping Tiff, but Cookie didn’t say how you did it.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back in the recliner. “Poor little Tiff. She hasn’t had an easy time of it. Tell me, Emma, what would you have done in my place?”

  “That depends on the situation,” I said, feeling inadequate.

  Durwood puffed on his pipe and nodded. “Yes. I hope you never face such a dilemma. Your son’s a priest. Being Episcopalian, I know more about that vocation than your average non-Catholic. He’s no doubt very levelheaded. But Ti
ff isn’t. Never was.” He fingered the furrows in his forehead. “We never knew, not until she moved back home. Dot and I felt so guilty. Why hadn’t we been able to sense what was happening?”

  “There are some things we don’t want to know,” I said lamely.

  “Turning a blind eye.” He stared at the deep blue carpet. “Trying to think the best of Wayne. Not that Dot and I were happy about Cookie’s choice, but it was her life.”

  “Yet you finally stepped in,” I said.

  Durwood looked rueful. “Thirty-odd years too late. Tiff called me in a panic. She thought she’d killed her dad. I asked if he had a pulse. She couldn’t tell. Too distraught. He was still in the van. I told her to stay put. I bicycled down there in the rain. Almost crashed the bike into a gatepost.” He chuckled, a hollow, dry sound. “I told her I’d give him an injection. And I did.” He folded his hands in his lap and stared at me. “It didn’t help Wayne. But it helped Tiff.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I finally found my voice. “What did you do then?”

  He shrugged. “We put his shirt back on. I had matches and burned a hole in it. Not sure why, really, but I thought it might muddle things. All this took less than five minutes. I asked Tiff if she could drive. She said yes. She’d left Jack’s Rover in the drive at RestHaven. As soon as she was out of sight, I gave Wayne a swift kick out of the van and he landed on the ground. I should’ve done that thirty years ago. Then I got on my bike—I’d put it in the van—and came home.”

  “As a pharmacist, do you know anything about sux?” I inquired.

  “Sux?” Durwood looked puzzled. “You don’t mean sex? I do remember a little about that.” He winked. “Oh—come to think of it, I do recall something about the Dithers sisters having to put down one of their horses with something that sounded like that. A shame—those poor women dote on their four-legged friends. But then animals are often better creatures than some human beings.”

  “Like Wayne?” I remarked quietly.

  Durwood shrugged. “I did what I could. I gave him a heart stimulant. He was on his own after that.” He puffed again on his pipe. “I hear Dot going into the kitchen. You sure you won’t stay for lunch?”