We gathered around the wrought-iron table where Amah had laid out a spread of barbecued chicken, steamed Korean squash, and fresh tomatoes from their garden.
“Now tell us about your day,” she said, “and leave room for peach pie.”
I told them what little I knew about Beardsley’s deceased wife but said nothing about Harry’s connection to the case. They filled me in on their recent hike in the Thousand Lakes Wilderness. The llamas had packed in without protest, and the trout were biting. It didn’t get better than that.
We gathered in front of the TV after dinner for the local news. Bonnie Beardsley’s death was the lead story. Milton Palmer was still “out on assignment.” The lanky junior reporter said police were questioning employees of the Happy Ox café and Timbergate Medical Center who might have witnessed suspicious activity in the parking lot near the Dumpster. Officially, the cause of death was not yet determined, but unofficial leaks to the press mentioned the earlier rumors about strangulation. The reporter announced a gruesome new twist.
“According to an unconfirmed report, the body was found stuffed in a bloody deer bag.”
“Big deal,” Jack said. “Half of Sawyer County hunts deer.”
Even Harry, I thought.
After we turned off the news, I helped Amah with the dishes and then walked down the lane to my little home above the barn. I hated holding out on them, but I didn’t want them to worry. With luck, the Bonnie Beardsley mess would be resolved quickly, and they’d never know Harry had been questioned.
The llamas perked up as I neared the barn and began making the mrrrr sound that told me they were hoping for treats. I filled a small bucket with cob, their favorite mix of corn, oats, and barley. In the darkening twilight, I walked out into the field. As aloof as ever, the five adults came close enough to nibble treats out of my hand, but backed away as soon as the goodies ran out. One of the females had given birth to a snow white cria three months earlier. The little one looked irresistibly cute and cuddly. Her dam let me get pretty close because I offered cob, but touching her cria was not allowed. When I got within a couple feet, she gave me a spit warning with her chin raised high and ears flattened back.
Inside the apartment, my swamp cooler was on good behavior for a change. The studio was compact and convenient. It had seen little use after Jack sold off part of his acreage and quit hiring ranch hands. The paint on the walls was a dingy white, and the furniture was an eclectic mix of ugly but functional hand-me-downs. The small kitchen area was on the east side of the room facing Jack and Amah’s house. The west side of the room was living space with a fold-out futon for sleeping. Two doors on the south wall opened to a closet and the tiny bathroom.
I tried to read in bed for a while, but I couldn’t keep my mind off the Beardsley mystery. I finally gave up and turned on the TV to catch the local eleven o’clock news. Bonnie Beardsley’s demise continued to be the lead story. According to the police, most of the blood on the deer bag was animal, not human. They wouldn’t comment on whether any of it was the victim’s.
A composite artist’s sketch flashed on the screen. Police were asking help from the public. A witness had seen someone loitering near the Dumpster the night after Bonnie went missing. The sketch showed a figure wearing camouflage clothing, a hunter’s billed cap and aviator sunglasses. Big help that was going to be, but it did give me an idea.
Hannah Roberts, one of Jack’s granddaughters, was Sawyer County’s on-call forensic artist. The only one. She must have done that sketch. Her day job was working as an art therapist at the county’s mental health clinic. We had grown up as step-cousins, but her pale blue eyes and white-blond hair made it obvious we didn’t share the same genes. I considered calling her, but eleven thirty was a little too late. Her husband, Johnny, was a landscape architect whose work day started at dawn in the summertime. Their family went to bed early.
The swamp cooler began making its usual ominous thumping noises, so I turned it off and opened the window above my futon. The room filled with a balmy, cedar-scented breeze and the croaking serenade of a hundred horny bullfrogs. I propped myself up in bed with a clipboard against my knees and contemplated a list of suspects who might have done away with Bonnie Beardsley.
The TV anchor Milton Palmer and his ex, Arnetta, had obvious motives, but so did Dr. Beardsley, even though he was my least favorite suspect—next to Harry, of course. Dr. Beardsley’s ex-wife, Lorraine Beardsley, was a better bet—woman spurned and all that—but my heart wasn’t in it. I really hoped the killer would turn out to be the mysterious stranger Bonnie told Harry she’d met at the Natural History Museum. I already thought of him as the museum stalker. It just seemed right. So I had five suspects with motive, but what about opportunity?
I would have ample access to Beardsley when he returned to work, so I put a check mark next to his name. Next to the ex-Mrs. Beardsley’s name, I made a note: pump Maybelline re Lorraine Beardsley.
Cornering the museum stalker would be tough, since I had no clue who he was. A trip to the museum was a long shot, but I made another note: Stalker at museum?
Then came Milton and Arnetta Palmer. Harry had said the ex-Mrs. Palmer was pretty vindictive with the property settlement, but three years was a long time to wait for revenge. I needed to chat with her—get a gut feeling, but under what guise? I wrote, Access to Arnetta Palmer?
And what about Milton Palmer? Had Bonnie rekindled that flame? Maybe she had been sneaking around with him behind her husband’s back. She seemed like the type to fall for a celebrity, and except for Marty Stockwell, TV anchors were the only celebrities around.
I doodled on my list for a while and finally recalled the people who were interviewed on the news about Bonnie’s favorite charity: Everlasting Pets. The couple who ran the animal cemetery and cryogenics center professed to be close friends of the victim. They might be a source, but I needed a plausible reason to contact them. If I told them I was looking for a cryogenics gizmo big enough to freeze a llama, they’d probably agree to meet with me. Heck, they’d probably spring for lunch.
Chapter 7
I shot off an email to my step-cousin Hannah Thursday morning, asking if she was free for lunch. She worked three blocks from the hospital in a former fifties-era school building that housed half a dozen county agencies and a pretty good Mexican restaurant called Casa Loco.
Hannah called just before noon. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you at lunch. Can you get away?”
“Sounds mysterious. Is it about a guy?”
“Yes, but I can’t talk now.” Perfect. She’d talk all day if it involved my pathetic love life, but she’d shut up like a clam if she knew I was going to pump her about the sketch she’d drawn for the police.
“Okay. How about the Happy Ox?”
“Not there,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve seen the cook.”
“Then you choose.”
“Order some take-out at Casa Loco. I’ll pick you up out front in twenty minutes.”
Hannah emerged from Casa Loco’s front door when I pulled up. She dropped into the passenger’s seat with bags of food and two sodas.
“I hope your A/C’s working today.”
“So far.” I headed south on the freeway.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. I’ll drive while you eat.” And talk, I hoped.
Hannah pulled a taco out of the bag, unwrapped it, and bit off a mouthful. My stomach responded to the aroma with an angry growl, reminding me I’d forgotten to eat breakfast.
Hannah swallowed. “So what’s going on? Is this about Nick? Are you getting back together?” Hannah and everyone else thought I was crazy to break up with Nick, but they’d never met Rella Olstad, his co-pilot and ex-girlfriend.
“No, forget about Nick. He’s probably back with Rella by now.”
“Is it true she was a fighter pilot before she went to work for Nick’s boss?”
“Probably, but I don’t want t
o talk about either one of them.”
“So who’s the guy? Did you meet someone new?”
“I’ll tell you about that later, but right now I need information, and we don’t have much time. My lunch hour’s half gone.”
“Information? Oh no, Aimee. Is this about my forensic sketch of the Camo Man? Because if it is—”
“I know, professional ethics. You can’t tell me anything. So how do you know it’s a man?”
“Aimee, that’s not fair. I didn’t say it was a man.”
“Camo Man. You said man.”
Hannah’s cheeks flushed, and she picked at her taco.
“Well?” I said.
“The witness didn’t know for sure. She said the person she saw walked like a guy.”
“So the witness was a she?”
Hannah dumped her taco in the take-out sack. “That’s it,” she said. “Take me back.”
“Relax. No one’s going to know we talked about this. I’m not asking you for the name of the witness.”
“Wouldn’t do any good, ’cause they didn’t tell me her name. It’s a secret.”
“Must be someone who lives near the Happy Ox, huh? Out walking her dog or something?”
“Leave it alone, Aimee. We can’t get involved.” She stared out the window.
“You know, don’t you?”
She glanced at me. “Know what?”
“That Harry’s a suspect.”
“Of course I know. I hear things.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“I was waiting for you to bring it up.”
“Did you also know the dead woman is my supervisor’s wife?”
“No. That’s …. Wow, no wonder you’re freaked out.”
“Let’s stay focused on the problem. We need to help Harry.”
Hannah was almost as protective of Harry as I was. Amah and Jack had been together since all of us were kids, and we were family in the best sense of the word.
I had driven about ten miles down I-5, so I took an exit that led to an overhead freeway crossing, then re-entered northbound, heading back to Timbergate.
Hannah reached out to put her soda cup into the beverage holder and pulled her hand back. “Ouch, darn. I just snagged a nail.”
“Are you wearing the fake ones again?”
“Yeah, mine won’t grow. I’m thinking about trying acrylic toenails, too.”
“You’re kidding. Toenails?”
“Someone in the crime lab said Bonnie Beardsley was wearing them. I guess the acrylic nail on one of her big toes was missing.” Hannah pulled a clipper from her purse and trimmed her broken nail.
“I heard she missed her nail appointment, but I wouldn’t have thought of fake toenails.”
“Yeah, who knew?”
I got Hannah back to work on time and made it to the library only a few minutes late. The place was empty, which was par for the course every afternoon since I’d started the job. I hoped things would pick up when Dr. Beardsley came back to work. I ate my cold taco, washing it down with lukewarm coffee.
The sluggish afternoon hours passed while I fiddled with busy work. Hannah had been no help about the guy dressed in camo. All I got out of her was he’d been seen at night. Did that mean shortly after sundown or in the pre-dawn hours? Either way, wearing sunglasses in the dark suggested he was in disguise.
I arrived home that evening just in time for a farewell dinner with Amah and Jack. They reminded me they were leaving at four o’clock the next morning for their llama trip.
“Are you sure you can handle all of it?” Jack asked. “We’ll be gone at least two weeks.”
“All of it” included a vegetable garden, a few fruit trees, half a dozen llamas, and a flock of turkeys. The rest of their menagerie lived in their guest room. It included a king snake in an aquarium and an elderly, foul-mouthed cockatiel they’d inherited when their crusty bachelor neighbor died. Amah’s semi-feral Maine Coon cat, Fanny, wanted nothing more in life than to add the cockatiel to her list of feathered victims.
“You two go and have a great time,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything until you get back.” Including keeping Harry out of jail.
Amah gave me a hug. “Okay, sweetheart, we’ll leave you a little chore list on the fridge. Jack just fed the snake a lizard and a mouse, so you’ll only have to feed him once. Be sure to check his water. It’ll all be on the list. And don’t worry, the herd will look out for you.”
Llamas' senses are acute, and when they see, hear, or smell danger, their alarm cry is unmistakable. It’s something like a high-pitched donkey’s bray played double-time at top volume, but no description really does it justice. Llama owners know it when they hear it, and they take it very seriously. Llamas use it sparingly and never cry wolf.
The animals were fine for sounding an alarm, but Jack was the real reason I’d had no qualms about bunking alone out in the pasture. He woke at the slightest sound, and he was a crack shot. Now, with the folks gone, I’d be alone on the ranch for two weeks with half a dozen woolly, cantankerous bodyguards whose ammo was limited to huge green gobs of spit.
After I thought it through, I decided having Amah and Jack gone for two weeks was a stroke of luck in spite of the isolation and extra chores. They didn’t know Harry had been questioned about Bonnie Beardsley. There was no way they would leave if they thought he was in trouble.
Jack walked me through the evening chores, giving me a refresher course on how to keep the Highland Ranch running smoothly in their absence. I felt a stab of guilt about keeping Harry’s predicament from them, but I justified it by reminding myself that the Beardsley case probably would be solved by the time they got home.
Later that evening when I studied my list of suspects, I realized that all but one of them still lived in Timbergate. I had tried the phone directory and an Internet search for Arnetta Palmer with no luck. I stuck a note above my computer monitor. FIND ARNETTA PALMER. She had to be out there somewhere.
Meanwhile, I figured Bonnie Beardsley’s favorite charity was a good place to start detecting. It was almost midnight and I was tired, but I pulled up the Everlasting Pets website. I couldn’t get my mind around this animal cemetery/pet cloning set-up as a legitimate charity, but there it was. According to the home page, they had a nonprofit designation from the federal government. They were legit. The Underhills were the only two staff members listed. He was the Executive Director, she was the Clinical and Ethics Director. Whatever that meant.
Their fees for gene banking were lower than I’d have guessed. Only $500 for the first year, plus a $100 per year maintenance fee. Their fee for cloning pets was vague. According to their literature, the science was not yet perfected for commercial use. So I could get a biopsy of one of the llamas at my own expense and have the tissue sample frozen for $500 plus the annual $100 maintenance fee. At some date in the unspecified future, for an unspecified price, I might get a llama clone if the science was perfected before I was ready to have my own genes frozen. Nice racket for the Underhills. Only a creative genius could write the kind of hogwash that would get such a bogus application for nonprofit status approved.
On Friday morning when I called Everlasting Pets, Willow Underhill answered the phone. I asked for an appointment to discuss freezing a pet.
“How’s three thirty this afternoon?” Willow said.
“I don’t get off work until five.”
“No problem. We’re flexible. Come at five-thirty. Do you know our location?”
I assured her I did. I’d taken it from their home page.
Friday was my day without a volunteer. Maybelline worked Monday and Wednesday, Lola was Tuesday and Thursday. Friday was just me, and I was grateful. I spent the day drafting a protocol for interlibrary loan services related to the new forensic collection, then closed up shop and headed across town to Everlasting Pets. The place was smaller than I’d expected, housed in a former tanning salon next to a tattoo parlor called Needle Me. Not in th
is lifetime.
I walked into the empty waiting room and rang a bell on the scarred wooden counter. The poorly maintained furnishings reminded me of the shop where I took my car for oil changes. Old chrome-legged chairs. A cheap, laminated corner table holding a few outdated magazines. A coffee maker held the dregs of a pot brewed earlier and left to burn. The scorched smell of it lingered. I rang the bell again. This time Mrs. Underhill appeared from behind a partition. I recognized her from the publicity photo on their home page. The live version was a good ten years older.
“You must be Miss Machado,” she said.
“Yes.” If I’d thought of it earlier, I’d have given her a fake name.
She picked up a pen and pad. “Now tell me about your special needs.”
“I’m interested in your cryogenics program, but the animal I have in mind is rather large.”
“What is it?”
“A llama.”
Her brow furrowed. “That is large. Perhaps cloning would be a better choice.”
“You can clone a llama?”
“We can clone anything—when the technology is ready, of course.”
“How soon will that be?”
“Very soon.” She avoided eye contact, shifting her glance around the room. “Please don’t judge us by these humble surroundings.” She arched her penciled brows and twirled a lock of mistreated blond hair showing dark at the roots. “We’re moving to our new location next week.”
“You’re moving? Are you leaving Timbergate?”
“Oh, no. Just across town. Thanks to the many generous donors to our cause, we’ll be in a lovely location near the river. You must come by.” She reached out to touch my arm with a lavishly manicured hand, light pink polish and a tiny black poodle painted on each nail. “May I ask how you heard about us?”
I stepped back out of reach. This woman was too darned friendly. “From your television interview about Bonnie Beardsley. After I saw it, I looked up your website.”
“Poor Bonnie.” Willow pushed out her lower lip. “We’re devastated about her shocking death. And it’s just so ironic. If we’d known she was going to pass, maybe we could have …” she sighed, “… but that wouldn’t have been legal. We’re only approved for animals.”
Due for Discard Page 5
