=23=
At the office that next Tuesday morning, there was a message with my answering service to call Claude Loiselle. I did, but the brusque Craig told me she was at a meeting outside the bank and would call back when she could. After hanging up, I didn't bother to try Primo Zuppone because he was supposed to be "in the trees" again for another surveillance of the cluster at Plymouth Willows, though I couldn't tell him what I hoped he'd see. I was about to lose my thoughts in some old paperwork when five envelopes slid through my mail slot and onto the floor.
Picking them up, I saw that one was from Boston University.
Three sheets were folded inside. The first page was a BU transcript for Lana Stepanian, the second a form explaining what the grades on the transcript meant. The third sheet was a puzzler, though: an earlier, abbreviated transcript from the University of Idaho, in a town named Moscow, showing that Lana Stepanian had spent a full year there before transferring to BU, where she received her degree, a bachelor's in Spanish.
I put the pages down, then pulled my Plymouth Willows questionnaire file to check Stepanian's form. I'd noted only Boston University for her, husband Steven having the University of Idaho connection. Lana had been vague about his hometown and generally reluctant to discuss a lot of their background, but I was sure that she'd told me they met at a party while she was attending BU. Yet the Idaho transcript showed her as Lana Stepanian, not Lopez, with a mailing address in Cedar Bend, Idaho, not Solvang, California, the hometown she'd given me.
My telephone rang. "John Cuddy."
"Claude Loiselle."
"Back from the meeting already?"
"No. I told Craig to call me on the cellular if he heard from you. But I am a little pressed for time right now."
"Understood. Have you been checking on Olga?s ATM activity?"
"Every few hours. No transactions." Her voice became hopeful. "Anything from your end?"
Without identifying Primo, I rapidly summarized what he'd seen at Plymouth Willows, then mentioned Stepanian's school records.
Now Loiselle sounded disappointed. "None of that's much help, is it'?"
"No, but these transcript discrepancies are the only things I've found that I can't explain."
"So what are you going to do about them?"
I told her what I wanted to do.
"You can't just call for that?" she said.
"Remember Olga getting me that check of hers that Andrew Dees endorsed?"
"Because without written authorization, universities keep their information pretty close to the vest?"
"Exactly."
A huffing breath. "Well, why do I make money if not to spend some on a wild-goose chase? You're the investigator. If you think the trip makes sense, I'm good for it."
"I'll contact you when I get back."
My travel agent was able to arrange the bookings. Then I tried the DA's office. Nancy was in conference, so I left a detailed message, saying I'd call her that night if I could. I locked up the office and headed home to pack.
Both my flight to Denver and the connection to Spokane were on United Airlines. The Denver leg was long, but Libby, the woman sitting next to me, turned out to be both pleasant and talkative. A student at a Baptist college in southern Colorado, she was returning from a monthlong "mission" in Spain and shared with me the charm of a foreign country as seen through the unjaded eyes of a twenty-year-old.
When the flight attendant served us lunch, my seatmate bent at the waist toward her tray and closed her eyes. A minute later, Libby opened her eyes again and reached for the plastic bag of utensils.
"Were you saying grace?"
"Yessir."
I thought, "Usually I pray after eating airline food," but kept it to myself.
* * *
The leg to Spokane was shorter, but by now I'd been sitting cramped for longer than anyone could be comfortable. The guy next to me, "western states sales manager" for an appliance company, said our destination was pronounced "Spo-ken."
As the plane started its approach to the airport, the senior llight attendant came on the PA system, speaking in a whisper. "Today's the captain's birthday, so when we arrive at the gate, I sure would appreciate it if you all could sing 'Happy Birthday, Don,' on my count of three."
After the laughter died down, my seatmate said, "See what happens when employees take over the company?" But ten minutes later, on the attendant's signal, he joined in with the rest of us.
* * *
At the Spokane terminal, I stopped in the men's room. On a wall of the stall, somebody had used a honed point to scratch:
Got no paper,
Got no towel.
Wipe your ass
With a Spotted Owl.
which made me remember I might be approaching logging country.
From the restroom, I headed toward baggage claim. Killing time waiting for the carousel to start, I stood near a glass case. Its caption read: EVERYTHING IN THIS CASE WAS TAKEN AT THIS AIRPORT. The case itself contained revolvers, semiautomatics, switchblades, boot knives, brass knuckles, even ninja throwing stars and a hand grenade. The poem on the men's-room wall seemed less out of place, somehow.
After picking up my suitcase, I found the rent-a-car booths. A young woman with sunny hair and a "We're No. l" smile asked if she could help me.
"About how far to Moscow?"
The smile got wider. "If you really mean 'Moss-cow,' about fifteen thousand miles. If you mean 'Moss-co,' about ninety."
I returned the smile. "Thanks. Any other tips?"
"It's a real pretty drive, but only one lane a lot of places, so be patient if you get stuck behind a tractor or stock truck."
"What would you recommend for a vehicle?"
"Business or pleasure?"
"Business."
"Too bad," she said, starting the paperwork on a four-door sedan. "There's just the most beautiful lake at Coeur d'Alene. Named after the Indian tribe. The French called them 'Heart of an Awl' because they were tough bargainers in the fur-trading days. Now there's this big resort with speedboats for hire and a golf course that even has one hole on an island in the water."
"In the lake, you mean?"
"Uh-huh. If you like golf, I guess it's a real kick. If not, there's companies that run Jetboats up the Snake River south to Hells Canyon."
"South up the river?"
"Yessir. The Snake runs south to north—as the border between Oregon and Idaho. down there—and those Jet-boats just fly around and over the rapids. You get to see bighorn sheep, mule deer, maybe even a cougar if you're lucky."
"I don't think I'll have time. Any place to stay in 'Moss-co'?"
"Only one I know is the Best Western University Inn, but that's where everybody seems to stay anyway."
I wasn't sure about the logic of that sentence, and I decided to pass on any other questions.
* * *
The sedan came with a good map of the area, the best route appearing to be 195 South. It was fairly wide for five or ten miles, and I drove past large contemporary homes clinging to the ridges, more modest trailer parks sprawling in the flats. Pretty soon the road narrowed, though, and I could appreciate the booth woman's advice about being patient. But at least the slower speed gave me time to sightsee.
The views would make you realize why eastern Washington is part of "Big Sky Country." White, puffy clouds couldn't quite cover the stretch from horizon to horizon, letting the sunshine through in gauzy cascades, like a series of bridal veils. The topography below was hilly but contoured, all swells and curves, almost feminine. The colors were shades of brown, green, and gold, the stubbled remnants of last summer's crops, with dust devils kicking up tan funnels fifty feet high. Farmhouses painted gray and barns red dotted occasional oases of spindly pines and broader deciduous trees, curling tracks of driveways bringing pickup trucks toward access roads.
Every twenty miles or so I passed big, silvery silos like the Tin Man's head from The Wizard of Oz, the superstructures over th
em probably grain elevators. There were a few herds of beef cattle too, and when the highway veered near or through the towns, you could see men in straw cowboy hats and tooled leather boots, a motel marquee advertising an "Ice Cream Social." The rolling wheat can sure smell sweet.
Closer to Moscow, I went by a big, bare mountain to the east with signs saying "Steptoe Butte State Park."
After the downtown of Colfax, I hit Pullman, then turned east onto Route 270 and crossed into Idaho.
There seemed to be more trees, and bigger ones. Ponderosa pines, long-needled and almost bulbous. Douglas firs with that disheveled, "Bill the Cat" look to them. Tamaracks sprouting golden needles that I remembered somebody once telling me fell off the "evergreen" come winter. Even gaining three hours by flying west, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. when I found the University of Idaho on a hillside in Moscow, the campus dominated by what looked like an airplane hangar in gray, brown, and gold mosaics—the "Kibbee Dome." The rest of the buildings were mostly Gothic stonework, though, which surprised me, I guess because I suffer from the easterner's prejudice that only we have "older" architecture. Leaving the car in a visitors' lot, I started up one of the tree-lined, crisscrossing walkways, little markers identifying this spruce or that cedar as being planted by President Howard Taft or Eleanor Roosevelt.
After asking directions from a strolling undergraduate wearing a "Lady Vandals" sweatshirt, I finally located the registrar's office in a red-brick annex to the main Administration Building. There were peach-colored tiles climbing halfway up the walls from yellow granite floors, a set of interior windows showing one woman still toiling away at her computer. A sign read: TRANSCRIPT REQUEST TAKES 3 TO 4 DAYS.
As I reached into my jacket pocket, the woman looked up from her keyboard. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Actually, I'm just glad to find you still open."
A warm smile as she stood and came to the window.
"My husband doesn't get off his job till five-thirty, so I kind of flex-time it here."
"I need to see a former student's file."
"You mean transcript?" she said, glancing toward the sign.
"No, I already have that." I handed her my stock letter with the forged "Lana Stepanian" at the bottom. "I'd like the file itself."
The woman went through the letter quickly, then slowly.
"Well, we don't have our own form for that, but this seems more than fine." She appeared a little pained. "Of course, the photocopying would be awfully expensive, and I'd have to mail the package to you after we received your check."
"Actually, I'm in kind of a bind, timewise. I really have to see the file today, though I shouldn't need any copies."
The woman looked at me differently. "Where're you from?"
"You don't get many Boston accents out here?"
“No, but I thought that's what I heard. My husband and I had a great vacation there—oh, it must be three years ago now. Paul Revere's House, Faneuil Hall, the wonderful churches along the Freedom Trail."
"Plus you get to walk it instead of driving two hours south from Spokane."
"Oh my, you didn't come all the way to Moscow just for this, did you?"
I nodded.
The woman's face broke into the warm smile again.
"Well, we can't turn you away 'hungry,' so to speak. One minute."
I didn't hold her to the minute, and in fact it was five before she came back to me. "Oh, I'm afraid this student transferred?
"To Boston University?"
"Yes. But we still have her application to us. State resident back then."
I read through the pages. "Lana Stepanian" gave as an address "121 Nez Perce Street, Cedar Bend, Idaho," the same as on the transcript I'd already seen. Listed as next of kin were "Nibur and Ellen Stepanian." Her personal statement was an essay about how she wanted "to study Spanish and become a teacher in a big city like Boise."
None of it made any sense.
"Something else I can do for you'?"
I looked up. "Yes. Where's Cedar Bend'?"
"Down by Lusston."
"Lusston?
"L-E-W-I-S-T-O-N. Lusston. It's across the Snake from Clarkston. Get it?"
"Lewis and Clark?"
The warm smile.
* * *
Her directions took me south of Moscow on Route 95 and eventually to the crest of an incredibly steep grade with a big sign saying LEWISTON HILL: THE FIRST CAPITOL. On the downslope, smaller signs indicated spurs functioning as RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMPs. At the bottom of the grade was a broad, slow river that might have been the Snake.
Turning here and there, I saw the CEDAR BEND arrow the registrar woman said I would. The town itself was small and dusty, middle-aged men appearing to be Native American standing next to dinged and rusting pickup trucks, talking and laughing quietly. They were tall, with husky upper bodies running flabby at the belt, their legs both skinny and bowed in blue jeans.
I pulled up to a man with a wispy moustache under a broad, sun-scarred nose and a cowboy hat tilted back on his head, the shaggy black hair tumbling onto his shoulders. He was talking to a kid of sixteen or so who looked enough like him to be a cousin. Despite the chill in the evening air, the younger one was dressed in baggy jeans and a basketball singlet, his hair shorter and pulled back into a ponytail.
"I wonder if you can help me."
The older man said, "Might be."
"I'm looking for 'Nez Perce Street.' "
The younger one said, "We're called 'Ness Purz.' "
My day for being corrected. "Sorry."
The older man pointed with a tattooed index finger.
"Southeast."
"How far?"
A shrug. "Guesstimation, mile or so."
"There a sign?"
Deadpan. "I can't remember, right offhand."
The kid grinned, but said, "You'll see an old filling station, just a pump sitting all by itself. Another fifty yards, on your left."
"Thanks.”
I drove southeast, saw the shell of a filling station with the pump as described, and shortly thereafter a left. No sign, but I took it.
In the growing darkness, it was hard to make out numbers, but one soul kept a light on above the doorway of 97, so at least I knew which side of the street to watch. After a few more internally lit houses and a vacant lot, I saw 125 and pulled over. Backing up slowly, I tried to find a number on the home before the lot. It looked like 117. Which would make the empty space 121, the address on Lana Stepanian's application and transcript. Not great news.
Leaving the sedan, I walked up the path to the house—more a bungalow, really—before the lot. A dog started barking, and I was almost at the porch steps when my eyes focused well enough to be sure I'd seen correctly from the car. The numerals next to the screened door were 1-1-7, no question.
A man's silhouette appeared behind the screen, his head turning to hush the dog, who stood down to a low, throaty growl. "Whatever you're selling, we don't need it."
"I'm not selling anything, but I would appreciate talking with you."
"About what?"
"The vacant lot. Number 121, right?"
"Not for sale."
I moved up to the door, the dog going from the low growl to a woofing. "I'm not interested in buying, either."
The man, maybe sixty-five or so, with sharp features, hushed the dog again. "What's your business, then?"
"My name's John Cuddy. I was looking for some people named Stepanian."
"Oh." He shook his head, slowly and sadly. "Well, that's too bad. Maybe you'd best come in, sit a while."
* * *
He'd shaken my hand as Vern Whitt, then bade me take a chair that wasn't covered by dog hair. In better light, Whitt's own hair was still sandy, but it didn't change my impression of his age at the door. He wore a chamois shirt, faded and patched, over corduroy pants and old hiking boots. His wiry body gave off that faint, musty odor of a man who doesn't have a woman reminding him to change his shirt every day. The dog by h
is side was a mutt, the German shepherd in him trying hard to push past three or four other bloodlines.
Whitt said, "Beer?"
"Please."
The living room was small and fitted with a woodstove that took some kind of pellets stored in a nearby aluminum feed bin, a big scoop stuck in the center of the pellet mound. The furniture was sturdy but old, wedding photos from the same vintage on top of the television and copycat Remington prints covering the walls. The prints depicted cavalry mounted on chestnuts and roans being ambushed by war-painted Indians on Appaloosa horses.
Whitt came back with two cans of Hamm's beer, the dog trailing closely. Giving me one of the cans, my host sat in the opposite chair, the dog now slumping over the front of his boots.
"Thanks, Mr. Whitt."
"Vern, please. We're both well past being young."
"Then John, too."
"Al1 right, John, what brings you after the Stepanians?"
Whitt might be warming up, but the sharp features discouraged lying. "I'm looking into a disappearance in Boston. I thought talking to the Stepanians might help."
"Boston." Another slow, sad shake. "I'm afraid you've come a long way for naught."
“How do you mean, Vern?"
He sipped his beer. “Nibur and Ellen, they're gone to g1ory.”
I stopped with the Hamm's halfway to my mouth.
"Dead?"
"Killed by the fire that destroyed their place." Whitt gestured with his can toward the empty lot. “Next door."
"When?"
"When. Let's see, it was about seven—no, my Katie was still alive," the beer toward the wedding photos, "so it's at least ten years ago, maybe eleven. Yes, eleven." He looked at me. "I lost Katie to a heart attack."
"I'm sorry."
Whitt nudged his dog with the toe of a boot. "We got Chief Joseph here the year before she died. Katie named him after the Nez Perce chief who stood off all those cavalry so 1ong." He gestured toward the prints this time. "Admired that Indian, Katie did—she always liked it when I said that. 'Katie did,' made her think of a cricket sound, summer things." He coughed. "Anyway, Katie named the pup after Chief Joseph, and when she died, he just followed me around everywhere, like he'd lost track of her and didn't want the same to happen with me."
Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 26
