Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Oh, right.” She dabbed her nose with a shredded tissue and gazed at me with wide eyes. “Would you—” She paused.

  “Would I what?”

  “Would you mind staying a while longer?” Heather drew into herself. I could identify. After my parents were murdered, it had taken every ounce of energy for me to breathe.

  “Of course.”

  For a long time, we talked about Dr. Fisher’s patients. Without divulging histories, Heather shared that some might have felt animosity toward her mother. Not every pregnancy or treatment went according to plan, although a natural casualty would not have been her mother’s fault, Heather added quickly. Life wasn’t fair. She said that most of what she told me she’d already shared with the sheriff’s department. I let her ramble.

  An hour later, as we waited for the waitress to return with the bill, Heather talked of her dream of attending design school. “I was never much of a student. That’s why I didn’t go to college and started working for my mother.”

  “You’ve got a quick mind. What about trying junior college? You could get your basic requirements out of the way and then aim higher.”

  She took a sip of her coffee.

  “Don’t give up,” I said, channeling her mother. “Even though life is throwing you a curveball, you’ve got to keep trying. You’ve got potential.”

  As I climbed into my Jeep, I thought again about the scalpel the killer had brought to the doctor’s office. Where had it come from?

  Chapter 5

  At dusk, as I walked to the back porch with a Heineken for Nick and a glass of wine for me, I nearly stumbled over Cinder, who was darting back and forth trying to catch a pair of rascally Douglas squirrels. The rodents chased each other around the base and up the trunk of the large white fir that jutted through a hole in the wood-slatted patio. A seed cone fell from the tree and whacked Cinder on the head. He barked and whimpered in an effort to communicate that the sky was falling.

  Nick chuckled.

  I set our drinks on the patio table and nursed my dog. “It’s okay, boy.” I scratched him behind the ears. “You’re a dope, but it’s okay.”

  “Food smells good,” Nick said, lifting his beer and taking a swig.

  I could hear the ribs sizzling on the barbecue. The spicy aroma of the sauce made my taste buds go wild. “It’s Max’s recipe.”

  “That means it’s a winner.”

  I nabbed my wineglass and sat on a cushioned bench, an adjunct to the railing. Luckily, the evening had cooled to a comfortable sixty degrees. I’d donned a light sweatshirt over my jeans.

  Though my cabin was in the hills nestled among hundreds of pines, I had a modest view of the lake. Tiny whitecaps drifted across the deep blue expanse. Seagulls plunged headlong into the chilly water, returning to the surface seconds later with their meals. I drank in deep gulps of peace and tried not to think about my meeting with Heather or her mother’s murder or my test results.

  “What’s ticking inside that overly active brain of yours?” Nick chilled his neck and temples with the bottle of beer. At thirty-nine he was as handsome as a leading man. I couldn’t resist the long dimple down his right cheek. His standard black T-shirt clung to his muscular chest. A hank of blue-black hair flecked with gray dangled mischievously down his forehead. When I’d first met him during the investigation of Vikki’s murder, sparks had flown. Not the good kind. He’d considered me a suspect; I’d thought he was missing cues. When I finally realized he was good at his job and measured everyone without bias, I gave in to the feelings I had for him. After he finalized his divorce, he gave in to the feelings he had for me. We started dating once the case concluded.

  “C’mon,” Nick said. “Your face is scrunched up. Fess up.”

  I swallowed hard, wanting to kick myself for being such a coward. Tell him. Blurt it out. Suffer the consequences.

  “Are you thinking about the murder?” he asked.

  “Yes. And no.”

  “Does it have to do with this?” He reached beneath the lightweight jacket he’d placed on the patio table and withdrew a manila envelope. “Your medical file.”

  “How did you—”

  “You said the doctor called you regarding test results.” He offered it to me.

  I opened it and scanned the first page. A notation said the radiology lab had requested that the doctor touch base. “Did you read through this?”

  “No. It’s private. But you seemed concerned about the mess of files at the doctor’s office, and seeing as I was there today, I borrowed it.”

  “I had some tests. At the imaging center.”

  Tension crept around his eyes. “For . . .”

  “I had a mammogram.”

  “Routine?”

  “Yes. Well, it was until they found a lump, but they couldn’t tell me whether it was benign. Diagnosis is up to the imaging tech and Dr. Fisher. They sent results to her. Like I told you, she called me on the morning she was killed, but the call ended abruptly. I figured she hung up because she realized she’d meant to call me Monday. After the weekend.” I squelched the tears pressing at the corners of my eyes. “But seeing this”—I tapped the notation—“it doesn’t look good. If all was fine, the radiologist would have left her a complete message.”

  “That’s not necessarily so.” Nick sat beside me and took my hands in his. Gently he rubbed my fingers. “We’ll get the results and you’ll see that you’re fine, okay?”

  “I’ve been referred to another doctor. He squeezed me in for an appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.”

  “If the lump is malignant—” The word caught in my throat. I couldn’t tell by his gaze how he felt. He was a master at hiding feelings. Was he worried? Would he pull back? If we’d been together for years, we could weather the outcome, but some men fled when they heard the word cancer.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I didn’t—”

  He pressed a fingertip to my lips. “I can read your mind.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “I love you. I’ll help you get through this. Whatever this is.”

  For the first time since I’d discovered the lump, I relaxed. I tapped the file. “Thank you for borrowing this.” I set it down and took a sip of wine. “So what is going on with the murder investigation? Can you fill me in?”

  “Detective King is organizing the files. Detective Hernandez is helping her.”

  “Anyone coming up from Auburn?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The main office for the sheriff was located in Auburn, the nearest large city southwest of Tahoe, about an hour and a half away. The coroner was located in Auburn as well.

  Nick placed my feet in his lap. “King thinks your take on this is on the mark, by the way.”

  “How so?”

  “She thinks the murder was a crime of passion.”

  “What about the weapon?” I asked. “I spoke with Dr. Fisher’s daughter, Heather, the office assistant.”

  “Heather was Dr. Fisher’s daughter?”

  “Yes. Dr. Fisher had her as a single mother, but a year later married Dr. Bogart, and he adopted her. Heather thought she’d told you, but it might have slipped her mind.”

  He motioned for me to continue. “Why were you talking to her?”

  “I asked for a referral. Heather was crying. Thinking I could help, I invited her to coffee. My forte is dealing with young people.”

  “Go on. What did she say?”

  “The scalpel used in the murder wasn’t from the office. It had a white handle. Theirs are silver.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  I sipped my wine. “What evidence do you have?” I asked, happy to get my mind off me for the moment and on to a more pressing subject. “Any fingerprints?”

  “None other than those of the office staff. The scalpel was wiped clean. The killer must have worn gloves.”

  “Heather said you found the scalpel under the examination table,
which was too heavy for the killer to move on his own.”

  “Heather is a blabbermouth.”

  “Do you have any other evidence?”

  “There were a number of hairs, both animal and human,” Nick said. “The doctor owned a dog.”

  Cinder sidled to Nick and shoved his head under his hand for attention. The word dog got Cinder every time.

  “Oh, my. Will Heather take it?” I asked.

  “That’s the least of my worries.”

  “I’m home!” Candace cried as she opened the screen door and stepped outside.

  Nick swung away from me. I dropped my feet to the porch.

  Candace raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

  Nick avoided the question and said, “How’s school?”

  “One more day. Yay! Summer, here I come.” She did a jig and sat on a chair facing us, her expression serious. “I’ve been thinking about the murder. Why was Dr. Fisher in the office so early?”

  “Candace,” Nick warned.

  Candace shot a finger at him.

  Over the past few months, Nick and Candace had become buddies. Though she’d liked him from the start, when she had first moved in, she hadn’t wanted to share me with anybody, not even Nick. The fear that he would take me away from her was at the core of her anxiety. Throughout Candace’s young life, her mother had dumped Candace with neighbors so she could spend time with her various boyfriends. Nick had done his best to win Candace over by showing interest in her studies and in the rest of her life. He’d even taken her snow skiing in a whiteout and waterskiing in the rain, wetsuit and all. Over the course of a few months, she began to trust that she wouldn’t be relegated to her room every time he stopped by. Now, she inserted herself into the conversation with ease.

  Nick said, “We’re checking phone records. She might have had an appointment, but there wasn’t one recorded on the calendar.”

  “She was an early bird,” I said.

  “That early?”

  “I think”—Candace leaned forward, ready to discuss the case, colleague to colleague—“she had a lover.”

  “Candace.” My sharp tone made her flinch.

  “For criminey sakes, Aunt Aspen.” Criminey was a semi-curse word that I used; so had my mother. Archaic and almost pristine, it sounded funny coming from a teenager. That and the fact that she had called me Aunt Aspen. She used the word only when she was royally ticked off and attempting to exert her teenage power. “I’m fourteen.”

  “Yes, you are. Almost a grown woman.”

  “So did she, Nick?” Candace pressed. “Meeting a lover first thing in the morning might mean he was married and couldn’t slip out at night.”

  Nick cut me a look.

  I fanned the air. “Answer her. You know she won’t be satisfied with a shrug.”

  “We’re considering the possibility.”

  “Bet she did.” She bounded to her feet. “How long before dinner?”

  “Three minutes,” I said.

  “Can I make a phone call?”

  “A quick one.”

  The girl dashed inside.

  “What’s going on with her?” Nick asked.

  “She’s got a boyfriend. Rory.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen. Supposedly, I get to meet him soon.”

  “Want me to run a background check on this guy?”

  “Could you?”

  Recently, Candace and I had discussed her blossoming sexuality. She assured me that the last thing she wanted was a baby or a disease and that sex education classes had completely informed her about how to avoid both—bless the school system. During our chat I didn’t raise the issue of my sister’s promiscuous tendencies. There was no need to bring something up about her when she wasn’t there to give her side of the story.

  Nick kissed me tenderly and moved to the barbecue. He raised the lid and checked the ribs. “Ready.”

  “Great. I’m starved.” When we sat down to dinner, I’d tell him about the rest of my talk with Heather.

  As I opened the kitchen door, the landline phone rang, disturbing the serenity. After a couple of rings, Candace yelled through her bedroom window, “Phone call for Nick.”

  He stepped inside while checking his cell phone, probably wondering why whoever was on the line hadn’t called him on it. I followed him. “Cell’s out of juice,” he muttered and picked up the landline’s receiver. “Shaper.” As he listened, his face turned grim. “Uh-huh. Got it. On my way.” He ended the call and met my gaze. “I need to borrow your car.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s been a second murder.”

  “Another doctor?”

  “A high-end restaurant owner. Stabbed with a butcher’s knife.”

  Chapter 6

  No way was I letting Nick go by himself. Driving around the lake at dusk could be hazardous. Before we left, I set out a dinner plate for Candace, ordered her to lock the doors and windows, and made her promise not to let anybody in, no matter what. She didn’t put up a fuss. A history of caution had been born in my niece the night she had been taken hostage by Vikki’s murderer. I called my neighbor and asked her to be on the lookout for suspicious characters. She said she’d do me one better. She would send Opal, her eighteen-year-old daughter, to hang out with Candace. I thanked her, to which she replied: Anytime, anywhere.

  By the time Nick and I arrived at the crime scene, it was nearly seven. The sun had set. The mountains were a deep purple. A bank of clouds rising over the Nevada side of the lake looked as if they had been dusted with saffron powder. Cars, campers, SUVs, and a few television news vans lined the road. The crowd of onlookers was thick.

  Yellow crime scene tape already secured the location. An officer lifted the tape and allowed me to drive into the parking lot. There was only one car parked there—a Mercedes coupe. Naturally vigilant, Nick paused to take in the area before striding across the lot to the restaurant. I kept pace.

  Vittorio’s Ristorante boasted no flashing neon lights, no heavy-duty advertising. The only indication that the building was a place of business was the tiny brass sign to the right of the carved double doors: Vittorio’s. Located on a ritzy strip of property between Kings Beach and Carnelian Bay, the restaurant drew the type of clientele willing to pay top dollar. The scampi and fresh lobster dishes had earned rave reviews.

  Detective Kendra King crossed the pavement to greet Nick. King, in her late thirties like Nick, was beautiful in a sporty way. An avid rock climber, she had scaled nearly all the formations in the Tahoe area. “The victim was found at around five p.m.,” she said.

  “Why’d it take you so long to reach me?” Nick asked.

  “We tried your cell phone.”

  “Right. The battery’s dead. Sorry.” He motioned for her to continue. “What’ve we got?”

  “A tech is documenting interior and exterior. Two others are gathering evidence.” King gestured toward a stocky guy who was focusing his camera on the entrance to the restaurant’s kitchen. “The victim is inside.”

  “Show me the way,” he said, accepting a pair of sterile booties from King and slipping them on over his Timberlands.

  Neither King nor Nick paid attention to me as I followed in their wake. The other officers standing outside didn’t object to my presence, most likely accepting that Nick had granted me access.

  At the entrance to the kitchen, Nick stopped. I bumped into him and apologized and then covered my nose with my hand. “Man!” The stench of death hovered in the opened doorway.

  “Go back to the car,” he ordered. “You’re not part of this.” There was an edge to his voice. “In fact, go home. I’ll catch a ride. I’ll call soon as I can.” He proceeded inside as if my departure was guaranteed.

  Aberrant interest wasn’t what made me stick around. I wanted to be supportive of Nick and, in order to do so, I needed to see what he saw. Not through his eyes, through my own. Plus, observing the crime scene might help me in my efforts to solve Dr.
Fisher’s murder. What were the odds of two people dying at the hand of a different perpetrator in Lake Tahoe in the space of four days?

  “There wasn’t a fight, Nick,” King said while donning her booties. “This was swift.”

  A few feet inside the modest kitchen, Nick stooped beside the body of a dark-haired man. He was facedown, his head toward the door, feet in the direction of the main restaurant. A butcher knife jutted from his back, near his kidneys. Blood had congealed on the man’s expensive pinstriped suit.

  Without entering, I scanned the room for clues. Blood splatter on the tile floor and metal-lined walls reminded me of a Rorschach test, with most of the blood remaining on the body and a minimal spray at the outer edges. The kitchen utensils hung in an orderly fashion on hooks jutting from the ceiling. Pots and pans were arranged on shelves. Blue licks of gas flickered just below the burners on the state-of-the-art Vulcan stove. A-frame evidence tents stood in various places near the body and on the kitchen counters.

  Where were the employees? I’d worked in a restaurant during college. The sous chef and manager should have arrived hours ago. Salad preparations should have been lying on the cutting board and frozen foods should have been thawing. And then it occurred to me that the restaurant might be closed on Mondays.

  “It’s nothing like the Fisher murder,” King said, breaking the silence.

  She was right. Although a scalpel and a carving knife were sharp, they were completely different weapons. Perhaps the heat of summer was stirring up bad vibrations.

  As if Nick heard my unspoken thoughts, he glanced over his shoulder. His forehead tightened and his eyes grew steely. He crossed to me, braced my shoulders with his hands, and kissed me on the cheek. “I told you I’d catch a ride. Get out of here.” Not expecting disagreement, he returned his focus to the murder scene and ran his hands through his hair.

  A kiss wasn’t enough to shoo me away, and something in my gut urged me to remain, so I opted for a lower profile. I edged to the side of the door but remained within visual range of everything that was going on. By the lack of attention from everyone else on the scene, I assumed nobody had heard Nick give me an order to disappear. If he spotted me again, I’d deal with his anger at that time.