Although the joint was jumping, a server appeared promptly and handed us menus. ‘A bottle of Chianti,’ Susan told her without even consulting it. ‘Sound good to you, Hannah?’
‘Perfect. What could be better with pizza?’
After the server left to fetch the wine, I studied the menu. ‘Lordy,’ I said after a minute. ‘There’s something for everyone here. Veggie, vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free, egg-free …’
‘College town, Hannah. Duh.’
I chuckled. ‘I can’t imagine what a vegan, gluten-free pizza would taste like. No cheese? There ought to be a law.’ I set the menu aside. ‘If you have to spell it c-h-e-e-z-e, it’s not. Do you ever wonder how we survived to adulthood, back before we learned that everything is bad for us?’
Susan looked up and grinned. ‘Well, I’m famished. I’m throwing caution to the wind. Deluxe pizza for me, even if it proves to be fatal.’
When the server returned with our wine and a basket of breadsticks, Susan ordered her pizza and a nine-incher with mushrooms, green pepper and olives for me.
‘Tell me about Scarborough Fairs,’ I said after the server disappeared into the kitchen.
‘It’s something I started out of my home about seven years ago. Now we manage a wide range of technical and non-technical conferences, tradeshows, workshops, seminars, symposia and the like.’
As a former librarian, I’d attended my share of conferences over the years, including ones like the American Library Association’s Annual Conference. Just me in the big city with 17,000 of my closest friends. Managing a conference that huge had to be a major headache. ‘So what does that entail?’
‘Whatever the client wants, really, all the way from site selection to organizing the speakers. We’re flexible.’
‘We?’
‘I used to handle everything myself but last year I had the good sense to hire an assistant. That’s the only reason I was able to attend this reunion, as a matter of fact. I’ve got the Sasquatch Sesquicentennial in Flat Rock, Oregon coming up next weekend. Without Heather I’d be up to my eyeballs in last-minute registrations.’
I stared at Susan over the rim of my wine glass, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘Sasquatch Sesquicentennial? You’re kidding, right?’
Susan grinned again and waved a breadstick. ‘Dead serious. And so are they. It’s been about 150 years since some missionary named Zebulon Blackburn wrote an article for a local rag called The Daily Mountaineer describing a species of giant apes that came down from the mountains to steal salmon out of fishermen’s nets. They’ve been looking for Sasquatch ever since.’
Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Swamp Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman – tales of such elusive wild men perpetuated, especially on late-night cable television. As far as I knew, though, other than footprints, grainy photographs or shaky videos, no evidence had yet been found that conclusively proved their existence. As if reading my mind, Susan raised both hands and said, ‘Hey, their money’s good. Who am I to judge?’
‘That’s got to be one of the weirdest conferences I’ve ever heard of,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’ve seen my share of weird. Back when Harold was working for the World Bank in Washington, DC, I volunteered at the biennial meeting of the International Rhinologic Society.’
‘Rhinologists, right? Nose doctors?’
She nodded and tapped her temple. ‘Seared into my brain. They called it “The Nose: 2000 and Beyond.” The logo was a profile of George Washington superimposed over the Capitol dome.’ She leaned forward. ‘Old George had quite a schnoz on him.’
I laughed out loud. ‘You are making this up.’
‘Well, you may scoff, Mrs Ives, but former first lady Barbara Bush was one of the speakers. And I still have the T-shirt.’
Our pizzas had arrived, served on elevated pizza tray stands. Susan sprinkled hers liberally with red pepper flakes. ‘They had sessions like, I swear to God, “Your Nose is a Microbe Luxury Resort.” You gotta love it.’
I took a bite of pizza and chewed appreciatively. ‘Some of the Sasquatch sessions will be every bit as entertaining, I’ll bet.’
‘For sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve signed up a scientist from New Jersey. How could anyone pass up a program on scat analysis?’
From deep inside her handbag, Susan’s iPhone began to chime. As she bent down to answer it, she added: ‘They’ve even managed to snag Martin Radcliffe from Don’t You Believe It!’
Radcliffe, I knew, was a professional debunker, host of a popular television show. Stir him into a mix of Bigfoot enthusiasts and the proverbial fur could fly.
Susan glanced at the display on her phone, frowned and punched the screen. ‘Heather. What’s up?’
I took another bite of pizza and waited.
‘What? No, no, I can’t!’ Susan sprang to her feet and headed toward a side door marked exit, iPhone pressed to her ear. ‘I understand completely, of course I do, but you just can’t expect …’
When Susan returned five minutes later, her face flushed and frowning, my pizza was half gone. ‘Bad news?’ I asked.
Susan plopped into her chair, arms dangling at her sides. ‘Heather’s mom had a massive stroke. She has to bow out of the Sasquatch conference.’ She pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘I need more wine.’
I obliged, refilling her glass and scooting it across the tablecloth.
‘I simply can’t do it alone,’ she said after chug-a-lugging half the Chianti in her glass. ‘No way.’
‘You don’t have backup?’
‘Heather is my backup.’ She sighed. ‘The business is at that awkward stage, Hannah. Too small for three employees but too big for two. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ She set her wine glass down and studied me speculatively.
‘What?’ I asked after a bit, breaking the silence that hung between us like a blank cartoon balloon. I suspected that Susan was about to dragoon me into doing something, just like she had back in college. The last time I’d seen that look on her face she’d asked me to write a letter in fluent French to an exchange student from the Sorbonne she’d met at a party. A toi, pour toujours. Give me a break.
‘You,’ she said.
I held up both hands, palms out. ‘No!’
‘Didn’t you say your husband was away on a sailing trip?’
‘I did, but …’
Susan rested her elbows on the table and leaned closer. ‘It’s just a long weekend.’
‘No.’
‘Thursday night through to Sunday noon.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Have you ever been to Flat Rock, Oregon?’ Susan asked.
‘No, but I’ve never been to Outer Mongolia, either. One can live a long and happy life and never go to Outer Mongolia. I feel the same way about Flat Rock.’
‘It will be fun, Hannah. Honestly. The people who attend these things are cheerful kooks. You wouldn’t believe the crossover there is between Bigfoot believers, Star Trek fans and people who are convinced they’ve been abducted by space aliens.’
Paul was away, the grandkids were still in school, there was nothing of importance on my social calendar … I felt myself weakening. ‘What would I have to do?’
A look of triumph brightened my former roommate’s face. As if sensing victory, she relaxed into her chair. ‘Supervise registration, keep an eye on catering, ride herd on the hotel technical staff to make sure all the equipment is where it needs to be and when, coordinate with the vendors … It’ll be fun working together again, Hannah. Say yes.’ She paused and added a heartfelt, ‘Please.’
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Susan raised an eyebrow. ‘Get this. One of the attendees is Randall Frazier.’
I frowned and shook my head. I’d never heard of Randall Frazier.
Seeing me hesitate, she said, ‘Think superannuated Indiana Jones. Sweat-rimmed pith helmet and an ascot tucked into his smartly pressed safari suit. He’s been chasing Bigfoot for more than thirty years. Now lives in the Hollyw
ood Hills. They say Frazier once bribed a Tibetan monk with a bottle of Scotch to steal a yeti finger from a monastery and that what’s her name, that actress with the bee-stung lips, married to the rock star?’ She flapped a hand. ‘Anyway, she smuggled the finger out of Nepal in her bra.’
I laughed. ‘Is Frazier bringing the finger with him?’
Susan shrugged. ‘You never know.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, Susan Lockley.’
‘Then you’ll say yes?’
‘I may live to regret it, but yes.’
TWO
Spokane, Washington, 1840. ‘They believe in a race of giants, which inhabit … the snow peaks. They hunt and do all their work at night. They are men stealers. They come to the people’s lodges at night when the people are asleep and take them … Their track is a foot and a half long. They steal salmon from Indian nets and eat them raw as the bears do. If the people are awake, they always know when they are coming very near by their strong smell that is most intolerable. It is not uncommon for them to come in the night and give three whistles and then the stones will begin to hit their houses.’
Elkanah Walker, Nine Years with the Spokane Indians: The diary, 1838–1848, of Elkanah Walker. Manuscript, Walker Library at Washington State University, Pullman, WA, 1840
My late mother was fond of saying, ‘You can’t get there from here.’ As frustrated as I was trying to fly from Cleveland, Ohio to Flat Rock, Oregon – the closest airport being Roberts Field outside a little town I’d never heard of called Redmond – I had to smile, remembering her words.
Susan left on Tuesday morning, promising to arrange for someone to meet my flight once I had one. After noodling around on the Internet for an hour, Travelocity came up with a United flight via San Francisco, the final leg being a SkyWest regional puddle-jumper that would get me to Redmond just short of noon on Thursday. I paid for the flight using Susan’s corporate credit card number, printed out the e-ticket and slipped it into the bag with my laptop. ‘You trust me?’ I had teased when Susan handed over her credit-card number and CVV code.
‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘Muhwahaha!’ I’d cackled. ‘Rio de Janiero, here I come.’
‘Skype me when you get there,’ she’d said, laughing. ‘I’ll grab my bikini and meet you in Ipanema.’
And she went off singing, ‘Tall and tan and young and lovely …’ her hips lightly swaying.
Nothing could have been further from the big city lights and wanton gaiety of La Cidade Maravilhosa than the small but classy Roberts Field terminal outside of Redmond, Oregon. As we hustled along together following the signs toward baggage claim, a fellow passenger, a local, told me that a prominent California-based architectural firm had designed the upscale, multi-level terminal. The high desert sun poured through skylights overhead, spotlighting the original artwork that decorated the concourse. Granite walls and dark wooden beams provided accents throughout, drawing one’s attention back to earth and emphasizing the region’s close connection to nature. If the money lavished on the terminal was any indication, the hunters, fishermen, mountain climbers, rafters, kayakers, vacationers and, yes, even Bigfoot enthusiasts who flocked to the area contributed significantly to the robust health of the local economy.
At baggage claim, a burly guy looking for all the world like Paul Bunyan was waiting, holding a white board on which he’d scrawled ‘Hives’ in orange dry-erase marker.
Unless he was itching for a rash, I figured it was meant for me. ‘I’m Hannah Ives,’ I told him.
‘I’m Scott.’ The young lumberjack aimed a 1000-watt smile in my direction, melting the ice at the center of my cold, exhausted, jet-lagged heart. ‘They sent me from the lodge.’
‘Thank goodness,’ I said.
‘Which bag is yours?’ he asked, eying the carousel.
‘The pink hardcase.’ I pointed. ‘With the red bandana on the handle.’
‘I’ll get it,’ he said. And did.
I followed my bag and the broad back of Scott’s green plaid shirt into the parking garage, where he loaded my bag into the back of a non-descript white SUV. With a beep of his key fob, the side door slid open.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got another pickup in …’ he shot the cuff of his sleeve to check his watch, ‘… fifteen minutes. The American flight from Milwaukee,’ he explained. ‘There’re sodas in the console cooler. Help yourself.’
Then he was gone without waiting to find out if I minded or not.
When you’re desperately thirsty – I’d had nothing much to drink on the plane – nothing tastes better than an ice-cold Coca-Cola. I dug one out of his cooler, wrapped a napkin around the bottle to soak up the condensation then twisted off the cap. Leaning against the van’s right rear fender, I drank deeply. I was halfway through the eight-ounce bottle when Scott reappeared, followed by …
My heart did a somersault. George Clooney?
No, not George Clooney exactly, I saw as the pair drew nearer, but someone eerily like the actor. Tall, tanned, early fifties, closely trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a black polo shirt tucked into a pair of slim-fitting blue jeans. Walking next to the man, obediently to heel, was a German shepherd.
A service dog? I wondered. What on earth could be wrong with the guy? He had muscles so gorgeous that they could have been Photoshopped. PTSD? Epilepsy? Depression? Dogs could even be trained to detect low blood sugar levels, I knew. But this animal wore no identifying vest to help answer my question.
While Scott loaded his new passenger’s gear into the back of the SUV, the man introduced himself. ‘Jake Cummings,’ he said, ‘and this is Harley.’
I told him my name then smiled at Harley. The dog sat politely near the door of the van as if awaiting instructions. ‘May I?’ I asked, indicating Harley. My fingers itched to give the dog a friendly scratch behind the ears. ‘Service dogs can be touchy, I’ve heard.’
Jake grinned. ‘He’s not a service dog, Hannah. He’s K-9. Retired. Be my guest.’
Harley accepted my petting with a lopsided, doggy grin.
I looked up at Jake in mid-scratch. ‘K-9. Does that mean …?’
Before I could finish, he nodded and thumbed his chest. ‘Milwaukee PD. Also retired.’
‘You don’t look old enough to be retired,’ I said truthfully.
When I looked again, Harley was sniffing around the remains of what looked like a ham sandwich someone had tossed away.
‘Lass es!’ Jake said.
I majored in French but recognized the language at once. ‘Your dog understands German?’
‘Harley was trained in Frankfurt,’ he said. ‘Hier! Sitz.’
No surprise, Harley obeyed.
‘Appropriate,’ I said with a grin. ‘Harley being a German shepherd and all.’
Jake chuckled. ‘Comes in handy, as it turns out. Not many petty criminals speak German so there’s slim chance they’ll countermand my orders.’ He rested his hand on Harley’s head. ‘My previous dog was trained in Prague by the border patrol. She spoke Czech.’
‘What’s Czech for “sit”?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Sedni.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ I said with a grin as I climbed into the van and took my seat.
‘Gave it twenty-five years,’ Jake told me, referring to his early retirement as he waited for Harley to settle down on the floor of the van then climbed in after him. ‘Injured my back tackling a suspect.’ He shrugged it off. ‘Just another day at the office.’
‘Where are you heading?’ I asked Jake as Scott circled the van round the airport, exited near the cell-phone waiting area and eased out onto Route 97 north.
‘Flat Rock Mountain Lodge,’ he said.
‘The Sasquatch Sesquicentennial?’ I asked.
Jake nodded. ‘You?’
‘The same,’ I said. ‘I’m one of the organizers, actually. Or rather my friend, Susan Lockley, is. I got drafted in at the last minute.’
‘To do what?�
� he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Name tags, registration, making sure there’s enough veggie rollups and pita chips to go around.’
Jake laughed. ‘I’ll make life simple for you, then. I’m a meat man, through and through.’
Somehow, I’d guessed that.
‘Downtown Redmond’s over there,’ Scott informed us from the driver’s seat. He waved his hand in a northerly direction. ‘Nice little town with an amazing antiques mall, or so they say. Not into antiques much myself.’ He caught my eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘I think you’ll like Sisters better. We’ll drive through there in about twenty minutes. Flat Rock’s in the park, just on the other side of Sisters.’
Jake leaned forward and rested his forearms on the back of the front passenger seat. ‘Sisters?’
‘It’s a town. Named after the three mountains just to the west of us. The early settlers called them Faith, Hope and Charity but nowadays they’re just North, South and Middle Sister.’ He chuckled. ‘Some imagination, huh? Even Huey, Dewey and Louie would be better than North, South and Middle. Once the fog burns off you’ll be able to see ’em. They’re over ten thousand feet high.’
‘Are you a Squatcher?’ I asked Jake. I’d done my homework. Read the conference brochure that Susan had sent my way, familiarizing myself with the terminology.
He nodded again. ‘I help monitor a database of Bigfoot sightings.’
‘Have you ever seen a Bigfoot?’ I asked.
‘Only once,’ Jake admitted. ‘On a hunting trip to Canada with my dad and his brother. Been fascinated ever since.’
‘Hah!’ Scott snorted. ‘It’s bullshit if you ask me.’ He glanced over his shoulder, said, ‘’Scuse my French, ma’am,’ then turned his attention back to the road.
‘Lived here long?’ Jake asked our driver, not sounding the least bit offended.
‘All my life,’ Scott replied. ‘Been over every square inch of the Deschutes National Forest and I’ve never seen a Bigfoot. Bears, sure. Wolves. Coyotes. The occasional buffalo. Ain’t no such thing as Bigfoot.’
Footprints to Murder Page 2
