by Bud Crawford
When he had put a couple blocks between himself and the inn, he stopped to sit at a bus stop bench. He made some notes on his Blackberry. It wasn't obvious what direction he needed to take. He typed and sent a couple emails and a couple texts. With Alden dead, did he need to stay here, or get back to the main line in Charlotte? There were other issues working, but that choice determined his immediate agenda. He jumped at the incoming tone. Wow, no grass between Coglin's toes. He read the message and nodded to himself. Not the only way to take it but, he agreed, probably the best way. Least chance of missing something critical.
~
Sprague had Apple type up a preliminary report, chewed over it with her and with Harkin. He added some notes, and handed it in. He looked at Bob's pictures and Cindy's first-pass notes. No case here; purely a medical event, on present evidence. Cindy's stuff should be finished by tomorrow. They needed to run all the names, including the guests they hadn't seen: the German tourists, the electricians, and the weatherman. Also must see Marti Spence. Kid probably just spooked, first dead person, likely as not. Might think she'd killed him, everybody jumping about that watch. Maybe she had, in a contributory non-criminal way. Nothing there, surely, but he had to talk with her. Only two other names: Madison Markey, James Richter. Both remote shots, but needed a quick once-over before the file got buried for good. Oh, there was more background stuff: the will, the estate, the insurance, the previous wife. Lot of fuss for nothing. Better use for his salary working on crimes that were really crimes. Except, you had to run these things out. What if? That was the cop existential question, not to be or not to be. What if?
~
Marti sat cross-legged on James' bed. She'd driven all the way to Chimney Rock without telling him anything. She had left a voice mail for Seth, so he wouldn't freak and start bothering people at Juniper House. Told him about Harold's heart attack, said she was out, wouldn't be back tonight. Just as glad he hadn't picked up. She didn't really want to talk to him about James. Actually that was her second call to Seth. She called earlier, when she was still pissed about the watch. But he hadn't picked up that one, either. It was better this way. Her cell didn't work out here, and Seth wouldn't have any way of recognizing the cabin number. He'd just have to suck it up until she felt like talking to him.
She had tried to call James, before landing on his door step. But she didn't know his cell number, just the line here. Nobody answered and there was no machine. She was surprised to find the cabin unlocked, though she had no idea what she would have done if it had been locked. She hadn't done much thinking, on the way here, just driving fast. All James' stuff was here, reasonably neat, but not put away or hidden. Why hadn't he locked the door? There was a note on the table, 'gone to Asheville, back by dark,' written in his tiny but extremely legible script. Was the note for her? For anyone else who happened by? Who would that be? It was three-thirty, they would know she was gone by teatime, but dark wasn't for hours. She hadn't slept much on this bed last night. It really was last night, seemed like last month. Maybe she could sleep now, but she'd lock the door first. Could she sleep without seeing the horrible pink and white of Mr. Alden's puffed-up face? She kicked off her shoes, opened up the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it over her body. She did fall asleep, in just a few minutes, and the trembling stopped. A deep dreamless sleep.
~
James pulled up to the curb in front of Juniper House. His shirt pocket held two more Roman coins, snug behind the mother-of-pearl snap. He wore a bolo tie with a sliver clasp, fringed leather vest open down his chest, rodeo-style belt buckle, snug button-fly jeans that tapered down into fourteen-inch tooled leather boots. He had decided against spurs and a ten-gallon hat. You gotta draw a line. But with his hair moussed up on top, his sideburns darkened with mascara, the look was pretty solid cowboy.
When he opened the outside door the foyer and parlor were empty but he could hear voices coming from the dining room. He followed the sound, and saw sexy Stephanie, and the Fletchers sitting with the sharp-eyed old lady, Honoria. Nobody else was around. He stopped in the doorway.
"Howdy, y-all. Can't dress up like this and not say, 'howdy'." He lifted and waved an imaginary hat and bowed low. He looked up and saw a hit of a smile on Honoria's face, and maybe on Ellen's. But Geoffrey Fletcher and Stephanie seemed to look right through him, no one said anything. Clearly the wrong note.
"Something's off here. I'm sorry. I wanted to see if Harold's boss or Harold had solved my little puzzle. Obviously, this is not the time. Can I leave these guys with you, a couple Roman coins I swapped for this morning. Harold might be interested. Not fancy or rare, but really good condition. They're complementary to the ones yesterday." James stopped with his hand extended, holding the two coins in their bags. "What is it? What's happened?"
Geoff said, "Harold died this morning, James. He had a heart attack."
"God. I'm sorry. Sorry for your loss, sorry to crash in like this in my cowboy suit. Please forgive my thoughtlessness. Is there anything at all I can do?" He pulled a chair from the table nearest the door and sat abruptly. "Excuse me, I need to sit a second, then I'll go."
Ellen said, "This wasn't your fault, James, and you had no way to know."
James said, "Yeah, of course, but I should have realized when I walked in. And I'm afraid I did add to his stress, pushing and teasing him about those coins and about my Metrocor account."
"There were lots of stresses," Geoffrey said, "yours barely made the list, I'd guess. But there's not anything to do. It is past now and forever ineditable."
"Stephanie, please accept my condolences," James stood. "And I will do the only good thing I can by leaving immediately."
Geoff stood, too. "Hold on a second, James. Let me get you one of Detective Sprague's cards." Geoff returned from the parlor and handed James the card. "He said he'd like to talk with you, he's interviewing everybody who saw Harold the past few days. Standard procedure when there's a sudden death, a formality, but you should give him a call."
"Sure, I will. But does this Sprague character consider it was something other than a heart attack?"
"No, I don't think so," Geoff said. "Going through the motions, just in case."
"It's a trivial thing to ask now, but obviously I can't ask Harold. Do you know whether he'd figured out anything about my account?"
"Actually, it was the last conversation I had with him. I offered to help with any purely mathematical analysis or just scratch my head and give a look. Offer a fresh perspective."
"What did he say?"
"Said he'd take me up on it if he didn't have an answer the next couple hours. He was sure it was right in front of him. He had his curve, he said, just had to recognize what it meant. He wanted to solve it himself."
"Did he leave any notes?" James silently tapped one boot toe behind his standing foot, tapped twice, switched feet, and tapped again.
"Maybe," Geoff said, "probably, but it isn't what we've been thinking about the past couple hours. The police have sealed the room. Maybe they found something. You should ask Detective Sprague."
"I will. Sorry to be so fixated on myself, on my little query. Now I'm really leaving. Hang in there, Stephanie. Goodbye, Geoff, Ellen, ma'am."
Geoff looked at Ellen, as they heard the front porch door shut. "Left soon as, but not until, he found out we didn't know."
"Yeah," Ellen said, "but for so many reasons, it's whistling in the dark. Hard to make anything concrete of it."
"What did he want Harold to find out?" asked Honoria.
"No idea," Geoff said, "Harold didn't really say. James thought he was being overcharged, with fees on his account. But it was more complicated than that, complicated enough that Harold spent two days trying to work it out."
"That Detective Lieutenant Sprague seemed a clever and capable man," Mrs. Staedtler said, "but not necessarily a computational whiz."
Alistair came in from the kitchen with a fresh plate of hot scones. "Was someone here? I thought
I heard a voice."
"It was James Richter, dressed today as a cowboy," Ellen said.
"At least Marti isn't with him, I was afraid she'd gone back. Help yourselves, these scones are even fresher than Richter's mouth."
Stephanie laughed, then choked on her laughter and covered her face.
"You poor dear," Ellen said, "all of us talking as if you weren't here."
"No," Stephanie said. "No. It's not that. I just don't know what to do or how to feel. It's like my arm was cut off and I'm looking at the stump wondering: now what, what happens now?" She shook her head. "You have both been so good to me, but I'm fine, I really am. Ellen, Geoff, you should get back to work, I'll sort this out."
"Uh-huh. You don't get rid of us that easy." Ellen put her arms around Stephanie and held her tight. Stephanie's entire body shook as Ellen held on, she sobbed wordlessly for a minute, then relaxed. Ellen let go, and pushed Stephanie's shoulders back and looked her in the face. "We're here. When you don't need us, we'll go. Until then, we're here. Don't think about that. It just is."
Stephanie turned left, looking past her at Geoff. "You got yourself a good one, mister."
"Don't I know. Have a scone." Geoff held out the platter Alistair had set on the table.
They chewed silently for several minutes. There was fresh lemon curd, grapefruit marmalade, black cherry jam, locust blossom honey. The scones were soft, flaky, and absorbent, perfect in the mouth. But even better when they pulled greedily into themselves then echoed back the taste of whatever was spread on them. Still, when Alistair offered to replenish the platter, they waved him off.
"Want to go for a walk, work off some of this pastry?" Geoff stood, took Stephanie's hand and pulled her to her feet.
"Sure, I guess. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"It's simple, Stef," Ellen said. "Whatever you want. There aren't any supposeds. Let's walk the neighborhood for a while. Honoria?" She nodded, yes. Ellen looked at Alistair, waiting in the doorway. "If you'll excuse us, leaving this mess?"
"Go, get some air." He stepped back to let them pass.
They walked through the parlor out into the gardens, then through a gap in the hedge onto the street behind the carriage house. Following residential streets, they zigzagged out through Montford and slowly zigzagged their way back.
Stephanie talked most of the time they walked. Her voice was soft, a little trembly, but the words kept coming, a great pressure that met no resistance at all. She told them she was pregnant, but that she had not told Harold. She had found out a couple weeks ago, but wasn't sure at first if she wanted to be pregnant, wasn't sure what to do. It had been more his idea than hers, to have children, but she wasn't sure he really knew what it entailed And then suddenly, a couple days ago, she knew that she would have this baby. She wanted to tell him, but Tuesday he stayed in all day, yesterday at Biltmore there hadn't seemed to be a right time, then this morning he stayed in again. She was going to tell him at lunch, but he had decided to keep on working. So, this afternoon, but now he never would know, and it would have meant everything to him. There'd been a hundred chances, why had she skipped them all? What does that say about her? She told Ellen yesterday, and Honoria had figured it out, so it was just Geoff who was surprised, first at the news, and then at Ellen for keeping the secret an entire day.
Ellen asked, "And are you still sure, about the baby, with what has happened?"
"Oh, completely sure," Stef said, "that question was just between me and me."
"Well," Honoria said, "you and the baby will keep Harold alive. Not the same thing as having all of him, but it is something true and real."
"I know, it was the first thing I thought of when it sank in he was gone. The second thing was, how glad I was I'd made the decision before he died, independently of that. Then third, what was I trying to count up to? And the police were asking questions and, thank you, Ellen, for being with me, being instead of me, you know what I mean. I just don't know how to do this."
"Nobody does. Nobody can know." Ellen said. "You're doing fine, you're doing it right. It's impossible, but you'll get through it."
"I don't know if I even still loved him, how's that for doing it right? We had such a beautiful courtship, and a few months that were fantastic. But ever since we'd been drifting in and out. The things that mattered to him, money and numbers and status, didn't matter that much to me. The things I cared about, like my students, like dancing, weren't real to him. And he could be so little sometimes, mean, like he was to Marti. But I remember all the fun when we first met, and he was trying to get past his prejudices, really working at it. Now he's dead, and I can't talk about him like this. He was just a guy who wasn't completely perfect. It's me's the monster, picking away at him when he can't defend himself."
"No, Stef," Geoff stopped her. "You are truthful and almost guileless. Ellen is right. You are doing this impossible thing perfectly. Lying to yourself might make the immediate pain less, but it will pass sooner and do less damage if you can keep on being honest." He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her.
They had reached the sidewalk in front of Juniper House. After a minute, Geoff gently released her. "Ready to go back inside?" He gestured towards the porch. Stephanie allowed herself to be turned.
She looked at Geoff, at Ellen and Honoria. "Sure. I'm fine. If I can sit down and not have to talk. I'm pretty talked out, I think."
~
Tea was wrapping up. Dwight and Jerry were at a table with Andy Ross. The Herters looked pleased, from a good caving trip and from relief at being back in the sunlight. The adults were showing pictures on their camera viewers to the Farley sisters, who seemed pleased at the attention, but a little unsure what it meant. The kids played an electronic game with or possibly against each other, staring intently into little screens held between their hands. No sign of Marti, it was Alistair clearing the dishes. Toni peered out briefly from the kitchen door as they came in, waved and turned back into the kitchen. As they were seen, the buzz of conversations softened, sentences finished or left hanging. Silence, next, as everyone looked towards them.
"Ah, the walkers have returned." Alistair's voice boomed across the still room. "Would you like some more cakes, coffee, tea, or anything?"
Ellen looked at the others, then said, "I'm still caked out, but I'd love a cup of tea."
"Tea for everyone?" They nodded. "Sit, and I'll have a fresh pot in three minutes. Any cake you eat, I don't have to put away." He set the last petit-fours on the nearest empty table, and carried a tray of dirty cups into the kitchen. As they sat down, conversation resumed. Dwight walked over to their table.
"I am so sorry," he said to Stephanie. She looked up at him, without speaking. "Alistair told us. Please let us know if there's anything any of us can do." He looked around the table at Ellen and Geoff and Honoria, nodded, and went back.
"I don't know how to respond," Stephanie said softly, "'sure, you bet,' 'don't mention it,' 'thanks so much.' Not quite the right note, any of those. I have to call people, don't I? His family, work, my family, neighbors, friends. I need to make a list. And do I tell everybody about the baby, at the same time, or pull the list out next week and call them all again?"
"Whoa, Stef," Ellen said. "Don't wind it up. I can make the calls if you want me to, but let's just start with the list." She flipped her notebook from the pocket of her skirt, and opened to a clean page.
chapter twenty-second
As James walked into the lobby the door closed with a soft breath. A classy room. The wool carpet was gold trimmed with burgundy stripes. A Metrocor logo in the center proved it was a custom weave. The walls were yellow cream, decorated with large photographs of mountain vistas. The receptionist smiled. She took off her glasses and shook her hair. She was early thirties, he guessed, heavily but carefully made up, clearly hired to present a professional and pretty face to Asheville Metrocor clients.
"Are you here to see anyone in particular, sir?" she asked him.
&n
bsp; "I'm fine seeing just you, for a start." He stepped closer, there was a chest high beech-wood counter between them. "Actually, I'm not sure who I'm looking for. Should be 'whom,' I guess. I'm James, James Richter, very pleased to meet you." He reached out a hand.
"I'm Elaine," she said, taking and delicately shaking his hand. "Tell me what you need."
"It's a little bit of a story, I'm afraid. I live in Charlotte, that's where my account is."
"We can take care of any routine business here. We can do a trade, take a deposit, make a margin advance. Whatever you need." She smiled, and put her glasses back on.
"No, it's nothing like that. My broker from Charlotte, his name is Harold Alden, he was in Asheville this week and he was helping me with a question about my account, sort of working through his vacation. I felt bad about that, but he said he didn't mind." James moved back from the counter, Elaine took off her glasses. "But, today, an awful thing happened. He had a heart attack, a fatal heart attack."
