Soda Ashbrook glanced up from her papers, her eyes shooting from Liz to Anna. Her expression, one of surprise then embarrassment, said it all. Anna wanted to plant both hands on the woman’s desk, lean into her face, and ask her what she’d been thinking tailgating her like that. Following her for no earthly reason. Instead, she let Liz take over. Liz knew Ashbrook. Maybe she could get something useful out of her.
“Hi, Soda,” Liz began. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“Yeah, I do,” Soda said in a flat and weary voice. “What is it?”
Ms. Morose, indeed, Anna thought.
“I’m doing some research,” Liz said.
“On what?”
Liz hesitated. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“On black metal,” Anna said.
Soda’s mouth twitched. She flicked her dark hair over one shoulder and leaned back in her seat, regarding Anna with disdain. “Why am I supposed to know? Because I’m Norwegian?” she asked.
“Are you?” Anna said.
“Half. On my mom’s side.” She tossed her head at Liz. “Ask her. She’s Norwegian.”
“My husband is,” Liz corrected.
Anna considered dropping what was rapidly becoming a ridiculous conversation and flat-out asking Soda why she had followed her. But pursuing this charade to its inevitable end couldn’t hurt. She might discover something. So what if she had no idea what she was talking about? “But black metal isn’t just Norwegian,” she said, hoping she hadn’t just made a fool out of herself.
Still leaning back in her chair, Soda’s eyes narrowed. “Which one of you is doing the research? ’Cause I thought it was Liz.”
“Both of us are,” Liz said. She paused dramatically, her eyes fixed on Soda. “We help each other. Know what I mean?”
Soda sat straight. A smile slanted across her face. “It’s not just Norwegian,” she said. “But Norwegians do it best.” She took hold of a small black picture frame on her desk and angled it so Anna could see the photograph. “My brother was in a black metal band called Terror, about ten years ago. That’s him in Bergen. They did a week there.”
“That’s impressive.”
The second Anna leaned in for a closer look, Soda snatched the photo away. “Black metal is old news,” she said, the world-weary tone returning. “No one cares about it anymore.”
“Does your brother still play in the band?” Liz asked.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna said, taken aback by the coldness in Soda’s tone.
“Why?” Soda replied. “You didn’t know him.”
Liz cleared her throat. Anna knew that sound. Her friend had lost patience. “I have one more question, Soda. Why did you follow my friend Anna in her car yesterday? A ‘threat follow,’ as I like to call it.”
Soda gaped. Confronted by Liz in the same blunt manner she confronted others, she was momentarily at a loss for words. “I don’t know what—”
“Don’t even,” Liz said. “Just tell us why.”
Soda began to shuffle the papers and folders on her desk, moving them around like checkers on a board. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Does it have anything to do with the January Club?” Anna asked. “I’m not angry, I just want to know.”
Blindly seizing a folder, Soda pushed to her feet, shot across the room, and fled into the hallway. By the time Anna and Liz exited the office, she had disappeared from view. They checked the sidewalk near a side exit and peeked inside the town council room, but Soda was gone.
“You rattled her cage,” Anna said as they made their way to Liz’s car.
“Now we know who followed you,” Liz said, “but not why.” She put the key in the ignition and switched on the windshield wipers, dislodging a thin, fresh layer of powdery snow. “Before we visit the Elk Park Herald, I want to tell you what I found.” She retrieved her purse from under her seat, pulled out a small spiral notebook, and opened it. “I did some research this morning. Talked to Jillian on the phone.”
“About the two girls and the Herald’s former editor in chief?” Anna asked.
“You know me so well. Thing is, I can’t find anything on the girls or the incident. Nothing. It’s as if it never happened.”
“They were fourteen.”
“So everyone wanted to protect them by keeping the matter quiet.”
“And the molester, Adrian Armstrong?”
“He worked his way from assistant editor, which is the second-in-command job, to editor in chief,” Liz said, reading from her notes. “Three years into the top job, he resigned.” She looked up. “Melinda was right. He was never charged with a crime. He was there one day, gone to Idaho the next. Two days after he quit, Henry Maxwell was officially editor in chief.”
“Maxwell had to have known about the job vacancy the minute it opened.”
“There’s something else,” Liz said, flipping a page. “Armstrong went from assistant editor to editor in chief during his time at the paper. Unless a newspaper decides to hire from the outside, that’s usually what happens. It’s a smooth, logical transition.”
“Then why didn’t they hire the Herald’s assistant editor to fill Armstrong’s slot after he left?” Anna said. “Why hire a journalism lecturer from Wyoming?”
“There are three even more important questions.” Liz started the car heater then began counting off with her fingers. “First, who was the assistant editor at the time Armstrong left? Second, why didn’t they hire him instead of Henry Maxwell? And third, what happened to that assistant editor?” Liz closed her notebook with a flourish, milking the moment. “One, Curt MacKenzie. Two, I don’t know but I think you should find out. And three, Melinda tells me he’s now Treasurer of the January Club.”
“Cripes.” Dumbfounded, Anna stared out the windshield. “So Curt MacKenzie was in line to be editor in chief. Do you know when he quit his job at the paper?”
“He stayed on as assistant editor for seven more years. Why would he do that?”
“Mmm,” Anna said, taking a sip of her now-cold coffee. “He was shafted. Most people would quit in protest or look for a better job elsewhere.”
Liz drove forward, the SUV’s tires crunching loudly on the new-fallen snow, hung a left on Palmer, then made a right onto Summit Avenue.
“Do you think anyone at the paper will remember Adrian Armstrong?” Anna asked.
“Maybe. It’s been a long time. Someone’s got to remember MacKenzie, though. It hasn’t been that long since he retired.”
Anna leaned back on the headrest. Schaeffer had promised to let her know if the severed finger belonged to Jordan Hetrick. And if it did, that would link two murder victims, Jordan Hetrick and Henry Maxwell, and tie both, along with Beverly Goff, to the January Club. “What did you make of Johannes Sorg?” she asked.
“Melinda didn’t tell me much before the police arrived. A little about her nightmare the night before last, and about the club portrait.” Liz slowed and made a right-hand turn into a public parking lot on Elk River Road, just across the street from the offices of the Elk Park Herald. “What she did tell me sounds cult-like.”
“John Sorrow,” Anna said, unhooking her seatbelt and grabbing her purse. “Translated, Johannes Sorg is John Sorrow in a number of Scandinavian languages. Reminds me of the name John Barleycorn, the personification of barley.”
“Speaking of the January Club, did you know that Dean and Rose Price own four art galleries downtown?”
“You were up early this morning.”
“They’re all over the Internet. They do these short videos that look like they were filmed in their kitchen, smiling and drinking coffee, talking about their latest acquisitions and current trends. They sell arts and crafts from local artists, Indian antiques, and ‘fascinating objets d’art,’ as they call them on their website.”
“I’ll bet Gene has heard of them. I’ll ask him.” Anna slid from her seat, pushed the car door shut, and hitched her purse strap
onto her shoulder. In all her years in Elk Park, she had never set foot inside the Herald’s building. Liz planned to make inquiries about Henry Maxwell for her website, and Anna, tagging along, hoped that whatever her friend uncovered would aid her in her research for Melinda. That is, if anyone at the Herald was willing to speak to Liz. ElkNews.com was going to overtake the paper in advertisers one day. Everyone there knew it, and everyone there resented it.
They waited for a lull in the slow-moving traffic then walked swiftly across the road, dodging patches of ice in favor of less-slippery fresh snow. “I found out another club member, Tanner Ostberg, works here,” Liz said as she yanked open the door.
“Tanner? Wouldn’t you know it.”
They entered into a blast of warm air and urgent, buzzing voices. When Anna’s glasses fogged in the overheated room, she removed them and blew on the lenses, following Liz blindly to a desk along the right wall. “Hey there,” Liz said as she dropped into a chair by the desk.
Anna slid her glasses back on and sat near Liz. Their chairs, metal with plastic seats and backs, were separated by a large planter sporting a pale and sickly plant, the whole setup looking like a cheap dentist-office waiting room and intended, she was sure, to encourage visitors to leave as quickly as possible.
“I’m going to take a wild guess,” the woman at the desk said to Liz. “You’re here about Henry Maxwell.” Liz opened her mouth to speak, but before she could answer, the woman went on. “I saw your website, Liz. You posted a piece this morning. That’s not enough?”
“A brief piece about his death,” Liz said. “I wanted to know more about the man.”
The woman rolled her eyes.
“Does anyone have any idea what Maxwell was doing in the woods near Saddleback Road?” Liz went on. “Or who would want to kill him?”
“Have the police announced his cause of death? I don’t recall that.”
“Come on, Ginnie, you have more contacts than I do. You don’t need an announcement.”
The woman leaned forward and whispered, “Someone murdered him. I’m not surprised.” And in a louder voice, “Don’t quote me on that.” She dragged her computer keyboard toward her and stared at her monitor, making it clear she would talk no more.
Liz pressed on. “Why are you not surprised?” she asked quietly.
“Talk to your contacts,” the woman said, her eyes still on her monitor.
“Do you know what Maxwell was doing in the woods?”
“Being murdered.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve driven down Saddleback Road, Liz. It’s a thick forest of Douglas firs. Fifty feet from the road, you can’t see what’s going on in there.” At last the woman pulled her eyes from her monitor. “It’s a good place for a murder. If you’re inclined to do an outdoor murder.”
“Why not murder him indoors?”
“In his own home? Or here in the office? Very risky. Better to lure him someplace where no one could hear him scream.” She returned to her monitor and began to type. Nothing important, Anna suspected. She just wanted Liz to go away.
“Ginnie, can you give me the name of someone willing to talk to me?”
“Talk to your own contacts, Liz. You have enough of them. I’m busy.”
Either the woman had no wish to help Liz or she knew Liz’s contacts could tell Liz things she and the people she knew didn’t dare. Maybe she even knew or suspected who Liz’s contacts at the paper were, Anna thought. Either way, she wasn’t exactly broken up by her boss’s murder. Far from it. What sort of man engendered that reaction in people?
Liz stood and Anna followed suit. The woman at the desk opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a cry of “People, listen up!” All eyes turned to the center of the room.
“The police found Jordan Hetrick’s wife,” a man said. “They haven’t released her name or address, just confirmed it’s his wife. Find out who she is, where she lives, and why she never reported her husband missing. Get to work.”
Like bees in a hive, the Herald’s employees set to work, each in his or her own way, gathering bits of information that would benefit the paper as a whole. Anna searched for Tanner, but if he was at one of the desks, he was doing a good job of hiding. The woman at the desk looked up at Liz, smiled smugly, and said, “There are benefits to not being a one-woman operation.”
Anna tugged on Liz’s arm, yanking her away from the desk and preventing her from issuing a retort. There was no time for that. Anna had something far superior to a retort in mind. She rushed Liz out of the building and back into the SUV, pulled her phone from her purse, and dialed Schaeffer. When she received his approval, along with instructions to “tread gently” and remain quiet about Johannes Sorg, she hung up and turned triumphantly to Liz.
“You know who his wife is and where she lives, don’t you?” Liz asked.
“Only I assumed she was his ex-wife. Different surnames.”
“I should have guessed,” Liz said, starting the SUV. “You were working the Hetrick case.”
7
Elise Van Rossem was far more welcoming than either Anna or Liz had expected her to be. Anna thought Elise might slam her door in their faces. In which case, Anna reasoned, Liz wouldn’t have an interview but she would at least have Elise’s name. She could post it to her website in five minutes, leaving the Herald and its smug reporters in the dust.
But when Elise graciously welcomed them inside, showed them seats in the kitchen, and offered to make them coffee, Anna felt ashamed and vowed silently to do more than tread lightly. This woman had lost her husband.
“We’re sorry to intrude,” she said, taking a chair at the kitchen table.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Liz added.
“You’re not intruding,” Elise said. She pulled cups from under her kitchen cabinets and set them on the counter. “I could use the company. You see how isolated I am. Five miles outside of town. Jordan liked it out here, but I don’t.”
“At first I didn’t realize you were still married,” Anna said.
“I kept my maiden name,” Elise said. “Are you the one who works for the police?”
Anna nodded. “It’s beautiful out here, in spite of the isolation. And you’ve got an amazing view.”
From her seat in the kitchen Anna could see through Elise’s great room to Rocky Mountain National Park in the near distance. The house’s small deck, covered in three feet of snow, hadn’t been used all winter by the looks of it. Next to the woodstove was a stack of pine logs and kindling twigs that looked like they had been gathered from the surrounding woods. It was possible the stove was the home’s main source of heat. Though Elise appeared young—thirty, thirty-two—she was small and delicate, her hands dainty and uncalloused, and she wouldn’t last long in the house alone.
After Elise got the coffee maker going, she seated herself at the table, wearily crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. She seemed to lack the energy to pull her chair closer to the table. Watching her, Anna’s memories of the accident that had claimed Sean’s life came back in a rush. Detective Schaeffer at the door, the words “I’m sorry, ma’am,” feeling as though the air had been forced from her chest, the sickening realization that nothing, nothing would ever be good again. That realization was a soul killer.
Only life was good again. After a long time, it was good again.
“I’m surprised the police found me,” Elise said.
“They’ve been searching for Colorado relatives for almost a week,” Liz said.
Elise’s shoulders sagged and she gave a light sigh. “My husband was going through bankruptcy when we married, so I kept my name. Everything is under my name. The phone, car, house.” She lifted her eyes to the twelve-foot ceiling and let them stray over the open beams. “And I just bought this house in October. We’d have nothing if I hadn’t kept my name.”
“Bankruptcy is forgiven in seven years, isn’t it?” Liz said.
; “Jordan had trouble keeping a job,” Elise said. “I loved him, but he was what my dad calls a ne’er-do-well.” She paused and looked back at the coffee maker.
“Let me get it,” Anna said, rising from her chair before Elise could object. At the counter she poured two cups and handed them to Elise and Liz before pouring herself a cup. She shot a quick look at the great room as she headed back to the table. There was no television that she could see. No radio and no stacks of old newspapers.
“You didn’t hear about a missing man on the news?” Anna said, returning to her seat.
“We don’t get the paper,” Elise said. “No paper, no TV or radio, no computer. And I haven’t been in town for a week, since the day Jordan left. He told me he’d been invited on a hunting trip to Wyoming. I didn’t think he was missing, I thought he was hunting. He told me he’d be gone for a few days, maybe longer if they decided to rent a cabin. He lied to me.”
“Did he take his hunting guns and equipment with him?”
“He said he was going to rent all that in Wyoming.”
Hunting licenses for nonresidents were expensive, Anna thought. So were gun and equipment rentals. Add that to a cabin fee, and Jordan Hetrick’s trip, if it had been real, would have cost his wife a lot of money.
“Can I ask you,” Liz said, “I mean . . . that is, why . . .” She stumbled over her words, unable to finish her sentence.
“You want to know why he lied to me,” Elise said.
“If you can tell me.”
“Will you post this on your website?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t know if I want you to or not. Isn’t that funny?”
Liz stuck her hand across the table, reaching toward Elise’s. “Don’t answer now, think about it. I’ll keep everything private except your name. I report the news, so I have to report that much.”
“I understand,” Elise said. “Then keep this between us for now. When I leave Elk Park, you can use whatever you want.” As if to gather her resolve, she took deep breaths before she spoke again. “Like I told the police, Jordan was acting strange. But a good strange, you know? For about a week he was doing really good. He was happy. He started saying things—he loved me, he loved being here again. I thought he was opening up for once. Not being so secretive. That’s why I believed him when he said he was going on a hunting trip. I thought he’d found friends, found some peace.”
The Club (Anna Denning Mystery Book 4) Page 6
