Cold Skies

by Thomas King

  Jayme Redding didn’t seem to figure into any of the scenarios that Thumps created. She was a reporter. If she was doing research on Orion, then she would know Lester and Knight, might have even interviewed them. Still, no matter which way Thumps turned it, he couldn’t see where Redding would have found a reason to kill two people she barely knew.

  Oliver Parrish was the wild card. But Parrish hadn’t arrived in Chinook until after the murders. The sheriff had checked the man’s story once, and now that the case was officially a double homicide, he would check it again. Carefully this time and in detail. And Hockney would find out if Parrish had anything to gain from the deaths of Lester and Knight. This line of reasoning appeared to have the most potential. Parrish had a direct link with the victims. He worked for them. He was aware of the value of the technology. All that was missing was motive and opportunity.

  Maybe Archie would find something in the research Thumps had asked him to do.

  BY THE TIME Thumps got back to town, he had gone through every variation of the case that he could imagine, and he had come up with nothing. Absolutely nothing. And he was tired. He should check his blood sugar. He should eat something. He should go to bed.

  Instead he found a space in front of Chinook Appliances. Maybe a little retail therapy would help chase away the exhaustion. Maybe Danielle Fischlin had finally put the stove on sale and he could afford to think about a purchase.

  “See,” Thumps said to the Volvo, “you’re in the shade.”

  The car began making its post-ignition pinging noises.

  “I want you to remember that.”

  The stove was no longer in the window. A large fire-engine-red, bottom-freezer refrigerator had taken its place. Thumps took this to be a good sign. The stove hadn’t sold, so Danielle had moved it back onto the floor. What would be a reasonable reduction? Twenty-five percent? Thirty? Thumps had seen ads on the internet where high-end appliances were reduced by as much as fifty percent.

  Danielle was talking with a customer. Thumps wandered the store, touching the stoves and refrigerators. He stopped at a display that had an oven, a microwave, and a warming drawer all stacked neatly and recessed into a wall. All stainless. It reminded him of the kitchens in the high-end condos at Buffalo Mountain.

  “Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Danielle. “So good to see you again.”

  “Still thinking about that stove.”

  “The six-burner gas?”

  Thumps smiled. Just the thought of the stove made him happy. And feel energized. Maybe today was the day.

  “Is it on sale?”

  “Actually,” said Danielle, “it sold.”

  Thumps thought Danielle had said that his stove was sold.

  “Nice young man came in and bought it yesterday.”

  She had said it was sold.

  “But I can always order you one.”

  What the hell? How could Danielle sell his stove? He was going to buy it. He just needed some time. Surely she had understood that.

  “Unfortunately, the price for the new models has gone up,” said Danielle.

  The exhaustion was back. Thumps could feel his shoulders sag.

  “Delivery time is around four months,” said Danielle. “So if you want one before winter, you should order it now.”

  WHEN THUMPS GOT back to his car, he found Cisco Cruz sitting on the hood.

  “This yours, Pancho?”

  “All mine.”

  Cruz walked the length of the Volvo. “1982 two-door GLT 240. MacPherson strut front suspension.”

  “If you say so.”

  “2.3 litre?”

  “No idea.”

  “Not a car guy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hence the Volvo,” said Cruz.

  The sale of his stove had put Thumps in a foul mood, and Cruz wasn’t helping.

  “So, what does Boomper Austin want now?”

  “Nada,” said Cruz. “But I heard that your murder-suicide is now a double homicide.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Small town,” said Cruz. “You know how that is.”

  Thumps wondered if the sale was final. The stove was expensive. There was always the chance that the buyer would come to his senses and regret an impulse purchase. He might not have even picked it up yet. It could be sitting at Fischlin’s warehouse, waiting for Thumps to step in and save the day.

  “Mr. Austin is up at Buffalo Ranch for the conference, so I have some free time. Thought I’d see if I could be of any help.”

  “Help?”

  “With your investigation,” said Cruz. “Mira. I used to be a cop.”

  “So you didn’t come to confess.”

  “I’d make a lousy suspect.”

  “’Cause you’ve got a really good alibi.”

  Cruz grinned. “You watch much television, vato?”

  “Nope.”

  “Neither do I,” said Cruz. “Television’s too neat. Life is a lot messier. You want to find out who killed Lester and Knight, you’re probably going to have to figure out why.”

  “So you don’t think this is about the mapping technology?”

  “Neither do you.” Cruz pushed off the hood. “Mr. Austin was hoping you might come to Buffalo Mountain tomorrow. Bring along some of your photographic prints. Do lunch if you have the time.”

  “Mr. Austin have any thoughts on why Lester and Knight were murdered?”

  “That’s not something Mr. Austin thinks about.”

  Thumps glanced at his watch. It was after four. “What about you?”

  Cruz patted the Volvo as though it were a friend. “If it were me, I’d take better care of it. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

  WHEN HE GOT HOME, the answering machine was blinking. Thumps didn’t know why he had ever bought the thing. An answering machine, Thumps had discovered, brings with it the obligation of returning calls, whether you want to return them or not.

  The first call was from Claire.

  “Hi. I’m at Buffalo Mountain. Where are you?”

  Hell. He had forgotten. Claire had taken one of the condos for the conference, had invited him to stay there with her. She didn’t sound angry or disappointed. Her voice was flat and calm. Resigned perhaps. Or indifferent.

  The second call was a hang up. So was the third. And the fourth. Thumps knew there was a way to find the number of every call that came in, but in the six months that he had had the machine, he hadn’t been able to figure out how.

  It wasn’t Archie. Archie would have left a message. Ora Mae perhaps, wondering if he had had a chance to speak with Beth.

  Thumps set the phone back on its cradle, opened the refrigerator door, and stood there hoping that something would slide off one of the shelves, cooked and ready to eat. Coq au vin perhaps or a ratatouille or a wild mushroom risotto.

  The phone saved him from the reality of a toasted cheese sandwich.

  “We need to talk.”

  Redding didn’t sound all that happy.

  “Lester and Knight,” said Redding. “Their cellphones. Do you have a copy of those files?”

  “You took my copy.”

  “That was a misunderstanding.” Redding sounded upset, angry. “I need to look at those files.”

  “What happened to the copy you stole?”

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  Thumps waited and listened to Redding breathe.

  “Buffalo Mountain. Tomorrow at ten.”

  “You want to tell me what this is about?”

  “Bring a copy of those files,” said Redding. “It’s important.”

  THUMPS SETTLED ON quinoa for dinner. Two cups of water. One cup of the Andean grain. Bring it to a boil and then simmer with a lid for eighteen minutes. A little butter. A little Parmesan. Cottage cheese on top. A meal in twenty minutes. Nutty. High in protein and, best of all, on the list of approved foods for diabetics.

  Redding’s call was a puzzle. She had taken the files. Of that, Thumps had no doubt.
But now she didn’t have them. And if she didn’t, then who did? Thumps couldn’t imagine that she had lost the envelope. Redding didn’t strike him as someone who lost much of anything.

  And having seen the files once, why did she need to see them again?

  Thumps carried his bowl outside. “Freeway!”

  There were no lights on at Dixie’s house, and no Pops piled up in a mound on the porch.

  “Treat!”

  The quinoa was tasty. Maybe eating healthy wasn’t going to be as bad as he had supposed. He had never been a big fan of spinach or broccoli, but perhaps it was time to give these neglected vegetables a second try.

  Eggplant, for example.

  “Freeway!”

  Thumps sat on the porch and watched the afternoon turn to evening. He might even read Roxanne’s list, just in case it contained something of value. Or he could play it safe and go back into the house and watch some television while he waited for the cat to come home.

  Thirty-Six

  Thumps was not looking forward to locking horns with Stanley Merchant for a second time, and as he drove to Chinook Community College the next morning, he tried to imagine how best to negotiate his way through a conversation with Claire’s surly son.

  He had thought about calling ahead and asking Stick to make a second copy of the files. That way Thumps could swing by and pick it up. In and out. A quick exchange. No questions asked. But calling ahead would have given Stick time to wonder about the request, would have given him time to come up with questions that Thumps didn’t want asked. Better to take him by surprise.

  The computer lab was just as depressing as it had been the day before. Fluorescent lights. Grey institutional furniture. Air chilled to the point where you could see your own breath. The place was brighter than Beth’s morgue and it was larger, but that was where the differences ended.

  Stanley was standing by the coffee machine at the far end of the room. When he saw Thumps, he straightened up and held out a cup. He wasn’t smiling. But he was trying.

  Something wasn’t right. The Stick Thumps knew was churlish and rude.

  “Sheriff called. Said you’d be stopping in this morning.” Stick held up a manila envelope. “Said the state crime lab needed a set.”

  Thumps took the envelope. “Everything in triplicate.”

  “Yeah,” said Stick, “just like the college.”

  Worry. That’s what Thumps was hearing and why he hadn’t recognized it. He had seen Stick grumpy and disagreeable. He had never seen him worried.

  “Roxanne said you picked Mom up at the airport the other night.”

  Thumps nodded.

  “She say anything to you?”

  “Not much.”

  “You stayed with her.” Stick’s eyes were damp and slightly swollen. “I appreciate you doing that.”

  “She’ll be okay.” It sounded hollow, more lie than truth, and Thumps didn’t know why he said it, but he said it nonetheless.

  Stick rolled his shoulders forward. “I know about the biopsy.”

  Something was wrong. Thumps hadn’t thought about it until now. Claire was a private person. Why would she have told Stick about the biopsy? She would have waited until she had the results. And if she had shut Stick out, where did that leave him?

  “She doesn’t want me to worry.” Stick’s voice was no more than a whisper now. “But she’s all I’ve got.”

  Thumps couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “You understand?”

  THUMPS TOOK THE scenic route back to the car, a deer trail that ran along the front of the campus. He could see the river bottom from here and the long run of cottonwoods that hugged the banks. He’d have to come back with his camera sometime, maybe catch a foggy day when the heavy mist rose off the river like smoke from a cauldron.

  So, the sheriff wasn’t as dozy as he looked. Duke had second-guessed him, had correctly assumed that since he had lost the original file, he’d sneak back to the college to pick up a replacement. Hockney must have called Stick first thing that morning to make the bogus “state lab” request for the files formal, so Thumps wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of explaining to Claire’s son just how he had come to lose the first set.

  I put the envelope on the back seat.

  I took this reporter out for doughnuts.

  She stole the file when I wasn’t looking.

  No, she’s not my girlfriend.

  No, I’m not sleeping with her.

  Yes, it was a dumb thing to do.

  Okay, he owed Hockney one. But what next? It was after ten. By now, all the principals would be at Buffalo Mountain for the conference. All the pieces to the puzzle. If there was still a puzzle left to be solved.

  Most of all, Thumps needed to hear Claire tell him that he was mistaken, that she hadn’t already gotten the results of the biopsy, that he was someone with whom she could share the bad times as well as the good.

  Thumps turned right out of the parking lot and pointed the car toward the mountains. If there were any answers, that’s where they would be. But right now, he wasn’t thinking about the murders. He was thinking about the small bandage on Claire’s breast, and he was remembering Stick’s face, how it came alive as he talked about his mother, and how, for one bright moment, Thumps had seen the sweet and vulnerable child that Claire saw every time she looked at her son.

  Thirty-Seven

  Thumps made a quick stop at the house to grab a toothbrush and a clean pair of underwear. Just in case Claire hadn’t changed her mind. Freeway was still among the missing. The food in her bowl was untouched. The cat didn’t miss meals, which meant someone else was feeding her. Probably the next-door neighbour and his lump of a dog.

  Thumps thought about leaving a note on Dixie’s door.

  Where is my cat? Have you seen my cat? Do you have my cat?

  Thumps realized that the operative word here was “my.” It was an inadvertent error. He was fairly certain that Freeway had little appreciation for possessive pronouns. But she did appreciate treats. He shook out a handful of fish-shaped Kitty Num-Nums and left them on the floor in front of the refrigerator. A cat trap. If Freeway was still on the planet, she would find them, and Thumps would know that she was alive and well.

  Photographs. Cruz had asked him to bring some of his photographs. Thumps wasn’t sure he wanted to sell any of his photographs to Austin. A sale might make him feel obligated to the man, which was probably how Boomper did business. Still, Austin seemed to have a genuine interest in photography, and, Thumps reminded himself, the stove he wanted had just gotten more expensive.

  DEANNA HEAVY RUNNER was at the reception desk. Thumps wondered when the woman slept or if she ever went home.

  “Welcome to Buffalo Mountain,” said Deanna. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “A reservation?”

  Deanna lowered her voice. “I don’t want to blow your cover.”

  Thumps smiled. “I’m not undercover.”

  “Okay,” said Deanna, “so what’s up? How’s our case going?”

  “Good,” said Thumps. “I’m trying to find Jayme Redding.”

  “Hasn’t checked in,” said Deanna. “And she doesn’t have a reservation.”

  “No reservation?”

  “And you’re not the first person to ask.” Deanna gestured with her lips. “He’s been bugging me for the last hour.”

  “Thumps!”

  Thumps didn’t have to turn to know who was coming up behind him.

  “Where have you been? The conference has already started.”

  Deanna leaned forward on the front desk. “She still hasn’t showed up.”

  “She was supposed to meet me here for breakfast,” said Archie. “And now she’s disappeared.”

  “Redding?”

  “Of course, Redding.” Archie grabbed Thumps’s arm and dragged him across the lobby. “There’s a conference buffet. We can eat and talk.”

  Thumps had a list of things to avoid that he
carried around in his head. Buffets were about in the middle, well below guns and smoking but above crowds and politicians. When he was at university, he had seen a French film called La Grande Bouffe, where a group of rich guys rented a villa and proceeded to eat themselves to death. Thumps recalled that there were prostitutes involved and more than a little sex, but it was the food that he remembered most clearly. Great mounds that the characters shovelled into themselves.

  “You hungry?” Archie picked up a large plate. “I’m starved.”

  Even before he saw that film, Thumps had understood that buffets are not about food. They are about quantity, and Buffalo Mountain’s buffet was no exception. Hot trays lined up in a row, platters of vegetables, cheese boards, stations with slabs of roast beef and pork and turkey. Farther along and out of sight were the desserts, slices of pie, squares of cake, custard, ice cream, maybe some fruit.

  “Don’t take too much salad stuff,” warned Archie. “You need to leave room on your plate for the protein.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Small meals,” said the little Greek. “That’s the trick with diabetes. Small meals.”

  ARCHIE FOUND A TABLE that overlooked the Ironstone. On any other day, Thumps would have been content to sit and enjoy the view.

  “No coffee?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Coffee’s not food,” said Archie. “It’s a necessary part of a civilized day.”

  “So, what did you find out?”

  “Did you know the Greeks invented coffee?”

  “The research I asked you to do?”

  Archie buttered a dinner roll. “Okay. First thing, Redding doesn’t work for the Sacramento Herald anymore.”

  Thumps looked at his plate. There wasn’t much there to inspire an appetite. Eggplant-okra stir-fry. A chunk of very dry pork loin smothered in tan gravy. Cottage cheese. The desserts had been disappointing. Blueberry pie, pecan-caramel cake, coconut custard, and something that looked like green Jell-O but wasn’t. Thumps had taken a gluten-free cookie, but now that he saw it up close, he doubted he would eat it.