by Mary Daheim
“I wonder,” Judith said as they left their mothers, “if I could disconnect her.”
Renie brightened. “Permanently?”
“No.” Judith looked askance at her cousin. “I mean, from playing those TV keno games. I’m afraid she’s going to run up a terrible bill.”
“It sounds like she’s won a little,” Renie pointed out. “Besides, what else has she got to do all day?”
“What she does at home,” Judith responded. “Watch TV shows. Play solitaire. Do the jumble puzzles in the newspaper.”
“My mom talks on the phone and entertains her parade of callers,” Renie mused. “It’s like holding court. Oh, she reads and does the crossword puzzle and sometimes she watches TV, but unlike Aunt Gert, Mom’s a social animal. Like you, coz.”
“Right.” But Judith’s mind wasn’t on family traits. “When are you going to wake Bill up?”
Renie looked at her watch. “Now. It’s going on six. Why?”
“I’d like to find out what’s going on at the cabin,” Judith replied. “Do you mind?”
“No, come on in.”
Bill didn’t need rousing. He was doing his exercises when the cousins entered the Joneses’ quarters. Renie signaled for Judith to be quiet. Bill sat up straight on a chair in the middle of the room, performing a ritual that involved arm, back, and neck work. He didn’t seem aware that his wife and her cousin were standing five feet away from him.
Two or three minutes passed before Bill stopped, panting slightly. “Ah!” he exclaimed, startled. “What now?”
“The cabin,” Renie said. “Judith—and I—want to know.”
With a heavy sigh, Bill got up from the chair and put it back in its place by the desk. “Something’s off,” he said, his face stern. “Where did you two get this contractor?”
“I didn’t—” Renie began before Judith interrupted her.
“He’s related to Bart Bednarik, the contractor who’s working on the B&B. What’s wrong? Is he crooked?”
As always, Bill took the time to think before he answered. “Not exactly crooked. Shifty, maybe. What’s his name? Dale Armstrong?” He saw Judith nod. “He seemed too damned anxious to get rid of me. He said they were all tied up trying to figure out where to lay the foundation for the new building. But it looked to me as if they were concentrating on that swampy area at the back of the lot, near the highway.”
“The quicksand,” Renie said in surprise. “I don’t get it.”
Bill gave his wife a dubious look. “It can’t be quicksand. Not near a river.”
“It felt like quicksand to us when we were kids,” Renie retorted. “Did I ever tell you about the time—”
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” Bill broke in. “The point is, I think Armstrong’s stalling. I also think he has something to hide.”
“Like what?” Renie demanded. “A very large bill for sitting on his dead butt?”
Bill shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not up to me, but if I were you, Judith, I’d take Joe along and go see him tomorrow.”
Judith winced. Not only was Joe involved in a homicide investigation, but he was less than enthusiastic about his wife taking on another business venture. Indeed, if the fire hadn’t already put a hole in Hillside Manor’s roof, Joe would have made one of his own when he exploded over Judith’s announcement that she wanted to build another B&B. It was only after Judith had promised she’d hire someone to run the riverfront operation that Joe’s boiling point had gone down to simmer.
“I’ll see if Joe can get away,” she finally said, then gave Renie an appealing look. “Coz…?”
Renie slapped a hand to her head. “Oh, jeez! I thought I was on vacation!”
“You’re supposed to be at a conference,” Judith reminded her cousin.
Bill was putting a money clip, a handkerchief, a tiny notebook, and other assorted items into the various compartments of his tan corduroy vest. The vest was lucky, Renie had informed Judith, and Bill wore it only when he gambled. “I don’t think you two should go by yourselves,” he said. “I don’t like the feel of the place. But somebody should check things out.”
“I’ll talk to Joe,” Judith said. “It’s weird. I can’t think why anything strange would be going on at the cabin site.”
“Maybe I imagined it,” Bill said.
“No, you didn’t,” Renie put in. “Say, if you didn’t stick around, how come you were gone so long?”
Bill adjusted his glasses. “I had lunch in Glacier Falls,” he said, referring to the old logging town some nine miles west of the family retreat. “Then I decided to double back over the bridge a mile or so east of the cabin. Nobody was around at the summer place across the river, so I did a bit of spying. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. Armstrong and his workmen must have stayed back near the highway. Then I took my daily walk along the river. It was interesting, especially where you could see the old railroad bed and a couple of trestles and even a boarded-up tunnel. The river gets narrow in that gorge a mile or so from the cabin. There’s some beautiful scenery along the way.”
“I know,” Renie said. “We used to go on hikes through there with my dad. But of course it’s probably different now. The river changes channels in so many places over the course of time.”
“Speaking of change,” Judith put in, “I’d better do that before dinner. You still on for the coffee shop?”
Bill grunted his agreement; Renie said that was fine. Judith went to the Flynns’ room, but Joe hadn’t yet arrived. The room wasn’t vacant, however. Micki Mendoza sat in a turquoise armchair, chewing on a fingernail.
“Excuse me?” Judith said, both surprised and indignant. “How did you get in?”
“I talked Pancho Green into giving me a pass key,” Micki replied without apology. “I heard you were a famous detective. Is it true?”
Judith closed the door behind her. “Who told you that?”
“Emily, the security guard. She says you even have an Internet site.”
“What?” Judith sat down on the bed. “What are you talking about?”
Micki nodded. “I guess you impressed her this morning. Then she remembered you from something she saw on TV a couple of years ago. You were on the news, telling about how you managed to solve all kinds of murder cases. Emily looked you up on the Internet, and there you were. ‘Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders. ’Your code name is ‘Fatso.’”
Judith frowned at the acronym. “Don’t you mean Fasto?”
Micki shrugged. “Whatever. I thought it said Fatso.”
“Swell.” Judith held her head. After having spent her adolescence as an overweight teenager, she had struggled most of her life to keep her statuesque figure trim, if not slim. It seemed too cruel that if indeed she had attained a certain amount of notoriety, she’d end up being called Fatso. “You’re not kidding me, are you?” she finally asked in an attempt to salvage a shred of dignity.
“No,” Micki insisted. “That isn’t why I’m here, but I had to check you out before I came. You see, I need your help.”
Judith held up her hands. “Stop right there. My husband is already involved. Besides, the FBI is stepping in.”
The rings on Micki’s hands flashed as she waved away Judith’s statement. “No, they’re not. These days, the feds have more to do than poke their noses in a murder on an Indian reservation way up in the northwest corner of the country. Besides, the tribal guys figure that if things get tough, they can call in the local sheriff for technical support and lab stuff.”
A light went on inside Judith’s head. Or maybe it was the glare of Micki’s gems. “Who’s the sheriff these days?”
Micki laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “I heard he was elected a few years ago after he solved a big case involving a prominent artist who lived around here. It’s a funny name—Abbott N. Costello.”
The light was accompanied by warning whistles, buzzers, and beeps. Judith remembered the former undersheriff all too well and none t
oo fondly.
Only his name was funny. The last person she wanted to meet at the Lake Stillasnowamish Resort Casino was Abbott N. Costello.
NINE
JUDITH DIDN’T COMMENT on the possibility of Sheriff Costello taking part in the murder investigation. But the mere mention of his name made her hackles rise, especially if he’d won over the voters by claiming to have fingered Riley Tobias’s killer. Riley had lived next door to the family’s cabin on the river, and was an old acquaintance. By chance, he’d been murdered while Judith and Renie had been spending a few days rusticating on the river property. It was Judith who had nailed the culprit and had almost lost her life in the process.
“If,” Judith began, after collecting her wits, “the FBI trusts the tribal police to solve the case, why don’t you?”
Micki shrugged. She was wearing a low-cut white satin blouse with a purple velour skirt. Her red hair was done up in masses of curls on top of her head. Judith could see why Freddy Polson had been smitten, perhaps even why his first marriage had broken up.
“It’s not that I’m prejudiced,” Micki said, “it’s the small-time part I don’t like. I’m not from around here. I grew up in L.A. Besides, I don’t like cops in general.”
Judith wondered if that was because Micki had had some run-ins with the police. “So why me?”
“You’re a woman,” Micki replied. “Women have intuition when it comes to people. They don’t ask ‘how’ so much as they want to know ‘why.’ Besides, you’re Fatso.”
“Thanks.” Judith tried not to show her displeasure. “Frankly, I’m not sure how—to borrow the word—you want me to help.”
“According to your FATSO site,” Micki explained, “you have this terrific knack for talking to people. They trust you, they confide in you. That’s all I want you to do—talk to the people in Freddy’s entourage. I can make sure that happens.”
Judith considered Micki’s request. “Why do you want me to do this? Since you know all these people, why can’t you engage them in conversation?”
“First,” Micki said, holding up an index finger, “I don’t have your knack.” She held up another finger. “Second, I come off as abrasive. Third,” she continued, holding up her ring finger with its sparkling stone, “I don’t always get along with everybody. And fourth and most important,” she went on, wiggling her pinky, “I don’t want to see Freddy framed for this murder, which is how things seem to be going.”
“Really?” Judith studied the young woman’s face, but it was hard to discern her true emotions. “You must love him very much,” Judith finally said.
“I sure do,” Micki retorted. “Sally never appreciated him. He’s very sensitive. He’s an artiste.”
“Yes,” Judith murmured, recalling Inga Polson’s assertions about her brother, “so I’ve been told.”
“Well?” Micki’s tone was a challenge.
Still, Judith hesitated. She could hear the rain spattering the windows and the cawing of a crow. The forest, the mountains, the river—even the rain—were balm to her soul. Yet a sense of misgiving crept over her.
Micki was giving her the opportunity to get involved in the case. Joe’s ambivalent attitude rankled. “I believe in justice. But first, you have to tell me why you think your fiancé is being framed for his ex-wife’s murder.”
Micki’s violet-eyed gaze traveled from the desk to the dresser to the nightstand. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink around here.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.” Judith was about to offer her uninvited guest room service, but Joe would probably be showing up momentarily. She didn’t want Micki Mendoza to settle in for the evening.
“Oh.” Micki’s disappointment seemed genuine. “Okay. Never mind. You asked why I think Freddy is being framed. It’s simple. Because he’s an illusionist, people think he can do all kinds of tricks. I mean, they figure that if he can make a cougar disappear into thin air or produce a bunch of bunnies out of his sleeve, he knows how to fool the cops. It’s stupid, really, but I get that impression.”
“From the cops?” Judith asked.
“Well…” Micki raked a hand through her red curls. “Maybe not exactly. With them, it’s like he’s the obvious suspect because he’s Sally’s ex. That’s really dumb, because Freddy and Sally parted on good terms. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have kept the act together. Illusionists’ assistants aren’t exactly a dime a dozen. They have to be on the same page every second that they’re working with the star. They practically have to be able to read each other’s minds.”
“I can see that,” Judith agreed. “How long had Freddy and Sally known each other? I gather they went way back.”
“They did.” Micki nodded emphatically. “They grew up about three blocks from each other, in Idaho. They met, like, in kindergarten. They were still in their teens when they got married. Neither of them had much experience out in the real world.” She shot Judith a glance that said the same could not be said of Micaela Mendoza.
“They must have stayed married for several years,” Judith noted. “How old is Freddy? He looks about thirty or so.”
“You’re close,” Micki replied with an impish smile. “It’s that boyish quality he has when he’s not performing. I mean, it’s, like, real. I think performers are often shy. That’s why they go on the stage or whatever. They can hide behind a make-believe personality.”
“That’s so,” Judith agreed.
Briefly, Micki seemed lost in thought. “What did you say? That Freddy and Sally must have been married for several years?” Judith nodded. “Over twelve years,” Micki said. “They split about three years ago. A year or so later, after the divorce was final, Sally married Manny Quinn.”
“Do you have any concrete evidence that someone’s trying to frame Freddy?” Judith inquired, a quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand telling her that it was almost six-thirty. Joe should be back in the room any minute. “Who do you think it is? The real killer?”
Micki shot Judith a patronizing look. “Who else? It has to be Sally’s murderer.” She gave the room another once-over. “You sure you don’t have any booze?”
“Yes.” Judith was growing impatient and a trifle edgy. “Go on, tell me who you think is trying to pin the homicide on Freddy.”
“It’s those damned sabers,” Micki replied, looking surly. “The cops say one of them killed Sally, which points to Freddy because he never allowed anybody to touch them. He’s really superstitious about some of his props.”
Judith frowned. “So you’re saying that someone else used one of the sabers to commit murder?”
“Right. To throw suspicion onto Freddy.”
The rationale seemed overly simplistic to Judith. “How many sabers does Freddy have?” she asked, noting that the digital clock read 6:31.
“Four,” Micki replied. “The pair he uses in the act and a backup pair.”
“Where does he keep them?”
“In a case downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Judith was puzzled.
“Yes,” Micki explained, “there’s a big area down there for all sorts of props.”
Judith looked at Micki earnestly. “Are the sabers that aren’t being used locked up?”
“No. I mean, everybody knows how Freddy feels about them,” Micki replied. “They wouldn’t dare touch them, not even Sally.”
But one of the sabers had touched Sally, Judith thought to herself, and in a most lethal kind of way. “Who do you think did it?”
Micki leaned forward in the chair. “If I tell you, will you keep it to yourself?”
“Of course.”
For several seconds, Judith felt she was under intense scrutiny.
“Okay,” Micki said at last, “it’s pretty obvious to me who wanted Sally dead. The killer has to be—”
Like a bad movie, the door opened and Joe breezed in. “Hey, Jude-girl, I got held up by—” He stopped halfway into the room, his eyes fixed on Micki. “What’s going on?
”
Micki got out of the chair and started for the door. “I just stopped by to talk,” she said to Joe. “I’ll catch you later, Mrs. F.”
Joe watched Micki depart. “What was that all about?”
Judith swiftly considered her options. Discretion, she decided, would be best. “Micki’s upset about the murder. She wanted to talk to someone. Someone outside the act, that is. What’s going on with the investigation?”
“They’re going to get the lab work done by the county,” Joe replied, pulling his lambs wool sweater over his head. “Does the name Abbott N. Costello mean anything to you? It sounds familiar to me. Other than for the obvious reason, of course.”
Joe’s back was turned, which was a good thing since Judith goggled at the mention of her old nemesis’s name. “Sort of,” she hedged. There was no point in reminding Joe that TV cameras had captured the conclusion of the drama at the cabin. Joe had seen it on the news and had not been pleased to discover that his wife had gotten herself involved in another dangerous homicide investigation. “We’re supposed to meet Bill and Renie in the coffee shop about now.”
“I won’t be long,” Joe called over his shoulder as he headed into the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and change. It’s been a long day. Go ahead, I’ll see you down there.”
Judith decided she should change, too, so she waited for Joe. Twenty minutes later, they were seated with Bill and Renie in the busy coffee shop. Having had to wait in line, the Joneses had sat down only a few minutes before the Flynns’ arrival. Consequently, Renie was both hungry and crabby.
“I thought they had trout,” Renie snarled, closing the menu with a loud slap. “Maybe most of us can’t catch any fish around here anymore, but couldn’t the Stillasnowamish use a gill net like the rest of the Native Americans?”
“Maybe there aren’t any trout left even for them,” Joe remarked.
“Phooey,” Renie retorted. “They know these streams. They could find a trout if they wanted to. All I want is one.”
