Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112)

by Simonson, Sheila

  “Speaking.”

  “Ah, Mrs. McLean, this is Charlotte Tichnor. My daughter gave me your number.”

  “How do you do?” Meg’s heartbeat accelerated. She didn’t bother to correct Charlotte’s error.

  “I must apologize, first of all, for not telling you of the compartment in the garage. I suppose every family has its skeletons.”

  But few have resident corpses. Meg said nothing. Her mind was working fast for nine o’clock in the morning. She had been playing solitaire with her computer. She backed out of the game.

  Charlotte sighed. “However, that is water under the bridge. Do you have any idea where Carol is? She has not telephoned me in several days.”

  What can I say to this woman that won’t spook her? “She was staying at the Red Hat Motel. I ate dinner with her.” Lord, when was it? After Brandstetter’s death. Events had been happening so fast, Meg had lost track of time. “Saturday evening.”

  “I keep leaving messages,” Charlotte said plaintively, “but she doesn’t call.”

  “Perhaps I could go over there this morning.”

  “Would you? That’s very kind.”

  “No problem.” Meg picked up her coffee cup left-handed and made for the kitchen. “Ah, I’ve been meaning to write you a note, Mrs. Tichnor. I believe you’ve been a strong supporter of the library for many years.”

  Charlotte made a polite, deprecatory noise.

  “I wanted to thank you for your generous help, and to float an idea past you. From time to time, we set up special exhibits to draw people into the library and give them a taste of culture.” Ew. Meg poured herself a cup of thick black coffee.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering whether you would lend us specimens from one of your fine collections.” The Seattle Times archives had been informative. “The netsuke, perhaps. Not the whole collection, of course. A sampling.”

  Charlotte gave a gentle, patronizing laugh. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid not. I never let the netsuke out of my sight—in a manner of speaking, of course. They’re kept in a room constructed to display them to advantage and to provide maximum security. They’re very valuable. And I only show them to close friends.” Not quite true. She had showed them to the Japanese consul. Hence the news story Meg had dug from the archives.

  “Mmmm.” Meg tried to sound sad but understanding.

  “I’m afraid the facilities at your little library would be inadequate. My insurance—”

  Not so little. Meg gave a mournful sigh. “Perhaps not the netsuke then. What a shame. Does collecting run in the family, Mrs. Tichnor? I know your son, Dr. Ethan, is also a very kind patron of the library.”

  “Ethan?” Charlotte’s laugh tinkled like sleigh bells. “The only thing Ethan and Marilyn collect is music. Jazz,” she added with evident disdain. “And classical, of course. Marilyn is fond of Renaissance consorts. You would hardly want to display a cabinet of discs.”

  Oh, why not, Meg thought, flashing on ancient wind-up phonographs and wax records. Or a jukebox full of 45s. “I know that Carol is an expert on needlework.”

  “White-on-white embroidery.” Apparently Carol’s obsession met with her mother’s approval.

  “Does Vance have a special interest also?”

  “You’ve met my son?” Charlotte’s voice changed.

  “Yes, the evening I dined with Carol. A charming man.”

  “I thought he was at the Oregon coast,” Charlotte interrupted.

  “Handsome blond man, fifty-ish, hearty laugh. He told me about the lodge he’s building on Lake Tyee.”

  “Tyee Lake,” Charlotte corrected, still sharp. “Yes, he’s building a house on the family land.” She didn’t mention the still.

  “I know he collects guns,” Meg interposed, “but guns would hardly be suitable for a library exhibit.” Talk about a security problem. “Perhaps he collects other things as well. Paintings?” Pots, arrowheads, rock art.

  “You’ll have to ask Vance. He has many interests. I wouldn’t call him a collector, however. Vance is a showman. And he has a short attention span.”

  “Oh?”

  “He acquires half a dozen items—first-rate, of course, enough to impress his friends and clients—then turns to something else.” She gave another tinkling laugh. “As a child he collected comic books, if you can imagine it. I soon put an end to that. Vulgar things.”

  “I believe collectors pay quite high prices for early comic books,” Meg ventured.

  “They may. People also watch mud-wrestling. But not people of taste and discernment.”

  “No doubt you’re right.” Meg took a swallow of coffee and made a face.

  “Vance changed his major three times at Santa Barbara. He wanted to be an anthropologist, of all things. I must go, my dear. If you find Carol, please tell her to call me at once. I am concerned about this murder.”

  “Which one?” Meg blurted.

  A silence followed. “There’s been another?”

  Meg explained about Hal Brandstetter. “A neighbor. No doubt you knew him.”

  “I knew the parents to speak to.” Charlotte’s voice dripped icicles. “I don’t remember the son. Good day, Mrs. McLean.” And she hung up.

  Interesting, Meg thought. She poured her coffee down the sink and walked outdoors. It was raining. She looked to be sure that Rob’s pickup was still missing from the usual parking spot on his driveway, then scuttled back to her warm kitchen.

  The least Rob could do was call. She had no idea why he had had to leave so abruptly the evening before, and her curiosity was eating at her. She had his cell phone number, but she hesitated to phone in the middle of what must be a hot investigation. Back to FreeCell. Nine o’clock was way too early to call on Carol Tichnor.

  Once at the computer, however, she found she was too impatient to play Patience. What she needed was a mental workout. She logged onto the Internet, Google search this time. She went back to the Lauder Point website and verified the nature of the collection. Rock art, spear- and arrowheads, querns, button blankets, pineneedle baskets, a carrying board for an infant, a bent-wood box, two elkhide drums, and a lovely knife with an obsidian blade. There was a black-and-white photograph of the knife. The county offered a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to recovery of the stolen goods, not a large reward considering their probable current value.

  Okay, she thought. That’s what we’re searching for. Now let’s have another look at Brandstetter’s bibliography. She thought of it that way, though it was emphatically not Hal’s work. She did a search by subject, and by keywords, one by one, and printed a couple of articles.

  Then she did the search again on Google, limiting the time line to recent articles. That was when she found the odd item on pesticides. In the ‘Forties and ‘Fifties, organic artifacts stored in museums had frequently been dusted with DDT to prevent insect damage. Many of the artifacts had since been repatriated to the appropriate tribes, and authorities were becoming concerned about DDT contamination. They had issued health warnings. Since the article came from the University of Arizona, Meg thought it would be credible, even in a court of law.

  She printed it up, and just for good measure, found another item, an advertisement, that touted an easy method to detect contamination by DDT. It was a long shot. If the loot had been stored improperly for ten years, the odds were that the organic artifacts had been damaged and disposed of. All the same, she picked up the phone and called around until she found a Portland outlet that sold the detection kit.

  The process sounded simple enough, though chemistry was not Meg’s strong point. The shop promised to ship it to her overnight, and her Visa took another hit. Well, she would save the receipt, and the county could reimburse her if anything came of it. She decided to test dirt from the storage compartment. According to the company blurb, the test should not take more than an hour.

  Meanwhile, Carol. Meg called the Red Hat. Carol was still in residence but she didn’t answer the phone. Meg l
eft a message and changed from sweats to resort clothes. Charlotte was probably right to be concerned. It was odd that Carol had not called her mother with news of Brandstetter’s death, especially now that the sheriff’s department was linking the two cases publicly.

  When she got into the Accord, Meg switched on the radio. It was tuned to the NPR station, which was doing a fund-raiser at boring length, so she fiddled with the dial. The local country station came in loud and clear.

  The windshield wipers swished in time to a Bonnie Raitt ballad. So what was she going to say to Carol apart from Call Mama? Though she felt some pity for Carol with such a mother, Meg’s dislike had grown in the intervening time. Carol was not an appealing human being, and her interests seemed entirely self-focused. Okay, she was from Seattle. How about them Mariners?

  The news came on. A dead man had been found at the River Road Campground. “Sheriff McCormick indicated that the victim, William Meek, an apparent suicide, had been a prime suspect in the murder of Commissioner Harold Brandstetter. A warrant had also been sworn out for his arrest in the drive-by shooting in Klalo on Sunday.”

  The Accord swerved and Meg clutched the wheel. The language of the news report was hedged with “allegedly” and “probably,” but it was clear that Rob’s boss believed the Meek suicide was the answer to Latouche County’s crime wave, including the murder of Edward Redfern. She wondered whether Rob agreed.

  The news story said nothing of the Lauder Point theft, and the announcer went on to a salmon-fishing controversy followed by three commercials in rapid succession. The weather forecast was melancholy. As Meg pulled into the Red Hat parking lot, the D.J. was already leading up to Charley Pride. She switched the engine off and sat for a minute or two, thinking about William Meek’s death and its implications with regard to the missing artifacts.

  She didn’t get very far. The DDT business still interested her. She guessed it would interest Rob, too, even now. The apparent resolution of the Brandstetter murder would take some of the media pressure off the sheriff’s department. Maybe Rob would have time off. That was a good thought.

  At the desk, Meg asked for Carol Tichnor. No answer from Carol’s room. Meg had turned away and was heading toward the exit when Carol walked out of the corridor that led from the restaurant.

  Meg hailed her.

  Carol stared as if to say who is this woman. “Uh, hello.”

  “I came to let you know your mother wants you to call her. She telephoned me at home.”

  Carol’s face went still as a mask. After a blank moment, she said, “Thanks. I will. Nice to see you again.”

  “I hope your brother’s well. Your mother thought he was at the coast.”

  “And you told her otherwise?” Carol bit her lip.

  Meg widened her eyes. “I had no idea his presence in Klalo was a secret. Is he staying here, too?”

  Carol shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since Saturday. See you, Meg.” And she whisked off through a door labeled ROOMS 101-129 / POOL / LAUNDRY.

  By the time Meg got back to the Accord, her hair was soaked. Dolly Parton was singing about a letter written on a blue piece of paper. Dolly sounded down.

  ROB was sitting in his office in the courthouse annex, yawning over paperwork, when Moira Tichnor called him.

  She identified herself as Vance Tichnor’s wife, and Rob went blank. His hands scrabbled through the papers on the desk surface. He had questions for this woman, but what were they? He’d had two hours of sleep and his head felt like wet pumice.

  “Uh, thanks for calling, Mrs. Tichnor.”

  “My pleasure.” She had a sultry voice. “Are you the dishy detective I saw on television the other night?”

  Rob’s sense of humor stirred to life. “Sorry, no. You’re thinking of my sergeant, Earl Minetti. I’ll pass the compliment on to him.” Take that, Earl.

  She gurgled. “By all means. What can I do for you?”

  “I had a couple of questions for you in connection with the murder of Edward Redfern.”

  “That’s the Indian boy who was found in the garage? I really don’t know anything about it, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Mrs. Tichnor.” He pulled a scribbled sheet of paper toward him and squinted at it. Bifocal time. “First of all, can you confirm that your husband was at home Friday evening? From seven p.m. Friday until seven Saturday morning.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure he was. I went to the opera with a dear friend from Mills. Lovely production. We had a few drinks afterwards at the Benson. It was late when I got home, so I tiptoed in like a good mouse and went straight to bed. Sleepy time. I didn’t wake up until ten-thirty or eleven Saturday.”

  “And you and your husband don’t share a bedroom?”

  “No. He snores.” She sounded amused. “He has his bedroom. I have mine. Our dressing rooms adjoin. I heard his DVD player still going strong when I came in.”

  “I see.” He held the paper to the light. “Do you know a woman by the name of Phyllis Holton?”

  Silence. At last she said in a taut voice, “Phyllis is one of Vance’s sales staff. A realtor. She’s worked for him for years.”

  Rob digested that.

  “May I ask how her name came up?”

  Rob took a gamble. “Harold Brandstetter called the number frequently in the last month or so. Commissioner Brandstetter was killed early Saturday morning.”

  “The bastard!” Mrs. Tichnor no longer sounded sultry. She was one angry woman.

  Rob said, cautious, “Are you referring to Hal Brandstetter?”

  “That fat idiot? No, you fool, I mean Vance. Brandstetter probably used Phyllis to relay messages to my charming husband. I warned Vance I’d divorce him if he resumed his affair with Phyllis. She was his mistress all through his first marriage, but I don’t stand for that kind of treatment. I value my health. God knows who else she sleeps with. I warned Vance in no uncertain terms, and he promised me he’d break off with her. Well, obviously he didn’t. Tell him from me he can meet my lawyer any time.”

  “Mrs. Tichnor?” She had hung up.

  Rob dialed her number.

  “What?” Moira Tichnor half screamed.

  “Mrs. Tichnor, I’m sorry to upset you, but I’d like to clarify this relationship. Ms. Holton is—”

  “The bitch who is humping my husband.”

  “Do not hang up, ma’am, unless you’d like a lengthy personal visit from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Department.” He could hear her breathing. “Thank you. Now, what can you tell me of your husband’s involvement with Harold Brandstetter?”

  “They were childhood friends.” She sounded sullen but calmer. “Hal was filth, literally greasy. He ran a gas station, of all things.” She gave a short, unamused laugh. “Really, when I married him five years ago, I thought Vance was more fastidious. Silly me.”

  Rob waited.

  “Mostly they went fishing together, male-bonding stuff. Hal bored and disgusted me, and I have nothing in common with little Tammy Faye, or whatever the wife’s name is. When Vance decided to build on the Tyee Lake property, I was afraid he’d tangle himself in deeper with that loser, and that’s what he did. He swore he was just making sure he’d get the necessary building permits from the county, but it was more than that.”

  “More?”

  “It was as if Brandstetter had something on him. We were supposed to go to Salishan Thursday. Vance promised me we’d go, then something came up in Klalo, I assumed a call from Hal or the builders. Vance took off in the Windstar. Just left me a note.”

  “What time did your husband come home?”

  She was still for a moment, then said in a cold, flat voice, “I used my season ticket at the opera Friday night. I don’t know what Vance was doing in your godforsaken county. I wish I’d never heard of Latouche County.”

  “Tell me about Vance’s guns.”

  “Guns? What about them?” She sounded frightened.

  “I understand he’s a collector.”

/>   “Collector? Ha! Vance is a magpie. He has a small gun collection and two vintage cars and a lot of expensive wine. That’s showing off. His knowledge, even of guns, is shallower than a saucer. When we remodeled last year, I made him get rid of most of the junk.”

  “When last year?”

  “Early spring. Vance doesn’t collect. He just uses things to impress people. And sometimes,” she added with great bitterness, “he uses people to impress people. He used me. I see that now.”

  Rob said, “Tell me about the house on Tyee Lake. Have you seen it?”

  She sniffled and gave a watery laugh. “God, yes, in all stages of construction. I told you Vance likes to show off. It’s a big house. Lots of windows and bathrooms.”

  “Which contractor did he use?”

  “Uh, Akers? Yeah, I remember thinking it was a good name for a developer. Acres and acres.”

  Rob drew a long, long breath. All right. “How far along is the project?”

  “They were installing carpets last week.”

  Almost finished. Damnation. He was hoping the lodge was still in the dirt-and-squalor stage. “Mr. Tichnor is not registered at the Red Hat Motel. Could he be staying at his new place?”

  “Probably,” Moira Tichnor said with weary indifference. “Or he may be snuggled up with lovely Phyllis.”

  “Do you know her street address?”

  “Just a minute.”

  He listened to rustling silence. She came back on the line with an address in West Linn. Close to Lake Oswego, lower rents. He thanked her and wound down. She sounded subdued now, anger spent. She was probably calculating marital debits and credits, and trying to decide whether it was time to cash in.

  His cell phone rang. “Neill.”

  “Hello, Rob. It’s Meg.”

  “Jesus, I forgot to call you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I hear you had a suicide to attend to.”

  “Was it on the news?”

  “Radio. Listen, Rob, Charlotte Tichnor called me.” Meg’s voice warmed as she reported her revelations. She was clearly still on Charlotte’s trail, though she had targeted Vance Tichnor as well. Not to mention Carol.