“Certainly,” Imogene said, and smiled at Kate. “How do you like yours, Ms. Shugak?”
“A lot of cream, a little sugar.”
“Coming right up.” She vanished, to reappear shortly with a laden tray. She set it down on Max’s desk and vanished again.
Max’s eyes followed her involuntarily out the door. “Nice woman,” Kate said.
He looked instantly guilty, color climbing from his cheeks all the way up over his liver-spotted pate. “Too young for me,” he said gruffly. “Now quit your yammering and pour me some goddamn coffee.”
Kate did so and sat down again. “How the hell are you, Max? You’re looking pretty good.”
“You look like hell,” he said. “Who’s been using you for target practice?”
A member of the Territorial Police before Alaska became a state, then one of its first Alaska State Troopers, Morris Maxwell’s boast was that he had flown into every town and village in state and territory during his time on the job, and that he had popped more perps than any ten state cops since, too. He was maybe a little younger than Old Sam but not much. The last time Kate had seen him he’d been living at the Pioneer Home and what little getting around he’d been doing had been by wheelchair.
There was no sign of the wheelchair today, just a handsome wooden cane carved from diamond willow, hooked over the edge of the desk within easy reach. He saw Kate’s eyes linger on it and said, “Victoria gave it to me.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “She must be finding you good value.”
“Yeah, well, whatever,” Max said, unused to and clearly uncomfortable with praise of any kind.
He looked healthier, too, more color in his face, more weight on his body, and his clothes were less threadbare, although still casual, jeans, light blue shirt open at the neck under a tweed blazer. They fit, too, Kate thought. The last time he’d been swimming around inside garments that only emphasized his contraction from the world. Now, he looked expanded to fit, clothes and world both. Being needed had amazingly restorative powers. “You’re looking good,” she said again.
His face reddened even more. “Yeah, well, whatever,” he said, this time glaring. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”
She looked wounded. “I can’t drop by to see an old friend?”
He looked at her.
She laughed. “Okay,” she said. “I’m hoping you can talk Victoria into giving me five minutes.”
“Why?”
She met the fierce stare. Ruth, Demetri, the lawyer, Ben, even Johnny—to all these she had told only part of the story. Bobby and Dinah knew all of it up to the time she’d gotten on the plane for Anchorage.
To Max, she told it all, every bit of it: the assaults, the journals, the lawyer, Old Sam’s last note, Mac McCullough, the Hammett manuscript, Jane, the trip to Canyon Hot Springs, the map, Bruce Abbott, the Russian Orthodox priest and the Lady of Kodiak, her interview with Erland, and the resemblance between Erland and Old Sam. “I asked Brendan to ask the warden to toss Erland’s cell,” she said, at the end.
Max grunted. “And?”
“And they found a copy of Old Sam’s obit. Either someone had sent it to him or he’d clipped it out himself. I had it printed in a lot of the local newspapers.”
Max grunted again. “Old bastard sure set something off. Be interesting to know if he meant to.” He cocked a sapient eyebrow. “How do you think Victoria can help you?”
“I don’t know that she can. She’s his sister. Maybe she saw or heard something, maybe she picked up on something he said…” Her voice trailed away at his look. “Yeah, okay, I’m reaching. Max, did you know that their father was killed during a burglary at their house?”
“Emil? Sure.” He shrugged. “Didn’t have nothing to do with her case.”
Kate knew enough to leave that where it lay. Good cops do their best on the job every day. Sometimes their best wasn’t good enough, and it was always easier to agonize over the failures than it was to exult in the successes.
Reading her mind, something else good cops did well, he said, “I wasn’t sure she’d take me on.”
“I was,” Kate said, and she wondered if by working for Victoria Max was doing a job or expiating a sin.
* * *
Victoria Pilz Bannister Muravieff looked thinner and her face had lost its prison pallor. Her hair was thinner, too, probably a result of the chemo. She didn’t volunteer how treatment for her cancer was going and Kate respected her reticence. A firm, dry handshake and Victoria waved her to the chair opposite. There was no warmth in her greeting, and no gratitude in her expression. Kate felt neither surprise nor resentment. Victoria’s daughter had died as a result of Kate’s investigation into Victoria’s thirty-year-old conviction. Her freedom had come at a very high price, and against her express wishes. Kate was a little surprised Victoria had consented to see her at all.
It was a corner office, on the top floor, on the southwest corner, with a commanding view from the Chugach Mountains in the east to Cook Inlet on the west. On a clear day, if you craned your neck a little, you might even be able to see Denali and Foraker. The Last Frontier Bank building was clearly visible, blocky and olive green and taking up as much of its square block as it could and still have a parking lot. “Do you by any chance know the Bells?” Kate said.
Ms. Muravieff followed her glance. “The Last Frontier Bells? Of course.”
Of course. “Would they take a phone call?”
Ms. Muravieff raised an eyebrow. “Of course. What’s this about, Ms. Shugak?” She glanced at her watch.
Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry. “I saw your brother yesterday.”
Ms. Muravieff’s eyes hardened. She looked a little like her brother, which meant that simply by association she also looked a little like Old Sam. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and again Kate wondered how she had not seen it before. It was a truism that most people saw what they expected to see, but she wasn’t most people.
“You saw Erland?” Victoria said.
“My uncle died and left me a bit of a puzzle to solve in his will,” Kate said. “It required a trip to the Last Frontier Bank’s museum. You’re familiar with it?”
Ms. Muravieff made an impatient gesture. “Of course. My family is a patron.”
Naturally. “The curator told me that I was the second person seeking that information this month. The first person was Bruce Abbott. As a patron, I’m sure you’re aware that to use the museum’s collection you must either be a credentialed scholar or be referred. Your brother was Abbott’s reference.” She nodded in the direction of the Last Frontier Bank building. “By way of Lucius Bell.”
Ms. Muravieff’s mouth thinned. “His case is on appeal.”
“I know.”
“My attorneys tell me he has a good chance of getting out.”
“I know that, too.”
“He’ll want control of the company back.” Ms. Muravieff met Kate’s eyes. “Tell me everything so I can fight him.”
Kate looked over at Max, who had been sitting to one side and keeping his mouth shut. “I don’t know what he wants, but it has to do with my uncle’s death,” Kate said, and went on to tell Victoria most of the rest of the story. “I’ve just discovered that your father was killed when he interrupted a burglar,” Kate said.
A shadow crossed Ms. Muravieff’s face. “Yes.”
“And that the burglar was never caught.”
“No.”
“And never identified.”
Ms. Muravieff hesitated.
Kate waited. She could hear Max breathing.
“No,” Ms. Muravieff said, “never identified.”
Kate could feel herself tensing in her chair and forced herself to relax. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Ms. Muravieff shook her head. “Erland said a noise woke him up and he went downstairs. He was the one who found Dad, just as the intruder ran out the door. Erland said he didn’t try to chase him because he could see Dad was ba
dly hurt and he wanted to stay with him.”
Kate thought about that for a while. “What happened then?”
“By then Mom and I were awake and downstairs. My father died. The police came.”
There was something, some hint of reservation in that flat, unemotional voice. “What happened after that?” Kate said.
Victoria sighed. “Erland, young as he was, quit school and went to work in the company. The board of directors and Norman Edgars, the assistant director, pretty much raised him after that. My mother wasn’t much use to either of us, especially after Erland was born. There was some trouble between my parents, I don’t know what.” Her brow creased. “There were times I thought…”
“Thought that Erland had good cause to be grateful to the burglar for killing his father?”
Ms. Muravieff met Kate’s eyes, unflinching. “Yes.”
“Ms. Muravieff,” Kate said, and then stopped, trying to figure out how to word it. But really the other woman had opened the door. “When I met with your brother yesterday, I was struck by the family resemblance.”
“Between us?”
“No, Ms. Muravieff. Between Erland Bannister and my uncle, Old Sam Dementieff.”
The other woman sat transfixed for a full minute, and then she shoved everything on her desk to one side. “You’re going to have to explain that statement.”
Kate did. At the end of it, Muravieff said slowly, “So you think my brother and I did not share the same father?”
“I don’t know. But a DNA test would prove it one way or another.”
She watched as slowly, one infinitesimal bit at a time, a smile spread across Muravieff’s face. “Ms. Shugak, you interest me intensely.”
“I’m glad,” Kate said, and their eyes met in perfect understanding.
“What may I do for you in return?”
“As near as I can tell, my uncle left me something your brother wants, to the extent that he has hired someone to come after it.” She raised a hand. “This is all circumstance and supposition, you understand. I have no proof. But do you have any idea what he might want?”
Muravieff gave a regretful shake of her head. “I do not.”
“Could you call Vitus Bell and ask him if Erland contacted him to vouch for someone to get into the Bell museum?”
Victoria pressed a button on her phone. “Rhonda, could you get me Vitus Bell, please?”
A moment later the phone rang. “Hello, Vitus,” Victoria said. “Thanks very much for returning my call. Where are you?” She listened, and laughed. “Put a hundred on black for me. Quick question. Has Erland contacted you lately to arrange credentials for someone for your museum? I see. Yes, thank you. No, I’m not upset. I understand; you were friends for a long time.” Victoria’s eyes narrowed, and Kate thought that Vitus Bell might want to keep a weather eye on his future, just in case. “Thanks again. Give Sally my love.”
She hung up. “Erland wrote to him two weeks ago, asking for Vitus to give Bruce Abbott a visitor’s pass to the museum.”
Two weeks ago. After Old Sam had died, but before the obituary had come out. “Do you perhaps have a list of what was stolen from your house the night your father died?”
Muravieff looked surprised. “No, I—Well, I don’t know. I’d have to look.”
Max, silent until now, said, “If the items were insured and a claim was filed, there would be a record.”
“Of course,” Muravieff said, nodding. “I’ll have someone look through the records.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Kate said, rising to her feet.
Max used his cane to lever himself to his feet. Kate said, “Max here appears to be doing a good job for you.”
Max had been the investigating officer on Victoria’s case, and the proximate cause of her imprisonment for a crime she did not commit.
“He has cause,” Victoria said, not looking at Max.
Kate wondered again if getting the old man the job had been a blessing or a curse. She thanked Victoria and followed Max back to his office. “Get what you wanted?”
“Mostly,” Kate said. “My credit still good?”
“Depends,” he said. “What do you want now?”
Thirty
Kate and Mutt flew home the next day, leaving a still snowless Anchorage behind, to find that it had snowed another foot in the Park. Everything was frosted like a cupcake, George’s hangar, the post office, the Niniltna Native Association’s headquarters driveway.
It was Tuesday, 10:00 A.M., and Kate went up to the school to tell Johnny she was home and that he could come home that evening, too. He looked glad to see her.
So did Maggie, who was looking a little frazzled. “Have you talked to him?”
No need to ask who “him” was. “A couple of times,” Kate said. She’d tried to call him this morning before she got on the plane. Voice mail.
“He say when he’s coming back?”
“No.” Kate thought of the odyssey Jim had told her about the last time they’d talked. “My guess is it’ll be a few more days.”
Maggie’s groan was heartfelt.
“How’s Auntie Joy?”
“Fine,” Maggie said. “I’ve been checking on her every day, sometimes more than once.”
“She move in with one of the other aunties?”
Maggie shook her head. “She refused to.”
Big surprise. “But she’s okay?”
“Yeah, like I said. I’ve been checking on her every day, and I’ve had everyone else checking on her, too. You frightened the living hell out of me with that phone call, Kate.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie, I—”
“Never mind that. What’s going on?”
“Family stuff,” Kate said. “I haven’t figured it out myself, yet.”
It was as Maggie had said: Auntie Joy was alive and well, and she was adamant about remaining at the cabin. “My home, Katya,” she said, thumping her breast and looking ruffled and indignant. “My things.” She ran a loving hand over a china figure. “I don’t leave.”
Kate thought of Old Sam, two cabins up the river surrounded by books and ammunition. “Is the manuscript safe?”
Auntie Joy nodded at the armoire. Even though Kate now knew it was there, she could not distinguish the edge of the drawer from its corresponding hole. “Not moved since I show you.”
“Good. Pretend like it isn’t even there.”
Auntie Joy gave an elaborate shrug. “What manuscript?”
At Herbie’s, Kate’s snowgo looked like it was in better shape than it had been when she bought it new, and when she took it out for a run it purred like a contented cougar. “You’re a wizard, Herbie,” she said.
Mutt pushed her head under his hand, her tail playing stick to his bibs’ snare. Herbie hadn’t been the object of this much female adoration in some time, and he kicked at the snow with the toe of his boot and knocked 10 percent off the bill. “Fella been asking around about you,” he said, accepting the wad of cash, which even with the discount wasn’t small.
“Really,” Kate said. “Who?”
He shrugged. “Stranger. Bundled up to his eyeballs. My height, maybe my build, moved pretty good.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“What was he driving?”
“Ski-Doo Rev XP,” Herbie said.
Kate whistled. “The new model?”
“Lighter,” he said. “More horsepower. No windshield, though. Might be okay for racing. Wouldn’t like to drive it long distances, myself.”
“Say who he was? What he wanted?”
“Didn’t leave his name. Told him you didn’t live in town. Wanted to know where you lived.”
“Did you tell him?”
Herbie looked at her. There was a faint twinkle in his eye.
“Thanks, Herbie,” Kate said.
There was a high overcast, and the Quilaks stood tall and proud and vicious against a thin line of blue, the edge of an incoming high. Clear weather on the
way, but it would bring cold temperatures with it. Kate let the Arctic Cat take the fifty miles to the homestead in a fast chomp.
The homestead was drifted in, too. Mutt shot from behind Kate as if she’d been launched from Cape Kennedy and vanished into the undergrowth. Minding her manners in Anchorage was always a strain. She was as happy as Kate was to be home.
Johnny had been home to shovel the stairs, although he’d left the thermostat down. Kate cranked it back up, built a fire in the fireplace to hurry up the process, and unpacked, to the sound of one of Johnny’s compilation CDs. Uncle Kracker rocked out of the speakers, followed by the Spin Doctors, Natalie Imbruglia, Michelle Branch, and Bon Jovi, with some Lynyrd Skynyrd and Eric Clapton thrown in for leavening. Johnny was as catholic in his music tastes as Bobby Clark, just a generation later, and had a real future in music piracy.
Kate threw together a batch of bread dough, a wet mix with a lot of yeast that rose in two to five hours and produced a crunchy crust and a chewy crumb. She got a package of caribou steaks out of the freezer and put it in the drainer to thaw. She’d miss Thai Orchid’s fresh spring rolls and the Lucky Wishbone’s Pop All Dark, but what she liked best to eat was food harvested, butchered, and/or cooked by someone she knew, preferably herself. She fiddled around after that, shelving the new books on her to-read shelf, putting a load of clothes in the washer, taking advantage of the cold, clear day to go outside and split some wood. Nesting.
Mutt reappeared, looking very pleased with herself, and followed Kate back inside to flop down on the crumpled quilt in front of the fireplace. Her quilt, her spot on the floor, her fireplace. Kate brewed a pot of coffee, appropriating a lavish portion of Jim’s Tsunami Blend to the purpose. Hell with him. Absentee boyfriend.
She wondered where he was. She wondered if he’d found his aunt yet. She wondered when he’d be coming home.
She wondered if he’d be coming home.
She took her coffee over to the windows, and stood sipping it as she looked east and south, at the line of ragged, rugged mountains that formed the one wall of her world. She fetched the pocket compass clipped to her pack. Canyon Hot Springs was almost due east of the homestead. Ninety degrees and a hundred miles from where she was standing. Fifty from Old Sam’s cabin.
Though Not Dead Page 37
