Grave Danger

by Rachel Grant

  The hostess gave Libby a menu, but not Jason, and immediately poured him a sample from a bottle of red wine that was waiting on the table. As a show of status, it was a bit heavy handed, and she wondered if it was done at Jason’s request or if the hostess was trying to curry favor.

  Jason took a sip and nodded to the hostess, who then filled his glass. “Wine, Libby, or would you prefer something else?” he asked.

  She agreed to wine, simply to speed the hostess’ departure. When they were alone, she took a deep breath and said, “I have a question for you about the scare I had at the site on Friday and related legal issues.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  She told him about her Suburban being stolen, and then her suspicion that someone threatened her from the blackberries. She sipped her wine and then broached the first topic she wanted his opinion on. “I called the police for help, but my report wasn’t taken seriously. Then I became the focus of the investigation.”

  “Not taking the victim seriously happens all the time for minor offenses, and from what you’ve described, I hate to say it, but Mark’s reaction is understandable. He came on pretty strong on Friday, though.”

  She frowned and reluctantly told him what happened with Aaron Brady three years ago. Her only solace was his expression, which remained sympathetic.

  Jason remained quiet for several seconds after she finished, but methodically buttered a slice of bread and then set it on his plate without taking a bite. “I would look at Mark’s investigation in a few different ways, Libby. First of all, after your truck was found, it would have been reasonable, given the circumstances, for him to drop the whole thing. The fact that he continued investigating and found out about the Anti-Harassment Order is promising. It means he took you seriously that night. And yesterday, based on what I saw, he seemed to be coming around to your point of view. Not so much the day before…but in light of the story you just told me, my showing up at the door probably didn’t help your case.”

  She smiled wryly. “That’s an understatement.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Jason continued. “He does have to investigate all possibilities—including you.”

  “He said as much to me.”

  “As far as any implied threat goes, outside of protective custody, there’s not much the police can do, except add you to the patrol route. Tell you what, if the focus of the investigation remains on you, I want to know. I have influence with the review board.”

  “I don’t want you to intercede on my behalf. I just want to salvage my credibility.”

  “Don’t stress about that. Some cops would investigate Mother Theresa.”

  She laughed. “I’m in good company, then.”

  The waiter arrived and took their orders. After he left, Jason said, “So, have you found anything interesting in my mother’s research?”

  “I found some of your old report cards and school papers. You really should have studied your spelling lists.”

  “Hard to believe I became a lawyer.” He smiled. “But I was only nine when I packed those boxes. You can’t judge me by the contents too much. I found my focus in school later.”

  His words brought her up short. “You packed the boxes?”

  “It was a few months after my mother disappeared. I had waited in the front window every day—before school, after school, weekends—certain she’d come back. When she didn’t, I got mad and gathered up all her things and dumped them in those boxes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jason.”

  “Someone had to do it and Jack was…busy.”

  Her own father was no model parent, repeatedly abandoning her brother and sister and her to their increasingly bitter mother. She understood all too well what it was like for a child to be left with one negligent parent.

  “When my mom’s car was found, all fingerprints, even her own, had been wiped clean. The police found it suspicious, but that information wasn’t shared with me until I was old enough to ask the right questions. Even now I find myself believing she’ll come back. It’s difficult not knowing what happened.” He sipped his wine and was quiet for a few seconds and then his look changed and he said, “So, now you’ll be finishing her work.”

  “I can’t do that. Your mother was an ethnographer, I’m an archaeologist.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Your mother studied living culture. I dig up the remains of past cultures. We’re both anthropologists, but we collect information in different ways. There’s some overlap in our areas of expertise, but another ethnographer would be more suited to write the report Rosalie wants.”

  Jason looked at her speculatively. “Interesting.” He paused. “I have a confession to make. I didn’t really ask you to lunch to talk about my mother.” He reached out and covered her hand with his, his fingers trapping hers in the intimate hold.

  Crap. Her entire body stiffened. She fought the instinct to snatch her hand away.

  “I invited you here so we could talk about the report.”

  His words, so incongruous to his actions and so unexpected, made her blank on a response.

  “I’m very concerned about the historic background you’re writing. Frankly, I don’t want you to write it at all, but if you do, then you must only include sustainable facts.” His grip on her hand tightened, but his expression remained friendly.

  “What do you mean you don’t want me to write it? You’ve been helping me.”

  “I read the new research questions you submitted to Jack on Friday. I want you to drop most, if not all of them, but without killing Jack’s permit application.”

  “I can’t. I consulted both Rosalie and Jack on the research questions. The Corps approved them and have made them part of the scope of work.”

  “Then I need you to stall producing the report for as long as possible.”

  “My deadline is firm. Believe me, I want more time.”

  “Damn. I’d hoped this wouldn’t be necessary, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. I’m giving you fair warning, Libby, you need to be very careful of what you put in writing.” He looked at her steadily, leaving her no doubt he was serious. “Destroying the reputation of my great-grandfather will get you sued for libel.”

  She pulled her hand away. He’d said it was a warning, but it felt more like a threat. Hysterical laugher threatened. And Simone thought Jason was attracted to her. “Lyle Montgomery’s reputation is already pond scum.”

  “But my grandfather’s bigotry and misconduct have never been documented in a public report. TL&L has an important business deal in the works. Whatever you put in print, you’d better be able to back up. No conjecture. No suppositions.”

  She knew from his firm voice and clear gaze that the full power of his Seattle law firm stood behind his words. “I understand.” Libby sipped her wine without tasting it. She’d been given a very fine line in which to draft her report. If she pleased Rosalie, she ran the risk of a lawsuit, because most of Lyle’s worst deeds were based on hearsay. The beating death of the union man in 1939 was out, as were several other crimes attributed to him. “Your restrictions could limit the report to the extent that the Corps won’t issue the permit. Is that what you want?”

  “Absolutely not. Listen, Libby, I’m in the same bind you are.” His voice and eyes softened. “I want the Center built. But your report can’t compromise my family and the business. I convinced my great-aunt and uncles to let you interview them. I’ve given you the boxes that contain my mother’s research. Now I expect you to help me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A TAP ON MARK’S OFFICE DOOR interrupted his concentration. Officer Luke Roth entered the room and sat. “Thanks for taking the suspicious circumstances call for me Friday night, Chief. Isn’t Libby Maitland the same nutjob who reported her car stolen Thursday?”

  “She reported her car stolen.”

  “So, what did she want on Friday? Did she think the people on TV were watching her
?”

  “She’s not one of those. I’ve made some calls to Seattle, and I don’t think she’s a crank.” Mark sat up and riffled through his papers to find the list he’d made earlier. He found it and said, “I want you to check alibis on a few people.” He handed Luke the paper. “If someone’s messing with her, they might be doing it because of the Cultural Center. They could have targeted Libby as a way to stop the project.”

  Luke scanned the list of names. He looked up. “What’s Jason Caruthers doing on this list?”

  “A hunch,” Mark said.

  “Everyone in Coho likes him. They think he’s some sort of golden boy, but if you ask me, he’s just a throwback to the old man. Jason’s the new Lyle in town.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Luke shrugged. “Lyle bullied people. Jason out-smarts them. Different methods, same result. Jason closed the mill and fired more people than Lyle ever did, yet he convinced everyone that shutting down was in their best interests. Half the old mill employees thank him for ‘looking out for them.’ What a load of bull. Jason Caruthers only knows how to look out for himself.”

  “Don’t bring anything personal into this investigation, Luke. It’s just a simple inquiry as to where people were at the times in question.” He’d cautioned himself in the same way when he added Jason’s name to the list.

  Luckily, his phone rang and he waved Luke out of the room and took the call.

  “I owe you a beer. Make that a case of beer,” Bobby said. “I’m sitting in the bar last night, bored as hell and waiting to see if Brady will show up, when this tiny little blonde with the most amazing rack walks in. Next thing I know, she’s arguing with our boy, giving me the perfect excuse to talk to her.”

  “Please tell me you questioned her before you hit on her.”

  “Hey, man, I’m a professional.”

  Mark laughed. “Yeah. Right. What’d you find out?”

  “She’s friends with Maitland. She was checking up on Brady, because for some reason she didn’t think you would. I got an earful on the evils of Officer Brady, but more important, the woman seemed credible.”

  “Which part of your anatomy finds her credible?”

  “My gut says she’s telling the truth.”

  “You sure? Because your dick doesn’t have the best track record.”

  “And yours is so much smarter.”

  “I just don’t let mine make decisions for me.”

  “Yeah, right. Listen, after I walked Simone to her car, I went back in and observed Brady. My take—he’s an asshole who uses his badge to wield power over anyone he perceives as weaker. Probably stunned the hell out of him when Maitland reported him. Didn’t you say he had her trapped financially?”

  “His brother was her client.”

  “Sounds like his style. I don’t know if Brady is stalking Maitland again or not but it wouldn’t be out of character from what I saw.”

  They talked for a minute more and then Mark ended the conversation. He sat in his quiet office, thinking about Libby Maitland. She wasn’t paranoid, a groupie, or a flake. It sounded as if she’d had real reason to fear Aaron Brady in the past. Her belief someone put a nail in her tire and hid in the blackberries to scare her seemed plausible now.

  THE BEAUTIFUL OLD VICTORIAN MANSION sat high on the hill on the edge of the historic district and loomed over the town and mill properties. The residence had been known as Thorpe House until 1940, when Lyle Montgomery fired two mill workers for using that name in front of him. Forever afterward, the house was called Montgomery Mansion.

  Back then, the company provided nearly all employee housing. TL&L owned the company store, the gas station, the hotel, the church; even the United States Postal Service paid rent to TL&L to have an office within the town. The only building in the area not owned by the company was the Masonic Hall, and the fired workers and their families had to stay in the Hall until they could find a way to leave Coho forever.

  The mansion sat in a park-like setting, with huge old oak trees and a manicured lawn. The Queen Anne-style house had a complicated, asymmetrical shape, which included a wide porch next to a rounded tower on the east-facing front of the house. Decorative shingles adorned the upper floors and stained glass sparkled in the smaller side windows. Carved moldings adorned every window frame and most joints. The ornamental balusters that supported the porch railing were a work of art in their own right.

  From the first time Libby had driven through Coho, she’d wanted to enter this house. Architecturally, it was superb. Built in 1885 after the first Thorpe House burned down, it wasn’t the oldest structure in Coho, but it was the most gorgeous. As Libby and Jason stepped onto the porch, she was saddened such a beautiful old structure had a long history of needless cruelty.

  Jason opened the front door and she entered a tiny vestibule with a second door inlaid with stained glass. He opened the interior door and she stepped into the entrance hall. A central fireplace with an elaborate mantel sat cold and empty. Arched doorways flanked the fireplace on either side. To the right of the door was the staircase, decorated with ornate railings, which zigzagged to the upper floors. Above the first landing were the round stained-glass windows with a flowery design that glowed with warm shades of red, orange, blue, and purple in the afternoon sun. In spite of the vibrant hues, the entire entry hall seemed cold, forlorn. A letdown.

  The front room was stark. No knickknacks on the mantel, no coatrack, no umbrella stand. Not even a comfy bench to sit on while removing muddy shoes. The room—larger than her bedroom—was a space one passed through on the way to more important things.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” she said to Jason.

  “Aunt Laura says this is the way their father liked it.” He shrugged. “Lyle’s only been dead for twelve years, and Aunt Laura is seventy-eight.” He smiled as though that explained it, and she supposed it did.

  He led her to the sitting room to the left of the foyer. “Wait here. I’ll round them up.” He disappeared through a different doorway leading to the back of the house.

  She wandered around the room, which at least held furniture, and a few items that gave her clues to the occupants of the house. One shelf held an array of artifacts, including arrowheads and other projectile points in identifiable styles. Someone had traveled throughout the Pacific Northwest and into the Great Basin to collect artifacts from different archaeological sites. There were several point styles from Eastern Washington and beyond.

  The artifacts reminded her of her purpose in being here. Rosalie Warren and the Kalahwamish tribe were counting on her to be their voice. She had to give Rosalie the report she wanted without opening herself up to a lawsuit. She’d decided on a course of action. She couldn’t publish conjecture or supposition, but she could publish verbatim transcripts of her interviews with the living members of the Montgomery family. She had to get them to say what she needed.

  She sat on the couch and pulled out her annotated Montgomery family tree, which would help clarify the familial relationships while she conducted the interviews.

  Jason returned with Laura Montgomery in tow. Laura was a whisky-voiced chain-smoker with stooped shoulders and more wrinkles than rayon at the bottom of a laundry basket. She was also the one Libby had pinned most of her hopes on. As the eldest living child of Lyle and Millie, she’d be most likely to have the information needed. The transcript of this interview could become a vital piece of Libby’s report.

  Laura sat in a silk-covered chair with a tiny dog in her arms. The dog glared at Libby for several seconds before settling in its owner’s lap and going to sleep. Libby placed her tape recorder on the coffee table and hit the record button before asking Laura whether she agreed to the taping of the interview.

  “Fine,” Laura said.

  Libby’s eyes flicked to Jason, who sat in a chair behind Laura, facing Libby. His expression remained passive. “And, Ms. Montgomery, will you grant me permission to publish a transcript of this interview
as an appendix to my report?”

  Jason looked as if he wanted to object.

  Libby tried to look ingenuous.

  “Whatever,” Laura said. “I don’t care. I know why you’re here. We know more about what’s going on in this town than Jason gives us credit for. That awful Indian woman, Rosalie Warren, wants you to write a history of Coho that only includes the Indian side of the story. I don’t give a damn about Jack’s permit or his Cultural Center. Why would we want to celebrate the Indians and their backwards practices? Waste of money if you ask me.”

  “I’m here to document the history of Coho, Ms. Montgomery,” Libby said with restrained calm. “And if I only wanted to publish the tribe’s version, I wouldn’t interview you. I understand you managed the hotel for more than fifty years, starting during World War II. Can you tell me about that time?”

  Libby could see the struggle on Laura’s face. Plainly visible was her yearning to share stories of her proudest moments. From her research, Libby already knew about the time the hotel served as a hospital and shelter for passengers of a ship that sank in the Strait of Juan de Fuca in 1949. But her pride warred with her need to snub Rosalie Warren, and therefore, Libby.

  “Girls like me who worked after the war instead of having children were resented for stealing jobs from the men,” Laura began. “I had no choice. Daddy needed me to run the hotel.” The desire to speak had won out. But based on Laura’s expression and tone, she had chosen to make the interview as unpleasant as possible.

  “When your mother died, her children—you—inherited Thorpe Log & Lumber. It was your hotel. Not your father’s. Why did Lyle continue to run the company?” From Laura’s expression, Libby knew she’d made a mistake.

  “It’s so easy for you to sit in judgment of us. You’ve heard some bad things, untrue things, about my daddy, and you want to know why we continued to let him run our company. You don’t know anything about me, about us.” As she spoke, she continued to pet her dog. But she’d become agitated and the dog must have sensed this because it looked again at Libby with belligerent eyes.