by E. R. Torre
“You seem happy to do so with Judith, Sinclair, and Chandler.”
“Everyone knows about them. Proximity to the death made that inevitable. I figure everyone else deserves a bit of space.”
“Very noble of you.”
“The town hates people like me enough as it is.”
“I’m not from here.”
“So you aren’t.”
“And I am curious.”
Karl rubbed his hands together. He couldn’t help himself. Though he was unwilling to give me all his information, he couldn’t help but give a little more. He leaned forward, as if giving away a big secret.
“There are many, many other suspects,” Karl said. “From valets to ex-business partners and agents to, yes, even the butler.”
“Butler?”
Karl nodded and smiled. I couldn’t help but join him.
“Why didn’t you mention him at the start? Everyone knows the butler did it.”
“His name was Otis something or another,” Karl said. “He worked for Robinson for many, many years. One day he falls ill and, just like that, Robinson lets him go. Fires him, actually. Adding insult to injury, the poor guy’s left with a measly pension. I’d say the butler was a prime candidate for murder, only on the day Robinson died Otis was a ripe eighty three years old and practically invalid.”
“You can’t see an octogenarian invalid climbing a mountainous slope to commit a heinous murder?”
“Practically invalid,” Karl corrected me and laughed. I too let out a laugh and felt some of my hostility toward him melt. Perhaps Karl wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
"Fair enough,” I said. “So you’ve got yourself a list of suspects and our possible murder victim was no Snow White.”
“Other than his fame and fortune, he was an ordinary man,” Karl said. “No Agatha Christie type murder victim.”
“Agatha?”
“Oh come on, Mr. Towne, where have you been all these years? Agatha Christie wrote a truck load of murder mysteries. Most of her books featured a victim who was such a rotten bastard that finding someone who didn’t have either the means or a nuclear powered motive to kill him proved just as difficult as finding the actual killer.”
“Who was?”
“Always the person you least expected.”
I thought of Judith and shook my head.
“Anyway, John Robinson screwed over a few people in his lifetime,” Karl continued. “Then again, haven’t we all?”
“Speak for yourself,” I said. “Fine, so tell me how a skiing accident might have been murder."
"Whoa there, cowboy. I'm not entirely convinced it was a murder.”
“Then what—?”
Karl held his hands up.
“Hold on, let me explain,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve given this a plenty of thought. According to my research, some thirty or so people die in skiing accidents each year in the United States. Another forty or so are seriously hurt. You’ve got a mix of amateurs or casual skiers and those more experienced in these statistics and John Robinson, obviously, was in the later group. He was an avid skier but he was also an elderly man whose reactions and skills were likely diminished compared to what he was capable of in his prime. Perhaps he was unable to avoid danger. Perhaps he was scared during that final run. "
"The small avalanche."
Karl's small eyes lit up.
"You know more than you've let on, Mr. Towne."
"What exactly happened?"
Karl reached into his briefcase and pulled out a crudely illustrated diagram.
"This is the slope he used that morning. It’s the same trail you were on. He came to this curve and apparently lost control, skiing forward and eventually impaling himself into this tree."
The diagram displayed a drawing of a skier. A dotted line illustrated the path John Robinson took, up until the tree. There, an "X" was written in black marker.
"Now, it’s conceivable this avalanche scared him into descending too fast. However, other than the fact that it came after his descent—”
“How do you know that?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Karl said. “The avalanche buried most of his tracks on the way to that turn.”
“Oh…of course.”
“Your question is more valid than you know. Though the avalanche came after Robinson’s descent, we don’t know exactly when. It might have happened as he was descending—”
“The panic scenario.”
“—or it could have happened up to an hour or so later but before his body was actually found.”
“You think the avalanche might not have had anything to do with the accident?”
“We have only a rough idea of what time Robinson died: Between six-six thirty and seven in the morning. As I said, we know the avalanche occurred after Robinson’s descent, but it could have happened at any point up to shortly before the body was found at eight forty. Most people think the avalanche and his death are tied together like a one-two punch. After all, what else might force him to hurry his pace down a steep mountain and lose control on a very sharp turn?"
Karl folded his hands over his chest and leaned back in his chair.
“You think otherwise.”
"If we are to go by facts and facts alone, we can only note that an avalanche occurred in and around the time of John Robinson's death. Nothing else."
"Why was he there?"
"That's the million dollar question. What prompts an elderly man to go skiing in subfreezing conditions with poor to mediocre visibility at such an early hour? Some speculate Robinson was engaged in a tryst with a mystery woman. Others think he was meeting a shady business partner, or maybe even a blackmailer. Fun theories, as far as that goes, but they’re all unsupported speculation. Wipe the rumors away and we have the following facts: John Robinson was an avid recreational skier. He was strong for his age and well versed in Viktor's mountain. However, it was customary for him to ski in the afternoon and early evening and no one, and I mean no one, recalls seeing him on the slopes early in the morning. So, why the change in routine?"
A self-satisfied smile appeared on Karl’s face. It fit his face better.
"Of course, the time of death does bring up another interesting angle."
"Which is?"
"None of the suspects had an alibi. They were all in bed, sleeping. Of course, there’s nothing terribly macabre about that particular fact."
"What about the night before?"
"Quiet, as far as I could find. No parties, no get-togethers, no drunken brawls."
I thought about what Karl said. After a few moments I shook my head.
"What you’ve told me is interesting enough,” I said. “But I still don’t get how you suspect foul play. Contrary to what you claim, you think there’s more to Robinson’s death than a simple skiing accident, right?"
Karl nodded.
“So what’s the missing piece?”
"When they found his body, John Robinson was carrying a gun."
We ate our meal in silence. Karl chewed down his food in careful little bites. Despite his unkempt outward appearance, he was a man who did things cleanly and carefully. When he was done eating, there wasn't a crumb on his plate and his napkin was clean.
"Why do you think he took a gun up there?" I finally asked. Twenty minutes had passed since either of us spoke.
Karl sat back and placed his fork and knife next to his plate.
"There's only one reason people, normal people, carry a gun: For protection from threats, either real or imagined. John Robinson was a collector of memorabilia, property, and fine art. In the end he was worth a lot of money and was, incidentally, a well-known celebrity. Those things alone would be good enough reason to desire some kind of protection. But I searched and searched, and, though I was able to verify the gun was indeed his, I couldn't find any evidence that he was in the habit of carrying weapons. I believe John Robinson headed to the mountain early that morning for a very specific reason
. I believe he went there to meet someone. Whoever that person was, he or she was threatening enough to Robinson that he felt the need to carry that gun."
“He was impaled in a tree. No one threw it at him.”
"As I said before, his death may well have been an accident. What has me curious are the events surrounding his death: the hour he died, the weapon he was carrying. Even the avalanche. Taken together, I think they mean something." Karl paused and collected his thoughts. His expression turned very serious. "You asked for my theory, and here it is: John Robinson is summoned to the mountain early in the morning by someone. Their meeting is meant to be private, as at that early hour, Robinson and this other person or persons are the only ones up there. This mystery individual is a threat to John Robinson, therefore he arms himself. They have their discussion, and, afterwards, John Robinson leaves."
"And while skiing down the mountain, an act of nature causes an avalanche which in turn panics John Robinson which in turn causes him to lose control and impale himself into a tree,” I said. “An accident, not murder, regardless of who he met or might have met up there."
"Possibly,” Karl said. “But what if he was hurried? What if he was pursued? What if the avalanche came later, and its purpose was to hide a second set of ski tracks?”
“You’re speculating again.”
“I suppose I am.”
Karl pushed his chair back and rose to leave.
“Regardless, those are the possibilities and I have my ideas,” Karl concluded. “I’ll say this much: I'm close to finding out what really happened up there. It will make a hell of a story."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I left the restaurant ahead of Karl. He walked to the Inn while I walked in the opposite direction, toward the south end of town. A moderate snow was falling and dark clouds rumbled overhead. I took in Viktor’s small shops and snowy streets. It was so tranquil, so inviting. And yet given the conversation I just had, it also appeared to be nothing more than a pretty mask hiding an ugly interior.
I was in the middle of it, walking the landscape as if in a sinister dream. Around me the snowflakes fell, their descent controlled by the winds. In many ways they were like me, at the mercy of things outside their control.
As I moved on, my mind went blank. There was nothing to think about and nothing to ponder. I passed a small drug store without giving it a second thought, but suddenly stopped.
My vision blurred, my head felt light. My knees became weak and rubbery. I reached over and grabbed a blue mailbox. Stars filled my eyes; blood dripped and then gushed from my nose. I freed one arm and reached into my coat. I pulled out a napkin and pressed it against my nose. Below me, the snow remained bright and white, marred only by several droplets of red. I closed my eyes again, tight.
My body shook. I felt as if something floated in front of me, just out of reach. It was warm but it sent chills down my spine. I opened my eyes and a blurry image appeared before me. First a field of white, and then pastels and soft colors. I blinked several times, until the blurs sharpened into clarity. I was still standing in front of the drug store. Displayed prominently over its entrance was its name: “Ned's Pharmacy". Its proprietor, an older man, sat behind the counter. He had two customers in his shop. They stood at the opposite end of the counter.
I swallowed hard.
One of them was a younger John Robinson. The other, whose back was to me, was for the moment unrecognizable. As they talked, they walked closer to the cash registrar. It was at that point that I got a clear look at the man John Robinson was talking to. I recognized him immediately.
Lewis Sinclair.
The Pharmacist turned away from them and reached for an item on a shelf. Sinclair and Robinson continued their conversation. Their faces were dark, their movements abrupt, combative. They were not getting along. Sinclair spoke quickly and used many words, while Robinson’s replies were curt: A "yes," followed by three "no's". He wasn't interested in what Lewis had to say and was looking more and more sullen by the second. And then, suddenly, his face brightened. He looked directly at me.
And waved.
I released the mailbox and collapsed to the floor. How was this possible?
John Robinson continued waving. He walked to the Pharmacy’s front door and opened it. He stared directly at me, and motioned me inside.
“What…?”
Just then, a spectral figure walked right through me. It was a woman dressed in light spring clothing.
Despite the shock and confusion, I quickly understood what was happening. John Robinson didn't wave at me, but at the lady that was standing in this very spot all those years before. Another shiver passed through me as she walked into the drug store. Robinson and the lady talked while Sinclair, alone, held back his anger. He didn’t like to be ignored.
Sinclair angrily shook his head and approached the duo. As he did, my vision blurred and my head went light.
I closed my eyes.
I kept them closed as the dizziness subsided. I could feel my legs again. Everything felt right. When I re-opened my eyes, I was surprised to find an empty lot before me. Three cars, practically buried under the snow, were parked there. The drug store was gone. Long gone.
"Are you O.K.?"
An elderly couple stood next to me. The gentleman held his hand out and I grabbed it and thanked him for helping me to my feet. The lady with him, most likely his wife, looked cautiously over her husband's shoulders. She noted the bloody napkin still in my hand.
"Thanks," I said, feeling the need to explain myself. "I slipped. Must have bumped my nose. It’s no longer bleeding. I'll be fine."
They nodded and smiled and hurried off to the Clement Restaurant. When they were gone, I looked back at the empty lot. I stood there for a long time trying to see a drug store that no longer existed.
Trying to see a person who no longer existed.
After a while, the cold felt like it was seeping deep within my bones. I couldn’t remain any longer. I turned and retraced my steps, heading to the Inn. I needed to get back, but I was exhausted and my side hurt with each step. My breathing became labored to the point where I was forced to stop. Without realizing it, I was running down the street. I gasped for air and felt each breath hit me like a knife twisting in my side. Where was I? On the main street, standing before the shops.
Which were real, and which were fantasy?
Where was I? When was I?
Was reality being replaced with echoes from the past? I let out a laugh. Sure it was. Or maybe I needed a doctor. Not my sister’s quack or the mother/son combination back home or the country doctor of Viktor. A real doctor.
I shivered. Could this get any worse? Sure. I might not be sick at all. At least not physically.
I let out another laugh. Overhead, the skies darkened with the coming of evening. The rumbling of distant thunder urged me on, quickly. I did so, despite the pain.
Viktor's Cinema appeared two blocks away. Even from that distance I could see Judith Robinson sitting behind the ticket counter. She finished skiing with Nick and probably hurried back to attend to the waning film festival.
She was looking at me.
I turned away, embarrassed by thoughts of our previous encounter. I considered turning around, perhaps crossing the street, anything to avoid her. As I approached, I took another quick look in her direction. She was still looking at me.
I worked up a very small smile and tried my best to look as apologetic as possible. I stepped up to the ticket window and figured this would be my last chance to talk to her.
"I'm sorry about yesterday."
Her face was full of concern.
"You feeling OK?"
The question threw me. Did I look that out of it? I took a deep, painful breath and said:
"No, not really. It's been a rough day."
"Nick told me about your accident."
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Yeah, your friend found me on the slopes. I fell."
“He told me you were
very lucky. He said you fell in the same place where my Grandfather did."
The words splashed over me like ice water.
"That's a really sharp turn," she continued.
"Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. And I'm sorry if I've given you the impression I'm somehow looking into your Grandfather's death."
Even as those words left my mouth, I knew they were a lie. Yesterday I wasn't interested in John Robinson's death.
"And you just happened to fall where he did?"
"It was a coincidence. I know it may seem unlikely, but that’s all it was."
There must have been some glimmer of sincerity in what I said, because Judith's reaction was a simple nod. A bit of the coldness in her face seemed to melt, as well.
"It is a sharp turn," she repeated. "That's why it really burns me up when people claim he was killed. Every last one of them should take that turn at the speed he was going and with the visibility he had and see if they can make it."
"That’s for sure."
Judith sat back. Her eyes turned teary as memories of that terrible day washed over her. And here I was, once again bringing the tragedy back.
"Which film are you playing today?" I asked. It was a lame attempt to move away from talk of her Grandfather’s death, but it worked.
"Death Highway,” Judith said. The sadness in her face lessened. “It’s the film he did right after Collision Course. His first big blockbuster. It made him a star. You want to see it?"
I smiled.
"Only if you’ll join me."
She looked around. As was the case the day before, there was no one else waiting to buy a ticket.
"Sure."
It isn't often you get a chance to redeem yourself and I was determined not to mess it up. I acted like a perfect gentleman and escorted Judith Robinson to her seat. We talked about nothing in particular: the town, the slopes, the cool night air -safe topics all- then quieted as the movie started.
The movie was good, although not as good as Collision Course. This despite the fact that in many ways the films were the same. John Robinson played a very similar hard-boiled cop tasked with solving an elaborate heist and murder while the main villain proved to be someone, again, close to him. The similarities didn’t end there.
