by Diane Weiner
“Sure do.” She poured them each a mug.
“What’s going on? You said you found something important.”
She took the orange cap out of the drawer. “I found this hidden in Travis’s parka. A neighbor said he saw a man with an orange ski cap enter Ellie’s house the night she was killed and he was wearing an orange ski cap. I saw him wearing it earlier that evening, when I first met him.”
“Orange ski caps aren’t exactly one of a kind. Any other evidence he was there that night?”
“Police found a tire track in Ellie’s driveway, this driveway, that matched his truck.”
“So? He could’ve stopped by. They were neighbors.”
“He said he hadn’t seen her that night. And it snowed. Kinda. It was more like freezing rain. Anyhow, the tracks would’ve disappeared had he been there before that time.”
“Anything else?”
“They found his prints in here.”
“But he was her neighbor, so they’d expect to find those.”
“In his medicine cabinet, there’s an old prescription with the name Cameron Stokes. He never mentioned a girlfriend, but he’s very private so it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Anything else?”
She hesitated. “I found two oblong gold pins. Last night Grandpa’s friend told me they give them to the monthly trivia winner at Ralph’s. I don’t know if he plays trivia, but it’s worth checking out.”
“Where’s your laptop? I’ll start by looking for a criminal record as well as a marriage certificate.”
“You can do that?”
“I do it all the time for the good ol’ USA. Let me have that.” He typed and searched.
He’s going to find a wife. Maybe a criminal record, too. I’ll bet Travis is a fugitive. He fled the scene of the crime and started over here in Hudsonville.
“There’s no record of a Travis Jennings. No birth certificate, social security card, driver’s license. Nothing.”
“How can that be?”
“He may be using a false name. What was the name on the medicine bottle?”
“Cameron Stokes.”
He searched again. “There’s a man by that name. Born in Seattle. Around your age.”
“A man?” She was relieved it wasn’t a woman after all who’d be storing her pills in his medicine closet. “Maybe that’s him.”
“I don’t think so. Here’s a death certificate from a little over a year ago.”
“That’s when he moved here—at least that’s what he says. Is there a picture?”
Scott searched some more. “Here’s his driver’s license photo. It looks like him, if you lose the dreads and beard, right?”
“It’s him.” She felt her heart drop to her knees. “But how can he be dead? It’d be one thing if he was assuming this person’s identity, but it’s him and there’s no record of a Travis Jennings. I’m confused.”
“He’s using an alias. Maybe he faked his death. Let’s see.” More clicking and typing. “He died in a car accident. The car burned up. They must have assumed it was him driving.”
“But it wasn’t. Travis has been lying about everything. Why?”
“My guess? He’s a fugitive. Maybe he robbed a bank or jewelry store and made off with the goods. I don’t know.”
Great minds think alike. “Or he committed murder?”
“Let’s check this out.” He typed and clicked, fingers flying over the laptop keyboard.
I once thought I was a good judge of character. Ha. Serves me right for falling for a virtual stranger and trusting him even when the signs were clear.
“Nope, I was wrong. This Cameron Stokes doesn’t have a criminal record.”
“That’s a relief, I guess.”
“Seemed like a nice guy. What possible motive does he have for killing Ellie?” asked Scott.
“They were neighbors. Maybe she figured out who he really was and threatened to blow his cover.”
“If he did something illegal and was hiding under this new identity, it had to be big.”
“Scott, do you think they were romantically involved and had a falling out? I found her earring in his sofa. Maybe that’s why she broke up with Preston Montague.”
“My theory makes more sense. Lots of folks have relationship issues. Most don’t kill over them. But secret criminal activity, even without a prior history…I’ve seen it before.”
“Then let’s figure out what he was hiding. Any ideas?”
Scott typed. “Cameron Stokes was an orthopedic surgeon. Let’s see if there were any lawsuits or accusations against him.” He searched and typed. “His record looks clean. Looks like his patients rated him highly.”
“He gave up a career as an orthopedic surgeon, came here, changed his name, and became a physical therapist. Wouldn’t he have had to prove who he was when he applied at Hudsonville Community?”
“Yeah. I’m a bit stumped on that one. He’d have to have shown qualifications as a physical therapist, medical training, college degrees…”
“Jailyn Peters, one of the other suspects in Ellie’s murder, is an orthopedic surgeon. Could she have helped him fake it? Maybe they knew each other before he moved here.”
“She could have vouched for him, but no hospital is going to hire a doctor or physical therapist without thoroughly checking the credentials. Imagine the lawsuits if they didn’t?”
“Let’s look at what they have in common. Both orthopedic surgeons. Jailyn Peters had connections with Preston Montague—she used to date him. The Montague family practically owns Medivision, the medical device company that supplies the hospital. Maybe they were both investors in the company…”
“But whatever sent him here happened before he arrived. I don’t know. I would say to stay clear of the guy. Don’t put yourself in danger.”
It was hard for her to see Travis as a criminal, a dangerous one at that. A murderer, even. How could my instincts be so terribly off?
“Okay. You keep thinking. I’ll bet he doesn’t even come back here. The way he left it was like he was fleeing the scene. I’m going to go over to the shop and help out. Want to come with me?”
“You know I never liked that oboe making stuff. I’m all thumbs.”
“But, you’re a whiz when it comes to computers. They’re still doing receipts and billing by hand. If you set up some kind of system that’s easy to use, it would make things move much quicker over there.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. I’m in.”
“I’ll drive,” said Sara.
“What’s the story with Grandpa? Mom’s last letter said how bad he’s gotten. She told me it was Alzheimer’s and she was worried they’d have to find a nursing home in the not too distant future.”
“Honestly, I think he’d been on a downhill slide since Grandma died. He was depressed in my not so expert opinion. Ever since he met Gail he’s sharp as a tack. You should see him whiz through making an oboe.”
“He seemed plenty upbeat to me. Good for him. I’m sure Mom and Dad are relieved to see him happy again.”
Sara and Scott arrived at the oboe shop mid-morning.
“Scott, you changed your mind about being interested in the family business? A day late and a dollar short,” said Grandpa.
Bob Baron said, “It’s a little late now, son. It’d take years to train you. Unlike Sara here who hung out with us all the while growing up. She stepped right in and is making oboes like it’s in her blood.”
“Dad, I’m here to help, but not with oboe making. Sara says you’re still doing billing by hand. I can set things up for you that will save you time. I can also help with the web site and mailing list.”
Grandpa said, “Nah. It’ll just be confusing.”
“No, really. Let me give it a try and if you don’t like it, keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
“Dad, it couldn’t hurt,” said Sara. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Okay. Have a stab at it, Scott.” He picked up a
pile of receipts and the billing log and plopped it down on his desk. “You can use the computer. The password is on the sticky note next to it.”
Scott sat down to work.
Grandpa said, “I think we’ve solved my father’s code. I unscrambled the rest of the message and it says ‘a to c.’ I figured, maybe it’s not a numerical value, but a proportion, since oboes are a conical shape. If we use the proportion, A is 440 Hz, C is 526 Hz, and apply it to the numbers he listed on the graph, it makes sense. It looks like it could be a significantly more uniform scale.”
“Let me see.” Sara took the paper. “I think you’ve got it!”
“I took one of the partially finished oboes and started placing and sizing the tone holes using these numbers. I’m going to see how it turns out.”
“Pops has still got it,” said Bob. “If we come up with a better tuned scale, these things will sell like hotcakes. Meanwhile, Sara, let’s keep plugging away on our list. I’ll bet we can be caught up in no time.”
They worked straight through lunch and into the late afternoon. By quitting time, Scott was well into converting the paperwork to computer files, and Grandpa had made a significant dent in the experimental oboe.
“This is really nice,” said Bob. “Our family working together at the business my grandfather started. He’d be proud.”
“Not if we wind up selling to Frazier Woodwinds,” said Grandpa. His eyes twinkled. “But I’ve got a feeling we won’t have to.”
“This calls for a celebration. Want to go out for dinner? My treat.” It’s not in my budget but I’m going to splurge. This can be the key to preserving the family legacy for generations––if Scott and I ever get our acts together and have our own families.
“As much as I love the idea of being treated to dinner by my daughter, Mom’s had stew brewing in the crock pot all day and she’d kill me.”
“Gramps?”
“I’ve got a date with Gail.”
Scott said, “I guess it’s the two of us, but my treat. Pick the place.”
Sara directed Scott to the Greek diner. It was snowing lightly and the twinkling lights on the diner window reflected onto the sidewalk. The waitress seated them at a booth near the door.
Scott said, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed good old American food.”
“Hate to break it you, but this is a Greek diner.”
“I use the term broadly. How’s San Francisco treating you? Felt any earthquakes yet?”
“Just a couple of tremors, in more ways than one. I’m going to tell you something I recently shared with Mom and Dad.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I’ve been having trouble with my hand. My fingers on my left hand shake or clench up and freeze with no rhyme or reason while I’m in the middle of playing. At first I thought I had a touch of tendonitis, or at worst, carpal tunnel.”
“But it isn’t that?”
“No. It’s a condition called focal dystonia. Not common, but more common amongst musicians than in the general population. I took a medical leave. I may have to give up my job.”
“Sis, have you gone to a specialist?”
“I’ve done what I can afford to do. Travis has been helping me with physical therapy exercises and medication but it’s not responding the way we hoped it would.”
“I’ve got friends in the medical field. I’ll see what I can turn up.”
“Thanks, but I may have to accept it and find a new career. Like making oboes.”
“Wouldn’t your hand problem get in the way of that, too?”
“Weirdly, it’s confined to my left hand. The one that’s over taxed when I play.”
“It’s nice you’re helping Dad out, but is that a career?”
“If this new-fangled design catches on it could be. Besides, maybe I’ll settle down, get married, and have a couple of kids. This way we’d have someone to carry on the family legacy.”
“I wasn’t thinking of producing heirs, but I would like to settle down once I leave the army.”
“Are you leaning toward retiring?”
“I’m undecided. We’ll see how things go over the next few months. What did Mom and Dad say about your leave? I’m sure they’re understanding.”
“Mom’s worried. I think Dad is too but he tries to hide it.”
“Isn’t that what parents do?”
When she pulled into the driveway, Travis’s house was still dark. Once inside, she texted but he didn’t respond. No matter where he is, he could at least answer my text and tell me he’s okay. She tossed the phone on the sofa. Panther meowed at her feet, rubbing against her legs, then paced back and forth to the food bowl.
“You are one smart cat. I’m glad you’re getting your appetite back.” She went to the pantry. “Looks like we’re getting to the bottom of the bag.” She poured the food into the bowl. Something fell into the food bowl. What on Earth? A thumb drive? Is this what Ellie wanted me to keep safe? Is it what she didn’t want ‘them’ to get? She immediately plugged it into her laptop and watched a series of numbers and dates populate the screen. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. There were photos included as well. Are these metal contraptions artificial joints? She called Scott and asked him to come over. She did a bit of research while waiting for him. When she heard a knock, she raced to the door.
“Scott, these look like photos of hip joints. See, I Googled it. Don’t you think that’s what they are?” She showed him the pictures from the thumb drive.
He squinted. “I think so. And are those serial numbers etched in there?”
“Yes. And look. Anecdotal evidence with dates. Patient numbers followed by doctor visits, symptoms, complaints…”
“This is very detailed.”
“Ellie was collecting evidence. Here’s more data. A list of patient numbers and complications. Look. Hair loss, fatigue, even death!”
“Ellie was a whistleblower!” said Scott. “Didn’t you say she had a safe room installed? And a new home security system?”
“Yes. Plus, her co-worker saw her with files and said Ellie told her she felt as though she was being watched. Gail said Ellie kept looking over her shoulder at church.” She gasped. “The boat! Camaya said Ellie needed to borrow her boat for something urgent. She was going to take her car, then changed her mind.”
“Maybe she was delivering those files and knew she was being followed, or that her car was being tracked.”
“Tracked? How?”
“Where’s the car now?”
“In the garage. Why?”
“Show me.”
Sara led him into the garage. “It’s been here since the night I arrived. I’ve driven it a few times. What are you looking for?”
Scott swept his hand methodically under the bumpers and over the tires. “Is there a flashlight in here?”
Sara rummaged through a box of storm supplies. “Here.”
Scott got on the ground and shone the light under the car’s carriage.
“Do you see something? Be careful. What if Travis planted a bomb under there?”
Scott got up and opened his fist. He held a small metal disk. “Not a bomb, but potentially just as dangerous. We use these in the army. It’s a tracking device. Whoever planted this knew every place this car went. If Ellie was suspicious and had evidence to deliver, she wouldn’t have driven this car.”
“She would have…borrowed a boat!”
“That would have been a clever move.”
“Do you have to be in the military to get one of those devices?”
“No. This isn’t military grade. I’ll bet it was purchased on line from one of those spy stores.”
“You mean like a site where you could order a spy camera?”
“Yeah. You can get all that stuff online. Not necessarily good quality, but this tracker appears to be working.” He waved it back and forth. Sara saw a flashing red light when the device moved.
“A witness saw a third boat chasing Ellie’s the nig
ht Hunter’s son died. He was beaten up and denied it afterwards.”
“She must have had enough evidence to sink the company and she had to be stopped.”
“What if Travis moved here to keep an eye on Ellie? You said he was an orthopedic surgeon back in Seattle, right? Was it a coincidence that he happened to rent the house next to hers? What if he participated in the cover-up and knew Ellie was onto it? Medivision is publicly traded. In his position, if he owns shares of stock and refers his patients for surgery, he has the potential to make a killing. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Medivision stopped using the recalled parts.”
“Who says they stopped using those parts? Must have had millions of dollars in inventory just sitting there.”
“Wouldn’t the FDA or some such agency be keeping careful watch?”
“I’m sure the serial numbers could have been changed, or the parts hidden. We’re talking a big company and a lot of money.”
Sara scanned the information on the thumb drive. “Many of these patient complications occurred in surgeries performed after the recall.”
“It’s possible the company hired him to move here and help keep an eye on things at the hospital, or help with the cover-up. And no, I don’t think it was a coincidence that he happened to rent a house right next door to Ellie,” said Scott.
“And I saw him huddled together, talking to Jailyn Peters once at the hospital. His prints were in this––Ellie’s––house. I found one of Ellie’s earrings stuck in Travis’s sofa. There was a second cell phone, his truck tire track in this driveway the night of the murder, and now he’s disappeared. I’ve been so stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t see this.”
“He’s a charmer. Picked that up right away first time I met him. You can’t blame yourself. The police haven’t caught on to him and they’re the professionals.”
In actuality, I think Phil had his suspicions. “Now the witness and the orange ski cap! Let’s call the police. And wait.”
“What?”
“When Preston died, he was clutching a gold pin. At the party, I found out there’s a trivia contest at Ralph’s every week and the winner gets the gold pin. Whoever killed him must have been at the contest.”
