7th Heaven

by Kate Calloway

  "You ready to make pasta?" I asked. "Or are you just going to stand there with your nose in that glass all night?"

  She took another slow sip, then took an apron from a hook on the wall and slipped it over her head, tying it behind her. "At your service, Madam Pasta Queen. Tell me what to do."

  "Eggs," I said.

  Erica curtsied and opened the refrigerator, producing the egg carton with a flourish.

  "Flour," I said.

  Erica whirled around, doing a rather sexy version of a pirouette, and retrieved the flour bin. "Flour," she repeated, handing it to me. Suddenly she looked stricken. "Oh, my God. I never thought of that."

  "What?"

  "Flour. Maybe he said 'flour.' "

  "Tommy?"

  "I mean, I heard flowers. Or flower. But maybe it was flour."

  "I'm pretty sure it was plural when you first told me," I said, feeling my stomach tighten.

  "Well, maybe I was wrong!"

  Without saying another word, I turned off the burner, put the marinating chicken breasts back in the fridge and raced Erica for the boat.

  At first glance, Tommy's place looked no worse than when Booker and I had left it, which was to say it looked terrible. Pepper complained loudly when we entered and led us directly to the kitchen where her food bowl was nearly empty which surprised me. I'd filled it with enough food for days. A second glance told me the reason — the bowl had been tipped and the crunchies were scattered across the kitchen floor. Maybe someone else had paid a visit after Booker and I left. Had whoever it was also searched through the rubble, looking for something?

  I looked around the kitchen at the newly created mess. The table and chairs had been upended. The drawers were pulled open, and in some cases, their meager contents dumped on the counter. Tommy's kitchen wasn't particularly well-equipped, but it was clear that he did some cooking. He even had an old Betty Crocker cookbook that had been thrown unceremoniously with a few other books on the floor. I held my breath and opened a cupboard, looking for a flour bin. No luck. I opened the pantry cupboard and found, amid the jars of salsa and cans of chili beans, right next to a box of brown sugar, a blue and white sack of flour. My heart skipped a beat.

  Hoping against hope, I dug down into the cool soft fluff and felt around. My fingers brushed against a sharper object and my heart skipped another beat, maybe two. Carefully, I pulled out a small plastic, resealable freezer Baggie. Inside were several photos and an ancient-looking scrap of paper. Quickly, I slid the Baggie into my jacket pocket and headed for the door.

  "Let's get out of here!"

  "I'm bringing Pepper. This place gives me the creeps!" Erica bundled Pepper in her arms and raced out behind me to the Jeep.

  Chapter Eight

  We went to Erica's first to retrieve Tommy's book and she asked me if I minded her packing a few items into an overnight bag. I hadn't actually invited her to stay and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. But I had plenty of extra room and as long as she stayed in the guest bedroom with Pepper, I supposed it was all right. Until we found out who was following her and why, it was probably a good idea for us to lay low.

  I suspected that Panic and Gammon would be less than thrilled to meet Pepper, and I was right. Panic hissed and made herself twice her height, showing off her tail. Gammon took a few sniffs, turned up her nose and stomped off to guard her food dish. For her part, Pepper held her own, showing Panic her own tail and making her orange fluff puff out in all directions. Erica lifted Pepper, cooing softly and carried her into the guest room, losing major points with Panic. While they got settled into their new digs, I comforted both my cats, gave them a few kitty treats, then went out to light the barbecue. As anxious as I was to look at what Tommy had hidden, food and comfort came first.

  Only after the pasta was made and hanging on dowels, the sauce simmering, the artichoke steaming and the coals burning down to a fine white ash did Erica and I sit down with our wine and examine the contents of the Baggie.

  "Recognize this one?" I asked, pointing to the first picture.

  "Buck Bailey's truck," Erica said. "But whose car is this?" she said, picking up the second photograph.

  "No idea. Look. He got a good shot of the plate. I wonder if Tommy found out who it belonged to." The vehicle in question was an older model black Explorer with Oregon plates. The back of Buck's truck was just visible, parked a hundred feet or so up the narrow, rutted dirt road. "Buck might not have even known this car was here," I said, "if they came after he arrived and left before he did. Bart thought Buck was telling the truth. Who knows? Maybe he was."

  "Maybe someone else overheard the old guy in the bar that night and was following Buck?"

  "Maybe." I carefully eased out the last item, a worn and faded piece of brown parchment with jagged edges, torn down the middle.

  Erica opened the book to the page where the old-timer's note had been copied and held Tommy's note up beside it.

  "I'll be damned," she said. Suddenly, the sentences were complete, with a few exceptions where the paper was worn through. What remained was a detailed explanation of where the treasure was hidden. "You think it's real?"

  "Hell, Erica. We don't even know if the one in the book's real. 'Bout-a-mile Bob could've been pulling everyone's leg. Maybe Bart was right and Buck was pulling Tommy's leg. Or like I said earlier, the old man in the bar might have been putting one over on the boys." I picked up the torn parchment and held it to the light. "Maybe we can get this age-tested."

  "It does look like they match pretty well. But if this one's real, what about the bandana Bart saw?"

  I held the two up closer, then started looking at individual letters and the way certain letter-pairs connected. About halfway down the page, I spotted a discrepancy. "See this g? The little fishhook loop at the end? The one in the book isn't like that."

  Erica studied the letters, frowning. "I bet if you checked my writing, you'd find mismatches, too."

  "Here's another one. See how the crossbar on this T is heavier than on the stem? The ones in the book aren't like that. Someone faked this letter, Erica. I'd bet on it. Wait a second, I want to check something out."

  I went into my study and searched the bookshelves until I found what I was looking for.

  "What's that?" she asked when I came back into the room.

  "A manual on handwriting analysis. I used it a couple of years ago when I suspected that a husband had faked his wife's suicide note. It's an inexact science, but some amateur psychologists swear by it and it can be pretty revealing in terms of personality traits. Anyway, I know there's something in here on heavy crossbars." I flipped through the pages until I found the right section. "Here it is," I said. "I knew heavy crossbars were bad news. According to this, whoever forged the note is probably domineering and insensitive. They say a heavy cross bar is a distinctive abnormality and a fairly reliable indicator of an overbearing personality."

  "Sounds like Buck to me."

  "Yeah. But it sure seems like a lot of work for Buck to go to when he's in the middle of hunting for treasure."

  I took a sip of wine, wondering if I should call Booker and ask him to run the plate for me, or whether I should just ask Martha. Booker wasn't the type to hold a grudge, but on the other hand, I'd never seen him so angry, at least not with me. Maybe I should give him a day or two to cool down, I thought. So I called Martha.

  I caught her at the office working late, and when she heard my voice, she became somber.

  "Something happen with Tommy?"

  I assured her he was the same, then told her about the lost treasure and the car Tommy had seen up on Rainbow Ridge. "I was wondering if you'd run the license plate for me?"

  "Hit me," she said.

  I gave her the number, thinking she'd probably just jot it down and get back to me later. To my surprise, she punched in the numbers right then and told me to wait. I could hear her moving around her office, banging file drawers, and I felt guilty for bothering her at work. But when she c
ame back on, she sounded almost cheerful.

  "Well, that was easy. Looks like you're barking up the wrong tree, though. Plate belongs to a cop."

  "You're kidding? Can you tell me who?"

  "Sure. You probably know him. Tom Booker's new deputy, Newt Hancock."

  Erica had started banging pots in the background and I carried the walk-around phone outside but not before Martha heard the clatter. "You got company?"

  "Uh, sort of." I'd skipped the part about Erica Trinidad in my recounting of Tommy's attack, but now I was forced to tell her. As I expected, Martha started to chortle. "What?" I asked.

  "You know damn well what. She doing the dishes, or just rearranging the furniture?"

  "Very funny, Mart. She's here because she thinks someone was following her and after what happened to Tommy, we're being cautious."

  "Uh-huh." I knew that sound. Martha was on the brink of laughter, barely containing her glee. "She gonna spend the night?"

  "Martha!"

  "Well?"

  "If she does," I said, practically whispering as I walked farther out onto the deck, "it will be in the guest room."

  "Uh-huh," she murmured again. "Listen, girlfriend. I really do have to run, but I want to hear every sordid detail, and soon!"

  Somehow, I knew she wasn't talking about what had happened to Tommy. We made a lunch date for Wednesday, then I went inside to tell Erica the news.

  "You won't believe this," I said. "The Explorer belongs to Newt Hancock. You think he was following Buck for some reason?"

  "I don't know. Wish I'd known sooner. I could've asked him today. I think the guy is hitting on me."

  "You saw Hancock again today?"

  "Yeah. He was at the marina when I got back from the hospital. Even walked me down to my boat. He was very solicitous, asking about Tommy and all, but I think he was more interested in me, if you know what I mean."

  I knew exactly what she meant. I'd seen Hancock's bedroom eyes in action myself. Erica's, too, for that matter. Of the two, Hancock's didn't hold a candle.

  We swapped theories and speculations all through dinner and late into the night. Erica kept her promise, doing the dishes and refraining from making any advances. Panic finally couldn't stand it anymore and went to bat paws with Pepper beneath the guest bedroom door. Gammon burrowed herself into my lap, letting me know just who belonged to who. All in all, it was a perfectly lovely evening. I went to bed feeling strangely buoyant, and it had nothing at all to do with the wine.

  Chapter Nine

  Tuesday morning I woke up early, and though the fog still lay curled on the surface of the lake, I could tell that in a few hours it was going to be a gorgeous day. Living in Oregon year-round, I'd gotten used to the nuances that forecast anything other than drizzle.

  Remembering Erica's presence in the other room, I pulled on a seldom used terry robe and headed for the shower. Panic beat me to the door, tripping me all the way. Gammon, good-natured loaf that she was, stayed sprawled on the bed. Just as I reached the bathroom, the door opened and Erica stepped out, stark naked.

  "Oh," I said.

  "Sorry. I thought you were still sleeping," she said, a wry smile on her lips. She made no attempt to cover herself up but moved to the left at the same time I did, then we both dodged to the right in an awkward attempt to let the other pass. Finally Erica laughed and held up both hands in mock surrender. "I'll stay right here. You go first."

  "Thank you," I said, feeling the familiar blush ride up my cheeks. Try as I might, it was impossible to ignore the way Erica's breasts, full and round, seemed to beckon me. My gaze slid down her lean, taut body, settling for a second on the glossy black triangle below her tan line. The moment lasted an eternity and I felt a stirring deep within me, a longing that had never quite gone away. I closed my eyes and stepped around her, shutting the bathroom door behind me. I turned the tap to several degrees cooler than I generally like and stepped into the shower, willing the image of Erica's damp body from my mind, blocking out the lingering hunger I felt in the center of my being.

  To my delight, Erica had coffee and breakfast waiting for me, and neither of us mentioned our encounter in the hallway. Instead, we made our plans for the day, called Bart and were soon roaring across the lake in my Seaswirl. We were wearing our hiking gear and carrying backpacks loaded with binoculars and other assorted necessities, including my Colt forty-five.

  Bart answered the door dressed and ready to go. He'd agreed to take the day off from working on big rigs and motor homes, saying that business was slow anyway. His red hair was tied back in a ponytail and the Yankees cap he wore with the bill facing backwards made him look like a high-school kid. It was amazing how just by shaving his head and piercing a few facial features, Buck had lost all the innocent youth that Bart projected. It was more than the way they looked, though. The differences ran deep and were reflected in their eyes. Bart had the keen, trusting eyes of a playful puppy, whereas Buck's seemed more like a Rottweiler's. But remembering the photo in Buck's drawer, I knew it hadn't always been that way.

  "He may not be up there, you know," Bart said, climbing into the back of my Jeep Cherokee. "I haven't seen him since yesterday morning, when he was passed out on the sofa, but that doesn't mean he's camped out up there. He could be at a girl's house." Bart's voice held no conviction.

  "When the police find out it was Buck who trashed Tommy's place, you think they're going to believe he didn't have something to do with attacking him? It's better for Buck if we do find him first." We'd already been over this, but Bart still had misgivings about leading us to his brother. I could tell he was torn. Part of him wanted to know the truth. The other part wanted to protect his brother at all costs. From what he'd told me of his past, I knew this was a familiar pattern. Bart had probably spent his childhood covering for Buck's exploits, often as not taking the fall himself. I wasn't positive, but I had the feeling Bart was getting tired of his role in the relationship.

  Once outside of town, we headed northeast on an old logging road that was badly rutted and barely passable due to the encroachment of wild blackberry bushes along both sides. The road twisted and turned through the new-growth forest as we climbed steadily, leaving Cedar Hills and Rainbow Lake far below us.

  "You can see the ocean from up here pretty soon," Bart volunteered from the back seat. "Just look back over your shoulder when you get to a clearing. It's pretty awesome."

  "Uh, this road doesn't get any narrower, does it?" Erica asked, leaning out the passenger window. "We're pretty close to the edge."

  "If Hancock's Explorer made it up here, we can. Bart, how well do you and Buck know Newt Hancock?"

  "The sheriff's deputy? Just seen him around a few times, is all."

  "Well, the car Tommy saw up here was his."

  "Really? How do you know?"

  "We found the pictures Tommy took. He was telling the truth. There was another car up there with Buck's truck and it belonged to Hancock."

  "What about the note? Did you find that too?"

  Erica and I had discussed whether or not to tell Bart the truth. Erica thought we should keep the note a secret for now, but for some reason, I trusted Bart. I glanced at Erica and she shrugged. I told him what we'd found.

  "You don't think it's real, then?" He sounded both disappointed and relieved. If the note was phony, maybe Buck had been playing a prank after all. But I was beginning to have my doubts about whether Buck would do that.

  "Okay, turn right up here," he said. "This is where the road gets kinda tricky."

  "Oh, good," Erica said. By the way her nose was glued to the window, her gaze locked on the ever-increasing distance between us and the forest floor below, I could tell she wasn't enjoying the drive much. As promised, the road became increasingly tricky, and soon we were crawling along at a snail's pace, the tires grinding in the potholes, churning to keep purchase as we climbed. I was beginning to think we'd gone as far as we could when suddenly we crested a hill and came to an abrupt h
alt. Buck's green pickup was parked fifty feet ahead.

  "He's up here," Bart said unnecessarily. "If you want, we can just wait here until he comes back to the truck. He will eventually." It didn't sound like waiting around appealed to Bart any more than it did me.

  "Is this the end of the road?"

  "Nah, it goes on a long way, but it's not too good for cars, even with four-wheel drive. It's better to walk in from here. But if he's off the road a ways, we could walk right past him and not even know it. The best way is to hike up to one of the ledges and look for him through the binoculars." Bart had described the ledges, granite platforms rising above the ridge that defined the north side of the forest. From a ledge, we could see everything, he promised, including the ocean to the west. "The only problem is, it's kinda tricky gettin' there."

  "Oh, good," Erica said. "Another tricky part. It can't be any worse than getting up here. Let's go for it."

  That's what I liked about Erica. Always game for adventure, even when scared witless. I remembered, somewhat belatedly, that Erica was afraid of heights.

  "You sure you wouldn't rather wait here?" I asked.

  She rolled her eyes at me and hitched up her backpack. "Just lead the way."

  And so we took off up a barely discernible trail used more by wild animals than humans. With Bart leading and Erica bringing up the rear, we climbed the steep and winding trail.

  By the time we reached the first ledge, we were climbing on all fours, barely able to pull ourselves up. All three of us were panting, and sweat rolled off our faces.

  "This should do it," Bart said, scrambling onto the granite ledge that jutted out over the forest floor hundreds of feet below. The ledge was four or five feet wide and ten times as long. It was the first of many such outcroppings, and from a distance they resembled stepping stones for giants. The three of us collapsed on the cool hard rock and slipped off our backpacks. Erica dug in hers for water and passed out the plastic bottles. Bart squirted his over his head, then drank thirstily. Never one to eschew a good idea when I see one, I followed suit.