Tahoe Deathfall

by Todd Borg

It was a little after 1:00 p.m., plenty of time to drive down to the foothills. Spot and I got in the Jeep and headed west. I got information on my cell phone. The only Ibsen in Placerville was a Mattson Ibsen. Quite a name. I dialed the number.

  “Mattson Ibsen,” an old man said. He sounded like he was gargling.

  “May I speak to Ellie, please?”

  “No Sally here,” he said.

  I thanked him and hung up.

  Highway 50 crawls out of town out toward Mey­ers and Tahoe Paradise and then abruptly climbs up the granite ridge of the Sierra Crest. The pass called Echo Summit is one of the snowiest places on the continent and is often caked in snow eight months of the year. This May was no exception. As I rose up from the Tahoe Basin the snow banks grew by the guardrails that keep wayward vehicles from plunging down to Christmas Valley. The forest air rushing in Spot’s open window was humid and cold.

  I crested the pass and began the long descent toward California’s Central Valley, 80 miles and 80 min­utes and 7400 vertical feet from snow to palm trees.

  I wound down the American River canyon. To my left was the gush of rapids that delights rafters and hydrol­ogists alike. Above me a Mooney airplane did aerobatic turns as it flew through the canyon. It reminded me of my days off in the Bay Area when I used to take my old girl­friend Hannah out to Lindberg Field, rent a Cessna and fly up through the mountains of Napa. But that was another era, before I met Street.

  As I lost altitude, the forest of fir and pines gradu­ally gave way to oaks. The temperature rose steadily. When I arrived in Placerville, I was sweating in the hot sun. I gave in, rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning. Spot seemed grateful for the return of cool air. He stretched out across the back seat and went to sleep.

  In front of one of the town shopping strips was a pay phone with a book hanging on the cable. I got out and checked in the Yellow Pages.

  Under ‘Dogs’ were Food, Grooming, Kennels, Pet Sitting, and Training. There was no mention of Search and Rescue or the name Ellie Ibsen. I dialed one of the list­ings under Training.

  “Foothills Obedience.” A male drawl that could have come from Texas.

  “A quick question, please. I’m looking for a dog trainer named Ellie Ibsen. Trains search and rescue dogs. Supposed to live around Placerville. I need to talk to her.”

  “She does live here. But she’s a private trainer. Got an unlisted number. Now, if you want a rescue pup, I’d recommend you come out and talk to us. We’re west of...”

  “Excuse me. I’m just looking for Ellie Ibsen. If you could tell me where she lives?”

  “What is it, an avalanche dog you want? You call­ing from one of the ski areas? We can help you with that, too. Ellie isn’t the only master trainer in the Sierra.”

  “Sir, I’m investigating a potential homicide. One of Ellie’s dogs found the body. I need to talk to her.”

  “Well why didn’t you say so. You head north on forty-nine, you know, out where they discovered gold? Go five or six minutes until you come to a right turn called Winding Way which’ll take you down toward the American River. Look for the Three Bar Ranch. It’s got a big timber arch over the drive. That’ll be Ellie’s.”

  I thanked him and got back in the Jeep. Spot opened his eyes a crack, then went back to sleep.

  The Three Bar Ranch didn’t look like it would have any ranch animals on it. There were no fences and no barns and no crushed rock on the driveway. Instead, an immaculate blacktop drive with fresh seal-coating led to a large white rambler with light gray trim and a red enamel front door. I parked in front under the shade of a large oak and rolled the windows down.

  “Stay put,” I said to Spot. The big red door had a button to the side. Chimes sounded from within. A tall, gangly woman in her fifties answered the door.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Ellie Ibsen?”

  “She’s out back. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Owen McKenna. I have a question about one of her dogs.”

  The woman picked up a portable phone, dialed. “A Mr. Owen McKenna is here to see you. Says it’s a ques­tion about one of the dogs. Okay, I’ll send him back.” She put the phone down. “Just go around that way.” She pointed out the door to the right. Her eyes saw my Jeep. “Oh my.” She said, looking at Spot. His head was out the window and he returned her gaze. “Oh my,” she said again. “Anyway, you’ll see the kennels. Mrs. Ibsen is out there.”

  I walked around the house on a bright green lawn that looked more even than Astroturf. There were no weeds. It was freshly mowed and perfectly trimmed where it met the drive and walkways and the house.

  The kennel was a low building, as neat and clean as an outpatient surgical facility. I heard no barking. As I approached, the door opened and a tiny woman eighty-some years old emerged talking excitedly on a cell phone. She stood less than five feet tall and the white smock she was wearing hung down to her knees. Her pants were teal and her white running shoes had teal swooshes. Her hair was up in a lavender scarf and even at a distance she smelled of lilacs.

  “You’re kidding!” she said in a high, clear voice. “A Harl? This man? Here he is.” She folded the phone and slipped it into the pocket of her smock. She squinted her eyes against the sun and looked up at me. “Mr. McKenna? My assistant says you have a large Harlequin Dane in your car. I can’t wait to see.”

  She hurried past me. Upstaged by my dog, I about-faced and walked fast to keep up with her. She rounded the corner of the house and abruptly stopped. “Lordy be, look at the head on that boy! It is a male, correct? It must be. He’s huge.” She started forward again, almost running. “What’s his name?” she called back to me.

  “Spot,” I said. “Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.” It was a line I found myself saying to everyone. But it wouldn’t have made any difference with Ellie for she’d already yanked open the door of the Jeep.

  “Spot, you lovely creature!” she said, holding her arms out to him. “Come out of that car and let me hug you.”

  I thought Spot would sit still. I thought he’d be suspicious of an old woman who didn’t weigh much more than a large bag of dog food. Shows what I know. He jumped out of the car and sat at attention in front of Ellie, his head even with hers. She bent forward and hugged him around his neck. His head went over her shoulder and reached down her back to her waist. He was twice her size.

  She wrenched herself away and looked at him as if he were her long lost son. “Okay, boy! Let me see you run!” Ellie smacked him on his chest. Then she took off in a lopsided run across the yard. Spot loped after her. “Come on, big guy!” Spot galloped past her. Ellie made a tight turn. He followed, circling her while she shouted encouragement. “Lord, look at the conformation on him!” She stopped and turned to me, breathing hard. “You have a beautiful dog, Mr. McKenna.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She reached her hand up and we shook. “My name’s Ellie Ibsen. Pleased to meet you.”

  Spot charged up and did one of his quick stops. Bits of turf flew. He stood next to Ellie, wagging hard. I worried that he might hit her with his tail, an assault which feels akin to being whipped with a garden hose. Again, Ellie showed her mastery of dogs. She sidled up next to him, and lifted her arm so that his neck nestled under her armpit. When he shifted position, so did she, always staying away from the swinging tail. I’d never seen Spot accept someone the way he did this affectionate woman.

  “Mr. McKenna, your dog is well-behaved. You obviously know something about dog training.”

  “For a brief moment I was a canine handler on the S.F.P.D. years ago. But I haven’t put Spot through much rigorous work.”

  Ellie nodded. “I thought so. Now that Spot has entertained me, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m visiting to ask you about a search you were involved in nine years ago.”

  Ellie looked at me intently.

  “I’m a private investigator now. I’ve been hired to look into an accidental death up
at Lake Tahoe. A child named Melissa Salazar fell off the rock slide above Emer­ald Bay. A friend of mine on the police department said it was one of your dogs that found the body.”

  Ellie’s face darkened. “That was so sad. So sad. Come with me.” She started off toward the kennel. Spot heeled perfectly at her side. “We’ll get Spot a friend to play with while you and I talk.” We walked to the kennel. She turned and spoke directly to Spot. “You stay here.”

  She disappeared inside the building. A moment later she emerged with a black German Shepherd heeling at her side. “This is Natasha. Natasha, meet Spot. Now you two go play.”

  Natasha walked forward. Spot stood still. He low­ered his head as she approached, she lifted her head and they touched noses.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s a little stiff at first but...”

  “I know,” Ellie interrupted. “He won’t hurt her.” Ellie took my arm, turned me around and walked with me into the yard. “Now, about the girl. I remember it like yesterday. It was Miss Lizzy that found her. She’s gone now. But she was my best at the time. A lab shepherd mix. So when the police called and said they had a missing child I brought Miss Lizzy and Brandy, my yellow lab. When we got to the top of the rock slide, Brandy wanted to go on up the mountain. I remember how he barked and pulled. Of course he had the child’s scent. The child had been all the way to the summit. But Miss Lizzy would have none of it. She turned off at the rock slide and started climbing down those boulders.”

  Across the lawn raced Ellie’s German Shepherd followed closely by Spot, a sports car being pursued by a Mack truck.

  “I was worried that we’d lose Miss Lizzy. My goodness, it was a drop off. But she picked her way down, jumping from boulder to ledge and so on. She was way down out of sight when she gave the bark that meant she’d found the little girl.” Ellie went silent for a moment. We kept walking, her hand in my arm.

  “Do you recall where Melissa’s body was found?”

  “You mean could I go and show you? No. One of the climbers brought the body up. But I gather it was on a ledge somewhere quite far down the slide.”

  “Do you know who the climber was?”

  She shook her head. “A young man in his early twenties. Blond hair.”

  “Did the climber use the word ‘ledge?’”

  “Yes. Seems the poor thing crawled back under an overhang after she hit.” Ellie’s eyes teared up. “I can’t stand to think of that little girl lying there slowly dying of her injuries.” Ellie turned her eyes up to me. “What if the coyotes had gotten to her? What if she laid there half the night freezing to death?” Ellie’s head shook with a tremor. “Why would she do that, crawl under a ledge? It would only make her harder to find.”

  I took her hands in mine and held them. “Maybe it was cold. Maybe she wanted to get out of the wind.”

  Or, I thought, maybe she was hiding from a killer.

  FIVE