From Here to Paternity (8 page)

"Wow!" Mel said, when she reappeared. "You look great!"

"Shelley picked it all out," Jane admitted. "Let's go. Oh, I almost forgot again. I've been carrying around a folder that belongs to one of the genealogy people."

"Why are you carrying it around?"

Jane explained briefly about the genealogy debate and how she'd run into Doris Schmidtheiser and helped pick up her papers, but Doris had fled in mortification before Jane could hand these over. "I just need to drop them off on the way to dinner. I checked on where she's staying and it's on our way. I meant to leave them as I came here, but forgot."

"Okay, but you won't stay and talk, will you? I'm starving."

"Promise."

Jane's sweater/jacket had a hood that looked warmer than it turned out to be. She was stylish, but freezing by the time they got to Doris's cabin. She had tried to ignore the cold by talking a blue streak about Doris, the Holnagrad Society, and Doris's claim that Bill Smith was the rightful Tsar. When they arrived, Jane tapped lightly on the door and it swung open under her touch. Doris must have been so disconcerted when she returned that she hadn't pushed it closed properly.

"Mrs. Schmidtheiser?" Jane called through the open doorway. "Yoo-hoo! Are you home? Mrs. Schmidtheiser?"

There was no answer.

"I'll just put it inside," Jane said. But the moment she stepped inside she knew something was wrong. "Mel," she said softly.

The alarm in her voice brought him instantly to her side.

The cabin was arranged just like Jane's, with an entry hallway that opened onto the living room straight ahead and the kitchen to the left and the bedroom hallway to the right. In front of them, papers were strewn all over the floor.

"Stay here," Mel said sharply.

He went into the living room and Jane, in spite of his orders, followed him.

Doris Schmidtheiser was crumpled on the floor, next to the coffee table. Mel was kneeling beside her, feeling for a pulse. "Janey, you better wait outside."

"I'll freeze out there," Jane said. "Is she dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Heart attack? She took heart pills."

"Probably. I'll call the police, then alert the hotel people about what's happening."

He went to the phone, but pulled out a handkerchief to put in his hand before he picked up the receiver. He dialed 911, spoke briefly, then dialed the hotel operator. "Who's the owner, Jane?" he asked while waiting for the hotel operator to pick up.

"Bill Smith, but I think you probably want to ask for Tenny Garner."

He did, then identified himself and told Tenny that a guest had died and he'd already summoned help.

"Why the handkerchief?" Jane asked after he'd hung up. "If you think it was a heart attack."

"No reason especially. Just habit."

Jane looked at him.

"Well, that and the mess. Whenever you have a death in the midst of this kind of disorder, you have to wonder."

"You think it's murder?"

"No!" he said emphatically. "I don't think any such thing, and don't let your imagination go rocketing off, either. She's an old lady who had a bad afternoon. She had heart troubles and was under a lot of stress at a high altitude. That's it."

"Okay, okay. I was just asking."

Still, she took a quick look around, careful not to touch anything. There was a coffee cup on the low table, nearly empty. Doris was still wearing her outdoor boots, though her coat was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she'd hung it up when she came in. There was a faint odor of overcooked, almost burned coffee in the air, and Jane discovered that the coffee-maker in the kitchen was still on and the coffee had cooked down to a half inch of dregs. She turned it off, fearing nobody else would think of it. Doris's briefcase was upside down on the floor next to her, the papers and folders spread in a messy circle. Jane crept down the hall to the bedroom—this cabin had only one—and it, too, was littered with papers. Several notebooks gaped open, their pages awry as if the contents had been skimmed in a frenzy.

Jane heard a siren and went back to open the front door. A moment later, an ambulance pulled up and medical attendants leaped out and ran in with their equipment. A few seconds behind them was a patrol car. A good ol' boy of a sheriff hoisted himself out of the driver's side, and a rabbity deputy hopped out the other door. The sheriff ignored Jane as he rolled past. "Excuse me, miss," the deputy said.

"Well, are you the fella who called this in?" the sheriff boomed.

"Mel VanDyne. Yes, I placed the call."

"You a relative?"

"No, I've never seen this woman before. But my friend had some papers to return to her. When we got here, the door was open and we found the body."

"Well, now, ain't that convenient."

Uh-oh
, Jane thought.

Mel came into the front hallway. He didn't look pleasant.

"Jane," he said with deadly formality, "I think maybe you better go down to the lodge. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"Mel! Why didn't you tell him you're a detective?" she whispered.

"Because I'm not. Not here and now. I'm on vacation. Go on. I'll be with you shortly."

"Okay. But I'm going to order drinks and appetizers the minute I sit down, so you better hurry."

They had dinner reservations in the more formal restaurant. It was an elegant, dimly lighted, artfully arranged room that overlooked the small lake. From her table next to the windows, Jane could watch the skaters below. The table itself was set with superb pink linens, the best-quality restaurant silverware, and beautiful china with a muted pink-and-gray Oriental floral pattern. Although it seemed late to Jane, her internal clock having been completely undone by her earlier nap, the restaurant was just starting to fill up for the evening.

Jane finished her glass of wine and half the appetizers (bite-sized egg rolls with a spicy crab filling). After a while she finished the rest of the appetizers and drank Mel's wine. Then she ordered coffee and nibbled the Italian parsley that had decorated the appetizer plate. Starving, bored senseless, and bursting with curiosity, she couldn't even tell Shelley what had happened, because this was the night Shelley was being hostess to the investors at a cocktail party and dinner in her and Paul's condo.

She studied the other diners for a long while, but decided she was drawing as much attention as she was giving. One middle-aged man with what he no doubt imagined was an attractive two-day beard stubble and a lot of gold chains winked at her.
My God! He thinks I'm a hooker
! she thought with horror.

She told the waiter she'd be back and ran to the little magazine-and-book shop next to the front desk, then checked on Katie and Denise, who had finally emerged from the swimming pool and, fully dressed, were eating burgers at a table on the pool apron. Back with something to read, she drank another cup of coffee, then visited the rest room for the second time. Just as she was returning to her table, the waiter approached to tell her there was a phone message that said she was to order two dinners and her companion would be with her in a moment.

After studying the menu one last time—she nearly had it memorized—she ordered two of the more interesting entrees on it: elk stew with cattail pollen dumplings for herself, and a buffalo steak with horseradish/rosemary sauce and blue cornmeal dressing for Mel.

Mel managed to arrive before the meal did.

"What took you so long?" Jane asked.

"The local sheriff is an ass!" he said, sitting down heavily. Jane could hear his stomach rumble. "He was all for just carting off the body and letting your pal Tenny Garner send in a maid to clean up the room."

"And you tried to stop him?"

"Of course I did. That's not the way to treat a sudden death."

"I thought you were the one who said there was nothing suspicious about it."

Mel took a deep breath. "I don't know whether I should tell you this or not—"

"You might as well," she said sweetly. "After all, we're both on vacation. It has nothing to do with us."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and thought for a long moment before finally saying, "Did you notice the 'distribution' of all those papers?"

"Yes; they were everywhere."

"No, they weren't."

"Well, I guess there weren't any in the bathroom or the kitchen."

"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about the living room."

Jane closed her eyes, picturing the room where they had found Doris. Papers all over. On the coffee table, the sofa, the floor…

She opened her eyes very wide. "Oh! She wasn't lying on any of them, was she?"

"Bingo."

Their salads arrived. Trendy, rather bitter lettuce with little groupings of berries and slivers of something crunchy like water chestnuts, only pink. Normally Jane would have questioned the waiter about the ingredients, but not tonight. "So you assumed the papers had been flung around after she collapsed."

"It seemed likely. First I suggested that the sheriff have the remains of the coffee in her cup tested, but he said there was no need for that. She was an old lady and just had a heart attack and he, the sheriff, had a houseful of company at home—his in-laws, who were probably drinking all his best beer while he was wasting time, the in-laws being the greedy sort who would do that kind of thing to an absent host. About that time Ms. Garner got there, heard the last of the conversation, went and puttered around the kitchen and said there was another coffee cup missing."

"Ah—so maybe she was having coffee with somebody who took the other cup away. Fingerprints, maybe?"

Mel shrugged. "You never know. So the sheriff— his name is Plunkbucket, by the way—"

"It isn't!"

"No, but it's something like that. He says every time he's ever been up here, people are roaming around the grounds with coffee cups and glasses and things, and Ms. Garner admits that's true and the missing one might just turn up in the spring melt. Apparently all sorts of stuff show up when the snow disappears every spring."

"Didn't you tell him you're a detective?"

"Oh, I did that. And it made the situation about ten times as bad. He resented me enough before that; then, when he found out I was not only a detective, but from Chicago as well, he really got nasty. City slickers trying to tell him how to do his job, et cetera."

"But did he agree to test the coffee left in the cup?"

"Well, yes and no. He's testing it, but only because of my threat to report him to anybody I could find to listen if he didn't."

"You feel that strongly that her death was suspicious?"

"No, I don't. But I was pissed off by then. Some of her genealogy chums had turned up by that time, and they were backing him up like mad that it was just an unfortunate but inevitable result of her bad heart and a disastrous afternoon. They told him all about the debate and how she'd been laughed out of the room. What the hell
is
this stuff I'm eating?"

"I dunno. Fruit of some kind. Don't you like it?"

"It's okay. Just a funny texture. I'm hungry enough I'd probably eat broccoli if somebody put it in front of me."

"How did the sheriff explain the papers thrown all over?"

"Just a fit of pique. He actually used those words, I swear. After hearing of the debate that the genealogy people kept yammering about, he figures she came back, fixed herself a cup of coffee, then got herself all worked up to a temper tantrum and threw her work around. This activity leading, naturally, to a heart attack."

"But, according to that scenario, why weren't there any papers under her body?"

"Coincidence," he said. "And the big slob could be right. I told him so. I kept trying to impress on him that I wasn't claiming there was anything suspicious, just trying to convince him there could have been foul play and if he didn't have the scene examined carefully, he might be sorry later."

"So who won?"

"I guess I did. He didn't want to look too bad in front of all the gawkers who'd already come and pawed around, disturbing any evidence that might have been there originally. So he called in some more deputies and started checking the place out properly. Too late, but better than just slamming the book shut on the woman without a second thought."

"You've done your duty, then."

The waiter took away their salad plates, leaving tiny palate-clearing scoops of lime sorbet, then was back shortly with a mystery soup and some little muffins with bits of leaves cooked in them. Spicy apple butter accompanied the muffins. Jane offered hers to Mel, not mentioning that she'd eaten his appetizers, and he wolfed both muffins down.

"I'll probably find an elk head in my bed tonight," he said around half a muffin.

Mel refused to talk any more about Doris. Instead, they concentrated on their dinners. Mel's buffalo steak turned out to be what Jane called Swiss steak—a pounded, slow-cooked meat. The waiter explained that buffalo, though growing in popularity, was a much tougher meat than cow and needed more cooking. Mel claimed it was delicious, but complained that the blue cornmeal dressing tasted blue.

"Tastes blue? What in the world do you mean?" Jane asked, laughing.

"I don't know. Just blue. I've never eaten blue food before. I don't think in the cosmic scheme of things we're meant to. How's your elk stew?"

"It doesn't have much meat in it. It's mostly vegetables and dumplings," Jane said. But after she'd tasted it, she realized why. The elk was a highly flavored meat and any more of it would have been overwhelming. The cattail pollen dumplings, however, were absolutely delicious, with a sweet, nutty taste unlike anything Jane had ever eaten. It was, all in all, an instructive and flavorful meal.

The restaurant was, like most now, nonsmoking. Since Mel didn't smoke and Jane had been quitting in slow motion for over a year and was now down to only a half-dozen cigarettes a day, this didn't bother them, but they were pleasantly surprised when the waiter invited them to take their dessert and a complimentary after-dinner brandy in the Cigar Room. This well-screened appendage to the dining room turned out to be an interesting and attractive room with excellent ventilation, windows on three sides looking into deep woods, and small, intimate tables. There was a dessert trolley that was rolled silently toward them as they took a table near the inside wall.

Jane chose a parfait glass beautifully layered with raspberries, white chocolate shavings, and cream, while Mel picked a custard with a caramel-and-ground-hazelnut topping. Neither of them could finish their desserts. Jane sat back, looking over the other people in the room. "See that man over there with the light orange hair?" she said. "That's Dr. Lucke. Lucky. He's the president or chairman or whatever of the genealogy group. He's very nice."

"And who's that with him? The slick-looking one."

"I'm not sure, but he was standing near the podium when I went to the door of the room the debate was in. I think maybe he's the man who devastated poor Mrs. Schmidtheiser. Gordon? Gorton? Something like that."

"And in that corner?" Mel asked, tilting his brandy snifter slightly to indicate where another two men sat talking seriously.

"Hmmm. That's an interesting combination. The dark, handsome one is HawkHunter. I'll have to fill you in on all the Indian business. The funny thing is, the man with him is Pete Andrews. He's the nephew of the owner of the resort."

"I thought he was somebody official. He turned up at Mrs. Schmidtheiser's cabin while the sheriff was there. He seemed sincerely upset about her death. I guess he would be. Resorts don't like guests dying."

"He actually knew her as well. You know she was promoting Bill Smith as Tsar of Russia. Well, Pete's the nephew who encouraged her and the Holnagrad Society people to come here for their conventions in the first place."

"What do you mean about it being an interesting combination?"

"HawkHunter is giving the owner a lot of trouble, and the only time I met Pete Andrews, he was complaining bitterly—almost hysterically—about Hawk-Hunter. But they look like they're getting along now." She explained briefly about the conflict over the ownership of the land.

She frankly stared for a few minutes. The two were talking seriously, but there was no hint of either cordiality or animosity in their appearances. A waiter hovered near them.

"Mel?"

"Hmmm?" he responded dreamily.

"If her death weren't natural—"