High Country Fall (19 page)
“Who?”
“Simon Proffitt. Owns the Trading Post. You know.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I know the name, but I never met him.”
“Old guy? Plays a mean banjo? They say he was dueling with you at the party last night.”
“That was Simon Proffitt?”
“Yeah. They also say he and Norman Osborne had a talk down in the den right before Osborne went missing, not a particularly friendly talk either. I plan to stop by and question him this evening.”
I found myself remembering the twins’ spirited defense of the old man when they were casting about for alternate killers. They said he’d waved a shotgun at Osborne and Ledwig.
If George Underwood had also heard about that incident, he didn’t mention it now. He parked on the gravel landing behind several patrol cars. As we got out, he asked the uniformed officer who was keeping a two-man TV crew at bay, “They find it yet?”
“No, sir. Not that I heard.”
Like last night, the massive oak door stood ajar again and we walked in.
Without their crackling fires, their clusters of chattering guests, or festive tables of glassware and party food, the two upper levels of the Ashe house looked more like beautifully decorated resort lobbies than a lived-in private home.
The third level down was where fantasy met reality. With one wall against the mountain itself, the only natural light came from the wall of glass opposite the stairs. Instead of feeling dark and cavelike, though, the den was as cheerful and friendly as I remembered from last night. The tray ceiling was brightened by concealed lighting, and baby spots enhanced the vibrant paintings on the walls and the brilliant patchwork that adorned the oversize squashy cushions tossed upon pale blond leather furniture. Handstitched quilts were used as both throws and wall hangings.
Beyond double French doors in the glass wall, Sheriff Horton and Lucius Burke stood on the shady terrace with Bobby Ashe and two uniforms. Yellow tape marked off a restricted section of the railing near the far end of the terrace, and all the men were leaning on an unmarked section to look down into the gorge.
As George Underwood and I came down the stone steps, Joyce and a woman I recognized as Mrs. Ledwig from court yesterday sat at opposite ends of one long leather couch. Each had a drink in hand, and not their first, judging from the way Mrs. Ledwig lounged back into the patchwork cushions. A nearby armoire stood open, revealing several bottles, an assortment of glasses, and an ice bucket. There were bowls of nuts and a cheese tray on a low table in front of the couch, but neither woman seemed to have touched them. At the moment, drinks were enough.
Joyce came to her feet the instant she realized who I was, and crossed the room to us, shaking her head mournfully.
“Isn’t this just awful, Deborah? Who would have thought it last night?”
I made the appropriate commiserating noises as she led me over to the couch and introduced me to Mrs. Ledwig, who already seemed to know George Underwood from the investigation of her husband’s death.
“Call me Tina,” she said, extending a cool hand, as Underwood stepped onto the terrace to speak to the others.
A tangle of gold bracelets slid back along her slender wrist, but her clasp was surprisingly strong until I remembered that she and Sunny Osborne played tennis together. Superficially, she even looked a little like Sunny. Her tawny hair was shorter, but as expertly styled and colored and set off by the thin blue silk sweater she wore over black tights. Her eyes were an intense blue in an attractive, suntanned face. I couldn’t decide if the slight puffiness around her eyes and mouth indicated a drinking problem or prolonged grief.
In a tailored russet jacket and matching plaid slacks, Joyce looked as if she’d just come from the office. With a tilt of her head toward the armoire, she asked if she could fix me a drink.
“Perhaps later,” I told her as I sat down in a chair opposite them.
“This must be very painful for you,” I said to Tina Ledwig, gesturing to the men out on the deck. “Bringing it all back.”
“Because of Carl, you mean?”
I nodded.
She shrugged. “It’s going to be worse for Sunny. She and Norm still loved each other.”
“Oh, Tina,” Joyce protested. “You and Carlyle—”
“—were headed for a divorce court as soon as Trish graduated from high school,” Tina Ledwig said flatly, taking another swallow of her drink, which, from the smell and look of it, was scotch on the rocks.
She leaned back with both thin arms carelessly lying along the top of the colorful cushion that supported her shoulders, one hand dangling empty, the fingertips of the other lightly holding her old-fashioned glass by the rim. Any less tension and the glass would surely smash to the hardwood floor. She wasn’t drunk or slurring her speech, but she’d certainly had enough to speak candidly.
“It’s no big secret, Joyce. You and I both know some of our friends at the club couldn’t decide whether to send wreaths or bouquets. I’m sorry he was killed like that before he and Carla could make up, but he could be a holier-than-thou pompous prick at times and I’d be a hypocrite to start shedding crocodile tears. Hell, before it’s over, I’ll probably wind up spending as much on shrinks for my daughters as you’ve spent on yours.”
I risked a glance at Joyce, whose lips had tightened. Psychiatrists for her daughters?
“At least there’ll be enough cash that’s not tied up in real estate,” said Tina Ledwig, swirling the amber liquid around the ice cubes in her drink. “Thank God for partnership insurance! Did y’all have one in place for Norm, too? Or will you and Bobby have to cough up the buyout?”
Joyce was clearly annoyed with Tina’s indiscreet speech and turned back to me. “George Underwood says you noticed last night that one of my candlesticks is missing?”
I nodded.
“So that’s why they’re still out there,” Tina said, as if finally connecting the dots. “I wondered what they were looking for.”
I followed Joyce over to the end of the ledge near the windows. One of the French doors was ajar and Bobby Ashe pushed it open for the others.
“Judge,” Lucius Burke said formally as he entered. “Did my secretary get you that deposition you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”
His face was just as handsome as yesterday, his eyes were meltingly green, yet I still felt oddly immune. No time to wonder why, though, with the others crowding in.
“Hey, Deborah,” Bobby said in a sober drawl. “Hell of a note, idn’t it?”
I agreed.
“Get anybody anything?” he asked, heading for the well-stocked armoire. “Deborah? Sheriff? Burke?”
We all shook our heads.
Tina Ledwig held her now-empty glass out to him as he passed.
Since everyone else seemed to assume we’d already met, Sheriff Horton introduced himself to me. “Captain Underwood says you think Mr. Osborne was hit with one of these candlesticks, Judge Knott?”
“Only that it’s a possibility,” I said. “We all spread out to search the house last night, and when I came down here and walked over toward the terrace doors, I saw where some had been knocked over. This group here on the end.”
With my hand, I circled the air above a cluster of the heavy iron candleholders.
“I thought someone had been careless, so I set them up, and when I put the candles back where I thought they went, I noticed that this one”—I pointed to where it stood against the stone wall—“was left over, so I stuck it there.”
“Mrs. Ashe?” Underwood asked.
Joyce looked from the fat solitary candle back to the ironware grouped together at the end of the oak slab. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to decide ever since you told me what Deborah noticed, but I honestly don’t remember. There are so many. If it held that candle, though, then it would probably look like this one or maybe that one down there.”
As she spoke, she touched a couple of heavy holders. One was short and squat and looked like a black iron saucer welded to a cylinder that was the size and shape of a three-pound shortening can, not the easiest thing in the world to pick up.
Certainly wouldn’t have been my choice of weapon.
The other was taller. Vaguely shaped like an abstract hourglass, it flared at the base and again at the top, but narrowed in the middle until it was about the diameter of a baseball bat handle.
Joyce appealed to her husband, who had rejoined us. “Honey, didn’t we have five of these to start with?”
Bobby Ashe stroked his big brown walrus mustache and his brow wrinkled as he tried to visualize the way this candle-laden slab must have looked before the party started. “Them the ones we got at that forge up in Pennsylvania?”
“No, these came from that blacksmith over near Hillsborough.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I believe we did buy five. He said he’d give us a better price break if we took all six, but you didn’t want an even number, remember?”
We were all counting with our eyes. Only four of that particular style remained on the ledge, and Joyce was becoming more positive that the evening had begun with five.
“If the men don’t find it out there, could we maybe borrow one of these to show the ME?” asked Underwood.
“Sure,” Joyce and Bobby said together.
Underwood carefully slid the lone candle into a plastic bag. “And in the meantime, we’ll check this for fingerprints. If we get anything usable, we may have to ask y’all to come down and give us yours. You, too, Judge.”
“But we live here,” Bobby protested. “Me and Joyce, we got our fingerprints on everything in the house.”
He was a big bulky man, and with his head reared back like that, he reminded me of a bull walrus defending his territory.
“Well, hell, Bobby,” said Sheriff Horton, “we know that. It’d be for elimination purposes. And don’t y’all have a woman comes in to help?”
“I’ll need her name, too,” said Underwood.
As if summoned by a bell, a plump middle-aged white woman came halfway down the stairs and paused to catch Joyce’s eye. “Mrs. Ashe?”
Joyce excused herself to go see what was wanted upstairs in the kitchen and the men went back out on the terrace. Left to my own ends for the moment, I rejoined Tina Ledwig, who hadn’t stirred from the couch.
“You must think I’m a coldhearted bitch,” she said lazily as I helped myself to a slice of cheese.
“Not at all,” I murmured inanely.
She sighed. “Half the people in this town will tell you Carl hung the moon. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he did. I’ll have to check tonight. See if his name’s on it.”
“I heard he’s responsible for the town’s new senior center.”
“The Carlyle Grayson Ledwig Senior Center. Oh yes. Lots of brownie points for that.”
“They say it’s quite a facility.”
“State of the art,” she agreed. “God knows it cost enough.”
“What else do they plan to build on to it?”
“Build on?”
“I understand Dr. Ledwig left money to expand it?”
“Expand it? Where’d you get that idea? It’s already three times bigger than this town’ll ever need.”
“Mrs. Osborne said that’s what she’d heard. That your husband left money to expand the center.”
“Don’t know where she’d hear that.”
“From Mr. Osborne, maybe?” Not that I gave a damn. I was just making conversation till Underwood came back and drove me to pick up my car at the courthouse.
“Not from Norm,” Tina said firmly. “He’s on the current board—
was
on the current board,” she corrected herself. “Once it was built, Carl turned title, running, and maintenance over to the county. Saint Carl of Cedar Gap.”
“Sounds like a good thing to have done,” I said.
She gave a cynical snort. “Good for the clinic, too. Boosted the summer client base. Always kept his eye on the balance sheet, Carl did.”
“Is that where your daughter gets her business flair?”
She looked at me blankly.
“Your daughter Carla.” Did she not know her daughter had opened a café? Was she as in the dark as my cousin Beverly?
Comprehension dawned in her blue eyes. “Business flair? That little tea room thingy that her friends talked her into blowing her trust fund on? Thank God Carl never found out about
that
! He couldn’t stand Simon Proffitt.”
Before I could ask what Simon Proffitt had to do with the price of watercress sandwiches, Joyce came down the stairs, and from outside I heard a shout followed by a babble of voices.
“Oh,” said Joyce. “Sounds like they found it.”
On our drive back to town, George Underwood wasn’t optimistic about lifting fingerprints from the surface of the iron candleholder his men had found.
“Too rough and dimpled,” he said.
“That’s the price you pay for handmade craftsy stuff,” I told him.
He gave a rueful smile. “I doubt if the Ashes were thinking murder weapon when they bought it.”
“Lucky for the killer, though. He probably wasn’t thinking about fingerprints either.”
“Just snatched up the closest solid thing at hand,” Underwood agreed.
“Which probably means he did intend to kill Osborne when he followed him out onto the terrace.”
“He?” There was an amused note in his voice.
“Or she. I’m not a member of the PC language police. ‘He’ works for me till we know for sure. Especially since more men kill than women.”
“More men get caught, anyhow,” he conceded, a definite grin on his face.
I laughed. “And on behalf of women everywhere, we thank you for that dubious praise.”
The sun had gone down shortly before we left the Ashe home, but the moon had already cleared the horizon. Nearly full now, it sheathed the hills in a silvery blue light. Leaf people come and go with the sun, and the narrow road was almost deserted on this Tuesday night.
Only Tuesday? It felt as if I’d been here a week.
Possibilities from last night played through my mind.
“Impulsive like Ledwig’s killer,” I mused, “but not in the heat of the moment.”
“How you figure that?”
“Would you go out on a deserted terrace with someone you’d been fighting with?” I asked.
“If it was coming to blows, I might take it outside.”
