Meadowlark (12 page)

"Gee, Nancy, I didn't think you cared." A stale riposte, not up
to my standards. Jay gave me a perfunctory grin and went off to
work.

I drank another cup of coffee. I was halfway through it when
there was a knock at the back door. Bonnie, who was minding my
store, came in, bearing printouts. I waited for her to start
cross-examining me about the murder, but she just fed me data, mouth
quirking in a dreamy smile.

"What is with you?"

She blinked. "What?"

"I found Hugo Groth's body yesterday at the farm."

Bonnie was suitably horrified and sympathetic. I told her
about it, cried a little, and explained the workshop dilemma. Either
the story had not yet reached the media, or Bonnie hadn't turned on
the news. Or something else. I eyed her. "Why the goofy smile? Did
you sell your book?" She had finished the manuscript that week.

"What? Oh, no. Not yet. The thing is, Tom's agent sold the
film rights."

Of Tom's new novel, I deduced. "That's wonderful. He
deserves it, but--"

"He wants to take me to Europe!"

Awk. Aargh. "When?" I croaked.

She laughed. "Hey, not today. Stop worrying. Not until after
the store opens."

I quit hyperventilating, but I was worried. Bonnie's mind
would be on Europe, not on my bookstore, and my bookstore was
not ready for spring vacation. Bianca would have to cancel the
damned workshop.

I tried calling her off and on all morning, but the line was
busy. I finally got through around two-thirty.

When I had identified myself and before I could launch into
a well-reasoned plea, she said, "Have you heard the results of the
autopsy?"

"Uh, no. Have you?"

"No, and Nelson promised to contact me as soon as it was
over. I can't stand this, Lark. It's awful not knowing what happened.
He talked to Mei Phuoc last night. He hasn't told me anything about
that, either."

I tried to explain that Dale was not going to confide in her so
long as she and every member of her household were suspects. I
tried, but I must have exercised a little too much tact, because she
went on complaining as if I had said nothing. It occurred to me, not
for the first time, that Bianca had difficulty hearing anything she
didn't want to hear.

She didn't want to hear about canceling the workshop. After
half an hour of fruitless pleading, I gave up and disengaged.

I was deep in Bonnie's printouts when the doorbell rang,
front door this time. It was Dale. He said he had come to consult
Jay.

I ushered him into the kitchen, checked the clock--it was
almost four--and allowed that Jay would be home soon.

Dale collapsed onto a kitchen chair. He looked
exhausted.

"Coffee?"

He nodded without speaking.

Unlike Marianne, I do not bake in an emergency. However, I
can thaw stuff. I thawed a coffee cake and fed him two thick slabs. At
that point, when he was almost articulate, Jay drove in. I put the
kettle on--Jay still doesn't drink coffee--and awaited events.

Properly speaking, I was a suspect in the case. Dale should
not have discussed the evidence in my presence. However, since the
two men were sitting in the breakfast nook, I cleverly disguised
myself as the lady of the house and began to prepare dinner, though
it was Jay's turn to cook.

Dale needed a sympathetic listener. Jay listened. So did I,
from the kitchen. As the deputy talked, he gave me one or two
distracted glances, but I didn't seem to cramp his style.

He began, predictably, by griping about Bianca. She had
called one of our U.S. senators, the governor, and the
congresswoman for our district. No wonder the line had been
busy.

Bianca was a heavy contributor to all three campaign funds,
so the politicians listened. Then they called. Their calls had blotted
up most of Lisa Colman's time, which was one of the reasons Dale felt
the need to consult Jay. It was also a solid reason why Dale had not
given Bianca the information she thought she was entitled to. I
considered telling Dale to explain all that to Bianca, but I didn't want
to call attention to myself, so I peeled carrots.

Having got that off his chest, Dale launched into a detailed
account of the autopsy results. Egged on by Jay.

As Dale had guessed, Hugo had died, not from the knife
wounds, but from a blow to the head. There were signs that he had
put up a fight--bruises on his fists and elsewhere. There were also
marks that indicated the body had been moved after the killing. The
fight went some way toward explaining the uncharacteristic snarl on
Hugo's dead face.

Dale was looking for indications that any of his suspects had
been in a fight, though a week was time to heal. The lab was working
on nail scrapings. The slashes that disfigured the corpse had been
administered after death, and not immediately after death, either.
Someone was naÏve. Someone was also vicious. Dale thought
the mutilation was an attempt to throw suspicion on users of
machetes. I thought so, too.

I rinsed a cup of rice and considered. I could believe Del
Wallace was vicious enough and racist enough to incriminate the
Vietnamese, but he also raised lambs for slaughter. Angie Martini
might see that as further evidence of brutality, but, though he
probably didn't butcher the animals himself, I thought Del would
have a clear idea of the futility of post mortem wounds. He was
stupid when he was drunk, but he wasn't drunk all the time. Of
course he could have panicked.

So who else was ignorant and brutal enough to mutilate
Hugo's body? The mutilation was foolish and brutal, but it was also
unnecessarily elaborate. One of the students? Keith? I thought about
Keith McDonald. I thought of Carol Bascombe and her unnecessarily
elaborate hair.

Dale and Jay were speculating about the time of death.
Apparently that was what the M.E. had done also, because the ice
made any degree of precision impossible. Mary Sadat had seen Hugo
alive at her parents' restaurant Saturday evening. Dale thought it
probable Hugo had been killed the next day, although he didn't rule
out Monday. It was unlikely that Hugo had ridden his bike out to the
farm in the dark, so Saturday and Sunday night were probably out,
and by eight or so on Monday there would have been too many
witnesses around for the fight--and for movement of the body--to
have gone unnoticed. Ergo Sunday. And Sunday meant Hugo had
probably had an appointment with his killer. Otherwise he would not
have gone out to the farm. It sounded logical but vague. It eliminated
no one absolutely, though Marianne had stayed in and around the
kitchen during the day, baking goodies for the workshop and
freezing them. I had been with Jay.

It was nice to know Dale thought I was in the clear. On the
strength of that, I made considerable noise spinning greens for a
salad. I also poured Dale another cup of coffee, though he declined
the cake. Jay had a piece.

Possibly the sight of the cake jogged Dale's memory. He
slewed in the chair and dug an object from his pants pocket. "Want
to see something really weird?"

I craned around the end of the cupboards.

"It looks like salt water taffy," Jay said after a moment.
"What about it?"

"Groth was wearing one of those Gore-Tex rainjackets, the
kind with big pockets that close with Velcro."

"Yeah?"

"He had six--count 'em, six--small bags of taffy, three in each
of the big pockets."

I said, "That's from that little candy shop in Seaside."

Dale sat up. "What shop?"

"I don't remember the name, but they're supposed to make
the best taffy on the coast. A house guest brought us a pound of the
stuff last spring." My brother-in-law ate most of it.

"How can you tell where it's from?" Dale shoved the piece
across the table.

"It's the paper. Most taffy is twisted in plain white paper,
very light waxed paper, I think. This stuff has a little flower pattern.
Flower's! That's the shop. Flower's Candies."

Dale took out his notebook and began scribbling. "Thanks,
Lark."

"It still doesn't explain why Hugo had all that candy in his
pockets."

"Sure doesn't. Any ideas?"

Dale and Jay starting spinning theories about the taffy and
discarding them. Possibly Hugo had been smoking dope and had
developed the munchies. I couldn't think of anything useful to
contribute to the discussion, so I went back into the kitchen.

Jay gave up, too, after a while. "What about the interns? The
Dean will want to know their situation."

Dale shrugged and pocketed the taffy. "Assuming the crime
was committed Sunday between eight and four--"

"Assuming that."

"You've got the married couple, the Carlsens. They alibi each
other, except for half an hour at one when the guy went to the Quik
Stop for potato chips. Of course they would alibi each other. Ms.
Bascombe..." Dale gave a fey little flip with his hand and pursed his
lips. "Carol was with a Friend."

My ears pricked, but I had to laugh at the parody. Dale was
revealing hidden talents.

Jay smiled. "Did she identify the guy?"

Dale shook his head. "She was real coy. Married man, I
guess. Mary Sadat worked at the restaurant, but she was alone
Sunday morning. Jason Thirkell and Bill Johnson drove down to
Seaside early and didn't come home until well after dark. Jason's
pickup is pretty distinctive. We're looking for corroboration--for all
of the kids. I'd like to eliminate them." He rubbed the back of his
neck. "I don't see why they'd do it."

My father is a professor. I said, "Come on, Dale. Disgruntled
students assault their teachers all the time."

"That's urban high school and junior high kids, mostly.
College students are smarter."

I wondered if Dale had ever been a college student in the
usual sense of the word. "You didn't mention Mike Wallace. He's an
intern, too."

Jay said, "He isn't in the program, Lark. He just lives out
there and works for Bianca off and on. He's a student, though, so I'm
concerned about him."

Dale sipped coffee. "Mike was in and out all day. No clear
alibi."

Jay said, "What about the motives floating around
Meadowlark Farm? I mean the staff's."

Dale set his empty cup down and stood up. "Lark knows the
staff better than I do. Ms. Fiedler says they were all devoted to Hugo
Groth--her words."

Jay had risen, too. "That wasn't the impression I got," he said
mildly. "Bound to be conflicts in a small group like that. I gathered
that Groth and Ms. Martini had philosophical differences."

"She's a dyke," Dale muttered.

I said, "She sounds more scrupulous, sexually, than either
Keith McDonald or Del Wallace. I don't know what Hugo felt about
homosexuals. She said he worked with her well enough."

"She said." Dale sighed. "Those folks are pretty intense
about the organic stuff. Maybe there was professional rivalry. Wish I
understood more about that kind of farming." He added, wry, "I was
raised on a farm, the ordinary kind. Never took to it. When Dad
decided to quit, he ask us kids if one of us wanted to take over. We
didn't, so he sold the place. My folks like Arizona."

"Doesn't your father miss the farm?"

Dale laughed. "Not so's you'd notice. He's taken up
golf."

Jay said, "You talked to Mei Phuoc last night. How did it
go?"

Dale shrugged. "Mei was with her family that Sunday. Of
course, she'd say that. So will the others. It's a tight community. She
was very upset when we told her Groth had been killed."

"They got along?"

"I guess so. She cried some when I said he was dead, but she
was defensive about the machetes."

"Natural enough to be defensive."

"Yeah." Dale sounded glum. He left shortly after that, and I
took a look at what I'd prepared for dinner. There was a hunk of
halibut in the meat drawer. I broiled it.

Bianca called me again that evening. "Lark?"

The human voice is an expressive instrument. Bianca's
sounded like an ancient Victrola winding down.

I gritted my teeth and projected perkiness. "Oh, hi,
Bianca."

"Trish is here."

I drew a blank. "Trish?"

"Hugo's ex-wife."

I digested that.

"Trish wants to go through his apartment tomorrow. She'll
be trying to make funeral arrangements..." The low-energy sound
trailed.

I covered the mouthpiece. "Jay, is Dale Nelson finished with
Hugo's apartment yet?"

We were sitting in the breakfast nook reading. We sit there a
lot.

Jay marked his place in his thick textbook with a reluctant
finger. "What's that?"

I repeated the question.

"I don't know. You'll have to check with him. Why?"

I explained.

He frowned. "Why would the ex-wife be making the
arrangements?"

I was beginning to feel like a relay satellite.

Bianca said, "Trish is Hugo's heir. He left everything to
her."

I relayed that to Jay.

"Oh. Well, in that case, she can probably go through his stuff,
but not until Dale gives her the go-ahead."

I explained the situation.

Bianca said wearily, "Okay. I'll check with Nelson in the
morning and get back to you. If Nelson's through inspecting the
place, will you meet us there and let us in? We don't have Hugo's
effects yet. No key."

"All right, Bianca. I was going in to the bookstore in the
morning anyway. Call me there."

Before I could segue into an impassioned plea to cancel the
workshop she rang off.

I hung up less abruptly and caught Jay watching me.

He smiled. "She's a real fiddler, isn't she? Why are you
dancing to her tune?"

"Goddamn, Jay, have a little humanity. The woman needs
help."

"She's using you."

We had a quarrel. It was neither wounding nor lengthy, but
it gave me food for thought.