Relatively Dead (14 page)

Jason stopped and took a drink of water. “Marcia avoided me at the memorial service. The couple of times I met her she was very cool toward me. Pretty much ignored me.”

“She didn’t treat me any better. In fact, she kicked me out of the party when she checked up on me and caught me lying.”

“You didn’t use your real name?”

“No. In case the murderer was the guy who scammed my grandmother, since he would have recognized my name if he’d been there. But I didn’t see anybody at the party with a hand problem. I asked everybody I talked to whether they’d seen diseased hands at the party the week before. Negative.”

“You’ve got a lot of guts. I don’t want you getting yourself killed for my grandson.”

“I feel the same way.”

***

We did hit some snow as we were traversing the face below the peak. Jason asked me if I wanted to turn back. I said no. We were able to wade through or walk on top of the snow, which reached a depth of several feet in places, without getting too wet or too cold. We reached the peak with its gorgeous view of the surrounding country, including Mt. San Jacinto, the almost-11,000 foot mountain that towered over Palm Springs.

The fire tower on Tahquitz wasn’t open for the fire season yet, and we had the top to ourselves. Jason said it was staffed by volunteers during the fire season. I felt the lack of oxygen at that altitude a bit, but it didn’t really bother me. We ate our lunches sitting on the rocks while Jason tried to come to terms with the behavior of his grandson.

“I’d like to expose the syndicate before people get burned.”

“It’s too late for that. If it’s shut down now, the current investors will lose at least part of their money. They’ll hate you. I tried to convince one woman who invested that it was a bad thing. She didn’t believe me.”

“If Marcia killed Jason, I want her brought to justice.”

At least we agreed on that.

***

Jason took me to dinner at a nice restaurant in Idyllwild. I was none the worse for the hike. We showered at the cabin. I thanked him for showing me the joys of mountain hiking. He said he was glad I had a good time. He was always looking for people to hike with. They didn’t just pop out of the woods.

We talked about how we could get evidence that Marcia killed his grandson. We didn’t come up with a workable plan. Jason became frustrated and changed the subject. He started telling me about Idyllwild. He and his wife, Laurie, had owned the cabin for many years, using it for a retreat away from the city. It wasn’t until his wife died he decided he wanted to live outside of Los Angeles. That’s when he moved there.

“Years ago, there was a restaurant here called the Chef in The Forest. Not to be confused with one now called Little Chef in the Forest. The original was run by a larger-than-life chef who would serve excellent meals and then come out to the dining room and give everybody lollipops. Laurie and I loved to eat there.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“He had a weekly cooking show—I believe it originated from San Diego—and one day when he was being driven back to Idyllwild after the show the driver reached down to pick something up from the floor. The car went out of control and hit a bridge support, I believe. The chef was decapitated.”

I almost spit out a mouthful of food. “That’s a horrible story.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told it while we were eating. Anyway, there hasn’t been a restaurant here like that since.”

When the check came, I tried to take it but Jason beat me to it. When I said something he told me he was happy I’d come for Jason’s service and done some investigating. The least he could do was buy me dinner. I thanked him as sweetly as I could and resolved to start acting more feminine.

Back at the cabin he showed me family pictures, including some on his laptop computer. This reminded me of what I hadn’t had a chance to tell him so far. I got out the charts Frances printed for me and laid them on the table.

“On Thursday, I visited my friend, Frances, who’s a forensic genealogist. She checked your genealogy on the Internet. She found your grandfather, Jason Boyd I. I believe I told you he had a third son named Patrick who stayed in Northern Ireland.”

“Uncle Patrick.” Jason repeated the name, savoring it. “My father never told me about him. He didn’t really talk about his father, Jason, either. It was strange, because if he had a falling-out with his father, why did he name me Jason?”

I showed him the line of relatives on the chart. “Patrick had a son named Clancy. Clancy has two sons named Timothy and—you’ll never guess—Jason.”

“Another Jason? My God. You were the one who was searching for relatives, and here I’m finding relatives I never knew about. Clancy would be my first cousin.”

“Technically, half first cousin. The original Jason married a second time after his first wife died, so you and Clancy have different grandmothers.”

“That must have been after my father came to America. You learn something every day. My father and his brother, who was your grandmother’s father, immigrated to the U.S. when they were eighteen and twenty, if memory serves me correctly. As far as I know, they never communicated with their father again. He could have remarried and had a third son after they left. They apparently never knew.”

“I told you Timothy was murdered a month or so ago.”

“Yes. We appear to have a bloody family. However, I don’t see how that could relate to Jason’s murder.”

“Frances has a hunch they may be related. Her hunches are not to be sneezed at.”

“I like my hunch better—assuming Marcia didn’t kill Jason, that Elizabeth’s scammer is the murderer.”

“You both could be right.”

“He would have to be a genealogist. But why would he target our family?”

“We don’t know. The theory could be all wet, especially if Marcia or someone with the syndicate killed Jason. However, one thing Frances and I talked about is the possibility that the killer, if there is only one, is targeting young male Boyds. Which reminds me of something else. I’d like you to take a DNA test so we can establish exactly what this Boyd Y-DNA looks like.”

When Jason looked dubious, I explained it involved scraping the inside of his cheek with an object like a toothbrush several times, and sending the results to a lab. His name wouldn’t be attached to it, but Frances, the forensic genealogist, would have access to it by a number and would be able to check for matches.

With these assurances and when he saw how easy it was, Jason acquiesced and did the first scraping. I was fading fast, having gotten up early to come to Idyllwild. Since I was traveling light, I didn’t have any sleeping apparel. I’d returned Rigo’s T-shirt to him. Jason and I were sharing a bathroom, and if he had to go during the night he’d have to come through the living room where I was sleeping.

I probably shouldn’t sleep in the nude, which I sometimes did. Jason was becoming a father figure for me. I couldn’t remember my real father—or grandfather, for that matter—and I needed a replacement. I couldn’t remember what I wore to bed when I was young, but I assumed one appeared in front of one’s male relatives dressed demurely.

“May I borrow a T-shirt? I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.”

“Sure. How’s your poison oak?”

He’d asked the same question that morning. It was probably just short-term memory loss. Not all older people got dementia. Then I realized he just wanted an update.

“A touch better. But it still itches, especially at night.” I lifted my shirt and bared the rash on my stomach, having decided this was a better alternative for showing a man than unbuttoning my shirt from the top. “Sometimes I scratch it in my sleep.”

“Wow. You got a dose. Do you have anything to put on it?”

“Yes, but it’s only partially effective in stopping the itching.”

“I’ll get you a T-shirt.”

CHAPTER 17

I was awakened by an odor that was a combination of bacon and pancakes, coming from the kitchen end of the room. I groggily opened my eyes and saw Jason, very much awake, doing several things at once. He’d noted my food likes and dislikes last night.

I got out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and walked toward the bathroom, passing Jason along the way. “Smells good. You sure get up early.”

He grinned. “I got used to it in the army and afterward when I was still gainfully employed. I can’t sleep late.”

I knew he’d been in the military, including Vietnam. Then he worked with businesses wanting to sell to the military. Or something like that. I checked my poison oak, which still looked about the same—nasty—got dressed, and joined Jason for breakfast. I was a little stiff from yesterday’s exertions and ravenously hungry. I was eating my way through a stack of pancakes when a phone rang at the other end of the room.

“That’s my cell phone.”

I didn’t encourage people to call me on my cell phone just to chat, so it must be important. I wasn’t on any of the Internet social networks, either, having decided I was too private a person. I excused myself and found the phone. The number displayed was Grandma’s. It must be Audrey.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Cynthia.” Her voice sounded edgy.

“Hi, Audrey. How are you and Grandma doing?”

“We’re fine. Well, sort of. The man impersonating Michael just called.”

“Again? Who answered the phone?”

“Mrs. Horton. She insists on answering the phone. She was hoping he’d call again. She wanted to try to trick him into revealing his address or something, but—”

“What did he want?”

“More money. Another five thousand. I listened to the call on the upstairs line. Same old song and dance. He has to pay for someone’s injuries.”

“How did Grandma handle it?” I wondered if she’d been rational.

“She fell for it. She told him she’d wire him the money.”

“Oh, no. But that’s not going to happen because you’re not going to take her to the bank.”

“I know. Maybe you can talk to her. She still thinks she has to do it.” Audrey didn’t like the idea of having to tell Grandma no.

“I will in a minute. Does he want to pick up the money at the same place?”

“Yes. In about three hours. Eleven, your time.”

“Maybe we can have the police there waiting for him.”

“Be careful. He threatened your life again if she didn’t send the money. He’s calling from the same number and he apparently doesn’t know Mrs. Horton changed banks. He reminded her to take the money to the Western Union outlet close to where she banked before.”

“That’s a relief.”

At least he didn’t know everything about Grandma’s life. I suspected Grandma told him where she banked the first time he said he was Michael. It was the sort of thing you’d tell your son. He was still in Los Angeles. That was good. At least, Grandma and Audrey were in no physical danger.

“Thanks, Audrey. You’re doing a good job. Put Grandma on the line. I’ll tell her to obey you in regard to the money.”

It took me five minutes to convince Grandma Michael was dead. By that time she was crying and saying how sorry she was she messed up. I told her she hadn’t messed up, and we might have a chance to catch the scammer. When I finally had her stabilized I talked to Audrey again for a minute, thanked her for being on the ball, told her I’d be careful, and then disconnected. I spent my life telling people I’d be careful.

I looked up Kyle’s number on my phone while apologizing to Jason for letting his scrumptious breakfast grow cold. Kyle didn’t answer his cell phone. I left an urgent message and called Mr. Ault’s home number. Hildy answered the phone. I identified myself and asked for Kyle. She said Kyle was out but would return in half an hour. I left my cell phone number with Hildy and disconnected.

I rushed back to the table and crammed several bites of pancake and maple syrup into my mouth while apologizing again to Jason. “I’ve gotta run. The scammer expects to pick up more money in three hours. If he shows, we have a chance to nab him.”

“That’s a job for the police.”

“I’m trying to get them involved. I don’t know who the contact for this case is, but my friend, Kyle, has police connections and should be able to find out. I’ve got a call in for him now.”

“Then why do you have to rush off?”

“I want to be there when they get him.” And make sure the police got the right man. My distrust of government was exerting itself.

Jason tried to dissuade me, saying it was too dangerous. I told him I’d be careful. Anything to get him off my back. In answer to his question, I told him the address of the Western Union office in West Los Angeles.

“With Monday morning traffic there’s a good chance you won’t get there in three hours.”

“How should I go?”

“When you get out to the main road, route two forty-three, turn right and take it down the mountain to I-ten. Take I-ten all the way to west L.A.”

I jammed my few belongings into the suitcase and went out to the car with Jason. After a quick good-bye hug, during which he again told me to be careful, I set the GPS for the address of the Western Union office where the scammer was expecting to pick up the money, and drove away.

Fortunately, the GPS agreed with Jason’s directions and didn’t give me a lot of grief. The problem was, I couldn’t go very fast on the curvy and narrow mountain road. When I got behind a slow truck, I couldn’t pass it without taking the kind of risk one only takes in a war zone when being fired on by a machine gun.