The Alpine Legacy (15 page)

Before Vida could respond, April Eriks entered the news office. “I have a photo of Crystal,” she said. “Mr. Driggers told me I should bring it by for the obituary.”

“That's right,” Vida said, holding out her hand. “I do death notices. Thank you, April. How are you managing?”

April lowered her eyes. “Okay. Fine. Reverend Poole
asked if someone from the family wanted to give a eulogy. Our sonThad has volunteered.”

“That's very kind,” Vida declared. “I didn't realize he was close to his aunt.”

“Neither did I,” April responded. Without looking at any of us, she turned on her heel and left.

“Well!” Vida licked her lips. “Now what does
that
mean?”

I shrugged. “My guess is that April's resentful because her son wants to put in a good word for his aunt. Let's see the photo.”

It was a five-by-seven black-and-white glossy, probably taken in a studio at least ten years ago. “A corporate photograph,” Vida said, “no doubt for the bank's files.”

“Yes.” I studied the face closely. Frankly, I hardly recognized it as belonging to the Crystal Bird I'd seen in the hot tub at Baring. This version was not only younger, but considerably softer. The shoulder-length fair hair was styled in thick curls, a very Eighties look. Crystal wore makeup—lipstick, eye shadow, liner, mascara, and, if the photo had been in color, blush would have shown on her cheeks. Despite the severity of the no-nonsense suit and severe blouse, she looked almost beautiful.

“What changed her?” I mused aloud.

“Life,” Vida replied. “It does that to people.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but it's both style and substance. She was thinner when I saw her, harder, plainer.”

“Older, of course,” Vida noted.

Scott was looking over my shoulder. “She's pretty, but she doesn't look very friendly. That smile is bogus.”

Scott was right. The smile didn't go past her nose.

Vida took the photo over to her desk while Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “There's no point in getting started on this Aaron Conley story, is there?” he asked. “It's five to five.”

Technically, there wasn't. But at his age, I had always been willing to work past the hour if I felt even the slightest sense of urgency about deadlines for
The Oregonian.

“That's okay,” I said, submitting to a different time, place, and generation. “B ut get on it first thing tomorrow.”

I, too, decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped by the Grocery Basket to replenish the larder. The owner, Jake O'Toole, was up at the front end of the store when I checked out. Juggling two bags of groceries, I approached him with a smile.

“Confide in me,” I said in my most winsome manner. “Did Aaron Conley try to pass a forged check here?”

Jake wrinkled his aquiline nose. “Aaron Conley? Oh—you mean that ex-husband of Crystal Bird's? No, why?”

I explained about Aaron's arrest. Grimly, Jake shook his head.

“He's a piece of work, all right,” Jake said. “If it's true that Crystal was murdered, I figure he did it. That guy's got trouble written all over him.”

“Tell me,” I said, wishing I hadn't bought five pounds of potatoes and ten pounds of sugar on this expedition, “were you here when Crystal came in with Aaron?”

“You mean after we went through that rigmarole about him charging on her account?” Seeing my nod, Jake continued. “Yeah, I was here. When am I not here?” His eyes raked the store, though his expression conveyed affection as well as resentment. For Jake, the Grocery Basket was like a much-loved but demanding mistress.

“How did they interact?” I inquired.

Jake shrugged. “Nothing special. If I hadn't known better, I would've figured them for a big sister-little brother act.”

“No show of affection? No harsh words? No tension?”

Jake passed a hand over his face. “Well … Maybe there was kind of a strain between them. You know, the
way people act after they've just had a fight, but they've patched it up.”

I appreciated Jake's insight. He ought to know: Betsy and Jake O'Toole were famous for bickering in public, despite the fact that they were a devoted couple.

“Did you get the impression that Aaron was staying with Crystal?” I asked as Jake's brother, Buzzy, approached with a clipboard in hand.

“Yeah, I did,” Jake answered, giving Buzzy a high sign. “They were buying stuff for dinner. Hey, Emma, got to go. Buzzy needs some help with tomorrow's produce order.”

My arms were about ready to fall off by the time I got home. After dumping the grocery bags on the kitchen table, I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. As far as I could tell, the only missing item was the bottle of sleeping pills. It had sat between the estrogen and the cortisone ointment, but whoever had taken it had moved the remaining bottles closer together so that I wouldn't notice a gap.

Milo had checked for prints and found none that didn't belong. It figured. The thief had worn gloves. I was angry all over again, not only at being set up—or so it appeared—but because the staged robbery had included Adam's possessions. What, I wondered, had the intruder done with the jar of coins and autographed Mariners baseball?

There was one call on the answering machine, and it was from Paula Rubens. “I just heard that Crystal was poisoned. Good God, Emma,” she continued in an agitated voice, “I can't believe it. Is there any chance we can get together tonight after I'm done with my final? Call me,
please.”

Since it was going on six, I assumed she'd be on
campus. I dialed her number there and she answered on the first ring.

“Class doesn't start until six,” she said, sounding somewhat calmer. “All I have to do is collect the term project from each student, ask a few questions, and get the hell out of there. Could you meet me at the bar in the ski lodge at seven?”

I could. Dinner consisted of macaroni and cheese, a hamburger patty, and an ear of corn that tasted as if Jake had grown it in his basement. No wonder Buzzy needed help with his produce order.

The bar at the ski lodge has a handsome Viking motif, featuring various figures from Norse mythology. Rough stone and stained wood provided a perfect setting for the big glass panel that evoked the northern lights. The first time Paula and I had met at the lodge for drinks, she had commented on the glass, informing me that the Seattle artisan who had designed it was one of the most outstanding and underrated craftsmen in the country.

Now, however, Paula didn't even glance toward the bar itself, where the glass glowed and a small waterfall trickled off to one side.

“Tell me everything you know,” she demanded before she'd even sat down. “I had to hear about this from Nat Cardenas himself. Do you know he seemed pleased to deliver the bad news? The man's a skunk.”

The college president no doubt had reason to feel a certain amount of satisfaction. Or relief. Certainly he had taken his lumps in
Crystal Clear.
I reminded Paula of the attacks on Cardenas.

“So what?” Paula retorted. “That doesn't excuse his attitude. The least he could do is put up a good front. Nat does that very well. He strikes me as a first-class phony.”

We hadn't met to argue about Nat Cardenas. “I imagine there are quite a few people around here who aren't
weeping and wailing over Crystal's demise,” I said in a mild tone. “Me, for instance.”

“But you're not gloating,” Paula countered. “Okay, give me the lowdown.”

Before I began to relate what I knew, we gave our drink orders. Then I lighted a cigarette from the pack I'd purchased in a weak moment at the lodge's gift shop. Paula made a face.

“Must you?” she asked, though there was amusement in her tone.

“Yes, I must. It's been a rough day.”

“Okay, so I'll indulge you.” She laughed. “Now talk.”

I told her almost everything I knew, though I reserved the part about the pill bottle. Milo wouldn't make that public, and neither would I. Newspaper publishers don't need to incite the readership any more than is necessary.

When I had finished, we were halfway through our drinks. Paula sat back on the banquette and frowned. “So Conley's in the slammer,” she remarked. “Is it just the forged check or is Milo holding him as a person of interest?”

“I don't know. Both, maybe.” I lighted my second cigarette, careful to blow the smoke as far away from Paula as possible. “What do you know about the guy?”

Paula fingered the stem on her martini glass. “Crystal didn't talk about him much, unless she'd been drinking.” Pausing, she met me with her level gaze. “Don't get me wrong. Crystal was no boozer. But, as some of us do once in a while, she'd get a little tight and feel sorry for herself.”

“I can do that sober,” I remarked.

Paula gave a faint nod. “Can't we all. Anyway, that's when she'd go off on her exes, husbands and lovers.”

“Lovers, such as Victor Dimitroff?”

Turning quickly to catch our server's attention for another round, Paula wagged a finger. “I don't know much
about that one,” she said, “because he must have been a newcomer. But there were a couple of guys in Portland who'd given her a hard time. One of them was a married coworker from the bank. The other taught at Reed College. Frankly, I don't remember their names.”

“And Aaron?” I prompted.

“Aaron.” Paula inclined her head. “She met him in Portland when he and his band were performing at some tavern on Burnside. I think they were called The Hoods—for the mountain, not the criminals. They hit it off, and were married just a few months later. In fact, the ceremony was held on a barge under the Burnside Bridge. Let's call them an ill-starred couple. It didn't last long.”

I put out my cigarette and promised myself I wouldn't smoke any more for the duration of the evening. “The age difference was a factor, I suppose.”

“That, and Aaron's problems with the band, which broke up just before the marriage did.” Paula paused while our fresh drinks were delivered. “There were also drugs, which Crystal didn't use. Oh, she smoked weed now and then, but had nothing to do with the hard stuff. Aaron didn't have a real job, though he sometimes worked as a waiter. Crystal supported him, which was pretty old with her. She'd already put one husband through college.”

“Aaron sounds like an all-around loser,” I commented.

“He was. Is, I guess. The last I heard of him, he took off for California to make it big in L.A. He didn't.” Paula gave me a wry look.

“Do you know when he showed up here?” I asked.

Paula's high, smooth forehead wrinkled. “A couple of weeks ago, maybe? When I talked to her on the phone, she mentioned that he was staying with her. She thought it would be just for a day or two, because he had plans to go across the pass to Spokane. His former drummer had
gotten a gig over there, and Aaron intended to bunk with him for a while. I guess he got comfortable, though, because he was still hanging out with her as of last Wednesday.” Paula lowered her head. “That was when I arranged the meeting with the two of you. It was the last time I spoke with her.”

Crystal Bird must have had some good qualities. Otherwise, Paula wouldn't have befriended her. Maybe the second drink was giving me the courage to ask.

“What did you like about Crystal? What did I miss?”

Again, Paula's gaze was level and unwavering. “She was brave. She had the courage of her convictions. I don't think I ever met anyone who was so honest and open about her feelings. I suppose,” she went on, growing thoughtful, “I admired her as much as I liked her.”

“I see.” I supposed those were good enough reasons.

Paula, however, knew what I was thinking. “I realize you and she had very little common ground. I'm not unsympathetic with the way she attacked you and some of the other people in Alpine. But you must admit, her causes were just.”

“They were.” I couldn't argue against the women's shelter, day-care centers, or the environment. “But you don't have to support a cause by tearing down other people. As I told her the night I met her, personal attacks aren't good journalism. She was asking for trouble.”

Paula laughed. “She always did. That was part of being Crystal.”

I wasn't laughing. “She found it.”

Immediately, Paula grew serious. “Yes,” she said in a hushed tone. “She did.”

As I dealt with the exigencies of deadline the next morning, I tried to sort through what Paula had told me.
There really wasn't much new. Certainly there had been nothing to point the way to Crystal's killer.

Scott returned around nine-thirty from his morning run to the city and county offices. He looked harried as he spread out a pile of notes on my desk.

“Dustin wasn't in, so I had to deal with Jack Mullins,” Scott complained. “Jack's full of it.”

Jack Mullins sometimes lets his sense of humor get the better of him. “You'll get used to it,” I said. “What about Conley?”

“Mullins insists they're only holding him on the forgery deal,” Scott replied, tinkering with the tape recorder he always used as a backup. “He can post bail, but so far he hasn't.”

“He's broke,” I put in. “Did you talk to Conley?”

“I tried.” Scott made a face. “He wouldn't even look at me. He's one surly dude.”

“So what are we talking about? A dead end as far as Aaron Conley's concerned?”

“You got it.” Scott looked at me with those limpid brown eyes. “Sorry. But I did find out something kind of strange.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “About the murder?”

“No.” Scott tapped one of the notes on the desk. “Yesterday when I checked the log, I noticed that there was no name by one of the weekend DWIs. That struck me as odd, but we don't run those anyway, so I didn't pay any attention.”

During Marius Vandeventer's reign, he had always run the DWIs and the DIPs, which stood for Drunk in Public. According to Vida, Marius felt that putting their names in the paper might deter them from repeating the performance. Naturally, Vida agreed with him, but I felt differently. Public humiliation wouldn't cure alcoholism, and was just one step above the stocks as a form of punishment.

“But today you got curious about the anonymous sot,” I said with a smile of approval. It was one thing to not publish names; not knowing them was another matter. “Who was it?”