Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112) (26 page)

He was such a nice kid, Rob thought sadly. Imagine apologizing.

“I wanted to kill the sucker and there he was dead. It’s not fair. He killed Eddy, my little cousin Eddy that I taught to shoot baskets. I wanted to see the bastard suffer, only somebody beat me to it. And that’s not right.”

Rob drew a long breath that was mostly relief. Todd’s paralysis began to make sense. At least he was talking. “What’s not right?”

“Feeling like that. Wanting to kill. I’m supposed to be a professional.”

Rob let him talk. He rambled. He was angry and sick, frightened, disappointed in himself, and full of unmerited shame. It was an old, old tale, but it needed to be told.

When Todd wound down, Rob said, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could master, “You need to take some leave, Todd, but quitting seems extreme. You’re a good deputy.”

“Shit!”

“Think you’re the first cop who wanted to kill a suspect? Be real. You wanted to kill Meek, but you didn’t.”

“No, but—”

“You said somebody beat you to it. Nope. Clear case of suicide.” He watched Todd.

Todd’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. “No! No, I’m sorry, I don’t buy it. Somebody shot him, like somebody shot Hal Brandstetter.”

“The sheriff thinks it’s suicide.”

“Convenient.” Sarcasm rang heavy in Todd’s voice. “I suppose Meek killed Eddy and Brandstetter and tried to kill you, then got a conscience. Give me a break.”

“I find it hard to swallow myself. We’ll see what the ME says.”

“Well, ask him how that window got smashed. I suppose Meek shot it out and then whirled around, sat down, and bit the barrel? That doesn’t make any kind of sense.”

Rob chuckled.

“What the fuck?”

“Listen to yourself. You were in that trailer maybe sixty seconds, but you were observing, and now you’re trying to make sense of the evidence.” He met Todd’s indignant glare and smiled.

After a solemn moment, the deputy’s mouth eased in a sheepish grin. “Okay, okay. I may have nonprofessional instincts, but I didn’t say I was dumb.”

Rob dug in his pocket and came up with the keys to his pickup. “My truck’s parked by the blockhouse. Drive yourself home and do whatever you do to unwind. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“But Jake—”

“He’ll understand. I’m going to keep him busy here most of the night anyway. You all right?”

Todd took a long, shuddering breath. “Probably not, but I’m better than I was.”

“And call your aunt.”

“Really?” ‘

“Yes. She’ll expect you to call. The sheriff’s already talked to her.”

Todd opened the door.

“AndTodd.”

“Yeah?”

“Go easy on the theorizing. At least with civilians.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He trotted off, resilient as a puppy.

Rob felt a hundred years old. The window might have been hit by a fragment of bullet or bone flying out from the suicide shot. Todd’s “theory” would take some proving.

M
ARGARET McLean, please,” said the caller, as if Meg had a personal secretary at home. Meg didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed. The voice was crisp, female, and elderly.

“Speaking.”

“Ah, Mrs. McLean, this is Charlotte Tichnor. My daughter gave me your number.”

“How do you do?” Meg’s heartbeat accelerated. She didn’t bother to correct Charlotte’s error.

“I must apologize, first of all, for not telling you of the compartment in the garage. I suppose every family has its skeletons.”

But few have resident corpses. Meg said nothing. Her mind was working fast for nine o’clock in the morning. She had been playing solitaire with her computer. She backed out of the game.

Charlotte sighed. “However, that is water under the bridge. Do you have any idea where Carol is? She has not telephoned me in several days.”

What can I say to this woman that won’t spook her? “She was staying at the Red Hat Motel. I ate dinner with her.” Lord, when was it? After Brandstetter’s death. Events had been happening so fast, Meg had lost track of time. “Saturday evening.”

“I keep leaving messages,” Charlotte said plaintively, “but she doesn’t call.”

“Perhaps I could go over there this morning.”

“Would you? That’s very kind.”

“No problem.” Meg picked up her coffee cup left-handed and made for the kitchen. “Ah, I’ve been meaning to write you a note, Mrs. Tichnor. I believe you’ve been a strong supporter of the library for many years.”

Charlotte made a polite, deprecatory noise.

“I wanted to thank you for your generous help, and to float an idea past you. From time to time, we set up special exhibits to draw people into the library and give them a taste of culture.” Ew. Meg poured herself a cup of thick black coffee.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering whether you would lend us specimens from one of your fine collections.” The
Seattle Times
archives had been informative. “The netsuke, perhaps. Not the whole collection, of course. A sampling.”

Charlotte gave a gentle, patronizing laugh. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid not. I never let the netsuke out of my sight—in a manner of speaking, of course. They’re kept in a room constructed to display them to advantage and to provide maximum security. They’re very valuable. And I only show them to close friends.” Not quite true. She had showed them to the Japanese consul. Hence the news story Meg had dug from the archives.

“Mmmm.” Meg tried to sound sad but understanding.

“I’m afraid the facilities at your little library would be inadequate. My insurance—”

Not so little. Meg gave a mournful sigh. “Perhaps not the netsuke then. What a shame. Does collecting run in the family, Mrs. Tichnor? I know your son, Dr. Ethan, is also a very kind patron of the library.”

“Ethan?” Charlotte’s laugh tinkled like sleigh bells. “The only thing Ethan and Marilyn collect is music. Jazz,” she added with evident disdain. “And classical, of course. Marilyn is fond of Renaissance consorts. You would hardly want to display a cabinet of discs.”

Oh, why not, Meg thought, flashing on ancient wind-up phonographs and wax records. Or a jukebox full of 45s. “I know that Carol is an expert on needlework.”

“White-on-white embroidery.” Apparently Carol’s obsession met with her mother’s approval.

“Does Vance have a special interest also?”

“You’ve met my son?” Charlotte’s voice changed.

“Yes, the evening I dined with Carol. A charming man.”

“I thought he was at the Oregon coast,” Charlotte interrupted.

“Handsome blond man, fifty-ish, hearty laugh. He told me about the lodge he’s building on Lake Tyee.”

“Tyee Lake,” Charlotte corrected, still sharp. “Yes, he’s building a house on the family land.” She didn’t mention the still.

“I know he collects guns,” Meg interposed, “but guns would hardly be suitable for a library exhibit.” Talk about a security problem. “Perhaps he collects other things as well. Paintings?” Pots, arrowheads, rock art.

“You’ll have to ask Vance. He has many interests. I wouldn’t call him a collector, however. Vance is a showman. And he has a short attention span.”

“Oh?”

“He acquires half a dozen items—first-rate, of course, enough to impress his friends and clients—then turns to something else.” She gave another tinkling laugh. “As a child he collected comic books, if you can imagine it. I soon put an end to
that.
Vulgar things.”

“I believe collectors pay quite high prices for early comic books,” Meg ventured.

“They may. People also watch mud-wrestling. But not people of taste and discernment.”

“No doubt you’re right.” Meg took a swallow of coffee and made a face.

“Vance changed his major three times at Santa Barbara. He wanted to be an anthropologist, of all things. I must go, my dear. If you find Carol, please tell her to call me at once. I am concerned about this murder.”

“Which one?” Meg blurted.

A silence followed. “There’s been another?”

Meg explained about Hal Brandstetter. “A neighbor. No doubt you knew him.”

“I knew the parents to speak to.” Charlotte’s voice dripped icicles. “I don’t remember the son. Good day, Mrs. McLean.” And she hung up.

Interesting, Meg thought. She poured her coffee down the sink and walked outdoors. It was raining. She looked to be sure that Rob’s pickup was still missing from the usual parking spot on his driveway, then scuttled back to her warm kitchen.

The least Rob could do was call. She had no idea why he had had to leave so abruptly the evening before, and her curiosity was eating at her. She had his cell phone number, but she hesitated to phone in the middle of what must be a hot investigation. Back to FreeCell. Nine o’clock was
way
too early to call on Carol Tichnor.

Once at the computer, however, she found she was too impatient to play Patience. What she needed was a mental workout. She logged onto the Internet, Google search this time. She went back to the Lauder Point website and verified the nature of the collection. Rock art, spear- and arrowheads, querns, button blankets, pineneedle baskets, a carrying board for an infant, a bent-wood box, two elkhide drums, and a lovely knife with an obsidian blade. There was a black-and-white photograph of the knife. The county offered a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to recovery of the stolen goods, not a large reward considering their probable current value.

Okay, she thought. That’s what we’re searching for. Now let’s have another look at Brandstetter’s bibliography. She thought of it that way, though it was emphatically not Hal’s work. She did a search by subject, and by keywords, one by one, and printed a couple of articles.

Then she did the search again on Google, limiting the time line to recent articles. That was when she found the odd item on pesticides. In the ‘Forties and ‘Fifties, organic artifacts stored in museums had frequently been dusted with DDT to prevent insect damage. Many of the artifacts had since been repatriated to the appropriate tribes, and authorities were becoming concerned about DDT contamination. They had issued health warnings. Since the article came from the University of Arizona, Meg thought it would be credible, even in a court of law.

She printed it up, and just for good measure, found another item, an advertisement, that touted an easy method to detect contamination by DDT. It was a long shot. If the loot had been stored improperly for ten years, the odds were that the organic artifacts had been damaged and disposed of. All the same, she picked up the phone and called around until she found a Portland outlet that sold the detection kit.

The process sounded simple enough, though chemistry was not Meg’s strong point. The shop promised to ship it to her overnight, and her Visa took another hit. Well, she would save the receipt, and the county could reimburse her if anything came of it. She decided to test dirt from the storage compartment. According to the company blurb, the test should not take more than an hour.

Meanwhile, Carol. Meg called the Red Hat. Carol was still in residence but she didn’t answer the phone. Meg left a message and changed from sweats to resort clothes. Charlotte was probably right to be concerned. It was odd that Carol had not called her mother with news of Brandstetter’s death, especially now that the sheriff’s department was linking the two cases publicly.

When she got into the Accord, Meg switched on the radio. It was tuned to the NPR station, which was doing a fund-raiser at boring length, so she fiddled with the dial. The local country station came in loud and clear.

The windshield wipers swished in time to a Bonnie Raitt ballad. So what was she going to say to Carol apart from Call Mama? Though she felt some pity for Carol with such a mother, Meg’s dislike had grown in the intervening time. Carol was not an appealing human being, and her interests seemed entirely self-focused. Okay, she was from Seattle. How about them Mariners?

The news came on. A dead man had been found at the River Road Campground. “Sheriff McCormick indicated that the victim, William Meek, an apparent suicide, had been a prime suspect in the murder of Commissioner Harold Brandstetter. A warrant had also been sworn out for his arrest in the drive-by shooting in Klalo on Sunday.”

The Accord swerved and Meg clutched the wheel. The language of the news report was hedged with “allegedly” and “probably,” but it was clear that Rob’s boss believed the Meek suicide was the answer to Latouche County’s crime wave, including the murder of Edward Redfern. She wondered whether Rob agreed.

The news story said nothing of the Lauder Point theft, and the announcer went on to a salmon-fishing controversy followed by three commercials in rapid succession. The weather forecast was melancholy. As Meg pulled into the Red Hat parking lot, the D.J. was already leading up to Charley Pride. She switched the engine off and sat for a minute or two, thinking about William Meek’s death and its implications with regard to the missing artifacts.

She didn’t get very far. The DDT business still interested her. She guessed it would interest Rob, too, even now. The apparent resolution of the Brandstetter murder would take some of the media pressure off the sheriff’s department. Maybe Rob would have time off. That was a good thought.