Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112) (27 page)

At the desk, Meg asked for Carol Tichnor. No answer from Carol’s room. Meg had turned away and was heading toward the exit when Carol walked out of the corridor that led from the restaurant.

Meg hailed her.

Carol stared as if to say who is this woman. “Uh, hello.”

“I came to let you know your mother wants you to call her. She telephoned me at home.”

Carol’s face went still as a mask. After a blank moment, she said, “Thanks. I will. Nice to see you again.”

“I hope your brother’s well. Your mother thought he was at the coast.”

“And you told her otherwise?” Carol bit her lip.

Meg widened her eyes. “I had no idea his presence in Klalo was a secret. Is he staying here, too?”

Carol shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since Saturday. See you, Meg.” And she whisked off through a door labeled
ROOMS
101-129 /
POOL
/
LAUNDRY
.

By the time Meg got back to the Accord, her hair was soaked. Dolly Parton was singing about a letter written on a blue piece of paper. Dolly sounded down.

R
OB
was sitting in his office in the courthouse annex, yawning over paperwork, when Moira Tichnor called him.

She identified herself as Vance Tichnor’s wife, and Rob went blank. His hands scrabbled through the papers on the desk surface. He had questions for this woman, but what were they? He’d had two hours of sleep and his head felt like wet pumice.

“Uh, thanks for calling, Mrs. Tichnor.”

“My pleasure.” She had a sultry voice. “Are you the dishy detective I saw on television the other night?”

Rob’s sense of humor stirred to life. “Sorry, no. You’re thinking of my sergeant, Earl Minetti. I’ll pass the compliment on to him.” Take that, Earl.

She gurgled. “By all means. What can I do for you?”

“I had a couple of questions for you in connection with the murder of Edward Redfern.”

“That’s the Indian boy who was found in the garage? I really don’t know anything about it, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Mrs. Tichnor.” He pulled a scribbled sheet of paper toward him and squinted at it. Bifocal time. “First of all, can you confirm that your husband was at home Friday evening? From seven
p.m.
Friday until seven Saturday morning.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure he was. I went to the opera with a dear friend from Mills. Lovely production. We had a few drinks afterwards at the Benson. It was late when I got home, so I tiptoed in like a good mouse and went straight to bed. Sleepy time. I didn’t wake up until ten-thirty or eleven Saturday.”

“And you and your husband don’t share a bedroom?”

“No. He snores.” She sounded amused. “He has his bedroom. I have mine. Our dressing rooms adjoin. I heard his DVD player still going strong when I came in.”

“I see.” He held the paper to the light. “Do you know a woman by the name of Phyllis Holton?”

Silence. At last she said in a taut voice, “Phyllis is one of Vance’s sales staff. A realtor. She’s worked for him for years.”

Rob digested that.

“May I ask how her name came up?”

Rob took a gamble. “Harold Brandstetter called the number frequently in the last month or so. Commissioner Brandstetter was killed early Saturday morning.”

“The bastard!” Mrs. Tichnor no longer sounded sultry. She was one angry woman.

Rob said, cautious, “Are you referring to Hal Brandstetter?”

“That fat idiot? No, you fool, I mean Vance. Brandstetter probably used Phyllis to relay messages to my charming husband. I warned Vance I’d divorce him if he resumed his affair with Phyllis. She was his mistress all through his first marriage, but I don’t stand for that kind of treatment. I value my health. God knows who else she sleeps with. I warned Vance in no uncertain terms, and he promised me he’d break off with her. Well, obviously he didn’t. Tell him from me he can meet my lawyer any time.”

“Mrs. Tichnor?” She had hung up.

Rob dialed her number.

“What?” Moira Tichnor half screamed.

“Mrs. Tichnor, I’m sorry to upset you, but I’d like to clarify this relationship. Ms. Holton is—”

“The bitch who is humping my husband.”

“Do not hang up, ma’am, unless you’d like a lengthy personal visit from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Department.” He could hear her breathing. “Thank you. Now, what can you tell me of your husband’s involvement with Harold Brandstetter?”

“They were childhood friends.” She sounded sullen but calmer. “Hal was filth, literally greasy. He ran a gas station, of all things.” She gave a short, unamused laugh. “Really, when I married him five years ago, I thought Vance was more fastidious. Silly me.”

Rob waited.

“Mostly they went fishing together, male-bonding stuff. Hal bored and disgusted me, and I have nothing in common with little Tammy Faye, or whatever the wife’s name is. When Vance decided to build on the Tyee Lake property, I was afraid he’d tangle himself in deeper with that loser, and that’s what he did. He swore he was just making sure he’d get the necessary building permits from the county, but it was more than that.”

“More?”

“It was as if Brandstetter had something on him. We were supposed to go to Salishan Thursday. Vance promised me we’d go, then something came up in Klalo, I assumed a call from Hal or the builders. Vance took off in the Windstar. Just left me a note.”

“What time did your husband come home?”

She was still for a moment, then said in a cold, flat voice, “I used my season ticket at the opera Friday night. I don’t know what Vance was doing in your godforsaken county. I wish I’d never heard of Latouche County.”

“Tell me about Vance’s guns.”

“Guns? What about them?” She sounded frightened.

“I understand he’s a collector.”

“Collector? Ha! Vance is a magpie. He has a small gun collection and two vintage cars and a lot of expensive wine. That’s showing off. His knowledge, even of guns, is shallower than a saucer. When we remodeled last year, I made him get rid of most of the junk.”

“When last year?”

“Early spring. Vance doesn’t collect. He just uses things to impress people. And sometimes,” she added with great bitterness, “he uses people to impress people. He used me. I see that now.”

Rob said, “Tell me about the house on Tyee Lake. Have you seen it?”

She sniffled and gave a watery laugh. “God, yes, in all stages of construction. I told you Vance likes to show off. It’s a big house. Lots of windows and bathrooms.”

“Which contractor did he use?”

“Uh, Akers? Yeah, I remember thinking it was a good name for a developer. Acres and acres.”

Rob drew a long, long breath. All right. “How far along is the project?”

“They were installing carpets last week.”

Almost finished. Damnation. He was hoping the lodge was still in the dirt-and-squalor stage. “Mr. Tichnor is not registered at the Red Hat Motel. Could he be staying at his new place?”

“Probably,” Moira Tichnor said with weary indifference. “Or he may be snuggled up with lovely Phyllis.”

“Do you know her street address?”

“Just a minute.”

He listened to rustling silence. She came back on the line with an address in West Linn. Close to Lake Oswego, lower rents. He thanked her and wound down. She sounded subdued now, anger spent. She was probably calculating marital debits and credits, and trying to decide whether it was time to cash in.

His cell phone rang. “Neill.”

“Hello, Rob. It’s Meg.”

“Jesus, I forgot to call you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I hear you had a suicide to attend to.”

“Was it on the news?”

“Radio. Listen, Rob, Charlotte Tichnor called me.” Meg’s voice warmed as she reported her revelations. She was clearly still on Charlotte’s trail, though she had targeted Vance Tichnor as well. Not to mention Carol.

Rob made appreciative noises. What Meg said was interesting, but Mack was going to pull the plug on further investigation any moment. That took the bloom off the rose.

She ventured a cautious question about Meek’s death, so Rob told her about Todd’s emotional crisis.

“Oh, poor Todd. Are you sure he’s all right?”

“I stopped by his apartment this morning. He was eating a breakfast pizza with pepperoni.”

Meg laughed.

“I think he’ll survive.” He added, “It’s hard on him, though. I told him to take a couple of days off.”

“What about Chief Thomas?”

Rob groaned. “Look, Meg, I need to get back to work. Can I drop by later?”

“Sure. I’ve got our dessert in the freezer.”

“Cold comfort food?”

He liked her laughter, the right music on a blue day. He hesitated, lost for a moment in a pleasant reverie, then shook his head to clear it and rang off.

Phyllis Holton. He found the number for Tichnor Realty and dialed it. The woman who answered put him through to Ms. Holton without a quibble. Rob identified himself.

“Latouche County? I suppose this is something to do with Mr. Tichnor’s property up there. How can I help you?” The voice was professionally pleasant.

“I’m calling in connection with the murder of Harold Brandstetter, Ms. Holton.”

“It’s Mrs. I’m a widow.”

“Thank you. When we examined Brandstetter’s telephone records, your home number came up repeatedly.”

Silence. Mrs. Holton cleared her throat. “I met Commissioner Brandstetter only the one time. He called to leave messages for my employer, Vance Tichnor.”

“I see. What was the nature of the messages?”

“I’m not sure that’s your business.”

Rob said, “I’m conducting a homicide investigation, ma’am. Anything Harold Brandstetter did in the last twenty-four hours of his life is my business. He called your home. Why was that, Mrs. Holton? Mr. Tichnor informed me with some heat that he’s a businessman and has not one but two cell phones. With message service, I imagine. Why would Brandstetter call your home?”

Again, a hesitation. “Both Vance and Brandstetter were a little paranoid about cell phones—”

“Hal called from a cell phone.”

“I suppose he thought he’d be able to catch Vance at my place,” the woman said wearily.

“Is that usual in the real estate business?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Lieutenant. Vance and I are old friends. Why am I engaging in euphemism? Anyone who knows us will tell you that Vance and I are lovers. We have been for many years.”

“So his wife suggested.”

“Ah, poor Moira.” She sounded rueful rather than catty. “Our Moira is a little childish, I’m afraid. She’s twenty years younger than Vance. A trophy wife. I suppose you know the expression.”

“It has wended its way upriver.”

She laughed. “She’s expensively slim and expensively educated and expensively clothed. She looks great on public occasions. Mama approves of her taste.”

“I see,” Rob murmured by way of encouragement.

“Thick as a plank,” Phyllis Holton said without evident rancor. “Moira may well have been in love with Vance when they married. God knows he’s an attractive man, and I know he lusted after her. I don’t want to suggest there was no emotional attachment, but I’m afraid they bore each other. She doesn’t get his jokes, and he doesn’t like opera. What can I say? She’ll take him to the cleaners one of these days, and he’ll deserve it. When he wants comfort, he comes to me.”

“Then you know him very well. What can you tell me about his collection of Native American art?”

“His—” She broke off, coughing. “Sorry, frog in my throat. I don’t know what art you’re talking about. Vance is a compulsive collector. I suppose at some point he may have collected pots or arrowheads, but, if so, he moved on to other things. Right now he’s buying a vintage Daimler.”

So much for that gamble. Rob thanked Mrs. Holton and hung up.

There was no serious doubt in his mind that Vance Tichnor had acquired the Lauder Point artifacts, perhaps even commissioned the theft. Probably at a later time, he had stored at least some of them in his grandfather’s garage. There was no way Rob could see of implicating him in the murder, however, and no way to be sure that the loot had been taken to his new lodge.

Tichnor was influential. The speed with which his plans had been approved by the county commissioners, commissioners other than Brandstetter, indicated that Rob would have to walk warily. He did not yet have grounds for a search warrant, and Mack was about to close the case.

Frustrated, Rob shoved his chair back and stood up. Time for another visit to the courthouse. The plans for Tichnor’s lodge would be on file—and the names and telephone numbers of the principal contractors. He’d already spoken to Akers about the trailer at the campground. Akers claimed not to know William Meek. He had given a key to Hal Brandstetter, whose politics he admired.

R
OB showed up at the happy hour, though he didn’t look happy. He presented Meg with a bottle of Laphroaig. She wondered whether single-malt Scotch went with chocolate ice cream, but she didn’t hesitate to pour.

Though her living room was more or less in order, they sat in the kitchen anyway. She was making soup again. It was soup weather.

The Scotch rolled on Meg’s tongue and slid down her throat to the nerve endings along her spine, radiating a gentle Caledonian warmth as it went. “Good stuff.”