Elizabeth C. Main - Jane Serrano 01 - Murder of the Month (9 page)

She nodded. “Guilty conscience.”

We lapsed into silence as Gil spoke. “That’s okay, Jamie. As you know, Sheriff Kraft continues his investigation. I don’t know much about what happened, but I’m always available to the press.” He took a step closer to the camera. “To begin with, I want to thank Vanessa’s many friends for your concern. It helps more than you know.”

“What a phony.” Bianca wasn’t buying it. I kept quiet.

“Sir, I know this is painful, but could you please tell us what you’ve learned so far about what happened yesterday?”

“As I said, I don’t know much yet, but Vanessa has—had—recently developed an interest in videography. Arnie
—
Sheriff Kraft, that is
—
thinks she lost her balance while using her new camcorder, which I gave to her on our last anniversary.” He gave a small, sad smile. “She was just learning how to use it, so perhaps she lost a sense of where she was standing in relation to the edge. Or possibly her shoe rolled on some loose rock. The camcorder was found at the bottom of the gorge, near where …” he paused and swallowed a couple of times before finishing quietly, ” … It was broken, of course.”

“Did you know she planned to go to the Crooked River Gorge yesterday?”

Slowly, as if fumbling for words, Gil continued. “No, but that wouldn’t be unusual. With the time demands of my job, she was on her own a lot. I’ve been working on a major case—”

He paused long enough for Jamie to fill in the gaps. Jamie had been to journalism school and understood the need for background information, so he jumped right in. “You’re referring to the recent Wendorf case, in which a local high school student, Max Wendorf, set off a smoke bomb at Juniper High School, a case which you personally have pursued vigorously—”

“
Yes. It’s taken a great deal of my time, but I’m proud that I’ve been able to take a strong stand for safety in our schools.”

“I understand that you and your wife were once students at Juniper High School, where Max Wendorf’s father, Kurt, was a classmate of yours. That old friendship must have made the case a difficult one for you to prosecute.”

“Nothing is too difficult when the safety of our students is at stake. Vanessa understood the importance of this case, and she supported my work fully. One way she helped me was by pursuing her own wide range of community and personal interests so that I would be free to discharge my obligations to the people of Russell County as necessary.” Gil spread his arms expressively. “She was truly my partner in every way.”

“Can you believe that hypocrite?” Bianca jumped from her chair and started toward the TV, as though she couldn’t bear to watch another minute. Seeing the look on my face, she stopped short of snapping it off. “Okay, okay, I’ll watch the rest.” She folded her arms and stood there, seething, while the interview wound to its conclusion.

“
Do you blame the State of Oregon for not placing a guard rail at that spot on the trail?”

“
I’ll leave the assessment of blame to others,” Gil said kindly, “but, yes, I’d like to see a barrier there. I plan to offer to put one there myself, if the law will allow it, in the hope that no one else will ever have to suffer the loss of a loved one on that treacherous path.”

“And finally, Mr. Fortune, in the face of your personal tragedy, will you continue to pursue your candidacy to fill the vacancy created by Ted Bergan’s recent, unexpected resignation as Oregon’s Attorney General?”

“
I can’t think about that now, but it’s certainly what Vanessa would have wanted. She loved this country so much,” he said, “and so do I. How can I not do my best for them both?” The cameras swung wide to get a shot of the mountains in the background just as Bianca punched the off switch and the TV screen went black.

“Okay, I’ve watched. I said I would and I did.”

“And you’ll wait …?”

“… until Arnie gets done playing sheriff. Then it will be my turn to run a real investigation.”

I arrived early for Vanessa’s funeral Sunday afternoon so I’d have time to visit Tony’s grave. I had come here often this past year to talk to him, knowing with greater certainty each time that he would never answer me again. Even so, the Juniper Memorial Cemetery was a peaceful place.

It lay nestled at the foot of Wild Horse Butte on the east side of town, a prominent cinder cone left over from some long-ago geologic eruption. This cemetery had served as the final resting place for Russell County citizens since the days when early settlers had succumbed to typhoid and childbed fever. Over the years, large elm trees had spread their foliage into a comforting canopy over the uneven rows of headstones in the oldest part of the cemetery, that area lying nearest to Wild Horse Butte. It was laid out in no particular pattern, for early families hadn’t realized that Juniper would one day grow large enough to make cemetery space a problem. Already, however, the topmost part of the cemetery was full and the headstones cascaded down the gentle slope in ragged disorder. For years Ned Jenkins, noted neither for keen mind nor industrious nature, had been paid to mow the grass once in a while, but the haphazard placement of the stones thwarted his modest efforts, and some stones had disappeared altogether into the spreading knapweed mixed in with wildflowers.

The newer part of the cemetery further down the hill had been taken over by the City of Juniper, which had immediately imposed a strict order on the placement of graves and a regular schedule for mowing the grass. On the whole, I would have preferred to rest among the wildflowers when my time came. Having my eternal resting place regimented, trimmed and mowed all the time didn’t sound very restful. It wouldn’t have been Tony’s choice either, but there was no space further up the slope.

I glanced down the hill to make sure I still had time before the arrival of others for Vanessa’s funeral to climb to the older section and wander among the stones. The flowery messages so popular a century before were everywhere. I paused to consider the grave of Hettie Margonis, “beloved wife and mother,” beside the cherub-topped stone of Sarah Margonis with the words “called to God too soon” guarding the tiny plot. Both the birth and death dates for Sarah were October third, 1891. Where was Mr. Margonis? No nearby marker completed the story about this little family, and I didn’t know anyone with that surname among the current residents of Juniper. Maybe the deaths of his wife and infant daughter had caused him to push on to the Oregon coast, or maybe, like so many others, he had become discouraged with his pioneer adventure and returned east.

At the very top of the hill I found the grand tomb of Marcus T. Konig, saloon proprietor and original owner of the stately house that had become Thornton’s Books. His monument would have been hard to miss, though the winged angels overseeing his sepulcher seemed somewhat at variance with his reputation, which hovered between legendary and scandalous. Since starting work at Thornton’s, I had been treated by old-timers to colorful descriptions of Mr. Konig’s activities in the room upstairs, which currently held military books. It used to have an outside staircase, which explained a lot about the origin of the more colorful tales. Apparently Mr. Konig had been no stranger to military-style campaigning himself. No wonder he had gone through three wives, none of whom seemed to be buried by his side. I doubted that Mr. Konig deserved an angelic escort through eternity, but he had certainly surrounded himself with enough angel statuary to create the illusion of piety.

Putting aside thoughts of Juniper’s past, I finally made my way back down the hill to join the people who were now gathering for the latest chapter in the town’s continuing story. Vanessa Fortune’s fatal fall would enter Juniper’s folklore soon enough, but right now it was an open wound.

A mahogany pedestal had been imported from Morrell’s Funeral Home to provide a podium for the minister. The base concealed a gleaming CD player, from which the stately chords of “The Old Rugged Cross” rose and drifted across the still afternoon air. A nearby card table covered in purple velvet held the book in which those in attendance could record their presence.

After signing in, I took a seat on a folding chair toward the back. Listening to the familiar hymn, I felt a calmness steal over me for the first time since Wednesday. Bianca’s ravings had thrown me temporarily off stride, but this peaceful old cemetery was helping me to regain perspective. Surely by next week’s book club meeting Bianca would have simmered down. I knew I had the bad habit of letting other people dictate my response to things, and I felt a pinprick of annoyance at the way I had allowed Bianca’s accusations to upset me. I hadn’t known Vanessa well, and I might very well have skipped the services today if I hadn’t been prompted by some vague notion of showing support for Gil. Judging from the size of the crowd, he was receiving plenty of support from others. Still, how awful for him if he happened to hear anything about Bianca’s ridiculous theory.

Uniformed members of the Juniper City Police and the Russell County Sheriff’s Department were sprinkled through the crowd today, some sitting in the audience and others controlling traffic. The perimeter of the cemetery was lined with media trucks, some of which had traveled over the mountains from Portland and Eugene stations, judging by the call letters emblazoned on their sides. Only people on foot were allowed past the barricades. Though Morrell’s had probably brought every chair they owned, they hadn’t brought enough for this crowd.

The front row contained Vanessa’s somber parents. Gil took his place beside them, though I noticed that Vanessa’s mother moved further away than necessary to give him room. Apparently no love lost there. Perhaps she too had heard the rumors Alix had mentioned … or perhaps I was getting as fanciful as my daughter, building something out of nothing. I wondered idly whether Gil had any relatives in attendance. I didn’t see anyone I didn’t recognize in the front row, but Gil was an only child, and his parents were long dead, so maybe he didn’t have any. Harley sat solidly beside him on the other side. Right behind Gil sat Jonathan Roose, the local Republican representative to the U.S. House of Representatives, and Adele Nassley, the Republican State Senator from our district. No wonder the reporters had stayed. Further down the row I recognized some of Gil’s colleagues from the local district attorney’s office. At the far end sat the competent new assistant D.A., Linda Sanchez, whom I’d met often when she bought books at Thornton’s. If, as everyone expected, Gil wound up as Oregon’s next Attorney General, it was common knowledge that Linda hoped to get Gil’s current job. She was young, only thirty, but if she practiced law as intelligently as she assimilated the contents of the books she bought, she had a bright future.

A swirl of color caught my eye and I knew from the paisley scarf blowing in the suddenly freshening breeze that Minnie had arrived. With great dexterity, she made her way through the crowd of mourners, holding her hat with one hand while she patted and hugged people of all ages and descriptions with the other. Minnie was a well-known patter and hugger, taking care to acknowledge everyone, particularly anyone standing alone. She washed church supper dishes until the last plate was back in the cupboard, and she was always the first to offer help when trouble surfaced. In fact, if someone hoped to deal privately with a difficulty and Minnie got wind of it, the only way to fend off her concern was to leave town until someone else in trouble diverted her interest. More than one Juniper resident had been alerted to the fact that a personal trauma had become a public concern when he had opened the door to find Minnie on his doorstep, a savory pot pie in her outstretched arms.

Minnie started to sit in the row ahead, but when she spotted me, she gave a significant nod and proceeded to pat and hug her way back out to the aisle and into my row. After settling her considerable bulk in the seat beside me and taming the wayward scarf as best she could, she raised her carefully plucked eyebrows and leaned over to ask in what was, for her, a low voice, “How’s it going?”

“
Going?”
Minnie nodded enthusiastically and her voice rose in volume. “Chicken casserole, right? Just bring it by the church when we’re done here.” I was momentarily confused until I realized that this comment was directed to the woman sitting on the other side of me.

Minnie explained, “Food for after the service. I just hope we have enough. I’m about done in. ‘Many hands make light work,’ they say, but probably that’s some man’s idea. Men just stand around and look sad when something like this happens. They don’t have to round up casseroles and salads and silverware. Would you believe it? I don’t know what happens to the church silverware, but it’s never there when we need it. I’ve been chasing knives and forks all over town. Everyone borrows it when visitors come—which is just fine, of course—but do they think to return it? Good thing I spotted some when I was doing dishes at Grabels’ house last week—after Marge’s surgery, you know—or I wouldn’t have thought to call them. You’re coming to the dinner, aren’t you?”

Giving me no chance to answer, she swept on. “Such a day, such a sad day. I’m not complaining about the work, mind you. It’s wonderful to see such an outpouring of emotion … the whole community coming together to pray for Vanessa—and to support poor Gil. I guess I should have realized, after all those news people arrived, that Gil has lots of friends, not just here, but all over the state. Did you see him on TV the other day?”

“
Well, I—”

But Minnie was off again at full throttle. “Once I saw all those news trucks rolling into town, I just said to myself, ‘Minnie, you’d better double every recipe you own, so I did. And I called all the members of the Serve and Share Committee to ask them to do the same. Every one of them said they were willing. Can you believe that? Every last one, bless their hearts. It’s a good thing, too, with so many people here.