Scene of the Climb (8 page)

“Mary Margaret Reed.”

“How do you spell that?”

I spelled my name letter by letter as he scribbled on his notepad.

“Reed—hmm. Any relation to Charlie Reed?”

I looked at him with wide eyes. He knew Pops? “Yeah, Charlie's—well, Charlie was my dad.”

He tugged a toothpick from a canister resting on the dash. He gnawed it and appraised me.

“A shame we have to meet like this. I knew your dad. He thought the world of you. Talked about you all the time.”

He looked like someone Pops would like, with his soft eyes, deep wrinkles and the wooden toothpick clamped between his teeth. His white scruffy cheeks looked due for a shave.

“How did you know my dad?” I asked.

A dispatcher came over the radio barking out code numbers. Sheriff Daniels ignored them, turned down the volume and said, “Charlie was a good pal. We worked together on that meth story. Until . . .” He stopped and wrinkled his forehead. “Until well, you know, he went off the deep end. What a shame. His case file is sitting on the corner of my desk.”

Oh, no, not this. Not Pops'
meth madness,
as Mother called it. Pops had been a revered journalist throughout the state. He'd worked his way up from covering the street beat to becoming
The O
's lead investigative reporter. Along the way he acquired enough awards to fill an entire wall and a handful of enemies—most from the meth story.

Sheriff Daniels distracted my thoughts when he put his hand on the small of his back and shifted in his seat. “Sorry, my back's been out for weeks. Can't seem to find a comfortable way to sit.”

“You should go see my gam,” I said. “She's a Reiki healer. I know that kind of scares people, but it's just moving energy in your body. It could help.”

“I may do that. I'll try about anything right now.”

He cleared his throat, still clenching the toothpick. “Back to business,” he said, eyeing me cautiously. “What's your purpose here?”

“I uh—I'm on assignment for
Northwest Extreme
magazine.”

Sheriff Daniels rested his pen on the top of his notebook and appraised me with one eye, “Yep, you look the type.” He muttered, “Greg always goes for young reporters. Go figure.” He picked up his pen. “What did you see up there?”

“I saw Lenny fly off the summit.” I paused for a second, watching fat raindrops splatter on the windshield. The sound made me think of Lenny. Although I hadn't heard the impact, he must have landed with a splat. Ugh. I gave an involuntary shudder and said, “I think someone pushed him.”

“Chip off your dad's block, huh?” He laughed again, but wrote nothing in his notebook.

“Don't you want to take this down?” My voice held an edge. “I heard him scream and then he went sailing past me—but his body cartwheeled. It didn't look like he tripped.”

“Had a lot of experience with these kinds of falls, have you?” His eyebrows wrinkled.

“Listen, I'm serious. There's something up with this whole Race the States production. Didn't Greg mention anything?”

“Nope. Not a word.”

“Well, you should talk to him again. I know he's suspicious too.”

Sheriff Daniels closed his notebook and clicked his pen shut. “I'll do that, Ms. Reed. Don't you worry. Here's what I think. You got spooked up there. Understandable. Happens to the best of us. My advice? Go home. Get some sleep and you'll feel much better by tomorrow.”

I glared at him and thrust open the car door.

“I'll follow up if we need anything else for your statement.”

I slammed the door shut and stalked over to the van. Greg, Krissy, Dave and Andrew huddled in conversation.

“How'd it go, Meg?” Greg asked, giving me a questioning look.

“Fine,” I said with a half shrug.

“All righty, Meggie and Greg-o, we're gonna head out to pick up Alicia and Leaf at Multnomah Falls,” Dave said. “Meet ya all for the bar-bie later?”

Greg assessed the four of us. Krissy's glasses were slightly askew, Andrew's face sweat-stained and my crunchy hair dried to my head. “Don't you think we should postpone it until tomorrow?”

Dave scoffed. “Nah, Lenny would want us to go on. We can make it a wake. Seven o'clock?”

“I guess,” Greg replied, trying to summon a different response from Krissy or Andrew. Neither of them bit.

“Okay, if you're sure. I guess I'll see you at seven.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair as they all piled into the van.

Krissy maneuvered the van eastward out of the parking lot. I pleaded with Greg, “Why didn't you—” but the sound of a siren cut me off.

The medical examiner arrived. Sheriff Daniels pulled back caution tape to allow the ambulance to enter. There wasn't a body for him to examine. The Crag Rats were still lowering themselves and Lenny's body on the sheer rock face.

“You go home. Take a bath or something. I'll hang out until this is wrapped.”

“But why didn't you say anything to the sheriff?”

Greg looked around the parking lot. “Not now. Not here. Go rest. We'll talk later.”

Confusion swirled in my head. None of this made sense. Why wouldn't Greg say something to Sheriff Daniels? I could tell from his solid stance I wasn't going to get anywhere by pushing him right now.

I might as well head home. A bath sounded like bliss. I could smell the lavender bath salts Jill kept next to her tub. Tugging my arm out of one of the sleeves of Greg's fleece, his warm, firm hand caught mine.

“Keep it.”

Before pulling out of the parking lot, I texted Jill. I knew she was in depositions, but I had to tell someone.

Two hours later, my cell phone alarm blared in my ear. With my eyes shut, I reached my hand out toward Jill's coffee table. Fumbling over a pile of candy wrappers and an empty chip bag (hey, I needed comfort food after today's ordeal) I found my phone and slid the alarm off.

The warmth of my squishy feather-filled down comforter wasn't enough to escape the first image that flashed through my mind—Lenny's body plunging past me. I stretched and pulled my phone close to my face—6:15. The barbeque hosted by
Northwest Extreme
was in forty-five minutes. I'd better get moving.

A text beeped on the screen. Text messages are announced on my phone with the sound of the return key on an old-fashioned typewriter. I should have been born in the 1950s. It suited my style. The high-waisted skirts, clunky typewriters, men who knew how to dazzle women with their impeccable style and manners; yep I was born forty years too late. My dream home office, where I'd write my Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, would pay homage to my favorite decade. I keep a secret file folder with clippings of a vintage red Olivetti and of a coral satin flare dress. One day, when I have my own place I'll deck my office out with these trinkets of inspiration.

The text was from Jill.

It read, Sorry. Been in depos all day. Done by 7:30 or 8:00. Get a beer then? Love you.

Seeing her friendly words brought a smile to my face. But ouch, did moving ever hurt. Angel's Rest killed my quads. I pushed myself off the couch with my arms and hobbled down the hallway to the bathroom.

After a quick shower, I dusted my face with powder, applied lip gloss, blew my hair dry upside down and tugged on a pair of stretch jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt and my favorite pink puffy vest. My cheeks and lips were chapped and raw with windburn. My eyes felt heavy. I'd have to wear my glasses.

I much prefer my contacts, but when the occasion for frames occurs I'm glad I have an assortment to choose from. Without corrective lenses I'm absolutely blind. Can't see my hand in front of my face. Fortunately, my prescription hasn't changed since I was in elementary school. Since my insurance covers a new pair of frames once a year, I've amassed an impressive collection of frames. Tonight I opted for a chocolate brown frame with pink sherbet swirls.

I scribbled a note for Jill, telling her I'd be late but was okay, grabbed my keys and headed to the office. Greg had invited the Race the States contestants and crew, key advertisers, as well as the entire staff to a welcome barbeque.

It was risky to commit to any sort of outdoor event in April in the Pacific Northwest. Tonight the weather gods were on Greg's side. Maybe Dave was right—Lenny was sending a message through the weather. The earlier clouds and rain made way for a clear purple evening sky. The sun was low on the horizon and illuminated the Willamette River as I drove to headquarters. Maybe it was the hour-long steamy bath I'd taken prior to crashing on Jill's couch, but the air felt surprisingly warm. I cranked the window and blasted “Mambo Italiano” by Rosemary Clooney.

When I pulled into
Northwest Extreme
's parking lot, it was jammed with cars. A fifty-foot tent stretched across the grassy area in front of the building. Twinkle lights were strung along its edges and portable heaters hummed in each corner. Bistro tables and chairs were clothed in black and six-foot tables lined the edge of the tent.

Are we really having a party? Lenny just died.
I shuddered.
This is wrong.

When Greg took over as editor in chief at the magazine, he moved the operation from a drab downtown office to the converted brick warehouse next to the Willamette River. A walking path from the building's front doors wound for miles along the riverfront. Tonight, a jazz quartet played softly on the path. White and pink flowering cherry trees lined the river.

Hickory-scented smoke billowed from four enormous black barbeques at the far side of the tent. Waitstaff in crisp white aprons circulated platters from the barbeques to the tables at the back of the tent. Others circled with trays of appetizers mounted on their hands. A line snaked to a fully stocked bar where bartenders were pouring wine and pulling frothy glasses of beer from microbrew taps.

Dang, Greg knew how to throw a party. I hoped I wasn't underdressed. Scanning the crowd, I waved to a group of my coworkers all dressed casually as well—whew.

I hightailed it to the drink line. Armed with a pint of IPA, I circulated the tent. No sign of Greg, but Krissy and Alicia who were seated at a bistro table waved me over. I set my glass on the table and said, “Be right back, I'm going to grab a bite to eat. Either of you want anything?”

“We're good,” Krissy said, motioning to the plates in front of them.

My stomach lurched with hunger. I meandered my way through the crowd to the food tables and piled my plate with lemon-grilled chicken, strawberries, grapes, white cheddar cheese cubes, a green salad, a sourdough muffin and a chocolate cream tart. I had to carefully balance it back to the table.

“Hungry?” Alicia snarked. Her plate looked like she barely nibbled on anything.

“Yeah,” I said, not caring as I dug into the juicy chicken. “It's been a long day.”

I noticed her right arm was covered with scratches.

“What happened to your arm?”

She held up her arm. “This? It's nothing. Ran into a sticker bush on the trail.”

“It looks like it hurts.”

“Nah. It's fine.”

“We were just talking about what happened up there today,” Krissy said, twirling a glass of white wine in her hand. “I still can't believe Lenny of all people fell.”

“That's called karma,” said Alicia, twisting a black cloth napkin in her hand. “Constantly bragging about how skilled and tough he was.”

I swallowed a bite of sharp cheese before asking Alicia, “Did you hear anything up there?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Lenny fell. You couldn't have been far ahead, right? Did you hear him scream?” I pulled the stem off the top of a strawberry and popped it my mouth. The cold juice hurt my teeth.

Alicia wrung the napkin with her hands. “No, I didn't hear a thing. Contrary to what Lenny might have told you though, I'm actually the fastest. I beat them all to Multnomah. Lenny was lagging behind anyway. Called ahead and told us he had to stop for a minute. Maybe he figured we'd wait for him. No way. I kept sprinting.”

“That must have been when he fell,” Krissy exclaimed. “I bet he stopped to fix a broken lace and slipped.” She slugged wine and said, “You were there, Meg. What did you see?”

What did I see? My mind muddled. I tried to replay the events in my head.

“She doesn't want to talk about it, Krissy,” Alicia said.

“No, I'm okay. It's just hard to piece it all together.” I paused and took a sip of my beer. The smell of hops hit my nose. “I slipped right before I saw him fall. I was distracted, trying to stop myself from sliding over the ledge. I couldn't really see anything.”

“What a way to go.” Alicia shuddered and threw her napkin over her plate. She pushed herself up from her chair and said, “I'm getting another drink.”

Krissy knocked down the rest of her wine and shot up with her glass in hand, “Wait for me. I'll join you.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“This seat taken?”

I turned to see Greg standing behind me.

“Cute glasses,” he said as he set an amber-colored beer on the table and pulled a chair next to me.

Why hadn't I chosen a glass of wine? I was the only girl at the table drinking beer.

“You okay?”

“I don't know. This whole production feels weird. Why are we still having a party? Doesn't it seem strange that Dave isn't more bothered by Lenny's death?”

Greg rested one hand on his temple. “I'm not sure. Everyone reacts differently to stress.” He coughed as Alicia and Krissy approached the table.

Nodding at Krissy's wineglass he said, “Perfect Riesling, isn't it? Grapes are grown south of here. The owner's one of our top advertisers.”

He stood, nodded to Alicia, squeezed Krissy's shoulder, grabbed his beer and sauntered away.

“God, I want a boss like that,” Krissy said, staring at Greg's backside.

From the way Greg squeezed her shoulder I was pretty sure he returned her feelings. In a strange way it made me feel better. He is my boss after all. I needed to stop acting like a lovesick teenager and start acting like the professional journalist he hired.

“What's Dave like as a boss?” I asked.

Krissy slurped more wine. The girl could drink. Impressive with her tiny frame. The room tilted slightly with a half of a pint of beer for me.

“Dave's a character. It's the Aussie thing. They play by different rules. Actually they don't have any rules.”

She took another swig of wine. This was good. Maybe if she kept drinking she'd answer more questions for me.

Alicia stirred a thin black straw in her glass. I couldn't tell what it contained, but it looked like something much higher in alcohol content than my IPA. She appeared bored with our conversation and scanned the room, probably hoping to find another table to join.

“Dave knows the biz,” Krissy continued. “You can't take that from him. And he's crafty when it comes to funding. He's found a way to get every single one of his projects off the ground. Trust me; most Hollywood producers can't claim that kind of success. Unless you're a Spielberg or something.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The thing is I'm the one working the deal with the network this time. Not Dave. This is going to launch my career.”

Alicia scoffed.

Krissy polished off her wine. “Oregon reminds me of New Zealand. All this greenery and beer.”

“I didn't know you were in New Zealand. Is that where you met Dave?”

“No. No, I've never been there. Dave talks about it so much. It's what I imagine it would be like—forests, beer lovers,” Krissy said, holding her empty glass and craning to see how long the line for alcohol was.

Waiters cleared food off the tables and worked the room with champagne and dessert trays. One paused at our table. “Champagne, ladies?”

We all nodded as he carefully handed each of us a fluted glass filled with bubbling champagne. I took a sip. The sweet bubbles exploded in my mouth like Pop Rocks.

“That's weird because Andrew told me he and Dave worked on a project that never made it past the cutting room floor,” I said. Had Andrew lied?

Krissy snatched a second glass of champagne and downed it. She set the flute on the table and brushed me off. “Oh, don't listen to Andrew. He's always complaining. He and Dave go way back.”

The sound of forks on the sides of glasses filled the room as Greg with a microphone in his hand addressed the crowd. His tone was somber as he gave a tribute to Lenny. “We lost a great man and adventure racer today.” A hush came over the crowd.

Greg talked about Lenny for at least ten minutes. Why wasn't Dave speaking? Shouldn't he be the one to acknowledge Lenny's death?

Greg went on to toast the original ten Race the States contestants and thanked everyone for their support in what he said would be “an epic experience. Sure to put the Pacific Northwest on the map as the premiere outdoor adventure spot in the world. Let's do this for Lenny.” This was greeted with applause and “For Lenny” from the crowd.

I surveyed the room and spotted Andrew near the jazz band. His hands were flying wildly in the air, obviously arguing with someone. But I couldn't make out who it was. My glasses didn't have the same range as my contacts. I squinted, trying to catch a glimpse.

Alicia swiveled her body and attention to our table. She strummed her nails, caked with dirt, on the tablecloth. “What are you looking at?” she asked in a sullen tone.

“Nothing. I thought I saw a friend of mine.”

Alicia snapped her head over her shoulder to the spot I'd been staring at. Andrew's beefy body moved slightly, revealing Leaf, who stalked out of the tent and toward the riverfront with Andrew shaking his index finger after him.

“Old friend, huh?” Alicia asked, shooting me a quizzical look.

I shrugged, stood with my beer in hand and excused myself from the table. “I need fresh air. Can't waste a spring evening like this. See you two later.”

As quickly as I could manage on my gimpy feet, I scooted outside. The sun had sunk in the west. The night air, saturated with barbeque and cherry blossoms, felt refreshingly cool on my face. A slight breeze rustled branches in the trees along the waterfront. I rested my half-full beer on the curb and zipped my vest. Trying to adjust to the darkness I scanned the grounds for any sign of Leaf. The city lights reflected in the river, but otherwise the path was submerged in darkness.

A tingle of frozen air snuck along my spine as I left the safety and warmth of the tent behind and gimped on the sidewalk to the larger path running parallel to the water. During daylight hours the path welcomed mothers pushing babies in jogging strollers, die-hard runners and homeless people camped out under the oak trees. By night the path was empty. I looked to my left and right—no sign of Leaf in either direction.

Maybe he'd taken off for his hotel on foot. I decided to give up the hunt, but caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone was leaning over the edge of the protective wall. The Willamette River ran five feet below.

Typically the river flowed twenty feet below, but this winter's rain had left the river swollen and flirting with flood stage for the past four months. The river has a history of floods. In the 1800s and 1900s it inundated downtown Portland's main streets. This year water spilled over the retaining wall in February. Newscasters camped out on river watch. Thankfully the protective wall (reinforced after the big flood of 1996) held and businesses were spared.