Swift Edge (6 page)

“Gary said you were close,” I said, hiding my surprise.

“Were.”

“What happened?”

“What the hell business is it of yours?”

“It’s not, unless it plays into his disappearance. When did you last see him?”

She pulled another cigarette from a packet, more to give her hands something to do, I thought, than because she wanted a smoke. She didn’t light it. “Saturday morning. He came by here early to pick up his paycheck. I was here, decorating the cake for the Smith-Larsh wedding.”

“What did he say? Did he mention leaving town, an emergency of some kind maybe?”

She looked at me from under her lashes. “Gary tell you what happened Friday night?”

I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself as wind gusted into the courtyard. It was getting colder.

“I heard him tell Gary he was quitting. They argued.”

“About what?” Funny that Chemerkin hadn’t mentioned either Dmitri’s quitting or their argument. I’d have to look at Mr. Czarina Catering more closely, see what else he might be hiding.

“I don’t know. I was in the kitchen and they were in the office. After Dmitri said he was quitting, they closed the door and all I could hear was muffled shouting. I couldn’t make out the words.”

“What happened then?”

“I don’t know. I had to deliver the cake, and by the time I got back they were both gone.” She had peeled the paper off the cigarette as she talked, and now she scattered the tobacco shreds, letting the wind take them. Worry lurked in her eyes. “D’you think he’s okay?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“No reason.”

When I didn’t say anything, she ran her hands up and down her arms. “It’s cold.”

I still didn’t say anything, and she burst out, “Saturday was my birthday. He was supposed to take me and Tanya to dinner—we were going to Giuseppe’s—but he never showed up. He never even called! We waited an hour and a half. I finally made Tanya a PBJ.”

I understood why she’d called him a shitbird. He’d stood her up. “Tanya?”

“My daughter. She’s five.” Some of her tension eased as she thought about her kid. “She loves Dmitri.”

“Is he—?”

Real amusement flared in her eyes, making them look more blue than gray. “Tanya’s father? Nah, he plays for the other team, if you know what I mean. He’s been real good to Tanya, though. He was teaching her to skate. And he’s my best friend.” She said it wistfully, and I could see she was feeling guilty about being mad at Dmitri for standing her up. “When he didn’t show for the job Sunday night, either, I got really pissed at him, you know? I should have known something was wrong, that he wouldn’t flake out like that without a good reason. God, what kind of a friend am I?”

Now that she’d gotten over being mad at Dmitri, she was embracing self-flagellation with a passion. I inserted a question to stem the tide. “Can you think of any place he might be? Does he have a friend he might be staying with, or a special place he likes to go?”

“You got something to write on?”

I passed her my notebook, and she scribbled a couple of names before handing it back. “I can’t think of any special place—”

The sound of an approaching motor made us both look up. The Czarina Catering van negotiated the tight turn into the parking lot and idled. A man got out, opened the double doors at the back of the van, and disappeared into the kitchen without so much as looking in our direction. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Fiona said. “Y’know, Boyce might know of a spot.” She lifted her chin toward the kitchen. “He and Dmitri went off for a weekend, once. Fishing, I think. Maybe he—”

She broke off as the man emerged from the kitchen, pushing a rolling cart with a large white box perched atop it. “Hey, Boyce,” Fiona called. He looked up, all mousy hair and pasty skin, as we walked in his direction. “This woman’s a detective, and she wants to talk to you—”

Panic flared in his eyes, and he shoved the cart toward us, hard. Boyce took off down the alley, the green hood of his fleece pullover flapping behind him. The cart careened toward us. I reached out a hand to stop it, but one wheel lodged between two cobblestones and it jolted to a stop. The box, however, obeying some law of physics about items in motion staying in motion, didn’t stop. It slid off the stainless steel top of the cart and landed heavily but upright at our feet, the box splitting open to reveal the cake, still largely intact. As I watched, the top layer teetered on its pedestals. Fiona lunged for it. It slid away from her grasp and the whole cake collapsed as if dynamited, splattering white cake, blue icing, and gooey filling onto my shoes.

“Oh, shit,” Fiona and I said in unison.

7

With Bavarian cream filling squishing in my shoes, I climbed the stairs to Boyce Edgerton’s third-floor apartment off of Cascade Avenue in the heart of Colorado College country, my tailbone shrieking with every step. Fiona, furious with him, had given me his full name and the name of his complex.

“The Burtons are going to shit a brick,” she’d observed, picking one bruised carnation out of the cake muck at our feet. “The baptism will be ruined.”

I was pretty sure that baptisms “took” whether or not there was designer cake, and said as much. Fiona gave me a look that said I was dimmer than a night-light. “But the Burtons won’t pay us. Plus they’ll want their deposit back. I’d better get Gary—”

She disappeared inside the house, tracking cake the whole way, while I jumped in my Subaru and headed after Boyce. I’d found his reaction interesting, to say the least. Very few people took to their heels upon hearing I wanted to talk to them. A fair number of people didn’t want to talk to me a second time, for some reason or other, but I’m not that off-putting at first glance. Boyce’s flight was evidence of a guilty conscience, I deduced. Whether or not it was related to Dmitri Fane remained to be seen.

The building Boyce lived in was a beautiful old home converted to apartments. A wide walkway led to three shallow steps and an unlocked outer door. Didn’t these people know crime was rampant? One of the mail slots in the foyer said
B. EDGERTON
and gave the apartment number as 3A. I climbed. Arriving on an expansive landing with lovely, wide-planked hardwood floors, now scuffed by careless tenants dragging bicycles and strollers and furniture up and down, I knocked on the only door in sight. I had figured Boyce would scurry home—most critters run for their dens when panicked.

I was right. He pulled the door wide and then, when he saw me standing there, tried to shut it. I blocked it with a stiff arm. Unable to flee, he resorted to shouting.

“If that bitch Vanessa says I violated the TRO, she’s lying her head off. I haven’t been near her, Detective.” Anger mottled his fair skin an ugly puce.

The penny dropped. He thought I was a cop. I was not above taking advantage of his misconception. “I’m not here about the restraining order, Edgerton,” I said.

“You’re not?” Surprise dropped his arm from the door, and I walked in.

The apartment smelled vaguely of dirty laundry, stale pizza, and marijuana. Hm. All the windows were closed, and it was uncomfortably warm. I shrugged out of my peacoat but held on to it, unwilling to drape it on the only piece of furniture, a tatty futon stippled with cat hair. Ugh. A sheet-cum-curtain obscured the only window. A small kitchenette opened directly off the living area and featured a two-burner stove, a fridge, and a recycling bin piled high with Budweiser and Mountain Dew cans. Edgerton looked to be in his late twenties, but he’d apparently never outgrown his taste for frat boy life, or he’d reverted after he and the bitchy Vanessa broke up.

“I’m interested in Dmitri Fane,” I said in my most coplike voice.

Looking confused, Edgerton closed the door and gangled over to me. He wasn’t fat, but he looked soft, and I figured running away from Czarina Catering was the most exercise he’d gotten in a month. “What about Dmitri?”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Hey, is this about what happened Friday night? I had nothing to do with it!”

“I haven’t accused you of anything, Edgerton,” I said. My tone said I still might. “Tell me about Dmitri. Were you friends?”

“We hung out sometimes. I stayed with him for a couple weeks after Van kicked me out, until I found this place.” One large hand gestured at our palatial surroundings.

“Ms. Campbell said you and he went away for a weekend. Where did you go?”

“Fly-fishing,” Edgerton said. His eyes, a surprisingly attractive hazel, lit up. “It was sweet. I caught a rainbow this big.” He measured air with his hands.

“Congratulations. Where did you stay?”

“A cabin outside of Estes Park. We fished the Big Thompson.”

My pulse quickened. A mountain cabin sounded like a great place for a guy to disappear to. “Did Fane own the cabin? Do you have the address?”

“I could find it, but I don’t know the address. It was off of Route 7.”

A clinking sound from the kitchen made me turn. One of the beer cans toppled off the recycling bin and rolled across the linoleum. “What—?” I started. Then I saw a pointy nose wiggle behind the trash can. “Rat!” I yelped, pointing.

“Don’t shoot,” Edgerton shouted, zipping around me and holding up his arms as if to block me. “It’s only Sadie.”

I gaped at him. “Shoot? I’m not armed.”

“You’re not?” His eyes narrowed and his arms dropped to his side. Just then, a rodent slinked over to sniff at his jeans leg, and Edgerton bent down to pick it up. “She’s a ferret,” he said, holding the creature out to me. It looked like a skinny mink with a raccoony face, complete with black mask. It wrinkled its nose and drew back its lip, making a hissing sound.

Stroking the rodent, Edgerton looked me up and down suspiciously. “Aren’t cops supposed to wear their guns all the time?”

“I never said I was a cop.”

“Fiona said you were a detective! I thought—”

“I’m a private detective,” I said, offering him one of my cards. “About that cabin—”

“You lied to me.” He advanced toward me, the weasel egging him on from a perch on his shoulder.

I held my ground, wondering uneasily what he’d done to Vanessa to earn a restraining order. “I did not. You assumed,” I said. “Look, we’re on the same side here. We’re both concerned about Dmitri, right? If you’d—”

“Out.” He stalked past me and yanked the door open. “Now.”

I slipped my arms into my coat. “Give me a call if you think of anything else,” I said as if he weren’t glaring at me and practically shoving me out the door. “Especially about Dmitri’s cabin.”

“I don’t think it was his.” Edgerton relented in the face of my imminent departure. “I think it was his aunt’s.”

I stopped on the threshold. “His aunt’s?”

“Yeah, you know, that coach woman. What’s her name? I only met her once. Julie Bublova?”

*   *   *

Could Boyce Edgerton be right? I asked myself as I drove away from his apartment. Was it possible that Yuliya Bobrova was related to Dmitri Fane? Dara Peterson certainly hadn’t mentioned it. I dialed her number on my cell phone and punched up the heat in my car a couple of notches.

I recapped my investigation when Dara answered, then asked about Fane and Bobrova’s relationship.

“His aunt?” Her voice was skeptical. “Neither of them ever said anything about that, and she treats him like she treats the rest of us … like dirt.”

Assuring her I’d keep her posted, I hung up and headed for the office. Gigi was out, and I spent the afternoon doing paperwork on a couple of recently completed cases. Early winter dusk was falling as I headed home, and I flicked on the Subaru’s lights. I’d been counting on getting some skiing in this weekend, but it looked like this case would keep me tied to the city. My mood darkened along with the sky. I’d spent last weekend tiling my powder room instead of skiing, and now it looked like I’d have to pass on the slopes again. Plus, my head and tailbone ached, and I was not feeling up to helping Father Dan with whatever project he wanted to tackle. When he’d phoned this morning before I left for the office, he only said he needed my help with something. Since he’d admired my remodeled bathroom greatly, I thought he might want some help with a tiling project.

Rounding the corner onto Tudor Road, I automatically looked toward the Dumpster in St. Paul’s parking lot. I’d seen a bear there late this summer—the same bear, I was pretty sure, who wrecked my bird feeders to dine on my birdseed—but he was hibernating at this time of year, though, and I continued past the church and the rectory where Dan lived to my house. Parking in my driveway, I let the peace of the quiet area drape itself over me. A great horned owl hooted as she set out on her night’s hunting. The scent of pine trees drifted on the chilly wind. It smelled like snow, and I reminded myself to check the weather forecast.

I looked longingly at the hot tub on my deck as I changed into a comfy pair of sweats and stuffed my cake-speckled slacks and Pepsi-stained turtleneck in the hamper. Something crackled in my slacks pocket, and I withdrew a handful of receipts. I stared at them, puzzled, then remembered: They’d come from Dmitri Fane’s closet. I tossed them on my dresser to look at tomorrow. I’d told Dan I’d come over, so I put off sinking into the steaming water and trudged through the hundred yards of young pines and scrub oaks that separated our houses, comfortable on the familiar terrain even without a light.

“Feed me,” I said when he opened the door. Six foot five with shoulders to match and thick blond hair, Dan didn’t look like an Episcopalian priest.

“Here.” He thrust a glass of Scotch into my hand before I’d even stepped into the warm foyer, his large hand wrapped around the glass seeming more suited to handling a rifle or power tools than a communion host.

“Marry me.” I took a sip of the Scotch and closed my eyes, letting the liquid burn its way down my throat to my stomach.

He smiled. “You’re too easy.” He led the way back to his kitchen, where I could smell something delicious.

“Am not.” I scuffed off my boots and padded after him, hoisted myself onto a red leatherette bar stool, one of two drawn up to his counter, and watched him stir whatever was bubbling on the stove. Dan’s broad back blocked my view of dinner.