With Deadly Intent (17 page)

She hadn't gotten far when she heard the sound of a motor. Seconds later, Helen's car
came barreling down the road with Oren at the wheel.

When he saw her, he jammed on me brakes and jumped out of the car. “What're you doing
here?” He came to a stop in front of her, feet planted wide apart, his elbows akimbo.

She scowled at his hostile stance. “This is where I live. Remember?”

His expression changed, became veiled and remote. “I'm supposed to feed the animals.” He
glanced around. “Where are they?”

She gulped. Face to face, people always saw through her lies. “Marcus has had his
breakfast.” She scuffed yellow maple leaves into a pile at her feet. “Last night I found
Cleo by the back porch.” Amy moistened her lips and raised her gaze to meet his. “She'd
been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” He said, his face curiously blank. “How ... peculiar.”

She stared at him. She didn't know the man he'd become. They'd been apart too long. “Is
that all you can say?”

“Perhaps you were right.” He peered into the distance. “Maybe ... there is a killer
roaming the island.” Moving in a jerky fashion as if his limbs were pulled by invisible
strings, he got into his car and sped away.

With a vague feeling of alarm, she trudged up the driveway in his tire squealing, sand
spurting wake. When they were teenagers Oren had been solid as a rock. Well, reasonably
stable—most of the time. She chewed her lip. No sense lying to herself—emotional stress
had always torn him to pieces.

When she reached the lab, she dusted both sides of the threatening note for prints and
found none but her own. That out of the way, she set to work in earnest. The four by six
inch sheet had machine sliced edges on three sides. Remnants of a printed heading still
remained intact along me torn upper edge—a “T” several spaces to the right of center and
a “P” an inch from the right hand border. A lead—slim, and next to impossible to trace,
but better than no lead at all.

In a somewhat more optimistic mood, she tested the paper content—twenty-five percent
cotton fiber bond—a type commonly used for scratch pads. A trace of padding gum clinging
to an edge substantiated her conclusion.

To avoid being distracted, she'd kept the note face down. A kernel of dread gathered as
she turned the paper over and studied the killer's printed scrawl.

In mystery stories, writers often spoke of a certain place or thing having an aura. In
the past, her scientific mind had rejected the theory. Now, her skepticism vanished. The
black smeary letters emanated malevolence.

Not being a handwriting analyst, she could only guess at the implications of the intense
pen pressure, the erratic right and left slant of the letters. More samples of the
person's writing would be needed before a graphologist could attempt a personality
profile.

She reread the data she'd recorded. Before the graphic depiction of crimes on TV, the
absence of fingerprints on the note and dog collar would have signified a clever
criminal. These days, even the rankest amateurs wore gloves—unless the crime had
occurred in the heat of anger.

A couple of ominous questions rose to blot other concerns from her mind. Had the dog been
garroted to keep her quiet, or had the killing been an integral part of a premeditated
plan?

She repackaged the note, hid it on one of the shelves, and unwrapped the wire used to
strangle Cleo. Much to her disappointment, the wire turned out to be 16 gauge aluminum,
a common variety available in any hardware store.

She sighed and noted the time—ten o'clock. Simon should be on his way to his appointment
with Dr. Tambor. She massaged the back of her neck, moved to a nearby table and gazed
down at casts of the footprints she'd found near Prescott's Byway the day after Elise
disappeared. Only time and a great deal of work would prove the true worth of the idea
she'd had yesterday while watching the little boy on the ferry.

After checking the prints from all angles and taking minute measurements, she turned her
attention to plaster impressions of the striations discovered near the dinghy in Orca
Narrows. Microscopic examination of the tiny horizontal grooves revealed brownish
shreds, thready plant fibers and bits of black seeds.

She glanced at her watch. By now, Simon should be riding up to the fourth floor in the
elevator. A hard, cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
Keep him safe
.

Her hand trembled as she set the impressions aside and snapped off the microscope light.
She had to get outside, do something physical that'd keep her mind totally engrossed. If
she stayed cooped up, her fear for Simon would grow until she could think of nothing
else. She decided to revisit Orca Narrows and gather pieces of shrubbery for comparison
with those that she'd found.

She returned to the cottage to stow clippers and storage bags in a packsack. As she cut
cheese for a sandwich, the light glinted on the keen-edged blade, the pointed tip. She
remembered sitting only a few feet from Mrs. Demetrius while she fingered a deadly
looking letter opener. A fine trembling began inside of Amy. Cornered killers did
terrible things, Simon should know that.

She jammed an apple in her jacket pocket, snatched up the sandwich, and set off for the
trail along the cliff's edge. If she kept moving, perhaps she wouldn't dwell on him.

Gray clouds scraped tree tops protruding from wisps of swirling mist. Below her, a
heaving pewter sea smashed into massive boulders, turning them slick and black as seal
skin. On a pinnacle, out of reach of the spray, perched long-necked cormorants spreading
ebony-hued wings to dry.

Ordinarily, she enjoyed watching them. In her present mood, they put her in mind of
black-caped mourners. A shudder ran through her. What kind of a person would
deliberately kill a warm, loving animal like Cleo just to send a warning? The answer
came to her with stunning force. A brutal one.

She stood stock still and squeezed her eyes tight shut. She hadn't said a real prayer in
a long time and even here with only the crows and black birds to hear, she felt shy and
ill-at-ease.

She looked up at the forbidding sky. “Please, I'll do anything. Just don't take Simon
too,” she whispered.

After a few minutes, she shook herself and started off again, resolving to do what she
came to do. As she marched along, her gaze swept from side to side. A week ago Saturday,
when she'd been searching for the dinghy, she hadn't had time to properly assess the
area.

Where a small rivulet trickled between cattails and tall swamp iris spears, she knelt to
study some footprints on a muddy bank. A number of other people had traveled this path
since she'd been here. She frowned. Little point in her taking a scientific approach at
this late date. Nevertheless she didn't want to overlook something her father, Tom
Calder, or the deputy had missed.

All along the way, she clipped bits of huckleberry, beach pine, and juniper, packaging
and labeling each before storing them in the packsack. When she reached the rim of the
bluff where she'd previously seen broken twigs and crushed foliage, she searched for
them. But in the seven days since she'd seen them, wind and rain had erased all trace.

A little farther on, she noticed several short, ivory-colored strands caught in a
crevice. She plucked them out with needle-nosed forceps and deposited them in an
envelope. Her deductive mind insisted nothing on the cliff could possibly be linked to
Oren's case. Still, she'd been taught criminals don't always act in a logical manner.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the precipitous slope she'd scrambled down to look
at the overturned dinghy. Farther along, she knew there should be a much easier route.
She decided to chance it.

On the other side of a rocky knoll, a patch of Scotch broom narrowed the footpath. Dry
seed pods rattling like castanets, the shrub's green wandlike stems surged and dipped in
the wind. She paused long enough to snip off some sprigs before squeezing by. A few
yards beyond, she discovered the trail she sought.

The path led downward through a deep cleft in the rocks to the crescent-shaped cove.
Here, by some trick of wind current, the mist had cleared, filling the narrows with
sunshine. It glistened on clumps of slick olive-green kelp where gulls fought over
beached crab.

At the far end of the cove, an orange plastic ribbon marked the spot where the dinghy had
rested. She scanned the expanse of sand. No shrubbery within thirty or forty yards of
that particular section. Bent in a half crouch, she did a foot by foot scrutiny.
Sometimes she got down on all fours. Once, she lay on her stomach and rested her cheek
on the salt-crusted sand to get an ant's eye view. Satisfied that she'd eliminated all
the possibilities, she hurried toward home.

After leaving the bluff trail, she plodded up the long incline leading to the cottage.
Halfway there, she heard the phone ringing and broke into a run. She took the steps two
at a time, dropped the key and swore. “Don't hang up.” She flung the door open, snatched
up the receiver and said hello.

“Where the hell have you been?” Simon barked. “I've been trying to reach you for over an
hour.”

He was all right. She collapsed in a chair.

“Well?”

His dictatorial tone sent her temper soaring, until she noticed his agitated breathing.
“What happened?”

“I screwed up. That's what happened. I knew I should have insisted on seeing Tambor last
night.”

She ground her teeth together. Why did he think he had to be perfect. “Just tell me will
you. I'm not going to grade you on your performance, for God's sake.”

“I'm trying to, dammit. The lights were off and the elevator out of order when I got
there.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs. A good reporter wouldn't let a dark building keep him
from a good story, and the doctor knew it. “So you acted like an idiot and walked up to
the fourth flour. Right?”

“Why not? For all I knew, his suite had a separate fuse box.” He exhaled and went on.
“From the looks of Tambor's office, he'd really hung one on. Whiskey bottles everywhere,
but no sign of him.”

“So the man got scared and took off. Just our luck.”

“That's what I thought ... until I saw the open elevator shaft.”

She caught her breath. “He ... he didn't, did he?”

Simon swallowed noisily. “The police ... found him ... at the bottom ... of the shaft.”

“Do they think he fell"—she shuddered—"or ... or jumped, or ... Oh, my God! They don't
think someone else did it do they?”

“Hah!
They
aren't saying
anything. I'm
the one who's been doing all the
talking for the last two hours. You know a Lt. Joseph Salgado?”

“I've heard the name.”

“Jesus! The guy has a broken nose and eyes like a Doberman. And he acts like I did it.”

“You told him why you were there, didn't you?”

“Of course I told him, or tried to. I doubt the man believes his own mother. So I took
him to the condo and showed him the picture and master charge slip we found. He gave me
holy hell for poking my nose in where it didn't belong.”

“I'm to blame too. Didn't you tell him that?”

“Of course not. What good would that have done?”

Silence stretched between them and she knew he must be fighting to regain control.
Finally, his breathing slowed. “Sorry I yelled at you,” he said quietly. “But after
seeing Tambor dead, then not being able to reach you, I went a little crazy. I just knew
you'd got yourself hurt, or ... or worse with one of your damn fool stunts.”

His remark rasped her taut nerves. “Takes one to know one, Simon.”

“Don't start that addle-headed business about being able to look after yourself. It's
dangerous out there and you know it.”

Of all the arrogant, high-handed, stiff-necked ... Her irritation fizzled away. He'd
worried about her. Cared enough to keep calling. “Let's skip it, okay? Besides, Dr.
Tambor's death may clear up this whole nasty mess.”

“I hope so, but—” He broke off and sighed. “I talked to your Dad. He's arranged to rent a
van. We plan to arrive on the early morning ferry tomorrow. Amy,” he said in a soft,
wheedling tone. “Couldn't you get someone to stay with you tonight?”

“Simon, will you stop"—she filled her lungs and began again—"I'll sleep at Aunt Helen's.
What kind of trouble are you planning on getting into?”

“Don't worry about me, I can...” A flat, humorless laugh burst from him. “I'll be well
supervised. The lieutenant put a tail on me.”

“Smart man. Remind me to send him flowers.” She hung up and hastened to repack her
suitcase. If she arrived at Helen's house before dark, perhaps she could get casts of
Oren's footprints. She'd need some of him empty-handed and others with him carrying a
heavy weight. If she could prove reasonable doubt of Oren's guilt, then perhaps the
authorities would realize Dr. Tambor could have had a motive to do away with Elise.

She sagged against the bed. The evidence against Oren was so damning and this one factor
so complex and difficult to substantiate even her father had overlooked it—or had he?
She wandered into the bathroom and stood looking into space. Perhaps, in her eagerness
to find something that'd clear Oren she'd made an error. She tossed her hair dryer and
make-up bag into the suitcase and closed the lid. One doubtful item was better than none
at all.

She loaded the car with needed equipment and drove up the hill to put her shrubbery
clippings in the lab. Once they were stored away, she checked the windows, locked the
doors, and turned on the alarm. If anyone tried to get in or tamper with the security
system, a buzzer would go off at the sheriff's office.