Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112) (10 page)

“The real estate agent said she lives in Seattle.”

Helmi nodded. “The big time. She went to nursing school at one of the hospitals up there and snared a surgeon. I don’t think she ever worked as a nurse after she married Ethan Tichnor. Devoted herself to charities and social climbing.”

“Did she succeed?”

Helmi smiled. “Pretty much. She’s on the board of half a dozen worthy causes. She belongs to the best clubs. Her husband’s dead now, but her children turned out well. They managed to survive going to the best schools.”

“And her father left her his house?”

“That’s right.”

“I guess I don’t see what all that has to do with bootlegging.”

“As long as she lived here, someone like me would remind her that her grandfather was a moonshiner. Charlotte left Klalo. She never came home.”

“Ever?”

“I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect. She made brief ritual appearances. She sent her kids to their grandparents every summer for a month. And she wasn’t stingy. Her mother had a long, lingering bout with cancer that must have soaked up a lot of Emil’s savings. Charlotte was generous with her checkbook.”

“But not with her time. I see.”

Helmi toyed with a gingersnap. “I hope I’m not indulging in spite. I liked Emil Strohmeyer. He used to drop in and swap stories. He was proud of Charlotte, proud of the boys, too.”

“Why didn’t
they
come home to take care of him?”

Helmi’s eyes widened. She even blushed. “That’s a very good question. Maybe I’m too hard on Charlotte.”

Meg said tactfully, “What about grandchildren, do they live around here?”

“Peter has two married daughters in Montana. He taught in Montana, retired to Arizona.”

“And the Tichnors?”

“There are two of them in the area. Vance in Portland and Ethan, Junior in Vancouver. Ethan’s a big wheel in the medical society. Vance has a real estate agency in Clackamas County.”

“Where’s that?”

“South of Portland, southeast. I think the boys did visit Emil— they went fly fishing with him when he could still get around. Carol runs an antiques shop in Port Townsend up on Puget Sound. She oversaw the prep work when Charlotte sold the house, so she was down here more than usual this spring and summer.”

“Then I probably ought to talk to her.”

“I expect Rob Neill will do that.”

“You’re right,” Meg murmured. It crossed her mind to ask about Hazel Guthrie, too, but she didn’t have a good reason to dig, so she suppressed the impulse. “It’s just that I’m curious.” She rose. “Thanks, Helmi. May I come back for a look at your collection?”

“Any time.”

Meg had promised herself she would not enter the Latouche County Regional Library until the day she was scheduled to take over. Still, it couldn’t hurt to drive past now and then. She chugged up the main drag and turned onto the tree-lined street, a cul-de-sac, that led to the Klalo branch library. Her headquarters. She’d forgotten how ugly it was.

A symphony of aluminum and concrete, the structure that replaced Carnegie’s sturdy red-brick building had been erected at the nadir of public architecture. Prince Charles would see it and abdicate. Thinking, with affection, of Rob’s grandmother, Meg parked a moment across from her new workplace and contemplated its sheer hideousness. Hazel Guthrie and her library board had probably found it wonderfully modern. Well, it was a blot on the landscape, but it looked cared-for—scrubbed and polished, embraced by mature rhododendrons that would show a riot of color in May.

A native dogwood three stories high shaded the curved entrance drive. Meg had been told the blossoms were white, not pink, and that Hazel had made the demented architect site the building so as not to damage the tree. Meg wished she had known her predecessor.

She drove home through the wet streets in a thoughtful mood. Helmi Wirkkala’s revelations made her uneasy. There had been real malice in the historian’s comments on Charlotte Tichnor, so the question was whether Helmi’s hostility was justified. The Tichnors hardly seemed the sort to loot artifacts—or to commit murder. Who did that leave? The looters had had to know about the storage space in the garage. That left the neighbors.

Rob Neill’s pickup sat in the driveway that led up to the gingerbread house. On impulse, Meg hoisted her umbrella and dashed up to the handsome front door. The beveled glass window in the door was obscured by a lace curtain. The rain-lashed porch was wide and generous. She knocked and rang the doorbell but nobody answered.

So she trudged down the drive to her own house and went back to unpacking. Helmi’s take on the WCTU and the KKK bothered Meg. She wasn’t sure she agreed with the historian’s assessment, but it did make her wonder whether small-town life was going to be all that wonderful.

W
HILE
he waited for Todd Welch to show up, Rob started calling Strohmeyer heirs. Carol Tichnor was still incommunicado, but he got through to Peter Strohmeyer on the first ring.

Thayer had brought Rob a photocopy of Emil Strohmeyer’s obituary and half a dozen uninteresting clippings of “Social News Notes” from the newspaper. A quick foray on the Internet produced a telephone number for a Peter Strohmeyer in Flagstaff, Arizona. Rob dialed. How many Peter Strohmeyers could there be? Dozens, he thought gloomily, but an elderly female voice said hello.

He identified himself and asked to speak to her husband. “Pete,” she called, not bothering to cover the receiver. “It’s for you, Pete.” Shuffling, murmuring.

“This is Pete Strohmeyer.” The voice was a vigorous tenor. “What can I do for you? Is it about the murder?”

“You heard.” It was the right Strohmeyer.

“My niece called yesterday. She was pretty upset. I figured you’d get in touch some time. How can I help?”

Rob rolled his eyes. “Tell your niece to return her phone calls.”

Peter Strohmeyer laughed. “I expect she’s just trying to get her mother to face reality. Charlotte is difficult sometimes. Carol can’t very well act without permission.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, Lieutenant, she’s dependent on her mother to maintain her lifestyle. I like that word, lifestyle. Carol is used to the best of everything, but her shop in Port Townsend isn’t a gold mine. So Charlotte calls the tune.”

“I see.” Rob pulled his notepad closer. “I’d like some background information, Mr. Strohmeyer. I have a copy of your father’s will. He left everything to Mrs. Tichnor. Were you estranged from him?”

Strohmeyer laughed again. “No, not at all. He was a great old guy, my dad. We got along just fine.”

Rob waited.

“About ten years before he died, Dad deeded over his property on Tyee Lake to me. He said he might as well save me the inheritance tax. That was after my brother, Jim, died. I got the land, and Charlotte was going to get the house in town. It was a fair division of property.”

“Okay, I can see that. So you’re a Latouche County property holder?” He wasn’t on the tax rolls.

“Nope. When Dad died, I sold the property to my nephews. I’m settled down here in Arizona, I’ve got some medical problems, and I don’t travel much. I didn’t feel right selling that trout stream, though, while Dad was still alive. He was some kind of fisherman. I gave the boys a good price because I wanted the land to stay in the family.”

Rob considered the Strohmeyer legend. “Where on Tyee?” He had a cabin on the lake. He stood up and turned to the large county map that occupied pride of place on the wall behind his desk.

Strohmeyer gave him details of the sale and the plat numbers. Not on the lake itself. Fifteen acres on the banks of Beaver Creek, prime steelhead country. Rob went back to the desk and looked at his notes. “So Dr. Tichnor bought ten acres and his brother took what was left?”

Strohmeyer chuckled. “I figure Vance got the best place for a lodge—right where Grandpa built the old still. Ethan took the timbered hillside, wants to conserve the old growth. He’s a vocal opponent of clear-cutting.”

“I see. Thank you, sir. Now what can you tell me about the storage cavity in the garage floor?”

Strohmeyer launched into an account of his grandfather’s antics, punctuated by chuckles, that coincided with what Carol Tichnor had said. He sounded like a happy man. Rob wished him well and eventually hung up.

He logged back onto the phone directory and found numbers for Dr. Tichnor and his brother, Vance. He had left a message for the oncologist and was about to dial Vance Tichnor’s business number when Todd Welch knocked at the door and stuck his head in.

Rob waved him in and hung up.

“You want me to drive you to Two Falls, sir?”

“Sit down,” Rob said. “We need to talk first.”

Todd sat and twiddled his thumbs. His uniform looked as if it had just been removed from a dry cleaner’s bag.

There was no point beating around the bush. Rob described Chief Thomas’s phone call. “So she knew about the petroglyph. When I suggested she might have heard about it from you, she didn’t deny it.”

Todd mumbled something. His ears were red. He looked like his mother, with dark eyes and hair, but he had his Anglo father’s height and fair complexion.

“You told your mother?” Rob kept his voice even.

Todd Welch squirmed in the chair opposite him, the hot seat. “Yeah, and she called Aunt Maddie.”

“Outsiders,” Rob murmured, watching the kid.

“They’re family!”

“Let me clarify my point. When it comes to talking about an ongoing investigation by the Latouche County Sheriff’s Department, anyone outside the department is an outsider. Got that?”

“Yeah.” He sounded sullen.

“Outsiders—mother, girlfriend, auntie in Two Falls.”

“The guys told me you found a petroglyph, a broken piece of The Dancers. Aunt Maddie had to know. She’s the chief. Mom is tight with her sister. It was natural for her to call my aunt with the news.”

Rob sighed, “I understand. The sheriff may not.”

Todd squirmed and looked miserable.

Rob didn’t reassure him, though he decided not to tell McCor-mick about the lapse. Todd was a rookie.

“That all, sir?” Todd rose.

“Yeah. Just keep your mouth shut and try not to do it again.” Rob shuffled through the papers on his desk, looking for the photographs Linda had taken of the petroglyph. He found them under a lab report. He thumbed open the file folder he intended to take to Two Falls. It already held the artist’s portrait of the victim. He started to insert the photos.

Todd gave a gasp. He leaned across the desk. “What’s that?”

“That’s what Vancouver thinks our man looked like.” Rob hesitated, then handed Todd the faxed sheet. “Do you recognize him?” It was a young face, almost a boy’s. Todd had not been part of the crew that unearthed the corpse. He’d come on duty when Dave Meuler went off, so he hadn’t had a look at the body.

Todd sank back onto his chair as if his legs wouldn’t hold him. “Eddy. I think it’s my cousin, Eddy Redfern.”

Rob’s mind raced. He drew a long breath. “I’m sorry, Todd, but I have to ask. Are you sure?”

“I…no.” Todd held the sheet to the light of Rob’s halogen reading lamp. “I think it’s Eddy.” His voice shook. “It’s a bad picture. Oh, Jesus.” He dropped the drawing and covered his face with shaking hands.

Rob rescued the paper before it slipped to the floor. Pity and confusion kept him silent for a long while. When he thought the deputy had had time to compose himself, he stood up and shoved the phone console forward.

Todd’s hands dropped. His pupils were dilated.

A chill was running up and down Rob’s spine. “Will you call your aunt? Isn’t Redfern her husband’s name?”

As was the family custom, Madeline Thomas had kept her maiden name after marriage. The Thomases had supplied the Klalos with many chiefs and other prominent elders. Madeline was the first woman to be elected principal chief of all three bands, though there had been female chiefs of the local groups before white contact, unusual among Northwest tribes. Her husband, whom Rob had found easier to deal with than his wife, was a fisherman. Redfern used traditional methods, including the notorious gill net. Rob didn’t remember whether or not they had children.

Todd chewed his lip. “Yes, my uncle’s Jack Redfern, but Eddy’s not their son. He’s Leon Redfern’s second son. Leon is Uncle Jack’s brother.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Eddy is…was four years younger than me.” He spoke in jerks as if his mind was not in gear. “Real smart. He was a student at Portland State, wanted to be an accountant, to keep the books for the tribe. They’re going to start a casino.”

“So I heard.” The casino was a pipe dream so far, but stranger things had happened. There were two small casinos in Clark County and a big one south of Olympia. Sheriff McCormick shied away from the idea like a spooked stallion. Law enforcement problems in the county, not to mention traffic, would double the day a casino opened.

Rob could see the difficulties, but a well-managed casino could fund health care and scholarships, and jobs would open up in a depressed economy. It might be a good idea. He didn’t know. He did know that if the homicide victim was Eddy Redfern, he needed to have a long talk with the principal chief of the Klalos.

He said gently, “Will you call Chief Thomas and tell her you think the victim is your cousin?”

“But you said—”

“This is different. Your aunt needs to know, and she should hear about it from you. Give her my sympathy and ask her if we can see her in about an hour.”

Todd nodded, mute.

“If she wants me to break the news to Eddy Redfern’s parents, I’ll do it first.” That was a duty Rob did not relish, but it was a duty.

“I’ll ask her. I think Uncle Jack will want to be the one to tell his brother. Is that okay?”

“They should do whatever seems right to them. Take as much time as you need, Todd. I’ll go tell the sheriff.”

And he did. When Mack heard the news, he was not a happy politician.