The Alpine Xanadu (37 page)

“I should have, too,” I said. “But the press wouldn’t qualify.”

“He might have barred
me
—or moved the venue.” Milo sighed. “Okay, so who’s the porn perp?” He looked up at the overcast sky. “Or who
was
the porn perp?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

He took off his gloves before tipping up my chin. “It has to be somebody around here. I could be wrong.”

“So could I. What are you going to do?”

“Get to work,” he said, his hand falling away. “You can’t come with me. I’ll drive you back home.”

It was useless to argue. Besides, I had an agenda of my own. “The furniture can wait,” I said. “Are you going to talk to Freeman?”

“Not yet. Hang on while I lock up.” I waited while he secured the house. “I figure he’s clueless about the source,” Milo went on after we got in the SUV. “That kind of meeting is to rally the troops and bring them up to speed. If any staff or faculty know where the junk’s coming from, they won’t admit it. My guess is that they don’t. The kids bring it in.”

We left the Icicle Creek development, heading up to Fir Street. “You processed Wayne’s PUD van, right?”

The sheriff shot me a reproachful glance. “It
was
a murder site, even though we weren’t sure at first. But I kept it in impound anyway. Early on, my first concern was for the safety gear in case it was faulty or someone had tampered with it. But there was no sign of anything else suspicious.”

“What about the little fire by the road?”

Milo frowned. “You’re right. That might mean something. Now.”

I patted his arm. “Gosh, now that we’re married, you listen to me?”

“I don’t have much choice. I’m stuck doing that for the rest of my life. Just don’t get bigheaded about it, okay?”

“You really are a beast,” I said as we passed the high school football field. “I wonder how often Wayne worked on the lines around here, whether they needed it or not.”

“Don’t rush to judgment,” Milo advised. “If Wayne’s truck was
the pornmobile, every teacher and parent in town could be a suspect.”

“Why kill him? Why not report him to you?”

“You expect people to be rational? You know better.”

We went by Edna Mae’s house. “She mentioned the porn to me.”

“Edna Mae looks at porn? Maybe that’s how she gets her thrills.”

“No. She said it was found in two basketball players’ lockers.”

“I’m surprised. Those kids can’t find a loose ball on the court.” Milo pulled into my drive. “You stay put, okay?”

“I might run some errands,” I said.

“Emma …” His hazel eyes were stern.

“Hey, I’m not an idiot. Really.”

“Yes, you are.” He mussed my hair. “I mean it.”

“I know,” I said, getting out of the Yukon. “You be careful, too.”

To justify my presence at home, I put in a load of laundry. Milo had never gotten over his habit of leaving his clothes on the bedroom floor, a trait I’d tried to overlook when we’d been together the first time. It didn’t bother me anymore. At least not much.

Then I followed up on my hunch. Journalists get them, and sometimes they’re right. In all my years of reporting, I was batting .300—not bad for a ballplayer, but not good enough to win a Pulitzer Prize for turning the hunch into an award-winning story. Milo was right about a fee for public records, but I knew from experience that there were sites you could access for free or on a trial basis. The first one I found for the state of California offered three introductory hits. I typed in Jack Blackwell’s name. Nothing. Maybe his first name was John. I tried that—and got zip. I only had one freebie left. Jack might be a nickname. His dark coloring might indicate he was part French. Without much hope, I typed in
“Jacques.” The screen informed me there were three documents on file that were included in the introductory offer. The first was his birth certificate, June 4, 1947, Redding, California. The second was a marriage license for Jacques Eugene Blackwell and Jennifer Ann Hood, May 10, 1973, Dunsmuir. I was shocked, not because my hunch had paid off but because Jennifer didn’t look much over forty. Even if I added a few years, she must have been a child bride. Jack would have been twenty-five. I went for the third document—a no-fault divorce decree granted on September 24, 1974, in Redding. Maybe I’d found my dark horse.

But had I found Wayne Eriks’s killer? I closed the site and tried to come up with a link between Jennifer and Wayne. Nothing, except for the mention of some smoke near the PUD van not long before she heard sirens. Why had she brought up the subject in the first place? As I recalled, we hadn’t been talking about Wayne’s death.

I dialed RestHaven’s number and asked whoever answered if Jennifer was at work. She wasn’t, the brisk female voice informed me. Could I get her home phone number? No, RestHaven didn’t give out the staff’s personal information. I identified myself, adding I’d planned to invite Jennifer for dinner tonight but had to postpone. The voice softened, saying she’d take my number and have Jennifer call me.

There was nothing I could do except wait. Meanwhile, I called Harvey Adcock to ask him about the school board meeting. If Vida or Mitch had been in town, I would have let one of them do it, but I was the designated inquirer. Fortunately, Harvey was home and not at his hardware store.

“I can’t help much,” he said. “Karl was candid, telling us about the filth found in some of the students’ possession. He did show us a couple of photos, and yes, they were porn.”

“Adult or kiddy?”

“Adult. Women undressing, probably taken through windows.
Oh, my, I don’t want to think of anything involving children! That’s worse.”

“You never know these days. Did Freeman or anybody else find out where the kids were getting it?”

“A few students have been asked, but they claim to have gotten it from someone else or found it by accident. We’re holding another meeting next week, but no date or time’s been set.”

“May I go public with that?”

“No, please don’t. It’s an internal matter involving children—most students are under eighteen. It’s embarrassing faculty, parents, the youngsters, and the school board, too. I shouldn’t have told you this much.”

“Harvey,” I said sternly, “surely you’re reporting this to the sheriff?”

“Not yet,” he replied, sounding shocked. “We have to discuss it.”

“You did that. What next? Torture the kids until they come clean?”

“Certainly not!” Harvey sounded as upset as if Durwood had driven his car right through the hardware store. “Please try to understand.”

“I do. So does Dodge,” I said. “In fact, he’s on the case right now.”

“He is?”

“Yes, which is why I’ll be putting your information online as soon as Dodge gets back to me.” Unless, of course, Milo told me to stick it in my ear for now. “I doubt Effie Trews will object. She already went public.”

Harvey didn’t speak for a long moment. “Don’t quote me. Please.”

“Fine. You’re an unidentified source. Good-bye, Harvey.”

To work off my anger, I finished cleaning Adam’s closet. I’d gotten everything off the floor by eleven-thirty, when the doorbell
rang. Maybe Harvey wanted to plead his case in person. Opening the door, I found a distraught Cookie Eriks almost falling across the threshold.

“Oh, Emma!” she cried. “You’ve got to help me!”

I grabbed her arm and gently pushed her into the easy chair. It seemed to swallow her up. I hovered over her, noting the red eyes that indicated she’d been crying. I asked if I could get her something to drink.

“Water,” she said.

I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, added some ice, and went back to the living room. “Take your time,” I said, sitting on the sofa.

Cookie sipped from the glass, took a rumpled tissue out of her rain jacket, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and stared into space before speaking. “The sheriff’s at our house with a warrant. He said it was for evidence about Wayne’s death. I couldn’t stand it. I left. You were kind to me when Wayne was suspected of killing Tim. I don’t know where else to turn. Are you and Dodge engaged?”

I involuntarily fingered my wedding ring. “We’re married. That doesn’t mean I know everything about what he does on the job.”

“You’re …?” Cookie dropped the tissue. “Oh! Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Now Tiff has to deal with … the sheriff.” She jumped out of the chair. “I should go.”

I stood up, too. “No.” I spoke quietly. “You wanted to talk to me. My marital status hasn’t changed who I am. I gather you trust me. Sit and try to pull yourself together. If nothing else, I can listen.”

Cookie was clearly at war with herself, which was better than being at war with me. Finally she collapsed back into the easy chair. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“I can guess,” I said, also sitting back down. “It’s about Wayne, isn’t it? He wasn’t a very good husband.”

She nodded. “That’s not the worst part. He wasn’t a good father, either. He …” Cookie had taken out another tissue and was shredding it. “This is so hard.… I tried to put it in a letter to Vida, but … I couldn’t.”

A vague memory came back to me. “Did you write to her twice?”

Cookie’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“I read your first letter while Vida was gone. Another letter followed saying the problem was solved. You described yourself and it fit you.”

“Does Vida know?” Cookie asked, her voice verging on panic.

“I doubt it. Vida’s had her own problems. Sexy magazine photos weren’t the real issue, right? Were the pictures taken by Wayne?”

Cookie drooped in the chair. “Yes. Not just women—children, too. But that’s not the worst part.” She winced. “He abused Tiff when she was younger. That’s why she glommed on to Tim right out of high school. She ran away from home a few times, but never got very far.”

I tried to hide my shock. I’d expected porn, but maybe I was naïve. As a longtime observer of human depravity, I should’ve guessed. I phrased my next question so it wouldn’t make Cookie defensive. “You must’ve been afraid to tell anyone. Is that the reason you were so upset when Wayne was arrested for Tim’s murder? Did you think Tim knew what had gone on with Tiffany?”

Cookie nodded. “He did. When Tiff got pregnant, she started taking out her anger on Tim and told him about her dad. Tim confronted Wayne, who denied it, of course. When Tim was killed, she blamed her dad and felt responsible. Tiff thought she’d ruined everything she and Tim had together.”

Tiffany’s self-absorption after moving home was explained. Back then I’d thought she was just a spoiled brat. She
was
spoiled, but not in the way we’d thought. “Did Wayne molest Tiffany after she came home?”

“No. I think he knew that if he did, she’d report it. She was terrified what he’d do when Ashley got older. That’s why she moved in with Jack.”

“But that didn’t work out,” I said. “Was Jack abusive? Physically, I mean. He has a reputation for it.”

Cookie sighed heavily. “He threatened her. She borrowed some money from him to buy clothes. He got mad. That’s when she left him.”

“That was probably smart of her.” I paused, realizing I still wasn’t sure why Cookie was sitting in my living room and shredding yet another tissue. “Given everything you’ve told me and that the authorities should have been notified long ago, why are you so upset now that the sheriff’s searching your house for Wayne’s porn?”

Cookie squeezed her eyes together. “He won’t find any. We burned it. Mel hauled most of it away.”

“I don’t understand.”

She opened her eyes, but looked at the floor. “Because I think Tiff’s still on the edge after everything that’s happened. In fact, I’m afraid she may confess that she killed Wayne.”

C
OOKIE
E
RIKS, WHO
I
HAD THOUGHT TO BE NOT MUCH MORE
than a cipher in the Eriks-Rafferty lash-up, had dumbfounded me with one shocking revelation after another.

“Why would Tiffany do that?” I asked, it being the only question I could think of after her latest bombshell.

“Because she did,” Cookie replied with artless candor. “I went to see Marisa Foxx for advice, but she told me I needed another kind of lawyer. I didn’t know what to do next.”

I’d managed to kick my brain into working order. “You mean she killed him? How?”

“Well …” Cookie crossed her legs and swung one foot in a nervous manner. “She’d found some awful pictures he’d taken of her in the bathroom. Tiff got so mad she rushed out of the house. She knew he might still be working at RestHaven or somewhere close by. It turned out he’d gotten soaked by the rain and was changing into dry clothes. She showed him the pictures. He laughed.” Cookie paused, though her leg was swinging even faster. “Tiff said she was taking the pictures to the sheriff. He grabbed her and she fought him, and then she got hold of the wire—she knew enough to wrap it in his undershirt, which was on the floor—and she stabbed him. He fell. Despite the undershirt, she burned her hands—not badly, just enough to hurt, but she threw the wire and the shirt into the river. Then she got out of the van.”

I recalled what had looked like a rag hanging on a branch over the Sky. I waited for Cookie to continue, but her leg had stopped swinging and she had started to cry. “Did she come home?” I asked.

“No,” she gulped, wiping her eyes. “She just stopped by to get some of her things. She went to Jack’s house. Ashley was with me.”

“She could drive with burned hands?”

“I guess.” Cookie had stopped crying, but she looked even worse than when she’d arrived.

And I was confused. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The second autopsy revealed Wayne had been poisoned.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Cookie declared, suddenly showing a spark of defiance. “It was self-defense, really. Dodge will understand. You can explain it better to him than I can.”

“That’s not up to me,” I said. “I’m his wife, not Tiff’s lawyer.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose she needs a lawyer. I wonder if Mr. Doukas would represent her, even though he’s sort of retired.”

I refrained from commenting on Simon Doukas. “You might want to call him when you get home,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint.