Dead Silver hd-2 Page 5

  "We'll see you tomorrow at the ceremony, dear," Evvie said to Renee-the Professor's funeral, which was shaping up to be a big deal, with a lot of the prominent local community and various other dignitaries slated to attend. "I know how hard it must be, but you'll feel so much better when it's over." We all told each other that it had been nice to meet, and Renee walked them to their car.

  "This isn't exactly my business," I said when she came back. "But that riff about hiding the rat damage-you could get sued for that."

  Her mouth twisted unhappily. "Don't worry, I'll make sure everything's straight up. I don't want her in on this. But she caught me flatfooted-called and said they'd like to drop by, and a few minutes later, she came barreling in and acted like it was a done deal. Gave me that coat to nail it down."

  "Yeah, I caught that."

  "She's not bad, she just sees everything in terms of what she wants and how to get it." Renee's voice dropped confidingly. "They're not really old family friends, she just wants to think that. She and Astrid knew each other growing up, and then Lon met Astrid and Daddy somehow-I'm pretty sure it was Astrid who introduced him to Evvie, that's how they got together. But they were never around when I was growing up, even though she acts like I'm her long-lost daughter."

  "Can't say I envy you there."

  Renee sighed. "Anyway, I'm going to keep putting her off, and hope she'll get the message."

  She walked on into the main house, and I went back to join Madbird.

  "Starting to seem like a lot of people got their eye on this place," he said.

  There was more of that to come.

  10

  We finished opening up the walls with no results. Then there was nothing left but the crawl space, which deserved its name. It was just deep enough for us to squirm under the rough old two-by-twelve joists if we wanted to. We didn't. Doing that kind of thing was bad enough anyway, and this ground was thick with rat dung. We decided to take up a couple of floor planks and look in from the top.

  That was cleaner but not easy. The rusty old twenty-penny nails, four inches long and thick as a pencil, weren't about to pull free. We had to lever up the planks enough to get a recip saw blade under them and cut the nails as we worked our way along. By now we were only speaking to growl curses at the metal and wood that fought us back. We were tired, and sweetie though Renee might be, we'd had our fill of this.

  When we'd made a channel wide enough to hang our heads down into, we each took an end and started scanning the crawl space with flashlights.

  Almost immediately, Madbird said, "Well, kiss my ass and call me howdy."

  I rolled onto my other side so I could follow his flashlight beam. It was focused about ten feet from where he lay, on top of the foundation wall inside the rim joist. I could glimpse a few small dull metallic glints, the color of gold or brass, along with some paper scraps strewn around.

  I heaved myself up, waddled over to Madbird on my complaining knees, and dropped down beside him for a better look.

  I still couldn't tell what the metal was, but the other bits were fragments of photographs, with the same faded flesh tone as the ones of Astrid.

  I felt like a well driller who'd finally hit water that he hadn't really believed was there.

  Getting to it still wasn't any piece of cake. Professor Callister had been an expert bird hunter and had loaded his own ammunition-we'd found chewed-up plastic bottles of black powder, wadding, and other materials when we'd cleaned-and the spot was underneath his heavy old workbench. We had to unbolt that from the wall and drag it away, then cut another chunk out of the floor.

  There, blocked from our earlier view by a mid span girder, we found something even better-a cloisonne jewelry box. It had an intricate pattern of deep red enamel inlaid with gold and a lid that rested inside the rim. Maybe the rats had clawed at it trying to get the gold-even without the flashlight, enough daylight filtered in through the floorboards to give that a faint glint-or maybe there'd been some perfumed object or sachet inside that they'd smelled. However it had happened, they'd managed to nudge the lid aside and pillage the contents.

  Without doubt, this was the cache of photos that Renee had hoped for. There must have been a stack of them to start with, and there were still a few at the bottom that looked more or less intact.

  The box must have also contained jewelry, no doubt dragged off into rat lairs in the woods, where it would be all but impossible to find. But a single earring remained, spared by the marauders because its hook had gotten caught in a splintered patch on a joist. At first glance, it looked like a spinner for big game fish like musky or northern pike; it was a good two inches long and one inch wide, in the shape of the letter S with an arc cupping its bottom like a rocker on a rocking chair. It appeared to be made of silver and was encrusted with blue stones, probably sapphires, that looked like real ones. If so, it was worth a fair chunk of cash. But it was so garish it was almost laughable; it suggested Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, fringed buckskin, cowboy hats with chin strings.

  Exactly the kind of outfit that Astrid was sporting in the photos-along with earrings that looked a lot like this one.

  "I can't say it looks like good news," I said.

  "We don't have to tell her. Your call."

  I rocked back on my heels, stood, and walked to the door to get a faceful of fresh air. Evening was coming on, and the lights of the main house exuded a cheerful warmth.

  But inside there, an anxious woman was waiting, hoping to learn that her father had not been a vicious murderer.

  I tried to weigh the factors. The photos were damning enough to Professor Callister. Jewelry, a classic killer's souvenir, was more serious still. And yet, there it all was, a reality that couldn't be denied.

  Maybe settling the matter would be best for her-would bring closure, as the buzzword seemed to be these days. Then again, maybe that was bullshit.

  I turned back to Madbird. "I guess I feel like we can't keep it from her," I said. "We don't have the right."

  He lifted his chin in a way that told me he wasn't just going along, he agreed. That meant a lot.

  I went to get Renee.

  11

  She knelt and stared down at our find with her face alight with excitement-but wary, too, as if something might leap out and bite her. That wasn't so far from the truth.

  "The earring was hers," she said.

  "Is that what she was wearing in the photos?" I asked.

  She nodded, her hand moving toward it.

  "We better be careful about touching this stuff," Madbird said.

  I'd gotten so jacked up about making the find that I'd lost sight of the implications, but his words brought them into focus. In spite of Renee's reluctance about the police, this development just might wind its way in that direction. They would not be pleased if we'd gone pawing around first.

  "Oh, right," she said unhappily. "I hadn't thought of that." She pointed at the earring with her forefinger, tracing its shape in the air. "That's the Seibert brand, quarter-circle S"-the logo of the family ranch where Astrid had grown up. "They had a place where they mined sapphires. No, not mined…" She held her hands apart as if she was gripping something, and shook the imaginary object back and forth.

  "Screened," Madbird said.

  "That's it. Her grandfather collected them over the years-not to sell, just for fun-and he finally decided to do something with them. He had a belt buckle made for himself and these earrings for his wife. They got passed down to Astrid."

  "What about the jewelry box?" I said.

  Renee shook her head. "I never saw it, so she probably didn't have it at this house."

  I could see how Astrid would have hidden it in the privacy of her own cabin, a sort of bad-girl stash for the photos and trinkets of her sexy secret life.

  Renee kept gazing silently at it.

  Then, with sudden fierceness, she said, "Daddy wouldn't have kept things like this. He wouldn't."

  Madbird caught my eye and nodded toward
the door. He was right-she was deeply preoccupied, and we were in the way.

  "We're going to take off," I said. "We'll come back and straighten up whenever you're ready."

  She rose to her feet, dusting off her knees. "Thanks so much, you guys. Oh, wait, I have to pay you."

  "Let's worry about that later."

  "It ain't like we don't know where you live," Madbird rumbled. That won a smile from her.

  He said good night and split off to his van. Renee walked with me to my truck. I hated the thought of leaving her there alone, especially to pore over those grim relics.

  "Do you know anything about checking for fingerprints?" she said. "I know I blew it with that first batch. But these-if there were someone else's prints besides Daddy's…" She let the sentence hang unfinished. "I looked on the Internet. A lot of places sell kits."

  "I don't think it's any job for amateurs, Renee. Especially with something like this."

  "I looked for laboratories, too, where I could pay to get it done. But I didn't see anything."

  It didn't strike me as likely that she could just box the stuff up, send it away someplace, and get back a neat little report.

  "Have you thought about a private detective?" I said, although that might entail a larger-scale investigation than she wanted, and would definitely be expensive.

  "It crossed my mind. But this is so sudden, and there's so much else going on. I'm just groping around right now-trying to find out what the options are."

  Another possibility had crossed my own mind. I'd kept my mouth shut because it was dicey in several ways. But it made sense in others. My wish that I could do something more to help finally pushed me into voicing it.

  "Renee, if there's one person around here who'll know more about this case than anybody else, it's the sheriff, Gary Varna," I said. "He and I have, uh, been acquainted for a long time. If you want, I could see if he'd be willing to talk this over and keep it off the record. Maybe he'd even do the fingerprinting. And, you know, act on it if something new came along, and forget about it," I finished lamely, "if not."

  "That's very sweet. Let me think about it. I want to look those photos over before I decide anything."

  "I thought we decided to leave them alone."

  "I won't touch them with my bare hands. I have a hemostat I can use."

  "You carry a hemostat?"

  "My fiance gives them to me. Instead of tweezers, you know? They work a lot better."

  I factored in her fiance's gift of surgical implements along with her expensive engagement ring. The word "doctor" took shape in my mind.

  "Are you coming tomorrow?" she said.

  I winced inwardly. I hadn't planned on attending her father's funeral, and she was probably only asking out of politeness.

  Still, I said, "Sure."

  "I'll be glad to see you there. Thanks again, Hugh."

  I drove home accompanied by unwanted images that I couldn't keep from sneaking into my thoughts-the dignified, acclaimed man whom I'd known as Professor Callister, snaking his way on his belly across the dank earthen floor of that crawl space to the trophy he'd created out of murdering his beautiful young wife. Gloating over the photos, fondling the jewelry, using them to indulge in a solitary vice sickening beyond words. Or maybe he'd just hidden them and then left them untouched, satisfied with knowing they were under his feet.

  But my mind, emotions, or whatever unit they formed found that a very hard sell.

  I had only been around him when I was quite young, not often and never closely. But I remembered that between the ages of, say, five and ten-after I'd gotten old enough to have a sense of the world I was in, but before various forms of training had started me thinking in the ways they dictated-I had often seen into adults quite clearly: whether they were genuinely well intentioned toward me, or hostile under a nice veneer, with their teasing disguising cruelty. As an adult, when I looked at those same people, my early impressions were by and large borne out.

  I didn't know if that was common among children-I didn't have any of my own, and I hadn't dealt with kids much in my later life. But even if it was, they couldn't process their feelings rationally, and the harsh, evident truth was that those kinds of warning sensibilities were easily buried by adult manipulation or force.

  John Callister, though, had never paid any attention to me except to give me a grin and a friendly word, treating me humorously but sincerely, like an equal. I had never gotten the slightest hint of unkindness or creepiness lurking under a facade.

  But if he was innocent, the real killer had gone free, and might even be close by.

  12

  I got to Darcy's new apartment about seven-thirty next morning to help Madbird move the couch he was giving her. The place was in a complex near the Fairgrounds, one of several that had been built in that area in recent years. He was already there, parked at a building entrance, leaning back against his van sipping coffee. The couch was in the rear, protruding out a couple of feet with the doors roped tight around it.

  There was no sign of Darcy, or of her boyfriend, Seth Fraker. Whether either would show up remained to be seen. When I'd talked to Madbird last night, the situation stood like this:

  He'd called Darcy to ask for Fraker's help moving the couch. Predictably, she'd tried to deflect him, but he was firm. A lengthy negotiation ensued, the more complicated because Darcy was in the middle.

  Fraker replied that he'd be glad to work with us, but his schedule was jam-packed.

  It would only take a few minutes, Madbird pointed out, and Fraker could choose any time.

  Fraker couldn't think of a single available slot. He was at his office every morning by eight o'clock sharp, he was booked for lunch and dinner meetings, and he worked late into the evenings.

  And so on, until Darcy decided she didn't want the couch after all. She-meaning Fraker, who had probably whispered this to her-would buy a new one instead and have it delivered.

  Madbird then informed her-and my mental ear could hear his patience-worn-thin, Marine drill instructor voice-that the couch was already loaded in his van and he was damned if he was going to take it out again. We'd bring it to her place at seven-thirty next morning; if Fraker wasn't around to help, we'd leave it on the sidewalk, and it was her problem from there. That was the last I'd heard.

  I knew this was no longer about Madbird wanting to meet Fraker. Now he wanted Fraker to meet him. There would be a message delivered-that if Fraker thought of Darcy as a play doll, she was a doll that came with a very unsettling attachment. It wouldn't involve anything crude like threat or overt menace; it would be conveyed mostly through Madbird's sheer presence.

  I drove on into the parking lot and pulled my truck up beside his van.

  "Need some of this?" he said, holding up his coffee cup.

  I nodded thanks. I usually brought my own, but my routine had been thrown off by Professor Callister's funeral. I'd had to shower-I usually waited until after work to wash off the day's dirt-and then root around to find some decent clothes, which I hadn't had the foresight to do last night.

  Madbird handed me his steel thermos, which had been dropped off buildings, used as a hammer, and run over by trucks, and looked every bit of it. I rummaged in my front seat for a cup, blew the sawdust out of it, and filled up. The coffee was fragrant and strong, and if the old thermos didn't exactly keep it scalding, it was still a nice hit in the gray morning chill.

  "I came a hour early to scope it out," Madbird said. "Fraker's rig was here. I parked down the block and watched. He snuck out about twenty minutes ago."

  "No flies on him."

  "Maybe he's just putting on a act like he ain't sleeping with her. Let's give it a couple more minutes and see if he comes back."

  We unroped the couch, an old but handsome piece with plum-colored upholstery, and set it on the pavement. In truth, it wasn't all that heavy; Madbird and Hannah had loaded it into the van, and he and I could have got it up the stairs without too much sweat.

&
nbsp; Instead, we sat down on it to finish the rest of his coffee, like a couple of old-timers settling in to pass the day by watching the world go by.

  "Kind of feels like when I was hitchhiking around after the service, sleeping on park benches," Madbird said.

  "Anybody who sees us is going to be thinking, There goes the neighborhood."

  "Yeah, well, they ain't got all that much to brag on here."

  We'd both put in a fair amount of time working on apartment complexes like this one and the others around it-long two-or three-story rectangles with low-pitched gable roofs, the rough-sawn plywood siding known as T-one-eleven, and equally generic interiors. But they were comfortable if they were decently kept up, and no doubt it was a dream come true for Darcy. She'd been living at the Split Rock Lodge, in an aging bunkhouse where employees could rent rooms for next to nothing. But it was bare bones and cramped, with shared facilities and no privacy beyond the thickness of a door.

  "You know what the nut is here?" I said.

  "Darce wouldn't tell me, but Hannah found out. Seven twenty a month, not counting utilities."

  In other areas that wasn't much, but by Montana standards, it was steep. With utilities, cable, and phone, it would be close to a grand. She wasn't making much more than that.

  Seth Fraker had to be covering it, and there was clearly more, or less, to his generosity than pleasing a girlfriend. He couldn't very well have shacked up with Darcy in her bunkhouse room. I didn't know what his own living arrangements were for the legislative session, other than that his family wasn't with him, but whether he rented or owned a house, his neighbors would know who he was. A lady visitor like Darcy would be highly visible. But in an anonymous place like this, he could come and go unnoticed with both the comforts of home and the pleasures of philandering.

  "Looks like we're on," Madbird said. We stood up.

  Darcy was hurrying down the building stairway toward us, closing the cover of her cell phone. She was an eyeful even this early in the morning-wearing a bright red nylon workout suit, the kind that looked like neon pajamas. She gave us her big beaming smile and hugged Madbird. The dynamic was clear-she'd lost her fight to keep this from happening, so now she was working on damage control.