Authors: Mary Daheim
“You
have
checked for fingerprints?” Vida said, her gray eyes darting about the suite, as if committing the details to memory.
“Sure,” Dwight replied. “We just finished. But Levine wasn't shot here.”
Vida regarded Dwight with mild disdain. “Naturally not. But he must have had visitors. Mr. Fannucci would know, I assume.”
Jack had returned to the living room, carrying a shaving kit. “Sheriff Dodge asked all those questions this afternoon. Check with him.” He paused, rummaging inside the kit. “Boy, this guy went first-class. Fancy labels, expensive clothes and shoes, hotshot luggage. He was a health nut, too. Lots of pills and vitamins and stuff.”
Like Vida, I was taking my own inventory of the suite. “What about letters?” I asked.
Dwight gestured at a hand-tooled briefcase next to an end table. “We're taking that with us. There are some letters, but they're all business. Hey, ladies, there's nothing here for you. Or for us, as far as we can tell.”
Vida waved at the briefcase. “Was that locked?”
Briefly, Dwight stared at Vida. “No. Why do you ask?”
“What else is in there?” Vida's manner was brisk.
Dwight sighed. “Just … stuff. Mostly about the resort plans. Levine kept a journal, but there wasn't much in it, just what you'd expect about how the project was coming along and how enthusiastic he was about it.”
“May we see it?” Vida rubbed her fingers together, as if she were already turning pages.
But Dwight grew stubborn. “No, you may not. Dang, Mrs. Runkel, we have to check in first with Sheriff Dodge. If it were anybody but you”—his glance passed right over me—“I'd have tossed you out at the door. Come on, trust us. There's nothing here of interest.”
To my surprise, Vida obliged. “Certainly. Emma and I must go next door to commiserate with Mr. Fannucci. Is that the adjoining entrance?” The orange rinds were inclined toward a place in the wall where only a wrought-iron handle on the pine panels showed evidence of the well-matched doorway.
“You got it.” Jack Mullins sprang over to knock on the wall. Getting a muffled response, the deputy opened the latch for us.
Blake was lying on another plaid sofa, watching the news. He eyed us warily, and I hastily introduced Vida.
“What are those deputies doing next door?” he asked, pulling himself into a sitting position and using the remote control to turn off the TV.
“Investigating,” Vida replied, easing herself into an armchair that was a cross between Danish modern and Santa Fe. “I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Fannucci. I assume you and Mr. Levine were friends as well as partners.”
Blake seemed somewhat startled by Vida's remark. “Yes, of course we were. Friends, I mean. My God, Stan and I go way back, to UCLA, in fact. I don't know what I'll do without him.”
A rap at the suite's front door caused all three of us to turn. One of the Peabody brothers—Purvis, I thought—asked if Blake was all right. Blake assured them he was.
“Dodge gave good advice,” Blake said to Vida and me. “I think those two good ol' boys are okay.”
“Solid,” Vida remarked. “In many ways.”
I leaned forward in the matching plaid armchair that was threatening to swallow me. “What will you do without Stan? Is the project still on?”
Blake made circular motions with his head. “Jesus—I hope so! As long as Hollenberg doesn't back out and I can secure financing. Yes, I intend to move ahead, though I'll admit, I haven't thought much about business in these last few hours.”
“Of course not,” Vida said with a show of sympathy. “I take it Mr. Levine's participation wasn't essential to your success?”
Blake bridled. “You bet it was. Stan had a way with money people. They trusted him. I've always been the concept man. I work better at the other end, selling ideas to the public.” He stared down at an empty highball glass on the coffee table. “I guess I didn't do so well with the locals, though.”
“No,” Vida agreed candidly. “But they're what you might call … difficult.”
The expression Blake turned on Vida was rueful, even bitter. “That's an understatement, Mrs. Runkel. My failure may have gotten Stan killed.”
For once, Vida said nothing.
Vida held firm to her resolve not to eat dinner. She was sticking to her diet, and that was that. I didn't try to dissuade her, since after my late lunch, I still wasn't hungry. We had each driven our own cars up to the ski lodge, so after concluding the interview with Blake, we went our separate ways.
After arriving home, I tried to put Stan's death out of my mind. I had to concentrate on my trip to San Francisco. In the excitement over the shooting, I'd forgotten to pick up my airline ticket from Sky Travel. I could hardly believe the oversight. Where were my priorities? Not wanting to get into lengthy explanations with Janet on the phone at hoipe, I called her office and left a message on the machine, saying I'd be in as soon as they opened in the morning. Then I went to my closet and surveyed my wardrobe.
I wasn't pleased by what I saw. The only new clothes I'd purchased had been for last summer's meeting with Tom at Lake Chelan. A shopping spree was in order, but I had neither time nor money to spare.
Discouraged, I wandered out into the kitchen and poured a glass of Pepsi. Maybe I shouldn't go to San Francisco, I thought. The plane fare had gobbled up my remaining charge card credit. I'd have to rely on Tom not only for lodging, but food as well. All my years of fierce independence were going down the drain in one weekend. Were two days of grand passion worth it?
But passion wasn't the point. Tom needed me, and not just in bed. I doubted that he confided in anyone else. The man was too private. And his situation was downright embarrassing. Tom's innate dignity wouldn't allow him to blab about his troubles.
If Mavis had called in crisis, would I have rushed off to Tigard, Oregon? Of course I would. I could hardly do any less for Tom. Even with a potential murder investigation breaking in
The Advocate
, I could leave town for two and a half days. Vida would make sure we didn't miss anything.
Having cleared my conscience, I returned to my closet.
I still didn't have a thing to wear.
Francine Wells was sympathetic. “Don't worry about maxing out your credit cards,” said the owner of Francine's Fine Apparel the next morning. “Either we'll get them to raise your limit or I'll do an override.”
In my career, I have faced down civic leaders, presidential candidates, star-studded celebrities, business tycoons, and unrepentant murderers. On the whole, I've acquitted myself quite well. But put me in the hands of a savvy saleswoman such as Francine Wells, and I become a simpering ninny.
So it was that one navy linen suit, three cotton blouses, two pairs of tailored slacks, a white pleated skirt, and $685 later I was holding my breath while Francine processed the charge. Naturally, a code came up. Francine dialed the requisite number. After a brief exchange, she handed the receiver to me. I had to stop holding my breath so that I could talk.
Increasing my credit limit by twenty-five hundred dollars was far too easy. I didn't know whether to be
relieved or disturbed. Francine, however, proved reassuring.
“You got a real deal on the suit and the tan slacks,” she pointed out, winding a thick rubber band around the plastic hangers that held my latest adventure into debt. “Everything works with everything else. Versatility is so important for today's professional woman.”
“Nnnyah,” I replied. At least that's what it sounded like in my own ears. Trying to recover my aplomb, as well as my credit card, I fumbled with my purse. The airline ticket I'd picked up at Sky Travel peeked out provocatively.
Francine lifted her carefully plucked eyebrows. “Emma! You didn't tell me you were going away! Where? When?”
She hadn't asked why, so I hedged. “This weekend, to San Francisco. I'm meeting with a weekly newspaper consultant.” It was true, in a way.
Francine paused in the act of covering my extravagance with a plastic bag. “You aren't thinking of selling out, are you?”
“Heavens, no!” I laughed shrilly. “But I am thinking about restoring the back shop. We could do our own presswork, plus job printing. You know, the way it was in the old days, when Marius Vandeventer owned the paper.”
Francine rolled her eyes. “Marius! He was quite a character. I wonder how he would have reacted to this hot springs project.” She finished her task and handed over my purchase. “Are you coming to the Chamber meeting today?”
I nodded. “I'm bringing Ginny. We want to talk about the Summer Solstice idea.”
“I like it,” Francine said, now thoughtful. “But you won't get it on the agenda. The rest of them will be all
agog about that Levine getting shot and what to do next. I hear Ed Bronsky's talking about sanctions.”
“Sanctions?” I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”
Francine shrugged her designer-covered shoulders. “Who knows with that bunch? I'll be frank, I wasn't for the project originally, but now that one of the Californi-ans is dead, I feel sorry for them. I mean, they're human, too.”
I tried not to look dismayed. “Yes, they are,” I said carefully.
“Besides,” Francine went on as Doc Dewey's wife, Nancy, strolled into the store, “a spa would be good for business.” Francine lowered her voice while Nancy Dewey inspected a rack of new arrivals near the door. “Guests are bound to come into town, and what else is there for women to do except shop? Where else but here? If they're losing weight or toning up, they'll feel good about themselves. And they'll want to
buy.
Why should I vote to cut off my nose to spite my face?” Stepping out from behind the counter, Francine spoke in her normal tone: “Hi, Nancy. Don't tell me it's time for the annual AMA convention. Where is it this year?”
In something of a daze, I left Francine's Fine Apparel. It was almost eleven, and I'd used up over an hour between the clothing store and the travel agency. Feeling guilty, I raced past Harvey's Hardware, Videos-to-Go, and the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, then crossed Front Street and stashed my purchases in the Jaguar. I didn't want to answer any awkward questions from my staff.
My staff, however, wasn't there. The phone was ringing as I entered the news office. It was Milo, trying to reach me.
“Jeez,” he said in an exasperated voice, “where were you? This is the third time I've called in the last ten
minutes. I thought you had a deadline today. Don't you want the M.E.'s report or are you going to let Carla make it up?”
I had snatched up Vida's phone. Clumsily, I sat down in her chair, which had the same kind of beaded backrest that she used in her car. “Go ahead, Milo. We've all been out, running around.” Hopefully, I was the only real truant.
“Okay. We said Levine was shot at close range, but it was more like intermediate—four to six inches. There was very little soot, but some tattooing from the gunpowder particles embedded in the skin. Remember, this is a little trickier to figure because the bullet entered his right eye and exited through his skull.”
Writing furiously, I blanched. “Ugh. Okay, go on.”
“We think this was a .357 caliber bullet, full-metal jacket. No, we don't have the damned slug, but the M.E. can tell certain things by comparing the small entrance wound with the much larger one exiting the skull.”
I gulped. My appetite for the Chamber luncheon was evaporating. Why did I envision creamed something on toast?
“The bullet must be at the hot springs,” I said, trying instead to picture rocks, trees, and gentle waters. “Are you going back up there?”
“Bill and Dustin headed out first thing,” Milo replied. “It's cloudy, but we haven't had any more rain.”
“Did the M.E. rule this a homicide?”
Milo's chuckle lacked mirth. “What else would you call it? There was no gun, so it sure as hell wasn't suicide. If it was an accident, nobody's coming forward to admit they got close enough to Stan Levine to shoot him in the head from four inches away.”
I tried to think of other pertinent questions. “No sign of a struggle?”
“No. It looked to me as if Levine got shot and fell backward. The M.E. confirms there were no other bruises or evidence of a fight.”
“Is there anything else I should know?” Like, I wanted to say, why the scenario didn't sound quite right?
“I'm not sure.” Milo's voice dropped a notch. “We got a call this morning from Henry Bardeen. Somebody tried to break into Blake Fannucci's room last night.”
As ever, I was amazed at what other people didn't think was news. “Good grief, Milo, what happened? Is Blake all right? Where were the Peabody brothers?”
“They were sacked out in the Tonga Suite, next door. Myron—or was it Purvis?—I forget—was supposed to stay on the couch in the Tyee Suite, but Fannucci told them both to get a good sleep because he figured nobody'd try to come after him at the ski lodge during the night.”
I was running out of room on Vida's memo pad. Frantically, I dug in my purse for my notebook. “So how did they get in? Who was on duty at the desk?”
I had to wait for the answer. Milo was distracted by somebody, probably Toni Andreas, since I heard a woman's voice. The respite gave me time to find a blank page in my notebook.
“What? Oh,” Milo said into the phone, apparently regaining his narrative, “whoever it was didn't come in through the lobby. Henry said the bedroom window had been tampered with. It's just off the fire escape.”
I pictured the lodge's exterior, with its dormer windows on the top story. This was the section with the more modest rooms. Before the remodeling some two years earlier, the fourth floor accommodations were
strictly dormitory-style. The Tonga and Tyee suites were below them, and featured double small-paned windows that swung outward. I hadn't noticed, but apparently the fire escape from the roof passed by Fannucci's rooms.
“Can you reach the fire escape from the ground or does it have to be lowered?” I asked Milo.
“Usually it has to be let down,” he answered, “but Henry said they were painting it before the big rush of tourists after school gets out. You know how everything rusts in this climate.”
“What about Blake? Did he see anybody?”