"Thanks
Paul, I'll—"
"Uh,
uh, uh," he clucked. "There's the matter of our agreement."
"I said I'd do it, and I will." "When? I want a firm
commitment." "Don't I always keep my word?" "Only
when you used to threaten to punch me." "See." "When?"
"How
about early next week? Right now I need to follow up on what you just
so graciously gave me." "I'll be in touch," he said
ominously. "I have no doubt. Thanks again." "Ta ta."
I
disconnected and dialed information for eastern Washington. "What
city please?" "Lakeside. Shore Properties." "Just
a minute, please."
After
a brief interval, a disembodied, mechanical voice droned the number.
I listened to it twice, just to be certain, hung up, and dialed
again.
"Shore
Properties." A woman's voice.
"Ah've
lost your durn address," I drawled.
"We're
located at four-fifteen Front Street. Right across from the Key
Bank."
"Thank
y'all."
"Is
there—"
I
replaced the receiver in the receptacle. No sense pressing my luck.
Shore Properties existed. It was open for business. I called Marge. I
got the machine at home, then tried the office. They patched me
through.
"This
is Marge."
"It's
Leo."
Her
relief was audible.
"Thank
God. I was afraid it was the hospital. Every time the phone rings, I
jump out of my skin." "Heck's bad?"
"He
had another bad night, Leo. His vital signs were bouncing all over
the place. They took him back to the lCU."
"Anything
I can do?"
"He
seemed to settle down a bit early this morning." "If
there's anything I can do—"
"My
mother's flying in this afternoon." "Good."
I
heard her sigh again. "How's it going?" she said.
Her
tone was different. The question posed more as a conversational
filler rather than from genuine interest.
"You
sure you want to hear this now?" I hedged.
"I
could use the diversion."
I
told her about the real estate career and the bogus license, sticking
strictly to the facts, omitting Nancy Davies' intuitions concerning
Allison as well as the prickly sensation that kept running down my
back whenever I thought about the elusive Miss Stark.
"What
do you think, Leo?"
"I'm
withholding judgment until I get back from Chelan." "When
will that be?"
"If
I hurry, and get real lucky, I can maybe make Lakeside right before
things close for the day. That way, maybe I can come back tonight. If
I miss it, I'll stay over and do business in the morning."
"I'll
be at the hospital every day from lunch on."
"I'll
keep in touch."
I
called the airport. Horizon flights to Wenatchee at nine, eleven,
three, five, and again at nine. Since I was too late to make the
eleven, any sense of urgency would be wasted effort. An hour in
flight, the time wasted picking up the rental car, and the forty-mile
drive from Wenatchee to Lake Chelan. Unless the folks at Shore
Properties worked unusually long hours, I wasn't going to make
Lakeside before the close of the business day.
I
cleaned up, packed an overnight bag, and called Rebecca at work.
Wrong again. It seemed she had the day off. I rang the house.
"It's
me," I said.
"I
tried to catch you last night." Her voice was slow with sleep.
"Hector
and I went over to Jazz Alley and caught Benny Carter's second show."
"You dogs. I'll bet he was great." "Incredible."
"If
you had a single shred of decency, you'd take me tonight."
"The
Sundstrom thing. I've got to run over to Chelan."
"Lovely.
This time of year, that area has a certain lunar charm."
"Doesn't it though."
"
'Tis twice the pity, sir. I have tomorrow off." "Well then,
fair lady, why don't you join me on my quest?"
"To
Chelan? This time of year? Are you daft?" "Undoubtedly, but
it's part of my charm. How's about it?"
"You
wound me, sir. What would you have me tell my sainted mother? That
I've decided to spend the night in some rural hostelry with an
intermittently employed private dick who—"
"Intermittently
employed, but boyishly handsome," I interjected.
"—who,
as is his ilk, will almost certainly grope and fondle me in a most
unseemly manner."
"Tell
her that this time I kinda figured on skipping the groping and
fondling part and moving right into the cross-dressing and spanking."
"Deviant."
"You've
noticed, eh?"
"Degenerate."
"Flight's
at three."
"Pick
me up at two."
"Is
your orange juice fresh-squeezed?"
"Most
likely it was at some time or other, honey."
The
pink plastic tag read, "Hi, My Name's Wynona. Please Let Me
Serve You." Rebecca's question only served to deepen the
overlapping pockets and pouches that made up the weathered satchel of
Wynona's face. When Duvall stuck her nose back into the menu, Wynona
shot out a massive hip, parking the green-and-white receipt book
impatiently on the heavily starched half-acre ledge.
"You
want the juice, dearie?"
"I'll
have wheat toast, dry, and some decaf with two Equals. You do have
decaf, don't you?"
Directing
her bored gaze my way, Wynona ignored this last query.
"What
about you, sport? You want the self-denial special too?"
"No,"
I said quickly, "I'll have the Paul Bunyan Breakfast."
"Good
choice," she said, sending a short glance at Duvall and then
back to me. Returning her pencil behind her ear, Wynona rustled off
toward the counter.
"After
this, I don't ever want to hear any complaining about the
restaurants I choose," Rebecca said.
"I
liked the name. 'Ruth's Snack and Yak.' Lyrical, don't you think?"
"I
think this place should have an attached angioplasty clinic."
"When
in Rome, my dear. Not even the mop is fresh-squeezed in a place like
this. Especially not the mop."
Rebecca
was not what you'd call a morning person. Under the best of
circumstances, she greeted each new day like one of those cute
reminders from the dentist, and Lakeside, Washington, at nine o'clock
in the morning was several miles east of the best of circumstances.
As with my previous attempts at levity, the mop joke elicited
little more than a feral sneer.
She
brought her water tumbler up for microscopic inspection.
"What
clever ploy have you hatched for sweating the info out of the poor
unsuspecting rubes over at the real estate agency?" she
inquired, absently turning the scratched burgundy tumbler slowly
before her eyes.
"I
kinda figured I'd march right in and just ask 'em."
"Rife
with your usual Florentine complexity."
Rebecca
now produced a monogrammed hanky, with which she began to
meticulously scour the rim of the glass.
"What
if we're not the first people over here asking questions?" "I
think we are." "How come?"
Hygienically
unsatisfied, she set the glass back down without drinking.
"SPD
never asked to see her real estate license. I can't see any other way
they'd get to here," I said.
"I
think you're right."
"Have
you been holding out on me?"
Rebecca
arched an eyebrow.
"I
rather thought I'd given my all."
"Indubitably,
my dear, but to the point."
"I
asked a few questions Saturday night between autopsies. Bill Bostick
was hanging around, looking professionally concerned, hoping to
provide the public with information and get his picture taken."
"How
is old Peerless these days?" I interrupted.
"Same
old same old. The ultimate spin doctor."
"My
old man used to say Bostick was a white guy trapped inside the body
of an even whiter guy."
This
engendered Rebecca's first thin smile of the day.
"According
to the photogenic Billy B, the state and the SPD are just going
through the motions. As far as they're concerned, it's death by
misadventure— period. Unless and until they see something new that
gets their attention, it's going to stay that way."
"Why
didn't you tell me on the way over?"
"I
was waiting until you cleared your account. Any further charges would
have put you over your limit."
Our
breakfasts arrived. Between measured bites, Duvall treated me to a
running commentary not only on the well-known effects of cholesterol
and saturated fats on the pulmonary arteries but on the various
scraping and grinding tools used to remove the glutinous buildup
thereof. For my part, I made it a point to use the last of the oiled
toast to sop up the dregs of my eggs.
It
was a little before ten as I guided the rented Taurus through town.
Lakeside was strictly a one-story town. Typical western layout. Two
one-way streets in opposite directions wound north and south along
the south shore of Lake Chelan, making up the ten-block business
district. What wasn't real estate offices was either fast food or
minimarts. Perpendicular to downtown, a truncated series of side
streets headed west into the high desert, randomly losing interest
and petering out among the withered sage and juniper. And this was
the civilized end of the lake. Fifty-five miles to the northwest,
Stehekin was justly
famous
for being sufficiently remote as to be reachable only by boat.
As
promised, Shore Properties was on Front Street, diagonally across
from the Key Bank. A red neon sign shone OPEN from the front window
of a cedar A-frame. The attached gravel parking lot was empty except
for a battered bronze Subaru station wagon.
Nancy
Davies' movers could have cleaned this place out in fifteen minutes.
The shiplap cedar-paneled walls were decorated haphazardly with
Out-of-date calendars and yellowed pictures of the lake. Two gray
metal desks, one on the left, one on the right as we entered. The one
on the left presently was home to a small copy machine, a
coffeemaker, a hotplate, and a fair collection of basic foodstuffs. A
one-person operation.
Rubbing
her hands together, a woman emerged from the back room. About thirty,
she was tall enough to gracefully carry the extra twenty pounds and
pretty enough for it not to matter. She wore a long denim skirt with
a line of silver buttons up one side and a blue-and-yellow plaid
blouse held close at the throat by an oversize cameo. Her long, brown
hair was pulled straight back, tightened into a ponytail by four blue
retainers spaced evenly along its conspicuous length. She looked up
for the first time.
"Oh."
She instinctively brought one hand up to her throat. "You
startled me. I haven't had many people stop by, particularly not this
early in the morning."
"We
wanted to get an early start."
"Well,
that's sure the only way to get the jump on the summer season around
here. Everybody wants to wait till spring, and then they're all bent
out of shape when all the choice dates are spoken for. This is sure
the smart way to do it. I'm Rosalee Weber. How can I help you folks?"
"I
wanted to ask you a few questions, if I may."
A
cloud shaded her face.
"About
property?" "Not exactly."
"Who
are you with?" she demanded.
"I'm
from Seattle," I said.
"From
the bank?"
"No.
I'm not."