With Deadly Intent (18 page)

On her way out of the driveway, she passed her father's car and made a mental note to
call Virgil's Auto Shop. Over the years Virgil had performed miracles on the old clunks
she'd owned—he'd know if the Ford's motor had been sabotaged. If it hadn't, the
hit-and-run might have been accidental. However, an inner voice told her there was faint
hope of that.

Her scalp prickled. Suppose Elise's death, Cleo's strangulation, and her father's assault
weren't related. That would mean more than one killer prowled the island. She shuddered
at the thought.

Monday, October 31

The next morning at breakfast, Helen read aloud the report of Dr. Tambor's death. Before
Amy, Oren, and Helen had an opportunity to discuss it, Tom Calder arrived and demanded
to know where Oren had been Saturday night.

After the sheriff had fired several questions at him, Oren fixed him with a hard, cold
stare. “I didn't push that doctor down an elevator shaft, if that's what you're driving
at.”

“You'd better come up with more than that, Prescott. Your word isn't worth beans.”

Oren flung down his napkin. “Next you'll be saying I ran down my uncle.” He got up and
went to stand at the window.

The sheriff bunched his fists on his hips and jutted his head. “Wouldn't surprise me
none. None at all. I've seen cold fish in my time, but you top the list.”

“Go to hell,” Oren said without turning around.

“Look a here, hot shot, you can't—”

“Stop it, Tom,” Helen said. “You too, Oren. The two of you squabbling isn't accomplishing
anything.”

Amy set down her cup. She would have preferred not to get into it with Calder but someone
had to set things straight. “What makes you think Dr. Tambor was killed?”

“He was carrying on with your cousin's woman, wasn't he?”

She regarded him with a scowl. “That's all you've got? When I tried to tell you about the
doctor and Elise on Saturday, you didn't give a good God damn.”

A muscle knotted along his long-jawed face. “So what? The picture's changed.”

“Then you'd better get your facts straight.” She stood up and regarded him with a level
look. “The doctor was drunk. He could've jumped, or fallen down that shaft.”

The sheriff's eyes flickered and widened ever so slightly. Then he caught himself and his
lip curled into a sneer. “Yeah, and he could have been pushed too.” He turned and
stalked out.

Later that morning, B.J. and Simon arrived on the ferry and for the next few hours the
big house was a flurry of activity. After lunch, they gathered in what used to be her
father's bedroom, but now more closely resembled a jungle gym.

Under B.J.'s direction, Simon had rigged up pulleys, ropes, and grab bars. With these in
place, B.J. hoped to be less dependent on her and Simon. She eyed them without
enthusiasm. Two nights ago, he'd undergone surgery to relieve a concussion. What if he
fell?

“Watch this, Amy,” B.J. said. With Simon beaming in the background, he raised himself,
swung his long leg cast off the bed, followed with the short leg cast on his right leg,
caught hold of a metal railing and pulled himself up enough to get his crutches into
place. “How about that?”

She smiled wryly. “Great, Dad. Just great. Now get back in bed.”

Simon winked at her and she frowned in annoyance. “Don't help him with anymore of his
hare-brained schemes. Okay?”

Simon flung up an arm as if to ward off a blow, and grinned at her from behind the cover.
“Aye, aye, sir.”

He was always so serious his clowning took her by surprise. She kept her face straight,
but knew her eyes betrayed her amusement. “I mean it, Simon,” she said with as much
force as she could muster.

His grin broadened into a heart-melting smile. “I know. know.”

B.J. plopped back on the bed and settled himself among the pillows she'd stacked.
“Lighten up, kitten. I know my own limitations.”

“That'll be the day.”

He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Get your notebook. It's time we had a
buzz session.”

She set up his easel and brought out the huge pad of newsprint he always used.

“Fine. Fine. Now you do the honors.”

An uncomfortable feeling came over her as she stepped into the spot where he always stood
and picked up the soft leaded pencil. “Where do you want to begin?”

“Let's start with Elise.”

She drew a circle in the center of the sheet and labeled it.

“Okay, let's see what we've got kids.” He tugged at his beard. “Here's a woman who
impressed me as being quiet and soft spoken.

Amy listed the qualities beside Elise's name.

B.J. nodded his approval. “However, Helen found her to be cold as a clam.”

Amy wrote as he talked. “She was also moody and unpredictable.” She glanced at Simon.
“Isn't that right?”

He nodded. “Also self-centered and short-tempered.” His features darkened. “There wasn't
an ounce of truth in those stories she told that Mrs. Michaels at Dr. Tambor's office.
So why'd she lie? I've never met anyone so ... so"—he waved his hand—"forget it.”

B.J. flung him a benevolent glance. “I can understand you and Oren having sore spots. I
went through it myself when Amy's mother left without telling me she was going, or why.”

His eyes clouded for a moment, but he recovered quickly and went on. “However, if either
of you are holding something back that we should know, I'm not going to take it kindly”

Simon sat up straight, folded his arms and concentrated his attention on the opposite
wall.

When Simon made no comment, B.J. took up his recital once more. “In White Bird, you
learned Elise had been kind to a retarded boy and his mother.”

“Perhaps something happened there that changed her.” Amy printed “White Bird” and drew a
circle around it. She remembered an oversight and said, “Dr. Tambor's office manager is
bound to be a key witness against Oren. We need to find out if she's trustworthy or just
one of those people who likes to grab attention.” She headed a column with a large
question mark and put down Mrs. Michaels's name.

“Ah.” B.J. smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Now, we're beginning to get somewhere.”

“Heard anything more about Elise's jewelry?” Simon asked.

Amy shook her head. “Calder isn't noted for his speed and efficiency.” She made a number
“one” off to the right and wrote “jewelry” after it.

Simon put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. “The Seattle police are
involved now. Maybe they'll get faster action.”

“What about her car, Amy?” B.J. said. “Found out anything more?”

“Only what I told you on Saturday.” She picked up her notebook and turned toward Simon.
“A man named Roger Norman bought it.” She jotted his name under Mrs. Michaels, then
began to write his social security number. She'd put down the first three digits when
she stared at them and gasped. “He's from Montana.”

Simon sprang from his chair and joined her. “How do you know?”

“The first three digits of the social security number indicates the area of the country
where the person first applied for a card.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Simon said. “Social Security's geographical divisions are the pits.
I've found it next to impossible to pinpoint a number.” He peered at her figures. “How
do you know 516 indicates he's from Montana?”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” She grinned. “Montana's numbers can start with either 516 or
517. A private investigator I know has separated the numerical divisions into individual
states. I checked with Social Security. They said anyone with access to the right
information could work out an exact break down. I've monitored the man's system and it
hasn't been wrong yet.”

Simon swept off his imaginary hat to her. “Wow, this is terrific.” He paced the length of
the room and came to stand at the foot of B.J.'s bed. “Norman being from Montana could
be just a coincidence, but considering what we ran into in White Bird, I doubt it. What
do you think, B.J.?”

“I'd say we'd better find out just how, or where he fits in the puzzle.”

“It'll take some digging,” Amy said. “I've already checked the city directory and phone
book.”

“Let me give it a shot,” Simon said. “I'm good at turning over rocks.” He came to her
side and studied the chart.

“I called Gail at the lab,” she said. “No one's heard the results of the postmortem on
Dr. Tambor.” She glanced at her father. “She found some flecks of paint on your
clothing.”

“Good for her. Has she done a laser analysis?”

“She can't get to it today. That place is a mad house on Mondays.” She made a question
mark, then darkened and shaded the lines. Her dog's name belonged on the ‘To be
investigated' list. A feeling of impotent frustration came over her. She must not let
Cleo's death get shuffled aside.

Amy was standing at the kitchen sink paring carrots for dinner when she became aware of
Simon watching from the hallway. He'd become so adept with his cast that he no longer
clunked when he walked. A distracting tremor began in her midriff.

She inhaled and let her breath out slowly before glancing over her shoulder. “Something I
can get for you, Simon?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Sure smells good in here. He joined her at the counter,
found a paring knife, and picked up a potato.

“You needn't do that. I can manage.”

“I want to pull my weight. My being here makes more work for you.”

Simon's body seemed much too close, the big country kitchen much too small, the air too
rarefied to sustain her. To add to her distress, the warm, steamy confines intensified
the faint woodsy odor of his aftershave. Her sideways glance took in his fitted sage
green shirt and matching trousers. Nice. They complimented his chestnut hair and his
slim body. Her glasses fogged and a film of perspiration broke out on her upper lip.

She moved quickly to the stove, lifted the domed lid of the iron kettle and picked up a
sharp tined fork to check the meat inside. Simon leaned in beside her to get a look, his
arm brushed hers, and she nearly dropped the lid.

He sniffed noisily. “Ambrosia. Pure ambrosia. They should make a perfume and call it
essence of pot roast.” He watched her push the fork into the meat in several places,
giving the tines a little twist each time. “You do that like an expert.”

She hunched her shoulders slightly, drawing into herself. “I've been the only woman in
this house for seventeen years.”

“Know what? I don't believe I've ever known a woman who could cook.” He frowned. “Isn't
that ridiculous? I love good food.”

So Julie couldn't cook. The “perfect wife” wasn't quite as perfect as Simon had led
her to believe
. She resettled the lid on the kettle. “These days girls only
learn what they want to learn.” Returning to the pan of vegetables, she began to pare
another carrot.

He peeled a potato, dropped it into a pot of water in the sink, and started to chuckle.
“If you dabbed that essence of pot roast behind your ears, men would flock around you in
droves.” With each word his voice had grown more harsh. “Then you could find that
perfect guy B.J. wants you to have.”

She turned to look up at him. To her surprise, his eyes held a strange, bleak expression.
“You guessed what he was up to?”

“It wasn't difficult. He's always talking about you.”

“Sorry. I didn't know how to warn you.” She concentrated on cutting the stock and root
ends off an onion. “Dad's fifty-five and he wants a grandchild.”

“You're very close, aren't you?”

She nodded and peeled away a flap of the onion's russet-colored skin. “I guess it was
bound to happen.”

“I envy you. My father and I never did mesh.”

“Not even after you grew up?”

He shook his head. “I'm not a doctor, a lawyer, or a business man. So he figures I'm
piddling my life away.”

“But you're a good investigative reporter. Doesn't he know that?”

Simon made a face. “No, and neither do I.”

She dropped the onion she held into the pan and swung around. “Come off it, Simon. A good
writer digs below the surface. He makes you think. I read the article you wrote about
Dad. It was damned good. You made me realize what an exceptional man he is.”

“You really liked it?”

She ran water on the vegetables and began to cut them into quarters. “Uh huh.” She gave
him a sideways glance. “Except for the remark you made about me. ‘Intelligent brown eyes
hidden behind scholarly dark-framed glasses.' Are they that bad?”

He flushed and pulled at his shirt collar. “We—ell, there are glasses and—glasses. At
first, I wondered why you didn't wear contacts or select something more attractive.”

He leaned his elbow on the counter, rested his chin on his hand and tilted his head to
look at her. “Now, I realize you're shy. You don't want people to notice you, so you
hide behind your glasses.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Right?”

He'd found her out
. Heat flared in her cheeks. “My, my, an amateur psychologist.
Just what we need.” She grabbed the pan of vegetables and hurried to the stove.

That evening after they'd finished eating, Simon helped B.J. settle into his easy chair
in the living room. Simon sat on one end of the couch, she perched on the other.

B.J. sighed and patted his stomach. “Good dinner, Amy. Sure beats hospital fare.”

“Delicious,” Simon said. “Tasted as good as it smelled.”

Could Simon fit a “sensual, attractive, intelligent” cook into his life?
Amy
removed her glasses and unveiled the smile her father swore would melt stone. “Thanks. I
haven't done much cooking the past few years.” Her voice thinned and she came to a stop.
Say something clever. Don't be so damned dull
. She wet her lips and struggled
on. “Nice to know I haven't lost my touch.”