Beyond Confusion, page 12
It was Teresa at Dispatch, telling him the Hood River Sheriff’s Department had taken Aidan Pascoe and Carla Jackman into custody at the site of a noisy all-night kegger, and what did he want done with them?
Rob thought stewing in their own juices in the Hood River lockup would do them good. Ordinarily the paperwork involved in an interstate transfer of prisoners exasperated him. Now it seemed like an excellent idea. The two arsonists would make their way across the river sometime that day, but he wasn’t in a hurry to see the little shits.
He asked Teresa to let Linda know about the fugitives when Linda came on duty, but not to call her at home. He thought about phoning Edwin Jackman, but the girl was safe enough, and a five-thirty wake-up would be sadistic in the circumstances. He gave Jackman’s number to Teresa and told her to relay it to the Hood River people. Rebellion or no rebellion, Rob was willing to bet Carla would call her father herself when she found out what she was up against.
There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. He felt reasonably refreshed, though it was not yet six. Meg was going to phone sometime soon. So he got up, took a long hot shower, shaved, and threw on clothes that would look semi-professional. Then he went down to the kitchen for coffee.
He was sipping at his third cup and thinking about toasting a bagel when the back door rattled. Annie Baldwin’s pink face peered at him from the porch.
He yanked the door open. “Come in, Annie. What’s the matter?” He poured coffee into one of the mugs that hung in a rack on the counter.
“I need to talk to Meg.” She looked big-eyed, scared. Also cold. It wasn’t sleeting or snowing yet but looked as if it might.
“Have a chair.” He placed the steaming mug on the table and returned to his own seat.
She perched on the chair like a nervous bird, shedding gloves. “Is she home yet?”
“Still in Los Angeles. Her mother’s worse. Can I help?”
Annie frowned into the mug, took a sip, and mumbled something about library business.
But the library system closed down on Mondays. “Bookmobile still running?”
“What? Oh, yeah, sort of. Bob replaced the starter.”
“Good man.” Rob looked with sudden longing at the bagel. Maybe he should offer it to Annie. There was only one left.
“They were quarreling.”
He snapped awake.
She was looking at him with a mixture of embarrassment and determination.
“They?”
“Marybeth and Wendy.”
“When?”
“Couple of times that last week.” She looked as much like a teenager trapped in the principal’s office as a middle-aged woman could. “I don’t like telling on people I work with. Marybeth wanted me fired, and Wendy wanted my job. Meg knows that.”
“And she knows you wouldn’t say something out of spite.”
Her flush deepened, but she seemed pleased. “That’s it. You’d find out sooner or later from somebody else.”
“Sooner is better.”
“That Chinese guy—”
“Actually, Jeff was born in San Francisco and so were his parents.”
“Oh. Yeah. I just meant, you know, Sergeant Fong. He doesn’t know us.”
“He’s pretty smart, Annie.” Rob’s coffee was cold but he took a swallow anyway. “What did they quarrel about?”
“Well, Nina told me Marybeth wanted Wendy to do something for her, and Wendy was dragging her heels. But it doesn’t really matter. I figure Marybeth was looking to dump Wendy. She did that. It was kind of a pattern. She’d be all friendly for a while, and then it was like she had to pick a quarrel. She did that to Nina, and to Abby Torres when she found out Abby’s husband was Mexican.” A rueful smile touched her mouth. “She didn’t like Mexicans. In fact, she didn’t like a lot of people. Me, she was never friendly with. Maybe she didn’t like Norwegians.”
“Okay. Thanks, Annie. I’ll tell Jeff to have another talk with Nina.”
“And Pat Kohler. Pat hears everything.”
He thanked her again. She sent messages of sympathy and affection to Meg, but nothing about “library business,” and went off, looking almost calm. She remembered her gloves. Rob toasted the bagel.
When he left for the office in the pickup—he preferred to walk but thought he might need the truck later—Meg still hadn’t phoned. It was only eight, so he didn’t call her in case she’d stayed all night at the hospital and was sleeping in.
The first order of business was to sort out the ongoing investigations. He started Linda on the paperwork Hood River would need and delegated Jake to bring the prisoners to Klalo when Linda had organized the arson evidence. They would have to seize the motorcycle and helmets, and the gloves and leathers the suspects wore when they tossed a gasoline cocktail at Chief Thomas’s house. He set that in motion. There was no word yet on Harley Hoover.
Jeff came in around eight-thirty, and they had a useful talk about the murder. Jeff was grateful for Annie’s input. He admitted he hadn’t got much on the first round of interviews with the library staff, but he was scheduled to attend the autopsy, so he wouldn’t be interviewing anyone that morning. However, he would check out Nina and Pat and talk to Wendy again, and when was Meg coming home?
Soon, Rob said. Jeff left, full of good cheer. Rob checked his watch. Nine. No, he was not going to phone her. She would call when she could.
He turned to his computer and opened a new file which he labeled Fog, but he might as well have labeled it Why. These cases had large patches of fog when it came to understanding motivation. Harley Hoover, for one. The arson, for another. Rob didn’t buy simple racism, certainly not if the vandalism were tied to the firebomb, and he thought it had to be. And despite Marybeth Jackman’s revolting personality, he didn’t understand the murder at all.
Every one of the people who might be considered suspects, including Meg, had had reason to dislike the woman, but all of them, relatives, co-workers, even Chief Thomas, had been dealing with her for some time without resorting to murder. Why kill her on Thanksgiving, shortly after she set her oven timer for a jolly dinner with a friend? It didn’t make sense.
What Beth had told him of the daughter indicated that the girl was beginning to take independent action—finding a life of her own, however questionable her choices—and that she was almost of an age to walk away from her mother without looking back.
He was staring at the still-blank file, fingers poised on the keyboard, when Reese Howell, the desk sergeant, stuck his head around the corner.
“What is it?”
“There’s a Mrs. Muller here, asking to see the detective in charge of the Jackman murder.”
“Right.” Rob shoved the keyboard aside. “I’d better talk to her, since Jeff is otherwise occupied. Does she have her lawyer with her?”
“She’s all by her lonesome.”
“Show her in.” He stood up. “Is there any coffee?” A cup of department coffee would send Tessa Muller straight to her lawyer.
“Gotcha.” Howell ushered in a woman with a slight overbite who looked to be about Meg’s age.
Rob had probably seen Mrs. Muller at library functions, but he had no recollection of talking to her, so he introduced himself and shook hands. “You were Mrs. Jackman’s friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Um, thanks.” Her hand was cold. She sat in the guest chair.
“Sergeant Fong, the deputy in charge of the investigation, is attending the autopsy this morning,” Rob said with calculated bluntness.
Her eyes dilated, but she gave a nod.
“How can I help you? You realize I’m not in charge, don’t you?” He wanted to underline that.
“Yes.”
“And that we don’t yet know whether Mrs. Jackman was the victim of foul play.”
“But you think she was murdered.”
“Yes.”
An intern brought in a plastic tray with two coffees and appurtenances. Sorting that took awhile.
With Mrs. Muller’s permission, Rob activated his recorder and made the necessary introductory comments. It was nine-fifteen. Meg hadn’t called.
Tessa Muller squirmed as he said her name. When he finished, she blurted, “He kept asking me where I was Thursday morning.”
“Sergeant Fong asked you?”
“Yes. He was wasting time. He should have been looking into the people who hated Marybeth. I was her friend!”
Rob waited.
She gave him what Meg had characterized as a fish-eyed stare. He met her gaze without blinking. She looked down at her clasped hands. “Marybeth devoted her life to the library. She should have had Meg McLean’s job, but of course you won’t admit that.”
He waited.
She grumbled and mumbled, spewing secondhand malice to which he made no reply. The recorder ticked away. Rob listened without comment until she burst into tears. He handed her a tissue.
“And it’s just not fair. Everyone was against her. That Indian woman, the so-called chief, even her own daughter. The things I could tell you...”
That was marginally more interesting. Rob sat up.
“Marybeth did everything for that girl, lavished money on her clothes, read to her every night when she was little, gave her ballet lessons, music, painting, took her to Disney World, you name it. She was saving for Carla’s education, every dime she could put aside, even when it meant driving an old car. And was Carla grateful? Oh, no. First chance she got, she took up with a biker, covered herself with tattoos, mutilated herself....”
What? Oh, the pierced navel.
Tessa ranted on, channeling her friend. “Marybeth told me she’d had enough. Carla was going to be eighteen this week, out of control, but Marybeth meant to do something before that, believe you me.” She hiccupped on a sob. “She even talked to her lawyer.”
“Her lawyer,” Rob repeated. He had talked to Jackman’s lawyer about the will, which left everything to Carla, and about the abortive lawsuit against the Klalos. The man had said nothing of a recent conference.
“She was going to have him charged. Today! Before Carla turned eighteen.”
“Him. Who?”
“The Pascoe boy. Aidan Pascoe. He’s twenty-two. Carla’s still underage.”
“The age of consent in Washington is sixteen.”
“A lot you know.” Her lip curled. “He probably thought he was safe, but he was in for a big surprise.”
Rob stared.
“Any sexual partner four years or more older than a young person can be prosecuted for rape if she’s less than eighteen. That’s the law, and Marybeth was going to take him to court. She was not going to let her little girl throw herself away on a loser like Aidan Pascoe.” Her eyes glinted with what looked like vicarious triumph. Then her hands went to her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“She was saving it up.” Rob’s mind raced. Surely the law couldn’t be that idiotic. He would ask the prosecutor.
Tessa Muller stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean by saving it up. She gave them every chance to back off voluntarily. She reasoned with them.”
“She warned Pascoe she was going to have him charged?”
“Well, no. When they told her they were going to get married, she warned both of them that she wouldn’t stand for it, that she’d find a way to stop them. She was going to have another talk with them.”
“When?”
“When Carla came home from her father’s on Sunday, I suppose. It was Edwin’s turn to have Carla for Thanksgiving.” Tears stood in her eyes. “She was supposed to spend Christmas with Marybeth.”
“Did Mrs. Jackman tell Carla’s father what she intended to do?”
Tessa blotted her eyes. “I don’t know. Edwin always sides with Carla—well, he would, wouldn’t he, just to spite Marybeth. It wasn’t Romeo and Juliet, you know. Marybeth was right, the boy is dreadful. I wouldn’t let my daughter near him. A motorcycle, so dangerous, and those bikers, the ones who swarm at Stonehenge every summer, well, Marybeth wasn’t about to put up with people like that hanging around her daughter.”
Motorcycle enthusiasts made a pilgrimage every Summer Solstice to a concrete replica of Stonehenge, a nineteenth-century folly near Goldendale. Biker weddings had been known to happen at Stonehenge-on-the-Columbia. Rob tried hard not to smile at the thought of Carla’s ingenuity.
“It isn’t funny! Even the army wouldn’t have Aidan Pascoe. He’s been home more than two years, and he still hasn’t found a decent job. He’s a loser.”
“There aren’t a lot of jobs out there right now,” Rob offered. Why was he defending Pascoe?
“My husband says there are always jobs for people who really want to work.” An article of faith. She glared at him. “Are you going to check Aidan Pascoe out?”
“Yes. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with Sergeant Fong, Mrs. Muller?”
She gave Rob much the same story Annie had told him about Jackman and Resnik quarreling Thanksgiving week.
He did his best to exude skepticism. “They must have reconciled. Wendy Resnik was slated to eat the holiday dinner with your friend.”
“They would have discussed it again. Marybeth didn’t give up, she wasn’t a quitter.”
“What was it she wanted Ms. Resnik to do?”
“Something about meeting with church people in Flume to discuss bookmobile service. Wendy didn’t want to do it. She’s not easy with strangers.”
“What about the bookmobile?” Surely Annie would be the one to talk about rural book services.
She opened her mouth, teeth briefly bared, and shut it. “Heavens, I don’t know. Ask Wendy, she’s the one who wants Annie’s job. I can’t imagine why.”
He gave her his best imitation of a fish-eyed stare, but it was no use. She was gathering herself to leave and didn’t meet his eyes.
His cell phone rang. It was Meg. Rob excused himself and went out into the noisy reception area with its booking desk, phones and desks for the deputies, the dispatch cubicle, and chairs along the wall for witnesses and depressed relatives of people charged with crimes. “Meg, how are you? How’s your mother?”
“She died.” Her voice was without affect. “At two A.M.”
His throat closed. He cleared it. “My dear...”
“I’m coming home. I’m at the airport. They found a seat for me on Alaskan Flight 572. It arrives at six-seventeen. Can you meet me?” In the background the public address system said something significant.
“I...yes, of course. But what about...”
“I can’t talk about it, not here.” She sounded as if she were on the ragged edge of a scream. “Good-bye.”
He stared at the phone. Should he ring back? He grabbed a piece of scrap paper from Reese’s wastebasket and jotted down the flight number and time. When he stepped back into his office, Tessa Muller took one look at his face and gabbled farewells.
He shut the door after her and hit the speed-dial, but Meg didn’t answer. She had turned her phone off. Lucy. He could call Lucy. He didn’t have her number. His cell rang.
“Robert Neill,” he said, expecting Meg to answer, but it was Jeff. The autopsy was finished. Rob told him to come over to the office.
Chapter 13
“I threw up.” Jeff must have gone into his first autopsy overconfident. The deputy’s air of bright cheer had dissipated. He looked both sheepish and green around the gills, if such were possible.
“Have a seat and tell me what you learned.” Rob held out his hand.
Jeff gave him a printout of the M.E.’s notes and perched on the guest chair. “It’s one thing to see a dead body, but watching that cold bugger disassemble a human being was...”
Rob waited while his protégé groped for words. “The ultimate indignity?” he offered after a pause.
“That’s it.” Jeff sounded grateful. “I used to think Native Americans were nuts to object to scientific examination of historic remains. Now I understand. It’s a desecration.”
“A necessary one, I’m afraid, in the case of murder.”
“Sure, for murder.” Jeff sounded doubtful.
“Next-of-kin sometimes object to autopsies. It’s not just squeamishness. I’ve met relatives who say, what does it matter? The victims are dead, and nothing will bring them back. They’re right, of course, but I still come away wanting to know what happened, and if possible, why. That’s true, even if I think the dead person was a skunk.” Time to get to work. Rob drew a breath. “So was it murder?”
“Yes, or manslaughter.” Jeff half closed his eyes. His hands clenched, visualizing. “Somebody grabbed her by both arms, shook her, the M.E. thinks, and shoved her off the deck backwards.”
Rob nodded. “Bruising on the upper arms.”
“And elsewhere. When she fell, there was nothing to slow her down, no tree branches or rock ledges. From her deck it was straight down.”
“Did she somersault?”
“No.” Jeff curled forward, reaching with his arms, caught himself miming the victim’s defensive posture, and gave a rueful smile that faded immediately. “The back of her head hit hard, bashing the skull, but the area between her shoulder blades impaled on a sharp rock, and that severed her spine. A quick death.”
Quick but full of terror. Rob shivered. “Time of death?”
Jeff made a face. “You know how cagey they are. He says earlier than we assumed. Morning. Around ten, give or take.”
“Okay, Jeff. Thanks for attending. Consider yourself initiated.”
“I passed the test?”
Rob frowned. “It wasn’t a test. More a plunge into icy water. We deal with a lot of bad things, but murder is the worst. Murder is a damned insult.”
Jeff nodded, sober. Both men were silent. At last Jeff said, “I guess I’ll go back to the library at this point. That house was clean as a whistle, by the way.”
“I heard you allowed the girl back in.”
“I kept tape around the deck in case the techies can bring up shoe prints or hand prints or something, but it was awfully clean, too. I think the library’s the key.”
