The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 13

  I glanced in the rearview. Madame had fallen asleep on the back ledge. I looked over at Eleanor. She seemed subdued, gazing out the window as if the martinis and the magic had finally worn off.

  As The Ghost blew over the bridge that spanned the north end of Lake Union, I glanced down at the water. The houseboats cusped the shore, their cozy lights like salt grains on the rim of a dark glass. Jack was down there, in the place decorated by some woman who was also captivated by those green eyes. That passionate green. My heart skipped. I wanted to reach inside my chest and slap it. Snap out of it.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Eleanor said.

  I looked over. “What question?”

  “What’s the one thing every woman needs from a man?”

  “Oh. That.” I stared at the white lines on the freeway. “Actually, I have no idea.”

  “I’ll give you a clue,” she said. “Your friend.”

  “Lanette—Lani?” I looked over again. “What about her?”

  “She’s found that one thing.”

  Love?

  But that answer was too simplistic for Eleanor. I thought of how the two of them stood together, touching each other like they didn’t know, or care, where one person ended and the other began. “It’s something beyond romantic love. Isn’t it?”

  “Correct. I’ll give you another clue. I found it with Harry.”

  I tried to read her face. But even the rhinestones looked demure right now. “Eleanor, I honestly don’t know.”

  “Your first guess was safety,” she said. “Then adventure. But this one thing will give a woman both. And more. So much more.”

  “Okay. So what is it?”

  “As is.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “As-is. Every woman needs a man who loves her as-is. He doesn’t want to change anything about her.” She sighed. “Oh, no greater safety in this world than that kind of love. And then life turns into the most grand and wonderful adventure.”

  I waited, expecting her to recite something from Tennessee. Or make a dig about how I blew up my “perfect” engagement to DeMott.

  But after several moments of silence, Eleanor only reached out and turned on the radio. She found the oldies station, then sang with the crooning tunes. For once, she sang softly.

  But I couldn’t listen. Every song was about love. Getting love, keeping love, cherishing love.

  And I knew some woman loved Jack.

  Even worse?

  He loved her back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The next morning, after exhausted sleep, I got up before dawn and sped over the Cascade mountains. The sky shifted from obsidian black to gray opals to the pink quartz that makes morning promises.

  In the town of Wenatchee, I followed Gunn Road to Euclid Street, then parked outside the main office of the Chelan County Sheriff’s Department. Inside, that same bitter scent of cheap coffee stung the air. No receptionist was at the desk. But in the bullpen that spread behind that desk, dispatch radios crackled and in the far back, one man sat at a desk, sipping from a large white mug.

  “Detective Culliton?” I asked.

  He wore a collared shirt, no tie. As I approached, he rubbed a square hand across his jaw, back and forth, like somebody who had spent last night grinding his teeth.

  “Raleigh Harmon?” He stood. He was tall and broad, dwarfing everything around him.

  I handed him my card. While he read it, I glanced at his desk. Two binders sat front and center. One lay open. I’d bet four speeding tickets that the binder was labelled Engels or Heller. “Thanks for meeting me so early,” I said.

  “Yeah, what else could I do? You call me eleven at night and say you can only meet early in the morning?” He looked at me. His eyes were a deep and dark, like the wrong end of a double-barreled shotgun. “You said the family hired you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’d you hear about the Heller girl?”

  “Her mother.” I wasn’t ratting out Wilcove. And Martha Heller had told me about her daughter. But as I said it, my phone buzzed. I’d turned off the ringtone before leaving Tacoma this morning. But in this empty office, the buzz sounded like a game show contestant giving the wrong answer. The phone buzzed again.

  “You gonna get that?” Detective Culliton waited.

  “Not right now.”

  “Who told you before the mother,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Before Mrs. Heller.” He gestured to a metal chair waiting next to his desk. “Who told you about her daughter before her?”

  “Was I not supposed to know about Esther Heller?”

  He sat and placed my card front and center on the desk. His elbows went on top of that open binder, his big arms crossed to prevent me from seeing anything on the open page. “I don’t like outsiders showing up and meddling in local affairs.”

  “Even if that outsider is here to help?”

  “Too many cooks turn dinner to crap.”

  “Unless one of the cooks happens to know how to cook.”

  One shotgun shell slid into the chamber of his dark eyes. “You telling me you how to handle this case?”

  “Not at all. I’m just reminding you that Peter Rosser’s done great lab work. For just about every sheriff’s department in the state. And Rosser hired me.”

  “Only now Rosser’s a free agent.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “And you ditched the FBI.”

  No occupational clan was strung tighter than cops. Cops stuck with cops. And Peter and I had left the law enforcement fold. I’d also bet another speeding ticket that Wilcove talked to his brother-in-arms, Seiler or Culliton, maybe to assuage his guilt over giving me Esther’s name. And Wilcove would’ve told them everything about how I left the Bureau by way of mutual agreement.

  “That’s right, detective, I’m no longer with the Bureau. However, I still consult for them. So I don’t see that we have a problem here.”

  “Bully for you. I still see a problem.” He leaned forward, arms still crossed. “You and Rosser are out to make money off people’s misery.”

  My temper crawled from its sour chamber. I shoved it back. “The Engels aren’t paying us. They’re offering hotel rooms.”

  “What about the Hellers?”

  “What about them.”

  “They’re rich.”

  “Good for them. But they’re not paying us.”

  “Then why’d you call me about the Heller girl?”

  “Because if Esther Heller died six years ago and her murder still hasn’t been closed, then she’s officially a cold case. Call me crazy, detective, but I thought it might be good to dust off her file and see what we could find.”

  “Oh, I get it.” He smirked. “Then the Hellers will cough up some dough.”

  “Actually my hope is that Mrs. Heller can one day leave her basement prison.”

  The eyes chambered another shell. “Did Mrs. Heller happen to tell you about the astrologist?”

  I felt a chill coming.

  “Yeah. That’s right. There was also a psychic.” Culliton nearly smiled at my discomfort. “The psychic held a séance in their hotel. Total voodoo. He was some ‘seer’ from Portland. He led us all over the place. And he wasn’t the worst. We lost more weeks to other wackos, all hired by Martha Heller. Whoever killed that girl was probably laughing his ass off.”

  “So he could come back to kill again.”

  The eyes said ready, aim. “You don’t know that.”

  “You don’t know otherwise.”

  I could see fire coming next. I needed to block the shot.

  “Detective, in all the years Peter Rosser was running the state lab, working on behalf of sheriff’s offices like this one, did he ever strike you as a wacko?”

  He looked at his computer monitor, as if checking to see if an urgent email arrived.

  “Do I seem like a wacko?”

  He kept his gaze on the computer, shifting the mouse
as if yet another urgent email was there. I checked my watch—5:53 a.m. I would’ve liked to be patient. But more shells were chambering in his eyes and the way forward would soon become a literal dead end if I didn’t stay alive. So I made the first bid.

  “I’m looking at Fritz Engels.”

  The double barrels swung my way. “The brother?”

  I explained my theory. Fritz’s deep knowledge of hotel schedules and how housekeeping works. His age. Fritz was old enough that he could’ve also killed Esther Heller. I watched the detective. Either Culliton was an expert at concealing the truth, or he’d never considered Annicka’s brother. “Fritz also seemed really eager to point me toward the boyfriend. But that doesn’t add up because if Mason Leming was even close to being guilty, you would’ve brought him in.” I paused. “If Mason’s not a suspect, you must’ve had a good reason to eliminate him from the list.”

  “How’d you hear about Esther?”

  Oh, forget it. Enough with the peace offerings. I loaded my own shotgun.

  Glancing around the office, I took in the desks, empty of people yet burdened with paperwork. And Culliton’s equally burdened desk. In big cities, police departments give detectives some kind of private space. And they’re usually assigned specialties—vice, robbery, homicide. But rural county offices like this were always stretched. Detectives worked everything from drugs and prostitution to kidnapping and murder. The frustration showed on Culliton’s large face.

  I smiled. “How long have you been with the sheriff’s office?”

  Culliton returned my smile, but it looked as bitter as the coffee. “Eighteen years.”

  “Long time.”

  “Long enough to watch people like you—and all the wacko psychics—show up and leave. It’s like I’m sitting next to a revolving door.”

  “Eighteen years.” I nodded. “That’s definitely impressive. Eighteen years of a steady paycheck, even when you don’t close a murder case. Eighteen years of keeping your job, even if whoever killed Esther Heller never got caught. Even if the killer comes back and strikes again, you’re still here getting a paycheck. Do you ever wonder who’s really making the money off other people’s misery?”

  The shotgun racked. The two Cokes I drank for breakfast curdled in my stomach.

  “Who the hell.” He spoke through his clenched jaw. “Do you think you are?”

  “I’m nobody. But I want to find somebody.”

  “And you expect me to help you?”

  “Yes. Because as I told you last night on the phone, we can both win if we work together.” I looked at the binders on his desk, covered by his crossed arms. The top page was partially visible. It showed a standard coroner’s outline of the human body with horizontal lines radiating outward, with room for handwritten notes. Annicka or Esther, I didn’t know who, but the horizontal line extending from the body’s neck and clavicle showed extensive notes. “I’d appreciate seeing the autopsies for both girls.”

  “Just swoop in here like Superwoman and just solve the cases.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” My temper jumped up and down, begging me to blurt out the rest—No wonder Esther turned into a cold case. “Detective, I’ll give you full credit. I just want to find out who killed them.”

  He glanced at the monitor again. But I heard less of an edge in his voice. “I’ll need to run it by the sheriff first.”

  “Of course.”

  On the other side of the bullpen, the front door opened. A deputy wearing the same brown uniform as Seiler walked in. He took one look at Culliton, and made a beeline for the coffee machine.

  “Anything else?” the detective asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Can you tell me where I might find an elephant around here?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Following the detective’s directions, I drove to the other side of Leavenworth until I found a red-and-white striped awning with the words:

  Big Baer’s Orchard and Petting Zoo

  The place didn’t open until nine, so I circled back into town, picked up coffee and schnitzel and sat on a bench in the city park. Another oompah band was setting up, and the early morning light struck the accordion player’s buttons, turning them into oyster pearls. My cell phone buzzed.

  And buzzed.

  When it stopped, I pulled it out. There were now five messages. All from Jack.

  I called him back. “Hey,” I said.

  “Harmon, if we don’t leave right now, we’ll never make it back to Seattle by noon.”

  “I’m already here.” The tuba player in the park blew a blubbery note. “Hear that? Where else could I listen to an oompah band for breakfast?”

  “You drove to Leavenworth.”

  I bit into the schnitzel and tasted nothing.

  “Okay.” Jack said. The word sounded nothing like that okay he’d said at night in the boat. “Everything alright?” he asked.

  “Yep, everything’s great. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I disconnected the call.

  The accordion player squeezed his instrument, like my heart was in his hands.

  * * *

  By five after nine, Big Baer’s gravel parking was already filling up. I locked The Ghost and walked along a section of picket fence that contained a petting zoo. White rabbits, black pygmy goats. Brown Shetland ponies with platinum blond bangs hanging in their eyes. I’d felt guilty about leaving Madame home with Eleanor. But now it seemed wise. She chased horses.

  A young mother lifted her camera. “Jeremy,” she said. “Pet the goat.”

  The kid looked about four years old, and terrified.

  “G’on, pet the goat.” Her voice carried that high-pitched tone, like she was trying not to reveal her impatience. “Put your hand out. Pet him.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “He won’t hurt you!”

  Later, it would all look very different in some scrapbook.

  Behind the petting zoo, I found another red-and-white awning. The morning breeze rippled the scalloped edge, and I caught the scent of fruit. Apples. A pretty blond girl was arranging red apples in a pyramid on a display case. Behind her, shoppers pushed carts around a retail area. I stood to her side, waiting for her to finish.

  “Crispins,” she said, without turning. “Just picked.” She stacked another row. “Best Crispin apple you’ll ever taste.”

  “I’ll take one.”

  “One?” She glanced over her shoulder. She was stunningly pretty. “Just one?”

  I nodded.

  “Nobody’s ever bought just one.” She handed me the apple in her hand. The skin was red with washes of pale green and gold, like an apple crossbred with a watermelon.

  “Go ahead, take a bite,” she said, sounding like that mom with the camera. “One bite and you’ll see.”

  The first bite was so juicy it almost choked me. I’d tasted some fine apples in my home state of Virginia, but this one was like a carbonated honey bath of fruit. My tongue wanted to dance. I closed my eyes. My throat hummed.

  She laughed. “Right?”

  “Oh.” I opened my eyes. “Wow.”

  “Mr. Baer’s apples are the best. He breeds them, puts all kinds of science into his orchards. People come from all over to get them.” She lifted another Crispin. “So, how many do you want?”

  “A dozen.”

  While she bagged twelve amazing apples, I polished off the ambrosia in my hand and looked around. Apple trees lined the sunny hillside in rows and stretched their limbs to the sun. White ladders leaned against the trunks. Pickers filled bushel baskets and carried them to a large truck.

  “Have you worked here long?” I asked.

  “I started here the day I could get a job. Ninth grade. That was three years ago.”

  “Good job, huh?”

  “Much better than working in the hotels. Plus Mr. Baer’s super nice.”

  She carried my apples under the awning, where two long lines waited for the cash registers. Carts of apples
. Crates of apples. Cases of apple cider.

  “Busy,” I said.

  “You’re only getting this dozen, so I’ll ring you up in back.”

  She walked me past shelves with jars of apple butter, jars of apple jelly, containers of dried apple rings, and set the paper bags of my Crispins on a back counter.

  “One dozen,” she said. “That’ll be—”

  “Did you count this one?” I held up my apple core.

  “Samples are on the house.” She rung up the sale. “Mr. Baer says samples don’t even cost him money, they make him money.”

  “He’s right.” I handed her the bills. “By any chance, did you know Annicka Engels?”

  The cash drawer had popped open but her young hands froze over it. “Why do you want to know?”

  Lying’s always an option. But holding this bitten apple in my hand, lying also seemed like my express-lane ticket into Eve’s disastrous tribe. “Annicka’s family asked me to look into some things.”

  She placed my twenty-dollar bill in the drawer, carefully. “Annicka was awesome.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.” I took out my card, handed it to her. “I’m trying to find out what happened to her. At the end.”

  Her cornflower blue eyes widened as she read the card. “Are you, like, those people on TV? Like CSI?”

  “Kinda. But kinda not.”

  “But you do stuff, like find evidence?”

  I had no time for show-and-tell—visiting hours at the asylum were ticking toward me like a stopwatch lodged inside my head. “Somebody said there’s an elephant around here.”

  The shift took her a moment. “Buster?”

  “Buster—is that the elephant?”

  She nodded, looking a bit confused, like she’d missed a step. I stared into her innocent blue eyes, and wondered if I was ever this trusting at her age. No. By her age, I was already suspicious of people. Just like Lani had said.

  I smiled. “Where would I find Buster?”

  Someone called out, “Alma!”

  She jumped, and turned. But relaxed when she saw who had called her name. A gray-haired man rolled toward us in a wheelchair.

  “Alma,” he said, “why are you back here? Mary Catherine’s got that long line all to herself.”