The Club (Anna Denning Mystery Book 4) Page 5

  To Anna’s relief, the doorbell rang. She’d run out of arguments, and maybe Liz could ease Melinda’s fears. “I’ll bet that’s Liz.”

  Melinda hurried for the door while Anna took a last look around Henry Maxwell’s room. She opened the room’s bifold closet doors. Plenty of shirts, suits, and ties—nothing unusual. Three pairs of shoes, brown and black, on the floor. Six letter boxes on the shelf, all with metal label windows.

  Liz’s voice carried down the hall. Something about coffee and the late hour. Anna took down a letter box labeled “Wakening” and opened it. Inside were two plastic zip bags filled with dirt, an ivory-colored necklace made of large, rectangular-shaped beads, two small bottles containing clear liquids, and a number of old black-and-white photos. Anna hoped Melinda hadn’t dug through the closet. The box merely gave her the creeps, but it would scare the stuffings out of a woman who was sure she’d been visited by a dead man.

  “Anna?” Liz called out.

  “Coming.” Anna returned the box to the shelf, grabbed her cup from the table, and headed for the kitchen.

  “I’ve got info on that license plate number you gave me,” Liz said. She was at the table, hand in her purse, searching. The coffee maker was brewing again, and the tantalizing aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

  “Soda Ashbrook,” Liz said. At last she produced a piece of paper and handed it to Anna. “That’s the woman who followed you this morning. She works at the town office. I’ve met her a couple times.”

  “Soda?” Anna said.

  “Hippie parents?” Liz said with a shrug. She closed her purse, slung the strap on her seat back, and opened her laptop. “Anyway, I don’t think she’s anything to worry about, but I’d be curious to find out why she was following you.”

  “You and me both,” Anna said, still staring at the scrap of paper. “Soda Ashbrook, 3112 Jasper Street, Apartment 3C. Thanks, Liz.” Anna stuck the paper in her own purse and took a seat.

  “Liz is staying overnight,” Melinda said. She poured coffee in a cup and handed it to Liz.

  “What about Dan?” Anna asked.

  “He drove to Casper this morning.” Liz turned to Melinda. “My husband,” she explained.

  “Again?” Anna said.

  “He found extra work. Money’s tight.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You too?”

  “Not me, Gene. Buckhorn’s in trouble. He’s forty. What’s he going to do, go back to being a lineman in Loveland?” Anna looked away and took a long gulp of tea, effectively ending the conversation. She was worried about Gene, worried about him being able to keep the doors to Buckhorn’s Trading Post open through the winter, and worried about Jazmin Morningstar, his only full-time employee, having a job next month. But tonight wasn’t the night to talk about that, especially in front of Melinda, an almost-stranger.

  “I can pay you up front,” Melinda said brightly as she sat next to Anna.

  “No, no,” Anna said. “I’m fine, really.” She shifted in her seat, set down her cup, and pulled a notebook and pen from her purse. “Can I ask you some questions about your dad?”

  “Absolutely.” Melinda was eager to get going, to make a start at finding out why her father had become the man he was the day he died. Normally Anna cautioned enthusiastic clients, telling them to keep their expectations low, but she was only getting started on the mystery of Henry Maxwell, and with Liz’s help, who knew? Maybe she would discover what Melinda needed to know.

  “First of all, something has been bothering me,” Anna said. “Your dad taught journalism at a community college in Wyoming?”

  “Yes, Bighorn Community College in Sheridan.”

  “A small college, then,” Anna said. She heard Liz working her laptop keyboard.

  “Very,” Melinda added. “They do a lot of online classes.”

  “Did he have any newspaper experience?”

  “He wrote for the Sheridan paper now and then, not regularly. That’s about it.”

  “The college has 478 students,” Liz announced. “And that’s a current-day figure.”

  Considering Melinda’s disdain for her father, Anna was fairly certain her next question wouldn’t offend her. “Then how did he become editor in chief of the Elk Park Herald? A dozen qualified people must have applied for the job.”

  “They needed someone fast,” Melinda answered, unruffled by the question. “They had to put a scandal behind them.”

  Liz sat forward. “A scandal at the paper?”

  “I thought you’d like that, Liz,” Melinda said. “Seventeen years ago—were you in Elk Park then?”

  “No.”

  “Neither was I,” Anna said.

  Melinda grew serious. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and curled her fingers around her coffee cup. “I only found this out later through the rumor mill, long after my dad got the job. The former editor in chief, Adrian Armstrong, was caught sexually abusing two schoolgirls.”

  “That’s awful,” Liz said. “Was he arrested?”

  “No arrest, no trial,” Melinda said. “What I heard was he never actually raped the girls, so their parents wanted to keep it quiet to protect them.”

  “So he got away with it?” Anna said.

  “Not really. He lost his job and his family. His wife and kids left him, he moved to Idaho or Utah, and a year later he killed himself in a hotel room.”

  “Justice of a sort,” Liz said, leaning back in her seat.

  Melinda looked to Anna. “Does that help explain it?”

  “Well, no.” No, it didn’t. Not at all. “It explains the job vacancy, but not why your dad was made editor in chief.”

  Melinda nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. When I was a kid, it seemed a natural progression, journalism lecturer to editor in chief, but looking at it now, it was a giant leap. I don’t think he knew anyone in Colorado, so he had no contacts here to call on.”

  “How old were these girls?” Anna asked.

  “Both fourteen.”

  “Your dad must have heard about the job opening—”

  “And jumped on it instantly,” Melinda said. “The second Armstrong quit. He was a real opportunist.”

  “But he was out of a job, desperate for work,” Anna said, putting the best spin she could on the matter. “Your dad didn’t do anything wrong, this Adrian Armstrong did.”

  “Fourteen,” Liz said thoughtfully. “The girls must have been in their first year at Elk Park High or their last year in junior high—if there was a junior high.”

  “High school,” Melinda said. “The junior high became a middle school when I was going there. Is that important?”

  Liz shrugged. “Just interesting. Beverly Goff, the woman who died tonight, was principal of Elk Park High when my daughter attended. She retired last year after more than twenty years on the job, so she must have been principal when the two girls went there.”

  “I’m sorry, Liz,” Anna said. “I didn’t think you knew her.”

  Liz waved a hand. “I didn’t. I saw her on parents’ night, that’s all. I think I talked to her four times all the while Emily attended.”

  “So the high school principal became a medium.” Anna gulped her tea, pulled her phone from her purse, and rose to her feet. “Melinda, do you mind if I take photos of some of your dad’s Scottish mementos?”

  “Okay,” Melinda answered, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Have they been catalogued?” Anna asked.

  “No, why?”

  “I’d keep close track of them, and don’t let anyone from the January Club in here. I have a feeling that now your dad’s gone, more of his things are going to end up in Curt MacKenzie’s back bedroom.”

  At the mention of Curt’s house, Melinda bristled. “Those Celtic bronzes and amulets? My dad brought those back from Europe before I was born. He treasured them. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t believe he willingly gave any of them away.”

  In answer to Liz’s i
nquisitive gaze, Anna filled her in on Henry Maxwell’s supposed donations to the January Club.

  “But these things were on display in the house?” Liz asked, glancing from Melinda to Anna.

  “They weren’t shy about showing them off,” Anna said. “I think if they’d stolen them—”

  “No way.” Melinda was adamant. “They stole them. On top of everything else, my dad was stingy. He never gave anything away.”

  “Maybe he changed in the past eleven years.” It occurred to Anna that Melinda’s anger had more to do with the club now owning things she believed rightly belonged to her than with any conviction that its members had stolen them. “You could look for paperwork. He might have gotten receipts for tax purposes.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Melinda said.

  “I’m going to start taking photos in his bedroom then work my way to the living room. Give Liz a rundown on the club members and that Sorg portrait, will you?” Anna said, setting off for the hall.

  In Henry Maxwell’s bedroom, she opened the closet doors, took down the letter box labeled “Wakening,” and laid it on the bed next to the attaché case. After taking photos of the items inside, including close-ups of the old black-and-white photographs, Anna unscrewed the top from one of the small bottles and held the opened bottle to her nose. Moss? Algae? She couldn’t place the scent, but it was unpleasant and reminded her of Curt’s house. The liquid in the second bottle was sweet, smelling of bergamot mingled with another, less citrusy fragrance.

  The ivory-colored necklace was the real puzzle. The beads were large, strung together on a length of brown twine, and no self-respecting man, or woman, would wear such a thing. When Anna turned one of the beads on end and held it close to the lamp on Maxwell’s desk, she saw its papery, almost honeycomb core.

  “No. God.” She wheeled back and dropped the necklace into the box. Bone. The beads were bone. Animal. Please be animal bone. What was going on in this house? What had Henry Maxwell gotten himself into?

  Her eyes shifted to the attaché case. If that finger . . . Schaeffer had to know about it. She had to let him know if that finger was real.

  There was only one way to do it, and that was quickly—like ripping off a bandage. She opened the attaché and immediately took a step back, ready for an assault on her eyes. All she saw was another sporran—much like the one in Curt’s back bedroom—some cheap-looking mementos from Edinburgh Castle, and small horse figures, perhaps made of bronze like the ones Henry had given away.

  Then the odor of chemicals and putrefaction reached her nose. Hadn’t Melinda noticed it? Why hadn’t she said anything?

  Anna plucked the sporran from the box. There. Although slightly leathery, it looked real enough. She tilted the attaché and the finger rolled. My God. When it came to a stop at the side of the case, she bent down to study the severed end. At its center, unmistakably and grotesquely, was bone.

  6

  Hot coffee to go from the Buffalo, gusts of snow-filled wind on beautiful Summit Avenue—ordinarily these things had the power to wash clean, to erase unwanted memories and sights. Not this morning.

  Anna knew it would be a long time before she could banish from her mind the foul stench of Henry Maxwell’s attaché. Maybe when Melinda had opened it the smell hadn’t been so bad, she told herself. Or maybe—and this was more likely—Melinda hadn’t wanted to admit that the attaché carried the odor of rotting flesh and formaldehyde. “It smelled like a lot of things my dad owns, and a little like Curt MacKenzie’s house,” she had said.

  But Melinda’s horror when Anna told her what she’d discovered, and that they needed to call the police, was genuine. She now had absolute confirmation that her father was the monster she had long thought him to be. And it wasn’t too surprising that Melinda had smelled formaldehyde among her father’s things. The chemical was easy to buy, and it seemed to her that Maxwell the bone-keeper was just the sort of man to buy it.

  “Schaeffer seemed pleased you found that finger,” Liz said, taking a sip from her paper cup. “Why is that?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  “It’s that job you took on, isn’t it? Jordan Hetrick, I bet. I know they can’t locate his family. Was he missing a finger when they found him?”

  “Liz, you can’t publish anything.”

  “I know that. I won’t.”

  Of necessity Liz was ambitious when it came to her news website, but she was thoroughly honest. If she said she would wait for the go-ahead from the police before she broke a piece of news, she would.

  “I’ll tell you as soon as Schaeffer lets me,” Anna said. She took another sip of coffee then added, “I can tell you that there was a bone necklace in the attaché.”

  “Human bone?”

  “I don’t know. If it was animal bone, it was from a larger animal.”

  “Why would someone keep something like that?”

  “Or make something like that. He might have made it. It looked ritualistic, like it served an occult purpose.”

  Liz curled her lip in disgust. “Let’s take my car to the town office and newspaper office,” she said, gesturing with her cup at her parked SUV.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Will you ever be able to drive on ice?”

  “Never.” Anna set her coffee next to Liz’s in the SUV’s cup holder then hoisted herself into the seat.

  “I’ve been wondering about something since last night,” Liz said. “Why were you asking Melinda about her dad’s qualifications to be editor in chief? I agree it’s strange he got the job, but how does that fit in with your research into his family tree?”

  Anna laughed.

  “Silly question,” Liz said. “Like you ever stay within the strict boundaries of genealogy.” The two exchanged grins.

  “Melinda wants me to do more than fill in the holes in her family tree,” Anna said. “She wants to know why her father moved his family to Colorado, cut off contact with all his relatives, and became the man he was.”

  “That’s a tall order.”

  “I’m not sure I can help her as much as she wants me to.” Anna reached for her coffee, warming her hands on the cup. She had a lovely pair of gloves at home. Why hadn’t she brought them? “But it’s more than that. Henry Maxwell and the case the police gave me are connected. If I can find out the answers to Melinda’s questions, I’ll be helping her and . . .” She trailed off. Was there a way to say what she meant without sounding foolish? As though previous success had gone to her head and she was taking comments about getting an investigator’s license far too seriously? “I think Gene might have to close Buckhorn’s, and the Elk Park PD pays me more than my standard hourly fee for genealogical research.”

  “Oh, Anna, I’m sorry.”

  “He’s not at that point yet, but he might be next month.” Anna angled sideways in her seat. “He’s so worried, and I know he feels like he’s letting down his dad. Roger Westfall built that store.”

  “Gene can’t help the lousy economy.”

  “Tell him that. He blames himself. I’ve never seen him grouchy—have you ever seen him grouchy?”

  Liz thought a moment. “Come to think of it, no.”

  “Of course he has his cranky times, and we’ve argued, but he’s on edge all the time now. And he doesn’t talk about the wedding unless I force something out of him.” Anna groaned in frustration. “Why does it always come down to money?”

  “You need to make more, to help keep Buckhorn’s open.”

  “Yes, and if I can help the police, then—”

  “They never would have found that finger without you. Melinda would have gone back to Iowa and—”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “All right, then.” Liz started the engine and pulled from the curb, making a U-turn in the middle of Summit. “Let’s see what Soda Ashbrook has to add to this . . . this whatever is going on. It’s no coincidence she followed you after we met Melinda at the Buffalo.”

/>   Three blocks west, on Palmer Street, Liz found a vacant space in the Municipal Building’s parking lot. “Introduce me and we’ll see what happens,” Anna said, sliding down from her seat. “We don’t know for sure it was her driving, only that it was her car.”

  “See how she reacts to meeting you,” Liz said. “Got it.”

  On the first floor, just past the entrance to the town council’s meeting room, they swung right and walked into Elk Park’s town office, a large room of cubicles, computer monitors, fax machines, and file cabinets. Second only to the Buffalo, it was Liz’s home away from home, and the workplace of at least one of her important, and always anonymous, contacts.

  “Hey, Liz,” a woman said as she breezed through the door. She stopped and did an about-face. “Did you find what you needed?”

  “Not yet, Jillian,” Liz said, swinging back. “But I hope to. Is Soda Ashbrook in?”

  “Soda?” Jillian said with a slight frown. “Yeah.” She sidled up to Liz and pointed her toward a desk in a far corner of the office, where a dark-haired woman, her head down, was intently stuffing papers into manila folders. “Do you know her?”

  “Not well, but I need to talk to her.”

  Jillian cringed. “Ms. Morose doesn’t talk much.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d say she was Goth, but that’s not trendy these days, is it? Black metal, I think.”

  “What’s black metal?” Anna asked.

  “You do not want to know,” Jillian said. “Sorry, gotta run. Nice to see you, Liz.”

  “Something else to search on the computer tonight,” Anna said as she watched Jillian turn the corner.

  Liz nudged Anna. “You said she had dark hair.”

  “That’s right.” Anna looked back to the corner desk. “It sure looks like her. And look what’s in the plastic tray on her desk. That might be the gray cap I saw.”