Scene of the Climb (9 page)

“Hey!” I shouted. “Leaf, is that you?”

The silhouette turned its head, stared in my direction and bolted into the darkness. This entire event was getting weirder by the minute. A gloomy feeling invaded my body. This is what Gam calls
a knowing
. Like my body knew danger was headed my way.

“Meg, what are you doing out here?” Greg appeared behind me with a flashlight in his hand. The light made tiny yellow spots dance in front of my eyes.

I put my hand in front of my face to block the light. He lowered the flashlight.

“Uh, nothing. I thought I saw Leaf run off. I wanted to ask him something.”

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“I am. I just noticed Leaf leave the party and I hadn't had a chance to talk to him since the, you know, fall.”

Greg positioned the flashlight to illuminate the path. “Come on, let's get you inside,” he said as he chaperoned me to the party. “I'm not kidding around. This could be a dangerous situation.”

“But I—I—”

“The trail was covered with cameras. If Lenny was killed, whoever killed him could have seen you. You've got to play it cool.”

I could feel heat rise to my cheeks. Greg really did think of me as a child.

“I am playing it cool. I'm telling you, I wanted to talk to Leaf.”

“Not according to Alicia. She said you were spying on Andrew and sprinted after Leaf.”

We neared the tent. Enough light spilled out from its twinkling lights that Greg clicked off the flashlight.

“Listen, I don't want you involved in this. Why don't you take off? Go home. Rest up. I'll see you at the office tomorrow. Okay?”

“What's that supposed to mean? You don't want me involved in what?”

We were interrupted by a rowdy group of climbers all slugging beers. “Greg! Killer party. Come have a pint.”

Greg held a finger. To me he whispered, “Go home, Meg. Trust me.”

I stormed to my car. Obviously, Greg knew more than he was letting on.

But why wouldn't he tell me? Danger, my ass. He either thinks I'm a kid and doesn't want me ruining the article, or worse—he's mixed up in this mess.

Shutting the car door, I recovered my purse from under the seat. I always leave it here, much to Pops' dismay. He was convinced this is the first place thieves look. But, I countered, I lock the door. If they get in, they're going to find it regardless. It's not like I leave it on the seat in plain sight.

I pulled out my phone. A missed text from Jill. Meet us at the bar. Be out late.

Then another: Matt's coming.

The clock read 9:45. They'd still be there. A beer sounded heavenly and I needed to fill in my friends on Lenny's murder and Greg's reaction.

My friends equaled Jill, Jill's boyfriend, Will Barrington, and our good friend from college, Matt Parker. Matt covers technology for
The O
. We met my junior year (Matt's a year older) when Pops presented as a special guest in our censorship class.

Pops knew all my professors. Matt knew Pops. A fan-boy, he brought in a copy of the five-part meth series Pops wrote, “Plague for the Politicians.” When Pops spoke to my journalism class he was still embroiled in the story. Little did he know the fallout the story would bring.

Matt saved a seat for me from that day on with a single stick of silver-wrapped gum. Pops helped Matt land a technology reporting job for
The O
a few months before he was placed on indefinite leave.

Will is a lawyer at the firm where Jill's interning. It's fitting that their names match. Jill has the annoying habit of morphing into whomever she's dating. I get it. With his Italian heritage and dark manicured looks he's easy on the eyes. But I don't trust him.

Strike one—he carries a black Gucci umbrella. I looked it up; it retails for $430. Four hundred dollars for a freaking umbrella? No. Strike two—he's an inch shorter than Jill and showers three times a day. Plus, Matt doesn't trust Will because he's constantly belittling Apple products and texting on his BlackBerry.

We usually hook up at least once a week at Deschutes, our favorite brewery. Will tolerates it since they serve martinis. I love it because I can get a pint and a cheese pretzel for under ten bucks.

I scored a parking space in front of the brewery and spotted them through the bright windows lining the tan-colored brick building. Walking into Deschutes feels cheery even in the dead of winter. Exposed, refurbished wood beams run the length of the dining room. Archways to the bar feature intricate forest scenes hand carved with a chainsaw.

I passed through the entryway with windowed garage doors that pull open in the summertime. The restaurant and bar were humming with diners and from the vibration of industrial fans spinning on the ceiling. Aged wooden kegs and gold-framed beer posters filled the dark maroon walls.

The forty-foot bar, flanked by a Tuscan red tile wood-burning fireplace, was jammed with people. Behind the bar, full-length windows revealed copper brewing tanks. Matt, Jill and Will were perched on high bar stools around a small mahogany table. A frosted glass chandelier hung overhead.

“Megs!” Matt greeted me with a beer salute and hearty hug.

Jill swears he's had a crush on me since the day we met in Journalism 304. I disagree. It would never work. He has shaggy blond hair. I have a steadfast rule that two people with the same hair color
shouldn't
date.

Tonight Matt's shaggy hair was more unruly than usual, falling in front of his eyes. I tossed it with my hand.

“Time for a cut, my friend.”

An avid cyclist, Matt pushed his biking saddlebags and Nutcase helmet to the side and pulled out a stool for me.

He grinned and planted himself in the seat next to me. “I know. I know. You sound like my mom. Geez.”

Matt wore a shirt reading
NO, I WILL NOT FIX YOUR COMPUTER
and cargo shorts. Will, who was seated across from him, wore a crisp three-piece suit with a shiny pale blue tie. He sipped a martini and greeted me with a nod. “Hey, Meg.”

“Am I ever happy to see you guys. You're not gonna believe my day. But first I need a beer. Whatchya drinking, Matt?”

“Hop Henge. You want a sip?” Matt held his glass, his fingers smudged with bicycle grease.

“Absolutely.” I took a large swig of the honey-colored beer and handed the pint to Matt. “I think I might need two.”

“Spill, Meg. Does this have anything to do with your superhot boss?” Jill asked.

“I wish. Don't get me started. He's beyond hot, but I'm constantly blabbering and making a fool of myself in front of him. Plus, he's acting really strange.”

Matt waved a waitress over. “Hot boss? I thought you were a journalist?”

“Harsh!” I backhanded him on the arm.

Pretending to rub the spot where I hit him, he said, “Lay it on us.”

With the promise of a beer on the way, I launched into the crazy details of my day. Had it really only been a few hours ago that I'd witnessed Lenny fall to his death?

Jill was the first to speak after I unloaded on them. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Meg, this is just like a P.D. James novel. If this Lenny guy was really pushed off, that's serious stuff.”

Jill's a huge fan of mysteries—especially Brit lit. Her collection of British cozies rivals her collection of candy.

Will sipped his martini and reached into his suit pocket. He thrust an ivory embossed business card across the table to me. “One of the partners at my firm specializes in this kind of thing. Call him tomorrow and tell him I referred you.”

“I can't afford a lawyer—especially a partner at your firm. Why would
I
need a lawyer? I'm not a suspect. Am I?”

“Doubtful,” Will said, repositioning his tie. “Call my friend. He'll walk you through what to disclose. Don't worry. I'll work something out with him.”

Jill squeezed his shoulder. I tried not to vomit.

Will doesn't even know Jill's an artist. That's strike three.

I blame her surgeon parents who are as sterile as the skintight latex gloves they operate in. Sure they sprung for her loft as a graduation present, but not because she wanted it. She'd rather live in Pops' farmhouse where there's space to spread out her canvases and acrylic paints.

Her parents have no idea she's painting. At their urging Jill studied prelaw and landed an internship at Benson and White, Portland's premier law firm. In secret, she keeps her stash of painting supplies hidden in Pops' garage and her inner artist hidden behind her designer suits. She doesn't allow many people into her other world. Luckily I'm one of the few she does.

“Hold on,” Matt chimed in. “I don't think Megs needs to lawyer up. We don't even know if there's been a crime.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, kicking Matt under the table.

“Ouch!” He rubbed his shin. “I'm not saying you're wrong. I think you should slow down and wait to see what the police say.”

“You know, I took a criminology seminar last year,” Jill said, picking at her salad. “What's the motive here? I mean, Lenny sounds like an ass, but it's a pretty big leap to
murder
someone because they're a jerk.” She paused to dab her field greens with light dressing from a small ramekin. “Do you think he could have been fighting with someone and accidentally got pushed? Go over what you saw one more time.”

The waitress delivered a steaming pretzel with a side of warm, spicy beer mustard. Matt set it in front of me. “My treat.”

“Thanks,” I said, breaking off a bite and dipping it into the sauce. The rich, peppery mustard instantly warmed my mouth.

“Okay.” I paused between bites. “Like I said, you know how terrified of heights I am. I didn't know what else to do when I saw Greg coming, so I faked a fall. But I really did slide toward the edge. I was so focused on holding my grip that the only thing I saw was Lenny flailing backward over the cliff.”

“Did you hear anything?” Matt asked as he whipped out his iPhone. “I want to take notes while this is fresh in your head.”

I shook my head, “No. Not that I remember.”

“Think. You had to hear something.”

I took a sip of beer to wash down the pretzel and tried to remember every detail of the fall. “Wait, I did hear something. Like a grunt—a deep, throaty grunt.”

Matt typed with lightning speed with his thumbs, a skill I had yet to master. I'm an old-school laptop kind of girl.

Will casually sipped his martini, while Jill leaned across the table, nodding enthusiastically. “This is good. What else can you remember?”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, looking up from his phone. “What about before you slipped? Did you see anything?”

Something nudged at the back of my brain, but I couldn't think of what it was. Had I seen anything? Dave had been standing ahead on the trail, Greg behind me. And Andrew—where had he disappeared to? He claimed he was mounting cameras along the path, but he couldn't have been too far ahead.

Framed TVs above the bar were showing a basketball game. Cameras flashed in the crowd. That was it—the broken camera.

“There was something else,” I said. “A broken camera. I saw one of the GoPro cameras that Andrew mounted along the route. It was broken on the path.”

Matt typed this new detail into his phone. No wonder he and Pops had gotten along perfectly. They shared a common love of investigating.

Jill clapped. “Matt, be sure include that one. I've read enough Miss Marple to know that could be an important clue, even if it doesn't seem like it now.”

“Maybe.” I nodded in agreement. “But Dave has it.”

“A-ha!” Matt tapped his fingers on the tabletop and clicked his thumb and index finger into a gun. “The smoking gun. Now we're on to something.”

Will scoffed. “You realize, you guys sound like you're acting out a scene from
Scooby-Doo,
right?” He waved the waitress over to pay his bar tab. “Meg, listen. Stop the detective act and call my firm tomorrow. Jill, you ready? Let's roll.”

He grabbed his black trench coat that hung on a hook behind our table and knocked back the remains of his drink. Jill gave me an apologetic look. “See you at home,” she said as they hustled out of the bar.

“Don't listen to the suit,” Matt said after they were gone. “You're on to something here, Megs. I wish Charlie was here. He'd know what to do. Sorry, I didn't mean to . . .”

“It's okay. You're right. The cop who took my statement today knew Pops. Said he'd worked with him on the meth story, until he went off the deep end.”

“Don't let it get to you. Your dad was one of the smartest people I've ever met.”

“That's not what he thought. The second he connected my last name, he looked at me like I was crazy.”

“You're reading way too much into this.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

The last bite of pretzel sat on the table. I offered it to Matt. When he declined I popped it in my mouth and washed it down with the flat, warm beer left in the bottom of my glass. “I can't let Mother get wind of this. She'll freak out.”

“For sure.” Matt nodded in agreement. “Wanna head out? You look like you could use a good night's sleep.” He helped me off my stool and tucked his phone in a pocket of his baggy shorts.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling rocky on my feet. “And thanks for the beer. I needed that.”

We walked out of the empty bar. Matt waved to the hostess and opened the massive glass door for me.

“I'll e-mail you these notes. Let's hang out tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. See ya.” I hopped into my car and waved to Matt who stood on the sidewalk waiting for me to leave.

Morning came early the next day. Jill shook me awake on her way out the door.

“What time is it?” I mumbled without opening my eyes.

Her heels clicked on the floor. Not a good sign. She must be up and dressed.

“Eight. Sorry. I couldn't wake you—you were out.”

I stretched my feet until my toes reached the armrest on the couch. “Crap. I'm gonna be late again.” Half opening my crusty eyes, I could make out a blurry outline of Jill riffling through the refrigerator. She wore a tailored cream suit and a matching scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.

Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes and grabbed my glasses off the coffee table. “How is it you look like a
Project Runway
model this early in the morning?”

Jill laughed. She strolled easily on knee-high, brown leather boots in my direction with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. “Here”—she offered it to me—“this will help. Stumptown. Your favorite. I made it superstrong.”

“You're a goddess. What would I do without you?” Seriously, what would I do without her, I thought as I scanned the loft, which had been consumed by my mess. I'm not typically messy, but my stuff didn't fit in the living room. The loft is spacious, a one-bedroom with an open-concept kitchen, dining and living design. It's ideal for a single person. Jill's immaculate entry was cluttered with my rainboots, coats, clothes that needed folding and stacks of books. I needed my own place.

“As soon as I finish this story, I'm going to look for a new place, I swear.”

“Don't sweat it. You've been there for me more times than I can count.” Jill rested her hand on my shoulder. “You know I miss him too. He was like a father to me, always encouraging me to paint.” She paused. “I'm sorry; I know you don't want to go there, but . . .”

I threw my hand over hers and squeezed it. “He loved you too,” I said quietly.

He did. In fact he was one of the only people, other than me, who encouraged Jill to pursue her art.

She kissed the top of my head and turned to grab her car keys and leather laptop bag. “Listen, I have to bail, but I left lunch for you in the fridge. I don't think you should rush. Drink coffee. Take a long shower. I'm sure Greg will understand if you're a little late this morning.”

I wasn't sure if it was the warm coffee bringing me into my body, but I became aware of the fact that every muscle ached. Yesterday's hike and fall had completely caught up with me. I gingerly tried to stretch my arms above my head. Pain shot down my spine. I cringed.

Jill scrutinized me. “See. You're hurt. Do you think you should call in and tell them you're not coming today?”

I slowly reached for the coffee mug. It hurt to move, but the smell of coffee overrode any pain. Taking a sip and savoring Jill's expertly brewed java, I shook my head. “No way. I have to be there. I can't risk this job. Plus, I want to get to the bottom of whatever happened yesterday.”

Holding the cup of coffee, I gave her a toast in the air. “Another couple cups of this and I'll be good to go. I promise.”

She looped her laptop bag around her arm and gave me a skeptical look on her way out the door. “You be careful, Meg.”

I followed Jill's advice and nursed two cups of coffee before hobbling my way into the shower. The warm water rejuvenated my angry skin. A thick scab had formed over the gash on my leg and my entire body was freckled with an assortment of purple bruises.

Fortunately I didn't have much on the agenda, other than meetings. I should be able to plop myself in the conference room or at my desk for the bulk of the day and write. Of course, with Lenny's death I had no idea whether the Race the States schedule would be altered for the week.

I didn't feel like eating breakfast, so I stuck a Luna Bar in my purse and grabbed the lunch Jill packed. I'm so lucky to have Jill, I thought, peering into the brown lunch sack—there was a diet Coke (the tall and skinny kind. Why did the size of the can make a difference in taste?) a hard-boiled egg, whole-wheat Triscuits, a banana, orange slices and a Hershey's Special Dark chocolate. She even made me eat healthy.

Limping my way down the concrete stairs to my car took twice as long as normal. I should note here, I don't do elevators. Ever. I refuse to ride in those death traps.

Maybe I should have reconsidered. Each step I took made me want to toss those damn Merrells in the Dumpster. I clung to the handrail and hopped step by step until I made it to my Subaru.

The radio announced there had been an accident with one of the contestants in town for Race the States. They didn't release Lenny's name or give any more details. This would be big news for the local media. As the main sponsor for the event,
Northwest Extreme
was likely to be swarming with press. All reporting “live” from the scene.

The quest for the first and best live shot had transformed journalists into ambulance chasers who spent their days crouched in front of police scanners. If I had to live on ramen noodles for the next ten years, I refused to take that route. A Pulitzer would rest on my desk someday and I'd never get there covering house fires or teenage drag-racing.

As I pulled into the parking lot, four satellite vans blockaded one end. Yep. The media were on the story.

No sign of last night's event remained. The tent and twinkle lights had all been packed away. Instead, reporters jockeyed for position in front of the steel doors. Great. How to get past them without showing any sign of physical weakness?

Suck it up, Meg,
I told myself as I grabbed my lunch and shut the car door.

I used a trick Gam taught me years ago—I took a deep cleansing breath in, imagined firm roots originating from my core and continuing deep into the ground, squared my shoulders and walked forward with
purpose
. “Fake it 'til you make it.” I could hear her voice in my ear.

Carefully treading with painfully perfect posture, I squeezed through globs of reporters sporting their individual station jackets and too much makeup.

“Hey there!” a young brunette reporter bellowed as I pushed my way past. “Do you work here? Can you comment on yesterday's tragic accident?”

I shook my head and tried not to make eye contact. Within seconds I was surrounded by a mob of microphones and shouting reporters.

“No comment,” I muttered as I approached the front doors. They seemed so close, yet not close enough for my short arms to reach, especially as I was willing my core to stay stable. The heavy steel doors burst open and a lanky hand pulled me inside.

“You didn't answer any questions, did you?” Greg asked as he slammed the doors shut behind him. I could hear pleas for a comment or exclusive interviews echo outside.

“No way,” I said, releasing my stomach muscles and heaving air out of my lungs. “I was trying to get away from them, and hoping they wouldn't notice I'm hurt.”

Greg's eyes softened. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry. Not surprised you're hurting this morning. The day after is always worse. You don't need to be here today. Take the day off. Type your notes from home. I can sneak you out the back if you want.”

“No. Not at all. I'm cool. I didn't want to give the vultures out there anything to jump on.” I sucked my belly in again. “Plus, I need to work on the feature. I've got tons of notes and photos from yesterday to go through.”

“If you're sure?” Greg scowled.

I nodded. “For sure!

“See, I brought a lunch.” I held the brown bag. Why did he make me feel like a schoolgirl whenever I spoke?

Greg glanced at his watch. “You've got time to get your notes done. We're planning to gather in the conference room for a working lunch and to figure out where”—he paused—“we go from here.”

He peered in the direction of the open workspace in the center of the building and checked behind him. “Like I said last night, Meg, stay out of whatever's going on with this Lenny situation. I want your notes and a rough draft of your intro on my desk by end of day. Got it?”

Resigned, I gave him a half nod and hobbled off to my desk.

Before I could do anything, I had to sort through the stack of paperwork on my desk. I'd spent a chunk of time prior to yesterday's hike researching each contestant. The resulting notes were scattered all over my desk. This called for organization in the form of color-coded file folders. I'd never admit it to her, but I'm pretty sure I developed my organizational skills from Mother.

One of the many things I appreciate about working at
Northwest Extreme
is the office supply room. It's packed with file folders and standard office supplies. I know it doesn't sound glamorous, but a well-stocked supply room is nothing to scoff at. Writing for the student newspaper in college meant we had to bring in our own staplers and pencils. Those add up surprisingly fast.

I passed by the conference room on my way to pick up file folders and noticed Andrew scrutinizing a camera. A pile of GoPros were scattered on the table. I poked my head through the glass doors.

“Hey, Andrew! What are you doing here this early?”

He startled and quickly flipped off the camera. His eyes looked bloodshot, and his disheveled sandy hair stuck up in all directions. The room smelled of bacon. Two crumpled McDonald's wrappers lay in the middle of the table.

Andrew saw my eyes linger on the discarded wrappers. “Breakfast of champions, eh? Don't tell Dave I was eating this shit, okay? He hates it.” Grabbing the wrappers, he formed them into a tight ball, swiveled around in his chair and swished them into the garbage can in the far corner of the room.

“Nice shot.” I grinned. “Don't worry, your secret's safe with me.” I snuck a peek behind me to be sure Greg wasn't near. He wasn't.

I entered the room and slumped into the empty chair next to Andrew. I wanted to know what he'd been intently watching. Maybe if I commiserated with him, he'd be more willing to open up.

“When no one's around I order full-fat mochas with extra whipped cream,” I confessed.

Throwing his head back, Andrew laughed. He rubbed his round gut and appraised me. “You don't look like you need to worry about your fat count. Me, on the other hand, I'm working on a beer belly here.”

“You're kidding, right?” I didn't bother trying not to slouch. “I'm always the fat one out of all my friends.”

“Well, you must have seriously skinny friends.”

Andrew stood and stretched. He lumbered to the windows and peered out. “Beautiful city you have here.”

I couldn't disagree. Light clouds dusted the powder blue sky. Pink buds burst from the tips of cherry tree branches, and the normally reclusive Northwest sun danced reflectively on the river.

“Don't get used to this. The rain will be back any minute.” It took every ounce of self-control to not reach over and switch his camera on. Andrew was clearly absorbed in thought as he gazed out the windows.

“You never answered my question. What are you doing here this morning? I thought we were all getting together for a debrief at lunch?” My eyes focused on the cameras.

Andrew froze. Turning to face me, he said. “Uh. I don't know if I'm supposed to tell anyone.”

“Tell me what?”

“I guess it doesn't matter. Krissy's going to flip out anyway, so I suppose everyone will know.”

“Know what?”

“Dave told me I have to review all the b-roll I shot yesterday. I guess the sheriff wants to take a look at the film I shot. It's a beast of a project to go through all this.”

He laughed nervously and turned back to the pile of cameras.

I reached for a camera and examined it. “How long will it take?”

“Forever.” Andrew shuffled from the window and slumped in his chair.

“Why's Krissy going to flip?”

“Who knows how long this will set back production? The sheriff could hold on to these for weeks. Kind of hard to shoot a TV show without 'em. Don't think it's in the budget to buy replacements.”

He clicked a camera into his viewing screen and hit play. “She freaks out about schedules and stuff. I guess she thinks the race is going to hit it big. I keep telling her to relax, you know?”

“Yeah, well, that could be a big delay. I don't envy her. Or you for that matter. I'll let you get back to work. In fact, I need to do the same. I've got a ton of notes to type from yesterday that are due, like now.” I pushed on my palms to help my stiff body remove itself from the chair.

“Catch you later.” I waved as I backed out the door.

Andrew's eyes followed me. Had Dave really tasked him with reviewing the b-roll, or was he up to something else? Those cameras could reveal what happened to Lenny.

And they could show me faking a fall.