Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (19 page)

“That’s ridiculous! He died in a boating accident. What could I possibly have had to do with that?”

“That’s exactly the question that people are asking. If you want to allay those concerns, it’s best to offer up your skeletons before someone else finds them. That makes a big difference in how you are perceived. Especially when the information omitted is about a carefully-plotted, manipulative theft as opposed to a simple smash-and-grab burglary.”

It sounded like she was crying. “I can’t believe I can never get past that little mistake.”

“It wasn’t little, Nadia. Next time you are in a similar situation regarding a potential crime with financial implications, don’t forget to bring it up.”

“I get your picture loud and clear.” She was obviously angry with me. I was the bad guy. Her daughter was kidnapped, but she was the poor, sad person being unjustly persecuted.

“Are you staying out of view?” I said, trying to change the subject.

“Well... Pretty much.”

“Nadia, I want you to stay out of sight.”

“I can’t just sit in my hotel room. Trudy... Gertie is gone and probably is terrified beyond description. If I just sit, I’ll go crazy. I should go to Sacramento and see if Merrill knows anything. I should do something!”

“I don’t want you to leave. I’m concerned for your safety. Please stay where you are.”

Nadia didn’t reply.

“What’s wrong with me doing a little shopping? There are some great shops around here. I’m not in the car. I’m just walking around a little bit. And I’m being very careful.”

Her tone was so self-focused that it exasperated me.

I said I’d be in touch and hung up. If Gertie hadn’t been involved, I would have walked away from the case. I’d known many narcissistic, self-absorbed people over the years, but Nadia appeared to be the shallowest person I had ever met.

TWENTY-SIX

I contacted both sergeants Diamond Martinez and Santiago as well as Agent Ramos and reported the email that Nadia had gotten, confirming Gertie’s kidnapping.

Then I paced my cabin, stressing about the young softball pitcher who was full of life and had wisdom beyond her age, a girl who’d become a victim in a deadly scenario that I didn’t even understand. Even if Nadia paid the blackmailer, he might kill Gertie. I felt helpless. I could feel my blood pulse in my temples.

If Ian Lassitor was murdered, the killer knew what his boat looked like and might have come to Lassitor’s house at some point.

The eccentric neighbor lady was a potential witness to any activity in and out of the driveway. But she wouldn’t answer her door.

I needed help, a new perspective. I thought of Ellie Ibsen, search-and-rescue dog trainer extraordinaire and sage older woman who lived in the foothills. I got her on the phone.

“Owen!” she said when I told her who was calling. “How nice to hear your voice. A woman my age doesn’t often get a call from a young man.”

“I’m in my forties,” I said. “Not what most women call young.”

“Then you’re talking to the wrong women. And how is Street? And his largeness?”

“Street is still the greatest,” I said. “And Spot’s so special that my pastry budget is up like the NASDAQ during the dotcom bubble. I’m wondering if I can come down and ask you a question.”

“Well, you can probably ask me on the phone. But I’d love to have you visit. The gate is always open at the Three Bar Ranch.”

“I could bring tea or whatever a lady of your stature likes for social engagements.”

“Jack Daniels works well. But this old lady has recently been rocking single malt Scotch.”

“You take your medicine neat? Or should I bring ice?”

“Mr. McKenna, I’m shocked. You would pour great Scotch over ice?”

“Sorry. Can’t trust the Philistines,” I said. “Would tomorrow morning be okay?”

She agreed.

The next day, I put Spot back into the Jeep, drove down to Dart Liquors to pick up a bottle of The Balvenie, and headed out toward Echo Summit. I went up and over the pass. By the time we got down to Placerville and turned north on 49, we’d driven from winter to spring, the grass green from the rain they’d gotten when we were getting the big snow dumps. I drove toward Coloma, the fateful little valley where the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill in 1849 changed the world.

As always, Ellie’s Three Bar Ranch looked like a postcard. The big log arch over the entry to the fresh-sealed blacktop drive was like something built for a movie set. The drive was wet from rain, and it looked like a black ribbon as it wound back toward the dream ranch house. Foothills rose on all sides, framing the picture.

 The large lawn was like a golf course, lush from the natural moisture that flowed from the hills on all sides. Less than one hundred yards away was the South Fork of the American River, draining the big mountains just west of Tahoe. Around the edge of the lawn were two rows of fruit trees. In another month or so, they would be heavy with blooms.

In the center was the ranch house, which looked like it had just been repainted white with red window trim and a dark green door. The wrap-around porch had a red railing with white balusters.

Ellie came out of the house, moving at a good pace. She showed a bit of stiffness, but nothing like most people in their late 80s. Her age had slowed her down about the same amount that age slows down a typical 50-year-old.

Ellie comes up to a little above my waist, so she had to reach up high – and I had to bend down low – for us to hug. Although I was careful not to give her old bones a hard squeeze, she surprised me with the vigor of her grip on my shoulders.

“Aren’t you going to let that big beautiful canine out of your car?” she said as she kissed the side of my neck.

“You’re more eager to see his largeness than me,” I said.

“Did you expect it to be otherwise?”

“No.” I walked over and let Spot out of the back seat.

He was excited to see Ellie. He ran an enthusiastic circle around us, then another, this one with a greater diameter and at higher speed. Then he tightened his arc and zeroed in on Ellie like a planet falling out of orbit and crashing into its mother star. He came to a halt just as his head reached Ellie’s outstretched hands.

“Anyway, you’re probably about to ask after Natasha and Honey G,” Ellie said as she rubbed her hands down the sides of Spot’s head and neck. “I’m not the only one who can’t resist a dog.”

“How are Natasha and Honey G?” I said.

“See? I knew it. Come with me.” She turned, put her arm over Spot’s head, his neck coming up under her armpit, and the two of them walked off toward the kennels, which were painted white with red trim to match the house. Spot never even glanced back to see if I was coming. If I drove away and left for a day or seven, he wouldn’t think of me. And when I returned, he’d barely have the I-think-I-remember-you reaction.

Ellie opened the door to the kennel building. I couldn’t see in the building. But Spot could. His tail was on high speed.

They went inside. In a moment, a German shepherd charged out, followed by Spot. Natasha couldn’t run as fast as in the old days before her bone-breaking fall in the forest fire. But she remembered that Spot had saved her life, and she would run through pain to play with him.

Another dog shot out of the kennel, Honey G, the Golden Retriever who seemed to suffer no gender confusion despite his name. He was younger and uninjured. He could run faster than Natasha and dodge faster than Spot. If each dog had trailed a cord, the three of them would have woven an elaborate braided rope.

Both of Ellie’s dogs were certified search-and-rescue dogs, with Honey G having his Avalanche certification as well.

As the dogs raced around, I fetched the Scotch from the back of the Jeep, and we went inside, leaving the dogs outside to run. Ellie had a brick fireplace, painted white on the sides and top. The hearth was smooth granite. A small fire burned behind the screen. It snapped and cracked and periodically sent tiny sparks in all directions.

Ellie held up The Balvenie. “Join me?”

“Please.”

She walked over to a sidebar and pulled out two large shot glasses, filled each half way, carried them over, and handed one to me.

“To dogs,” she said, holding up her glass.

“To dogs.”

We sipped.

“Like heaven on fire,” Ellie said, breathing, her eyes shut.

“It is.”

We sat near the fire, Ellie in a tiny chair that was upholstered in leather, and me in a big chair. The tiny chair sat low so that Ellie’s feet could touch the floor.

“You said you had a question,” she said.

“Yes. I’m investigating a death that appears to be a boating accident. But the victim had an insurance policy payable to his wife. Soon after he died, someone began attempting to extort the insurance money from the wife.”

“Suggesting,” Ellie said, “that the extortionist may have arranged the death?”

“Right. Worse, the wife has a daughter by a previous marriage. That girl was just kidnapped in a further effort to motivate payment from the wife.”

“Oh!” Ellie brought her hands up to her mouth. Her eyes misted. “I can’t imagine how terrible. How old is the girl?”

“Fifteen. Her name is Gertie. She’s strong, but a kidnapping can break you pretty fast.”

“Please tell me you don’t think the kidnapper will harm her, you know, physically.”

“Impossible to say. But it would seem that the whole point of the kidnapping is blackmail, so I’m hoping there isn’t twisted behavior in the mix.”

Ellie’s forehead was a complex pattern of worry wrinkles.

“Oh, my lord, I can’t think about that little girl,” she said. “I’ll go crazy. Focus me on something else. How can I help?”

“There is a woman on the periphery. She lives in a little run-down cabin across the street from the big house that belonged to the husband who died.”

“This woman in the little cabin is old?” Ellie said.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“You called me saying you had a question. I’m an old woman. I’m looking for common ground.”

“Ah. I’d guess she’s in her seventies.”

“And she lives alone and is a little bit unusual,” Ellie continued.

“But you don’t live alone and there’s nothing strange about you,” I said.

“I have help, but I live alone in the main. I don’t have any family. Not even nieces and nephews. That also makes me a bit unusual. Some old ladies love to knit caps for their grandchildren. Whereas my idea of a good time is to walk my dogs.”

“And drink Scotch with younger men?”

“That, too.” Ellie leaned her head back and laughed with as much gusto as a 90-pound woman can get out of her throat.

“Okay, but you are not strange,” I said, “whereas this woman appears reclusive to an extreme.”

“What does she do?”

“I don’t know. She appears to stay indoors or inside her fenced backyard. She appears to be a shut-in. She doesn’t have a car. I have no idea how she gets food and supplies. Someone must bring them to her or take her to the store, but we haven’t seen them.”

“What did you want from me?”

“Because the woman lives within sight of the dead man’s driveway, I’d like to talk to her about what she’s seen. She may have witnessed someone coming and going. But she won’t talk to me or anyone else. She was there when I stopped by. I saw her on her back porch. But she won’t even answer the door. I thought you might have an idea of how to approach a shut-in, an older woman who may have good reason to distrust strangers.”

“It could be that she isn’t afraid,” Ellie said. “Maybe she just wants to be left alone. She may know nothing useful.”

“True. But it would be good if I could pick her brain about any activity around there. Normally, I would knock louder and call out through the door. You can often irritate a person into responding. But my instincts tell me that this woman wouldn’t respond.”

“And if you wait for her to come out the front door, it may not happen for months,” Ellie said. “Does she have any neighbors who might know her?”

“It doesn’t seem like it. The closest houses are behind her cabin. They are vacation homes. Because of her location, surrounded by forest or vacation homes, she’s quite isolated.”

Ellie sipped Scotch.

“When I was there,” I said, “I heard her moving stuff on her back porch. Her backyard is fenced. I quietly walked over and listened from outside the fence. She was humming a little tune, then singing some words, then humming some more. When she spoke, it sounded like gibberish.”

“What kind of gibberish?”

“I couldn’t make it out for certain, but the clearest part sounded like, ‘He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown.’”

Ellie nodded. “Maybe it’s a Medieval English phrase about the king. ‘True the crown.’”

“Yeah. I thought ‘true the crown’ could imply correcting or adjusting the Kingdom or the king’s reign, like truing your course at sea, or truing your instruments. Calibrating them. But I can’t make any sense of it.”

Ellie nodded again. “Okay, here’s what I think,” she said. Ellie paused as if thinking how best to explain. “When women get old, they often get dismissed in a way that men don’t. You’ve heard the phrase, ‘She’s just a little, old, white-haired lady. What does she know?’ A woman could be a nuclear physicist, but that doesn’t change the dismissal based on appearance. That is why many old women refuse to let their hair go white. White-haired men can still get respect. But it’s much harder for women.”

“I love your white hair,” I said.

“I don’t doubt it. But I also know that the first time you came to visit me, you already knew of, and respected, my work with search-and-rescue dogs. If you’d first encountered me driving in front of you, slowing to search for my turn-off, you may have thought of me as just a little old lady.”

“You’re probably right.”

“And if I didn’t get to live on this ranch and have people come to me for dog training, I might have to be out on the road more, spending more time in the larger community. If so, I might not let my hair go white, either.”

“Am I so transparent that you know how I think?”

“No. You’re just a man in the prime of life, not yet fully aware that when people get old, they are still the same people inside, still like you in many ways. We old folks are slower and weaker and have whiter hair. But we still have a fire burning, just like you.”