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  “True, but if he was her lover then I’m wrong about the lover being the killer, because Eddie was at a Mozart concert the night Lori was killed.”

  Winona shrugged. “So? Maybe he was her lover and had someone else kill her.”

  “Maybe, but he has no motive, either. Tilikum’s thriving, and it’s clear he’d rather make money than wine.”

  We fell silent again and continued to walk. Sure, Eddie was a player, and I detested that kind of behavior as well as his way of making a living, but that didn’t make him a killer. Nothing implicated him, or for that matter Sylvia, and given Jim’s affection for them both, I was glad of that.

  Chapter Forty

  “Good luck, Cal.” Winona stood at the front door to her loft with Archie beside her. It hadn’t been hard to convince my dog he needed to stay behind. After all, he and Winona were great buddies, and there was the promise of a long walk in Tom McCall Park, which I’m sure he understood.

  Against heavy odds, the clear sky from the night before still held sway, although a moisture-laden breeze from the south signaled change. I took the Ross Island Bridge across the river and parked in front of the Northwest Hospice and Palliative Care Center at eleven-fifty. I took a couple of minutes to review my notes before going in. Helen Berkowitz told me she would send a lawyer from her office to sit in on the interview, but except for an elderly couple and their miniature poodle there was no one in the lobby. I was relieved to see that the woman whose job I’d almost cost was still behind the main desk. She was scowling at a computer screen as I approached.

  “Good to see you again,” I said in a bright tone. “I’m here to see Irene Halstead.”

  Her eyes swung from the screen to me, then her mouth drooped at the corners, and her forehead sprang a set of deep wrinkles. “Oh, Mr. Claxton, I left a message at your office. Mrs. Halstead has passed away. I’m so sorry.”

  I stood there for a moment as her words sunk in. Damn, damn, damn. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “I don’t have any details. Would you like to speak to my manager?”

  The manager, it turned out, was in an office behind the reception desk, a middle-aged woman with a sympathetic, if somewhat dour demeanor. After the receptionist introduced me, she said, “We tried to reach you, Mr. Claxton.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. I just have a few questions.” She nodded and leaned back in her chair. I said, “What time did Mrs. Halstead die?”

  “Last night around nine o’clock. It was a peaceful transition, and she wasn’t alone.”

  “Oh? Who was with her?”

  “Her stepson, Mr. Abernathy. He’s been a blessing. So faithful.”

  “No one else?”

  Her brows lowered a fraction, but her expression didn’t change. “That’s correct.”

  I nodded. “I suppose Mrs. Halstead had taken a turn for the worse.”

  She leaned forward. “Actually, she seemed to have rallied, but that’s sometimes the case toward the end, I’m afraid.”

  “Really? I didn’t realize that happened.”

  She nodded knowingly. “It’s a kind of a last hurrah, you know, when the body senses death is eminent.”

  I smiled. “A last hurrah unless it’s a genuine rally, I suppose.”

  “Yes, although genuine rallies against pancreatic cancer are quite rare.” She sighed quietly. “We’ll miss Irene. She was a sweet soul.”

  I thanked her and turned to go but then thought of one more question. “Forgot to ask—what funeral home has she been taken to?”

  “Van Scoy Memorial. They’re over in Northeast.”

  When I got to my car I Googled the mortuary, a family-owned business on NE Broadway, whose website promised “Cremations at a price you can afford.” I called them. No, they had no information yet on the funeral arrangements and whether or not there would be a viewing, I was told. “We’ll post that information just as soon as it becomes available.”

  Rain began pelting the windshield, making my view of the parking lot blurry. It was an apt metaphor for my state of mind. How hard would it have been to smother Irene Halstead with a pillow? I wondered. She was, after all, weak as a kitten. The thought of that sent a chill down my back. Or, maybe Abernathy killed her some other way, something an autopsy might pick up. I laughed at that. No way I could force an autopsy unless there was something suspicious about her death, and a “peaceful transition” didn’t conjure up much suspicion. Sure, she had apparently rallied, but that could be explained away, too.

  I started the car, flipped on the wipers, and watched their back and forth sweep. On the other hand, Abernathy had been good about visiting his stepmom, the faithful stepson. So it was no surprise that he happened to be with her when she died. And his denying me access could have been motivated by a desire to protect his loved one, as he claimed more than once. True, it looked like he’d placed her body on a fast track to cremation, but, then again, it wasn’t that unusual these days, was it?

  Chapter Forty-one

  Sparks arced from the grinding wheel, painting my garage in a flickering, eerie light. It was the next morning, early, and I was putting an edge on my ax before attacking what was left of the oak rounds. I went back to Winona’s after the hospice fiasco, but I wasn’t particularly good company. She knew my moods and finally said, “You aren’t in a bad mood very often, Cal Claxton, but when you are, you’re insufferable. Why don’t you go back to The Aerie and regroup? I’ve got things to do today.”

  That was Winona—straight to the point and invariably on target when it came to me.

  I worked out behind the garage until there wasn’t another log to split, and then set about re-splitting some of the pieces, until I had a nice stack of kindling as well. It was bitterly cold but clear, and I was sweating by the time I ferried a wheelbarrow load to the porch and finished stacking the logs. I stood back and admired my work—a woodpile that would see me through the winter with the bonus of a psyche eased of some acute frustration.

  I retreated into the house, took a hot shower, and it wasn’t until I stepped into the kitchen to make some lunch that I noticed the blinking light on my answering machine. I punched “play” and listened to the recorded message: “Hello Cal, this is Richard Amis. I need to talk to you as soon as possible.” There was a long pause before he resumed speaking. “I need help, and under the circumstances you’re the only person I feel I can turn to. Eleanor’s out of town so we can talk here. Call me, please, or just come by.” I jotted down the number he left, dialed it, and got a recording. I stood there tapping a pen on the countertop while I tried to fathom what he would be calling me about. I always needed business, but not from a sleazy, pill-pushing psychiatrist.

  I had things to do that Sunday, so I decided to wait for him to call back.

  I finally fixed a faucet that had leaked for the past two months, got caught up on my e-mail, and had just lain down for a nap when someone rapped on the front door. It was Gertie Johnson, bearing the blueberry pie she promised. “Sorry this took so long, Cal, but I’ve been chockablock this week. She thrust a plastic pie caddy into my hands. “It’s not my best, you know,” she said. “Those frozen berries just don’t cook up right. Too soft.”

  I laughed. “From spectacular to just amazing. I’ll suffer through.” When she left I went immediately to the kitchen and made a double cappuccino. Coffee and home-baked pie. I couldn’t resist, even if it was four in the afternoon. While I sipped and ate I replayed Amis’ message. The voice was strained, for sure, maybe even a little fearful. I called him again, and again he didn’t answer. I drained my coffee and looked at Arch. “Up for a ride, Big Boy?”

  As I drove down through the Hills that day, the sky was streaked with red as though the sun had bled to death somewhere behind the cloud cover. I turned south on Pacific Highway and fell in behind a stretch limo with tinted windows and a s
ign on the back that read Willamette Valley Wine Tours. Wine tasting was big business in Dundee, even in November. When I finally crested the long drive into Amis’ place, I was relieved to see several lights on inside, suggesting he was home. I parked on the drive, well back from the house, cut my lights and watched. The thought occurred to me that this might be some kind of trap set by the man whose blackmail scheme I’d thwarted, but that seemed silly. After all, he’d left a readily traceable call on my answering machine, hardly the act of someone plotting revenge.

  Nothing stirred around or in the house. I told Arch to relax, made my way to the front porch, and rang the bell next to a set of massive front doors inset with vertical glass panels. No one appeared in the entry hall, but I could hear strains of classical music coming from inside the house.

  I followed a manicured path tracing the circular contour of the house to the patio on the west side of the structure. Wisps of steam rose from the spa built into the corner of the swimming pool and the music, Mahler’s Fifth, I think, was also playing on a set of outdoor speakers. The French doors leading into the house were ajar. I leaned in and announced myself a couple of times. No answer, which was not surprising because the house was huge, and Mahler was probably piped into every room.

  As I turned to go around to the back of the house, something on the floor caught my eye—a trail of faint marks that stood out against the polished marble surface like a dotted line. Spaced like footprints, the marks faded before they reached the French doors where I stood. As if on cue, Mahler moved to hushed violins, so I called out again. Nothing.

  I entered the room and dropped to one knee for a closer look at the marks. Footprints, for sure, the faint contours of a shoe sole outlined by something that had dried dark red. Wine, or was it blood? I moved along the marks and just below the arched entry into the room, one of the prints showed a hint of a waffle pattern like the one I saw the night Archie was poisoned. I stood up, and a cold chill slithered down my back. The print was roughly my size, just like the earlier one. I took my phone out and quickly photographed the print from a couple of different angles.

  The light was low in the hallway, but I could see that the footprints came from the direction of an open doorway to my left, the entry to Amis’ wine cellar, I recalled. The smell of wine hung heavily in the air, and I relaxed a little. Maybe the footprints were from wine after all. A spill, perhaps?

  I moved down the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. The cellar lights were on and the smell of wine even stronger. I called out again and waited through a few more bars of Mahler before taking the stairs. I found Richard Amis in his beloved wine cellar. He lay face up in a pool of wine and blood next to the shattered statue of Bacchus. The wine came from several bottles smashed on the floor, and the blood from a series of blows he’d taken to the head. I checked for a pulse. There was none. His half-moon eyes stared back at me, as blank as those of Bacchus, the God of wine, whose head lay next to his outstretched hand.

  I stood up in shocked disbelief, pushed down a wave of nausea, and forced myself to focus. Was the killer still in the house? Not likely, since the dryness of the blood indicated the attack happened earlier, maybe an hour before. Judging from the broken bottles and sodden cloth caddy lying next to him, Amis must have been carrying a load of wine when he was attacked. I imagined him backing up as the killer came down the stairs and then trying to deflect the blows with the bottles as he backed into the corner occupied by Bauccus. I shuddered as I pictured the violent attack.

  I didn’t see anything resembling the murder weapon, a blunt instrument of some kind that crushed his skull in two places, at least. The blows were vicious, judging from the vertical spray of blood that stained his pride and joy, the landscape painting of Le Petit Truc hanging in the alcove above him.

  I got the hell out of the cellar and called 911. That’s when I noticed more tracks leading to a room further down the hall toward the back of the house. The intruder must have gone there after killing Amis. I glanced at my watch. I had five, maybe ten minutes before the police arrived. The room was Amis’ study, and it had been ransacked. The contents of a wooden filing cabinet were strewn across the floor, the records of Amis’ patients, consultation summaries, and prescription logs. Using my handkerchief, I sifted through the tangled mess as best I could. I didn’t find Lori Kavanaugh’s file. On a whim, I looked for a file on Blake Daniels but saw none.

  A stack of opened mail sat next to a phone on the desk. I went through the envelopes and was surprised to find two with Tilikum Capital Management return addresses. The first envelope contained a statement for the third quarter, showing earnings on an investment of four hundred fifty thousand dollars. I whistled when I read it. A letter from the second envelope informed Amis that as a “top tier client,” he was eligible for the new “Tilikum Private Client Fund,” the fund Eddie Manning described at the party.

  Books from the bookcase and the contents of the desk drawers were also scattered on the floor. There was no sign of a computer anywhere in the room. A tear-off calendar on the desk had the day’s date and a jotted message:

  Pick up Eleanor. United Flt. 4223. 8:35.

  I felt a sharp pang of sorrow for the couple. Amis was a vile human being, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody did. And his wife? My heart went out to her. Thank God it wasn’t my job to break the news.

  I was tempted to check out the rest of the house, but five minutes had passed and I’d seen enough to know it wasn’t a burglary gone bad. It looked like the killer was after Lori Kavanaugh’s psychiatric file and any digital records stored on Amis’ computer. Amis’ murder could have been collateral damage, but that seemed unlikely.

  I followed the bloody footprints back outside and joined Archie in the Beemer to wait for the police. My dog put his head up next to mine and licked me a couple of times on the ear. I patted his head and then called Jim Kavanaugh and was told that he, Juan, and his crew had worked all day in the southwest vineyard, eight until five. Next, Candice told me she played tennis from twelve to two thirty and then went to Le Petit Truc to work on inventory.

  I scrolled down my contact list and punched in Sean McKnight next. “Where were you between noon and four today?” I asked after we exchanged greetings.

  “I was here at Stone Gate. Why do you ask?”

  Is there anyone who can verify that?”

  A long pause followed. “Uh, yes. I had a guest this afternoon.”

  “Who was it?”

  Another pause. “Maura Conisson. She called yesterday, and I invited her out so we could talk. Why? What’s this all about, Cal?”

  “I’m at Richard Amis’ place. I just found him beaten to death in his wine cellar.”

  McKnight sucked a breath. “Oh, my God, that’s terrible.”

  “Anyone else see you and Maura together?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so. We were alone here at the farm all afternoon.”

  “Okay. Let me think about how to handle this. Meanwhile, don’t discuss this with anyone, even Maura. I’ll get back to you.”

  I punched off and sat there for a few moments, my mind flashing back to the crime scene photos of Lori Kavanaugh. Amis had received a similar beating. There was the bloody footprint, too. Would it match the one I found at my place? My gut said yes. Of course, if the abortive blackmail scheme comes to light, McKnight and Conisson would become immediate suspects, given what Amis inflicted on them. Sure, they could alibi each other, but that would be viewed with a high degree of skepticism.

  As McKnight’s attorney, I had an obligation to protect him and wasn’t about to divulge any more information than I had to. At the same time, I could not withhold evidence in a murder investigation under any circumstances. So it would depend a lot on the kinds of questions I was going to get. To top it off, it looked even more likely that the two murders were related somehow, which meant I had two cases with clients wh
ose interests might conflict. That was never a good thing for a lawyer.

  I exhaled a long breath, which got me another slobbery kiss from Arch. “Now I know what the Flying Wallendas feel like,” I told him.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “So you got this phone call from Mr. Amis asking you to come see him, right?” Detective Hal Ballard said. The crime scene was sealed off, and we were talking in the large, marble-floored room containing the footprints. I’d taken him and his partner, Sonia Rodriquez, through the gist of what I’d found. Now they were circling back for more details.

  “That’s right. He said he needed help.”

  “For what? Rodriquez asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, and he didn’t say.”

  “You saved the recording, right?”

  “Yes.” I explained how I called back several times and finally drove over and went around to the side of the house when no one answered the front door bell. “Classical music was blaring inside the house,” I told them. “I figured he hadn’t heard the bell.”

  “Why would you go into someone’s house just because you saw some footprints on the floor?” Rodriquez again.

  I shrugged. “I knew they were footprints, and they looked odd, you know, with a dark reddish cast. It was a hunch, I guess. They just sort of drew me in.”

  “You thought blood?”

  “Actually, my first thought was wine, but I wasn’t sure. The print of the shoe sole was the clearest. Like I told you, that print is going to match the one found inside my fence line, I’m sure of it. You should have a photograph of it in your files.” I wasn’t really that sure, but I didn’t want them to blow the fact off. I saw Ballard underline something in his notes.

  “Why did you go clear into the cellar?” Ballard continued.

  “I smelled the wine. Thought there might have been some kind of accident.” I saw my opening and went for it. “Listen, that footprint’s key. The person who broke into my house was looking for information on the Lori Kavanaugh murder. The person who broke in here and killed Amis was wearing the same shoes and killed him in a manner very similar to Kavanaugh. Richard Amis was Lori’s psychiatrist, so he would know an awful lot about her personal life. That’s why he was killed. I’ll bet the murderer has gone through Amis’ files, too.”