A Wicked Snow

Chapter Twenty-nine

It would take some time. Computers could only do so much. In the decades-old case of Claire Logan, computers were useful only for eliminating potential suspects. All Bauer knew—and that was if Wheaton was telling the truth—was that Logan ran a fishing resort on Kodiak Island in Alaska. There were no Logans listed, of course. But there were dozens of resorts of the type that Marcus Wheaton had described.

“Close enough to whatever roads they have up there, because she didn’t want to bother with seaplanes bringing guests in,” Wheaton had said, huffing and puffing in the penitentiary’s visiting cell. “She researched it. She did. Nice enough place that she’d be comfortable. Room for a dozen fishermen at any given time, because she wanted to make money.”

The last remark almost brought a grin to Bauer’s handsome face. Characteristic restraint, however, kept him from saying anything snide. But how did she plan on making her income? Fishing fees or murdering her guests?

Out of what turned out to be a hundred and fifty names, two-thirds were discounted right away because their lodges, resorts, and gear shops had been in operation far longer than twenty years. A cross-check of Alaska game and fishing licenses indicated as much— though Bauer knew that record keeping in Juneau, while improved since the advent of computers, wasn’t the most reliable system.

That left around forty-five possible havens for Logan. Another series of checks indicated that about twenty of those could be discounted for reasons ranging from ethnicity and gender.

Claire Logan might be smart enough to make herself over, Bauer thought, but she can’t change her gender or turn herself into an Inuit.

That left just twenty-five possibles, a more manageable but large number nonetheless. The FBI had gone through more possible Claire Logan expeditions than the higher-ups wanted to admit, so they’d send Bauer a backup only if an arrest appeared imminent. Bauer requested Bonnie Ingersol, the agent with whom he shared some of the first days of the investigation when they worked together in Portland in the late ’70s. They had been quite close back then; even dated a few times, though nothing came of it. Neither one had the time for romance.

In the meantime, Bauer would have to pursue Claire Logan alone. He’d employ some old-fashioned nosing around, hopefully asking the right questions, as he trimmed the fat from the list. After four hours of phone calls, only one name remained on the list: Louise Wallace.

Louise Wallace lived in one of the prettiest houses on the island. It was a Victorian more suited to New England than Alaska, with twin turrets and a widow’s walk that crossed the entire front side. Louise called it the front of the house, because it faced the choppy waters of Port Lion. The back side, as she termed it, faced the gravel road that ran up past the fishing cabins to the parking area adjacent to an enormous gazebo and fenced vegetable garden. The three-story house was painted seven colors, though the dominant hue was a creamy yellow that Louise called “shortbread.” The main floor was an open plan with gorgeous wood floors and a two-story river-rock fireplace, the only concession Louise made to her late husband’s desire for an Alaskan-style abode of rock, antlers, and peeled timbers. The furnishings were quite lovely. The majority were antiques the Wallaces had gathered throughout Alaska, though mostly from a trusted dealer on the outskirts of Anchorage.

An oak box lined with slippers of varying sizes sat next to the door and admonished visitors to take off their shoes before coming inside. WE WOOD APPRECIATE IT, read a little hand-lettered index card affixed to the box. The O’s had been embellished into happy faces.

Bauer pulled his rental car to a shady spot near a rustic gazebo framed with silvery driftwood logs, choked with trumpet vines. The setting was gorgeous. Alaska’s short growing season was short only in the number of days. In reality, the season was longer than points much further south, like Seattle or Portland. Eighteen hours of sunlight a day gave plants an extraordinary boost. Years ago, Bauer had been to the state fair in Palmer, not far from Anchorage, where “monster” vegetables vie for attention in one of the more popular gee-whiz exhibits. Three-foot zucchinis and cabbages with the astonishing girth of beach balls draw tourists from across the state to gawk in amazement. Bauer noticed that someone had been working in the Wallace garden that day. Sprinklers had been set to water the fluffy rows of vegetables and flowers that included everything from larkspur to delphinium to foxglove.

He heard sandpipers and gulls squawk from the surf below the house. The bell of a distant buoy clanged.

“Mrs. Wallace?” he called out as he knocked on the open door. No one responded. He called again and studied the splendor of leaded glass windows with maritime images inset into several panes.

“Yes? Can I help you?” The sweet face of an old woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall, somewhat thin, and had ashy blond hair streaked with gray. Gold-framed glasses didn’t hide the fact that her blue eyes were the color of the cornflowers that stood high in the back of her garden border. Her lipstick was dark, a winy red that looked almost brown.

“Louise Wallace?” Bauer asked.

“Do I know you?” she said, brushing a wisp of silvery hair from her eyes. “Been out in the yard all morning. Must look like a fright.”

“No ma’am. You don’t know me. But I know you.”

“You do? That’s surprising to me, because I’m pretty good with faces. Names, not so much, but faces I never forget.”

“We’ve never actually met,” he said. “I know everything about you. I know your name is Claire Berrenger Logan and, more importantly, I know what you did in Spruce County twenty years ago.”

It was a bluff and Bauer felt relief that he’d pulled it off, because he really wasn’t that sure. She could be Claire Logan, but she didn’t look exactly like the computer-aged model photo. Her chin was more angular, her nose a bit more pointed. He kept his face from betraying any emotion, though his chest pounded beneath his jacket. This was the bluff. The big bluff. The assumptive interview. If you tell the suspect you know they did something or are someone, you just might get lucky. Attitude, he knew, was everything.

“I’m sorry,” Wallace said, peering over her glasses. “You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Louise. Louise Wallace. I don’t know anyone by the name of Claire Morgan. Who are you?”

Nice touch, Bauer thought, getting the name wrong.

“Jeff Bauer, FBI,” he said, presenting his I.D. badge and photo.

She took it and regarded it, then handed it back. “Oh my,” she said. “I’ve never seen one of those in person. Very official and kind of pretty isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’m going to move the water again. Wish I had installed that drip system my husband had wanted. Would have saved me hours and hours of time. ’Course, lots of time in Alaska, anyway. Want some rhubarb?”

“No, thanks,” Bauer said. “How long have you lived here?”

“Is this part of your official interview?” she asked with a wry smile.

He ignored her. “How long?”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll answer a few of your questions. I’ll give you enough rhubarb for two pies. But you, Mr. Bauer, is it?”

He nodded, but said nothing.

“You will have to tell me who this Claire Morgan is and why you think I might know something about her. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“I’d say so. Claire Logan murdered twenty people. Surely you’ve heard of her.”

“Can’t say that I have. We never got a satellite dish up here. My husband wanted one, but I kept saying no.”

“The murders were discovered in Rock Point, Oregon. She killed nearly a score of lovelorn military men, plus her own two sons.”

Holding a kitchen paring knife, Mrs. Wallace bent down and started cutting bright red stalks of rhubarb and arranging them in neat rows in the bottom of an antique vegetable basket.

“These will make a delicious pie,” she said without looking up. “Does your wife bake?”

“No. Don’t have a wife.” Bauer felt a little foolish. This woman wasn’t listening and she wasn’t reacting to anything he had to say.

“As I was saying,” he began again.

“As you were accusing,” she said, still intent on her slicing. “Well, I’ve never had any children. And, I’ve never dated anyone from the military. I’m a Democrat.”

“Mrs. Wallace,” he said, stooping to face her directly. “Where were you living in the mid-70s?”

“This stalk is particularly suitable—thick and without all those nasty fibers.”

Bauer was frustrated, and his tone couldn’t conceal it. “Will you answer?”

Wallace stood up gripping the knife dripping, by then, with the red juice of rhubarb. Her eyes were cold, glacial blue.

“I don’t talk about that part of my life,” she said harshly, the first shift in a demeanor that Bauer could only have described as sweet and kindly. “Not to anyone.”

“You’ll need to answer to me,” he fired back. “I’ve waited two decades to find out what rock you’ve crawled under and your grandma-of-the-year act is as transparent as ice.”

She bent back down and resumed slicing. She remained expressionless. “You, young man, are mistaken. Now, do you want the rhubarb or not?”

“I saw Marcus Wheaton last week,” Bauer said. He stared at her, but nothing came from her in the way of a genuine reaction. Not even a flutter. “Saw him with your daughter, Hannah.”

For a half second, Bauer thought he noticed a slight, very slight hesitation in the woman’s cutting of glossy red stalks. Perhaps it was merely his hope that he could find something in her manner, demeanor, and cadence of her speech—anything—that could suggest she was not being truthful.

“I don’t have any children,” she said. “I’ve never had any children, sons, daughters, or any combination thereof. Mr. Wallace and I would have liked children and I suppose the fact that I couldn’t have any is my cross to bear. Satisfied? Furthermore, I don’t know anybody named Wheaton. Your accusations are very, very upsetting to me. I’m sure you didn’t mean for them to be, and truly I’m sorry I can’t help. I live my life being helpful to others.”

With that she reached for her basket, turned abruptly, and started for the house, abandoning Bauer by the garden gate. There was no point in calling out to her to stop because Bauer really didn’t know what to make of her. Louise Wallace was one of two things, a sweet old lady or a cold-blooded killer. He aimed to find out just which she was.

A half hour later and back in his room at the Northern Lights, Bauer used a handkerchief to carefully remove his photo I.D. badge from its protective leather and plastic sheath before sliding it into a glassine. It wasn’t evidence per se. But he was treating it as such. Louise Wallace had held it as they stood in her garden. She had touched it after Bauer had made sure it was perfectly clean. He had only held it on its edge. He phoned Bonnie Ingersol at the Portland office. She was out, so he left a message for her to sit tight until he called her back in about an hour. Bauer got back behind the wheel and drove to the Kodiak airport where he put the small package on a plane that would connect with an Alaska Airlines flight to Portland. With a layover in Anchorage, and a connection in Seattle, Ingersol could pick it up by six the next morning. Bauer looked at his Seiko. In a few hours, he’d know the truth. He scratched his head and smiled. A beer seemed like a good idea right then.