Edge of Evil

Chapter 12

Right in the middle of the lunch rush Chris showed up at the restaurant, pushing his newly released grandfather in a rented wheelchair. They were followed by a grubby-looking and gaunt stranger with dirty clothes and even dirtier hair. From the reek of woodsmoke and body odor, it seemed likely that he was homeless. He was missing several teeth, and his nose seemed to have been broken several times and from several different directions. Despite his scrawny appearance, however, the man single-handedly lifted Bob’s considerable weight out of the wheelchair with an air of practiced ease.

Bob pointed to a spot behind the cash register. “Put the damned wheelchair over there so it’s out of the way, then sit, both of you, and let’s order some decent grub. The stuff they call food in the hospital isn’t fit for man nor beast.”

The grimy newcomer quickly folded the wheelchair and stowed it, then he and Chris eased their way into the booth on either side of Bob Larson. As Chris walked past her, Ali gave her son a questioning look as if to say, Who’s that? Chris merely shook his head and said nothing.

Ali motioned to Jan that she’d take over serving that booth. She emerged from behind the counter, coffeepot in hand.

“They let you out, did they?” she asked her father, pouring coffee into his cup.

“Finally,” Bob said heartily. “And not a moment too soon. They claim the swill they serve there is coffee, but it’s worse than the food. Decaf, too. I had a headache that wouldn’t quit until Chris here was good enough to go out and bring me back some real coffee.” He sipped the coffee Ali had poured and gave a contented sigh. “Wonderful,” he murmured. “Ambrosia.”

She filled Chris’s cup and then turned to the newcomer who, after glancing nervously around the room, was trying unsuccessfully to hide behind his open menu.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” he said. As soon as she poured some for him, he loaded up with cream and several spoonfuls of sugar.

“Here’s my beautiful daughter, Ali Reynolds,” Bob beamed enthusiastically, making introductions as though what was happening wasn’t the least bit out of the ordinary. “This is Kip Hogan, Ali, an old buddy of mine. He and I were corpsmen together in Vietnam for the 82nd Airborne. Do you believe it? Somebody told him I was living here in Sedona, and he came looking for me. Chris and I happened to run into him on our way down from Flagstaff. It’s a good thing, too. Like I was telling him on the way here, I happen to be in need of a good corpsman at the moment.”

A corpsman, Ali thought. That explained the businesslike way he had stowed the wheelchair, to say nothing of the way he had hefted Bob out of it.

“Glad to meet you,” Ali said.

Knowing her father’s penchant for rescuing strays, Ali had no doubt that he had chosen grubby and, to put it bluntly, stinky Kip as his next rehab project. Out in the kitchen, Edie Larson was busy slamming pots and pans.

“That’s my wife, Edie, back there rattling those pots and pans. Edie’s a hell of a good cook if I do say so myself. So what’ll it be Kip? Order whatever you like.”

The ominous noises emanating from the kitchen made Edie’s opinion about the situation perfectly clear. A few of the Sugarloaf’s regular customers cast their own wary looks in Kip’s direction. They didn’t seem thrilled, either.

“I’ll have huevos rancheros,” Chris said.

“Bacon and eggs for me,” Kip said softly. “Over easy on the eggs. And maybe one of those sweet rolls.”

“Ah, the sweet rolls,” Bob agreed. “Good choice. Very good choice. If there are any left, I’ll have one of those, too, Ali. And some extra butter.”

“It’s lunchtime,” Edie called from the kitchen. “We ran out of sweet rolls hours ago. And you need extra butter like you need a hole in your head.”

“Okay, okay,” Bob grinned at his wife. To Kip he said, “Don’t worry about her. Edie’s bark is a whole lot worse than her bite. We’ll both have biscuits, then, Ali. Biscuits and gravy or biscuits and honey?”

“Gravy would be nice,” Kip said longingly.

Something in the way he said the words made Ali realize that in addition to being dirty, Kip Hogan was also very hungry. Edie must have figured it out as well, because the plate of biscuits and gravy that was waiting at the service window a few minutes later was more than a double order. And, even though nothing more had been said, Bob’s biscuits came complete with honey and several extra pats of butter.

“Maybe I won’t have to kill him after all,” Edie grumbled the next time Ali was within earshot. “His cholesterol will do the job for me.”

“Kip’s been hanging out at one of the camp sites up along the rim,” Bob Larson explained when Ali returned with the rest of their order. “I told him we’d be glad to have him stay in the motor home for a couple of weeks. It’s not much, but it sure beats living in a tent.”

Years earlier, as a favor to a friend, Bob had bought an old used Lazy Daze. At the time Bob had still harbored the dream that some day he’d be able to talk Edie into hitting the road as an RVer. The decrepit motor home had seen better days before Bob had bought it, and time hadn’t improved its condition. Over the years, the tires had more or less melted into the ground. Ali doubted the engine would even turn over anymore, and God only knew what kinds of creatures had taken up residence, but if Kip Hogan had been camping out in this kind of weather, he most likely would be more than happy to share four flimsy walls and a floor with any number of creepy-crawly vermin.

“Great,” Ali said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

While the three men ate, several people stopped by to give Bob get well wishes. Around one or so, Kip and Chris loaded Bob back into his chair and then wheeled him out the door to get him settled into the house. Edie watched them go.

“Good riddance,” she grumbled. “I don’t need him sitting out there like King Tut and ordering free food for every Tom, Dick, or Harry who steps inside the place.”

As they finished up the last of the orders and started the cleanup, though, Edie was still muttering under her breath. By the time Chris came over to help carry out the last of the trash, however, she was in a somewhat better mood.

“That Kip guy looks like he needs a shower and a haircut and a clean set of clothes,” Jan Howard told Chris as he tied up the garbage bags. “But it’ll be good to have him helping out for the next little while. It’s lucky you ran into him.”

Chris looked uncomfortable.

“Hah!” Edie barked from the kitchen. “Luck had nothing to do with it. You didn’t fall for that old ‘soldier’s together’ malarky, did you?”

Jan looked puzzled. “I thought that’s what Bob said, that they’d served as corpsmen together in Vietnam.”

“Bob was a corpsman,” Edie corrected. “And maybe Kip was, too, for all I know. Or maybe he was doing first-aid on helicopters.”

“But Bob said…”

“I don’t care what Bob said,” Edie told her. “He’s a proud man who’s laid up and can’t work. He’s also a big man who’s going to need help getting in and out of bed and chairs and cars and other things it’s probably best not to mention. And my guess is he’d rather die than have to ask me for help. Instead, he comes dragging home with this stranger who may or may not murder us in our beds. Right, Chris?”

Her grandson nodded. “When we left the hospital, I thought we’d come straight here,” Chris admitted. “But he made me pull off the road, right there at the turnoff to Schnebly Hill Road. We stopped at a parking lot that was still so full of snow I was afraid we’d get stuck, but then a guy showed up. Walked right out of the woods. He came up to the car and greeted Gramps like they really were long lost friends. Then the first guy went away, and the next thing you know, Kip shows up. He came out of the woods, dragging a duffle bag. He threw the bag in the back of the truck, climbed in, and we came straight here. That’s the whole story.”

“See there?” Edie said triumphantly. “I told you it was bogus. Until this morning, Bob Larson didn’t know Kip Hogan from a hole in the ground, but if Bob had told me he wanted to hire someone to help him get around so I wouldn’t have to do it, I never would have stood for it. So there you are. He pretends they’re old friends. I pretend I believe him, and everybody’s happy. Got it?”

Jan Howard sighed and shook her head. “What-ever floats your boat,” she said.

As Ali and her mother were leaving the restaurant, Edie caught Ali in a hug. “You raised a great kid,” she said.

Ali knew it was true. Life on upscale Robert Lane could very well have turned Chris’s head and wrecked him, but it hadn’t. One of the things that had helped keep him on track had been the month or so he spent with his grandparents in Sedona each summer.

“Thanks,” she said. “I seem to remember having lots of help from you and Dad.”

“I’m sorry he has to leave tomorrow,” Edie added. “I don’t know how I would have made it through this without him holding down the fort at the hospital.”

Ali was almost to the car when she remembered the next day was Friday. “What about tomorrow? Reenie’s funeral is at two, so I’ll need to get off by noon.”

“No problem,” Edie told her. “If you can come in for breakfast, that’ll be fine. One way or another we’ll manage.”

“But what about the restaurant consultant?”

“We’ll manage,” Edie repeated. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“And what’s the deal with Dave Holman?” Ali asked.

“Deal? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Come on, Mom,” Ali said. “Out with it. You knew about Paul and me. You knew all about Howie Bernard having a girlfriend. I’m sure you have a very good idea about what’s going on with Dave.”

Edie sighed. “He’s still in the Marine Reserves,” she said. “His unit was called up for active duty and he got shipped off to Iraq for six months. While he was gone his wife, Roxie, took up with a guy named Whitman, Gary Whitman, a slimy timeshare salesman from up at the resort. Roxie served Dave with divorce papers on the day he came back, and she married Whitman the day after the divorce was final.”

“Roxie and her husband are getting ready to move to Lake Havasu.”

“I know,” Edie said. “I was worrying about how he would handle it.”

Edie walked away across the parking lot, leaving her daughter standing in stunned amazement. How does she do that? Ali wondered. Because one way or another, it seemed that there was very little that went on in northern Arizona without Edie Larson’s full knowledge.

After leaving the Sugarloaf, Ali stopped by the florist and ordered flowers for Reenie’s funeral-a spray of two dozen yellow roses to be delivered to the church in Cottonwood. Yellow roses had always been Reenie’s favorite. Then Ali went home to do cat-litter duty. She noticed that she wasn’t nearly as tired as she had been the day before, but her feet and back were still mad at her.

With the sky outside a brilliant azure blue, Ali thought she’d be able to sit outside on the deck and soak up some sun. Within minutes of sitting down on the patio, however, she realized that the sunlight was deceptive. There was still a decided chill in the air, so she went back inside, settled down on the couch with Samantha at her side, picked up her computer and logged on. Her new mail folder was brimming with correspondence.

Give me a break. The poor little rich girl is actually having to lift a finger at real work for a change? Sitting in front of a TV camera and reading the news is not work. Your whining makes me sick.

I found this site by accident. I Googled Sedona because my wife wants to go there on vacation. If it’s full of people like you, why bother? I could just as well save my money and stay in southern California.

Brad

Yes, Ali thought. Why don’t you stay in California? But she posted Brad’s comment anyway, just to be fair. The next one was even worse.

Wow. No wonder they fired your ass. You’re such an ugly broad. Maybe if you invested in some decent plastic surgery, it would fix your disfigured glare. In the meantime, I hope you’re using a paper bag to cover your ugly face when you’re out in public. And whatever you do, do NOT post a picture on your blog. Better people should never know what you really look like.

Much love,

Melissa G.

Two for two, Ali thought. What is it, a full moon? Making an effort to not take the writer’s malice personally, Ali posted that comment as well. After all, hadn’t she just claimed that cutlooseblog was supposed to be a conversation? And conversations generally came with more than one side and more than one opinion.

As Ali opened the next e-mail, however, she was feeling more than a little gun-shy.

Dear Ali,

I never expected to be writing to you, but now I am. I hated you for a long time, but now I realize that they’ve done the same thing to you that they did to me. I guess what goes around really does come around.

Ali skipped to the bottom of the message to the signature part: Katherine Amado Burke. Katy Amado had been Ali’s immediate predecessor at the station in LA, the woman Paul Grayson’s influence had bumped out of the news co-anchor chair.

My last night on the air, the news director came to me just before the broadcast and told me I’d been axed. He said I should sit in front of the camera and tell my viewers I was leaving to spend more time with my family, and I did. That was a joke, of course, because I had a husband who already had both feet out the door. (I have a different husband now, a much nicer one.)

It’s not easy being shown the door and tossed on the scrap heap of life when you still think you have a lot to offer. I went into a long downward spiral with the help of drugs and booze. When I finally hit bottom, I ended up in the rehab facility where I’m now on the board of directors.

I’m writing to say thank you for not just sitting down and shutting up when they told you to.

I’ve read through the material posted at cutlooseblog.com, and I think you’re providing a real service for people going through tough times. Being busy is helping you, and it’s also helping others, so keep it up. And please accept my condolences on the loss of your dear friend.

Katherine Amado Burke

P.S. Feel free to post this if you wish.

For a long time after she finished reading the note, Ali sat staring at the words. Katherine Amado was the last person Ali would have expected to offer her either kindness or encouragement, and she found the letter touching. The next one intrigued her:

Dear Ali,

I wish I knew more about the treatment Lisa was receiving, and I’d certainly tell you if I did. It was evidently some kind of experimental protocol and part of her being admitted to the program was signing a confidentiality agreement.

I know it was expensive. She sold her house and took a prepayment on her life insurance proceeds in order to fund her care. She said it was an investment. That what she was doing might not help her, but that maybe it would help the people who came behind her.

Lisa was unmarried and had no children. I’m her only heir. The boxes containing her personal possessions are all out in my garage. I’ve put off going through them because the thought of doing it makes me incredibly sad. But it’s a job I need to tackle before it gets any hotter. If I find out anything more, I’ll let you know.

Sincerely,

Louise Malkin

Ali puzzled over that one for a long time, too. If Lisa had used both the equity from her home and an advance on her life insurance policy to pay for the medication, it had to be expensive-similar to the unattainable $80,000 price tag Howie Bernard had mentioned.

Ali sent an immediate reply.

Dear Louise,

Cleaning out garages is no fun, but if you do happen on any information regarding Lisa’s course of treatment, I’d really appreciate knowing about it.

Ali

The next message was utterly chilling. There was no salutation and no signature. It consisted of only two words:

She’s gone.

There was no need for Ali to scroll back through her old mail to know the sender had to be Watching. Regardless of whether or not Watching’s wife had read Ali’s post, she had taken Ali’s advice and headed for the hills, hopefully taking her two-year-old with her. And Ali didn’t have to consult his message to remember verbatim what Watching had said about that: “If she tries to leave me, I’ll come looking for you.”

Ali was thinking about that when the phone rang and startled her. It wasn’t her cell phone-it was Aunt Evie’s, the land line she paid for and hardly ever used. The phone that seldom rang unless it was a solicitor doggedly making his way through a list of numbers. Caller ID said it was a private call. Thinking about Watching and about the possibility of him being out there, looking for her, Ali almost didn’t answer. Finally, on the fourth ring, she did.

“Ali Reynolds?” a man’s voice asked. A real man this time, not Helga Myerhoff’s smoking-induced baritone.

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Farris from the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. Dave Holman suggested I give you a call. I understand from him that you and Ms. Bernard were good friends.”

“Yes,” Ali said. “From high school on.”

“Dave also mentioned that she had been in touch with you shortly before her death and that you thought that communication might have some bearing on the case. What was it, a phone call, letter, e-mail?”

“A greeting card,” Ali said. “Reenie liked to send greeting cards.”

“And what did it say exactly?”

Ali retrieved her purse. Ignoring the Glock which had somehow managed to rise to the surface, Ali pawed through the purse’s contents until she located Reenie’s card. “Here it is: ‘I think I’m in for a very bumpy ride, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I’ll call you next week. R.”

“That’s all?” Farris asked.

“Yes,” Ali answered.

“And what is it about this card that makes you doubt the authenticity of the suicide note we found in the wreckage of Reenie Bernard’s vehicle?”

“It’s just that Reenie was a friend of mine,” Ali said quickly. “Sending a typed suicide note just isn’t like her. She wouldn’t do it.”

“You’re saying your friend would commit suicide, but instead of typing the note, she’d write it out longhand?”

“I didn’t say…” Ali began.

“Look,” Detective Farris said. “I don’t mean any disrespect, and I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Reynolds, but Mrs. Bernard’s secretary over at the YWCA tried to tell me the same thing, that when we did find a note, it would be on some kind of greeting card, something with a pretty picture on it.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’m a detective, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “A homicide detective. I’ve investigated any number of suicides over the years, and I have to say that as far as notes are concerned the results are about fifty-fifty, half typed and half handwritten. A few were done on typewriters. Most of the typed ones were computer generated and without benefit of a valid signature, but that didn’t mean the notes weren’t valid. And none of them-not a single, solitary one-ever showed up on a greeting card of any kind.

“Just to set your mind at rest, we’ve examined the printers from Ms. Bernard’s office as well as the one they have at home. We’re reasonably sure the note wasn’t typed on either one of those. The truth is, however, Ms. Bernard was in the Phoenix area that day. She could easily have gone to a Kinko’s somewhere to write and print the note.”

“But…”

Farris went on without pausing long enough to listen to Ali’s objection. “I know losing a loved one is difficult,” he continued, “and the fact that someone has taken his or her own life is often particularly difficult to accept, but so far I’ve found nothing at all that doesn’t point to the fact that Reenie Bernard committed suicide. We’ve been unable to find any legitimate reason for Ms. Bernard to be coming down Schnebly Hill Road in the middle of a snowy night. She was from around here. When she opened the gate at the top of the hill, I’m sure she knew how dangerous it was. I think she also knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’m probably saying more than I should, but I want you to understand where we are on this, Ms. Reynolds. The autopsy findings also bear out what I’m telling you. Her injuries are consistent with that plunge down the side of the mountain. There’s nothing at all that indicates foul play.”

“What about her trip to the bank?” Ali asked.

“Her intended trip to the bank,” Farris corrected. “No banking slips or receipts were found in her vehicle or at the scene. We’ve already ascertained that there was no activity on any of the Bernard accounts that day. Now, if you have something more substantial to add, some kind of additional information, I’ll be happy to look into it, but until then…”

The call-waiting signal beeped in Ali’s ear.

“I have another call coming in and I need to take it,” she said. “Thanks for being in touch. If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Hi, Ali,” Bree Cowan said when Ali clicked over to the other call. “I just talked to my mother. She and Dad are having a few people over tonight, but there’s so much food at the house that they’d like more people to stop by and eat it. It’ll mostly be friends and relatives from out of town, and you certainly qualify on that score. They could use the company, and so could the kids. I thought maybe…”

Going to visit the Holzers made a lot more sense than sitting around at home wondering what Watching might or might not be doing. “What time?” Ali asked at once.

“Sixish.”

“I’ll be there.”

Once off the phone with Bree Cowan, Ali sat there holding Reenie’s friendship card and letting the anger she felt toward Detective Farris wash over her. He had dismissed her concerns out of hand. He had given her the same kind of brush-off he had given Andrea Rogers.

His mind’s made up, Ali thought bitterly. Don’t confuse the issue by asking him questions that don’t necessarily agree with his pet theory.

Still looking at the card she realized that, for the rest of her life, whenever she saw one of those particular cards, she’d think of Reenie. And then she realized something else. Just because Detective Farris wasn’t interested in her questions didn’t mean she should stop asking them. Alison Reynolds was a journalist after all, someone trained to ask questions, and ask she would.

With that in mind, and with a whole new sense of purpose, Ali reached for her computer.