Unorthodox Methods

Book 812: Murder Room

by Deborah Valentine

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'A touch of Margaret Millar . . . worth watching' Sunday Telegraph Sculptress Katharine Craig doesn't often get to Lake Tahoe, where she stays with her cousin, Jon Craig. This time, though, Katharine arrives just in time to be swept into a whirl of parties, mystery... and murder. A series of art thefts has the townsfolk doing plenty of speculating and Cousin Jon is right at the centre of the mystery. But when a local art collector is found gruesomely impaled on the piece of sculpture he recently had shown to Katharine, idle speculation turns to serious investigation. It seems Katharine was the last person to see the victim alive, and Kevin Bryce of the Tahoe Police has a more than passing interest in getting to know her better...

Release date: November 14, 2013

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 190

Sample

Shit!

It was rewarding to say the word out loud, to be vulgar in secret. It was dark and he’d stepped down too suddenly into a pothole on the uneven drive. His nostrils filled with the scent of
dirt and pine. The air was cool but his skin felt hot, a prickly itch originating not from an external irritant, but from a fever within. Taking the flashlight from his pocket, he knew this rush of
power and discovery was better than the sex he’d never experienced. He hurried forward, ready to enter not only a house but perhaps also a mind that, despite all reasonable efforts, had
remained closed to him.

The doorknob turned easily and he smiled. With practiced and precise care he wiped his feet on the mat, adjusted his gloves, turned on the flashlight keeping the beam low. This cabin was fairly
isolated, a chance passerby was an unlikely event, but he was naturally discreet — that was one of the qualities that had made him such a success — so he kept it dim enough that it
might be mistaken for nothing more than an odd reflection of the moon’s light on the window-glass.

The spareness of the room bored him. The leather on the wingback chair so worn he wondered why it hadn’t been replaced, the rug before the fireplace ridiculous and gamey-smelling, the
numerous books on the shelves cause for suspicion though he assumed them unread. There was little in the way of popular fiction, mostly classics and small books by obscure authors. Some unfamiliar
feel to the room made him ill at ease and he moved up a set of uncomfortably narrow stairs to an equally sparse loft. He sat at the desk there, opening the top drawer. Pens, pencils, erasers,
bullets. He took a few pieces of ammunition in hand, sat back and rubbed them like worry beads, scanning the walls with the flashlight. Not much hanging there. One painting near the desk was all
and the beam rested on it only briefly. Nothing in the typewriter roller. He was going for a deep drawer when something clicked in the back of his mind. He stopped, shone the light on the painting
once more, specifically on the lettering in the lower right-hand corner.

Marin.

He got up and stood next to it, heart racing, beam not quite so steady as a moment before. This was no print. What had this man done — saved his coffee-and-doughnuts money? Secrets.
Surprises. It seemed everyone had them. Unconsciously he pocketed the bullets, then lifted the painting off the wall with the happy confidence of a man who had suddenly discovered his mission
accomplished.

Outside he took a moment to watch the light glitter on the lake, study the pattern of the car headlamps rounding the water’s edge on the road below. Without further ceremony he threw the
painting in the car and drove away.

Lake Tahoe is a large body of water set 6229 feet up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains dividing California and Nevada. From the south shore, the north shore cannot be seen, only a
chain of mountain peaks, jagged as a child’s drawing. From the west shore the east is solid but not definable — trees, homes, docks mesh into a grey-blue mass. The water is clear. It
used to be clearer until pollution took its toll. But even so rocks thirty, forty feet below the surface appear to spiral dangerously close. Standing on the edge of a cliff there is the illusion a
diver could fall just as he could in Acapulco and swim safely to shore once more. But this is mountain water and it is stunningly cold.

A small part of the north, most of the south, and all the east shores belong to Nevada and what isn’t National Forest consists mainly of casinos and motels. Many of the homes are rentals
— modulars, cheap imitations of Swiss chalets. But they hide their ugliness behind the trees, bask in the reflection of the lake’s beauty, borrow glamor from celebrity guests. The
tenants are transient, concerned only with gaming tables, for this is a place where sable is paired with polyester, Grand Marnier washed down with Coca-Cola.

The California shores are different. A large chunk of the west is National Forest, though there are homes tucked away in the most unlikely places: small, homely cabins, half a century old;
large, expensive hidey-holes, owned both individually and corporately. Further up the crooked highway to the north, the homes cluster more thickly in the trees. Tahoe City itself is clean and
quaint. And though one shopping center goes so far as to simulate a Scandinavian village most are modern yet rustic enough to blend into the scenery. As healthy California sunshine is exchanged for
healthy California snow, shopkeepers change their signs from “Sun & Sport” to “Snow & Ski”. Coffee shops are not as plentiful as gourmet delis and trendy
restaurants. Exercise hard, eat well, look good — there is an almost puritan logic applied to recreation.

But move on past Carnelian Bay and Tahoe Vista to King’s Beach and two blocks off the highway this picture is altered. In a neighborhood of Tahoe originals — hunters’ cabins
and vacation homes whose prime is past — a small barrio exists, populated by illegal aliens who provide the cheap labor for motels and Nevada casinos. Like the underprivileged everywhere
these residents often live ten to a room and rely on various unorthodox methods to make ends meet.

And it was here that Kevin Bryce, Sergeant at the Tahoe substation of the Placer County Sheriff’s department, often resolved the crimes assigned to investigations — usually drugs and
burglary. But before him sat a report on an oddity. No stereo unit had been touched, no television or ski equipment — the usual fare — but valuable artwork. Affluent homes had been
quietly broken into and paintings removed — not every week, not every month, not consistently enough to call in extra surveillance from Auburn, but enough to irritate the community.

In the office Bryce shared with three detectives he sat at his desk, having the choice of three views: one wall of bookshelves stocked with leatherbound copies of Deering’s California
Codes, the back of Detective Browning’s hairless neck, or out the window to the velvet green meadow on the opposite side of the highway. Bryce stared at the meadow with an expression so
serious it appeared angry. A top, a toy belonging to the captain’s son, had found its way into the scales used for weighing in drugs. Bryce picked up the toy and absently fingered it.

The noteworthy point to Bryce in this particular burglary was not the burglary itself, but what had been stolen. This thief had always been predictable in his taste: landscapes, portraits,
elaborate nudes. But catalogued before Bryce were a collection of names Bryce would have not thought his style: Kahlo, Marin, Dove.

So what did this mean? Had the thief experienced a broadening of taste? A change of market?

“Hey, I hear we got another one from Mister Class Act.” A cheerful young deputy ready to do his shift on patrol strutted in, mouth first. “How about that? There’s some
wild rumor going around that he got into your place and took some expensive painting — name of a county, the guy who painted it.”

Bryce saw the back of Browning’s neck twitch as if he were dying to turn around.

“Mare-in. Not Marin,” Bryce said, shaking his head and smiling.

The deputy whistled. “Boy, we have to sit down and talk finances. I need to know how you can manage to afford stuff like that on your salary.”

So had the captain.

Bryce said, “No booze, no women, use firewood instead of PG&E.”

The deputy laughed. “Shit, it’s not worth it.”

Still smiling, Bryce twisted the top and watched the pressure spin it around on the desk until it dropped right off the edge.

Anticipation always whetted Jonathan Craig’s appetite, so for breakfast that morning he consumed four extra-large buttermilk pancakes, three poached eggs, two orders of
fried potatoes, corned beef hash and four slices of toast, washed down with strong coffee — though all this would do nothing to put meat on his thin bones. He didn’t even pretend to
read the newspaper and left it folded next to the sugar. He was too impatient to read and, besides, he knew all the local news. He shovelled down his last mouthful of eggs and sat back so the
waitress could refill his cup.

A group of teenagers walked by and, spotting him through the restaurant window, smiled and waved. Jon gave them a friendly nod. He was something of a cult figure for the teenagers of Lake
Tahoe’s north shore, a position he’d earned by his friendliness, his sponsorship of community activities (particularly sports), his parties, and, most importantly, his ability to argue
a point and win. He was a master in the use of words.

Almost everyone thought he was wonderful; even those who knew he was not.

Jon’s cousin Katharine was one of the few well-acquainted with the less wonderful side of his nature but that did not stop him from looking forward to her visit. It had been — what?
— a year since he’d seen her? Of course, they talked sometimes on the phone. His bills read like a globe of the word: London, Majorca, Paris. But on the phone he found he missed the
nuances of expression, the gestures that could be so revealing. Jon was sensitive to such things; his talent for reading them was what made him so successful in his job as family counselor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Seven tonight? Is that right Jon?”

It was Percy Metcalf, Captain of the Sheriff’s department, a man who in profile gave the genteel appearance of the president of a small but distinguished college.

“Yes, yes.” Jon smiled and pushed out a chair. He was careful to invite at least one member of the department to his social functions, for he was not without sympathy for their
position in this small community. Money, recreation, drugs: it was a trinity that kept individual police from being invited to a lot of parties. Even dinner with the wife at the newest restaurant
could pose a problem if the husband had busted the proprietor the week before. Also, Jon came from the school of the politically wise. Who knew when a police friend might be needed?

Percy sat and leaned forward. “Daughter’s been doing much better since we’ve followed your advice,” he said.

Jon smiled modestly. “You always have to use a firm hand with girls. Believe me, I know the problems.” He idly opened the newspaper.

 

ANOTHER ART BURGLARY OF TAHOE RESIDENT

“Weekender this time,” Jon said.

“Attorney from San Francisco. But you know them, Jon. I’ve got to tell you the men have really been enjoying the character doing these jobs, he’s definitely a cut above our
usual fare.”

Jon cocked his head. “You haven’t been getting too much pressure from some of the more conservative around here, have you? I doubt if everyone appreciates the uniqueness of this
fellow.”

“Well . . .” Percy frowned, as if he’d suddenly been caught enjoying himself too much. “He’ll be caught one day, believe me. He’ll push his luck.”

“Yes. Of course. Make sure the men know they’re welcome tonight. You all deserve a little fun.”

Having finished his inquiries young deputy Martin Anderson stood on the veranda of a west-shore ski lodge talking to the owner, Petter Swenson. Petter was a tall, trim man;
handsome in a strict military sort of way. His business was mainly real estate, though he appeared to spend most his time overseeing the management of the lodge. He could be seen by the side of the
road running there most mornings, a knapsack on his back. Anderson had been shocked and impressed to discover one day that the knapsack was full of rocks. Petter was in his late fifties, about the
same age as Anderson’s father had been when he died, and Anderson couldn’t help contrasting Petter’s good health and dignified manner to his father’s own messy and alcoholic
life. In Anderson’s experience with Petter and his wife Inga, they had never failed to extend to him a genuine appreciation for the help he’d given them in his role as police officer.
The attitude was not a common one, even among those to whom the police were obliged to offer assistance. Anderson found himself trying harder in order to live up to it, to feel he deserved this
courtesy.

That was one of the reasons he was here this afternoon. On the advice of Sergeant Bryce he was following up on the burglary of some ski equipment. Normally this duty would fall to Bryce or one
of his detectives, but they were occupied with the new art burglaries and he had been eager to take up the assignment. As a recent transfer from Los Angeles County he was determined to do well and
he made sure his questions were both thorough and asked in a friendly and professional manner. The sergeant had been quick to impress on him the idea that all inquiries coming from the
investigative division needed to be carried out politely and with attention to niceties, at least until necessity proved other means in order.

“It’s probably going to be different here from what you’re used to in LA,” he had said. “It was different from what I was used to most of the time I worked San
Mateo County. When I joined the Sheriff’s department I was assigned to East Palo Alto — that was before they got a police department of their own. My first night on the job we had three
stabbings, two shootings and a rape. I was in Tahoe six months before we had a shooting here — and that was done by a frustrated deer-hunter who got drunk and shot the moosehead off the wall
of a Tahoe City bar.”

They had laughed but underneath the sergeant’s kind scrutiny there was a sharpness Anderson hadn’t missed. The message had been clear. Bryce expected a certain kind of conduct and,
like all others in a position of authority, he’d be an asshole if he didn’t get it. However pleasant he might appear now, however satisfying it might be to have his approval, he was not
to be trusted.

“— the Craig party tonight. Will Inga and I see you there, Martin?” Petter was asking.

“No, sir, I’m on duty tonight,” Anderson responded and could have kicked himself afterward. The sergeant had told him before that he used “sirs” where a name would
be more appropriate. A little familiarity, Bryce said, wasn’t likely to kill him — most of the time, anyway.

“Ah, Inga will be disappointed. But we will be having a party of our own later this month — for our wedding anniversary. Perhaps you will be able to attend that one.” Petter
possessed a severe, high-cheekboned face that he rarely softened by smiling, but he did so now.

Anderson smiled in return. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

Once back in his patrol car Anderson was disgusted to find his palms were sweaty.

Katherine Craig was a tall woman, five feet eight and carried herself shoulders straight, stomach. . .