“Lordy, Lordy!” Marvin breathed. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Thanks, Beau. I’ll get someone right on it!”
By the time that call ended, it was almost eleven in Homer—an hour later in Seattle. I knew I needed to talk to Jared, but calling someone who was a guest in a monastery at midnight didn’t seem like a good idea. Besides, Chris had been dead for a dozen years. Jared could wait a few more hours to hear the bad news. As a consequence I followed Jimmy’s example and went to bed.
By six the next morning and with Jimmy still sawing logs, I was awake and fully dressed. I left a note for Jimmy and then went down to the lobby to dial Jared Danielson’s cell phone.
“Is it Chris?” he asked as soon as he answered.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m so sorry.”
I heard Jared sigh. It was the news he’d been both expecting and dreading. “I’ll call Gram and let her know,” he said. “It’ll break her heart, of course. Do you have any idea who’s responsible?”
Actually, I did have some idea, and over the next many minutes I told him everything I knew. As a homicide cop, I’d always been unable to share much if any information on the progress of a case with grieving relatives in order to maintain the integrity of the investigation. As a private investigator, I was under no such obligation, so I told Jared what I knew with a clear conscience. Besides, at that point in the investigation I was as much in the dark about what was really going on with Lieutenant Marvin Price and the AST as anyone else.
There was silence once I finally finished. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when the recently ordained priest finally responded by quoting a Bible verse.
“‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.’ First Timothy, chapter six, verse ten. If Shelley Adams is sitting in jail right now and looking at prison time, it sounds as though she’s certainly pierced herself with sorrows.”
“Amen to that,” I told him.
“What happens now?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I replied. “With the remains identified and the autopsy already conducted, there shouldn’t be much delay in releasing the body. You should probably be in touch with Professor Raines about that. I’ll text you her contact information.” I found her information in my contacts and sent it along.
“What should I do about a funeral?” he wanted to know. “What about that?”
“I’m of the opinion you should discuss that with Danitza Miller, your nephew’s mother. Legally, you’re Chris’s next of kin, but she and Jimmy certainly have a vested interest in what follows. I’m texting you their contact information as well. I told Nitz, and I’m telling you, that I’ll take care of any and all funeral expenses—”
“Wait,” Jared objected, “you can’t do that.”
“I can and I will,” I told him, “but there’s one stipulation. You can choose cremation or burial, that’s up to you. If you pick the latter, however, I want you to order a full-size casket with no viewing.”
“Because Danitza and Jimmy don’t know how little is left of the body?”
“Exactly.”
“So what should I do today?” Jared persisted. “Should I get on a plane and come to Alaska or what?”
“By all means,” I told him. “I know for a fact that Jimmy is eager to meet you, and you’ll need to speak with the official homicide investigators as well. And since you’re probably not too flush for cash at the moment, you can plan on billing me for the airfare. As far as I’m concerned, your coming here is all a part of wrapping up my investigation.”
“Thank you. So I fly into Anchorage?” Jared asked.
“I know Nitz’s address information gives an Anchorage address, but right now and for probably the next several days she’ll be spending most of her time here in Homer.”
“How far is that from Anchorage?”
“A long way,” I said. “Look, once you have your flight arrangements, let me know your ETA. I’ll have someone meet you at the airport and bring you here, and I’ll book a room for you at the same hotel where I’m staying.”
It made me smile to think that Twinkle Winkleman wasn’t quite done with me yet.
“All right,” Jared said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I call Grandma and get my flight details sorted.”
“Good enough.”
About that time the elevator door opened and Jimmy Danielson wandered into the lobby. His hair was still tousled from sleeping. He paused for a moment, looking anxiously around the lobby. When he spotted me, his face brightened and he hurried over.
“Was that my mom on the phone?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “it was your Uncle Jared. He’s checking to see how soon he can catch a flight from Seattle to Anchorage.”
“He’s coming here, really?”
“Really.”
Twink had told me that the Driftwood had a breakfast room, and somewhere it smelled as though someone was making waffles. Jimmy must have caught the same scent.
“Can we have breakfast?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
I was sure he was. It had been a very long time since he’d downed Twink’s sticky pudding and whatever goodies he’d been able to extract from the hotel’s vending machines.
But suddenly I had another idea—a very bright idea. “Yes, we can have breakfast,” I told him, “but not here. I know just the spot. It’s called Zig’s Place.”
“Really? Isn’t that where my dad was working?”
Clearly he’d been paying attention to everything I’d said. “Yes, it is,” I told him. “It’s also where he and your mom met.”
“Really?”
Jimmy’s food-starved brain seemed to be stuck on “really.”
“Yes, really,” I repeated. “So let’s get our coats and head out.”
A few minutes later, when we walked outside to my latest version of the Ford Exploder, even I could tell that it was noticeably warmer. Snow was starting to melt and drip off eaves. Not long after that, we were seated in a booth at Zig’s Place. When the waitress came to take our order, I asked if Mr. Norquist was working that day.
“He’s in the back,” she told us.
“Would you tell him that Chris Danielson’s son, Christopher James, is here and would very much like to meet him?”
“Will do,” she said. “Now, what can I get you?”
Jimmy ordered everything but the kitchen sink—OJ, ham, eggs, and hash browns with a pecan waffle on the side. I ordered bacon and eggs.
“I can’t believe my father actually worked here,” Jimmy commented once the waitress left. He looked around the room in wonder, as if taking in every detail.
“You know that framed pencil drawing of your mother?”
“The one that says ‘Would you like to hang out sometime’?” His mouth screwed up when he repeated the words, as though it was weird to have to consider his parents in those kinds of terms—as though the idea that they might have been young and in love once was somehow beyond the pale.
I nodded and held up my place mat. “This is what it was drawn on,” I told him, “a place mat from Zig’s Place. Do you draw?”