A Wicked Snow

knew she’d find the case she wanted to see.

It was Claire Logan’s well-perused file. In the back of the file was a packet marked: “Sealed by the order of the Superior Court, County of Spruce, State of Oregon.” There was a familiar signature on the outside of a grimy- with-time cover sheet—her own.

She took a seat, flipped on a library lamp, and sliced open the file. For a moment she felt the whoosh of air move through the room, and she looked up. The air conditioner rumbled, then another whoosh of air and the scent of the bouquet from the clerk’s counter upstairs.

Good God, she thought, those gardenias sure have staying power.

Chapter Thirty-two

“I think you should bring in Louise Wallace for a good grilling.”

It was Bonnie Ingersol’s voice over the Northern Lights rotary-dial telephone. Bauer tried to move the phone to the bed so he could make himself more comfortable, but it was bolted to the nightstand.

“What did you get?” he asked.

“Zip,” she said. Bauer detected some excitement in his old partner’s voice. “The woman doesn’t exist. She’s a complete nothing insofar as the computers are concerned. No Social Security number that we could trace.”

“Which means she’s never filed an income tax return.”

“Right. And never held a job that we can tell. Unless she was paid with cash in some under-the-table deal.”

“For her whole life? Not likely.”

“No driver’s license in any of forty-nine states. Still waiting to hear back from Hawaii. You know Hawaii, they’re not in the system yet.”

“She drives,” he said. “I’ve seen her car parked out front of her place. And she lives out in Bumfuck, Egypt, anyway. Need a car out here for sure. Hell, you need a four-wheeler to get around.”

“It gets weirder, Jeff,” Ingersol went on. “Unless you screwed up royally—or if the lab guys did something stupid—”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bauer cut in.

“There aren’t any good prints on the sample you sent down here. A preliminary examination came up with a single partial. Yours. Nothing else. And they ran the badge holder every which way but loose.”

“Blank? I saw her hold it. I gave it to her.”

Ingersol didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t doubt Bauer, but it was very odd.

“Maybe she had gloves on?” she asked. “You know, those clear plastic surgicals?”

“Not possible. Her hands were dirty from working out in her flower garden. She examined my badge. Should have been some latents on it.”

“Nada.”

Bauer thought of the splendid buttery yellow house that jutted out and overlooked the icy waters of the Pacific. How could Louise Wallace manage such a place? Her fishing resort—which as far as he could tell was without guests during the summer season—couldn’t be that successful. It couldn’t, he thought, generate the income she needed to have such a place. Unless her husband had left her a bundle, she had to have the money on her own. If she was Claire Logan, Bauer knew where the money had come from.

“I’ll contact the sheriff,” he said, “and we’ll bring her in for questioning. It can only be voluntary, of course.

“Get her on driving without a license or something.”

“Just what I had in mind.”

“With any luck, she’ll be too messed up with worry to even think about the jurisdiction issue. Anyone with a badge is a cop, you know.”

Ingersol laughed. “You’re right about that one,” she said.

“If this is Logan,” Bauer said, “this is the closest we’ve ever come. This is different than the other times. I feel it.”

Bauer dialed Kodiak sheriff Kim Stanton. He was glad that he’d made his courtesy call when he first arrived on the island. It was always much more difficult asking for assistance after bursting into someone else’s jurisdiction and telling them what they needed to do. Bauer told him he wanted to bring in Louise Wallace for questioning about some criminal activity many years ago.

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Stanton asked.

“Homicide and arson. The Claire Logan murders,” Bauer said, not sure why he volunteered so much except he knew that he needed the sheriff on his side and not as an advocate for Louise Wallace.

“I know Louise, and you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Stanton said, unruffled, as though the woman had been accused of shoplifting or some other petty crime. It was obvious that he knew who Claire Logan was because he didn’t ask any follow-ups about the case. “You Feds do things your own way. Long as you make it brief and get on your way, we’ll back you.”

“Look, I need your help. I need a marked car and a deputy to take her to your office for questioning.”

“Done,” he said. “She’s a nice lady. She’ll want to clear this up.”

It was almost 4 p.m. in Louise Wallace’s tidy kitchen, and Marge Morrison was slicing leeks and zucchini for a quiche she was making for dinner. A piecrust weighted down with navy beans was convecting in the oven. Moments before, Morrison had called Beth Tyson to ask her church friend to feed her cat. She said she was staying with Louise for a couple of days “to help sort out some misunderstanding.” She followed that call with one to notify her employer at the public utility that she’d need a few days of vacation to take care of a sick friend. The leeks were turning translucent in the bubbling butter when the doorbell rang.

“Louise?” Morrison called out from the kitchen stove. “Can you get it?”

“Be right there,” Louise answered from somewhere in back of the house.

Morrison went on stirring and enjoying the gorgeous view from the sparkling kitchen window. Scattered whitecaps mottled the blue of the water.

A few minutes later curiosity got the better of Morrison, and she called out again. “Louise? Who was it?”

This time no response came. Morrison turned the flame on low, set the big wooden spoon into a ceramic rest, and went to investigate. She watched her troubled friend talking with a man she didn’t know and one of the deputies from the sheriff’s department.

“What’s going on here?” she asked.

Wallace turned around. Her face, lined from years of working outdoors, was a study in complete calm. Given the circumstances, Louise’s calmness surprised Morrison. She’d have been jumping out of her skin with worry and agitation.

“It’s fine,” Louise said. She put her hand on Morrison’s shoulder. “I’m going to town to talk to these men. I want to get this off of me.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t speak to your lawyer first?” Morrison said, though she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want the two men to think Louise had any reason to seek a lawyer’s advice.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Quiche is always better served room temperature anyway, right?”

Morrison smiled and grabbed her windbreaker and offered it to Wallace. “In case the breeze kicks up.”

And with that, Louise Wallace walked across the driveway to the police cruiser. Morrison’s eyes stayed on her as she got into the car. She barely even noticed Bauer until after her friend disappeared behind the shut door.