Steven Fisk and James Pratt. As far as the bones go, Jocelyn's the only one unaccounted for. Sorry.'
Julie grumpily withdrew, as she sometimes did under such circumstances, sinking back into the seat and folding her arms. “Why do I always do this to myself?” she muttered to the window. “Why don't I just let all the big-time detectives solve it themselves?'
'Oh, yeah,” John said with a laugh, “we're doing just great.'
That effectively ended the conversation for the rest of the drive. When Minor pulled into the lodge parking lot and turned off the ignition, they continued to sit silently for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts, until John sighed loudly and pushed open his door.
'See you guys for dinner,” he said. Then, without moving to get out, he added: “You know what I'm starting to think? That maybe we've been on the wrong track all along; maybe the two murders aren't even connected; maybe Tremaine was killed on account of something else in the book. Hell,” he finished glumly, “maybe the damn book doesn't have anything to do with it.'
'Could be,” Julie said.
'Perhaps so,” said Minor.
Maybe, Gideon thought, but only if somebody had just repealed the Law of Interconnected Monkey Business.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 19
* * * *
Due to the recent tragedy involving M. Audley Tremaine, things were understandably subdued at the lodge that evening. The Icebreaker Lounge had remained closed and dark during the cocktail hour, and now in the dining room the atmosphere, if not one of inconsolable grief, was appropriately restrained. Most of the search-and-rescue class were at their usual large table, eating heartily enough, but without the attendant verve and hilarity that usually characterized their meals. The death of Professor Tremaine had cast a pall of gloom on their customary animation. That, or the deletion of the cocktail hour.
The members of Tremaine's party were no longer sitting at a single table. If they had ever enjoyed each other's company, it was obvious that they didn't anymore. Gerald Pratt sat with Elliott Fisk, both of them silent, Fisk picking sourly at his food, Pratt shoveling it placidly in. Nearby, with her back pointedly toward Fisk, Shirley Yount was at a table with Walter Judd, who was chugging and chortling away like a washing machine, but seemingly by rote, his mind elsewhere. Shirley made no pretense of listening. She looked mostly over his head, at the top of the wall behind him. Under the table her long, bony foot bobbed while she chewed.
Alone, her cape draped majestically over the back of her chair, her polished staff leaning against the wall, Anna Henckel sat in regal isolation, looking out over the darkening water of the cove as she ate.
And at a table at the far end of the room, in front of a wall that was carved and painted with owl-eyed totem figures to look like the side of a Tlingit longhouse, six newcomers—three women and three men—gobbled down their food and talked earnestly.
'John, who are those people?” Julie asked. She had seen them on the flight from Juneau a few hours before. They had kept to themselves in a knot in the smoking section and been met by Arthur Tibbett with the lodge bus.
'Reporters,” John said, picking up a menu. “And a TV crew.” He had just joined Gideon, Julie, and Minor. “The media's been pushing us for news, so we're going to have a press conference tomorrow at four o'clock.'
'Do you want me to deal with the logistics?” Minor asked. “Orient them, show them around, arrange a meeting room, and so on and so forth?” He took off his rimless glasses and blew a speck of dust from them.
'If you can get them away from Arthur Tibbett, but I don't think you have a chance. Let him do it; he's like a kid with a new bike? He looked at Gideon. “Doc, can you be there? There'll be questions.'
'Sure.'
'Good. You can come too, Julie, if you want.” He scanned the menu, folded it, and dropped it on the table. “I told Henckel and Pratt and the rest of them to come too. I figured I'd let Tibbett run the show, since he's having such a good time.'
Minor's pepper-and-salt eyebrows lifted briefly. “Do you think that's wise?” He began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief that looked as if it had never been unfolded before, let alone used.
'Sure, I don't have any problem with it. Besides, who says we have a choice? We don't have any right to keep the press away from them; and I figured an open meeting'd be the best way to handle it. I had a talk with them when they arrived, and they promised to stay away from Tremaine's people if I promised to have them at the press conference. At least this way we get to hear what they say.'
Cheri, the chirpy, whip-thin waitress who had single-handedly been doing the serving all week, was at his elbow. “Have you decided, or do you want me to come back?'
John looked at the menu again. “What's the Prospector's Special?'
'Salisbury steak with bacon strips and mushroom gravy, buttered mashed potatoes, fried onion rings. Yum.'
'Sounds good. Can I get French fries instead of mashed?'
'Sure.'
'Great. Make it well done, okay? Lots of gravy. On the fries too. Thousand Island on the salad.'
'I just hope Marti doesn't ask me what you ate,” Julie said.
John looked at her over the top of the menu. “Are you gonna get on my case too? What'd
