“You can make a living at that?”
“It is my understanding that archeologists and their projects subsist mainly on grants. It is why most of them have day jobs as teachers.”
“Did Berglund?”
She shook her head. “Not here in Blewestown, although there was talk that he had been offered a position on the Chungasqak Bay Campus.”
Liam rifled through the mental card index labeled “Blewestown” and came up empty. “Which is…”
“The local affiliate of the University of Alaska. About five hundred students, including distance students from across the Bay.”
He spared yet another moment to marvel at the comprehensiveness of Ms. Petroff’s knowledge of her community. Well, theirs, now. “Was Berglund married?”
A shadow passed so fleetingly across her face that he could not identify the emotion behind it. “Not to my knowledge.”
“A steady girlfriend?”
A ghost of a smile. “If the rumors are true, he did not lack for female companionship.”
“Terrific,” Liam said beneath his breath. He foresaw a lot of interviews with ex-girlfriends and those never went well and were almost invariably unproductive.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Ms. Petroff?”
“You are referring to Mr. Berglund in the past tense.”
He looked up to find her watching him, her face blank of any expression, even curiosity. “Do you know where he lived, Ms. Petroff?”
Another almost imperceptible pause. “I believe he rented a dry cabin somewhere out East Bay Road.”
“No address?”
She shook her head. “Dry cabins seldom have their own street addresses. People out that way throw up a lot of cabins for short-term rental purposes. They would rather not attract the attention of the borough tax assessor.”
“What is a dry cabin, exactly?”
“No water. He had to haul it in.”
“Ugh.”
“It’s not uncommon in Blewestown, sir, given the lack of housing. Many rental property owners rent out by way of Airbnb during the summer. Short-term vacation rentals are much more remunerative—” he could only admire how she didn’t stumble over the word “—than long-term rentals.”
Newenham had been the same, except replace tourists with the fishermen and the processing plant workers who flooded in from Outside every summer.
He thought it over. His first stop should have been Erik’s office, but he hadn’t had one. His second stop would have been Erik’s home, but he didn’t want to waste his entire day stumbling around the back of beyond trying to find it. “Do you by any chance have Gabe McGuire’s phone number?”
“Of course, sir.” A brief clack of keys and she read it off to him.
To his surprise, McGuire answered his own phone. “Mr. McGuire, this is Sergeant Campbell.”
“Hey, Liam,” McGuire said. He didn’t sound happy. “I suppose this is about Erik.”
“You’ve heard?”
A snort. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
Neither are you, Liam thought. “I need to talk to you about your party on Monday. In particular it would be helpful if you could prepare a list of everyone who was invited, who was there, and who didn’t show.”
“I suppose this is official?”
“Yes.”
A heavy sigh. “I’m not a law enforcement officer but I’ve played one in the movies. Come on out.”
“Thanks. Be there in twenty.” Liam clicked off. “Thank you, Ms. Petroff. Excellent staff work.”
She inclined her head and said gravely, “Thank you, Sergeant Campbell.”
He paused at the door to look back at her. She was still looking at him with that preternaturally blank expression. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He wasn’t sure she actually saw him.
Thirteen
Wednesday, September 4
BY THIS TIME HIS TRUCK COULD HAVE driven itself to its destination, but for the black bear and three cubs who charged out in front of it with suicidal intent. He slammed on the brakes and got honked at by the pickup in back of him for his pains. The bears, unconcerned, disappeared into the brush. They were as adept at the vanishing act as the moose.
The gate had been left open. He parked and knocked at the door. McGuire opened it almost immediately. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
McGuire pointed at the kitchen and Liam helped himself. They sat down on opposite couches in the living room, McGuire facing the view as was only due the homeowner.
“Do you live here alone?”
McGuire looked around. “What, too much room for one guy?” He sounded defensive.
Liam shook his head. “You’re an actor. And you’re a box office star. Where’s the entourage?”
McGuire grimaced, and Liam admitted that it was very odd indeed to watch a face he’d seen often on his own television screen make human expressions sitting right across from him. Liam was generally good at spotting liars and their tells but this guy was a professional actor, the first and only of Liam’s acquaintance. How to know what was real?
McGuire looked back at Liam, and something of his thoughts must have shown because—was it an expression of disgust—flashed across his face. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a cabin out back. Len lives there. A housekeeper comes once a week. The rest of the time it’s just me.”
“Was Len at the party?” A nod. “I’d like to talk to him, too.”
“Want me to call him over?”
“No, I’ll pay a visit afterward.” He wanted to talk to the witnesses individually if at all possible.
“Right,” McGuire said. He picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “I printed it out. Easier to read than my handwriting.” He fidgeted with it. “I don’t mean to intrude on your investigation but these people were my guests, in my home by my invitation. I don’t want to hang them out to dry.” He looked up to meet Liam’s eyes.
“I appreciate your feelings,” Liam said. “My on-the-scene estimate indicates that Erik Berglund was killed late Monday or early Tuesday morning. That estimate is not official and may be
