Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112) by Sheila Simonson Read Free Book Online Page A

a short laugh. “Okay, okay, I confess. After going to the trouble of getting the key, I just peeked through the window. The garage was empty. I didn’t bother to go in.”
    Rob wondered whether she was telling the truth. If she was, the back-door window had not been blocked by the plywood lid at that point. “You could see clearly?”
    “It was dim,” she admitted, “but I was looking for a big piece of furniture, an oak chiffonier. It wasn’t there. The place was empty,” she repeated, sounding peevish.
    He allowed his skepticism to enter his voice. “Are you sure you didn’t go into the garage and open the storage compartment in the floor?”
    To his surprise, she gave a gurgle of laughter. “Great-grandpa’s hidey-hole?”
    “What?” He sat up straight.
    “I can tell you don’t know our scandalous history. My greatgrandfather, Otto Strohmeyer, was a notorious bootlegger. He had a still up near Tyee Lake. He used to stow the hooch in his garage until it was time to distribute it to his clients.”
    Rob swore under his breath. The garage had obviously been built in the 1920s. Why hadn’t he thought of bootlegging? It was the kind of thing Gran would have left unsaid. She would have known about it, of course, but she wouldn’t have wanted Rob-the-child to judge Emil Strohmeyer for the sins of his father. Not that she would have considered bathtub gin much of a sin, nor did Rob. It was the scofflaw mentality that bothered him. That and the violence. A Clark County sheriff had been killed in a shootout with bootleggers.
    “Did everyone in your family know about the cache?”
    “Mother did, of course. We—my brothers and I—used to spend a month with the grandparents every summer. Grandpa showed it to me one day when I got bored and wanted to go home to Seattle. I was thirteen. He’d probably already showed it to the boys.” She hesitated, then gave another giggle. She had to be pushing fifty. “Mother would not have approved. She’s always been the soul of propriety.”
    “So she might not have discussed the space with the real estate people?”
    “Probably not. It’s like cancer.”
    “What?”‘
    “The C-word. Her generation never mentioned it, like it was shameful or something. Same with bootlegging. Never mind that the old man’s illicit sales kept the family off the soup line during the Depression.”
    “Wasn’t the Volstead Amendment repealed by then?”
    “It took years,” she said coolly, “and meanwhile the sale of moonshine flourished. Grandpa had some good stories. His dad used to take him along for the ride when it was time to go out on the delivery route. The sight of Grandpa’s innocent face probably disarmed the revenuers.”
    Rob stared at the wallpaper pattern in Hazel Guthrie’s home office, cabbage roses in sad need of replacement. “I see. Well, Ms. Tichnor, I’m sorry to be the one to break the news, but we found human remains in that compartment, very likely a murder victim. I’m afraid your mother is in for a little embarrassment.”
    There was silence on the line. Finally, Carol Tichnor said, her voice high and tight, “A murder victim? Who?”
    “No idea, ma’am. Male, dark hair.”
    “Oh, God, oh, uh, excuse me. This is awful. I need to think….” The line went dead.
    Rob hit Redial and after six rings got an answering machine. He left his phone numbers, home, cell, and office, but he had the feeling Carol Tichnor was not going to return his call until she’d talked to someone—her mother? And a lawyer, or the family insurance agent. People like the Tichnors were apt to worry about liability.
    He set the receiver back in its cradle and rose, yawning in spite of the stimulus of new information. His eyes kept going out of focus from lack of sleep. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Roberto.
    The second-story window overlooked his backyard and a generous portion of the Strohmeyer yard. He corrected himself. The McLean yard. Thayer Jones was pacing