Tahoe Ice Grave, Page 2

  Later, when our picnic was over, Street kissed me goodbye and left. I picked up the Calder mobile from the kitchen counter and set it on the shelf next to Rodin’s Eternal Spring, a copy of the original bronze. Street had given me the work a couple of years earlier. It was a realistic sculpture of a young nude couple reaching to embrace each other. The woman was kneeling, her head and body arched backward. The man sat slightly above her, leaning toward her, about to take her in his arms.

  When Street first presented me with such a lavish and expensive gift, I’d been profoundly appreciative of the thought behind it, yet inside I was judgmental about what I thought was a clichéd rendition of two perfect young bodies. But in time, I’d grown very attached to the emotion that permeated the work. My earlier reaction to the Rodin, private as it was, embarrassed me now.

  The Calder swayed and danced next to the quiet, powerful Rodin bronze. They seemed like antipodes. The Calder was all about movement and harmony and balance. The Rodin was all about emotion and passion.

  Balance and passion. A yin and yang of art.

  Spot and I got in the new used Jeep I’d gotten to replace the one that burned in last fall’s forest fire blowup. It was essentially a duplicate of the other one except for its green color. The better to blend into the forest when someone decides to shoot at me, I’d thought when I wrote out the check.

  I dialed Captain Mallory of the South Lake Tahoe Police on my cell as I drove. I got his voice mail. So I tried the Douglas County Sheriff’s number and asked to be put through to Diamond.

  “Deputy Martinez,” he answered. Judging from the background sounds he was driving in heavy traffic.

  “What’s happening to Douglas County?” I said, visualizing the beautiful valley down below the mountains east of Tahoe. “All that noise in the background sounds like the L.A. freeway.”

  “Our bucolic little hamlet is emulating the big city,” Diamond said, his Mexican accent very faint.

  “Both bucolic and emulating in the same sentence?”

  “I could throw in homogenization. Golden arches, Taco Bells.”

  “Is that on the citizenship exam?”

  “Should be,” Diamond said.

  “The murder off Rubicon Point,” I said. “You put the victim’s mother on to me and I’m on my way out to see her. How familiar are you with the crime?”

  “A little. Word gets around, something like that happens.”

  “I thought if you knew anything, you could fill me in.”

  “Not much to say,” Diamond said. A truck horn blasted in the background. Diamond didn’t speak until it quieted down. “Man was shot in the head while swimming. No murder weapon found. No shell casings. No slugs.”

  “Awful cold water to go swimming in this time of year,” I said.

  “Si. The medical examiner said the victim would have died of hypothermia in a couple minutes even if he hadn’t been shot.”

  “Any chance you saw the suicide note?”

  “A copy. Not much there. I expect the victim’s mother will show you.”

  “How’d that come about?” I asked.

  “What? A Nevada sheriff’s deputy being consulted in a California homicide? They found a little totem thing floating in the water. Mallory wanted me to come around just in case I could shed some light on it.”

  “What’s a totem thing?”

  “I don’t know what to call it. Gringo like you would probably call it a talisman or mojo or something. It’s a little figure carved of wood, two inches tall. Big head, no arms, three legs. Painted shiny blue except for two red eyes. Big red circles with black dots for centers. Creepy looking.”

  “Three legs?”

  “Yeah. Or maybe two legs and a tail. Or a big-time phallus. Who knows?”

  “It was floating in the water?”

  “A couple yards from the body from what Mallory said. The waves were throwing it and the body against the rocks.”

  “Why you?”

  “That’s what I said. Mallory has been hearing something on the streets about a black wind. Some kind of Native American spirit going around one of the local gangs.”

  “Black wind means...?”

  “I have no idea,” Diamond said. “But Mallory used it like it was some seriously bad shit.”

  “There’s a Native American gang in South Lake Tahoe?”

  “No, no. There’s barely any Indians in Tahoe at all. He thinks it’s a Latino gang.”

  “So he called you because you’re a Mex?”

  “Partly,” Diamond said. “And partly because the totem thing looks Native American and the only significant numbers of Native Americans near Tahoe are in my territory. Douglas County.”

  “The Washoe who live down in the Carson Valley,” I said.

  “Right. Mallory wanted me to show the totem around Minden and Gardnerville, see what I could find out.”

  “And shake your Latino finger at the gang kiddies while you’re at it?”

  “Something like that. Besides, I got mestizo ancestry.”

  “Then you should know all about black wind and spirit stuff,” I said.

  “I know about busting your ass in the fields. Not a lot of spirits help you pick lettuce.”

  “What did you find out when you showed the totem around?”

  “Nothing. Talked to some Washoe elders, but they’d never seen the totem. I asked about a black wind and they just shook their heads like I was some no-brain white guy. Imagine that.”

  “You gonna show it to the Latino gang kids?”

  “Sure. I’ll let you know.”

  I thanked Diamond and hung up.

  THREE

  Spot and I drove across South Lake Tahoe. The traffic was heavy with tourists up from Sacramento and the Bay Area and, for that matter, in from all over the world to play in the snow. Tahoe has a higher concentration of ski resorts in a small area than any place outside of the Alps, thus the traffic in the middle of January. Skiers and boarders were streaming back into town from the dozen-plus resorts around the lake. There was still a five-foot tall snow berm in the center lane left by the plows after the last storm. It hadn’t yet been trucked away and the lack of openings and turn lanes had a thousand vacationers frustrated as they tried to get back to their condos and hot tubs.

  I eventually got to the “Y” intersection at the far end of South Lake Tahoe, turned north on 89 and headed out toward Emerald Bay. Spring Creek Road winds into a forested neighborhood below 9700-foot Mt. Tallac, the most distinctive mountain on Lake Tahoe.

  The west side of the Tahoe Basin lies just under the Sierra crest and as a result gets three times as much snow as the eastern sunbelt side where I live. The snow along Spring Creek Road was so deep that no ordinary snowplow could push it clear. So they’d brought in the giant rotary plows, strange-looking snowblowers with rotating blades six feet high and eight feet wide. They roar like 737s at takeoff as they chew up the snow and shoot it a hundred feet into the forest. The cuts they’d made into the snow left the roads with vertical walls taller than my Jeep. Navigating the walled neighborhood was difficult with most of the street signs buried.

  I eventually found Cornice Road twenty minutes before the appointed time, and as I drove around its twisting curves I could see how it got its name. It had a grand view of the cornice of snow that grew off of one of Mt. Tallac’s cliffs.

  At the end of Cornice Road stood two houses, one with a steep roof and a dramatic prow front of glass. The other was a Frank Lloyd Wright imitation with a flat roof and cantilevered decks that looked out of place in Tahoe. While the snow had mostly slid off the house with the steep roof, it was piled so high on the flat surfaces of the Wright look-alike that I wondered if the structure was strong enough to hold up under the heavy load.

  As if in answer to my question, I saw movement on its roof. A man was shoveling snow. He chucked small scoops of the white stuff over the edge and into the air. Against the mounds of snow he confronted on the various roofs, the job looked li
ke the equivalent of clearing the Echo Summit highway with a nine-horse snowblower. To top it off, he had a crutch propped under one shoulder as he worked.

  I stopped next to a snow bank that loomed above the Jeep, got out and walked toward his house.

  “Excuse me,” I called out. “I’m looking for Mrs. Kahale. She said she was the middle of three houses.” I gestured in question at the two houses before me. “Am I in the wrong place?”

  The man stopped shoveling, held up a finger as if to say ‘give me one minute,’ and, leaning on his crutch, made his way across the roof onto an adjacent deck and down wide stairs that had already been cleared of snow. As he drew close I could see that he was younger than me, in his middle thirties. His left leg was cocked at an angle, the foot held six inches above the ground. He sported a tightly-trimmed moustache and black hair that was thick and short enough it would make a good scrub brush.

  “May I ask your name?” he said in a British accent that had a hint of Cockney flavoring.

  “Owen McKenna. I have a four o’clock appointment with Mrs. Kahale.” At six-six, I was a good eight inches taller than he was, and he raised a hand to shade his eyes as he looked up at me.

  “That’s what the last man said and it turned out he was just another reporter lying through his bloody teeth.” His dark brown eyes were narrowed by suspicion.

  I handed him one of my McKenna Investigations cards. “She wants to talk to me about her son’s death. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  The man glanced at my card, then seemed to burn through me with his intense stare. He pulled a yellow cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory. “Hi, Phillip, it’s Jerry,” he said into the phone. “Is your grandmother there? May I speak to her?” After a moment, he continued. “Hello, Janeen. I’ve a fellow here who claims to have an appointment with you.” He looked again at my card. “His name is Owen McKenna. Oh, he’s okay? Right away, then. I’ll send him up.” He folded his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. “Seems you’re expected,” his expression softening. “Can’t be too careful, you know. Dreadful business with her son. As if dealing with the loss isn’t enough, the poor woman has been besieged by the coppers and reporters and those sicko onlookers who seem to come off the moor whenever anything ghastly happens. Sorry to put you through the inquisition. But neighbors must watch out for one another.” He pointed at the house with the prow front. “The Weintraubs are only here during holiday, so that leaves it to me. At least when I’m around, that is.” He hobbled a step forward and held out his hand. “Name’s Jerome Roth.”

  We shook.

  “Janeen and I share the first part of our driveways. Just past that large Jeffrey pine, hers splits off from mine. Do you see where the land rises up to the right? Her house is up there in the trees.”

  Looking where he pointed, I could see where the other drive was hidden between giant berms of snow.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Great Dane, eh?” he said, pointing at Spot who, despite the cool winter weather, was hanging his head out the rear window and panting, his monstrous tongue flapping with each breath.

  “Yes. Name’s Spot.”

  “Reminds me of a time I was on a wild boar hunt on an island in the Marquesas chain. This chap from South Africa kept going on about Great Danes. Apparently, they were originally bred to hunt wild boar in Germany in the middle ages. Long legs, big strong neck and all that. They would chase down the boar and hold it from above so that the squirmy devil couldn’t get at the dogs with those big boar teeth. The Danes would keep holding the boar until the hunters could get there and club it to death. Charming, eh? But I suppose you know all that. Anyway, there we were, on this little jungle island in the middle of the South Pacific, and every time we’d glimpse a boar this Afrikaaner would start jabbering about how if only we had a Great Dane we could send it after the bloody boar. I guess he’d rather go back to the lodge and sip gin and tonics instead of being stuck out in the jungle slapping mosquitoes. I’ll never forget that week, let me tell you. Still think of it every time I see a Great Dane.”

  Jerome Roth gestured with his crutch toward Spot. “Awfully big fellow. Friendly, is he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Anything for a pet.”

  Jerome took a step forward and held out his hand. Spot did the requisite sniffing and then turned his head in happy bliss as Jerome scratched behind his ears. “Well,” Jerome said, looking at his watch. “Janeen will be looking for you. Don’t want to cause you to be late.”

  “Thanks, Jerome,” I said as I turned toward the Jeep.

  “Call me Jerry,” he said. “And let me know if I can do anything for Janeen and Phillip. When I’m in Tahoe, I’m around the house most of the time. I like to be helpful.”

  It was still a couple of minutes before my appointment. “What kind of business are you in, Jerry?” I asked.

  “Was. Maritime financial services. Mostly, I’m retired. But I try to stay busy.”

  “Been in Tahoe long?”

  “Let’s see, coming up on two years. I’ve skied here a few times in the past. That’s before I tore out my ankle playing polo.” He looked with disgust down at his bad leg. “Anyway, I always thought Tahoe would make a beautiful home base. Odd, really, considering I think of myself as an ocean man. But then again, I suppose that’s the appeal of Tahoe. The land is so evident here. Everywhere you look, you see mountains. So much the opposite of the ocean, don’t you think? Opposites attract, as they say.”

  “You are a yachtsman.”

  “Of late, yes. I keep a boat down in Long Beach.”

  “What’s involved in maritime financial services?”

  Jerry Roth gave a sheepish smile. “Ah, yes, anything for money. That’s really just fancy talk for selling sailboat timeshares to the English middle class. You know. Chaps from my background who dream of the life of Greek shipping tycoons. I discovered that if you show them a picture of a beautiful boat with girls in bikinis on the afterdeck and Cypress on the horizon, they’ll sign anything. After a few years of that, I’ve been able to sample the good life myself. Anyway, sorry if I’ve talked your ear off, old man. Good to meet you. Please be kind to Janeen. Phillip, too. He’s shy, but he’s special. Cheers.” He turned and hobbled on his crutch back toward his snow-covered roofs.

  FOUR

  I followed Janeen Kahale’s driveway up a rise, through a thicket of Lodgepole pine to a small and rundown clapboard cabin. Next to the cabin was an old carport that appeared to list under the massive weight of snow on the roof. The car inside was an early '80s Olds with a peeling vinyl roof.

  I walked up a narrow path with snow piled so high on either side that the walkway felt like a tunnel. The door opened as I approached. A small, pleasant-looking woman in her late fifties stepped out so tentatively it was as if she were afraid the front step would burn her feet. The worry on her face was intense.

  “Mrs. Kahale? I’m Owen McKenna.”

  “Thank you for coming.” She gave me a nervous handshake. Her hand had the thickening of arthritis and her skin, though soft, showed the wear of decades of physical labor.

  “Please come in,” she said. She had a round face and looked as if she had Native American ancestry. Her skin was a mix of reddish sienna and olive umber tones. Thick black hair with a few strands of gray swept back into a long, heavy ponytail. The lines on her face were few but deep. Her eyes were as black and moist as a seal’s. Under her eyes were dark smudges.

  She led me through a doorway so short I had to duck my head. We entered a simple room with a low ceiling that made me feel taller than I am. The ceiling and walls were knotty pine and the floor was plain fir planks worn into a relief that left the harder grain raised above the softer. Thick, handwoven rugs in reds and oranges made the room cozy and warm.

  Janeen Kahale gestured toward the couch. I took a seat. She sat on the only other seat in the room, a bench in front of a large floor loom. She gave me a weak smile, started to speak an
d then stopped as if gathering her thoughts to rephrase what she was about to say. I looked around to give her time.

  The worn-out couch was draped with woven blankets. Like the rugs, the blankets were heavy with a dramatic weave in a harmonious blend of reds and browns and triangles of yellow. On the arms of the couch were beautiful lap blankets. The designs were reminiscent of Navajo but more serene. A gentle aroma of cinnamon came from a pot of potpourri on a wood stove.

  Stacked in piles on one end of the couch were a dozen or more handwoven baskets. I recognized the designs as those of the Washoe Indians, a small group of Native Americans who summered in Tahoe and wintered in the Carson Valley for centuries before Fremont claimed to discover Tahoe and heralded the arrival of white men. The baskets represented a unique and spectacular art that was being lost forever to the pull of the modern world. In just one more generation, it was likely that no one would know the special techniques that made the baskets so beautiful that museums collected them and yet so tough and practical that they held water like ceramic bowls.

  “Your weaving and basketry are wonderful,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mr. McKenna. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No thanks. I’ve already had too much. I’m very sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Kahale.”

  “Please call me Janeen.”

  “Owen is good for me as well.”

  After a long moment she spoke. “I’d like you to look into my son’s death.” The tiniest modulation in her voice belied her effort to stay calm.

  “I understand he was found in the lake,” I said.

  “Yes. The coroner’s report said he was in the water at the time of his death.”

  “Yet he left a suicide note,” I said.

  “Yes.” She looked down. Although her eyes were moist, there were no tears. The silence that followed was significant though not uncomfortable. I had the sense that while Janeen Kahale was a taciturn woman, she was not shy. It wasn’t discomfort that kept her quiet, but reserve. She would speak when ready.