Walter said, “We have fresh Kona.”
I’ve known them to spend an hour spatting about who should have made dinner reservations, or whose work was more crucial. They’ve danced this dance for over twenty years, spatting like an old married couple although they never got around to marrying. They’d give each other anything — their lives if necessary — but they wouldn’t give an inch without making a point.
I relaxed an inch, at the sheer normality of it.
Walter took the bag and went to the workbench we used as a kitchen. We have, on Fridays, a supply of donuts, which Lindsay doesn’t touch and I try mightily to avoid. Since Walter and I were on the mountain yesterday, we have Friday’s leftovers today. We always have coffee. Walter dumped out the Kona in the carafe — a good two cups worth — and ground Lindsay’s beans.
Lindsay came to me. “Working hard?”
I went for the light tone. “Always something.”
“If you’d gone into volcanology, it would be something finer.”
She gave me a hug and I smelled perfume in the fine merino wool of her poncho. She’d given me a sweeter version of that scent for my twelfth birthday. That, and a gas mask for a tour of her volcano sampling fumarole emissions. And so it began, Lindsay grooming me as an acolyte. I’d met her via Walter. I’d met Walter the previous year, taking refuge in his lab when my brother Henry stubbed his toe on a rock and was rushed to the hospital. I came back to the lab again and again. Walter taught me how rocks could be used to solve crimes and offered me an after-school job doing scutwork, and that was that. I acquired a new, and mixed vocabulary: fumarole, lightscope, tiltmeter, exemplar. I showed off at home. My father joked that I’d acquired a smarter set of parents. He missed the mark. Even before Henry’s death, my cartoonist parents drew themselves into a closed circle. Walter’s and Lindsay’s lives also revolved around their work, but the difference was that they drew me in.
Lindsay pulled up a stool, blew a patch of my workbench clean, and rested her arm. “Walter says you two need a consult about Georgia.”
I shifted back to uneasy. Lindsay had detested Georgia. I said, “Yeah.”
“This note of hers…. No way out. Very dramatic.”
I took a moment. So Walter had told Lindsay about the note. We’d all agreed on the ice to keep it quiet. But, then, since he’d asked for a consult, I supposed it made sense to tell her everything.
“And why,” Lindsay asked, “do you think this note involves my volcano?”
“Because she said she found something. Because she’d picked up volcanic soil, likely where she died. Because your volcano is a hot topic.”
Lindsay shrugged, acknowledging the truth of that. “Very well, where did she pick up this soil?”
“We don’t yet know.”
“Then give me one of your wild-ass guesses.”
I preferred to call them onageristic estimates; an onager is a wild ass. I said, “Wouldn’t be useful.” At this point.
Walter set a mug of coffee on the workbench in front of Lindsay. He’d siphoned off the first of the brew for her.
“Thank you, honey.” She waited until he’d scooted his stool over to my bench, to join us. She said, “If you don’t know where Georgia died, I don’t see how I can tell you anything about what she may or may not have found.”
“What might you find,” Walter asked, “that would be a new threat?”
“Good heavens, I’ve been trying to teach you two volcanology for decades, and now you want to listen?” She sampled her coffee. “I can tell you this. I keep a close eye on my volcano. Anything Georgia might think she found would be as useless as tits on a boar.”
Walter’s eyebrows lifted.
I smiled. “Just give us a wild-ass guess.”
“Wouldn’t be useful.” She raised her mug to me. “But touche.”
“Here’s the thing, Lindsay,” I said. “Georgia found out something that spooked her so much she damn near ruined a page of her Weight Watcher’s notebook writing it down. And yeah, it could have been some personal trouble, but…”
“But?” Lindsay has a fine aristocratic face and it always shows composure.
“But what if it was something bigger? What if somebody killed her to keep it quiet?”
“How did she die?”
Walter answered. “A blow to the head is the probable cause.”
“That’s not how I would kill her.” Lindsay drummed her fingers on the workbench, her rings popping up like knuckles. “I’d use a gun.”
“Lindsay.”
“I’m thinking ‘means’ Walter. Is this not the way you two talk about a case? This is your territory, not mine.”
I cut in. “We usually say ‘weapon,’ until we know otherwise. We usually say ‘perp.’ As in, maybe the perp came upon her and…saw whatever she found, learned whatever she knew…and the perp was surprised, and used what was at hand. An as-yet unidentified weapon. Or maybe there was a fight.”
“Weapon. Perp.” Lindsay bowed her head, appearing to gauge the depths of her coffee. “Yes, I see that’s preferable.”
I thought, this really is too weird, Lindsay consulting on Georgia’s death. The two of them had dueled for years, the volcanologist issuing warnings and the mayor playing down the threat. And then, when the volcano got truly serious and Georgia called in the feds, FEMA sent us Adrian Krom. That set off Lindsay. She had a history with Krom and argued against his appointment, to no avail. So, weirdly, Lindsay’s new allies in volcano response were her longtime enemies. They made an odd team, if team was the right word. In any case, Adrian Krom and Georgia Simonies and Lindsay Nash were the three people in charge of keeping us all safe. One of them was dead now. I thought of Adrian Krom in Red’s Meadow yesterday, bowing his head upon learning it was Georgia we’d recovered from the ice. And so now there were two people left alive in charge of keeping us safe. Two people who detested each other.
Walter said, mild, “If you’ll speculate on the means of death, Lindsay, might you not speculate on what Georgia could have found?”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of help.” Lindsay abruptly produced her purse, took two twenty-dollar bills, and placed them on my workbench. “On the other hand, I’d be happy to contribute to the cause.”
I stared.
“Bill Bone’s birthday.” She glanced out the window at the Ski Tip Cafe across the street. Then back at me. “You are the one collecting?”
I nodded.
“I’m thinking,” she said, “a jacket. Raw silk. Cream, or tan, yellow undertone. Depending on how much you’ve collected, we can accesorize from there.”
Walter snorted. “Let him put the money toward that remodel he talks about.”
My stomach tightened. That implied we’d all be here long enough for Bill to remodel the Ski Tip.
Lindsay stood. “My dears, if there’s nothing further?” She took her coffee mug to the sink, running the water until it steamed.
Walter frowned. “You’re going?”
I watched her. Washing her mug just like she always does because she hates to have anyone clean up after her. As if this visit had gone just like always. But it hadn’t. Lindsay thinks geology is volcanology and here she was talking forensics with us. Or not talking. Talking birthdays. She’d been evasive. Evasive as, I suddenly thought, Eric and Stobie had been on the mountain. I fiercely wanted this Saturday in the lab to turn normal. I wanted Lindsay to pour a second cup and stay. Send out for pizza for lunch. Pat Walter’s butt when she thinks I’m not looking. Normalize the situation.