“I got to the ranch, I would guess, about two. Is that when I phoned you, Craig?”
“It was closer to three when you called us. But later on, when we talked, you said it took you awhile to realize what was wrong.”
“That’s true.” The fire was roaring and spitting and Sunny moved off the arm of the sofa to a seat farther from the heat. “None of you knew my father, did you?” We all shook our heads. “He was an, um, orderly man. He liked things his way. You did things the way Dad wanted or you did them behind his back and hoped he either didn’t notice or didn’t catch you. Those were your choices with my father. I’ve known all that my whole life. Okay?”
The psychologist in me was hearing Sunny rearranging the cards in her hand so she could find a palatable way to play the grief card for a father for whom she’d had a lot of negative feelings. Everyone nodded but Craig Larsen. I imagined he’d covered this territory already. Or maybe he was as taciturn as he looked.
“One of Dad’s things was that no one ever came to the ranch without him. That was a rule. This was Dad’s personal retreat. Even Fred and I-Frederick’s my little brother-needed an invitation to come here. Mom has still never been here without my father. That’s one of his things. Got it?”
Sam said, “Sure, gotcha.”
“The second thing is that every time I’ve ever been here to visit, the place has been immaculate, clean, neat. That’s another one of Dad’s peculiarities. Order. Cleanliness. At home, in Boulder, Mom gets housekeeping help now. She didn’t used to, even in that big house. But not up here. Dad expected her to keep this place clean all by herself. He once told me that she doesn’t fish, she doesn’t ski, she doesn’t hunt, she doesn’t ride horses, what else does she have to do? That’s my dad.”
She sighed. Her efforts were transparent as she struggled to balance her sorrow and anger with some more enduring feelings about her father, feelings that caused discomfort but not pain, like ill-fitting shoes. “When I arrived here this afternoon, the place was not…tidy. There were crumbs on the kitchen counter, and some spilled liquid that had dried on the floor. There were dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And the trash hadn’t been taken out. I checked his bedroom, upstairs. The bed was made, but it wasn’t made well. Not like my mom makes it. Like Dad insisted Mom make it.
“It all seemed…suspicious to me. Like I said, you would have to know him.” Again, she sighed. “I phoned my mother and told her I’d arrived safely and asked her when she and Dad had last been here. She said they hadn’t been here for weeks. ‘Your father has been traveling,’ is what she said. Then, in as much of a joking voice as I could-I didn’t want to alarm her, she’s been through an awful lot-I asked her if he still made her leave the place looking like a show home when they left. She said he did.”
Sunny was done. She folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs at the ankles.
Craig Larsen said, “When she called us she reported a possible break-in. I responded, listened to her concerns. When I heard about who her father was and what had happened to him in Boulder, I thought I should call you guys in, let you have a look. That’s where we are.”
Sam said, “Thanks for putting the pieces together so quickly and bringing us on board,” before he rotated in his chair and faced Sunny. “And now, what you suspect, what you feel, is that someone else has been here?”
“Yes.”
“Without your father’s permission?”
“He wouldn’t give it. His permission.”
“If your father came up here alone and just didn’t tell your mother, would he have cleaned up after himself?”
A laugh caught in her throat. Sunny found the thought amusing. “No, my father did not clean. He messed.”
“So, it’s possible he came to the ranch and just didn’t inform your mother? The, uh, lack of order you see is because he had no one to clean up after him?”
“I suppose it’s possible. But if he did, it would have been the first time in ten years he didn’t bring someone along to clean up after him.”
“Is there any sign of anyone breaking into the house? Any broken windows, forced locks?”
Deputy Larsen said, “No. No evidence of forced entry.”
“Anything missing?”
Sunny shrugged. “I don’t know the cabin well enough to inventory it. But I think the electronics are all here. I suppose a burglar would have taken those first. Wouldn’t he take those first?”
Sam said, “Frequently, yes, that’s what’s taken first. Are you thinking that if it wasn’t your father who was visiting the ranch without your mother, that it would have been what, squatters, then? Is that it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose that’s a possibility. I thought this was your specialty.”
At that moment, Lucy turned in my direction, away from the conversation. She was trying to stifle a grin.
Sam was on his game. He said, “It is. It is. But sometimes vics, uh, victims, have a wonderful intuitive sense about these things. I always like to hear their point of view before I speculate.”
Lucy covered her mouth to keep from laughing. I kept my nose buried in an article about the advantages of the new breed of diesel generators for class A motorhomes. The author thought it might be wise for me to upgrade now.
Sam said, “Deputy?”
“Craig.”
“Craig. You looked around? What did you find? What do you think?”
“As I said, no evidence of forced entry. House was locked up from outside when Ms. Hasan arrived. Whoever has been here has a key. Disturbances in the routine she described are limited to the kitchen, the playroom-it’s where Mr. Robilio kept his home theater, a pinball machine, a Foosball table, some other stuff-the master bedroom, and the master bath.”
Sunny said, “Oh, I forgot about that. There are used towels hanging in the master bath. No way Dad would permit that. A fresh towel every time for him. ‘If it’s good enough for Hilton, it’s good enough for me,’ is what he used to say. And even if he allowed someone else to use the cabin, there is not a chance in the world that he would permit them to use his bedroom or bathroom. No. Not a chance.”
“Food? Anything atypical in the refrigerator?”
Sunny responded, “There’s no beer.”
“No beer?”
“Dad always kept local beer up here to impress people. Ten kinds sometimes. There’s nothing, not one bottle, not even in the bar refrigerator.”
“Maybe he ran out?”
“Not Dad, he didn’t drink the microbrewery stuff. He’s an old friend of Peter Coors and that’s all Dad drank, Coors Light. Dad’s loyal to those who are loyal to him. Hershey’s friends don’t run out of chocolate. Dad didn’t run out of Coors Light. The other stuff was for guests, for show.”
“Is there a caretaker? Anybody see any traffic up here that didn’t belong?”
The deputy answered. “There’s one old boy who lives on the ranch. Name’s Horace Poster. He takes care of the horses, gets a free cabin. The horses are kept down by the river, near Poster’s cabin. I interviewed him. He can’t see this house from there. Says he didn’t notice anything unusual the past few days. But then, Horace doesn’t strike me as the type who would notice a pimple on his own nose.”
“Tire marks outside?”
“It’s been dry for a while. There are plenty. Now that you’re here, I’d bet that there are even more.”
Sam was scribbling notes. Lucy was examining titles in a tall bookcase. Sunny was trying to mask her disappointment with how things were going with the consultant from the city. And Craig Larsen was acting like every bored cop I’d ever seen.
Without glancing up, Sam asked, “You get many squatter situations in these vacation homes, Deputy?”
“We get a few each year. It’s not a big problem. It’s usually the truly isolated places, the smaller cabins off by themselves in the woods. Somebody camps out a few days. Eats some food, takes a shower. That sort of thing.”