What happened next was incredibly gratifying. Shelley ended up pleading not guilty to one charge of murder in the first degree in the death of Chris Danielson and one charge of attempted murder and another of elder abuse against Roger Adams. She also pled not guilty to fifteen counts each of fraud and theft based on her shoddy real-estate dealings. Despite her not-guilty pleas, the prosecutors thought they had a good case. Their request to try both cases together was granted. Not only that, claiming Shelley was a flight risk, they also asked for and were granted no bail, meaning Shelley would remain in custody while awaiting trial. All I can say to that is bravo!
Roger was still in recovery mode—physically at least. Mentally he was still lost in the woods, and his confusion persisted. Despite being told that Shelley was in jail, he kept asking for her and wondering why she didn’t come to the hospital to see him. I suspected the poor man would be living with a certain amount of mental impairment for the remainder of his life. Fortunately for him he now had Nitz to watch over him.
Speaking of Nitz, while trying to get a handle on Roger’s financial situation she’d gone through the desk in his home office, where she discovered a hidden compartment containing a handwritten revised, signed, and properly witnessed will. It was dated the same day as the change of beneficiary on his life-insurance policy. It specified that any properties not held in common with Shelley were to go directly to Danitza. Shelley must have somehow gotten wind of that arrangement and launched her scheme to liquidate as much of Roger’s solely owned real estate as possible. Fortunately, there was still a good deal of it that she hadn’t managed to unload.
On Tuesday night Jared, Danitza, Jimmy, and I had a farewell dinner together at Zig’s Place. The evening special was beef Stroganoff. The food was delicious, and the company was even better. On Wednesday morning, as I packed to leave town, I was tempted to abandon the boots in my room at the Driftwood Inn, but in the end I wore those home and packed the shoes I’d brought with me.
After that I drove from Homer to the airport in Anchorage, where I dropped off my rental, cleared security, and arrived at my gate in plenty of time. My flight left at eleven thirty. I had booked a first-class ticket, meaning I qualified for lunch, but as soon as that was over, I wrapped myself in a blanket and went nighty-night. I’d been in Alaska for a solid week, from Wednesday to Wednesday, but it felt like forever. Although I could give myself credit for a job well done, I knew that the case had taken a lot out of me. I was tired. I wanted my wife, my dog, and my very own bed, but most of all I wanted to be rid of those damned boots.
As we neared SeaTac and broke through the low-hanging cloud cover, it was raining like crazy—no surprise there—but I was relieved to see that the Pineapple Express churning in off the Pacific had done its work, as there was no snow on the ground. Sure there was visible snow in the Olympics and the Cascades, but not in the lowlands. It would be months yet before what Harriet Raines called the “big breakup” happened in Alaska. In western Washington it looked as though it was well under way in mid-December.
Once on I-5 headed north and expecting Mel to be at work, I punched her office number into my phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “I’m currently out of the office,” Mel’s cheerful recorded voice told me. “If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise leave your number and a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Obviously she hadn’t forwarded calls to her cell as she usually does, which meant she probably wasn’t answering that either.
I admit to being a little annoyed. I hadn’t called earlier because I hadn’t wanted to interrupt her at work. A lot of good that did me. I made the rest of the drive in silence, without even bothering to turn on the radio. By the time I opened the garage door, I was a long way down the road to being Mr. Grumbly Bear.
But then a miracle happened. Mel’s Interceptor was already parked in her spot. She hadn’t answered the phone in her office because she was already home! When I pushed open the door, two things happened, one after the other. First my nostrils were assailed by the peppery aromas of fresh Thai takeout. At Mel’s and my house, that qualifies as home cooking.
For a brief moment after that, I caught a glimpse of Mel standing at the far end of the entry hallway. An instant later my view of her was completely obliterated when a mass of galloping gray fur launched itself in my direction. As Sarah’s wet nose touched mine, her front paws landed square on my shoulders and almost knocked me over.
Coming from the garage, I had planned to announce my arrival with that old Desi Arnaz line, “Honey, I’m home.” Thanks to Sarah I never had a chance. Mel and I were both laughing too hard.
Once the doggy greeting subsided, I dropped my luggage and gathered Mel into my arms. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Better,” she said, “but I gave myself an excused absence from the planning meeting I was supposed to attend tonight. I figured we both needed some time to debrief.”
“You’re right about that,” I said.
And that’s exactly what we did. We had a quiet dinner, then we talked, and then we went to bed. I can tell you for sure it was wonderful to be home.
Chapter 40
It seemed like only a matter of minutes from the time I got home until it was Christmas Day, and we had a blast. Contrast is everything, but the brightness of the holiday compared with the darkness of what had happened in Alaska made everything seem extraordinarily special. Kelly and Jeremy weren’t there, of course, because that year they were spending the holidays with his folks. But even with the Ashland, Oregon, contingent of the family missing, we all had a glorious time.
First thing in the morning, we used modern technology and FaceTimed while Athena, grandchild number four, opened her gifts in the presence of her other grandfather, Alan Dale, in Jasper, Texas. Next up we watched grandkids numbers one and two, Kayla and Kyle, open their gifts under Jeremy’s folks’ Christmas tree in California. Grandchild number three, Jon Jon, not yet one, was the only grand personally in attendance. By the way, as soon as Scotty and Cherisse announced they’d be naming their baby after his two grandfathers—me, Jonas, and Cherisse’s dad, Pierre—I was worried that being called Jonas Pierre would destine the poor kid to the same kind of name-challenge misery I’d endured growing up. I’m eternally grateful that he’s now known as Jon Jon.