Alpine Hero (26 page)

Vida looked disgruntled, then brightened. “Is that because Trevor got out of prison about then?”

“Trevor was released in May of last year.” Again, Milo showed no emotion. “He’d served ten years of a twenty-year sentence for second-degree homicide. He was convicted in eighty-three, there were appeals, given
the special circumstances of the crime, and he finally was put away in April of ’eighty-four. Trevor was sent to Soledad, which was pretty convenient for Kay and Mrs. Smith. It’s not that far from Pacific Grove.”

As Vida sat next to me looking thoughtful, I posed a question: “Did the neighbors know that Trevor was an ex-con?”

Milo shook his head. “Sam says they didn’t. In fact, they still don’t. Hell, it’s not like he was some sex offender. The guy’s entitled to his privacy.”

I sensed that Milo was working hard to walk the fine line between his job and his concern for Honoria’s family. As Skykomish County’s chief law-enforcement officer, the sheriff not only knew most of the perps and their families, but in one recent case, he’d been related to some of them. Milo, with his natural tunnel vision, had managed to keep justice in his sights while putting kinship aside. He searched for the truth, which he called “facts,” and any side issues were dismissed as irrelevant. But this case was different. To my knowledge, this was the first time that Milo had been sleeping with the enemy.

“How was Mitch Harmon killed?” I asked, my voice unnaturally quiet.

Milo didn’t flinch or otherwise betray any emotion. “He was shot through the head and chest with Trevor’s forty-five automatic. He’d served a hitch in ’Nam. Honoria said that her brother had warned Harmon more than once. After the … accident, Trevor tracked down Harmon and shot him.” At last, Milo made a face, though I presumed it was more in disgust over Mitch Harmon’s abuse than Trevor Whitman’s retaliation. Sometimes it was hard to know who to root for.

“Did Trevor work?” I inquired, increasingly aware of how little I really knew about the Whitman family.

“Sure,” Milo answered, sounding as if he were
giving references for Trevor Whitman. “He repairs air-conditioning equipment for a firm that’s based in Sacramento. He’s been with them since last July. His supervisor has nothing but praise for him.”

“And Kay?” I inquired. “Did she work?”

Milo shifted in his chair. “Yeah, she did, but not recently. Actually, Honoria had mentioned that to me earlier. Kay tutored kids in math. She’d taught at one time, but she got burned out. When Trevor got out of jail, Kay decided to kick back for a while. They wanted to do some traveling, like coming up here. Trevor hadn’t used any sick leave or vacation days since he started work last summer, so he had two weeks coming. He’s due back on the job Monday, but that’s the day of the memorial service.”

Vida had been unnaturally quiet; now she turned her pensive expression on Milo. “A young and reasonably attractive woman—I imagine Kay was attractive, though I never met her—is left alone for ten years. Oh, I assume there were conjugal visits, but still …” She let the sentence trail off as her questioning gaze took in both Milo and me.

While I knew what Vida was suggesting, her train of thought triggered a different idea in my brain. “That’s what we need for the Wednesday edition—a picture of Kay. I never thought to ask Honoria or Trevor for one when we were in Startup.” I trotted out my most winsome look for Milo. “When you talk to Honoria, could you ask her to overnight a photo to us after she gets to Pacific Grove? We’ll reimburse her for the cost.”

Milo lifted only one shoulder this time. “Sure, why not?”

“Get two,” Vida put in. “One with Trevor, or, if possible, a grouping—Kay, Trevor, Honoria, and the mother. Oh! I almost forgot—if Honoria can’t manage it, ask
permission for us to use something from her house in Startup.”

Milo’s subservience faded. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said with an amiable shake of his head. “You two aren’t getting into Honoria’s place. Hell, we haven’t searched it either.”

“You haven’t?” Vida was horrified.

“Why should we?” Milo was still complaisant. “It’s not a crime scene, and for now, none of the people who were at that house are suspects.”

I saw Vida’s jaw tense, and knew what she was thinking. My own thoughts were scattered. Honoria and Trevor had alibis for the crime. Depending on when the murder had actually been committed, they were either at Alpine Medical or with the sheriff himself. As for Mrs. Smith, she had been in Startup. Or so she claimed.

“Let me see that phone list again,” I said. Gluing my eyes on the Monday-afternoon calls, I found only the calls to Toby Popp’s number in Edmonds and the funeral home in Pacific Grove.

“Did Toby and Mrs. Smith connect?” I wondered out loud, then turned to Milo. “If Mrs. Smith can prove she made that call and talked to Toby, neither of them could have been in Alpine, murdering Kay Whitman.”

“I never thought they did,” Milo remarked a trifle grimly. “I’m not checking Toby Popp’s calls. There’s an easier way—asking Mrs. Smith if she talked to him Monday afternoon. That establishes alibis for both her and Popp. I’d like to erase that software guy from the picture.”

“In more ways than one,” Vida murmured.

Milo heard the comment and glared. “This isn’t a love triangle,” he growled. “Listen up, if Toby Popp’s name is dragged into this homicide investigation, the media will be all over Alpine. Maybe he mailed a dead cat to his ex-wife—that’s
not my problem. Jane Marshall hasn’t filed any complaints, she didn’t even open the damned box. But tie this rich bird into a murder, and we’ve all got more than we bargained for. You read me?” The hazel eyes glinted as Milo stared first at Vida, and then at me.

Vida seemed to take the rebuke in stride. “Oh, very well, have it your way.” Getting to her feet, she offered the sheriff a frosty smile. “I do hope you’re being more aggressive about Becca. You’ve checked up on Eric Forbes, of course.”

Milo finally lowered his gaze. “Yeah, right. KingCo can’t locate him. Nobody’s seen him since yesterday.”

Vida sniffed. “Nobody in King County has seen him, you mean. I suspect he’s been sighted in Skykomish County, though.” My House & Home editor started for the door. “Let’s hope,” she added with a glance over her shoulder, “it wasn’t by Becca. Good night, Milo. Come along, Emma. I must put Cupcake to bed.”

Saturday dawned predictably gray and wet. I tried to think of a good reason to crawl out of bed, and thought of my son. I still hadn’t talked with Adam since our gloomy conversation earlier in the week. After a shower and a cup of coffee I dialed Tempe.

Adam didn’t answer. It was an hour later in Arizona, not quite ten o’clock. On a whim, I called my brother at the Tuba City rectory in the northern part of the state. Ben’s crackling voice came through on the second ring.

“Hey, Sluggly,” he said, greeting me with my childhood nickname, “what’s happening? I haven’t talked to you since I got those gruesome pictures. I figured you were going to surprise me and take a midwinter break. It’s sunny and sixty-five on the reservation. How about a visit?”

Why not?
The thought lodged in my brain with
unexpected excitement. I didn’t give a hoot about the sunshine, but I cared deeply for my brother. A side trip to Adam in Tempe was immensely appealing. To hell with debt and bank balances and deadlines and homicides and screwy wives who shackled their husbands to the bedpost.

“Early March,” I said, breathless. “I’ll take a four-day weekend. Are you sure you want me to come?”

“Hell, yes,” my brother replied, as thrilled as I was. “Really? I’ll make tacos. No, I’ll buy tacos. Shit, I’ll treat you to tacos at the Tuba City Truck Stop Café. They’re the best. How come you finally decided to head for the great Southwest?”

“Oh,” I replied, trying to sound casual, “maybe because two of my favorite fellas live there. Have you talked to Adam lately?”

Ben’s voice dropped a notch. “Yeah, last night. He’s going through A Crisis, capital
A
, capital
C.
The kid’s serious about this social-work thing, Sluggly. It’s not just a whim. Honest.”

“Stench …” The familiar retaliation was borne on a sigh. “You don’t know Adam like I do. Everything is A Crisis with capital letters. Maybe I’ve spoiled him. He’ll work his way out of it, though. He always does.”

“Well …” Ben’s chuckle was almost a choking noise. “Adam’s old enough to make some serious decisions about his future. I’ve had a chance to watch him work with people, and he’s good. He cares. He listens. Oh, he’s still too young to realize that you can’t rush into solutions, or to accept the fact that sometimes there aren’t any solutions. But that’s okay. Whatever he does, it ought to involve people.”

“He’s likable,” I allowed. “I can’t see him in sales. Or teaching. He sure wouldn’t want to go through medical school. Human resources, maybe.”

“Maybe.” My brother didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Look, we can talk about it when you get here. But let Adam have his say. Better yet, maybe you’ll be able to see him in action on the reservation. He’s learned some Navajo.”

“He has?” I was surprised. Adam had struggled mightily with high-school Spanish, having neither an aptitude nor a liking for foreign languages.

“He’s read a lot about their culture,” Ben continued in a serious voice. “In fact, he’s immersed himself in Native-American lore. That started when he worked on the Anasazi dig two years ago.”

Adam, with a book. Adam, studying a language. Adam, listening to people whose problems were not his own. I was beginning to feel as if I didn’t know my own son.

“You’re biased,” I said, irritated. My brother had invaded my maternal turf. “Adam’s grades are strictly average. That’s not because he’s stupid—he’s not—but because he’s lazy. As far as I can tell, college—all three of them—has been one big kegger and dozens of girls.”

Ben chuckled again, a more natural sound this time. “You’re right—up to a point. But I’ve seen Adam change in the last year. He’s growing up, Sluggly. He’s discovered that the world doesn’t stop at the end of his arms.”

My child was becoming a man, and I wasn’t aboard for the journey. Adam hadn’t spent much of the previous two summers with me. He’d been with Ben, in Tuba City. Thanksgiving and Christmas always were so busy, so rushed. Maybe I’d treated him like a houseguest, instead of a son. A sense of loss swept over me, as if the rain had come indoors.

I didn’t expect Ben to understand. He was childless, yet he seemed to know Adam better than I did. For twenty years I’d been unwilling to share my son with his
father. Now, it seemed, I’d given him up to his uncle by default.

“I’m a crappy mother,” I blurted. “It looks as if I’m the one who hasn’t been listening.”

“Stick it, Sluggly,” Ben said cheerfully. “Adam is always going to sound like a kid to you. Even when you’re about ninety and eating soup with your hands, he’ll still be immature. I may not have children, but I’ve watched them interact with their parents. Mississippi, Arizona, wherever—it’s a cross-cultural thing. It’s called generations.”

I tried to take comfort from Ben’s words. But I still felt a void deep inside. “I’ll see for myself,” I mumbled. “Two weeks. I’ll call Sky Travel right away.”

“I’ll order the tacos,” Ben said. “Does Adam know you’re coming?”

“Ah … no.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d made my decision so impulsively. “I tried to call him a couple of times, but he wasn’t in. I’ll try again later today.”

“You’re a lousy liar. Don’t bother to confess it. Lame efforts like that don’t count.” Ben now laughed heartily, though his good humor wasn’t entirely for my sake: “Veronica Whitegoose is here to arrange her grandson’s baptism. I’ll talk to you later when you know your arrival time. Chin up, Sluggly. You may not be smart, but you sure are dumb.”

Usually, Ben lifted my spirits. But upon hanging up, I felt depressed. Instead of phoning Sky Travel, I decided to get dressed and drive downtown.

Janet Driggers was on duty, apparently having just opened the office at ten. A steaming cup of coffee sat on her desk as she listened to the accumulation of messages on Sky Travel’s answering machine.

“Just a sec, Emma,” she murmured, signaling for me to sit down.

I sat while Janet scribbled some notes. Her piquant features grew bored as Leonard Hollenberg droned on about his proposed trip to Hawaii. As one of our three county commissioners, Leonard was definitely a blabber-mouth. I considered going across the street to the Upper Crust to fetch some coffee and maybe a sweet roll, but the call finally ended.

“One more,” Janet said, holding up an index finger as the next voice played over the tape. It was female, vaguely familiar, and when Becca Wolfe called herself Mrs. Eric Forbes, I jumped in my chair. Janet turned pale and stared at me with startled green eyes.

“… to go to Cabo San Lucas. I’ve got some coupons from when I worked at the airline in Seattle.…” Becca sounded perfectly normal, allowing for the usual answering-machine distortion. “We’d like to leave a week from today, if Stella will give me the time off. Call me tomorrow at my home phone. The number is …”

“
J
ESUS
!” J
ANET BREATHED
after the message had played out. “I thought Becca was missing in action! It sounds like she’s going on a second honeymoon!”

I was literally on the edge of my seat. “Where did she call from? When? Try her home number. I’ll wait.”

Janet dialed, a frantic series of motions. Then the travel agent spoke in an anxious voice. As usual, Janet Driggers didn’t worry about tact: “Becca, you idiot, where the hell have you been? You’ve had the whole town worried sick! We thought you were dead!”

I gave another start as I heard Becca’s voice; Janet had turned on the speakerphone. “I’m not.” There was a faint giggle. “I feel totally stupid, but … well, Eric and I reconciled. He’s changed. Really, he has. That’s why we want to go to Cabo. We can get married again there.”

“Jesus.” Janet’s voice dropped this time as she shook her head in disbelief. “Listen, Becca, if you think any man can … oh, fuck it, you spent the night in the sack, right? Where were you—some motel on Highway 2?”