Alpine Hero (7 page)

Leo was at his desk, working on the computer. He looked up in surprise. “Hey—what’s up?” Leo asked around the cigarette he held between his lips.

“Investigative reporting,” Vida replied tersely. “My, but you’re diligent.”

Leo ignored the sarcasm in Vida’s voice. “I have to be. At the last minute Platters in the Sky decided to hold a post-Valentine’s Day sale. They took inventory over the weekend and came up with a bunch of old tapes they couldn’t unload.”

I’d forgotten that Tuesday was St. Valentine’s Day. We’d run a special insert the previous week featuring ads with the usual hearts, cupids, and amorous lovers. Vida had written a feature on local couples who had been married for over fifty years. Carla had put together a photo story on newlyweds. I’d coaxed Father Dennis Kelly, my pastor at St. Mildred’s, to write a piece on the real St. Valentine, or both of them, since historical data indicated there were two saints with the same name.

“We’re going to dinner,” I informed Leo. “Want to join us?”

Leo shook his head. “Thanks, but I was in the middle of my Cordon Bleu cheese sandwich when they called from Platters. I’ll take a rain check, okay?”

“Sure.” I started for the door. Vida was already there.

“Hey,” Leo called. “Some guy came in about ten minutes ago with a personal ad. He seemed a little weird.
You might want to check him out when he comes back tomorrow. I’m not sure Carla can tell the difference between normal and otherwise.”

I was puzzled as to why Leo hadn’t taken the ad himself. While Ginny handled all our classifieds, Leo was, after all, our ad manager. “What’s he coming back for?” I inquired.

“I couldn’t find the forms in Ginny’s desk. Carla’s moved everything. Ginny will be pissed.” Leo put his cigarette out and shifted his concentration to the computer screen.

I was still curious. “Was his personals ad kinky?”

Glancing up, Leo almost managed to conceal his impatience.
“Personal
ad, not
personals
ad.” The distinction was made between the standard classifieds and our special matchmaking section inaugurated by Ginny the previous spring.

“What was it?” I pressed. “ ‘Thank you, St. Jude’?”

“No.” Leo was again eyeing his computer graphics. “That was part of the weirdness. The message was, ‘One down, one to go.’ The guy seemed to think it was hilarious. He thought everything was hilarious, including the fact that I had a deadline to meet. That’s why he was so damned weird.” Leo turned to glare at Vida and me.

Vida, however, was looking owlish. I knew what she was thinking. “Who was he?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Duchess.” Leo was no longer hiding his exasperation. “We didn’t get to the name-and-address routine because I couldn’t find the freaking form. I’ve never seen him before in my life. Average height, average weight, brown hair, jeans, parka, boots, and six bricks shy of a load. Now go stuff yourselves and let me get this little hummer put together.”

There was no point in being miffed. Vida and I
understood deadline pressures. We headed through the snow to the Venison Inn.

“That’s very suggestive,” Vida declared after we were seated in a booth by the windows.

“It’s probably a coincidence,” I said, but without conviction. “ ‘One down, one to go’ could mean anything. Our imaginations have been stirred by Kay Whitman’s murder.”

Vida had picked up a menu. Over the top of the plastic-covered offerings, all I could see were her eyes and derby. “That may be so,” she said dryly. “But isn’t it enough?”

O
N
T
UESDAY
, V
IDA
wanted to go to Startup to interview Honoria and the other surviving Whitmans. But we were up against deadline, and a round trip would have taken too much time out of her workday. She had to content herself with a telephone call to Honoria’s converted summer cabin down the highway.

Unfortunately, Honoria couldn’t talk long. She and her brother and mother were trying to make arrangements for sending Kay’s body back to California. There was a delay by the sheriff’s department, which Honoria found hard to understand. She and Milo were good friends. Why couldn’t he expedite matters for her?

“Naturally,” Vida informed me after Honoria had rung off, “I couldn’t answer her question, except with the obvious reply that Milo has to follow procedure. It strikes me that Honoria doesn’t realize a crime has been committed.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, looking up from the front-page layout on my computer screen. “Honoria’s very intelligent. She must understand that Milo has to treat this like any other homicide.”

Vida, who had exchanged her derby for a maroon slouch hat, seemed intent on defending Honoria. “It hasn’t sunk in. Shock, I should guess. It isn’t up to us to
judge how she reacts. She’s had more than her share of grief over the years.”

That was indisputable. Honoria had moved to Startup from Carmel. She had been married to an abusive man who had pushed her down a flight of stairs, crippling her for life. Her brother, in turn, had exacted revenge by killing the husband. Apparently, Trevor Whitman had gone to prison for his deed.

“You know, Vida,” I said in a musing voice, “we don’t really have all the facts about Honoria’s background. It occurs to me that what we do know is pretty sketchy.”

Vida fingered her chin. “That’s true. Honoria is a very private sort of person. I respect that. I think.”

So did I. While I didn’t consider myself as tight-lipped as Honoria, I also tended to keep my private life to myself. Honoria’s reticence could be annoying, but I understood her feelings. While it wasn’t unusual for people to keep their misfortunes to themselves, Honoria was also secretive about good news. The previous September, she had won a ten-thousand-dollar award from the state for her pottery. The only reason I ever learned about it was that I received a press release about the prizes from Olympia. When I called to congratulate her and ask why she hadn’t informed us, Honoria had said she didn’t think anyone in Alpine would be interested. Her reaction had struck me as more narrow than modest. But what I admired most was her courage and determination. Thanks to the specially equipped car, the electric wheelchair, and the alterations she had made in her house, Honoria was able to lead an active, independent life.

“Milo must know more about her past,” Vida mused. The thought seemed to annoy Vida. She didn’t like it when someone knew something she didn’t. “Tomorrow is our easy day. Why don’t we drive down to Startup?”

The suggestion sounded good to me. We would have the basic news story for this week’s edition, then follow up next week with the latest developments and an in-depth article on Honoria and her sister-in-law. If possible, I would spare the family any mention of the seamier background details.

“That’s fine,” I agreed. “Unless you want to go tonight after work?”

I could have sworn that Vida blushed. Of course she didn’t, but there was certainly a twitch in her face. “I can’t. I … ah … have an engagement.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Buck?”

Vida nodded once. “We’re going to Everett for dinner at the yacht club. It’s Valentine’s Day.” She actually ducked her head, the slouch hat covering most of her face.

“That’s great,” I said. It was. Vida had been a widow for almost twenty years. She hadn’t dated in all the time I’d known her—until she met Buck last June.

“Let me relate the essence of my phone conversation with Honoria,” Vida put in quickly. “Kay and Trevor live in Pacific Grove, which I gather isn’t far from Carmel, where Honoria came from. They had been married for seventeen years. Kay was forty-three last November. She worked out of the home. I don’t know what she did. There weren’t any children, which is a blessing, I suppose. The Whitmans—Kay and Trevor, along with the mother, Ida—arrived to visit Honoria a week ago Sunday. They’d planned to stay until this coming Saturday.” Vida paused for breath.

I made a face. “They were all staying with Honoria? Two weeks is a long time for four people to be cooped up in that place of hers. Especially this time of year. I’d go nuts.”

Vida appeared to frown. Under the slouch hat’s brim, it was hard to see more than the bottom of her glasses.
“You have Adam for weeks at a time when he’s home from college.”

“That’s different. He’s my son. I don’t have to entertain him.” It was true. I merely had to provide unlimited funds so that he could entertain himself and whichever girl he hit on in Skykomish County.

“You have your brother Ben visit for long periods, sometimes with Adam.” Vida now seemed determined to prove some obscure point.

“I don’t feel forced to amuse Ben, either.” Nor did I. Ben was a priest, and often spent much of his visit with other priests—or, these days, ex-priests—in the vicinity. He had also recently taken up skiing, thanks to Father Dennis Kelly, who some parishioners insisted spent more time on the slopes than he did in the rectory. Ben had skied fitfully in our youth, but his previous assignment in Mississippi and his current parish in Arizona hadn’t given him much opportunity to swoosh or schush or whatever skiers do when they aren’t breaking various limbs along with their necks.

“What I mean is,” Vida finally clarified, “Honoria’s houseguests are—were—family. I’m sure they had a lovely time.”

I lifted both eyebrows. “Oh? You mean right up until the brutal murder? Vida, what’s with you?”

“Nothing.” Vida bridled, then stood up. “I must write this story and finish my pages. I’d like to leave a few minutes early tonight.”

Buck,
I thought. St. Valentine’s Day. Romance in the air, and spring, waiting somewhere around a four-foot snowbank. “Sure, why not?” I said as Vida made her exit.

The holiday meant nothing to me. I expected no flowers, no candy, no phone calls, no dinner dates in Everett. But that was all right.

And I was all wrong. Milo called two minutes later
and asked if I’d like to have dinner at King Olav’s in the ski lodge. I was so startled that I said yes.

“My treat,” he said, further surprising me. “You had a bad shock yesterday, Emma. You could use a break.”

I don’t know whether I was more astounded by the invitation or Milo’s concern for my welfare. Even though our meals together had become more frequent, we usually went dutch. To my amazement I actually felt a flutter of excitement as I hung up the phone. Talking vigorously to myself, I decided that the rush came from the prospect of learning more details about Kay Whitman’s murder. Surely Milo would reveal more than official statements after he had a Scotch or two.

When Vida turned in her homicide story, I discovered there were a few items she hadn’t told me. Perhaps she’d gotten them from Milo or Bill Blatt or even Honoria. Whoever the source, I concentrated on the facts as well as the writing. Unfortunately, Vida had written the piece in a variation of her House & Home section’s style. Before I applied my editor’s pencil, the lead article read:

A woman visiting the area was found brutally murdered in the facial room at Stella’s Styling Salon Monday afternoon shortly after two
P.M.
Stella Magruder, who has owned the salon since 1967, is married to Richard (Richie) Magruder, Alpine’s deputy mayor and a former bull cook at Camp Two.

The slain woman was identified as Kay Beresford Whitman, 43, of Pacific Grove, California. She and her husband, Trevor, and mother-in-law, Ida Frickey Smith, were visiting the deceased’s sister-in-law, Honoria Whitman, at her charming home in Startup.

The Whitman relatives arrived from California by car February 5. They planned to stay with Honoria Whitman until February 18. Their favorite sightseeing
stops on the trip included the Oregon coast, Mount Rainier (though the road to Sunrise was closed due to snow), and Seattle, where they stopped at the Pike Place Market. They also visited the Ballard Locks, where they watched fishing boats, pleasure craft, and other vessels go between Puget Sound and Lake Union.

According to Skykomish County Sheriff Milo Dodge, Kay Whitman’s throat was slit by a sharp instrument. The weapon has not yet been found. The victim’s faux alligator handbag is also missing.

Ms. Whitman, her husband, and Ms. Honoria Whitman, who is an award-winning potteress from Startup with a recent successful showing in Tacoma, had come to Alpine to run errands. Sheriff Dodge and his deputies are investigating the murder, with the cooperation of Snohomish County law-enforcement officials.

Services are pending, probably somewhere in California.

I dashed into the news office, where Vida was laying out her page by hand. She not only refused to enter the computer age, but wrote all her copy on an ancient battered typewriter.

“What’s this about Kay’s handbag?” I demanded. “You didn’t tell me it was missing. Milo didn’t mention it, either.”

“Oh.” Vida pursed her lips. “Well. Milo probably forgot. I may not have said anything, because it seems like an obvious ploy. Do you really think anyone would come into the salon to kill a woman for her faux alligator bag?”

“No,” I agreed. “But it’s pretty stupid of the killer to try to make it look like a robbery.”

“Killing is stupid,” Vida declared. “In any event, Milo isn’t fooled. Not this time.”

I returned to my office before Vida could ask my opinion of her story. Hopefully, she wouldn’t resent my editorial changes. I rarely had to alter much of her House & Home copy, but she wasn’t accustomed to covering hard news. Carla had taken pictures as Honoria and Trevor emerged from the sheriff’s office Monday. I’d let her write the cutline, which was brief and had only required one correction. Carla had identified Trevor Whitman as “Walt.”

On my way home, I stopped at Bayard’s Picture Perfect Photography Studio. Buddy Bayard does all our photo work. Normally, Carla deals with him, but this evening I was finally able to pick up the finished portraits that Adam, Ben, and I had sat for at Christmas. It had been an impulsive idea that hit me on Christmas Eve when I was feeling most nostalgic. Having lost our parents in an automobile crash twenty-four years ago, Ben and I had realized that we’d never had a family picture taken since. I’d made the appointment with Buddy for the thirtieth of December. By the time the proofs were ready, it was the second week of January. My son and brother had returned to Arizona. This meant sending the proofs to Ben in Tuba City, then on to Adam at ASU in Tempe. Ben typically couldn’t make up his mind which pose he liked best, and Adam typically lost the proofs for almost three weeks. But now the finished product was ready.