The Alpine Betrayal (24 page)

I was tossing frozen chicken pies in my cart when I saw Donna Fremstad Wickstrom approaching. Her manner was frazzled, her attention riveted on the orange juice section. I reversed directions and came up alongside of Donna. To my surprise, she looked as if she’d been crying. A rumpled Kleenex was stuffed in the top of her polka dotted sundress.

“Heat got you down?” I asked guilelessly.

Donna didn’t look fooled by my feigned innocence. “It’s all this Cody Graff business that’s got me down,” she snapped. “First you and Vida, now the sheriff. I’m so upset I don’t know what to do.”

Feeling repentant, I put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Donna, I know this is rough on you. What did Milo want?” My triumph with the sheriff now seemed easier to understand; maybe he wasn’t as slow of wit as I sometimes thought him.

Donna lowered her head, chin almost resting on her breastbone. “It should make it easier … but it doesn’t, not in a way,” she murmured. Slowly, she raised her face to meet my gaze. “Sheriff Dodge thinks Art may have been murdered, maybe by Cody Graff. I’d rather believe that than think Art killed himself. But it makes me so
angry
…” She literally gnashed her teeth. “I wish Cody was still alive. I swear I’d kill him!”

I blinked. Had she? Donna and Steve Wickstrom had been at the Icicle Creek Tavern Saturday night. Had Donna, who must have known her late husband better than anyone, suspected that the suicide note was written by somebody else? I shivered, and not from the blast of cold air that poured out of the freezer as an elderly woman reached for a bag of frozen peas.

“Why do you think Cody killed Art?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Donna rolled her cart back and forth, the wheels grating on the floor. “I don’t know!” she whispered, the tears back in her eyes. “Art never did anything to Cody. That’s what makes it so awful! It’s like one of those gang stories you read in the Seattle papers, where somebody shoots somebody just to see what it’s like. It doesn’t make sense!”

It did, though, to me. Fleetingly, I wondered if I should say as much to Donna. Perhaps it would help. The irrational taking of a life is harder to bear than death with a reason. At least that’s how my mind works.

“Donna,” I said in a level voice, “I think Cody murdered his own baby. I also think Art knew that but didn’t quite know what to do about it. Or if he did, he never had a chance. Cody killed him first.”

As the words came out, Donna’s face stiffened and her eyes grew huge. The knuckles clutching the grocery cart turned white. But the tears didn’t fall. “Shit,” breathed Donna. The cart rocked back and forth, but more gently now, as if she were rocking a baby. Hers, maybe. Or even little Scarlett, forever small, always ready to be soothed.

I waited. If Art had ever hinted his knowledge, or even suspicion, to his wife, perhaps she would remember it now. But Donna kept shaking her head and rocking the cart. “Shit,” she said again, her voice leaden.

“He never said anything?” I asked quietly.

“No.” She tucked the Kleenex farther down between her small breasts. “But he was worried. Or troubled.” Donna
looked straight at me. “That’s why I could accept that note, even though it made me feel like such a failure, a wife who wasn’t there for her husband. He couldn’t talk to me, he couldn’t tell me how his job bothered him, he couldn’t share his troubles, so he …” She lifted a hand, then let it flutter to her side, like a crippled bird.

“But that wasn’t it,” I said firmly.

Donna’s chin shot up. “No. It wasn’t. He was probably just mulling over what he should do. Art was like that, he never did anything on impulse. If only Sheriff Dodge had been in town, if only Art had talked to me, if only …” She sniffed hard, swallowing her tears.

“If only Cody Graff hadn’t been a killer,” I murmured.

Donna squared her slim shoulders. “But he was. And by God, I’d like to shake the hand of whoever killed him.” With a tremulous, brave smile, she gave the cart an aggressive push and headed off down the aisle—to frozen vegetables, past whole grain waffles, and beyond ice cream, on special at $2.89 a half gallon.

I stood for a few moments, resting my fingers on the boneless ham I’d picked up in the meat department. Donna Fremstad Wickstrom was a courageous woman. Or a very clever one. Either way, it struck me how life and death could mingle with broccoli spears and party pizzas. We humans did not live by bread alone, but sometimes we died in the most unexpected ways. At the hands of a stranger. In the arms of a lover. Under the evil eye of a parent.

For the first time in days, I was too cold. I moved on, into the fresh, fragrant realm of produce.

I was still too cold.

Saturday brought the ninety-degree temperatures I’d dreaded. It also brought a phone call from my brother.

“Quit bitching,” said Ben in his crackling voice. “It’s almost a hundred and twenty in Tuba City. I’m thinking of saying mass tomorrow in the nude.”

I laughed, then insisted he hang up. I wanted to pour out my troubles, but not on his long distance bill. He refused,
saying that he’d been in Vegas the previous week and had won $500 at craps. “I found a shooter,” he said. “I even hit boxcars.”

For ten minutes, I regaled him with the Cody Graff murder; for two more I told him about Tom Cavanaugh. Ben addressed the latter first:

“Don’t reject Tom’s generosity. As a priest, I’m telling you that’s selfishness and pride. As your brother, I’m telling you you’re too damned stubborn. Tom can afford it, he wants to do it, let him. And listen, Emma, one of these days you’re going to have to let him meet Adam. I’ve met Tom. He’s a hell of a guy. Are you ashamed of him?”

“I’m ashamed that he’s married,” I said.

“So’s he, probably. But that’s a fact, and you have to admire him for sticking by Fruit Loops, or whatever her name is. I admire him for wanting to help you and Adam. Give the guy a break. After all, he’s half Tom’s. Adam looks more like his father than he does like you, Sluggly.” The old nickname came from our extreme youth, a cross between Sluggo and Ugly. I’d always called him Stench. Fortunately, we had not lived up to our childhood monikers.

I mumbled something that was akin to agreement, then waited for his words of wisdom regarding the murder investigation. This time, his counsel came more slowly.

“It sounds to me as if nobody wants to admit this Cody guy got himself murdered. Why is that? Not because he didn’t deserve it, right?”

“Right,” I echoed into the receiver. “So what are you saying?”

I heard Ben speak away from the phone, presumably to a parishioner who had just arrived at the rectory he had described as about the size of a recycling bin. “I’m saying that everybody really does know Cody Graff was murdered.” He paused, waiting for his slow little sister to let his words sink into her brain. “But nobody wants to let on who did it.”

I caught my breath. “Ben, do you mean somebody—maybe several somebodies—know who killed Cody?”

“That’s what it sounds like to me.” He paused, again speaking to another party. “Hey, Emma, I’ve got to run. I forgot I was hearing confessions this morning. It gets too damned hot to sit in that booth come late afternoon. Call me when you find out whodunit.”

V
IDA WAS TAKING
Roger to the Science Center in Seattle for the day. I considered it a wasted trip, since Roger didn’t need any more ideas about how to wreak havoc. But her absence meant I couldn’t confer with her about my encounters with Curtis Graff and Donna Wickstrom. As for Milo, I didn’t know what his sleeping arrangements were, if any, with Honoria Whitman. I preferred not to call him and discover that maybe he hadn’t yet gotten back from Startup.

The mail arrived early, before noon. Along with my Visa, Texaco, and Skykomish PUD bills, I received a manila envelope from Tom. Inside was an Alaska Airlines schedule, a cashier’s check for $2500, and a short note.

“Dear Emma,” the note read in Tom’s sprawling, not always decipherable hand, “this should cover Adam’s flight to Fairbanks, plus enough to bring him home before school starts or for the holidays. I’m sending you the schedule because I suspect (from what you’ve told me) that Adam may not always be specific about matters like time, place, etc. Your Loggerama edition looks good. What did you do—threaten Ed Bronsky with a chain saw? Love, Tom.”

I was smiling as I tucked the note in my desk. The check seemed too generous, but I decided to take my brother’s advice and not quibble. As for Tom’s comment on
The Advocate:
he was on our mailing list. I wondered if he went through every issue. Probably not, but it made me feel good to know that at least he looked at the paper once in a while. And approved. I told myself that I didn’t need any green lights from Tom for personal reasons, but that I respected
his professional opinion. Maybe that wasn’t quite true, but I knew it should be.

I wrote to Tom at once, thanking him for his generosity. The first paragraph sounded stiff; I tried to loosen up in graf two, telling him about Roger. I mentioned the murder investigation, the progress of the location shoot, the interminable hot, dry spell. I thanked him again, on Adam’s behalf, on my own. I signed “Love, Emma,” slipped the stationery into a matching envelope, and stuck on a stamp. Then I sat back to try and figure out what to tell my son.
Our
son.

Adam knew I’d had some contact with Tom over the years, but he’d shown a remarkable lack of curiosity about the relationship. When Adam was small, I rarely mentioned Tom. About the time Adam started school in Portland, he began to ask more questions. I was honest, if reserved. Kindergartners cannot understand the adult human heart. Ph.D.s can’t either, but at least they like to talk about it. I merely told Adam that his father was a very good man who couldn’t marry me and who didn’t live close to us. Adam, growing up in an era of single parents, hadn’t found his situation unique. Eventually, I told Adam what his father’s name was, what he did for a living, that he had a wife and family in California. But it wasn’t until he turned seventeen that he expressed a desire to meet Tom. I discouraged Adam; I hadn’t heard anything of Tom in years.
Wait
, I cautioned.

And Adam had. It wasn’t until he came home from Hawaii on Christmas break that I told him Tom Cavanaugh had been in Alpine. To my amazement, Adam sank into uncharacteristic gloom for three days. On Christmas Eve he came to himself and asked some pointed questions. Why had Tom come? Had he asked about Adam? Who were his other kids? Was he coming back?

I explained how Tom had visited on business, to advise me about the running of the newspaper, possibly even to make an investment. He had two other children: a boy Adam’s age and a girl a couple of years younger. Yes, he’d not
only asked about Adam, but he’d taken his picture with him. And some day, he might be back.

Oddly, Adam expressed no immediate desire to meet Tom, but he cheered up and the rest of the holiday went by happily. Now I had the cashier’s check in hand, made out to me. I would cash it and put it in my savings, to parcel out to Adam as needed. But I would have to tell my son about it, because if he wanted to fly home before the semester started, he’d have to make his reservations soon.

I was sitting in the backyard under the evergreens, mulling over the best approach, when I heard Milo call my name. I shouted that I was outside. Milo loped around the corner of the house, carrying a small box.

“Here,” he said, handing me the box and slipping onto the matching deck chair. “Honoria thought you might like it.”

I carefully opened the box and searched through crumpled tissue paper. My hand touched something round and smooth. It was about the size of a tennis ball, and when I removed it from the box, I saw there was a hole about half an inch in diameter. The object itself was dark green with just a hint of white in the glaze. I held it out in front of me.

“Well!”

“Isn’t that something?” said Milo, leaning forward and smiling in admiration.

“It sure is,” I agreed, wishing I knew what that something was.

Milo must have noticed my puzzlement. “It’s a vase,” he asserted. “For a single flower, like a rose, or a daisy. You stick the stem in that hole. With water, of course.”

I studied the would-be vase, rolling it on my palm. It was very heavy. “I like the color. But how do you keep it from tipping over?”

“What?” Milo frowned. “Oh, that’s up to you to figure out. Honoria likes to think of her work as … how does she put it?
Involving
people. Art shouldn’t just sit there, it should
do
something. Or make
you
do something. Isn’t that fine?”

“It’s very thoughtful.” Which, I had to admit, it was. But short of floating the blasted thing in a mixing bowl full of water, I hadn’t the foggiest notion what to do with Honoria’s gift. “I’ll drop her a note. Or call her.” I gave Milo my brightest smile, not wanting him to think me ungrateful.

“She made me a pet cock.” Milo looked very pleased.

“A
what?”
The heat must be getting to me. Surely I couldn’t have heard Milo correctly.

“You know,” he said, very seriously. “A pet cock is a kind of valve. For releasing pressure.”

I kept a straight face. “I think I’d rather have this,” I said, hoisting the glazed ball-cum-vase. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a pet cock.”

I’d expected Milo to tumble to the double entendre, but it seemed his mind had wandered off to other matters. “Emma, I’m worried. Time’s running out. The movie crew is going to leave Tuesday or Wednesday. Curtis Graff will probably take off tomorrow. I’ve got no reason to hold any of them.”

“You haven’t found any physical evidence?” Overhead, a pair of chipmunks chattered in the Douglas fir.

Milo shook his head. “Matt Tabor pitched a fit, but we went all over that fancy car of his a second time. All we could find besides those hairs was a thread that may or may not have come from Cody’s jeans.”

I made an appropriately sympathetic remark before offering Milo a beer. I took Honoria’s gift into the house and returned with two cold bottles of Samuel Smith ale I’d found at the back of the refrigerator. For half an hour, Milo and I sipped and talked, getting nowhere. He was, however, intrigued by Ben’s theory.