The Alpine Decoy (14 page)

But no one answered. Winola was either at work or helping make arrangements for Kelvin’s funeral. I understood that the body would be released that afternoon. Perhaps Winola might come to Alpine. I called the morgue over at the hospital, but was told that the remains had been shipped to Driggers Funeral Home. The owner, Al Driggers, sounded as appropriately lifeless as ever.

“We’ve been asked to send the body to Seattle,” he said. “Mrs. Greene—the mother—made the request.”

So Kelvin Greene had a mother. I sighed as I hung up the phone. It’s always easier to deal with disembodied bodies. But corpses who leave mothers, fathers, wives, and
children are far more disturbing. It’s okay for me not to care about dead people I never knew. It’s not okay—it’s not possible—for me not to care about the people they leave behind.

I called Al back. I should include Mrs. Greene’s name in the story. “It’s Alva,” he said, all emotion carefully drained from his voice.

“A father?” I asked, pen poised.

“Not mentioned. There’s a child, though. Mrs. Greene said something about finding a neighbor to watch her grandson.” Al’s words took on a shade of warmth.

“A name?” I inquired.

But Al didn’t know. “She called him her grandbaby. But she definitely referred to him as Kelvin’s boy.”

I decided to omit the reference to a child. This wasn’t an official obituary, but a news story. I’d try to reach Winola Prince later. When I told Vida what I’d learned, she grew thoughtful.

“You could call Marilynn, I suppose.”

“I don’t want to. Not yet.”

Vida nodded. “I know. It’s difficult. I’d so hoped there was no connection between this Kelvin and poor Marilynn. That’s why I didn’t say anything when we got back to the Campbells’ house from Marlow Whipp’s store. I didn’t want the rest of them to jump to conclusions. Or for Marilynn to think we were making any assumptions.”

“I thought as much,” I said, recalling Vida’s uncustomary reticence. Rarely have I felt as fond of Vida as I did at that moment. Rarely have I felt as fond of any woman except my own mother.

With the usual sense of Tuesday relief, I left a note for Kip MacDuff and signed the press order so that the paper could be driven to the printer in Monroe early Wednesday morning. Arriving home, I felt restless. After changing clothes, I went out into the yard. Despite my weekend efforts, there was still plenty of work to be done. Shrubs needed pruning, the grass could use a mowing, and more weeds seemed to have sprung up overnight. I concentrated on the front flower bed, which grows almost to the street. There are no sidewalks where I live. The planning commission keeps promising to put a Local Improvement District
bond issue on an upcoming ballot, but in over three years it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it was time to write another L.I.D. editorial.

The pansies I’d set out two weeks earlier were blooming nicely, though threatening to get leggy. My iris were on the wane, but the trio of columbine looked lovely. As ever, my peonies were a disappointment. There were only two buds showing on the pink clump, and the deep red variety hadn’t come up at all.

On my knees, pulling up clover, I recalled Jean Campbell’s complaint about her peonies. She thought a dog had trampled them. But the Campbell house was protected by a white picket fence. It was only about waist high, so perhaps a dog had jumped it. Still, I wondered. Dogs don’t trample, they dig. The cemetery was four doors away. If someone had gone through the Campbells’ yard, the flowers might have been crushed by the trespasser….

Inside the house, my phone rang. It was Milo, sounding abject. “Emma, are you still mad?” he asked.

Of course I wasn’t, not really. Men aren’t responsible for being insensitive boobs. I put down my weeder and sat in the chair by my desk. “Forget it, Milo. It was deadline day. You know I’m always touchy on Tuesdays.”

His sigh of relief was audible. “I went to see Marilynn after she finished work,” he said, obviously glad to change the subject. “She admitted she knew Kelvin Greene.”

If Milo had blown a trumpet in my ear, he couldn’t have sounded more self-righteous. “So you’re vindicated, huh? When do you cuff her?”

He uttered a small chuckle. “You know it’s not that easy. Kelvin was seeing her roommate. Winola Prince. Marilynn insists she didn’t know him very well. The funny thing is,” he went on in a musing voice, “I believe her.”

“Well, hooray!” It was my turn to feel a sense of relief. But it didn’t last long. Reality set in like a load of lead, weighing me down, telling me that if Marilynn Lewis was innocent, who on earth in Alpine would have had any reason to shoot Kelvin Greene? “Did Marilynn know why Kelvin came to town?”

Milo admitted that Marilynn had no idea. I asked if he’d
contacted Winola Prince. He hadn’t been able to reach her, either. He had, however, spoken with Alva Greene.

“The woman’s a clam,” he declared. “I got the impression she’s had a few brushes with the law, probably because of her kids. Kelvin had a couple of brothers and some sisters. I figure they’ve had problems.”

Stretching the long phone cord, I was able to reach my liquor cabinet. It was after six-thirty, and I was entitled to a bit of bourbon. “So what happens next?” I asked.

Milo chuckled again, this time more heartily. “You think we’re sitting on our dead butts? We’ve made inquiries. Kelvin arrived early Friday morning or got here Thursday night and slept in his car. He didn’t check into either of the motels, the hotel, or the ski lodge. He wasn’t seen anywhere along the Stevens Pass corridor. But several people saw him Friday in Alpine. The mall, the ski lodge, the tavern, the campground. He got fish and chips to go at the Burger Barn somewhere around noon. It looks like he was killing time, probably until he could meet his killer. The waitress and the bartender at the Icicle Creek Tavern thought he showed up there about three-thirty. Yes, he had a beer with Cyndi Campbell who, according to Denise Petersen, was flirting with him. Denise insists that Cyndi and Kelvin came to the tavern together. But Denise is off her rocker. She and Cyndi went to high school together, and Cyndi beat her out for Timber Queen the year they were seniors.”

“Well, certainly, that makes Denise a famous liar,” I remarked, with an irony that would be lost on Milo. However, it was probably an accurate assessment. Old grudges die hard in Alpine. “I take it you think Cyndi was doing more than giving directions to at least three different destinations?”

Milo seemed puzzled by the question, but had an answer anyway. “I admit that most people don’t sit down and drink beer with strangers while they tell them how to get someplace. But Bill Blatt says Cyndi is sticking to her story. She’d never seen Kelvin Greene before in her life.”

“So,” I noted, hauling out a fifth of bourbon that was almost empty, “Cyndi says it was Kelvin Greene at the Icicle Creek Tavern? How does she know?”

“She described him, including his clothes. He had a
small scar on his upper lip. She remembered that. Cyndi might seem like an airhead, but she’s observant.” Milo’s voice conveyed approval.

The phone cord didn’t quite reach the ice compartment of my refrigerator. But my mind had made a leap of its own—to tomorrow. I complimented Milo on his diligence, then hung up and poured my drink. Before taking my chicken pot pie out of the oven, I called Vida, relaying Milo’s information. She wasn’t as generous with our sheriff.

“If Cyndi knew Kelvin Greene,” she said in a crisp voice, “I’d bet some of the other Campbells knew him, too. Cyndi hasn’t spent a lot of time in Seattle, but Shane has. There’s got to be more of a connection up at the house on Tyee Street than Marilynn. Or Cyndi.”

I agreed. “Can you hold down the fort tomorrow?” I asked slyly. “It’s Wednesday, and things should be slow.”

Vida’s manner grew suspicious. “Why? Where are you going?”

I told her about my decision to attend the conference at Lake Chelan. She approved. Then I added that my wardrobe needed refurbishing. “Francine’s summer clothes aren’t my style this year,” I fibbed. “I want to do some shopping in Seattle.”

“Shopping?” Vida demanded sharply. “Or probing?”

“Both,” I answered candidly.

“Good,” Vida replied. “I’ll go with you. Carla and Ed can hold down the fort. As long as Ginny’s there to watch them.” She hung up before I could argue.

I’
D ALMOST CALLED
Vida back and asked her to stay in Alpine. She was right about my intentions—I hoped to track down Winola Prince and maybe Alva Greene, too. But I was equally sincere in my desire to get some new, fiendishly smart clothes. With Vida along, I’d be lucky to make a quick stop at the Northgate Mall. She hated to shop—except for Roger.

“According to the
P-I
, Kelvin’s funeral is Friday,” Vida said, patting the morning edition in the well between the Jaguar’s bucket seats. “That should mean that Winola is at work. Assuming, of course, she’s on a day shift.”

As usual, Vida’s mind was running on the same track as mine. We had left Alpine at eight-thirty, after a brief check at the office where all seemed well, probably because Ed and Carla hadn’t yet arrived. It was just after ten when I pulled off the freeway to head for Virginia Mason Hospital on Seattle’s First Hill, or as it’s more commonly known, Pill Hill. Located above the downtown area, the neighborhood is crammed with hospitals, clinics, pharmacies, and medical specialists. It’s also jammed with cars. I left Vida in a loading zone and ran two blocks to the main entrance. After a five-minute wait, I learned that Winola Prince was working the orthopedic floor. She would be on her lunch break at eleven.

We parked in the hospital garage, which had surprisingly reasonable fees for the Big City. About the only charge for parking in Alpine is if a car is left in Milo Dodge’s slot outside the sheriff’s office. There are some definite benefits to small-town living.

“You let me handle this,” Vida urged, as we made our way through the hospital’s maze of halls and elevators.
“You find the cafeteria, and I’ll bring Winola along. Order me some pie, if they have it. Anything but blueberry or rhubarb.”

They had apple, blackberry, and custard. The apple looked safest. I got coffee. For fifteen minutes, I watched the parade of doctors, nurses, medical technicians, and visitors that marched past my corner table. People who work in hospitals always strike me as guarded. They evince neither hope nor despair. On rubber-soled shoes, they move softly, as if afraid to upset the balance of the odds that determine life and death. Maybe they’re just afraid of slipping on the frequently scrubbed floors. But I sense detachment, perhaps a wish that their hearts were as protected as their feet. It’s tough enough being a journalist; writing about illness and accidents can cause depression or callousness, or both. Facing death on a daily basis must require a different dimension of the human soul.

I wondered what Vida would use for an excuse to drag Winola Prince to an interview. In this case, she couldn’t claim to be a relative of Marilynn’s. She wouldn’t impersonate an officer of the law. She wouldn’t dare assume Jean Campbell’s identity.

To my amazement, Vida told Winola the truth. “Here, Emma, meet Winola Prince,” she said, a hand at the young nurse’s elbow. “She’s going to help us with our story about poor Kelvin.”

Winola Prince looked as if she hadn’t slept for a long time. She was slender by nature, and her face had a gaunt look that made her dark eyes enormous. She wore no makeup, and her light blue blouse and slacks hung limply, as if they, along with their wearer, had lost their starch. Winola sat down with a weary, grateful air. Vida bustled off to get her some food.

I was clearing my throat and trying to come up with a tactful remark when Winola asked a question of her own: “What kind of people you got in Alpine that’d kill my Kelvin? That Mrs. Runkel says your sheriff don’t know nothin’.”

“He doesn’t, yet,” I replied, feeling a need to defend Milo. “The investigation has just started. That’s one reason
we’re here. We want to find out if you—or anybody who knew Kelvin—might know what led to his death.”

Winola’s hand strayed to the cornrows of hair that were held in place with turquoise beads. Her name tag—w.
PRINCE, LPN
—was crooked. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout him goin’ to Alpine. Kelvin didn’t always tell me everything.” She not only looked sad, but sulky, as past wrongs festered in her present pain.

I had opened a notebook and was pretending to scan scribblings that actually made up my grocery list. “You and Marilynn Lewis were roommates for how long?”

Winola screwed up one eye, concentrating. “Two years? Not that long—from a year ago last summer.”

“Were she and Kelvin friends?” I hoped I’d phrased the question innocuously.

“Friends?” Winola stared at me, then at her hands with their long, curved fingernails. “No. Marilynn never liked Kelvin much. She can be high and mighty sometimes. Don’t ask why. She got herself all messed up with that Jerome, didn’t she? What was so fine ’bout him? I told her, ‘Girl, you one dumb bitch. Jerome ain’t no smoother than my man. You
wrong.’
” Winola’s dark eyes glittered briefly, showing a fire I thought had been doused by grief. “What difference it make—now?” The fire went out.

Vida arrived with a tray containing creamed chicken, rice pilaf, broccoli, a roll, applesauce, fruit salad, and a bowl of vegetable soup. “You’re too thin, Winola. You can’t be eating properly. Here, start with the soup.” Brusquely, Vida pulled a packet of soda crackers from her pocket.

Winola’s plucked eyebrows arched. Astonishment and resentment crossed her gaunt face. Tensing, I expected her to rail at Vida. But she didn’t. Her narrow shoulders slumped as she picked up a spoon. Vida could cross racial barriers, conquer strangers, and comfort the bereaved with soda crackers.

I waited for Winola to taste her soup. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said, as much for Vida’s benefit as my own. “Who’s Jerome?”

Tearing the cellophane off the crackers, Winola eyed me with suspicion. “I thought you knew Marilynn. How come you askin’ ’bout Jerome?”