The Alpine Decoy (22 page)

I put my hands together in a prayerful attitude. Maybe I felt that only divine intervention could help solve this case. “Milo—the key to this whole thing has to be Jerome Cole. Why don’t you get a transcript of the murder trial?”

I expected Milo to balk, at least a little, but he didn’t. His agreement demonstrated how lost he felt. I wasn’t exactly heartened by his attitude. When I left him a few minutes later, he was dialing his liaison in King County.

On my way back to the office, I saw Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner going into the bank. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock, so they weren’t on personal business. I paused at the corner by the toy shop and wondered if I should follow them. But I’d find out later from Milo what they were after, I told myself, and headed on to
The Advocate
.

The mail had arrived, and with it, a pile of outraged letters about the murders. Not all of them were blatantly racist; most were signed. They would have to be published, since that was my policy. I decided to start my editorial for the coming week. The music censorship issue could wait. I would blast people of prejudice, and let the chips—and another stack of letters—fall where they would.

“We see people as one dimensional,” I wrote, “and what we see are always the most obvious, if superficial, things about that other person. Is she skinny? Is he a dentist? Does that girl wear glasses? Is this man bald? In a wheelchair? Have a stammer? Where do nicknames like Lefty and Tubby and Rusty come from? Our visual perceptions are swift, and always incomplete. We pigeonhole people, and it’s not fair.”

I paused, marveling at the quiet that reigned in the office. Vida and Carla had gone up to the high school to do their picture story and a bit of sleuthing. Ginny was in the front office, and Ed was out selling advertising. I kept writing, working up a full head of steam. I recalled what Ben had said over the phone. It wasn’t fair to blame Alpiners for all the ills of the world.

“There was a time when prejudices were strictly tribal,” I wrote in my moralistic frenzy. “Indeed, there are still places in the world where that remains true. In Saxon England,
for example, members of one village didn’t trust—or like—villagers from across the ford. As the years went by, they hated the invading Normans. Still later, they despised the Dutch and the French and the Spaniards. Then came people of a different color and religion. Meanwhile, those villagers had mingled, married, and produced new bloodlines. The Saxons melded with the Normans. The English nobility forged matrimonial alliances with the French, the Spanish, the Portuguese, and the Scots; a homosexual king led the Crusades against the so-called infidel; later, another monarch rebelled against the very church he’d sworn to defend and set off centuries of religious persecution. The Western world went to war to fight for freedom, to foil aggression, and to halt anti-Semitism. For two thousand years, the human race has struggled to be worthy of its name: the
human
race. Not the black or white or brown or yellow race, but a world peopled by
people:
unique, diverse, good, bad, talented, stupid, kind, grasping, and often, all of it in a single individual.”

I paused, wondering how much I would have to cut before I jumped off my soapbox. Like most of my editorials, it probably wouldn’t change anybody’s mind. The people who agreed with me would nod in a self-righteous manner, and those who didn’t would snort in disgust. Either way, I’d end up in the bottom of the birdcage.

The most encouraging attitude I’d heard so far had come from Regis Bartleby at Trinity Episcopal. Harvey Adcock, of Harvey’s Hardware, had told Ed Bronsky that the rector planned on giving a sermon urging members of his congregation to invite minorities to visit Alpine. The concept was noble, but Bartleby had a reputation for speaking far over the heads of his parishioners. I hoped the message wouldn’t be lost in a sea of intellectual theology. The rector’s heart was in the right place, but his delivery was on another planet. At least I knew that he’d applaud my editorial efforts.

Going out to the news office to get more coffee, I glanced through the window by Vida’s desk. Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner were coming out of the bank. On a whim, I zipped through the door and hailed them as they crossed the street.

“Coffee?” I offered, brandishing my mug.
“Real
coffee?” I knew from sad experience what pathetic brew passed for coffee at the sheriff’s office.

Sam Heppner started to demur, but Bill Blatt was eager. The two deputies followed me inside
The Advocate
where I played the gracious hostess.

“This is a bribe,” I declared, handing each man a steaming mug. “I can get a court order and force you to tell me what you found out at the bank, or I could go see Milo and throw a tantrum or,” I added with a flinty look at Bill, “I could send Vida to do the job. But how about taking the easy way?”

Bill Blatt, who had shown alarm at the reference to his redoubtable aunt, started chattering like a magpie: “The sheriff told us to check out Wendy and Todd Wilson, but I’ll be darned if I can see why. What have they got to do with these shootings?”

“Maybe they don’t.” I bestowed my most winning smile on the deputies. “But they’re part of the family that’s given shelter to your boss’s favorite suspect. And never mind that your boss may be nuts. What’d you find out at the bank?”

Sam Heppner uttered a wry chuckle. He was in his midthirties, with slicked-back brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a nose that would have looked more at home on a buzzard. “Not much. The Wilsons don’t have an account there.”

I stared. “What? But the Bank of Alpine is the only game in town!”

Sam gave me his dour look. “That’s right, ma’am. But so what? The Wilsons could bank in Sultan or Monroe. It’s not a crime.”

Vida blew in the door, her straw skimmer askew. “Crime? What crime?” Her gaze fixed on her nephew.

I started to explain, but Vida waved her hands. She whirled on Bill Blatt. “You went through the accounts at the bank? No Wilsons? That’s ridiculous!” She shot me a smug look. “Especially under the circumstances.”

“Which are?” I asked.

Vida’s expression became owlish. “Odd.” She turned back to Bill. “You actually looked at the bank records?”

Bill nodded, looking not unlike a new recruit being inspected
by his first sergeant. “They had an account up until October of 1992. Then they closed it. At the time, they had about two thousand in savings, another four hundred in checking.”

“Oooooh!” Vida whipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Interesting! Revealing!” She glanced again at me.

“Uh—where’s Carla?” I asked, suddenly realizing that Vida had returned alone.

Vida gave a quick shake of her head. “She forgot to drop the roll of film off at Buddy Bayard’s. She’ll be here in a few minutes.” Collaring her nephew—literally—she stood nose-to-nose with Bill Blatt. “Wilson,” she said in a low, coaxing voice. “W-I. What about Marlow Whipp: W-H?”

Bill Blatt squirmed. “Aunt Vida—we weren’t asked to check into Marlow Whipp’s account.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Vida. “You must have seen it.” She gave Bill a little shake. “How much?”

I saw Bill Blatt’s Adam’s apple bob. “Uh … twelve grand and change.”

With an air of triumph, Vida released her nephew. “Well! If that doesn’t beat all! This is a monkey-and-a-parrot-time if I ever saw it!”

Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner were both looking mystified. I, however, was beginning to see the light. “So what did you learn at the high school, Vida?”

My House & Home editor all but simpered. “Very interesting, I assure you.” She progressed to her desk, where she glanced at her mail and turned up her nose. “Wendy Wilson’s colleagues find her popularity with students highly suspect. They think she’s too easy on them. As for the students themselves, it all depends on who you talk to. Grace Grundle’s granddaughter, who is a fine upstanding Presbyterian girl, doesn’t think much of Wendy as a teacher. She says she plays favorites. But some of the others”—Vida leaned on her desk, and her gaze flickered from me to Bill to Sam and back again—“sing her praises to the sky. Their eyes are out of focus and they don’t know Charles Dickens from Slim Pickens. What does that tell you?”

Bill Blatt looked as if it didn’t tell him much. But Sam Heppner slapped his hands together. “Mrs. Wilson isn’t just a teacher. She’s got other irons in the fire.”

Vida nodded sagely. “I can only guess. But it would be wise to keep Marlow Whipp’s store under surveillance. If Milo Dodge wants to discuss it with me, please have him call.”

Bill and Sam all but saluted. Gulping down their coffee, they hurried away. Vida was already typing up a storm. Calmly, I sat down in the chair next to her desk.

“Well?”

Vida didn’t look up. She rattled off four more lines on her battered upright, slamming the carriage back so hard that the machine shook. At last, she stopped and eyed me squarely:

“It’s got to be drugs,” she said. “Pot, at least. Marlow Whipp is the middleman.”

Her deductions made sense. Running drugs through the little grocery store would account for the Wilsons’ affluence and Marlow’s ability to stay in business. I had objections, however.

“If there’s a widespread drug problem in this town, why haven’t we heard about it?” I objected.

Vida didn’t dismiss my quibble out of hand. “There have been stories about certain young people with problems,” she pointed out. “The Nielsen boy. One of the Gustavsons. Jessie Lott’s granddaughter, though at the time, we assumed she went away to have a baby. Oh, if I thought about it, I could name a dozen in the past year or two. But parents often don’t know what to look for. Into denial, as they say. And the youngsters can be clever, I’m told.” Sadly she shook her head. “It’s a terrible thing to raise children these days. Much harder. I look at my grandchildren, and my heart goes out to my daughters and their husbands. Why, to think of Roger exposed to drugs!” Her face grew horrified. “What would become of him?”

A vision of Roger, dealing crack out of a moving van came to mind. Roger, in a loud suit and a broad-brimmed hat with a big feather, cuddling two curvaceous cuties and clenching a cigar between his teeth. Roger, at the head of a long, polished table, giving orders for reprisals against the other dons and their families. Roger, hanging by his thumbs in a Turkish prison. I liked the last picture best.

“Don’t worry, Vida,” I said in my most sanguine voice.
“I’m sure Roger—and your other grandchildren—will turn out just fine.” The Turkish prison evolved into a scaffold with a large noose.

Looking temporarily reassured, Vida returned to the matter at hand: “We don’t know how long this has been going on, of course. Except for buying the house in Icicle Creek, Todd and Wendy’s wealth seems to have accumulated quite recently. Until last autumn, their savings were modest. School started in September. So, perhaps, did Wendy’s drug sales. Thus, the Wilsons moved their growing hoard out of town to avoid suspicion.”

“I gather you didn’t talk to Wendy herself this morning?”

“No. She was in class.” Vida had turned pensive.

I got out of the chair. “Let’s hope Milo follows through with the surveillance. It’s too bad he doesn’t have more personnel at his disposal.”

Vida agreed. “If we’re right about this drug thing,” she said, causing me to stop in midstep, “how does it tie in with Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles?”

I swiveled around to face Vida. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? The part about Kelvin, I mean. He used drugs, he dealt them. Maybe he was Wendy’s connection.”

“Or Todd’s.” Vida’s face froze. “Wendy may be the baglady or whatever it’s called. Emma, call Milo right now. If he can’t afford to have someone watch that store, we’ll volunteer.”

“Vida!” I was aghast. “Are you crazy? I’m not going to disguise myself as a shrub and lurk across the street at the high school field. Neither are you. This is police work, not journalism.”

Vida, however, remained firm. “It is, too. We’re after a story. Good heavens, Emma, didn’t you ever use a cover to get a story when you worked on
The Oregonian?”

I had, of course, on several occasions. Once, I’d masqueraded as a student at Reed College to check out rumors of sexual harassment by the faculty. Another time, I’d been a phony whiplash victim, trying to get the goods on a shady chiropractor. My most memorable guise was a shoplifter at Lloyd Center. The article was intended to show the public how severely criminals are treated, and thus, to prevent crime. I managed to walk off with over seven hundred dollars
worth of merchandise from nine stores before I finally got caught. My arms and my feet ached so much that
I
was tempted to keep the stuff I’d stolen.

But this was different. This was Alpine, not Portland, and I had to maintain my dignity. So did Vida. I called Milo immediately.

“Yeah, yeah, I already heard Vida’s idea from her nephew,” Milo said in an impatient voice. “Forget it. Surveillance! That’s for law enforcement bodies with staff to spare. If we want to check out Marlow Whipp, we’ll get a search warrant.”

“So do it,” I suggested.

“On what grounds? That Wendy Wilson’s a shitty teacher and chews gum she buys from Marlow Whipp? Listen, Emma, old Mr. and Mrs. Whipp ran that store for fifty years. They saved every dime. Vida should know that. Maybe they invested their money. Marlow lives in the family house, and the old folks are in the Lutheran retirement home. Marlow’s wife gives piano lessons, their daughter lives in Wenatchee, and their son’s a meter reader for the PUD. Now how respectable can you get?”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that the Whipp grandson was a meter reader. Until now, however, I’d never made the connection between Frankie Whipp and Todd Wilson. Maybe there wasn’t any, except for their employer. Maybe it was just another of Alpine’s coincidences.

Vida mulled over Milo’s response. “He’s right, in his way,” she allowed, then heaved a huge sigh. “All the same, there’s something very peculiar going on between Marlow and the Wilsons. Maybe I should pay a call on Marlow’s mother at the hospital. She’s still recovering from knee surgery, you know.”

Vaguely, I recalled that Peyton Flake had done a knee replacement on Mrs. Whipp the previous week. “Give it a try,” I said, not sounding very hopeful. A glance at the clock told me it was going on noon. Carla still hadn’t returned from Buddy Bayard’s Picture-Perfect Photography Studio. “Where is Carla now? Did she go on a story?”