The Alpine Decoy (31 page)

I was perched on the edge of the navy blue armchair that matched the sofa. “Are you sure?”

Libby shifted on the cushions. “That’s what happened. The guy was sent to prison.”

I gave a sad shake of my head. “I don’t think so. That guy was Wesley Charles, the man you and those kids found near my house. He didn’t kill Jerome Cole.” I took a deep breath. “I hate to say it, but I believe Jerome Cole was bludgeoned to death by Shane Campbell.”

Libby Boyd’s face was horror-stricken. Afraid, too, I thought, and I didn’t blame her. “That’s awful!” she finally gasped. “Shane wouldn’t—couldn’t—do such a thing! And why would he?”

“Because he was nuts about Marilynn,” I replied doggedly. “He was trying to protect her. Jerome Cole was a violent drug addict. He made a habit of beating up on Marilynn.”

Libby still looked afraid, but her expression also conveyed defiance. “No. No, I don’t believe Shane felt that way about Marilynn. Oh, he
liked
her. But there was nothing romantic there.” Her eyes grew desperate. “God, Ms. Lord, don’t you think I’
d
know it?”

I did, and Libby’s obtuseness baffled me. It takes either a very stupid or a totally self-absorbed woman not to sense when her man is straying. Unqualified trust is as rare as it is naïve. Libby didn’t seem to fit into any of those categories. I began to wonder if I might be wrong about Shane Campbell.

The phone rang. Libby answered it in an abrupt voice, then switched to her more natural tone: Her half of the conversation was mostly monosyllables. When she hung up, she gave me a smug smile.

“That was Shane. He wants to catch the late showing of
Jurassic Park
at the Whistling Marmot Theatre. I’d better change if he’s coming here for a drink first.” She glanced
at her watch. “It’s after seven. The last show starts at nine-forty.”

It seemed to me that Libby and Shane would have more than enough time for a drink. Or for whatever else they planned as a short feature before the movie. Which, I realized, was none of my business. Obviously, Libby was politely telling me I’d worn out my welcome.

Maybe I’d spent too much time around Vida. Perhaps I’d appointed myself Libby’s guardian angel. Possibly I was acting like a pigheaded fool. But I had to make one last stab at keeping Libby away from Shane, at least until Milo Dodge had had time to do some serious police work.

“Libby—what would it take for you to break this date?”

Libby’s expression was scornful. “Why should I? Ms. Lord, how many times do I have to tell you …”

Waving my hands, I interrupted. “Stop calling me Ms. Lord! And stop and think for a minute,
period
. I’m certain Shane went to meet Kelvin Greene at the cemetery. He left his van parked up on First Hill Road by the Tolberg farm. I was at the Campbells’ that night for dinner. Shane was late getting home, and I don’t think he brought the van with him. He must have walked down First Hill Road to the cemetery so his van wouldn’t be seen, and after he shot Kelvin Greene, Shane ran home, right through his mother’s flower garden. It’s only half a block.” I steeled myself for the next question: “Libby—did you meet Shane at the cemetery and help him get rid of the gun?”

Libby looked stunned as well as angry. “Of course not! That’s a terrible thing to say! You’re way out of line!”

I was. Libby’s vehemence jarred me. “Okay, okay,” I soothed. “But you’ve got to be realistic. There’s a murderer loose in Alpine. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Shane didn’t kill Jerome Cole. But somebody did, and somebody—maybe the same person—killed Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles within the last week.” Briefly, I considered tipping my hand and revealing why I was certain that the recent murders had been committed by someone in the Campbell ménage. I bit my tongue. Libby’s rigid face told me that nothing I could say would convince her. Indeed, for a fleeting moment, she actually looked as if she’d like to slug me. I couldn’t blame her. Not only had I condemned her for
collusion, I’d accused the man she loved of murder. Worse yet, I’d baldly stated that he was infatuated with another woman. Libby Boyd had every right to throw me out of the apartment.

Apparently Libby saw the uncertainty on my face and put out a hand. “Hey—Ms. Lord, forget it. You’re taking your job too seriously. Remember, I’m a city girl. I’m used to looking out for myself. Given the way I was brought up, in a sense I’ve always been on my own. I’ve been going with Shane for a year. He’s never done a single thing to upset me, let alone scare me. If anything, he’s too laid-back. Now go home and stop worrying.”

I didn’t have any choice. I smiled at Libby as I left, but inside, I felt grim. By the time I got to the lobby, Shane was coming up the walkway. On a whim, I jumped back into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

I waited about five minutes, then walked down the fire stairs to three. Libby and Carla lived in the second unit from the end of the hall. Feeling silly, I knocked on the neighboring door. There was no answer. I tried the door; it was unlocked.

The apartment was vacant. Judging from the pristine condition of the carpet and the walls, it had never been occupied. It was a two-bedroom unit, identical to Carla and Libby’s. Carefully, I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and stepped out. I could hear Shane and Libby, if barely.

“It’s up to you,” Shane was saying.

Libby’s response was muffled. I suspected she might be in the bedroom, changing.

“I’d rather have more privacy,” Shane said, his voice now a notch louder.

“Well?” Libby sounded much closer. “For once, you decide.”

There was a pause. “Let’s go,” Shane said. A moment later, I heard the faint click of the door.

I waited only as long as I dared. Peeking into the hallway, I found it empty. Shane and Libby had gone down to the lobby. I hurried along the corridor and caught the elevator as it came back up. To my chagrin, it stopped at two
on the way down. A middle-aged couple I’d seen around town got in, smiling and nodding.

Fortunately, the trip wasn’t long enough to encourage conversation. They moved at a stroll; I raced out of the building ahead of them. Libby and Shane were just pulling away from the curb in a turquoise Pontiac compact. I hoped they didn’t see me head for the Jag two spaces down the street.

Following someone in a small town like Alpine isn’t easy, especially in a semi-exotic foreign automobile. Surely Libby had noticed the Jaguar still parked outside of The Pines Village. On the other hand, I might bank on the mutual absorption of young lovers. As I followed the Pontiac down Alpine Way, I kept a block’s distance between us. There wasn’t much traffic at seven-thirty on a Sunday evening.

Lulled into thinking Shane and Libby would go all the way down Alpine to Front, I was caught by surprise when they turned right onto Fir Street. This wasn’t a logical route to the Whistling Marmot. Indeed, this would lead us straight past the mobile-home park, a block of condos, and into my own neighborhood. It was still broad daylight. What would Libby and Shane think if they saw me in the rearview mirror and I didn’t pull into my driveway?

But just before I reached the intersection at Fourth and Fir, I saw the Pontiac’s right turn signal go on. The car slowed as it turned into the Fifth Street cul-de-sac.

My heart leapt. Shane and Libby weren’t going to the movies. It was too early, for one thing, a good two hours before the next showing of the feature film. From the balcony, I’d overheard them talking about
privacy
. Were they going to hide out in the cul-de-sac and make love? Given the recent discovery of a corpse there, it seemed like an odd choice.

One thing was certain—having turned off Fir Street, there was nowhere else they
could
go. I pulled up in front of the unfinished construction near the corner and got out of the Jag. Feeling like a grade C detective in a grade B movie, I skulked through the tall ferns and flowering berry bushes that separated the construction site from the cul-de-sac.

Shane and Libby had gotten out of the Pontiac. They
were walking hand-in-hand toward the woods. What was their intention? I could hardly traipse after them and embarrass all three of us by interrupting a tryst. But I was still fearful of what could happen next. Heedless of my black slacks and gray blouse, I ran back through the brambles, racing for my car.

I shot up Fir Street, turned onto First Hill Road, and sped all the way down to the Icicle Creek development where Milo lived in one of the older, more modest houses built in the tract. Fortunately, his home was also among the closest to Highway 187. I made the drive in under three minutes.

Milo wasn’t up on his roof but he was down on his couch. There was no time to argue, I blurted. He must get in the Jag and come with me. Was he armed?

Milo Dodge rarely moves in haste. His first reaction was to scratch himself under his T-shirt and yawn. I guessed he’d been taking a nap in front of the TV.

“What’re you talking about, Emma?” he demanded in a cross voice. “I’m off duty.”

I yelled; I nagged; I pushed; I shoved. In the end, we got into Milo’s Cherokee Chief. I drove. He put on a flannel shirt that was lying on the floor, loaded his Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum, sneezed twice, and muttered incoherently.

“… bunch of bullshit … Shane Campbell … good kid, little slow … black troublemakers … Marlow Whipp? I must be nuts …”

We’d reached the cul-de-sac. Shane’s Pontiac looked innocent with the setting sun gleaming off the metallic turquoise finish. As I’d feared, Shane and Libby were nowhere to be seen. Milo and I jumped down from the Cherokee Chief, heading up the makeshift trail that was actually a deer run.

“Milo,” I whispered, after we’d gone about fifty yards into the forest, “should we not
tromp?”

“I don’t give a damn if I bellow,” Milo retorted. But in fact he began to watch his step, pausing to peer between the evergreens.

We had gone well beyond the site where Wesley Charles’s body had been found. However, there was still a trail of sorts, no doubt the same one that Tim Rafferty and
Tiffany Eriks had followed from the Icicle Creek campground. As we climbed up higher on the mountainside, the underbrush gave way to tall cedars, fir, and hemlock. There was pine, too, and clumps of huckleberry and stands of fern. It was beautiful, yet menacing. The quiet overwhelmed us. We were also losing the light as the sun began to slide down behind the mountains.

We reached the Forest Service trail, which ran in an east-west direction. Milo and I had no idea which way to go. Shane and Libby had almost a ten-minute head start. I was now certain that lovemaking wasn’t their object. If that had been the case, they would have stopped much farther down the hillside. Soft ferns and gentle earth would have been more conducive to romantic purposes. Apprehension made my heart pump faster.

I was standing at Milo’s elbow while he stifled a sneeze. “Should we split up?” I whispered.

He gave me a disdainful look. “You’re the one who wanted me to bring a sidearm. What’re you going to use? Your thumb?”

Milo, of course, was right. The west-bound trail led to the ski lodge, more than a mile away. To the east lay the Tolberg farm and the Dithers Sisters’ horse ranch. The Tolberg property was nearest, perhaps only a couple of hundred yards away. I guessed that Shane and Libby would have taken the long route, in the direction of the lodge. Their chances of meeting anyone this time of night would be almost nil.

Milo didn’t argue. We picked up the pace on the trail—the sheriff with his long, loping strides; I, virtually running to keep up. Within three minutes, we saw movement ahead of us: two figures were standing by a wooden footbridge that crosses Alpine Creek. The trail dips down to the bridge where the stream tumbles among moss-covered rocks, then takes a deep, dizzy plunge, and eventually joins Burl Creek just west of the mall. Flanked by tall ferns and dogtooth violets, it was a perfect sylvan setting.

But now it was filled with menace. As we approached on tiptoe, we could see Libby’s back turned to us. She was at the edge of the trail, a step from the bridge. Beyond her, we could make out Shane’s head and the left side of his body.
They appeared to be in earnest, even heated, conversation.

“He’s going to push her off the bridge,” I breathed. “She’ll go right over the falls!”

Milo quickened his step. I followed. Shane looked up and saw us. He shouted something I couldn’t hear. Libby craned her neck, then screamed. Shane lunged at her; they struggled, teetering at the edge of the bridge. We were within twenty feet of the pair, and now Milo was yelling at them to desist.

Libby was strong: She had managed to break free from Shane, but to my horror, instead of fleeing the bridge, she pressed forward. Now it was Shane who appeared to be on the defensive. Milo had pulled his King Cobra Magnum.

“Stop!” he shouted once more. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

It was not an empty threat. As Shane again grabbed Libby, Milo fired into the air. Then he dropped to one knee, the gun fixed on the battling couple.

A second shot shattered the mountain’s natural peace. I jumped, then stared at Milo. He hadn’t budged, but was gaping at Shane and Libby. Shane had fallen onto the bridge, clutching his side. His head dangled over the edge. Libby whirled around, and I saw the gun in her hand. I uttered a little shriek; Milo swore.

“Don’t do it!” he warned. “Drop it! Now!”

Libby threw Milo one last defiant look. She didn’t drop the gun. Instead, she turned again and jumped. I could have sworn I heard her scream all the way to Burl Creek.

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT
and Milo was sneezing his head off. He sat behind his desk with a bottle of Benadryl in one hand and an inhaler in the other. The fluorescent lights flickered above us. Carla and
I
were seated in the two visitors’ chairs while Peyton Flake lounged against a filing cabinet.

“Shane’ll be up and around tomorrow,” Flake assured us for the third time. “Take your guilt trip somewhere else, guys. You did your best.”

But neither Milo nor
I
was feeling very proud of ourselves. The sheriff had been unable to prevent Shane from getting shot and Libby Boyd from committing suicide. And
I
, the dreadful dunce, had picked out the wrong murderer.