The Alpine Nemesis (20 page)

After the service had concluded, I stayed at the rear of the church, waiting for Vida. But, as usual, she was being waylaid by various persons. The caskets had been rolled outside, so I joined the other departing mourners. Three hearses, which I hadn't noticed on my way in, awaited the bodies.

“Al had to borrow a hearse from Sultan and one from Monroe,” said Roseanna Bayard, Buddy's wife.

“Al's busy these days,” I remarked. “Tomorrow is the Nyquist funeral.”

“We'll be busy, too, developing all these photos for you,” Roseanna said, as Dan Peebles gave directions to the pallbearers. “Is Vida taking the pictures for both services?”

Watching the first coffin being placed inside the hearse from Driggers Funeral Home, I nodded. “Scott's got his hands full with the upcoming summer solstice preparations, the high school and college graduations, and all the usual end-of-year school stuff. We should have a big issue Wednesday. I hope the advertising can support it.”

“You worry too much, Emma.” Roseanna gave me her slightly gap-toothed smile, then gestured off to her left. “Or is he the problem?”

I looked in the direction Roseanna had indicated. Spencer Fleetwood was interviewing Mickey O'Neill. “You know darned well he's the problem,” I said. “By the way, I appreciate the fact that you and Buddy haven't advertised with him so far.”

Roseanna shrugged her plump shoulders. “We don't
need to. Besides, he doesn't give us any business like you do.”

“I don't know how he keeps afloat,” I said as the Drig-gers hearse pulled slowly away from the church. “He must have money somewhere in his background.”

“You interviewed him for the paper when he got here,” Roseanna recalled. “Did he let on about his financial status?”

I made a face. “He gave me a big line about how successful he'd been in radio over the years and how when he hit forty—fifty would be more like it—he wanted to escape the Big City and Big Network rat races. I didn't believe him, but that's as much as he'd tell me.”

“Maybe he's a crook,” Roseanna said. “You know, one of those radio personalities who took payola.”

“Could be,” I said, watching the second casket being put into the borrowed hearse from Sultan. “I suppose I could launch an investigation, but I don't have the time or the staff for that.”

As Lona and Meara O'Neill got into Al's black Cadillac limousine, Roseanna nudged me. “You heard about the change of plans?”

“What change?” I asked.

“Before Mass,” Roseanna said, her voice still low, “Al Driggers announced that the O'Neills would be buried in Alpine after all. I guess the rest of the family nixed the trip to Ireland. It must cost the world to do that. None of them have that kind of money.”

“You mean,” I asked in surprise, “the hearses are headed for the cemetery right now?”

Roseanna nodded. “Yes. Buddy has to go along as a pallbearer, but I'm going back to the studio. I can't keep the place closed up all morning.”

I couldn't afford to linger, either. As soon as the third hearse had pulled out, I got into my car and headed for the
Advocate.
I was distracted, however, and almost ran
an arterial stop sign at the Icicle Creek Road and Front Street. Something was bothering me, and for once it had nothing to do with my personal life.

It was those damned weapons, and the concept of terrorists. Mickey O'Neill had bragged about being Irish. No doubt his father, as well as his uncles and grandfather, had instilled Celtic pride in the young man. Was it possible that the O'Neills had been running guns for the IRA?

The suggestion was so ludicrous that I laughed aloud behind the wheel and actually did go right through the yield sign at the pedestrian walk on Front at Fifth. Unfortunately, it was occupied; I managed to scatter Edna Mae Dalrymple, the town librarian and one of my erstwhile bridge partners, Jim Medved, the local veterinarian, and Averill Fairbanks, our resident sighter of UFOs.

“Save the Earthlings!” Averill cried as my bumper missed him by inches. “Death to Uranus!”

“Sorry!” I shouted through the window as the trio collected themselves and staggered toward safety. “I thought this was the landing pad,” I added for Averill's benefit. Clinging to a light standard, he glared at me as I drove on.

Back at my desk, I asked Leo to join me. “What do you know about the IRA?” I inquired.

Leo shot me a quizzical look. “They cause trouble,” he replied, sitting down in one of my visitor's chairs. “Why would I know anything about it?”

Did he sound defensive? I thought so, and said as much. “Are you a sympathizer?”

Leo laughed. “Hell, no. They're a bunch of hoodlums. The current wrecking crew is actually the Provisional Irish Republican Army. They're from the north, and broke off from the more conciliatory Dublin-based organization thirty years ago. I'll bet at this stage hardly any
of them know Ireland's real history. ‘Bloody Friday’ is just a catchphrase, and Michael Collins is only a name.”

“Mickey O'Neill said this morning that his father taught him all about Irish history,” I said. “He even mentioned the potato famine.”

“Potato famines,” Leo corrected me. “There were two, you know. But then you're not Irish.”

“No,” I said, “I'm not. I'm mostly English and part German.”

“Were the Germans the Catholic ancestors?” Leo asked.

I nodded. “I suppose you'd call it English whimsy, but I can't help wondering if the O'Neills had some kind of IRA ties.”

Leo looked at me as if I were crazy. “The O'Neills? You're kidding.”

I couldn't confide in Leo about the rocket launchers, but I could tell him my suspicions about bodies being shipped abroad to Ireland. “Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

Leo shrugged. “I thought Oscar Nyquist wanted to be buried in Norway. Does that make Oscar a Norwegian terrorist?”

“No, of course not, but—”

Leo held up a hand. “Hold it, Emma. You just said the family had changed their minds about burying the O'Neills in the old sod, right? So how do you explain that?”

I admitted that I couldn't. “But I've heard things over the years,” I persisted, “about an Irish network all across the United States and Canada. You know darned well that most of the IRA's arms are shipped out of this country.”

“Call them the Provisionals,” Leo advised. “For Provisional Irish Republican Army. No, Alpine's never been a hotbed of pro-Irish sentiment.”

“Seattle is, though,” I noted. “I heard some tales when I was growing up.”

Leo shrugged. “Could be. I've never lived there.”

My ad manager wasn't being much help, and, to be fair, he was at a disadvantage because I couldn't mention the weapon stash. Of course, I'd told Tom, but that was different. Now that we were engaged, I felt that we two were one. It was a romantic notion to be sure, but also a novel concept. For me, anyway.

Leo wandered back to his desk while I considered my editorial for the coming edition. I'd have to do the obligatory summer solstice piece, urging Alpiners to support and enjoy their annual festival. I should expound on the recent violence between the Hartquists and the O'Neills, but meaningful ideas proved elusive. When I wasn't trying to think of reasons why Brian Conley had been murdered or how the O'Neill clan had acquired serious weaponry, I was envisioning my life with Tom. This particular Friday wasn't lending itself to creativity at the word processor.

Tom called just before noon to tell me that he'd made reservations at Le Gourmand, the French restaurant down the highway. We should celebrate, he said. Besides, he was in the mood for duck.

It crossed my mind that once he was living in Alpine, Tom might be in the mood for many things, of which few were available less than two hours away. All those years he was married to Sandra, I'd had visions of him attending the opera, the theatre, the symphony, and all sorts of Giants and Forty-niners and Warriors games. Yet I knew that as Sandra declined, he socialized very little. His contacts seemed to be all business, with little time or energy left for pleasure. Maybe he wouldn't care that Alpine's extracurricular offerings were limited to high school football, the college's faculty talent show, and the Burl Creek Thimble Club's annual Quiltathon.

Although I didn't write a meaty editorial that afternoon,
I was busy. Civic-minded locals brought in items they wanted in the summer solstice edition, Oscar Nyquist's relatives fed Vida anecdotes about the local movie impresario, and what seemed like a hundred proud parents came by to make sure we carried their offsprings' high school and college achievements.

I got stuck with some of the latter, featuring a Petersen scion who'd been chosen “Most Likely to Become a First-Class Chicken Farmer,” a Pidduck lass who'd won the Miss Charm Award, and a cheerful chubster nicknamed “Meringue” who'd chomped his way through the annual pie-eating contest in the high school parking lot. By the time I'd whipped out copy on this trio, I was ready for a break. In fact, I was hungry for a piece of pie, but since it was almost four and I didn't want to spoil my gourmet dinner, I avoided the Upper Crust Bakery and marched to the sheriff's office.

Milo, however, wasn't in.

“He left town,” Jack Mullins informed me, the familiar twinkle in his eyes.

“For the weekend?” I asked in surprise.

“No,” Jack replied. “He went over to Everett. Strictly work-related. But I doubt he'll be back in the office this afternoon.”

“What's he doing in Everett?”

Jack's expression grew furtive. “Can't say. Top secret.”

Fleetingly, I considered telling Jack that I knew about the weapons cache. If I did, maybe he'd confide in me about Milo's reason for driving the fifty-odd miles to Everett on a busy June weekend. But I decided not to reveal my covert knowledge. The sheriff might get miffed.

“So what else is new?” I asked Jack. “Anything we should know before the weekend starts?”

Jack shrugged, though he avoided my gaze. “Not much. Commencement weekend, should be the usual
wrecks out on the road. All those students and parents taking Highway 2 to get across the state. Pray for sun. Half those people out there don't know how to drive in the rain.”

“Speaking of prayer,” I said, “what did you think of the tripleheader at St. Mildred's this morning?”

Jack shrugged again. “Kind of a letdown, in a way. But I heard the reception in the church hall was semiwild. It went on until about two-thirty, when Father Den and Jake O'Toole started throwing people out. The last I heard—I'll bet it won't really be the last—the heavy drinkers took off for Mugs Ahoy.”

I wasn't surprised. “The taverns and bars should be busy even without the mourners. I understand there aren't any vacancies at the motels and the ski lodge. Many of the parents, mainly of the college kids, have come for the weekend.”

“Not to mention Oscar Nyquist's relations,” Jack noted. “Some of those Norwegians can outdrink the Irish.”

“Have you got extra men on patrol tonight?”

Jack nodded. “Three deputies. Not to mention the emergency personnel on standby. Hell, all the bars have hired extra help, too.”

Toni Andreas looked up from her phone console. “Emma, there's a call for you. Do you mind?”

“No,” I said, a bit surprised. “Where shall I pick it up?”

Jack pointed to the phone on the other side of the counter. “Can you grab that?”

I took the receiver and said hello. Mae Conley's tearful voice was on the other end of the line. I could barely make out what she was saying:

“Mrs. Lord? I have some awful news.”

“About what?” I asked, giving Jack a puzzled glance.

“About Brian.” Mrs. Conley paused, sniffled, and
coughed twice. “Excuse me, I'm so upset. Anyway, the airline people found Brian's casket.”

It was my turn to pause. “They did? Why is that awful news?”

“Because,” Mrs. Conley replied, and now her voice grew stronger, “Brian wasn't in it.”

I
WASN'T SURE
I'd heard correctly. “Did you say Brian was not in the coffin?”

“Yes, that's what I said.” Mae Conley now sounded faintly impatient with me. “The coffin was empty.”

“I don't understand,” I said, grabbing a memo pad and a pen from beside the telephone. “Where was the casket found?”

“At JFK in New York,” Mrs. Conley said. “It was in a storage area where it shouldn't have been. My husband and I are going to sue.”

I'd hastily scribbled the information about Brian's missing body on a sheet of memo paper and I handed it to Jack Mullins. “Sue? Who would you sue?” I asked, still dismayed.

“Whoever is responsible,” Mrs. Conley declared, sorrow and impatience giving way to wrath. “This is an outrage! I suppose we should start with the funeral home in Alpine.”

Jack was rolling his eyes. “I'm at the sheriff's office, right now,” I said. “I'll let them know what's happened. Is there any possibility of a mistake?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped. “Brian was either in the coffin or he wasn't. And he wasn't.”

“Have you contacted the police?”

“That's who found the casket in the first place,” Mrs. 170

Conley replied. “My husband had called the authorities in charge of the airport. As usual, the police are baffled.”