The Alpine Pursuit (15 page)

“That’s good news for now,” I said, keeping an eye on a cedar log that was throwing sparks onto the hearth. “But if it freezes up, driving’s going to be awful in the morning.”

“Highway 2’s still closed,” Spence noted. “A bunch of skiers got stranded at the summit. The Red Cross sent a couple of buses from Wenatchee to take them out on the eastern slope, via Leavenworth and Blewett Pass to I-90.”

“Anybody from around here?” I inquired.

Spence shook his head. “City types. Not attuned to nature like the locals.”

I sipped my hot buttered rum and looked straight at Spence. “You didn’t come here to discuss the weather.”

Spence flashed his white, white teeth in the grin that always made him look slightly feral. “Right. I came to gossip.”

“Huh?” I was surprised.

“Look.” He set the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned forward, hands on knees.
Mr. Earnest,
I thought. What now? “I assume,” he continued in his full, mellow radio voice, “you’re doing your usual ‘let’s-get-to-the-bottom-of-this’ sleuthing with regards to Hans Berenger’s death.”

“Journalists always seek Truth,” I said, deliberately sounding pompous.

“Right, right.” His expression was amused. “I don’t have that luxury. Just keeping the station on the air takes up most of my time and energy. In many ways, I’m a one-man operation. And, of course, I don’t have Vida Runkel.”

“True,” I conceded.

“Which is why I’m here.” Spence turned his head to clear his throat, no doubt an acquired habit from not making extraneous noises into a microphone. “Having been present when Berenger was shot, I feel an obligation to help sort this out. But I can’t focus on it. So my contribution is to give you what information I have. It may be worthless. The he said/she said stuff isn’t my forte anyway. That’s women’s work. Females seem to have a knack for sorting out the wheat from the chaff.”

I think it was a compliment. “So who said what?”

Spence sat back in the chair and took a puff on his cigarette. “Let’s start with generalities. Rehearsals were often rife with contentiousness. I’ve done amateur theatrics before, and there’s always chaos and disagreement and warring personalities. But this was different. There was an undertone I couldn’t quite pin down.”

Ed had made a similar statement, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. Maybe he had sensed something gone awry. If so, I trusted Spence’s interpretation more than I did Ed’s. “No outright animosities?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, there were plenty of those.” Spence paused for a quaff from his drink. “Destiny fought with almost everybody except Reverend Poole. And Nat Cardenas. I suppose she didn’t dare challenge him because he’s the boss. But it was clear that Cardenas wasn’t comfortable being in the play. I assume he felt he had to do it to promote the college.”

“It seemed beneath his dignity,” I allowed.

“That script was beneath Dodo’s dignity,” Spence said. “Even a dog shouldn’t have had to perform in that piece of junk.”

“Other than blatant self-promotion, why did
you
do it?”

He chuckled. “Vanity.”

His candor surprised me. “No kidding.”

“Rey Fernandez asked if I’d like to be the narrator,” Spence explained. “Destiny had mentioned the idea to him. I hadn’t read the script yet. I decided that if a narrator was required, they might as well have a pro. Who else?”

The question was so artlessly posed that I had to smile. “Well, you’re definitely that.”

Spence shrugged. “I was ripe for the picking. After all the troubles with my family and the station getting blown up, I needed to do something off-the-wall. At the time, it seemed like a welcome diversion.”

I softened at Spence’s reference to the tragedies he’d lived and relived the previous September. I’d seen a different side of him then. Vulnerable. Guilt-ridden. Close to the breaking point. But ultimately, undaunted. “I understand,” I said quietly.

“Yes.” He stared at me for a long moment. “Yes. You do.”

The silence that fell between us was painful but not awkward. Spence broke it by tapping the coffee table and making a
rat-tat-tat
noise. “And now back to the news,” he said in his radio voice.

I smiled. “I’m all ears.”

“So we’ve got all these actors and techs and hangers-on at the rehearsals. Some of Destiny’s students didn’t take an active part, but they had to attend all the pre-performance doings in order to get credit for the course. That’s how Rey got roped in, though he figured he’d enjoy it. He’s serious about going into radio or TV someday. So Destiny’s being a control freak, which doesn’t sit well with the cast members. It’s clear that she and Hans can’t stand each other, but then Hans isn’t—wasn’t—Mr. Lovable.” Spence was delivering his information as if he were racing the hands of a big clock in the studio. “The only two people Hans didn’t seem to despise were Rita and Cardenas. He even snubbed the reverend and the mayor. At one point, the ornery S.O.B. tried to kick Dodo. He and Medved got into it over that, but Jim’s your basic nonviolent type and I doubt Hans was used to taking disagreements out into the alley.”

Spence paused for breath and another sip of his grog.

“I heard Clea insisted that Hans have a part in the play,” I put in. “Do you know why?”

“Why she insisted or why he agreed to do it?” Spence frowned. “Campus politics on her part. Perversity on his. I heard he wanted to play the sheriff, but Nat outranked him on the faculty A-list.”

“None of this sounds like a motive for murder,” I remarked.

“No. It sounds like ordinary pettiness and backbiting.” Spence lit another cigarette. “But sometimes those traits are symptomatic of deeper, more sinister feelings.”

“Are you saying you don’t think Hans’s death was an accident?”

Spence exhaled and shook his head. “God, no. Jim Medved is meticulous, careful. He’d never put real bullets into that gun. Thus, the shooting of Hans Berenger was premeditated murder.”

I had the frightening feeling that Spence was right and repressed a shudder. But there remained the problem of the victim. “So it was Hans who was meant to die? In the play, I mean.”

Spence’s expression was wry. “Of course. They didn’t ad-lib the last part of the performance. In rehearsals, Destiny kept reminding Nat to aim in Hans’s direction, though not straight at him. Even blanks can do damage. But in the heat of the performance, Nat turned into a real sharpshooter.”

“So everyone involved knew Hans would get shot,” I mused, then leaned forward to check Spence’s mug. “I’m out of buttered rum mix. Can I get you something else?”

“No thanks. I should be on my way, just in case the temperature drops fast and ice starts to form.”

When Spence rebuilt the station last fall, he’d also erected a small house on the same property. I’d never been inside, but the boxlike exterior was unimaginative and austere. Basically, it was a wood-frame structure that replicated the concrete radio headquarters. It struck me that Spence hadn’t wanted a home, just a place to eat and sleep.

I asked him if he’d seen the phantom stranger. Spence evinced mild surprise. “Not that I recall,” he said, “but I was busy when I wasn’t onstage. Studying my lines, helping the techs, especially the sound guys—a giraffe could’ve showed up and I might not have noticed.”

“What about Rita?” I asked, suddenly recalling her lunch with Spence at the ski lodge.

He chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. How was your tête-à-tête with Nat Cardenas?”

“Touché,” I responded. “It was all campus politics sandwiched in between self-glorification and feigned humility.”

“Sounds about right,” Spence murmured. “Rita was doing her Chamber of Commerce thing, and I was trying to get some co-op ads out of her. Putting noncompeting members under one umbrella, as in all the car-related businesses or services such as insurance, investments, and so forth. She hedged. Rita has no vision.”

“That was it?”

Spence’s dark eyes twinkled. “Up until she nudged me with her knee.”

“True or false?”

“True. I ignored the nudge and asked how Hans was getting along. The knee went away, but the question didn’t faze her. She said he was fine—couldn’t I tell that from being around him at rehearsals? I said not really, he wasn’t an outgoing kind of guy. Rita said he was deep.” Spence stopped and grinned. “I told you there would be a he said/she said thing somewhere.”

“What else did Rita say?” I prompted.

“She insisted that Hans was a very positive person. In fact, he was going to buy a farm this side of Gold Bar.”

I was incredulous. “A farm?”

Spence nodded once.

“With pigs and chickens?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t ask. Farmer Hans didn’t sound right to me.”

I agreed. “Was this to be their honeymoon hideaway?”

Spence shrugged again.

“It’s close to Alpine,” I said. “Fifteen miles, more or less.”

“Depending on how far off the highway it is.” Spence didn’t seem much interested. Of course, with Hans dead, it was a moot point.

Yet I couldn’t quite leave it alone. “A farm,” I muttered as Spence stood up and started to put on his hooded fleece-lined jacket. “Property’s no longer so cheap along that part of the Stevens Pass corridor.”

“Ah!” He wagged a finger at me. “You really are sleuthing, aren’t you?”

“I’m seeking Truth,” I said with a straight face.

“Go for it.” He opened the door himself. A heavy fog was settling in over the town. Damp, cold air rushed inside the house. Spence moved onto the porch and stopped. “I’ve never understood if you’re helping Dodge or competing with him. Which is it?”

“Good question,” I retorted. “I’ll let you seek that particular Truth.”

Spence opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and started on his way. He didn’t speak again until he was at the door of his Beamer.

“Actually,” he called out to me, “you figure it out. Thanks for the hospitality. And tune in tomorrow to KSKY for all the news that’s not fit to print until Wednesday.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Black ice was the first obstacle to overcome Monday morning. It took me twenty-five minutes instead of the usual five to negotiate the Honda through what was left of the snow and the few clear patches of pavement. I could have walked, but I feared falling down. If an accident was going to happen, I wanted some automotive armor to protect me.

My usual parking place in front of the
Advocate
was taken. In fact, the black Lincoln Town Car took up two places, despite the diagonal white stripes that had been cleared of snow and slush on Front Street. I found a spot toward the end of the block. As long I was that far from the front entrance, I walked toward the river to see how much it had dropped overnight.

The current no longer reached the sandbags. I estimated that the Sky had gone down almost a foot in the past sixteen hours. The thermometer in my carport had registered at just above thirty-two degrees when I left home.

The fog hadn’t completely lifted, but I knew that ominous clouds hid overhead.

When I entered the
Advocate
building through the rear entrance, I heard something else that was ominous: A shrill female voice resounded from the newsroom. Vida retorted in anger. With a heavy sigh, I opened the door to see who was causing the commotion.

With the aid of her sticks Thyra Rasmussen stood near Vida’s desk. An embarrassed Henry Bardeen hovered by the main door. Vida was also on her feet, fists on hips. Scott wasn’t there; Leo was pretending that he wasn’t.

“I repeat,” Vida said, perhaps as much for my benefit as for Thyra’s, “no one dictates what’s printed in the
Advocate
.” Her voice rose again. “Especially no one from Snohomish.”

“Be that way,” Thyra snarled. “You’re very stupid if you think leaving out
my
response to what happened in
my
theater is good journalism. It’s censorship, that’s what it is.”

I realized that the Lincoln Town Car parked haphazardly in front of the office belonged to the ski lodge. It was rarely used, being reserved for a few VIPs who came to ski at the summit and stayed at the lodge.

“Hold it,” I interjected. “What’s the problem?”

Thyra jerked around to stare at me. “You. Vida’s stooge. Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“I did. Do you have a written statement?”

“Certainly.” Thyra waved one of her sticks at Vida’s desk. “She has it.”

Vida picked up the single sheet of paper and tossed it in Thyra’s direction. “I don’t want it.”

Thyra scowled at the floor where the paper lay near one of her sticks. Then, as Henry hurried to pick up the statement, Thyra turned to me. “You see? Do you call that journalism? Do you call that wretched woman a journalist?”

“I call her my House & Home editor,” I replied quietly. “Unless your statement contains recipes or pruning tips, you should not have given it to Vida. You should have given it to me.”

As if on cue, Henry thrust the paper at me. “Here, Emma. If you’d been here, I’m sure Mrs. Rasmussen would’ve—”

I cut the ski lodge manager off with a wave of my hand. “That’s fine, Henry. I’m sorry I was late. Driving was treacherous.”

“I know,” Henry replied with a swift, hostile glance at Thyra. “We had to come all the way from the lodge.”

I looked at the single-spaced typewritten page.

“Mrs. Rasmussen dictated her statement to Heather,” Henry said, referring to his daughter.

I nodded. “I’ll read through this and decide how to use it,” I said to Thyra, then avoided Vida’s blazing stare. “Thank you both for going to so much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Thyra retorted. “When Mr. Rasmussen and I had a real chauffeur, he knew how to drive in any kind of weather.”

“Easy to do when he’s driving a horse and buggy,” Vida said in an angry voice. “Don’t you dare leave here until you apologize, Thyra Rasmussen!”

Thyra’s head snapped back. “For what? For saying you’re not a journalist? It’s true, isn’t it? The only reason Marius Vandeventer hired you was because you had all the dirt on everybody in this silly little town. And he felt sorry for you because your crazy fool of a husband had gotten himself killed and left you with those three ugly daughters.”