The Alpine Pursuit (18 page)

I rose from the chair. “You think I’m being a pill and maybe I am,” I said, “but I wanted to let you know what I heard. Which reminds me, Rita and Hans broke up shortly before opening night.”

The sheriff ran his big hand down his face. “Great.”

“Do you want to hear why?”

“Sure.” Milo pulled the chair back up to his desk and lit a cigarette. “Tell me that Hans was cheating on Rita with Janet Driggers. Or Justine Cardenas. Or how about Vida?”

I told him, of course, about the Krueger sale.

“So,” he mused, “Fuzzy Baugh arranged to have Hans knocked off to get Irene her dog patch.”

I kind of liked the idea. But I didn’t say so. “You know yourself, Milo, that a breakup quarrel is often the tip of the iceberg.”

“Right.” He gave me a sharp look. “There was a time or two when I felt the captain of the
Titanic
myself. Go away, Emma. I’m still on the job.”

I went. Back at the office, I did phone interviews with some of the residents whose homes had been most endangered by the near-flood. When I finished, it was after five. Everybody had left except Kip MacDuff, who was installing the new software. Computer-savvy as he was, Kip had encountered some problems. Since I’m lucky if I can turn on my PC every morning, I didn’t offer advice.

Driving home was much easier than going to work. The snow continued to melt on the streets, but not at an alarming rate that might cause the river to rise again.

I felt at loose ends that evening. If Milo had interviewed only the faculty members who were directly involved in
The Outcast
, maybe he should question some of the other hundred-plus people who worked at the college. And maybe he would, if he had the time and the manpower. Since Hans’s murder, I’d spoken only with Destiny and Clea. Not Nat Cardenas and certainly not his wife, Justine. Of the students, I’d talked to Boots Overholt but not Rey Fernandez.

I made a list. As far as the rest of the cast was concerned, I could cross off Rip Ridley, Rita Patricelli, Fuzzy Baugh, and Roger. I’d chatted with all of them since the tragedy. I also put a line through Dustin Fong’s name. Being a law officer, he would have told Milo everything he knew. That left Rev. Otis Poole and Dr. Jim Medved. Maybe I should make some phone calls.

I skipped the Reverend Poole, knowing that he conducted a prayer service Monday nights. It wouldn’t be wise to call Nat and Justine at home. They could cut me off at will. Rey was probably sitting in for Spence at KSKY. That left Jim Medved.

His wife, Sherry, answered. Sherry was a former Washington State University cheerleader who still had more energy than the law allowed.

“Emma!” she exclaimed. “How are you? I keep meaning to stop by the newspaper office just to say hi, but darn—I always seem to be on the run. Are you calling about the women’s shelter? I’ve been putting in some long hours there, but it’s so-o-o rewarding. I can’t believe there are so many battered women in Skykomish County. Would you believe we’ve even gotten some poor darlings from King and Chelan counties?”

She had to stop for breath, allowing me to tell her that I was actually calling for her husband. After another burst of nuclear-sized energy, Sherry handed the phone over to Jim.

“Did you find a stray?” Jim asked in a far more subdued voice.

“Just stray questions,” I replied, hearing the wind suddenly swoop down through the chimney. I explained that I was trying to put together a cohesive story on Hans’s shooting. “I know this is painful, Jim, but I still have to interview the people involved.”

“I was certainly that,” he broke in, his tone bitter. “I feel as if I might as well have fired that cursed gun myself.”

“Since Nat did the firing, I’m sure he feels just as awful as you do,” I noted.

“Maybe. Nat’s a cold fish.” He paused. “Sorry. That wasn’t kind. Let’s say he shows a cold exterior. Maybe he’s torn up inside.”

“Nat’s extremely disciplined,” I said, having always felt that Nat’s public face was carefully cultivated. “I’ll keep this short, Jim. Did you buy the blanks?”

“Yes,” he answered, “from Harvey’s Hardware. He had to special-order them. They didn’t come in until last Monday.”

“Did you check them out?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you look at them to make sure they were blanks?”

“Of course.” Jim sounded a bit put off by my query. “I opened them as soon as I got back to the office. They looked like real bullets, but they weren’t. The box was marked
BLANKS
in several places.”

“Was it sealed?”

Jim paused. “Yes. There was some tape. You know, just ordinary Scotch tape.”

“You never let the box out of your sight after you got it?”

“I can’t say that.” Jim cleared his throat. “I put it in my desk. That night I took it home and put it with the .38.”

“Which was where?”

“In a drawer of our bedroom dresser.”

It sounded safe enough. Except for the time when the blanks were at Jim’s office. “Who,” I inquired, “had appointments that day?”

“Ohhh. . . .” Jim stopped to think. “You know, so much has happened, I can’t remember off the top of my head. I’d have to look at my appointment book tomorrow. Is there any hurry?”

“Tuesday is our deadline,” I reminded Jim. “Can you call me at the paper?”

“I’ll try,” Jim said. “Is that all?”

I led Jim through the hours before and during the play. His account jibed with what I’d already heard. The bottom line, of course, was that the gun had been left unattended at various times, despite Boots Overholt’s best efforts at tending the prop box. Jim hadn’t fired the gun during rehearsals. There were only a dozen cartridges in the box. With four performances scheduled, he couldn’t waste them.

After hanging up, I could hear the wind in the evergreens that flanked the south side of my house. The weather must be changing. I stepped out the front door to check the clouds. They were moving swiftly to the west. Perhaps the skies were finally clearing. Or more clouds were moving in from the Cascades. You could never be sure in western Washington.

By ten o’clock, the wind was still blowing. I estimated the gusts to be somewhere in the vicinity of fifty miles an hour. I could hear garbage can lids clattering and tree branches snapping. The lights flickered several times. A power outage was likely.

Sure enough, the house was plunged in darkness just before I turned on the eleven o’clock TV news. I lit the candles I kept on the mantel but didn’t bother to stoke up the fireplace. It was almost time for bed.

Assuming mine wasn’t the only household without electricity, I again went to the front porch. The town seemed to have vanished. While the wind was still blowing hard, the sky had cleared. I could see stars and a half moon over Mount Baldy.

Once my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could also see something move across the street at Destiny Parsons’s house. It was human. It looked more like a man than a woman. Whoever he was, his progress was impeded by the wind as he walked slowly toward the street.

I stepped back off the porch but continued to watch. Maybe I wanted to make sure the man wasn’t Milo. But this guy was shorter and seemed younger as well. He stopped near the street and began to wrestle with something that was lying on the ground. It was Destiny’s mailbox, which apparently had blown over. The man struggled to upright it and resettle it in the ground. He finally accomplished his task and started back into the house.

Watching him make his plodding way to the porch, I saw that he was wearing a heavy jacket, jeans, and a watch cap. At one point, he turned so that I could see his profile. He had a beard.

He matched the description of the man who had driven the Mitsubishi into the river and fled from the police.

TWELVE

I picked up the phone to call Milo, but the line was dead. I felt frustrated, but only for a moment. Modern technology would save me. Getting my cell phone out of my purse, I attempted to reach Milo the twenty-first-century way. Wireless. Not relying on landlines that could be blown down at Mother Nature’s whim.

But I met defeat. Getting a recorded message that informed me the call could not go through, I realized that I wasn’t the only one in Alpine who was thinking high tech.

Maybe I was overreacting. Occasionally I’d seen young people arrive at Destiny’s house. I’d assumed they were students. But they came early in the evening and never stayed late. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Destiny had taken a student lover. That would explain his midnight presence.

Still, I wasn’t satisfied. My inability to reach Milo frustrated me further until I came up with another, much older, idea. The Good Neighbor Policy would be practiced. Removing my robe, I dressed hurriedly and left the house. The wind seemed to have abated, at least temporarily. I had little trouble crossing the street, barely enough time to rehearse my speech describing my concern for Destiny, who had already suffered enough lately and shouldn’t be left alone at such a time.

I poked the bell but couldn’t hear it ring inside the house. Maybe it was very soft; maybe it was broken. I knocked on the door. I knocked again, louder. After the third try, I went around to the back and resumed knocking. After a half-dozen tries, I gave up. But before I could go down the three steps that led to the walkway, I heard the door open behind me.

Destiny’s voice was sharp: “Who is it?”

“Emma,” I replied, turning around. “Are you okay?”

Destiny was in her bathrobe. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

I waved a hand at the sky. “The wind. The power failure. I just thought I’d check to see if—”

“I’m fine. I was in bed. What’s the big deal? This isn’t the first power failure we’ve had around here.”

“No, but it’s—”

“Thanks for checking. Good night.” She slammed the door.

So much for the Good Neighbor Policy. Apparently, I’d qualified for the Nosy Neighbor Award instead.

∗ ∗ ∗

I tried to reach Milo again but had no luck. It was going on midnight, but since I was already dressed, I decided to drive to his house in Icicle Creek. It took me fifteen minutes. While there was virtually no traffic, the moon had slipped behind Baldy, making visibility poor. Obstacles—tree branches, garbage cans, cardboard cartons, even
Advocate
delivery boxes—littered the streets. I didn’t dare go faster than five miles an hour.

Milo was up when I arrived, and talking on his cell phone. He looked startled to see me but let me in without disconnecting his call. As I wandered around his kitchen and bumped into various objects, I realized that he was on the line with the PUD, trying to determine when power would be restored.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, finally dumping the phone on the kitchen counter. “They don’t know jack!” He was silent for a moment, fingering his long chin. At last he looked at me as if he only now realized I was present. “What’s with you? Did your house blow down?”

“No, but I think—maybe—I know where your missing man is.”

“What?” Milo rubbed at his eyes. “Come into the living room. I’ve got a couple of Coleman lanterns in there.”

Everything else he owned seemed to be in the living room, too. The place was as cluttered as I’d ever seen it. The sheriff wasn’t much of a housekeeper at best, and he’d certainly been busy the last few days. Before I sat down, I removed an empty pizza box, a
TV Guide
, and a box of pretzels from an armchair.

“You won’t want to hear this,” I began, “but I have to tell you.” I proceeded to describe who and what I’d seen at Destiny’s house. I also told Milo about my futile visit.

Milo, who was wearing a tattered pair of khaki pants and a Mariners sweatshirt, looked skeptical. “You didn’t get within thirty feet of this guy. Could you pick him out of a lineup?”

“Only if the other men didn’t have beards,” I admitted. “But that hardly means you should ignore him.”

“How many times have you seen young guys at Destiny’s house?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

I grimaced. “A few times.” Like ten or more. “She has students come over for discussions or coaching or whatever, I think. But I usually hear them leave—if I hear them at all—before ten.”

Milo smoked and thought. “Hell. Maybe it’s worth a shot.” He retrieved his cell phone from the kitchen. “Sam and Dustin are on duty tonight. I’ll send them. You want a drink or something?”

I shook my head. Milo finished his call, went back to the kitchen, and returned with a shot of Scotch. “This could be a long night,” he muttered. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

I didn’t comment. After a long pause, I mentioned that I should head home.

“Better wait,” Milo cautioned. “If you’re right about the guy at Destiny’s house, you don’t want to be around if things get dicey.”

“On the contrary,” I said, standing up, “that’s exactly where I want to be. I’m a journalist, remember?”

The sheriff also got to his feet. “Emma . . .”

“Spare me,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I have to follow my nose for news.”

Milo blocked my passage. “You don’t want to get your nose shot off, do you?”

I jabbed at his chest, right in the middle of the Mariners’ compass logo. “Move it, Lawman. I’ve got work to do.”

Milo grabbed my wrist. “Slow down.” He looked into my face. It wasn’t the stern, stubborn, or commanding expression I’d expected. Yet I knew this look equally well. It was desire, yearning, loneliness, maybe even a touch of hope.

“Milo . . .” I sounded forlorn.

To my surprise, he let go and stepped back. “Go ahead. Just be careful. And stay inside.”

I promised that I would. With a tentative smile, I left.

But not without regrets.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was going on one o’clock when I got home. To my surprise, the sheriff’s patrol car was parked in front of my house. As I slowly pulled into the driveway, I noticed that Sam and Dustin appeared to be in the vehicle. There was no one in the backseat.

I got out of the Honda; they exited their car and headed toward me.

“Knock, knock, nobody home across the street,” Sam said in his dour manner. “Nobody suspicious, that is. Mind if we come in?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Sam said. Apparently, Dustin agreed or merely deferred to his senior officer. “Just wanted to let you know what happened,” Sam went on. “Dodge told us you were on your way home.”

I was about to suggest we leave the kitchen for the living room where I could relight one of my candles when suddenly the electricity went on.

“Thank goodness,” I breathed. “Have a seat.”

But Sam refused that offer, too. “We have to get going. Lots of debris to clear, more than the road crew can handle.” He took out a wrinkled handkerchief and blew his nose. “Got a damned cold from all this crazy weather. Wouldn’t you know it?” He blew his nose again.

“Are you okay, Ms. Lord?” Dustin inquired while Sam got his sinuses under control.

“I’m fine,” I said with a smile. Dustin Fong could be the poster boy for Your Kindly Law Officer. “So Destiny didn’t answer the door?”

Sam took over again. “Eventually. She was madder than a wet cat. We told her we’d gotten a report of a prowler in the neighborhood. Finally she let us search the house, but no luck. She told us she’d had company earlier, one of her students, Boots Overholt. He’d left around midnight.”

“I don’t believe her,” I declared, realizing that Destiny would blame me for the deputies’ intrusion. “The man I saw wasn’t Boots. Yes, Boots has a beard, but he’s taller. And he drives a pickup, which I didn’t see parked outside her house. In fact, I didn’t see any vehicle at her place.”

Stuffing the handkerchief in his back pocket, Sam shrugged. “We’ll check with Boots tomorrow. Anyway, the neighborhood is safe. Except for the damned weather.”

On that note, the deputies left.

∗ ∗ ∗

When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed of Italy. At St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome I saw Michelangelo’s
Pietà
. It is, of course, magnificent. And yet, as I studied the sorrowful face of the Virgin Mary holding her dead Son in her arms, all I could think of was how I’d felt when I looked at Tom and realized he’d been killed. What happened after that I’m not really sure. I was so shocked, so stupefied, so incredulous, that my memory has obliterated the details. I think I fell on his body until someone—I don’t recall who—pulled me off. I know I fainted at one point. I tried to remember the sequence of events as I stood behind the rail that separates the admirers—and nutcases—from Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Nothing more came back to me. My only emotion was grief, not for the Blessed Mother or her Divine Son but for me.

That was wrong. It wasn’t the effect that Michelangelo had sought to convey.

But I couldn’t help taking it personally.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tuesday. Deadline. Pressure. Loose ends. I never get over the sense of panic that always hits me around eleven in the morning. It was no different on this last Tuesday of February. In fact, it was worse. We had plenty of news, but much of it was incomplete, which meant that in the next few days we’d probably get scooped again by KSKY and possibly even the met dailies.

It was exactly eleven when Rolf Fisher called from the Associated Press. “I heard you got another body up there,” he said. “Did that Snohomish
grande dame
really croak in your office?”

“Yes, she did. I didn’t kill her. Natural causes.”

“What did she do, just keel over?”

“That’s right,” I said. “She was almost a hundred.”

“Bad timing for you,” Rolf noted.

“Don’t rub it in,” I snapped. “Why aren’t you calling her relatives? Or somebody in Snohomish?”

Rolf sniggered. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“From when? Last week, when you called about Hans Berenger?”

“No. From the AP cocktail party right before Thanksgiving. It was held up in the Columbia Tower. You were there, so was I. You lost an earring in the crab dip.”

“I got it out,” I said.

“I thought you were cute. You reached into the dip to retrieve your earring, then you wiped your hand off on the tablecloth. You blushed.”

“I never blush.” I didn’t remember Rolf Fisher. I’d met at least two dozen people at the party. Several of them had known Tom. We’d talked about him. That was all I recalled, except for the lost earring. And that the crab dip was heavenly. I wanted to change the subject. “Are you still following up on the Berenger murder?”

“Sure. What’ve you got for me?”

“Ask Sheriff Dodge,” I retorted. “He’s in charge of the investigation, not me.”

“Has Dodge found the guy who drove the stolen car into the Sky?”

“Ask him.” I paused. “I’m hanging up now.”

“I still think you’re cute.”

I pressed the disconnect button.

∗ ∗ ∗

Vida was still in an odd mood, but since she was being pleasant I didn’t confront her. Just before noon she received the information she needed for the story on Thyra Rasmussen. Thyra would’ve been 100 years old on March 11. She probably thought the century mark would be her final triumph over her many adversaries. The funeral was to be held Friday in Snohomish at the same Lutheran church from which Einar Sr. and Einar Jr. had been given their sacred send-offs. I knew Vida wouldn’t miss the service for the world and that there was a faint possibility she’d dance on Thyra’s grave.

I was about to run over to the Burger Barn for takeout when Jim Medved called.

“I checked my appointments for last Monday,” he said. “We’d scheduled ten patients for the afternoon, after I brought the blanks back to the office. I assume you want the owners’ names, not the animals’.”

“Right,” I said dryly. “Fido and Fluffy wouldn’t mean much to me.”

Jim ran down the list, which included Grace Grundle, who probably had a standing appointment with one or more of her pampered cats. The only other names that jumped out at me were Destiny Parsons’s and Rip Ridley’s.

“Destiny had a well-dog appointment for Azbug,” Jim said sadly. “The dog was in excellent health. What a shame she was killed.”

“What about Rip?” I inquired. “Was that because of the cougar attack on Vince?”

Jim nodded. “Rip’s bringing him in this afternoon for a check-back. That’s really a shame, but those cougars get bolder and bolder. It’s not all their fault. Their habitat keeps shrinking. Oh!” He snapped his fingers. “We had a couple of drop-ins who aren’t in the book. Edna Mae Dalrymple came in with her parakeet, Pretty Boy, and Boots Overholt brought a lame goat from his folks’ farm.”

I thanked Jim, then studied the names I’d written down. Destiny, Rip, and Boots had all been involved in the play. Somehow, I couldn’t see Rip and Boots as killers. But despite my dislike of Destiny, she didn’t fit the role, either. On the other hand, I was aware that under certain circumstances just about anyone can be driven to take a human life. Shaking my head, I left to get lunch.

Milo came into the Burger Barn while I was waiting for my standard order of a hamburger, French fries, and a vanilla malt. I’d already spoken with him on the phone earlier. He’d checked up on Destiny’s story that Boots had been at her house. The young man had assured Milo that it was true. Boots often went there so Destiny could help him with his interest in the theater. Apparently, he was serious about it, especially the technical side. Or maybe he was just tired of goats.

“What about Hans’s background?” I inquired, noting that the sheriff also ordered takeout.

“I only had a résumé until this morning. Cardenas sent Berenger’s complete file over around ten,” the sheriff replied with a nod at Ginny’s husband, Rick Erlandson, and his Bank of Alpine colleague Stilts Cederberg. “I’ve gone through it. Standard stuff. Forty-eight years old. Born in Winnetka, Illinois, outside of Chicago, attended Northwestern University and Wisconsin. Taught high school in Appleton, married, moved to San Diego, worked at a community college, widowed, a year later left for the Bay Area, taught at another community college until three years ago, when he accepted the dean of students job at SCC.”