The Alpine Pursuit (21 page)

“So what about next week?” Ed demanded. “The Dithers sisters? They don’t talk, except to their horses. Everybody knows that.”

I had to agree that Vida would be better off interviewing the horses than their owners. “I assume Spence may have lined up some of her guests. I’m sure he’s acting as producer.”

“Dumb. It’s all dumb,” Ed muttered. “I’ll bet Fleetwood’s got Vida hustling ads, too. Well, Vida doesn’t know jack-squat about advertising. I do. How many years was I
The Man
when it came to advertising in this town?”

“But, Ed,” I said, after taking a hefty swallow of bourbon and 7UP, “Are you implying you want to
work
?” He certainly hadn’t worked very hard as
The Man
.

“Oh, no!” he gasped. “I don’t mean
that
. I just mean I’d make a good interview. Gosh, think of everything I’ve done! Why do you think I’m writing volume two of my memoirs?”

Good question. But I ignored it. “Maybe she will interview you.”
When Mr. Pig flies,
I thought. “This was only her first show.”

“By the way,” Ed went on, “sorry I didn’t get my first-person account of the shooting done in time for this week’s edition. It’s running kind of long. You may want to use it in installments.”

I’d forgotten about Ed’s offer to write his own story. If he’d met deadline—and if we’d had room—I might have printed it. “Don’t worry about it, Ed. You should concentrate on including it in your memoirs.” I took another slug from my drink and forced myself to ask the question: “Did you come up with anything important that you might not have noticed at the time?”

“Well . . . no. I mean, I did a lot of reflecting. Studying personalities, replaying conversations in my head. You know the sort of stuff. I like to use my brain like a videotape.”

Good idea. It doesn’t work so well as a brain.
“I see. But nothing new?”

“In a way.” Ed paused. Maybe he was rewinding. “I didn’t know whether or not to put in the part about the marijuana.”

“What marijuana?”

“The marijuana some of the students smoked outside the theater. I didn’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

Ed probably didn’t want to get himself in trouble by being a stool pigeon. “Kids will be kids,” I remarked. “I don’t necessarily approve and in fact I think it should be legalized, if only to cut down on the criminal activities that are involved.”

“I don’t know about that.” Ed sounded a bit pompous. “Funny . . . I thought you could smell it.”

“You can—it smells like broccoli that’s boiled over onto the stove.”

“You couldn’t smell this stuff. I mean, it smelled, but not like I remembered. Of course,” he added hastily, “I’ve never tried it. What kind of example would that be for our kids?”

Much better to let them watch Dad and Mom eat themselves into morbid obesity. “Are you sure it was pot? Users smoke other things these days, too.”

“You mean . . . like
cocaine
?” Ed was aghast.

“Yes, among other things. Don’t you remember the meth lab disaster last year?” I asked, referring to one of the sorrier episodes in Skykomish County.

“Gee. That’s right. Well, I wouldn’t name names.”

“Did you recognize any of the students you saw?”

“Huh?” Ed seemed lost in thought. Or
reflection
, as he would say. “Oh . . . you mean who was doing it. I think so. They were off in the trees, by the college maintenance building. It wasn’t just kids. Destiny Parsons was there once, so was Rey Fernandez and . . . I forget who else. There were a lot of students I never got to know. They were in and out.”

“You didn’t mention any of this to Milo?”

“No. Why should I? It didn’t have anything to do with Berenger getting shot.”

“Maybe not.” Then again, maybe it did.

∗ ∗ ∗

Alpine was beautiful when I woke up on Thursday morning. Two inches of new snow had fallen, covering all the slush and windstorm debris. The clouds had lifted; the air was crisp. I chided myself for not feeling invigorated.

As usual, Vida had arrived at the office before I did. It was her turn for the bakery run. The big, fat cinnamon rolls from the Upper Crust were still warm from the oven.

“Free,” she announced, pointing at the tray next to the coffeepot. “They’re a thank-you for having their commercial run during my program last night. They knew everyone would be listening.”

Bold as brass and unrepentant. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She simpered a bit. “I wanted it to be a surprise. That’s why the station didn’t advertise in the paper. Spencer only did some on-air promotions, but he didn’t use my name. What did you think?”

“I was annoyed,” I admitted. “I still am. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. It seems like a conflict of interest.”

“Twaddle.” Vida was definitely her old self this morning. “I wouldn’t dream of using anything on KSKY that should go in the
Advocate
.”

I believed her. “In that case, maybe I should consider it a good promotional ploy.”

“Of course.” She looked past me as Leo came through the door. “Well?”

Leo removed his snap-brim cap and sailed it across the room onto his desk. “Well what?”

“Didn’t you hear my program?”

“What program?”

Vida jerked off her glasses and began to rub furiously at her eyes. “Ohhh . . . Leo, you’re the most irksome man I’ve ever met!”

Laughing, Leo nudged Vida’s shoulder. “Sure, I heard it. You were great, Duchess. Right up there with Larry King and Jerry Springer.”

Vida stopped savaging her eyes to look up at Leo. “Who?”

“Never mind,” Leo said, hanging his jacket on the back of his chair. “But why the hell didn’t you tell us? Better yet, take out an ad in the
Advocate
?”

Vida blinked several times, then put her glasses on. “We will. I’ll make sure Spencer puts one in next week.”

Scott, Ginny, and Kip were all agog about Vida’s radio debut. Obviously, they were more broad-minded than I was. Vida’s phone began to ring. The first three calls sounded as if they had become members of her radio fan club. The next two seemed more like critics. Vida became defensive, even hostile. She hung up on somebody, so I retreated to my cubbyhole, coffee mug and cinnamon roll in hand.

I had to make a call of my own. “Milo,” I said when I was put through to the sheriff, “what do you know about drug usage at the college?”

“It’s there,” Milo replied in his laconic manner. “Kids are going to smoke pot. As long as they aren’t dealing, we ignore it.”

“Somebody must be dealing,” I declared, and related Ed’s account.

“Ed.” Milo spoke the name with disdain. “Since when did you trust Ed?”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” I pointed out. “Ed has absolutely no imagination, so he doesn’t make things up. For all I know, the people he saw were smoking cigarettes, not drugs. But I’d figure that even Ed would be able to distinguish tobacco smoke from something else.”

“So what? Did he see anybody dealing?”

“He didn’t mention it,” I replied.

“Why are you getting wound up over this deal?” Milo sounded impatient.

“We’re missing something,” I asserted.

“How do you mean?”

“Where’s the motive for shooting Hans? We haven’t found anything that indicates he has a dark past. His love life—such as it was—seems innocuous. He was a hard worker. He wasn’t popular, but nobody apparently hated him. Why was he killed? Or was it really an accident?”

“Beats me,” Milo said. “But the only way it could’ve been an accident was if he wasn’t the intended victim.” The sheriff sighed. “Look, you think I’m sitting on my dead butt. I’ll admit we’re stalled, but we’re not giving up. Right now, we’re checking out the possibility that the bullets were meant for Ridley or Fernandez. They were right in the middle of the so-called fight onstage.”

I was slightly incredulous. “You’re suggesting that some football player’s folks wanted to shoot Rip because their kid didn’t get enough playing time?”

“That’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Milo asserted. “You read about stuff like that in the paper and see it on TV. Little League parents attacking other parents or coaches, even killing them.”

“What about Rey? Have you checked him out?”

“Sure,” Milo replied. “He’s from Fresno via Seattle. He came up here to take a construction job a couple of years ago. He liked the area, didn’t like construction, and decided to go to college. He sounds serious about getting involved in radio or TV. Except for some speeding tickets, he’s clean.”

Everybody’s innocent,
I thought. How vexing. “Okay,” I said in a plaintive tone. “I’ll stop pestering you. For a while.”

“Good,” Milo said, sounding as if he meant it. “You’ve already gotten Destiny mad at me. That’s just great. She’s mad at you, too, by the—hang on.”

The sheriff turned away from the receiver. I could hear another voice in the background. I thought it was Jack Mullins. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but it was a good two minutes before Milo spoke to me again.

“We got a hit on our car thief,” the sheriff said. “His name is Darryl Ivan Eckstrom. Last known address in Mountlake Terrace. That figures—it’s close to the Alderwood Mall. He’s been picked up a couple of times for auto theft and once for dealing crack. He got off on a technicality.”

“Someone may be dealing crack to the college students,” I said. “I take it you’ll check that out and see if there’s a connection between Eckstrom and anyone in Alpine?”

“Do you want my job?” Milo retorted. “You sound like you think you could do it better than I can.”

“No,” I began, “but there could be a link with the campus, since the locals have to get their drugs from—”

“Stick it, Emma.” Milo was beyond being irked; he was mad. “And don’t ask if Destiny knew this bird. She already told me loud and clear that nobody except Boots Overholt was at her house last night.”

“I thought Eckstrom might have been enrolled at the college at some point,” I remarked innocently.

“He’s a high school dropout,” Milo snarled.

“Yes, but some dropouts go to community colleges to get a GED. It’s possible that Eckstrom—”

Milo interrupted. “I’ve got to go. I don’t want you to think I’m still sitting on my dead butt.”

On that surly note, Milo hung up.

∗ ∗ ∗

I wondered if Al Driggers was making any progress on his search for information regarding Hans’s late wife, Julia. I was about to do some surfing of my own on the Internet when Vida poked her head into my office.

“Was that Milo? Did he hear my program last night?” she asked.

“I didn’t mention it,” I admitted. “He was too busy being a jerk.”

“Oh.” Vida looked disappointed. “I must confess, I’m not thrilled over next week’s interview with the Dithers sisters. That was Spencer’s idea. I can’t think why, but I felt I should humor him. After that, I plan to invite Pastor Purebeck from my church. For the Lenten season, you know. Contrary to what you Catholics may believe, we Presbyterians also acknowledge Lent.”

“I never thought you didn’t,” I said. “I think having Pastor Purebeck on your show is a good idea.”

“So that I don’t offend,” Vida went on, “I’m going to do a series for the paper on all the local pastors, including your Father Kelly. When I interview Pastor Purebeck, I’ll have him expand on what he gives me for my House & Home page.”

“Good.”

But Vida wasn’t done justifying herself. “I wouldn’t have used the Adcocks if you hadn’t cut the end of my vacation story off so abruptly.”

“I had to,” I replied. “I wanted to get Nat’s statement into this week’s edition.”

“I don’t know why,” Vida remarked. “It was just more educator babble. Oh, well.” In her splayfooted manner, she retreated to the newsroom.

I realized then that I wasn’t mad at Vida anymore. The occasional spat between us always upset me. I knew she’d be annoyed by cutting the reference to Darlene Adcock’s preference for the local weather. No other place, including Utopia, could ever come out ahead of Alpine, as far as Vida was concerned.

The smile I’d been wearing turned into a frown. Harvey and Darlene Adcock hadn’t returned to Alpine until a week ago Wednesday. Jim Medved had bought the blanks for the .38 on the previous Monday at the hardware store. That meant someone other than Harvey had sold them to Jim.

I wanted to know who.

FOURTEEN

Julia Elizabeth Blair Berenger had been born April 12, 1963, in Milwaukee. She had married Hans Albert Berenger June 21, 1985, in that same city. On February 20, 1993, she had died in San Diego. I don’t navigate the Internet very well, but after almost an hour I had found the information I was seeking and passed it on to Al Driggers and Milo.

At noon, I went to Harvey’s Hardware and caught him just before he left for lunch. Harvey has two full-time employees, Verb Vancich and Warren Wells. He also uses some part-time employees, including the Peabody brothers, who are as strong as they are dim but make excellent lumberyard and delivery workers. Harvey also hires high school and college students as fill-ins.

“I keep a list of about ten kids,” Harvey informed me, going behind the main counter. “It’s often a last-minute call. Sickness or some other problem that my regulars can’t anticipate. Let me see who came in a week ago Monday when I was in Palm Springs. Warren Wells would have made the contact.” He was looking at a clipboard that apparently listed the number of hours each employee had put in. “Ah. Here we go. That would have been Davin Rhodes.”

“Really.” I tried to conceal my surprise. “I didn’t know Davin worked here.”

“He has—off and on—since before the holidays,” Harvey explained. “He’s laid up now, of course, with a bad ankle. But we needed some extra help for Christmas, and Davin was one of the high school students looking for some spending money.” Harvey peered at me over his half glasses. “What’s this all about, Emma? Am I in trouble over those darned blanks?”

“No, you’re fine,” I assured him. “Were you the one who originally ordered the blanks?”

“Yes. I did it the day before we left on vacation.” Harvey glanced at the wildlife calendar on the bulletin board. “Darlene and I flew to Palm Springs February eighth. I put the order in February seventh. Do you want me to check it?”

I shook my head. “What I’d really like to know is who actually sold the blanks to Jim Medved.”

Harvey, who is small and spare, stood on his tiptoes to look over the old-fashioned display cases. “Warren? You there?”

Warren Wells, who had remarried his first wife, Francine, after an interval of many years, came around from the nuts and bolts section. “What’s up? Oh, hi, Emma. Francine told me that if I saw you to say she’s got her spring line of Ellen Tracy in this week.”

I smiled at Warren. “I’ll have to wait for the markdowns,” I said. Francine’s Fine Apparel catered to the more upscale customers in Skykomish County. She also stocked items for the rest of us, or she wouldn’t have survived.

Warren, who’d been in retail most of his life, had an infallible memory for customers as well as for merchandise. “A week ago Monday started out slow. The snow, I guess. Anyway, I took time out to run down the street to McDonald’s. I left Davin in charge. Jim came in on his lunch break, so I missed him. What’s the problem? You think we may have sold Jim real bullets?”

I grimaced. “A switch was made at some point,” I added with an apologetic expression, “though I’m sure it didn’t happen here. I was curious, that’s all.”

I jumped as someone poked me in the back.

“If it isn’t Lois Lane,” Jack Mullins said with a grin. “Why do I have the feeling you’re on the case?”

“Is that why you’re here?” I retorted.

“Me?” Jack laughed. “No. I’m buying a space heater for Nina. My wife swears it’s twenty below in our bedroom. I agree, but the space heater isn’t going to warm things up.”

Warren laughed out loud while Harvey chuckled discreetly. I shot Jack a dirty look. He was always giving Nina a bad time, at least when she wasn’t around to defend herself.

“You’d be better off trying to figure out who wanted Hans Berenger dead,” I asserted.

“Ah,” Jack responded, “that’s what I’ve been doing the last couple of hours. Dwight and I paid the Kruegers a visit. It seems they didn’t like the cut of Berenger’s jib. They thought there was something weird about the guy. They’d almost have preferred taking Fuzzy’s lowball offer.”

“Will they, now that Berenger’s dead?”

“Not if they can help it.”

“What was wrong with Berenger?” I inquired as Harvey moved away to help Skunk Nordby find nails and Warren led Alfred Cobb, one of our doddering county commissioners, toward power tools.

Jack had become serious. “The Kruegers couldn’t put it into words. Berenger asked some odd questions, especially about security measures. Then, when Mrs. K. made some reference to Pasado’s Safe Haven being down the road a ways, Berenger got flustered. It seemed peculiar to the Kruegers.”

Pasado’s Safe Haven was an animal shelter between Sultan and Monroe. It had been founded in memory of a much-loved donkey that had been tortured to death by a bunch of nasty teenagers.

“It seems peculiar to me,” I declared. “Why would Hans act like that about a place that does so much good?”

“Damned if I know,” Jack replied. “The Kruegers didn’t, either. They didn’t think Berenger had ever heard of it before. Maybe he hadn’t. He wasn’t around here that long.” The deputy gave me another poke, this time in the upper arm. “Hey, got to find that space heater. Maybe it’ll warm up my lovely wife. Ha-ha.”

Jack moved along to the home appliance section. Feeling obligated to make a purchase, I restocked my battery supply and paid for it after Skunk Nordby had left with his bag of nails.

The giant cinnamon roll had filled me up, so I postponed lunch. The Chamber of Commerce office in the Alpine Building was on my way back to the office. Taking a chance that Rita might be in, I decided to pay her a call.

She was eating a tuna salad sandwich at her desk and looking as unpleasant as usual. “Now what?” she asked, licking mayonnaise off of her lower lip.

“Gee, aren’t you ever glad to see me, Rita? Wouldn’t you like to be in the news?”

“Cut the crap,” she shot back. “You’re here to ask me questions about Hans. Do you think I’m stupid?”

Ordinarily, that question was best avoided, but I wanted her cooperation. “Of course not. And yes, you’re right. After all, you’re the only one who seemed to know him well. Don’t you want to find out why he was killed?”

“Isn’t that up to Dodge?” she retorted.

“Sure. But our sheriff isn’t always people-oriented. He’s a just-the-facts-ma’am type. And,” I added, trying to sound confidential, “he can’t talk to women.”

“You ought to know,” Rita said. “Is that why you two broke up?”

I forced myself to remain civil. “Not really. Speaking of breaking up, why did you? With Hans, I mean.”

She turned away, digging into a small bag of potato chips.
Crunch, crunch.
“We seemed to be going in different directions. I’m interested in a long-term relationship. Hans wasn’t it.”

“How do you mean, ‘different directions’?”

Munch, munch.
“We had different interests. Different goals. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him. But I didn’t see us going anywhere as a couple.”

“I know what you mean.” It sounded good. “Maybe,” I allowed though it pained me to say so, “that was part of the problem with Milo and me.” Girl talk. Sharing. Emma does
superficial
.

Scrunch, scrunch.
“Men. It’s all about them. I wanted a vine-covered cottage.” Rita peered into the potato chip bag, saw it was empty, and tossed it into her wastebasket. “I mean, really. With garden statuary, maybe a statue of St. Francis or a cherub. Hans wanted land.” She paused to eat the last of her sandwich.

“The Kruegers’ land, I heard.”

Rita nodded. “Right. That’s a lot of land and a big house, not to mention a commute. No thanks. I like to garden, not farm.”

“Hans was going to turn it into a working farm?” I inquired.

“No, not exactly,” Rita replied. “He wanted to raise dogs, like the Kruegers did. I told him I didn’t get it. He didn’t even own a dog of his own.”

“I don’t think he could,” I pointed out. “Not in an apartment.”

“That’s why he wanted to move, I guess,” Rita said, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. “Personally, I don’t like dogs, and I positively hate cats.” She nodded at a pair of goldfish in a big bowl on top of a filing cabinet. Rita had named them Paulie Walnuts and Big Pussy after two cast members from
The Sopranos
. “Those are the kind of pets I like. No muss, no fuss.”

“So that’s why you ended it,” I remarked.

“Pretty much.” Rita frowned. “I think I’ll take a break from men for a while. Alpine isn’t exactly the place to meet somebody in my age group and who isn’t as ugly as a pig’s rear end.” She suddenly brightened. “What about Fleetwood? He’s eligible, isn’t he? Don’t you think he’s kind of attractive?”

My long-standing rivalry with Spence disqualified me. “I suppose. He’s not my type, though.”

Rita’s smile bordered on a sneer. “He’s not rich, either.”

The camaraderie we’d found briefly evaporated like drops of water on a hot stove. “That’s unkind. I was never interested in Tom Cavanaugh’s money.” Before Rita could respond, I kept talking. “Which brings up another matter—where did Hans get the money to cash out the Kruegers?”

Rita shrugged. “He was a tightwad. We always went Dutch, unless I volunteered to pay. That ticked me off, too. He made more money than I did, plus he must have had some insurance from his wife. She worked for the state of California. I’ve heard they have good benefits.”

“Someone told me Julia was a marine biologist. Was she killed in an accident of some kind?”

“Hans never talked about her,” Rita said. “He didn’t even have a picture of her. The only thing he ever told me was that she was very smart and something of a blond goddess.” Rita’s expression was rueful. “About the opposite of me. I wondered if he said that just to make me feel bad. Hans wasn’t much for building a girl’s ego.”

“Did he ever mention getting a threatening letter at the college?”

Rita looked at me in disbelief. “Are you kidding? No. Did he?”

“I heard he did,” I said, but like a good journalist I wasn’t willing to reveal my source. I glanced at the big round clock on the wall behind Rita’s desk. It was almost one o’clock. Watching Rita eat had stirred my hunger pangs.

“I’d better get going,” I said, standing up. “You make Hans sound sort of like a pill. What did you like about him?”

It appeared that Rita had to think about that for a moment. “He was intelligent. He was devoted to his job. Reliable, I guess that’s one of the things I liked. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, he was a real straight arrow. And,” she added with a wry little smile, “he was available.”

The Desperation Game,
I thought. I didn’t like Rita much, but I felt sorry for her. Finding the right man—any man—after forty was no picnic.

It was just as well that I wasn’t looking.

Or was I?

∗ ∗ ∗

I’d applied myself to the job that afternoon, feeling as if I’d been spending too much time being a detective. The familiar routine always soothed me. I could zero in on the task at hand and block out everything else, including murder. Sometimes I could even stop thinking about Tom.

Milo was right—the investigation was his job, and he knew how to do it. But after four o’clock, when I’d completed a story on forest service road closures in the area, my mind went back to the murder of Hans Berenger.

I went into the newsroom to ask Scott if Tamara had a late- afternoon class. She didn’t, he informed me. She spent the last hour or so grading papers and seeing students. Returning to my desk, I phoned Tamara.

“That letter!” she said when I asked her about the so-called threatening missive Hans had received shortly before his death. “He was a very unemotional man. But the letter—let me think—it was last Tuesday. Anyway, it really upset him. Not that I blame him for it, judging from what I saw. Imagine! Someone writing to say that he would die by Friday—and he did!”

Tamara’s sense of drama had come to the fore. I could imagine her at her desk, making hand gestures and generally reenacting the incident. It was too bad she hadn’t been cast in the play.

“But you heard nothing about any other letters to him?” I inquired. “Did anybody on the faculty know he’d been threatened before?”

“Before? You mean when Justine Cardenas went off on him at the faculty party?”

“Well . . . that, too.”

“I don’t think it was serious,” Tamara replied before lowering her voice to almost a whisper. “I mean, can you imagine Mrs. Frosty Cold Cardenas seriously threatening someone? Frankly, I think she’d had too much to drink. The president’s lady likes her liquor, if you ask me. Ohmigod!” Tamara exclaimed, still
sotto voce
. “What if my phone is bugged?”

“Doubtful,” I said. “Frankly, I’ve wondered about Justine myself. When it comes to drinking, I mean.”

“You have to,” Tamara asserted. “What does she do all day in that fancy house? She has some woman from Index come in to clean for her every week. It isn’t as if Mrs. C. goes out of her way to take part in the community unless she has to.”

“She does needlepoint,” I noted.

“Oh . . . yes, I think she was showing off some of her handiwork at the party. I suppose you have to be sober to get a needle into those little tiny holes. Personally, I hate crafts.”

“What were Justine and Hans arguing about at the party?” I asked. “Something must have set her off.”

“I don’t know,” Tamara answered, sounding disappointed with herself. “I only heard about that secondhand. It may have had something to do with Hans’s work. I always thought he was ambitious.”

“To get back to the letter,” I said. “Did you talk about it with anyone else on campus?”

“Um . . . yes, I think I mentioned it the next day—that would’ve been Wednesday—to Clea Bhuj. She thought it must be a joke. But that’s certainly not how Hans reacted. Besides, can you imagine anybody playing a joke on him? He had absolutely no sense of humor. I always thought if he really smiled his face would crack and the top of his head would fall off.”

“Your office was across the hall from his, right?” I waited for Tamara’s confirmation. “Did he usually keep his door open?”

“Not as a rule. But I figure he’d probably just come back from getting his mail and had forgotten to close the door. Maybe,” Tamara continued, her voice rising with excitement, “he recognized the handwriting on the envelope and couldn’t wait to see what the letter said.”