The Alpine Scandal (3 page)

Vida stopped just before reaching her Buick. “I wonder…” she murmured.

“What?” I said, taking the car keys out of my purse.

“Ohhh…” Vida made a face. “We didn’t get any eggs.”

“So?”

“I wanted to make an omelet for dinner tonight,” Vida said. “My mouth is set for one. I’d only need three eggs. You run along. I’m going to the henhouse.”

“Vida,” I objected, “that’s stealing.”

Vida glowered at me. “Nonsense! Polly offered them to us. It’d be wrong
not
to take them. She said they’d go to waste.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” I declared. “If Polly calls the sheriff, I want to be at your side when Milo Dodge comes to arrest you for egg burglary.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Vida gave me a reproachful look. “Very well. But you should take an egg or two for yourself. Do you know how to candle eggs?”

“You hold them up to a light and make sure the center is clear.”

“Correct,” Vida said, opening the wooden gate that led to the chicken coop behind the main house. “Or you can put them in a basin of cold water. If they sink, they’re fine.”

I hadn’t known that, but I didn’t admit it. I was too busy trying to keep to the intermittent brick path that led to the henhouse. I noticed a fishpond tucked in one corner of the garden. The lily pad–dotted pool was shaded by an apple tree in front and several azaleas and rhododendrons around the far rim. We had to pass through another gated fence before we reached our goal.

Chickens do know enough to stay out of the rain. But even though none of them were outside, their leavings were, causing an unpleasant smell and making it even more difficult to walk on the soggy ground.

The door was shut, and that made Vida frown. “Odd,” she murmured. “Why does Elmer keep the henhouse closed up? Chickens should be free to roam.”

“Maybe they have another way out,” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” Vida said, lifting the latch. “Oh, well. People don’t use good sense.”

There were at least a couple of dozen hens pecking around on the ground or sitting on nests. Two roosters perched on a rafter that ran the width of the henhouse. The chickens were all a handsome red-brown color. Despite being city-bred, I was able to identify them as Rhode Island Reds. The hen closest to the door seemed distressed. She was flapping her wings and moving from one foot to the other.

“Don’t bother the ones sitting on their nests,” Vida warned. “They may be broody, though this is not the time of year I would think they’d be hatching chicks.”

“I know, I know,” I said, stepping carefully toward a vacant nest on my right. A couple of the other hens clucked nervously at us. One of the roosters moved back and forth on his perch as if he might be preparing to attack. I eyed him warily. “Sometimes hens sit on their nests and sort of pretend they’re hatching,” I remarked. “Like women who want to have a baby but can’t.”

Vida was removing an egg from a nest just ahead of me. “Such a lovely light brown color. It may be nonsense, but I think the darker eggs have better flavor.”

I collected two eggs and put them in a pocket inside my purse. Vida had confiscated her trio for the omelet. “I don’t think Elmer collected eggs this morning.”

“Let’s go,” I said as the rooster flapped his wings. “I think that one is at the top of the pecking order.”

Vida had stopped almost at the far end of the aisle between the two sets of nests. She gasped. “Oh, dear!”

“What?” I asked, still keeping watch on the rooster.

“Elmer.”

“Elmer? What about him?”

“He’s here.”

“What?” I was right behind Vida, trying to look around her.

“There.” She moved aside a few inches. “You can see his shoes.”

I saw them—black work shoes with the toes pointing straight up. The rest of Elmer was hidden under haphazard piles of golden straw.

“Holy Mother,” I whispered.

“Call for help,” Vida snapped, bending down. “I’ll try to find his pulse. He may have had a stroke. Or a heart attack.”

I rummaged in my purse for the cell phone. Of course I couldn’t find it right away, and of course I broke both eggs in the process. Finally I retrieved the damned phone and was about to dial 911 when Vida spoke again.

“Tell them there’s no rush.” Vida paused, rubbing at her forehead. “I’m afraid that obituary was correct. I can’t find a pulse or a heartbeat. Elmer’s dead.”

Chapter Two

A
S USUAL
, B
ETH
Rafferty maintained her composure when I called 911. “Help is on the way,” Beth said in her most professional dispatcher’s voice. Then, because she knew it was me, she added, “We’ve got the firefighters and medics tied up at the Tall Timber Motel with some guy who may have had a heart attack, so Dodge is coming in person.”

“Thank goodness,” I said, and rang off.

“I don’t suppose,” Vida said, tapping her cheek, “I should move any of this straw.” She shot me a knowing glance. “Just in case. This all seems very fishy to me.”

I nodded. “We should tell Polly.”

“No. Let Milo do that. It ought to be official. I’ll stay with Elmer. You go get the sheriff. Otherwise, he might not know where to meet us, men being so dense when it comes to finding anything.”

I was used to Vida taking charge as if she were the boss and I the slightly dim-witted employee. Traipsing outside into the rain, I hoped Polly wouldn’t notice me—or our cars, which remained parked in the driveway. More than that, I hoped Elmer’s death had been a natural one. Murder was no stranger to Alpine. On the other hand, it’d give us a lead story. Journalists have to be realistic—and crass.

The rain was dwindling to a drizzle. I stood by the mailboxes, waiting for Milo Dodge. No siren wailed in the distance. That was good. Milo knew there was no urgency, and he didn’t use the siren unless it was absolutely necessary. Unlike the other Skykomish County emergency personnel, the sheriff had bought an English-style
ga-goo-ga
siren that was unmistakable and drove me a little crazy. Still, it was one of the sheriff’s very few eccentricities. I could live with it.

His red Grand Cherokee was easy to spot. I saw it coming down the road after a wait of less than five minutes. Out of the blue, I remembered to call May Hashimoto and tell her I’d be late and hurriedly dialed the college president’s number on my cell phone. Her secretary answered, and I relayed the message just as Milo pulled up on the verge by the mailboxes.

“What the hell’s going on now?” he demanded as he unfolded his six-foot-five frame from the vehicle.

“Elmer Nystrom’s dead—I think—in the chicken coop.”

Milo made a face. “That sounds like a line out of a bad movie.”

“It’s not very good for Elmer, either,” I retorted. “Come on, follow me. Vida’s in the coop.”

“A good place for her,” Milo muttered. “Is she clucking her head off?”

“No.” It seemed to me that the sheriff was unusually cranky, even for a Monday morning. “Polly Nystrom doesn’t know yet.”

“Doesn’t know what? That her old man croaked?”

“Right. We’re waiting for you to make it official.” I’d entered the chicken area and was walking carefully. “Mind the poop.”

“Right, right. I’m a rural type, remember?”

I could hardly forget. Our different backgrounds had been an obstacle in our off-and-on-again romance. Being friends was better than being lovers, but it wasn’t an easy relationship.

The chickens fluttered and cackled as Milo and I entered the coop. Vida was leaning against a rail that supported the nests.

“Well, now,” she said. “You made good time.”

Milo grunted. “Where’s Elmer?”

Vida pointed. “Is Doc Dewey coming?”

“Doc’s busy,” Milo said, getting down on his knees. “He still hasn’t gotten around to making Sung his deputy coroner.”

“Can’t you do that?” Vida asked. “You’re the sheriff.”

“It’s a courtesy thing,” Milo replied. “I let Doc decide when it comes to medical-related stuff.” He paused. “Hunh.”

“What?” I said.

“There’s blood,” Milo answered. “It’s on the straw behind his head. Maybe I should wait for Doc or the medics.”

“A hemorrhage?” Vida asked, trying to see around the sheriff.

“No,” Milo said, still examining the body. “More like a blow to the back of his head. Oh, hell!”

“Don’t curse,” Vida warned. “Are you talking about…foul play?”

Milo didn’t look up. “Maybe.”

Vida was incredulous. “Elmer Nystrom? Who on earth would murder Elmer? He’s one of the most harmless people I’ve ever met, even if he was a bit of a nincompoop.”

Since most of Alpine’s population fell into the nincompoop category as far as Vida was concerned, that part of her comment didn’t matter. I wasn’t acquainted with Elmer, so I couldn’t make any judgments.

“Shovel,” Milo murmured, standing up and looking around. “Two-by-four. Anyway, something heavy and blunt.”

But none of us saw anything that might have served as a weapon. “You’re sure he didn’t hit his head?” I asked.

Milo frowned. “On what?” He raised his hand to touch the rafter, which was a couple of inches above his regulation hat. “Elmer was six feet, maybe six-one. He’d have to have been wearing stilts. I don’t see anything else he could’ve banged into. The platform for the chickens? I doubt it. It’s plywood. The floorboards are a possibility, but they only run down the aisle and then stop. There’s no sign of blood on them. But I’m guessing—and you know I don’t like doing that—Elmer was dragged over here and then bled out. Look at the area between the nests.”

Vida and I both stared at the raised wooden floor. It was no more than two or three feet wide, built on top of dirt. The well-worn boards were covered with pieces of straw and chicken droppings. But the last couple of yards between the nests were comparatively bare.

“You figure someone conked Elmer and hauled him out of sight?” I asked.

Milo shrugged. “Could be. In fact, we’d all better move away toward the door. There may be some other evidence. C’mon, let’s hit it.”

Vida scowled at the sheriff but obeyed. I reached the door first and opened it. Fresh air seemed like a good idea.

Polly was on her back porch, and that unsettled me. She looked upset. “Where’s Elmer?” she called in a shrill voice. “Sheriff?” She started down the half-dozen stairs with an uncertain gait. “What is it?”

Milo met her halfway across the backyard. Vida followed him, though I kept my distance. The sheriff faced a heartbreaking announcement. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deliver bad news, but such situations weren’t easy for him to handle. There was nothing touchy-feely about Milo Dodge.

Still, he did his best.

“I’m afraid something’s happened to Elmer,” he said. “I’m sorry, Polly. He’s dead.”

“Oh!” Throwing her apron over her face, Polly rocked back and forth. The sheriff steadied her. “I knew it!” she cried. “Trout’s been trying to call me all morning!”

Trout Nordby was one of the two brothers who owned the GM dealership. The other sibling was known as Skunk. Even after over thirteen years in Alpine, I wasn’t sure of their real first names.

Vida stepped forward. “Here. I’ll take her in the house,” she said to Milo. “I’ll make that cup of tea now, Polly. Please, let me help you get inside. It’s very wet out here.”

Polly leaned on Vida, who half dragged her into the house.

I looked at Milo. “Well?”

“I’ll have to interrogate her after I find out what happened to Elmer,” he said.

“So we stand here in the rain until Doc Dewey finishes whatever he’s doing?”

“It’s not raining that hard,” Milo said, taking a pack of Marlboro Lights from the inside pocket of his regulation jacket. “Want one?”

I shook my head. “I’m still in my quitting phase.”

He gave me a lopsided grin. “What’s this one? Number forty-five?”

“Ha ha.” I gestured at the partial view of the house that sat just beyond the Nystrom residence. “Who lives there?”

Milo lighted his cigarette and pondered the question. “It’s an Italian name—or Spanish. They moved in about…six years ago, maybe. Quiet people. Husband, wife, teenaged daughter. One of the deputies—Sam Heppner, I think—went out there last summer when a cougar came into their backyard. Other than that, no trouble.”

I looked in the other direction. Through some cottonwood and fir trees I could make out part of a roof and a chimney. “Whoever lives on the other side couldn’t see anything going on at the Nystrom house. But this other family might. I wonder if they’re home.”

“I’ll check.” Milo scowled at me. “Are you nagging?”

“Not really. But I keep wondering when Spencer Fleetwood is going to show up so he can get the story on KSKY before I have it in the paper.”

“Spence went to Hawaii,” Milo said. “Or Mexico. Did Vida’s pipeline spring a leak?”

I grimaced. “No. I forgot she had a mention of Spence’s vacation last week in her ‘Scene’ column. Maybe his fill-in doesn’t pay as much attention to the police scanner as Spence does.”

“Rey Fernandez is still working at the station,” Milo said. “He got his AA degree in December but agreed to stay on in Alpine until Fleetwood got back.” The sheriff used one hand to smoke and the other to dial his cell phone. “I’m checking to see how long Doc’s going to take before he gets here. I’ve got—Doc?” he spoke into the cell phone.

I wandered over to the fishpond while the sheriff related the unfortunate news. I couldn’t see any fish, but maybe the Nystroms didn’t bother. Until the past couple of years, the temperature had always dipped below freezing during most of the winter. I’d heard stories, however, including one old-time classic about a fisherman who caught a big rainbow trout and tossed it into a water barrel to keep it alive until his wife was ready to cook it. That night an early frost covered Alpine, and the water in the barrel froze over until the spring thaw. Come early April, the fish was still alive and swimming around like crazy.

“Doc’s on his way,” Milo said.

I walked back toward him. “There’s something you should know,” I said.

The sheriff’s sandy eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Like what?”

“Like Elmer’s obituary came in the morning mail.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Milo retorted. “I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s true,” I asserted. “In fact, I’ll bet Vida has it in her purse. Even I wouldn’t joke about something like that with the poor guy lying dead in the henhouse.”

Milo swore for at least a quarter of a minute. “Who the hell sent it?” he finally asked.

“We don’t know,” I replied. “That’s why we came out here to see Polly.”

The sheriff swore some more. “Don’t let anything happen to that obituary,” he warned me. “It might be evidence. Come on, I think I heard Doc’s car.”

We walked around the side of the house. Doc already had gotten out of his new Mitsubishi sedan. He’d once confided that he’d love to own a big, expensive automobile but thought it wouldn’t look good to his patients, who’d figure he was overcharging them.

“How’s the patient?” Milo inquired as Doc started up the driveway.

“Which one?” Doc responded.

“The guy at the motel,” the sheriff said, opening the first gate for Doc.

I was loitering behind the men, studying the faded blue house on the other side of the cyclone fence. Two large windows, probably in bedrooms, flanked a smaller window with frosted glass that looked like it was in the bathroom. As I passed by the second bedroom window, I saw movement behind the voile curtains. Someone was watching. Vida wasn’t the only curious person in Alpine, and the arrival of so many cars at the Nystrom house naturally would have aroused interest.

Doc shook his head. “False alarm. All in his head—or his stomach. People on the road eat too much grease, sleep in strange beds, get their nerves frayed by traffic—and then wonder why they have chest pains. Which,” he continued as we headed for the henhouse, “are often abdominal pains and caused by digestive tract problems.” He paused at the second gate. “Not the case with Elmer, I take it.”

“Afraid not,” Milo said, waiting for me. “This may require an autopsy.”

“Well.” Doc Dewey sounded only mildly surprised. He had reached a time of life when nothing surprised him. As a physician, he’d had his share of failures and disappointments. When I had been at my nadir after Tom Cavanaugh’s death, he’d told me that he considered the greatest virtue to be hope, not charity. “Without hope,” he had said, “the rest is impossible.” Like his father before him, Doc practiced what he preached.

Inside the henhouse, I stayed by the door, petting a chicken that seemed quite agitated by the proceedings. “If only,” I whispered to the distressed fowl, “you could talk, you’d be a good witness.”

Doc didn’t take long to examine Elmer. “The ambulance will be along any minute,” he said, rising from his crouched position by the body. “After the motel call, they went to Starbucks for coffee.”

I stepped forward. “Was it a blow to the head?” I asked.

Doc tucked his glasses back into an inside pocket of his raincoat. “That’s my preliminary finding,” he said. “Poor Elmer. He was a decent fellow.”

“Meek as milk,” the sheriff remarked. “Not a classic victim.”

“I’m not ruling out an accident,” Doc cautioned, “though I don’t see exactly how. That’s your line of country, Sheriff.”

“Freaky stuff happens,” Milo said, looking out through the open door. “Here come the ambulance guys. No siren. Not necessary.” He looked back at Doc. “You going to talk to Polly?”

“I’d better,” Doc agreed. “She has high blood pressure. I’ll check her out. Poor woman. Has anybody called their son?”

“Vida, probably,” I said as we trooped back through the rain. I stopped at the outer gate. “I should head for the college. I’m supposed to interview May Hashimoto, and I’m already twenty minutes late.”

“Go for it,” Milo said.

I did, noticing on my way out to the road that Vida’s Buick was still parked by the house. I was opening the Honda’s door when I heard someone call out. I looked at the Nystrom porch, but no one was there. Then I turned toward the neighboring house and saw a dark-haired woman wearing baggy gray sweats in the doorway.

“What’s going on?” she asked in a carrying voice.

I walked over to the cyclone fence that ended at the mailboxes. “I’m afraid Mr. Nystrom has passed away.”

“No!” Her hands flew to her face. She was middle-aged, a rather large woman wearing glasses on a jeweled chain. “That’s awful! He was such a sweet man!”

“Yes,” I said, realizing that the woman looked vaguely familiar. “Were you close friends?”