The Alpine Uproar (13 page)

“Right.” I smiled and tried to look amiable.

Leo went straight to the point. “What was your take on the fight the other night?”

Bert shrugged. “Not much. I got here just before it started. I thought I’d have a couple of beers and take Norene home. Her car was in the shop.
My
shop. It should’ve gone in to Al’s, but …” He shook his head. “Anyway, I can handle a brake job.”

“But you saw what happened Saturday night,” Leo said.

“Yeah, more or less.” Bert shook his head. “I don’t know what set those guys off. Somebody told me Al got mad at Clive
and told him he wouldn’t work on his truck. I guess that’s when they got into it. It was a mismatch, far as I could see. Clive’s bigger and stronger. Al’s skinny, but not the wiry type whose looks can fool you. One swing of the pool cue and blam! Al goes down.” Bert grimaced. “Damned shame. Al was one hell of a mechanic. Hey,” he said, putting a beefy hand on Leo’s shoulder, “got to go. Literally.”

As Bert lumbered off, I sat back in my rickety chair. “Okay. Al and Clive fought over a woman, a truck, a game of pool, or … what?”

Leo’s eyes twinkled. “Or who was buying? God only knows, Emma. When you’ve had six or ten beers, you can fight over just about anything. Years ago, I punched somebody in Torrance for blowing his nose in my cocktail napkin.”

“Did he punch back?”

“Oh, yeah. He knocked me out cold. I spent the night in the storage room. I never went home, but straight to work the next morning.” Ruefully, he shook his head. “That was the first time Liza threatened to divorce me. She got up to seven before she actually did it.”

I patted Leo’s hand. “You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.”

“Am I?” His expression was ironic. Picking up his glass, he downed the rest of his beer. “Let’s get out of here. We’re not learning much and I’m getting a bad case of déjà vu.”

“Okay.” After I put a ten-dollar bill on the table, Leo did the same. I stood up and walked over to the pool table. I could see the entrance to the kitchen on the left, and the rear exit.

“There’s an office across from the kitchen,” Leo said, coming up behind me. “Restrooms by the pool table, two other rooms toward the front for storage and utilities. It’s pretty basic, very simple.”

“Except for the murder,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure.” I frowned. “I’m wondering if this really is just an ordinary bar brawl that got out of hand.” Turning around, I gave myself a good shake. “That sounds crazy. Maybe it’s the memory of that other murder here. I feel as if the tavern could be haunted.”

Heading toward the front door, Leo gave the occupants one last over-the-shoulder look. “If the place isn’t haunted, maybe the people are. Is there a difference?”

I hesitated. “No. We all have ghosts following us around.”

Opening the door, Leo sighed. “Yes. And they never go away.”

W
E MET
M
ICKEY
B
ORG IN THE PARKING LOT
. H
E SEEMED
surprised to see us. “What’s up with you two?” he asked in a wary voice.

“Just a little on-site crime scene visit,” Leo said, smiling. “How’re you feeling? I heard you were under the weather the other night.”

Mickey, whose bushy eyebrows, tufts of black hair, and small pointed nose reminded me of a gremlin, rubbed his stomach. “I think it was flu,” he said. “It’s going around. Spike and Julie Canby had it a week or so ago, I think Al was coming down with it Saturday, maybe Walt, too. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve got an ulcer.” He turned his head in the direction of the gas station and minimart. “I’ve been damned lucky—haven’t been held up for almost two years. You see those news stories all the time about convenience store owners getting gunned down. It’s enough to make a guy afraid to go to work.”

“Say,” Leo said as if he’d just thought of it, “did you see the fight at the ICT Saturday night?”

“Not really.” Mickey rubbed his stomach again. “I felt like
crap and wanted to go home, but Janie was having a good time. It was her birthday, and she was feeling
good
. But it was getting late and I’d worked all day. I was beat and spent half the night in the john. I didn’t pay much attention to the shenanigans at the pool table.”

“But,” Leo persisted, “you were in the bar when Clive hit Al with the pool cue, right?”

Mickey shrugged. “I guess so. Frankly, I thought Walt Hanson hit Al. Maybe I was running a fever. It’s all sort of fuzzy, which is what I told Dodge.” He started for his car, which was parked next to the minimart and across from the ICT. “I’m still not a hundred percent. Take it easy, folks. ’Night.”

Mickey limped a bit as he walked away. “Not a very good witness,” I murmured.

“None of them are,” Leo said, taking out his car keys. “Even in more sane and sober settings, people get confused about what they saw, or thought they saw, or wished they’d seen.” He shook his head. “Mitch went over the official statements and couldn’t get an accurate account. I don’t suppose Dodge could, either.” Leo patted my arm. “Good luck with that bridge game.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Leo.”

“Sure.” He looked up at the dark, starless sky. “No rain for now. I think I’ll swing by Old Mill Park for Mike O’Toole’s vigil.”

“I should be there, but I’m already a sub. It’s too late to back out now. Can you take some pictures if Mitch isn’t there? He may not know about the vigil since it was set on such short notice.”

“I’ll handle it,” Leo replied, “though I’m not as handy with a camera as Mitch is. Maybe Vida will stop by.”

We got into our cars and went our separate ways after Leo
turned onto Front Street to head for Old Mill Park. I continued along the Icicle Creek Road until I reached Fir, where I slowed down by my little log cabin. It was dark, of course, since I hadn’t been home all day. I checked the dashboard clock, which registered 7:32
PM
. The other players knew I’d be late. I pulled into the driveway, collected the usual batch of boring mail, and went inside to switch on a couple of lights. There were no phone messages. I brushed my teeth, gargled with Listerine to kill the liquor smell, and made a haphazard attempt to rearrange my hair.

Five minutes later, I was in the Pines, an upscale development by Alpine standards. Originally called Stump Hill after the last clear-cut, the property had been subdivided fifteen years ago. With their children grown and living elsewhere, Al and Janet Driggers had sold the family home recently and bought a smaller but much newer house among the young evergreens that had replaced the unsightly stumps. I’d driven by the house several times but hadn’t yet been inside.

Janet greeted me at the front door. “Hi, Emma! Come see what a lot of dead people paid for. Or should I say their relatives?” She shrugged. “It works for us either way. People just won’t stop dying around here.”

I was used to Janet’s blunt and sometimes bawdy manner, assuming it was her way of dealing with Al’s undertaking business. She worked part-time for the local travel agency, but in recent years had taken on more duties at the funeral home. I couldn’t resist asking an obvious question. “Are you handling the De Muth departure?”

Janet was already leading me down the hallway where she’d hung a half-dozen autumnal Japanese tapestries. “I don’t know,” she said as we went into her state-of-the-art kitchen complete with granite counters and cherrywood cabinets. “AlDe Muth
doesn’t have any relatives around here. He was a lone wolf.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, admiring my surroundings. “Nice. Lots of space, too. Was the kitchen like this when you bought it?”

“No. In fact the original owners had a breakfast nook, but we didn’t need it,” Janet explained. “Our old house was bigger except for that tiny kitchen. We’d thought about taking out the pantry, but while the kids were still at home, we used it for storage. Finally, Al and I said to hell with it and bought this house instead.” She leered at me. “Want to see our bedroom? I got some silver-plated handcuffs for Al as a housewarming present.”

“I think I’ll skip that this time around,” I said, unable to keep a straight face. “Our fellow cardsharps must be getting impatient.”

“They’re getting tanked,” Janet retorted. “They started early on the Chardonnay and moved on to the Riesling. In a half-hour I can serve them furniture polish and they won’t know the difference.”

We left the kitchen via the dining area that adjoined the living room, where the rest of the women were seated at four card tables—except for Edna Mae, who was hopping around and admiring the Driggerses’ collection of Eskimo soapstone carvings.

“Take a seat, Edna Mae,” Janet shouted. “Some of that stuff’s erotica. You won’t understand it.”

“But,” Edna Mae said, wide-eyed and holding an object in her hand, “what about this darling walrus?”

“That’s no walrus, sweetie,” Janet said with her usual puckish expression, “it’s—never mind. Put the damned thing back on the mantel and draw a card to see who deals.”

My ace of hearts was high. I started out with Rosemary Bourgette as my partner. She was a relative newcomer to the group, the daughter of fellow parishioners Mary Jane and Dick Bourgette. Rosemary was also SkyCo’s prosecuting attorney.

“Okay, Emma,” she said, revealing her dimples with a friendly smile, “don’t try to grill me about the ICT disaster. My lips are sealed.”

“Of course they are,” I said, feigning innocence. “We’re here to play cards. I dealt and I pass.”

Darlene Adcock, the wife of Harvey, our local hardware store owner, stared at me. “Maybe we should grill
you
, Emma.”

“I’m not the one covering the story,” I said. “Grill Mitch Laskey.”

“But,” Darlene persevered, “you must know
something.”

“Nothing you won’t read in the paper or hear over KSKY,” I replied.

Janet, who was Darlene’s partner, waved the hand that wasn’t holding her cards. “Skip the stiff. Are you going to bid or what?”

“Oh!” Darlene ran a nervous hand through her graying blond hair. “Yes, yes, I am. One diamond.”

“One spade,” Rosemary said.

Janet smirked. “Two hearts.”

I grimaced at my meager six points. “Pass. Sorry, Rosemary.”

My partner nodded once, her expression as inscrutable as if she’d been studying the accused in the witness chair.

“Oh, dear!” Flustered, Darlene sipped more wine. “Pass.”

Janet made a face but didn’t chide Darlene for not bidding again. I led a low spade into dummy, and Rosemary took the trick with a king. Janet trumped Rosemary’s ace of spades and went on to three hearts.

“Good thing you didn’t go to game,” Janet remarked to Darlene.

“What?” Darlene seemed lost in reverie. Or Chardonnay. “Yes, yes, it was. We’d have gone set.” She turned to me. “I thought Al De Muth had a son. Doesn’t he live around here?”

“A son?” I was surprised. “Nobody’s mentioned any family.”

Janet had all but pounced onto the table, staring at Darlene. “Where’d you hear De Muth had a kid? We need to know in case the burial is from our funeral home.”

Darlene looked defensive. “My husband told me a young man came into the hardware store a couple of times with Alvin De Muth. Harvey assumed they were father and son.”

I watched Rosemary’s reaction. There wasn’t any, just the same impenetrable expression she’d worn during the bidding. “Well?” I finally said to her. “That’s not privileged information.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Rosemary replied. “Honest.”

I believed her. “Then De Muth doesn’t have any ties to Alpine?”

Rosemary shrugged. “Not that I know of. He’s lived here for several years. His address is on the Burl Creek Road not far from the fish hatchery.”

Janet nodded. “I know where he lives.
Lived
, I mean. It’s an A-frame somebody put up years ago as a summer home but never used.”

“Could be,” Rosemary allowed. “All I know is the address.”

“Maybe his son lives there, too,” Darlene said.

Janet nodded. “Al and I will check it out. They won’t keep De Muth on ice forever in Everett. If there’s an heir, he can pay for the funeral.”

I cut the cards for Darlene. My mind wasn’t on the hand I
was dealt. Instead, I was wondering if Milo had searched the dead man’s home and if he’d found any sign of kinfolk. De Muth was described as a loner, but I hoped someone, somewhere was sorry he was gone.

W
E PASSED THE REST OF THE EVENING WITHOUT FURTHER REFERENCE
to the ICT tragedy. The others had contagious giggle fits and misplayed their cards, and by ten o’clock Edna Mae couldn’t tell a heart from a diamond or a club from a spade. Never a wine lover, I sipped slowly on a single glass of Riesling. When we parted company a little after ten-thirty, I seemed to be the only one who was sober. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to drive,” Janet called out as I left. “I’m too drunk to walk.”

When I got home, I called Milo. “What’s this about De Muth’s son?” I asked after a grumpy hello from his end of the line.

“Son? What son?” he retorted.

“Darlene Adcock says De Muth had a son. Harvey’s seen them together at the store.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” the sheriff replied testily. “How did Harvey figure that? Did they wear matching outfits and name tags?”

“Harvey gathered it was De Muth’s son,” I said.

“Harvey’s woolgathering. It sounds like something from one of your wine-guzzling bridge gang. Why don’t I post a deputy outside of whichever member’s holding the event and arrest them all for DUI?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Maybe that’ll teach Dixie Ridley not to trump my trick when she’s my partner.”

“I should arrest Rip,” Milo said, referring to Dixie’s husband, the high school football coach. “Last week he couldn’t count past eleven and got penalized in the last thirty seconds
for having too many players on the field. That’s why the Buckers lost to Arlington.”

“Speaking of arrests, how’s the prisoner?”

“Still feeling sorry for himself for being an asshole.” Milo’s sigh was audible. “Jeez, what a waste! Clive’s as much a victim as De Muth.”

“That’s an odd thing for you to say.”

“You’re right. Forget I said it.”