The Alpine Yeoman (29 page)

“Are you through?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “If you were Mulehide, you’d have told me I was being nasty because Bob probably makes more money than I do.”

“Does he?”

“Hell, I don’t know and I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“I don’t, either. I didn’t dare look at you. I knew what you were thinking.”

Milo braked at Alpine Way and grinned at me. “It’s a wonder he didn’t refer to Caroline as the Little Woman. She’s not. Built like a brick outhouse.”

I laughed, then sobered as we headed up the hill. “I admit I wonder where Ainsley is.”

“If she’s smart—and she obviously isn’t—she ran away from home.”

“Oh,” I said as we passed Pines Villa and Parc Pines, “I’ve got a call in to a former Yakima newspaper reporter who supposedly has a long memory. Maybe he knows what happened to Sam’s brother. Other than that he died after getting beaten up in a tavern brawl.”

“That may not tell us anything about Sam, though.”

“Did Sam ever talk about religion?”

Milo turned left onto Fir. “Are you kidding? I doubt he ever believed in Santa Claus.”

“His parents were religious. They went to the Pentecostal church.”

“Maybe that explains why Heppner isn’t religious. Those people are kind of far out, from what little I know about them.”

We turned onto Fir. “I noticed that both his parents had biblical first names—as do the children—Amos, Samuel, and Ruth.”

Milo glanced at me. “You’re good. I’d never have picked up on that sort of thing. It might even mean something.”

He turned into the driveway—and stopped. “We’ve got company. You recognize that Acura?”

“No. But it looks like a woman is sitting in the driver’s seat.”

“I’ll have to park on the verge,” Milo said, reversing and backing up. “What’s going on around here? Have you put out a welcome mat I haven’t noticed?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one with mysterious female callers. I only get drunken jerks.”

We walked toward the house as an auburn-haired woman emerged from the car. “Ms. Lord?” she called.

“Yes,” I responded, beginning to feel as if I were having an identity crisis. “Are you here to see me?”

Her gaze flickered in Milo’s direction, but when she spoke, her words were for me. “Yes. I’m Helena Craig, from the high school. I have something I’d like to discuss with you, if I may impose.”

My husband had already opened the front door. “After you, ladies,” he said in a cheerful voice that didn’t sound at all
like him. “Don’t mind me, Ms. Craig,” he said, leaving the door open. “I’m just heading out to check my fishing gear. I’ll leave you alone with the Little Woman.” The big jerk closed the door behind us. I wanted to strangle him.

“You’re sure this is a good time?” Helena asked, her attractive features a trifle strained.

“Yes! I mean, of course. Do sit. Can I get you something to drink?”

Helena had parked herself in the easy chair. “No, really. I hope I’m not interrupting your day with Mr. Lord.”

“There is no Mr. Lord,” I said, plopping down gracelessly on the sofa. “I use my maiden name for the newspaper. My husband is the sheriff.”
And a world-class jackass
, I wanted to add but didn’t.

“Oh! I thought he seemed familiar.” Her fair skin grew rather pink. “I guess I’m used to seeing him in uniform. He’s quite an imposing-looking man.”

“He’s tall,” I said, trying to sound cordial but not quite making it. “What did you want to discuss with me?”

Helena seemed to have regained her aplomb. She crossed her long legs, which were covered in olive green wool slacks that matched her tailored jacket. “I understand that your reporter, Mr. Laskey, has been interviewing Principal Freeman. In fact, I believe he tried to reach me at home, but I was out. I called him earlier this afternoon, but there was no answer.” She regarded me with a questioning look.

“He and his wife had plans to go out of town,” I said.

“Ah. Well—that’s why I’m here. I seem to be in the middle of a controversy. Apparently, I wasn’t kept abreast of why some of our students appeared to have dropped out of sight, if not actually out of school. Mr. Freeman sometimes keeps information to himself.”

“Typical of administrators,” I allowed, finally feeling more congenial. “Especially educators.”

“In any event, I’m sorry if I caused Mrs. Runkel any consternation when I was on her program. She’s such a delightful woman. Very keen on education, of course, but I felt she might in some ways be … a bit old-fashioned when it comes to her ideas about contemporary teenagers.”

I was tempted to be candid by saying that despite an occasional burst of outrage for the sake of convention, Vida was virtually shockproof. But the admission might turn Helena into a clam. “Mrs. Runkel has some conservative views,” I conceded. That much was true when it came to her staunch support of any Republican who could breathe without an oxygen tank.

Helena nodded. “That’s why I didn’t mention some of the tales I’ve heard going around among the students, especially the girls. Of course, much of this is due to those so-called Internet dating sites, which are—as you probably know—nothing but pimping.”

Having gotten emails in my Junk file that obviously weren’t confined to matching up prospective couples, I knew what Helena was talking about. For fear of getting a virus—or maybe even an STD if I opened any of them—I’d never actually read the contents. “Is this more than just salacious talk with the students?” I asked.

Helena made a face. “Frankly, it’s hard to tell. They turn silent if I even appear to be prying. Or in some cases, they just laugh it off, dismissing it as some TV show they watched. I’m not saying that I believe any of our high school girls are involved. In fact, at least in one instance, I thought they mentioned the Skykomish and Sultan schools. Oh,” she went on, leaning her head against the back of the easy chair, “it’s a
conundrum. Adolescents fantasize so much. But it’s upsetting.”

“Have you discussed this with Principal Freeman?”

Helena sat up straight again. “I broached the subject a week before spring break. He shrugged it off as silly chatter from too many movies and TV shows.” She frowned. “I didn’t realize you were married to the sheriff. I’m not sure I want him to learn what is basically hearsay.”

“I’m a journalist,” I said. “I know how to guard my sources. My husband and I walk a tight line to keep our jobs separate from our personal life.”

“That can’t be easy,” Helena remarked in a bemused tone.

I smiled wryly. “We’ve had fifteen years of practice.”

“I mustn’t impose any longer,” she said, getting up. “I feel better for airing my discomfort about our students. I don’t suppose you have any advice on what I should do.” She blushed again—and uttered a strangled little laugh. “I’m a counselor. I shouldn’t have to ask anybody.”

“Everyone needs to unload at some point,” I said, having risen from the sofa to join Helena by the door. “If I were you, I’d find the smartest and most trustworthy girl at the school and turn her into a spy.”

Helena’s gray eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“That’s what journalists do when they want to get at the truth. In our case, we call such people ‘leaks.’ ”

She put out her hand. “Thank you, Ms.… what should I call you?”

“Emma,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Emma,” she repeated. “I like that name. Maybe I can find an Emma at the high school.”

With that parting sally, Helena left. I should have felt good for letting her unburden herself. But I didn’t. I wished I hadn’t
suggested that she find a student spy. Maybe all the adolescent chitchat was just so many little bees buzzing around the halls of Alpine High. But bees’ nests are dangerous. I didn’t want Helena or an innocent teenager getting stung. Even bee stings can be fatal.

T
EN MINUTES AFTER
H
ELENA LEFT
, C
HARLEY
B
URKE CALLED
me back. If we’d ever crossed paths, neither of us remembered it. But, like everybody else in the newspaper business, he remembered that my name had been linked to Tom Cavanaugh’s. That was no surprise, since Tom had owned his own West Coast weekly empire.

“Terrible thing when he got killed,” Charley lamented. “Who took over his papers?”

I didn’t want to divulge that Adam had inherited them, so I merely said that they were being run out of California by Tom’s second-in-command, Phil Corrigan. In fairness to my son, he never used a nickel of his inheritance for himself but took some of the profit for his St. Mary’s Igloo villagers and the other communities he served in his remote part of northern Alaska.

“So,” Charley said after I’d apparently satisfied his curiosity, “you want to know something about a tavern fight in Toppenish back in ’78? I was still working on the
Herald-Republic
then, though I moved on to Spokane the next year.”

“Did you cover Toppenish on your beat?”

“Oh, sure, whenever a story landed on my desk. You got any names to toss at me?”

“Only one: Amos Heppner. It happened in February.” I didn’t mention that Sam’s brother had died. Sometimes it was
better not to give too much information but to let the source’s brain roam unfettered.

“Heppner,” Charley repeated. “Offhand, all that comes to mind is that big flood way back in northeastern Oregon. Before my time, but my old man grew up in Pendleton. Fairly close to Heppner, though Pa was born four, five years after the ’03 flood.”

Charley had paused. I hoped he wasn’t going off on a tangent. “No connection that I know of to the Toppenish Heppner,” I said.

“Probably not. There were quite a few bar brawls in Yakima County while I worked on the paper. More than one guy killed, usually with a gun or a knife. Do you know what happened to this Heppner?”

“He died as the result of a blow to the head,” I responded. Time enough for Charley to get his memory up to speed.

“Oh, right. I got it: young guy, fight broke out with some Mexicans. In fact, it was a Mexican tavern. A cantina, as they’d call it. Suppose I should say Latino or Hispanic, right? Anyway, he wasn’t welcome. Well, it was a dumb stunt on his part. He called out one guy and they got into it, and then the whole place went nuts.”

“Did you hear what started it?” I asked.

“Only later. It was over a Mexican gal who’d gotten knocked up by a white guy.”

“Were the cops called in?”

“Probably not,” Charley said after a pause. “Even back then, the Mexican folks were shy about doing that. Some of them might’ve been illegals, so they weren’t keen on asking the law for help.”

“Do you know if Heppner was the one who’d done the Latino girl wrong?” I asked.

“I do remember it wasn’t him,” Charley said. “White people
have family honor, too. I figure it was probably a relative or a buddy of his. I think he had a brother, but I could be wrong. Is that any help?”

I was momentarily speechless, thinking of Sam. “Yes. Yes, Charley, I think it is. Do you remember anything else about the brother—or whoever it was?”

He chuckled. “Hell, I’m surprised I remember that much. But it was a cautionary tale for those of us with a nose for news and a risky habit of sticking it in the wrong places. And I’m not just talking about the minorities over on this side of the state. Some of those wheat farmers and orchard owners can be damned prickly, too. You’d be surprised at what goes on when the barn doors are closed.”

“Dare I ask?” I inquired, having gotten over my temporary shock.

“Oh, hell.” Charley let out a sigh that traveled all the way across the flat agricultural lands and over the towering Cascades. “Let’s say some of these big spreads don’t need a brothel in town and let it go at that. Okay? I may be retired, but I’m not stupid.”

“I’m on the other side of the state,” I said. “We have our own problems, as you well know.”

“Sure. It all helps fill the front page. Too bad there aren’t a lot of folks who read newspapers anymore. I got out just in time.”

“I’m still in,” I responded. “At least for now.”

On that dark note, I thanked him and hung up.

Milo came home around three-thirty. He looked unhappy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, greeting him at the door with a kiss.

“Blatt’s due to pull night duty,” he replied, sinking into the
easy chair. “I can’t play favorites, especially when we’re short-staffed and it’s the weekend. I’ll take over the desk tonight, and Tanya can stay here with you and then spend the night. That’ll loosen up the schedule a bit.”

I sat down on the sofa, Pepsi at hand. “Will you eat dinner here?”

Milo thought about it. “No. Why don’t you and Tanya make something no man in his right mind would eat?”

“Maybe I will,” I said, suddenly remembering that I’d been mad at my husband. “Creamed something-or-other. Don’t you want to know what your Little Woman learned from Helena Craig?”

Milo laughed. “I couldn’t resist. I figured it’d set you off so you might be ornery enough to get something out of her. What was it?”

I made short work of her visit. Before Milo could do more than shake his head, I launched into the conversation with Charley Burke.

“Holy crap!” he exclaimed when I finished with Charley’s surmise about Amos’s brother. “I don’t know what to say. Heppner has a … kid? I mean,
had
a kid? No wonder he went off the rails. Jesus. That’s damned rough. Now what do I do?”

“Keep trying to get in touch with him?”

“It’s not working so far.” Milo got out of the chair. “I need a drink. You want one? Hell, it’s after four. Why not?”

“Yes, please. I’m kind of worn out from listening to people I don’t even know.”

Milo paused in the kitchen doorway. “Oh—in all this, I forgot to tell you Bob Sigurdson called to say that Ainsley showed up.”

I grabbed my Pepsi can, took a last swig, and got off the sofa. “Where had she been?”

“Bob talked to Dwight. He didn’t say. Dwight, being
Dwight, didn’t give a shit. I don’t blame him. The Sigurdsons panicked.” Milo started to head into the kitchen, then stopped. “Why?”

I’d come up beside him. “Because they’re nice and didn’t want something not nice happening to their nice daughter?”