The Alpine Uproar Page 10

  I was sitting fairly close to Holly Gross, the scrawny blonde who lived on welfare to support her three children in their mobile home at the trailer park. The bald guy didn’t seem interested in spending his money on Holly. He put a ten-dollar bill on the counter and left.

  Norene approached us, sticking a pencil into the wild mass of auburn ringlets that hung to her shoulders and hid her eyebrows. “Mr. Walsh,” she said in a voice that might have been deferential. “Ms. Lord?”

  I nodded. “I haven’t been here for a long time. Leo and I thought we should show our support for the tavern after what you all went through last Saturday.”

  Norene’s doughy face puckered. “Awful. Who could’ve expected such a thing to happen here?”

  I refrained from reminding Norene that De Muth’s death hadn’t been a first for the ICT. In fairness, the previous fatality had occurred under different ownership. “It sounds as if it was one of those arguments that get out of hand,” I said.

  Norene nodded. “Silly, really.” She leaned closer. “Holly’s not worth fighting over.”

  I registered surprise. “That’s what it was about?”

  “As far as I can tell.” Norene shot a quick look at Holly, who had just been served another beer. “It’s bad for business. Look how quiet it is now.” Apparently, she caught Spike’s eye and straightened up. “What’ll you have?”

  We both ordered a local microbrew. “You should try the onion rings,” Norene urged. “Julie’s got a real knack for making them.”

  “Sure,” Leo said. “Sounds good.”

  Norene smiled. Her shiny crimson lip gloss had been applied with a haphazard hand. “You’ll love them. Be right back.”

  Holly picked up her beer and came over to our table. “Is Norene bad-mouthing me again?”

  Leo chuckled. “Don’t you girls like to bad-mouth each other? It’s a good thing we guys don’t pay attention.”

  Without being asked, Holly pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re one of the good guys, Leo. Don’t let Norene tell you that the tavern has gone downhill since the fight. The place was practically full right after work. It always is between five and six-thirty. This is just a … a lull.” She edged closer to Leo. “How come you don’t hang out here much? You’re always fun.”

  Leo nodded at me. “The slave driver here keeps my nose to the grindstone. I have to hustle twenty-four seven.”

  Holly studied him with pewter-gray eyes and laughed. “I do some hustling, too. Keeps me on my toes. Sort of.” She actually simpered.

  “Did you see the fight?” Leo asked.

  Holly took a big swallow of beer. “You mean Fred and Mickey?”

  “They fought?” I said.

  Holly shook her head. “They argued, but I thought they were going to go at it. Don’t get me wrong—Fred didn’t drink that night, except for some club soda. Mickey—Janie’s new husband—didn’t feel good. He wanted to go home, but Janie said it was her birthday and she was going to stay. Fred would take care of her. Mickey got mad. I don’t think he liked Fred showing up for his ex’s party.”

  Leo frowned. “That’s what started the fight? How did Clive and Alvin De Muth get involved?”

  Holly waved a hand in a careless gesture. “That was something else. Al and I were … well, making some plans for later on. Then all hell broke loose by the pool table. Maybe Clive was pissed off because his girlfriend walked out on him. Miss Hoity-Toity, I call her. Not Clive’s type at all.” Holly fiddled with one of her false eyelashes. “Clive’s real people. His girlfriend’s from another planet. Maybe she went off with Averill Fairbanks to look for space aliens.”

  “Does Averill come here often?” I asked.

  “He’s kind of a regular, but he can nurse a schooner forever.” Holly paused as Norene brought our beers. “Hey, Norene, watch your mouth. I’m a good customer, remember?”

  “How can I forget?” Norene snapped. “Who’s watching your kids? Or did you leave them in British Columbia? What do you do up there besides knock down Canadian brews with their higher alcohol count?”

  “What I do is none of your beeswax. I like Canada. I like Canadians. So what?” Holly deliberately turned her back on Norene. “Old hag,” she muttered. “Always on my case. She’s just jealous.”

  I feigned innocence. “Of …?”

  Holly looked at me with those cold gray eyes. “What do you think? Norene’s a drag. Bert likes to cut loose and party. It’s nice doing business with him—in more than one way.” Holly simpered and winked. “When I got here, Norene was telling Spike she might have the flu. Last weekend it was a migraine on Friday and bee stings on Saturday. Before that, it was her sinuses.” Seeing Leo light a cigarette, Holly reached out a skinny hand. “Mind if I bum one off you?”

  “Go ahead.” Leo slid the pack across the table. “Take two.”

  “Thanks.” She put a cigarette between her fuchsia lips and leaned forward, exposing a lot of pale skin but not much cleavage. “Light?”

  Leo obliged with a match. “You owe me, babe,” he said. “Tell us what happened with Clive and Alvin.”

  Holly took a deep drag and exhaled. “Oh, God, do I have to? I already talked to that pain-in-the-ass Sam Heppner. Dodge, too.” She shot me a hostile glance. “What’s wrong with you? The sheriff needs to get laid. Or did Delphine Corson sub for you this week?”

  I stared back at her before turning to Leo. “I’ll have one of those cigarettes, Leo. It’s getting chilly in here.”

  With his eyes fixed on Holly, Leo shoved the pack and the matches in my direction. “Stay focused, Holly. What started the fight?”

  To my surprise, Holly giggled. “Me.” She giggled again, puffed on her cigarette, and drank more beer. “Men!” She shook her head, the limp blond strands of hair slithering over her narrow shoulders like lazy snakes. “Isn’t that what you guys usually fight about?”

  “I’m not a fighter,” Leo said calmly.

  Holly nodded. “I know. I can tell you’re a lover. That’s why you’re okay with me.” She turned around to face the bar. “Hey, Spike, put on some music. I want to dance.”

  Spike, who’d been talking to a couple of new arrivals, made a helpless gesture. “Can’t. The sound system’s still busted. It’ll be fixed tomorrow for the weekend customers. Sorry.”

  Norene reappeared, carrying a plate of onion rings. “Here you go,” she said. “Nice and hot. Julie’s specialty. Enjoy.” Without looking at Holly, she stomped away to greet Jack Blackwell and Patti Marsh, who’d just come through the door.

  “Oh, shit!” Holly exclaimed. “Here comes Patti-Cakes, the biggest two-faced bitch in the county! I’m outta here!” Cigarette clamped between her lips, she yanked a couple of onion rings off the top, snatched up her beer, spilled a few drops on the table, and hurried away past the pool table, where she disappeared from view.

  “Competition?” I murmured, taking a Kleenex out of my purse and wiping up the spilled beer.

  “Sour grapes,” Leo said, retrieving the spare cigarette Holly had left on the table. “Patti has a regular sugar daddy in Jack Blackwell. Besides, she still gets some money from her daughter, doesn’t she?”

  Norene was all smiles as she seated Jack and Patti not far from the entrance. “Maybe,” I replied, “though Dani’s Hollywood career never really took off. I think she’s been in a couple of TV movies and at least one series that got canceled a few years ago.”

  Leo looked thoughtful. “The Dani Marsh drama was before my time. Did Dani ever come back to Alpine after her ex was murdered?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was a quarter after seven. “Patti’s visited her a few times in LA. Dani had too many gruesome memories of Alpine, especially,” I added, gazing at the bar, “this place.”

  “It doesn’t seem to bother her mother,” Leo noted, watching Patti laugh heartily at something Jack had said to Norene.

  “Nothing bothers Patti,” I said. “She has a very thick skin and a v
ery thin conscience. Patti doesn’t live in the past, only for the moment.”

  “We aren’t getting very far grilling witnesses,” Leo pointed out before tasting an onion ring. “Hmm. Not bad. Have one.”

  I was pleasantly surprised. “Maybe Julie’s got a knack for deep-fried food. Maybe we should have eaten here after all. And maybe the onions will kill my beer breath before I get to Janet Driggers’s house.”

  Leo nodded discreetly in the direction of the bar. “Want to talk to Bert Anderson? He’s coming this way.”

  “Hey, Leo,” Bert said in a deep, rough voice. “How’re you doing?”

  “Got a minute?” Leo asked.

  Bert grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “Not much more than that. I’m headed for the can. What is it?” He glanced at me. “You’re the newspaper lady, right?”

  “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.”

  EIGHT

  WE MET MICKEY BORG IN THE PARKING LOT. HE 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 M
uth 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.