The Alpine Betrayal Read online

  I waited. If Art had ever hinted his knowledge, or even suspicion, to his wife, perhaps she would remember it now. But Donna kept shaking her head and rocking the cart. “Shit,” she said again, her voice leaden.

  “He never said anything?” I asked quietly.

  “No.” She tucked the Kleenex farther down between her small breasts. “But he was worried. Or troubled.” Donna looked straight at me. “That’s why I could accept that note, even though it made me feel like such a failure, a wife who wasn’t there for her husband. He couldn’t talk to me, he couldn’t tell me how his job bothered him, he couldn’t share his troubles, so he …” She lifted a hand, then let it flutter to her side, like a crippled bird.

  “But that wasn’t it,” I said firmly.

  Donna’s chin shot up. “No. It wasn’t. He was probably just mulling over what he should do. Art was like that, he never did anything on impulse. If only Sheriff Dodge had been in town, if only Art had talked to me, if only …” She sniffed hard, swallowing her tears.

  “If only Cody Graff hadn’t been a killer,” I murmured.

  Donna squared her slim shoulders. “But he was. And by God, I’d like to shake the hand of whoever killed him.” With a tremulous, brave smile, she gave the cart an aggressive push and headed off down the aisle—to frozen vegetables, past whole grain waffles, and beyond ice cream, on special at $2.89 a half gallon.

  I stood for a few moments, resting my fingers on the boneless ham I’d picked up in the meat department. Donna Fremstad Wickstrom was a courageous woman. Or a very clever one. Either way, it struck me how life and death could mingle with broccoli spears and party pizzas. We humans did not live by bread alone, but sometimes we died in the most unexpected ways. At the hands of a stranger. In the arms of a lover. Under the evil eye of a parent.

  For the first time in days, I was too cold. I moved on, into the fresh, fragrant realm of produce.

  I was still too cold.

  Saturday brought the ninety-degree temperatures I’d dreaded. It also brought a phone call from my brother.

  “Quit bitching,” said Ben in his crackling voice. “It’s almost a hundred and twenty in Tuba City. I’m thinking of saying mass tomorrow in the nude.”

  I laughed, then insisted he hang up. I wanted to pour out my troubles, but not on his long distance bill. He refused, saying that he’d been in Vegas the previous week and had won $500 at craps. “I found a shooter,” he said. “I even hit boxcars.”

  For ten minutes, I regaled him with the Cody Graff murder; for two more I told him about Tom Cavanaugh. Ben addressed the latter first:

  “Don’t reject Tom’s generosity. As a priest, I’m telling you that’s selfishness and pride. As your brother, I’m telling you you’re too damned stubborn. Tom can afford it, he wants to do it, let him. And listen, Emma, one of these days you’re going to have to let him meet Adam. I’ve met Tom. He’s a hell of a guy. Are you ashamed of him?”

  “I’m ashamed that he’s married,” I said.

  “So’s he, probably. But that’s a fact, and you have to admire him for sticking by Fruit Loops, or whatever her name is. I admire him for wanting to help you and Adam. Give the guy a break. After all, he’s half Tom’s. Adam looks more like his father than he does like you, Sluggly.” The old nickname came from our extreme youth, a cross between Sluggo and Ugly. I’d always called him Stench. Fortunately, we had not lived up to our childhood monikers.

  I mumbled something that was akin to agreement, then waited for his words of wisdom regarding the murder investigation. This time, his counsel came more slowly.

  “It sounds to me as if nobody wants to admit this Cody guy got himself murdered. Why is that? Not because he didn’t deserve it, right?”

  “Right,” I echoed into the receiver. “So what are you saying?”

  I heard Ben speak away from the phone, presumably to a parishioner who had just arrived at the rectory he had described as about the size of a recycling bin. “I’m saying that everybody really does know Cody Graff was murdered.” He paused, waiting for his slow little sister to let his words sink into her brain. “But nobody wants to let on who did it.”

  I caught my breath. “Ben, do you mean somebody—maybe several somebodies—know who killed Cody?”

  “That’s what it sounds like to me.” He paused, again speaking to another party. “Hey, Emma, I’ve got to run. I forgot I was hearing confessions this morning. It gets too damned hot to sit in that booth come late afternoon. Call me when you find out whodunit.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  VIDA WAS TAKING Roger to the Science Center in Seattle for the day. I considered it a wasted trip, since Roger didn’t need any more ideas about how to wreak havoc. But her absence meant I couldn’t confer with her about my encounters with Curtis Graff and Donna Wickstrom. As for Milo, I didn’t know what his sleeping arrangements were, if any, with Honoria Whitman. I preferred not to call him and discover that maybe he hadn’t yet gotten back from Startup.

  The mail arrived early, before noon. Along with my Visa, Texaco, and Skykomish PUD bills, I received a manila envelope from Tom. Inside was an Alaska Airlines schedule, a cashier’s check for $2500, and a short note.

  “Dear Emma,” the note read in Tom’s sprawling, not always decipherable hand, “this should cover Adam’s flight to Fairbanks, plus enough to bring him home before school starts or for the holidays. I’m sending you the schedule because I suspect (from what you’ve told me) that Adam may not always be specific about matters like time, place, etc. Your Loggerama edition looks good. What did you do—threaten Ed Bronsky with a chain saw? Love, Tom.”

  I was smiling as I tucked the note in my desk. The check seemed too generous, but I decided to take my brother’s advice and not quibble. As for Tom’s comment on The Advocate: he was on our mailing list. I wondered if he went through every issue. Probably not, but it made me feel good to know that at least he looked at the paper once in a while. And approved. I told myself that I didn’t need any green lights from Tom for personal reasons, but that I respected his professional opinion. Maybe that wasn’t quite true, but I knew it should be.

  I wrote to Tom at once, thanking him for his generosity. The first paragraph sounded stiff; I tried to loosen up in graf two, telling him about Roger. I mentioned the murder investigation, the progress of the location shoot, the interminable hot, dry spell. I thanked him again, on Adam’s behalf, on my own. I signed “Love, Emma,” slipped the stationery into a matching envelope, and stuck on a stamp. Then I sat back to try and figure out what to tell my son. Our son.

  Adam knew I’d had some contact with Tom over the years, but he’d shown a remarkable lack of curiosity about the relationship. When Adam was small, I rarely mentioned Tom. About the time Adam started school in Portland, he began to ask more questions. I was honest, if reserved. Kindergartners cannot understand the adult human heart. Ph.D.s can’t either, but at least they like to talk about it. I merely told Adam that his father was a very good man who couldn’t marry me and who didn’t live close to us. Adam, growing up in an era of single parents, hadn’t found his situation unique. Eventually, I told Adam what his father’s name was, what he did for a living, that he had a wife and family in California. But it wasn’t until he turned seventeen that he expressed a desire to meet Tom. I discouraged Adam; I hadn’t heard anything of Tom in years. Wait, I cautioned.

  And Adam had. It wasn’t until he came home from Hawaii on Christmas break that I told him Tom Cavanaugh had been in Alpine. To my amazement, Adam sank into uncharacteristic gloom for three days. On Christmas Eve he came to himself and asked some pointed questions. Why had Tom come? Had he asked about Adam? Who were his other kids? Was he coming back?

  I explained how Tom had visited on business, to advise me about the running of the newspaper, possibly even to make an investment. He had two other children: a boy Adam’s age and a girl a couple of years younger. Yes, he’d not only asked about Adam, but he’d taken his picture with him. And some day, h
e might be back.

  Oddly, Adam expressed no immediate desire to meet Tom, but he cheered up and the rest of the holiday went by happily. Now I had the cashier’s check in hand, made out to me. I would cash it and put it in my savings, to parcel out to Adam as needed. But I would have to tell my son about it, because if he wanted to fly home before the semester started, he’d have to make his reservations soon.

  I was sitting in the backyard under the evergreens, mulling over the best approach, when I heard Milo call my name. I shouted that I was outside. Milo loped around the corner of the house, carrying a small box.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the box and slipping onto the matching deck chair. “Honoria thought you might like it.”

  I carefully opened the box and searched through crumpled tissue paper. My hand touched something round and smooth. It was about the size of a tennis ball, and when I removed it from the box, I saw there was a hole about half an inch in diameter. The object itself was dark green with just a hint of white in the glaze. I held it out in front of me.

  “Well!”

  “Isn’t that something?” said Milo, leaning forward and smiling in admiration.

  “It sure is,” I agreed, wishing I knew what that something was.

  Milo must have noticed my puzzlement. “It’s a vase,” he asserted. “For a single flower, like a rose, or a daisy. You stick the stem in that hole. With water, of course.”

  I studied the would-be vase, rolling it on my palm. It was very heavy. “I like the color. But how do you keep it from tipping over?”

  “What?” Milo frowned. “Oh, that’s up to you to figure out. Honoria likes to think of her work as … how does she put it? Involving people. Art shouldn’t just sit there, it should do something. Or make you do something. Isn’t that fine?”

  “It’s very thoughtful.” Which, I had to admit, it was. But short of floating the blasted thing in a mixing bowl full of water, I hadn’t the foggiest notion what to do with Honoria’s gift. “I’ll drop her a note. Or call her.” I gave Milo my brightest smile, not wanting him to think me ungrateful.

  “She made me a pet cock.” Milo looked very pleased.

  “A what?” The heat must be getting to me. Surely I couldn’t have heard Milo correctly.

  “You know,” he said, very seriously. “A pet cock is a kind of valve. For releasing pressure.”

  I kept a straight face. “I think I’d rather have this,” I said, hoisting the glazed ball-cum-vase. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a pet cock.”

  I’d expected Milo to tumble to the double entendre, but it seemed his mind had wandered off to other matters. “Emma, I’m worried. Time’s running out. The movie crew is going to leave Tuesday or Wednesday. Curtis Graff will probably take off tomorrow. I’ve got no reason to hold any of them.”

  “You haven’t found any physical evidence?” Overhead, a pair of chipmunks chattered in the Douglas fir.

  Milo shook his head. “Matt Tabor pitched a fit, but we went all over that fancy car of his a second time. All we could find besides those hairs was a thread that may or may not have come from Cody’s jeans.”

  I made an appropriately sympathetic remark before offering Milo a beer. I took Honoria’s gift into the house and returned with two cold bottles of Samuel Smith ale I’d found at the back of the refrigerator. For half an hour, Milo and I sipped and talked, getting nowhere. He was, however, intrigued by Ben’s theory.

  “Your brother must know people pretty well,” he said, “being a priest and all.” I allowed that was fairly accurate. Priest or not, Ben had his blind spots. “Now why,” mused Milo, “would somebody know who the killer was and not say so?”

  “The most obvious reason is that whoever knows wants to protect the person who killed Cody. That could be Dani and Patti, or Reid and Dani, or various combinations of people who care about each other.” I moved my chair back a few inches as the sun rose high over the treetops. “It could also be fear. Cody’s murderer might not stop there. Take Jack Blackwell, for example—I don’t believe he poisoned Cody, but if he did, I think he’s the type who would kill again to save himself. There’s a ruthless quality about that man.”

  Milo gave a grunt of assent. “Hampton, too. Hell, I remember Ray Marsh—we went to high school together. He was a wrestler. I played basketball.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him?” I asked.

  “No. He was kind of scrawny then, wrestled at a hundred and twenty-six pounds. His hair was about the color of mine, only more washed-out.” Milo brushed at his sandy forelock, a few strands of gray glinting in the sun. “By the time he walked out on Patti, he’d put on some weight, but he was still more boy than man.”

  I made a murmur of acknowledgment. The flutter of bird’s wings, the shadows cast by the evergreens, the heavy heat of midday were all conspiring to make me sleepy. My mind didn’t want to dwell on murder. Yet Milo was right—we were running out of time. I was trying to stir myself into some kind of mental action when Milo’s beeper went off.

  “Damn,” he mumbled, getting up and going into the house to use the phone. I leaned back in the deck chair, craning my neck to look out toward the street. I caught the rear end of Milo’s Cherokee Chief. So far, he had resisted efforts to have a cellular phone installed in his off-duty vehicle.

  He returned with two more bottles of beer. They were warm. I knew he must have rummaged around under the sink to find them. “That was Bill Blatt,” he said, sinking back into his deck chair. “There’s some sort of ruckus going on up at the ski lodge. I told him and Sam Heppner to see what it was, and if it looked serious, to call me back. I suppose Henry Bardeen has a guest who tried to skip without paying the bill.”

  I eyed Milo curiously. Hadn’t it dawned on him that trouble at the ski lodge might involve the movie crew? But of course there were other guests, perhaps half again as many non-Hollywood types. Milo must know his own business. I kept quiet.

  “This theory about Art,” he was saying, cradling the bottle of ale against his chest as he stretched out in the chair, “really threw me. I stopped to see Doc Dewey about it this morning, but he wasn’t around. Or,” he added with a wry glance in my direction, “if he was, Mrs. Dewey wasn’t going to let me talk to him. She’s pretty thick with Dot Parker, and I don’t think Mrs. D. has forgiven me for arresting Durwood.”

  “Did Doc ever say anything to you about the Graff baby’s death?” I was still trying to fight off my feeling of inertia.

  “Never.” Milo took a long drink of the warm ale. My own bottle rested on the grass, unopened. He sat up abruptly, an awkward jangle of long arms and legs. “You know, that’s strange, Emma. If that baby had been murdered by Cody, wouldn’t Doc have guessed? I mean, if Art was suspicious, Doc sure would have been.”

  “That’s true.” I gave him an accusing look. “You never told me what Curtis said last night.”

  “Curtis turned into a damned clam. He refused to talk about it, said it was too painful to bring up.” Milo’s face was rueful. “Maybe so, but it’s driving me nuts with everybody pulling this hush-hush act. The only thing Curtis would say was that his brother was scum, that Marje Blatt was blind if she intended to marry him, and that Dani was misunderstood by a lot of people.”

  The beeper went off again. Milo swore and returned to the house. He emerged in less than a minute. “Goddamn, that tears it!” He started to drain his ale, thought better of it, and handed the bottle to me. “Billy and Sam had to arrest Matt Tabor. They’re bringing him down to the office.”

  I struggled to my feet, my lethargy gone. “Why?”

  Milo was already taking long hurried strides across the grass. I ran to keep up. “Assault with a deadly weapon,” he called back over his shoulder. “Matt took a fireplace shovel to Reid Hampton. Reid’s on his way to emergency. Maybe that’ll get Doc Dewey away from his baseball game on TV.”

  I was torn between following Milo down to the sheriff’s office and going to Alpine Community Hospital. Halfway from t
he front door to the carport, I made up my mind to head for the emergency room. Milo would tell me what went on with the booking of Matt Tabor, but I needed a first-hand report of what had happened to Reid Hampton.

  The waiting room for Emergency was small, spartan, and air-conditioned. By the time I arrived, Reid Hampton had already been wheeled into an examining room. The nurse behind the reception desk was short, red-haired, and had a face that reminded me of a Pekingese. Her plastic name tag identified her as Ruth Sharp, R.N.

  I told her who I was, which didn’t seem to impress her in the least. “I’m checking on Mr. Hampton’s condition,” I said, trying to sound official.

  Ruth Sharp arched her finely penciled eyebrows at me. “His condition? He just arrived. Why don’t you call back later this afternoon.” The suggestion was clearly intended as a dismissal.

  “Where’s Doc Dewey?” I asked, digging my heels into the gray-and-white-flecked carpet.

  “Dr. Cecil Dewey or Dr. Gerald Dewey?” The nurse’s pug nose twitched a bit, probably in disapproval.

  “Either one,” I replied, my patience on the wane. Behind her, a young woman carried a howling infant through the double doors.

  Ruth Sharp looked down at some papers on her desk. She appeared to be debating whether or not to tell me anything. “Dr. Gerald Dewey isn’t on call this weekend. Dr. Cecil Dewey isn’t here yet. He’s on his way, I believe. Perhaps you’d like to speak to Dr. Simon Katz. He’s up here from Monroe.” She glanced at her watch, which looked as if it should have adorned the wrist of a railroad conductor. “Dr. Katz will be free in an hour or two.”

  I decided to wait for Doc Dewey. Stepping aside for the woman with the screaming child, I began to roam around the little waiting room. Ruth Sharp and the beleaguered mother had to shout to be heard over the youngster’s cries. I had just sat down when the young woman approached and set the child next to me. It was a boy, about three, with very bright red cheeks, curly brown hair and a runny nose. I tried to smile; the boy let out another howl. I buried myself in a year-old copy of National Geographic. The child suddenly stopped crying, hopped off the chair, and began to run full tilt in circles around the waiting room. Another miracle cure, I thought, remembering the times I’d hauled Adam off to the doctor’s, usually in the dead of night with the threat of snow, and had been certain he was near death. On virtually every occasion, it had taken him less than three minutes to recover his usual form and raise hell until we got into the examining room. On one particularly harrowing night, he had run away while I was filling out an admittance form. I had chased him all over Portland’s Good Samaritan Hospital and through a side door, where he had jumped into a reflecting pool. It turned out that he had gas. It was a wonder I didn’t have a stroke.