The Alpine Uproar Read online

  “Well …” I munched on some lettuce. “Delphine isn’t the type who’d usually hang out at the ICT no matter who owned it. I suppose Gus goes there because it’s close to the dealership.”

  “So?”

  I shrugged. “I can kind of see her point. She’s a businesswoman. She’s done quite well for herself since the divorce. That was—what? Fifteen, sixteen years ago? She and Randy had already broken up when I moved to Alpine.”

  “I still say it’s dumb. Everybody in town probably already knows who was at the tavern that night. Hell, you can’t keep something like that a secret around here.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “So are you going to dinner with her?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how I feel at the end of the day.” He shook more salt onto what was left of his fries. “I don’t much like driving all the way into Monroe for dinner. Does Delphine want to get out of town so people don’t talk about the two of us?”

  “Possibly.” I couldn’t resist a gibe. “Next week Vida could mention in ‘Scene’ that the sheriff and the florist enjoyed a scrumptious meal at the Sailfish Grill in Monroe. The restaurant might buy an ad from Leo.”

  Milo’s hazel eyes flickered with what might’ve been amusement—or mockery. “Fleetwood’s not sharing ads from Monroe with you since he got FCC approval for more broadcasting range?”

  The query rankled. “He’s steered a couple of businesses our way. We’ve been doing co-op advertising for several years, even before KSKY got the new license.” My mood, which had been buoyed by the clear autumn air and quelled hunger pangs, began to darken again. “Let’s change the subject. What’s Clive Berentsen going to get for whacking Alvin De Muth with a pool cue?”

  “Oh …” Milo finished his burger and gazed up at the grease-stained ceiling. “Ten to fifteen, probably. Eligible for parole in seven.”

  “What if the case goes to trial?”

  The sheriff looked at me curiously. “Why would it?”

  “Well,” I said, wishing I hadn’t raised the issue, “it was a fight. Berentsen says it was self-defense, right?” I paused as Milo nodded faintly. “If it can be proved that Clive was defending himself, why shouldn’t he—or his lawyer—hope to get him off? You don’t have a final autopsy report from Snohomish County, do you?”

  Milo went on the defensive. “Do I need one? Doc Dewey says De Muth was killed by a blow to the head. End of story.”

  “So why did you ship the body to Everett for a second opinion?”

  The sheriff shot me a stern look. “Doc doesn’t have the technology or the time to make a thorough diagnosis. I like to touch all the bases.”

  I nodded. “I know. Skykomish County doesn’t have the money for anything beyond the bare necessities. When will you hear back from the ME in Everett?”

  Milo appeared to be ruminating. “Tomorrow, or Friday? They get backed up over there in Everett. Too damned many people in that county and too many autopsies.”

  “Okay.” I put aside the remnants of my beef dip. Only half of it was rare; the rest was dried out around the edges. “So if …?” I left the question unfinished.

  Milo sighed. “Let’s hope there’s no if. I want this one out of the way real quick. Hell, Emma, it’s just another drunken brawl. They happen. I’m not looking for trouble.”

  “Of course not,” I said. But I knew the sheriff all too well. A quick glance at him indicated he was uneasy. I guessed Milo realized that not looking for trouble didn’t mean he couldn’t find it.

  THREE

  UNTIL ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK, THE REST OF WEDNESDAY’S workday passed in relative calm. I’d intended to drop by Stella’s Styling Salon to get my bangs trimmed, but both she and the other stylist were busy. I considered whacking at them myself, but knew I’d make a hash of it. “Butchering” was what Stella Magruder called any attempt on my part to deal with my thick, unmanageable brown hair.

  Vida departed a few minutes early to pick up a dessert at the Grocery Basket for the annual Harvest Home potluck supper at her Presbyterian church. Ginny had left shortly after four-thirty, pleading exhaustion. Kip and his wife were hosting a pizza party for our carriers, a once-a-month get-together to keep up morale and also to figure out if any of the younger set might be slacking, doing drugs, or God-only-knew-what that could impede delivery of the Advocate. Mitch’s wife was having more problems with her loom. He left just before the calm was broken by an angry Spike Canby, who charged into the newsroom to face off with Leo.

  “I want my money back!” Spike demanded, pounding a fist on my ad manager’s desk. “You shouldn’t have run that ad in the paper this week! Are you out of your mind?”

  “Maybe,” Leo replied, his aplomb intact. “What’s the problem?”

  “This!” Spike jabbed a stubby finger at the current edition on Leo’s desk. “Look at page five!”

  Leo didn’t even blink. “You mean your ad? It’s the same one you’ve been running for over a year. All one column by two inches of it.”

  “I know that!” Spike paused, hitching his pants up over his paunch. “That’s what I mean. ‘Where the Sky meets the creek,’ ‘where the brew meets the ski,’ and ‘where you and your buddies can take a cue from us and pool your talents.’ It sounds as if I’m responsible for that poor bastard De Muth’s death!”

  “Spike.” Leo leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “You’re off-base. If you felt the ad might be upsetting, you should have told me before our deadline. I haven’t had a single call complaining about it.” Leo’s glance strayed in my direction where I stood in the doorway to my office. “What about you, Emma?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Leo’s expression was ingenuous. “You see? You must be the only one in SkyCo who thinks the ad sounds sinister. Hell, Spike, I tried a half-dozen times to get you to change it, but you kept saying that Julie thought it sounded terrific.”

  Spike scowled. “It was her idea.”

  “I know.”

  I also knew. Julie Canby had been publicity chairman for a garden club when she lived in Maltby and fancied herself a PR pro. When Spike bought the tavern, he wanted to change the lingering image of the ICT to that of a classier watering hole. Leo had some good ideas, but Spike insisted on letting his bride write the copy. Given that the small weekly ad didn’t bring in much revenue, we’d let the Canbys have their way.

  Spike had literally backed off, but stood with his arms folded across his chest. Though not very tall, he was quite broad through the shoulders and chest. What had been muscle while he worked construction was turning into fat. The combination of lack of exercise and maybe sampling too many of the liquid products he peddled was making him look more like a fat cat than a sturdy bulldog.

  “Are you saying it’s Julie’s fault?” he demanded.

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” Leo said. “If you’d asked me to pull the ad, I’d have done it. We can put together something different for next week.”

  Spike scratched his forehead where his black curly hair had begun to recede. “No extra cost?”

  “Not if the ad stays the same size,” Leo said. “It’d be smart to take out a larger space and change the visuals. That way, you’d show that you intend to stay the course, despite what happened over the weekend.”

  “I’ll see what Julie thinks,” Spike mumbled. “Hey,” he added, moving closer and holding out his hand. “No hard feelings, Leo. This thing really rocked our world.”

  Leo stood up and shook the other man’s hand. “It happens.”

  “That De Muth was kind of an ornery cuss,” Spike said, and winced. “Sorry. Shouldn’t talk like that about the guy now that he’s dead. He was a good customer. Kind of a loner. Julie always felt sorry for him. I guess that’s why she …” Spike stopped speaking and shook his head. “Life’s a crock, isn’t it?”

  “It’s got a downside,” Leo allowed.

  Spike nodded at me, apparently as an afterthought. “Hey,” he said, reaching the
newsroom door, “don’t be a stranger, Leo. Haven’t seen you for a while at the tav.”

  Leo grinned. “I don’t get out much. I’ve been thinking about entering a monastery.”

  “Right.” Spike attempted an obligatory chuckle and left.

  “Dumbshit,” Leo muttered. “What does he expect when he owns a tavern? People actually go there to get drunk and stupid.” He smiled ruefully. “I did it myself for too many years.”

  “But not anymore,” I said, coming over to stand by his desk. “You do have a way with our advertisers, Leo.”

  “It’s my job,” he said, turning off his computer monitor. “Making nice. Every so often, I feel like a fraud.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “I have to do the same. I wonder why Julie Canby feels so bad? Or should I say guilty?”

  “Turn of phrase?” Leo suggested. “Or reality? Among the drawbacks of being a tavern or bar owner, not to mention a bartender or a waitress, is that whenever somebody leaves in no condition to drive and gets into an accident—especially a fatal one—there’s got to be a sense of guilt. I know from my pathetic past that people in the booze business try to judge when somebody’s over the limit, but it’s not easy. I remember one night in …” He paused, staring off into space. “Van Nuys or someplace.” Leo’s smile was crooked. “You see? I can’t even remember where I was. I probably didn’t know at the time. Anyway, it was a busy evening. A guy came in and sat on the bar stool next to mine, ordered one drink, didn’t try to make conversation, paid up, and left. The next day I found out he’d gone the wrong way on 170, crashed into a station wagon, and killed a family of four, not to mention himself. He’d been way over the legal limit for alcohol. Obviously, he’d had plenty to drink before he came into wherever the hell I was that night. But nobody noticed. The guy acted perfectly normal.” Leo shook his head. “I felt guilty. You can imagine how the bartender felt.”

  “Oh, yes.” I shook my head. “You’re right. This is the first time Spike and Julie have had any serious problems since they bought the ICT a year or two ago. I don’t know either of them very well. I’m not even sure what Julie looks like.”

  “Kind of a pretty brunette,” Leo said, standing up. “A little hard around the edges, and the cheerful attitude seems forced. They live east of the tavern across from the golf course.”

  I still couldn’t put a face on Julie Canby. “Frankly,” I admitted, “I don’t know some of the ICT crowd.”

  “Not your sort,” Leo said as he picked up his laptop. “Do you want to get a feel for the place? When was the last time you were there?”

  “Ah …” I tried to remember. “Six, seven years ago? I can’t remember why. It was after the Post family bought it from the Skylstads who, I think, were the original owners. The Posts tried to clean the place up and they had some success, but in the end they surrendered. They couldn’t afford to turn away the loyal rowdy set.”

  “How about the two of us going there tomorrow night?” Leo suggested. “I’ve got that chamber of commerce dinner this evening. You know—where I try to convince our local merchants that advertising can actually help them make money.”

  I cringed at Leo’s idea about going to the ICT, but maybe I should check out the crime scene site even though Mitch had already given it the once-over. “They serve some kind of food, right? Who cooks?”

  “It’s described as food,” Leo replied. “I’ve never eaten there. Julie’s in charge of the kitchen where she cooks what some might call food.” He started for the door. “If you’re in a risk-taking mood, let me know.”

  I said I’d think about it. Less than five minutes later, I was ready to leave, remembering that tonight it was my job to lock up. I’d reached the front door when it was opened by a pale blond woman wearing a brightly striped full-length cape over a black turtleneck sweater and matching slacks. The turquoise necklace and earrings were an unusual lime-green shade, but the stones in her two rings were the more familiar aqua color.

  “Yes?” I said, trying not to exhibit as much curiosity as she was in her slow head-to-toe appraisal of me.

  She closed the door behind her. “I’d like to put something in the paper,” she said, her voice low and husky. “How do I do that?”

  “Do you mean an ad?” I asked.

  She shook her head. The long blond hair was as pale as her skin. Her age could’ve been anywhere between forty and sixty. “It’s … news.”

  I hesitated before forcing a smile. “I’m Emma Lord, the editor and publisher. Are you talking about the guest columns we run on the editorial page, or is this a news item?”

  She scratched her upper lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Clive.” She averted her slate-gray eyes.

  “Clive Berentsen?”

  “Yes.” She kept looking at the floor instead of me.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s innocent.”

  “You’re referring to what happened at the Icicle Creek Tavern?”

  She nodded but still didn’t meet my gaze.

  “You should be talking to the sheriff, not to me,” I said, growing impatient. “We’re officially closed for the day.”

  The words didn’t seem to make a dent on my visitor, but she finally looked me in the eye. “Someone has to speak out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Even if I interviewed you about the Berentsen tragedy, it wouldn’t be published in the paper until next Wednesday.”

  “Oh.” She seemed surprised, and nibbled on her thumb. “I didn’t realize … What about the radio station? Where is it?”

  She couldn’t have changed my mind more effectively if she’d offered me a million-dollar bribe. “Look,” I said, “come into the newsroom. Let’s talk about what you think needs to be made public.” I started out of the front office, turning once to make sure my caller was following me. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” I told her as I flicked on the lights.

  “It’s Heeka,” she replied. At least that’s what I thought she said.

  I sat down at Mitch’s desk and offered his visitor’s chair. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “but I didn’t quite catch that. How do you spell it?”

  With a graceful motion of the cape, “Heeka” seemed to float into the chair. “J-i-c-a-r-i-l-l-a. But I go by Jica.” She pronounced the shortened version the way I’d first heard it. “The name is from a Southwest Native American tribe.”

  “Really.” I felt a bit embarrassed. “My brother, Ben, served as a priest in Tuba City, Arizona, for many years. I ought to know the name.”

  Jica smiled benevolently. “The tribe goes back hundreds of years. It’s part of the Apache Nation now. The members live mostly in New Mexico.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Maybe that’s why I don’t recall hearing it from Ben. Um … your last name?”

  “Weaver,” she said, still smiling. “Jicarilla is Spanish for ‘little basket maker.’”

  I nodded again. “You’re a tribal member?”

  “Legally, yes.” She grew somber. “I’m one-quarter Jicarilla Apache. I’ve never lived on the reservation.”

  “You live here now?” I inquired.

  “No. I live in Snohomish.”

  “But you know Clive Berentsen?”

  “Yes.” Her slim hands drifted into her lap. “I met him a year ago when his truck was parked by my antiques store. I had a vintage Coca-Cola clock in the window and he came in to say it looked exactly like the one his grandfather had at his gas station in Arlington.”

  Jica stopped speaking, her gaze roaming around the newsroom’s low ceiling. “And?” I prodded after almost a full minute.

  She still hesitated before looking at me again. “We became friends. Clive likes antiques, not acquiring them, but simply studying them and thinking about their history. He’s a very sensitive person. He’s what I would term a good soul.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t really know him,” I said after another pause on her
part.

  Jica regarded me with something akin to pity. “Then you couldn’t understand why his arrest is so unjust.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Being a truck driver, Clive sees a great deal of roadkill,” Jica went on. “It upsets him so when those innocent forest dwellers are run down on the highway. Often he has to stop his truck because he feels ill. His connection to nature is awe-inspiring. To even think he could kill another human being …” She shook her head. “It’s impossible.”

  I considered my own words carefully. Blurting out that Jica sounded as if her brain’s shelf date had expired was a bad idea. “So,” I began, “the only way that Clive might get into a fight with someone else would be in self-defense?”

  “Not even then.” The pitying look was more apparent. “It had to be an accident.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Yes.”

  I had trouble picturing this ethereal creature at the often rowdy ICT. “You saw what happened?”

  “No.”

  I tried to sound empathetic. “You were … what? Not where you could see what was going on?”

  “I’d left the tavern.” She touched her left ear. “I have very sensitive cochlea. It had gotten quite noisy. I went outside and strolled along the river. It was pleasant at that time of night. I began to feel restored, physically, mentally, and spiritually.”

  “How did you find out what happened?”

  “The sirens. I heard them coming closer and then saw the flashing lights. When they stopped at the tavern, I knew there must have been a mishap.”

  A mishap. I clamped my lips shut and took a deep breath. “What did you do then?” I finally asked.

  “I waited.” Jica frowned. “There were more sirens and flashing lights. I thought about asking someone what was going on, but nobody was coming out of the tavern, not through the front entrance, that is. I couldn’t see the rear.”

  “And?” I felt as if I should be holding up cue cards.

  “All the commotion was bothering me. My ears, you know.” She waved a hand at her right ear this time. “I’d brought my car. Clive’s truck was in for repair. His other car was at home. His home, I mean. I’d picked him up. I was feeling some very serious negative energy, so I left. I knew someone else would give him a ride. A few weeks ago, I had to leave early. That young couple—Hanson?—took him home. They live next door to Clive’s apartment.”