The Alpine Scandal Page 6

  “Saturday, the twenty-fifth,” he replied. “You’ll come Friday? We can have a leisurely dinner and then…a leisurely evening with my dog, Spree.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I remarked. “Pray for rain.”

  “Of course. I don’t want you getting stranded up in the mountains.” He paused. “Anything interesting in your next edition?”

  I told him I wasn’t sure; we might have a big story developing. “What about you?” I asked. “Are you awaiting breaking news on the AP wire?”

  “We always are,” Rolf said. “We play the waiting game. I’d like to get out in the field more, frankly. I miss the reporting part. I used to think I was too old for it, but I get stale on the desk.”

  At that moment I saw Scott come into the newsroom. A strange idea popped into my head. “Do you mean that, or is it just the postholiday doldrums?”

  “No,” Rolf insisted. “I’m serious. For once. I know—not my style.”

  Leaning forward, I watched Scott take a brown paper bag out of his desk drawer. He removed a plastic bag containing a sandwich. I realized he’d been bringing his lunch to work more often since he’d gotten married. Maybe he couldn’t afford to eat out. If he and Tamara moved on, could I dare ask Rolf to work for the Advocate?

  But how would he like brown-bagging it? How could he endure small-town life? How could he stand working for me? And how far might he go to become a reporter again? Probably not as far as Alpine. I dismissed my odd idea.

  “I hate to tell you this,” Rolf said, “but I’m off to the Union Square Grill for lunch with an old college buddy. Advertising type, but decent all the same.”

  “Wish I were there.”

  “Where?”

  “Never mind.” I rang off.

  The Burger Barn was about as far from the Union Square Grill as any gourmand could imagine, but that was where I headed. I was forced to stand six-deep in line for takeout. Lori Cobb was being waited on at the counter, probably getting Milo’s standard cheeseburger, fries, and coffee. At least the coffee tasted better than what the sheriff’s office served. But now that I thought about it, I hadn’t tasted Lori’s attempts at coffee brewing. It had to be an improvement over the swill Toni had made.

  Seven minutes later—I clocked it on my watch—I requested a hamburger dip au jus with fries and a pineapple malt. They were out of pineapple, so I asked for vanilla instead.

  I was heading for the door when I saw Milo coming in.

  “Changed my mind,” he said. “Changed my routine, too. I want a double bacon burger. I gave my order to Lori. She could use some meat on her bones.”

  “What about McDonough?” I asked as Milo steered us toward a booth that had just emptied.

  “Wait till we sit,” he said as a waitress began to bus the vacated table.

  We waited. Finally I put down my takeout bag, complete with its red barn logo showing a cow going in the door and coming out as a hamburger on the other side.

  “Well?” I said, unable to hide my impatience.

  “I got the call right after I talked to you,” he replied, signaling for coffee. “Blow to the back of the head with something metal. Elmer’s skull was crushed. He probably died quick. Not much blood loss, no hemorrhaging, just a smallish cut from whatever he got hit with.”

  “Which was…?”

  Milo shrugged. “Farm or garden implement. Shovel, hoe, even a rake. Possibly a tool. I told Erskine that I didn’t see anything like that in the henhouse. McDonough had left after he’d performed the autopsy and put in his report. Bill Blatt and Dustin Fong went out there this morning to look around the rest of the place. They’ll be back as soon as they’ve had lunch at the Bourgettes’ diner.”

  “Your deputies didn’t call anything in to you?”

  Milo shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t find something. In fact, they could have bagged a whole bunch of stuff. They wouldn’t know offhand what was a weapon and what wasn’t.”

  I’d removed my food from the bag and brushed some hard roll crumbs off my lap. “Your official pronouncement?”

  The sheriff munched on a couple of fries. “Possible homicide.”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  He shrugged. “It could be an accident. But a pretty freaky one. Whatever bashed in Elmer’s head was metal. Steel, to be exact. If there wasn’t any sign of the weapon—if you want to call it that—inside the chicken house, then it’d be pretty weird if Elmer had banged into the thing outdoors and come all the way back inside.”

  I agreed. “But ‘possible homicide’ is a bit weak.”

  “You want headlines? Why don’t you just run a big skull and crossbones on the front page?”

  “I like that,” I said.

  “You would.”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Estimated time of death?”

  “Seven-fifteen, seven-thirty yesterday morning. That’s when Elmer usually went out to the henhouse before he headed for work.”

  “Nobody saw or heard anything?”

  Milo shot me a dirty look. “We only found out we had a homicide on our hands about five minutes ago. Anyway, you know damned well I wouldn’t tell you any details so soon in the investigation. Go with the facts. You’ve got enough for your front page.”

  I feigned typing on the Formica countertop. “‘Sheriff Dodge has no suspects, no motives, no weapon, no understanding of the public’s need to know.’”

  “You’re a pain in the ass, Emma.” He sipped more coffee.

  I knew that—at least as far as Milo was concerned. There was certainly a big story in the bare bones of the case. If murder wasn’t sensational enough, Elmer Nystrom apparently had been well liked, well known, and well respected. I shut up and resumed eating.

  It’s a wonder my lunch stayed down. I’d barely finished when I saw Spencer Fleetwood stroll into the Burger Barn. The sheriff had already gotten his bill and was getting out of the booth when Spence spotted him.

  “The lovely Lori told me you were here with the equally lovely Emma,” Spence said to Milo, having the gall to wink at me. “I just got in town about an hour ago. Rey Fernandez told me something was afoot.”

  “We’re working on it,” Milo said, putting on his regulation jacket. “We can talk later.” He squeezed past Spence and loped toward the entrance.

  “I think,” my nemesis said, “I’ve just been given the brush-off.”

  “I do believe you’re right,” I said, digging into my purse for my wallet. I’d get my own bill from our waitress and hightail it out of Spence’s purview.

  But Mr. Radio wasn’t going to make it easy for me. He had the nerve to slide into the booth beside me. I was trapped.

  “What’s this about Nystrom?” he murmured in that mellifluous voice so familiar to KSKY’s listeners. “Do I sense foul play or a nasty accident with the chickens?”

  While I was grateful to Milo for stalling Spence, I knew that the story would break over the radio before we could go to press. Elmer’s death was a matter of public record, as was the medical examiner’s report. But that didn’t mean I had to offer up the facts on one of the Burger Barn’s serviceable white platters.

  “Did you have a nice trip?” I inquired in my sweetest tone.

  “Very,” Spence replied. “Maui, Kauai. Very nice this time of year.”

  “I’ve never been to Hawaii,” I said, trying to avoid looking at Spence’s hawklike profile. Adam had gone to school there for a short time, but his impoverished mother had never made it to the island paradise.

  “No? You should go. It’s a great vacation spot.” Spence reached in front of me to remove one of the plastic-covered menus from behind the napkin holder. “Of course, it can get crowded, especially at Kaanapali Beach. I did get in some golf there, though. Wonderful course—Robert Trent Jones design. But Kauai isn’t quite as popular. Next time I’ll try Molokai. It’s getting to be quite a destination place.”

  “What’d they do with the lepers?” I asked.

  �
�That’s not worthy of you,” Spence said, glancing at the menu. “Same old, same old.” He sighed. “Really good seafood, too. You ought to treat yourself. I mean it. You can go on and on about how much you like the rain, but you’ve got to admit that gray skies for six months in a row can get you down.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Spence chuckled. “You’re a hard case, Emma Lord.” He turned as the waitress, a strawberry blonde named Bunny—or so her name tag stated—came to give me my bill and take Spence’s order. “I’ll have the cold turkey sandwich on multigrain bread, lettuce, tomato, mayo, sprouts. All white meat,” Spence informed Bunny. “Black coffee and maybe a slice of the apple pie if it’s really good today.” He dropped his voice. “Is it, Bunny?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bunny replied. “It’s great.”

  He offered her his most ingratiating smile. “I trust your sound judgment, Bunny. Thanks.”

  Giggling, Bunny hopped away.

  “Move it,” I said to Spence. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Deadline day, right?” Spence didn’t budge. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why I should hire Ed Bronsky.”

  “What?”

  “Rey tells me Ed came by this morning to apply for his job,” Spence explained, looking serious. “Rey’s leaving Alpine at the end of the month or whenever I can find a replacement. He finished his AA degree in December and wants to try a larger radio market. Ed wants Rey’s spot. He said you recommended him. What does he know about radio, and why does he want to work?”

  “Because he’s broke,” I said bluntly. “As for what he knows about radio, I can’t tell you. He can turn one on, I suppose. But I certainly didn’t recommend him for a job with you. Ed’s dreaming.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Spence said. “I have to get—or train—a replacement who can act as an engineer as well as do the on-air stuff. I plan to get somebody else from the college.”

  I didn’t blame Spence. Students, especially older ones like Rey, were a good investment. They needed the experience and were willing to work for meager wages. I’d thought about hiring a journalism student if and when the time came for Scott to move on. It’d be taking a chance, but maybe I’d get lucky as Spence had and find someone who was more mature than your average nineteen-year-old.

  “I can’t help you,” I said, “when it comes to Ed. I feel kind of sorry for him, but I’m not recommending him for a job at your station.”

  “Not even to solicit advertisers?”

  I managed to keep a straight face. The best thing that could happen to me when it came to competing for ads would be having Ed work for KSKY. He’d send potential merchants running like deer during hunting season.

  “That’d be up to you,” I said. “Come on, Spence, let me out of here. It’s one o’clock.”

  He hesitated. “You won’t tell me about Nystrom?”

  “Do your own digging,” I snapped as he finally got out of the booth. “After all,” I added, standing in the aisle, “I did my share. I found the body.”

  It was a great exit line, but I knew Spence would scoop me anyway. Back in the office, I wrote the lead story. After I’d sent it off to Kip in the back shop, I walked up Front Street to the Nordby Brothers GM dealership between Sixth and Seventh.

  The showroom faced Front; the car lot was on the other side of the main building next to the railroad tracks. As usual, a couple of men were browsing around the display models, especially a hot yellow Corvette. They were unmolested by sales personnel. In fact, I didn’t see any sales personnel on the floor. Behind a glass partition I spotted the brother who must have been Trout, talking on the phone. He definitely had fish lips.

  “A beauty,” I heard one of the men remark.

  I knew they weren’t talking about me. They meant the ’Vette. I had, however, caught Trout’s eye. He was putting down the phone and smiling in my direction.

  “Emma Lord,” he said, coming out from behind the partition and offering his hand. “Don’t tell me you fired Leo and are doing the ad job yourself.”

  “Never,” I asserted, shaking his hand. “But I am here on business. I’m very sorry about Elmer. It’s a loss for you and your brother.”

  Trout’s fish lips turned down. “Hell, yes. So damned sudden. Come on in.” He led the way into his office.

  “Looky-loos,” he said, nodding at the two men in the showroom. “Some guys spend their lunch hours in here, just staring at the vehicles. Down the line they might actually buy one. But it won’t be that Corvette.”

  “Out of my price range,” I remarked, sitting in a customer chair that was far more comfortable than what I provided for visitors at the Advocate. But then, I wasn’t catering to people I necessarily wanted to feel at ease. “Who would you sell that car to in Alpine?” I inquired.

  Trout smiled wryly. “Ordinarily, nobody. Some of the small-town dealerships borrow a really hot car just for show purposes. Having a ’Vette like that on the floor brings in potential customers who can’t fork out fifty, sixty grand but may buy something a lot cheaper. But in this case, I may have a buyer. Or did, until today. We’ll see.”

  I hadn’t come to discuss car sales, but I wanted Trout’s cooperation. “That one’s a convertible. Isn’t it sort of impractical for Alpine?”

  “Hey,” Trout said, leaning closer in his padded swivel chair, “when it comes to a car like that and a buyer who can’t live without it, I could sell the danged thing practically without an engine. It’s like true love. There’s no way to get over it.”

  “True enough,” I said, recalling the secondhand Jaguar I’d owned for years simply because I’d always wanted one. What I hadn’t considered was the frequent and expensive repair bills. “You and your brother have a good reputation in this community. So did Elmer. Was he as wonderful as everyone says?”

  Trout made a clicking noise with his tongue. “You bet. We were so lucky to inherit him when Skunk and I bought the dealership from Old Man Jensen almost twenty years ago. My brother and me were pretty green: We thought we should start fresh, can everybody, hire our own people, especially guys we’d grown up with who knew about cars. But ol’ Jensen, he said Elmer came with the dealership. If we didn’t keep him on, the deal was off.” Trout shrugged and chuckled. “So we did like he told us, and never been sorry for it.”

  I assumed that Trout hadn’t yet heard that Elmer might have been murdered, so I had to skirt the obvious questions. “Did customers ever get mad at Elmer?”

  “Heck, no.” Trout hooked his fingers in the empty belt loops of his polyester pants. He wore wide brown suspenders over a bright yellow shirt. “Nobody could get mad at the guy. He treated the customers like royalty. Oh, he’d give ’em the occasional lecture about maintenance and taking pride in your vehicle, but that was always for their own good. But never any shuck-and-jive about when your car was ready or ordering a wrong part or screwing with an estimate. Organized, too, and his work area was always neat as a pin. He was tops. Look…” Trout pushed his chair away from the desk and folded his pudgy hands in his lap. “We got Nissan across the street, Honda and Toyota in town, too. You drive a…Honda, right?” He saw me nod. “That’s fine. Those Jap cars are good. Danged good. But we manage to keep right up with ’em in this town, and a truckload of the credit goes to Elmer. Owners know they can trust him when it comes to parts and repairs.” Trout hung his head. “Knew they could trust him. Dang it, I can’t believe he’s gone. What’ll we do without him?”

  I asked if Elmer had someone working directly under him.

  Trout made a face, which emphasized his big lips. “Yeah—half a dozen over the years. The one we got now is Dink Tolberg’s son, Alex. He’s young, just out of that auto mechanics course they got at the college. But you know these kids nowadays.” He shrugged again.

  “It can be a problem,” I allowed.

  Trout was looking out into the showroom. “The looky-loos are gone. Maybe they decided to go eat something. Here comes Skunk. I
wonder if I should call Carter,” he said, more to himself than to me.

  “That would be very considerate,” I said, also getting up.

  “Oh, I already talked to Polly,” Trout said, walking slowly out of the office. “She was holding up better than you’d expect. I meant calling Carter about that car. I suppose it’s bad timing.”

  “What car?” I asked, nodding at Skunk, who was tending to a smudge on a dark green Saab.

  “The ’Vette.” Trout jerked a thumb at the classy sports car. “Carter’s the one who’s interested in buying it. I wonder if he’s changed his mind now that his father’s dead.”

  Chapter Five

  VIDA WAS REQUESTING items for her “Scene Around Town” gossip column from her colleagues. “I have one Christmas tree thrown away with several ornaments still on it at a house on Cascade Street,” she said as she gazed through her big glasses at the computer screen she’d grudgingly learned to use in recent months. “The latest Gustavson, Rikki, aged fourteen months, refusing to relinquish his Baby New Year top hat after the family holiday brunch—I ought to know, I was there. That awful child pulled the hat down over his head and it got stuck on his enormous ears, and he shrieked like a banshee. Furthermore, the food was perfectly dreadful, especially that ridiculous couscous.”

  Leo looked up from the floor where he’d dropped his matches. “Duchess,” he said, using the nickname Vida loathed, “you subscribe to a recipe service. Couscous has been in for years.”

  “Then it’s time for it to be out,” Vida declared. “It tastes like postage stamp glue, and it’s just an exotic name for rice. Where was I? Oh—Valentine’s already on display at Alpine Stationers, Blue Sky Dairy delivering the last of this season’s eggnog, Francine Wells showing off the redesigned diamond and platinum wedding ring Warren gave her for Christmas. Come, come—who has something?”

  I considered the two men ogling the yellow Corvette at Nordby Brothers, but I didn’t know their names. Besides, the dealership was already getting news coverage in this week’s edition, even if it was of the unwelcome sort.