Alpine Hero (30 page)

Again, Milo was quiet, apparently thinking through what I’d said. “Well, at least Kay came back to Trevor,” he finally remarked. “She was willing to try for a fresh start. That’s to her credit.”

I regarded Milo over the rim of my glass. “Did it get her killed?”

The sheriff had finished his drink. Instead of waggling his glass at me in his usual way of asking for a refill, he set it down on the coffee table.

“It may have,” he allowed, looking glum. “That triangle idea could work another way.”

I tried not to look too pleased as Milo’s thinking seemed to be following the same route as my own. He might not be inclined to detours on his straight and narrow path to Truth, but his slower starts usually led him to the finish line. “You mean a former lover of Kay’s?”

But Milo shook his head. “No. I mean of Trevor’s.”

Admittedly, I hadn’t looked at the case from that angle. Milo theorized that after Kay left Trevor, another woman could have entered his life. A former girlfriend, a well-meaning neighbor, even a stranger might have visited Trevor in prison.

“We’re back to the beginning,” I said with a sigh as we sat down at the dining-room table. “In fact, we seem to be going in circles. So is this former love in Alpine, or did she follow the Whitmans? If she’s here, who is she? Nobody I know fits into the time frame, not even Jane Marshall, who married Martin and moved here before Trevor went to jail.”

The comment reminded me of Martin’s visit. Milo listened with an air of mild interest. In between big bites of steak, he chuckled.

“You like that part about the woman who broke Toby Popp’s heart, I’ll bet,” Milo remarked. “Who was she? Kay Whitman? Or one of four million other California girls?”

“You know, Milo,” I said, passing my guest a second baked potato, “it might not hurt to dig into the Mitch Harmon case. Why did Paula insist that Honoria didn’t blame him for her handicap? And by the way, did you ever talk to Honoria again last night?”

“No.” Milo looked sheepish. “By the time I got around to it, it was almost ten. I figured Honoria and her mother would turn in early to get a good start on the road this morning. They had to drive through the Siskiyous and the stretch by Mount Shasta. It could be dicey this time of year.”

There was no point in needling Milo. He was in an awkward position, especially if he still cared for Honoria. But the backdoor approach remained open.

“I’m talking about an official inquiry,” I said. “The police and court records. The trial testimony. Wouldn’t you like to know the truth about Mitch Harmon?”

For once, the truth didn’t seem to appeal to Milo. “I don’t see what it has to do with Kay’s murder.”

“Oh, Milo!” Angrily, I swung my arms, knocking over the pepper mill. It fell to the floor and actually bounced.
The sheriff and I bent down at the same time. Our heads butted, and we both exclaimed in mild pain.

“Hey!” Milo was looking at me under the tablecloth. His eyes twinkled. We were so close that our noses almost touched.

I’m not sure how or why we both tumbled out of our chairs and onto the rag rug. Milo wrapped an arm around my neck and kissed me, hard. I kissed him back. Locked together, we rolled out from under the table. I lay on the floor, feeling his weight half resting on top of me.

“Emma.” He kissed me again.

“Crazy,” I mumbled, my lips against his cheek. He smelled faintly of shaving soap.

“Yeah. Crazy.” He kissed my ear, my neck, my throat. My eyes were closed as I felt his big hands move down along my body. What the hell was going on? Should it? Could it? Did I want it? I was tingling in various places; there was a strange ringing noise in my head.

“Shit!” Milo yelled, rolling off of me and crashing into the sofa. “Where the hell’s my coat?”

My eyes were wide open as I struggled to sit up. “Your coat? Where are you going?” I felt dismayed, panicky, hurt. Most of all, a terrible longing enveloped me.

The ringing had now translated into the sound of a telephone. Milo was pawing at his down jacket, which he’d left on the sofa arm. Finally he yanked out his cell phone and barked into it.

“Dodge. What now?”

Dazedly, I got to my feet. The second bourbon I’d poured for myself sat next to my empty dinner plate. The drink wasn’t quite finished. I polished it off in a single swallow, disappointed that it was mostly melted ice.

“That’s crazy!” Milo was shouting into the phone. “Are you sure? Okay, put her on.”

The sheriff placed an unsteady hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard. Sam Heppner’s putting through a call from Sacramento. He swears it’s Kay Whitman. Am I going nuts?”

I
F
M
ILO
was going nuts, I was going with him. Literally. There was no way he could shake me after an announcement like that. I leaned against him, trying to listen to the voice on the phone. It was ordinary, matter-of-fact, and faintly amused. Unfortunately, I could catch only the nuances, not the actual words. Giving up, I flopped onto the sofa and waited for Milo to ring off.

“Jesus,” he muttered, now putting on his jacket, “that’s really weird.”

I was on my feet again. “I’m coming, too, if you’re headed for the office. What did she say?”

Milo was still shaking his head. “She swears she’s Kay Beresford Whitman. She lives and works in Sacramento. She found out she was supposed to be dead from some friend in the state police office. She thought it was a joke, but decided to call up here just in case.”

“Maybe,” I said, scurrying into the kitchen to make sure the stove was turned off, “it’s a different Kay Whitman.”

“No. She divorced Trevor ten years ago and moved to Sacramento. She works for the state education association. We’ll have to check it out, of course.”

“He married two women named Kay,” I offered. “It happens. Some guy from my high-school class married three Jennifers.”

“So why act as if Kay Number One had stuck around? Besides, this explains why the victim’s purse had to disappear. The killer wanted to get rid of her ID. The next question is, why?”

I had joined Milo at the door. A quick inspection of his worried face told me that he had all but forgotten about our interlude on the floor. At least temporarily. Maybe it was just as well.

“I’ll take my own car,” I volunteered as we stepped out into the cool night air. “That way, you won’t have to drive me home if you get tied up.”

Milo didn’t argue, a confirmation of his single-mindedness. Steering the Jag down Fourth, I saw a quarter moon sitting above Baldy. There were stars out, bright and close, promising sun in the morning. False spring, I thought, a familiar sensation in late February. The temperature warmed for a few days, then dipped again, and brought new snow. Maybe it was like the unexpected passion that had erupted between Milo and me. The winter of our emotions would grip us again, and while we might remember, we wouldn’t thaw.

Sam Heppner and Dustin Fong were on duty. Both looked shaken. By the time I arrived, Milo already had his jacket off and was sitting behind the reception counter at the computer.

“How do I work this damned thing to get data out of Sacramento?” he demanded.

Dustin hovered at his superior’s elbow, giving instructions. Milo pressed keys, grumbled as the screen changed, fiddled with the mouse cursor, and finally swore.

“What’s taking so damned long?” he asked in an angry tone. “How do you guys put up with this technical crap?”

“It’s Saturday night,” Dustin explained in an apologetic voice. “Everybody jumps on the network.”

Milo looked aghast. “Everybody sits on their butts, playing with their computers? What happened to going out and getting drunk and beating up your wife and running over the neighbor’s dog?” The sheriff slammed his hand against the computer monitor.

His comment seemed to conjure up an emergency telephone call. Sam Heppner took the message about a car going off the road just below the summit. Possible fatalities, ambulance dispatched, deputy at the scene.

Milo looked almost mollified by the report. “Okay,” he sighed, gazing up at Dustin. “Now what? California’s asking for a password.”

“We set that up earlier this week to access their system, sir.” Dustin bent down to type in whatever was required. “It’s only good for five days. We’ll have to make another request tomorrow.”

“Jeez.” Milo lighted a cigarette. “What is this, some kind of game?”

Edging around the counter, I tried to peek at the computer screen. From what I could see, a directory was scrolling down the monitor. Finally, a faint smile tugged at Milo’s long mouth. “There! Monterey County divorce records. Do I put in Trevor and Kay’s names?” Milo’s big hands were poised awkwardly over the keyboard. Only minutes ago those same hands had explored my body. Like a silly teenager, I started to smile and had to turn away.

What seemed like a long time, but was probably less than a minute, passed before Milo struck California gold. “Here—final decree granted to Kay Beresford Whitman almost exactly ten years ago. Now, how do I find out if they remarried?”

I had moved around to the inside of the counter. Standing next to Dustin, I watched the screen bring up the marriage license heading for the state of California. Again, Milo typed in the Whitmans. Again, we waited.

The date was June 23, 1977. “The first time around,” Milo breathed. “How do I get the second set of wedding bells?”

“You don’t,” Dustin replied, eyeing the monitor. “If they’d remarried in California, that would show under this heading. Try entering them individually.”

But only the 1977 license appeared under Kay and Trevor’s names. “Maybe they went to Reno,” Milo said. “Or Mexico.”

“Maybe they didn’t bother,” I put in. “It could be that they were living together since Trevor got out of jail. Why don’t you try getting the transcript from Trevor’s murder trial?”

According to Dustin, that information wasn’t available on the database. The sheriff would have to request it from the Monterey County Courthouse on Monday. He might, the young deputy suggested shyly, try to bring up Trevor’s criminal record. Assuming, Dustin added with an air of apology, that Mr. Whitman had one.

The proposal made Milo scowl. “I’ll try Harmon first. Mitch—that’d be Mitchell, I suppose.”

A full five minutes actually dragged by as the sheriff attempted to get at the California records. In fact, it took so long that Milo got up from the computer and ordered Dustin to take over.

“That damned thing doesn’t like me,” the sheriff groused. “All the money we’ve poured into this system, and it acts like some frigging prima donna! Screw it!”

Dustin’s luck wasn’t much better. He found two Mitchell Harmons, one in San Luis Obispo, and another
from Bakersfield. The former was a thirty-one-year-old arsonist; the latter had a burglary career spanning forty years. Neither sounded like Honoria’s late husband.

Milo surrendered. “We’ll go back to the Stone Age Monday,” he averred. “Phone calls, dusty files, feet-dragging clerks who don’t give a damn about a two-bit law-enforcement agency in a podunk Washington town. But eventually, we might actually learn something.”

Sam Heppner was on the phone again, taking down a report of an alleged theft at the bowling alley. Dustin Fong was looking guilty, as if he alone were to blame for the failure of the Computer Age.

With a wave of his arm, Milo signaled for me to follow him into his private office. At his desk, he examined what turned out to be notes Sam had taken from Kay Whitman.

“I’ve got her home and work address and numbers, plus her Social Security and California driver’s-license IDs,” Milo said, lighting another cigarette. “There’s not much doubt that she’s the Kay Whitman who was married to Trevor. The numbers check out. Damn!” He fingered his long chin, studying the notes some more.

“So who got killed?” To cover for asking the obvious, I gestured at Milo to give me a cigarette. If I were going to let my bananas flambé dessert molder, I might as well incinerate myself instead.

“God.” Milo ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. “This is really awful, Emma. Do you realize what this means?”

I gave Milo a bleak look. “I’m afraid so. The Whitmans lied.”

“Why?” Milo rested his chin on his hands. “The only thing that occurs to me is some kind of insurance scam.”

My mind had been racing off in other directions, none of which seemed to lead anywhere. I was willing to hear Milo out. “What kind of scam?”

The sheriff sat up straight, puffing on his cigarette. “Let’s say that Kay—the real Kay—had a big policy naming Trevor the beneficiary. I had one of those, through the county, and another personal one. It was only a couple of years ago that I realized I’d never taken my ex’s name off. If I’d been shot in a brawl at the Icicle Creek Tavern, Old Mulehide would have gotten all of it. I changed it quick, believe me, and put in the kids’ names.”

I considered the theory. “It might work—if the real Kay never found out she was supposed to be dead. But now that’s blown. Are you going to call Trevor? Honoria and Mrs. Smith ought to have arrived in Pacific Grove by now.”

Milo sighed, a painful sound. “Yeah, I guess. Damn it, Emma, Honoria wouldn’t be a party to a stunt like this. She’s too honest.”

A year ago, a month ago, even a week ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly with Milo. But my opinion of Honoria had shifted in the past six days. There were too many things that didn’t jibe: little things, like not mentioning her acquaintance with Toby Popp; big things, like telling Paula Rubens she’d genuinely loved her husband. And worst of all, asserting that the woman who got her throat slit at Stella’s Styling Salon was her sister-in-law, Kay Whitman. Were they lies motivated by shame or were they deliberately intended to mislead? Or was some other factor involved that I hadn’t yet recognized?

“Did she really say that?” The words popped out of my mouth.

“Huh?” Milo was justifiably puzzled.

“Did Honoria ever say that the woman who got killed was Kay Whitman? Who made the actual identification?”

“Trevor, at the morgue in Everett last Monday night. Honoria didn’t go with him.” The sheriffs expression indicated that the wheels were turning in his brain. “Dwight Gould was there. I’d ridden as far as Honoria’s with him. He picked me up on his way back to town.”