The Alpine Decoy (12 page)

But the winds of change were sweeping down the mountainsides. I could see it in Ginny’s level gray-eyed gaze. I could read it in news stories about other logging communities. I could hear it on the evening news, out of Washington, D.C., Seattle, and the state capitol in Olympia.

“I’ve always hoped for a compromise,” I told Ginny, who was looking at me as if I might actually have some real answers. “I prefer biding my time to see what’s going to happen at the federal level.”

Ginny inclined her head, then brushed at a stray strand of auburn hair. “I guess. But what do men like my Uncle Cord do in the meantime? Darrington is going to sponsor a wild-flower festival this summer. Why can’t we do something here that will provide jobs and help the economy?”

Darrington was yet another logging town, some seventy
miles north on the Mountain Loop Highway. I had heard rumors of their civic project in the past few weeks. “We’ve got Loggerama,” I pointed out, and immediately realized that our annual celebration could be considered passé, a mere reminder of what had been, rather than what could be.

“We could put on a Scandinavian festival,” Ginny said. “That’s Alpine’s heritage, too. Like for Midsummer Eve, to celebrate the solstice.”

I stared at Ginny, then broke into a smile. I never thought of my office manager as having the slightest amount of imagination. Obviously, I had misjudged her. “That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “I could talk about it at the next Chamber of Commerce meeting. You could come along.”

Ginny looked pleased. Indeed, the hint of a blush touched her fair skin. Shyly, she brought forth yet another letter, which she had been concealing behind her back. “This one isn’t about logging, but you’re not going to like it.”

The single page of typing had the usual share of misspellings, though I had the feeling they might have been intentional. The letter was short and to the point:

“Dear Publicher—It looks to me like we got trubble here in Alpine. You let those city dudes get a foot in the door and the next thing you know, they ruin the whole place. They get innocent people hooked while they make lots of money off suckers, all of which is tipikel of those ignerent crazed savages. I say we pass a law to keep them out of town. Yours truely, A Loyal Reader.”

I pride myself on running every letter sent to
The Advocate
—as long as it’s signed. I was grateful that this particular imbecile had chosen to remain anonymous. Instead of tossing the missive into the wastebasket, as I usually did with crank mail, I saved it so that Milo could compare it to the letters Marilynn Lewis had received.

Milo had the lab report shortly after eleven that morning. Kelvin Greene had been shot in the head at a distance of no more than four feet, no less than three. The .22-caliber full-metal-jacket slug had been found lodged about an inch from his left ear. It was possible that he could have lived for hours with the bullet in his head. It was also unlikely.

“If you’re thinking Kelvin sat around drinking beer at the
Icicle Creek Tavern after he got plugged, forget it,” Milo said in his laconic voice. “Realistically, he was probably shot five to ten minutes before he died in Marlow Whipp’s store.”

“What kind of a gun?” I asked, making notes.

“Probably a handgun,” Milo replied. He paused to blow his nose, not a pleasing sound. “Let’s face it, the killer would have been noticed carrying a rifle around town this time of year. It’s not hunting season.”

“What about the blood up at the cemetery?” I glanced out through my open door at Vida. She was immersed in typing a story, her bowler hat askew.

“It’s a match,” Milo admitted grudgingly. “If that canopy hadn’t been up for Axel Swensen’s funeral, the rain would probably have washed it away.”

“Footprints?” I inquired without much hope.

Milo chuckled. “After a funeral? Sure, about forty sets. The only thing we can pinpoint there is that the Peabody brothers—the grave diggers—finished around five on Friday. The cemetery officially closes at sundown, which means about eight this time of year. But I don’t suppose the killer or the victim came by car. It’s easy enough to crawl through that laurel hedge.”

I had one more question. “Was Kelvin Greene armed?”

Milo was blowing his nose again. I wished the hay fever season would pass. “There was no gun on him. But it’s possible that the killer used it. That would indicate a struggle, though, and there’s no sign of that with Kelvin.”

In the news office, Vida’s instincts were at work. She was coming toward me, the bowler hat now riding on the rims of her glasses. “Say, Milo,” I added as an afterthought, “did you check with the Icicle Creek Tavern to see if the stranger who was drinking beer with Cyndi Campbell matched Kelvin Greene’s description?”

Milo made a disparaging noise, which was an improvement over his sneezing. “Yeah, Dwight Gould talked to Denise and that Rafferty kid with the beard who tends bar during the day shift. They couldn’t be sure. All blacks guys look alike to them.”

I tried not to gnash my teeth. “Do they look alike to Cyndi Campbell?”

Milo sounded impatient. “Do you want me to ask Cyndi to come down and ID the corpse? Come on, Emma, isn’t that kind of a cruel thing to do to a nice girl like her? From what I hear, all she did was give him directions to Alpine Falls.”

My anger boiled up, but I squashed it and settled for sarcasm. “Very good, Milo. You’ve just won
The Advocate’s
coveted award for Mutt of the Month. See you in the funny papers.” I hung up, gently.

“We don’t carry the funny papers,” Vida noted tartly. “What did Milo do now?”

I explained. Vida made a face and tipped her hat back on her head. She agreed with me that Milo was “being difficult.” She also agreed that we should go to lunch.

As usual, the Venison Inn was filled with people Vida knew. As time went on, I recognized more and more of the locals, but it was always Vida who was the focus of attention. A salutation for Regis Bartleby, Episcopal rector. A nod to Harvey Adcock, hardware-store owner. A smile for Jeannie Clay, the dental hygienist. A wave to Chaz Phipps, who worked at the ski lodge. We made our way like a royal progress, acknowledging, greeting, smiling en route to the last empty booth at the rear of the restaurant.

“My new diet’s a washout,” Vida announced. “All these fads are worthless. This one calls for nothing solid after four o’clock, just water. Now what do you suppose I do all night?” She nodded before I could hazard a guess. “That’s right: up and down, down and up to the bathroom. Maybe it’s the exercise that takes off the weight. But I need my sleep.” She turned to our waitress and ordered a pastrami melt on rye with a side of fries and potato salad. “Oh—and a strawberry malted milk. No coffee for me after noon.” She gave me a virtuous look.

Across the aisle and down one booth, Jeannie Clay was being joined by Marje Blatt. Marje spotted her aunt and flew over to our table.

“Guess what!” she breathed, her small bosom rising under her crisp white uniform. “The sheriff just came to the clinic to talk to Marilynn Lewis about that murder Friday night! Is it true you found the body, Aunt Vida?”

“Certainly not,” sniffed Vida. “Emma and I covered the story, of course. That’s our job.”

Marje is in her midtwenties and possesses a wholesome prettiness. Spiritually, she is a petite version of her aunt. Marje is brisk, efficient, and seemingly without guile. She is also curious by nature.

“I wanted to stay to find out what was happening, but Dr. Flake thought we should leave for lunch.” She motioned at Jeannie, who was practically falling out of the booth in an attempt to overhear. “I don’t think Dr. Flake was very happy to see Milo Dodge come to the office while we still had patients.”

“Milo has to do his job, too,” Vida replied primly. “Maybe you can ask Dr. Flake—or Marilynn—what Milo wanted to know.” Her smile was benign; her eyes were like stilettos.

Marje started to turn away. “I’ll call you tonight. I have to tell you about my trip to Cabo San Lucas.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll wait to hear from you.” Vida gave a jerky nod of dismissal. I half-expected Marje to salute.

I, however, did not intend to wait for secondhand news. Feeling somewhat deceitful, I told Vida I had to go to Parker’s Pharmacy after lunch to get some Excedrin. And I did, but instead of returning to
The Advocate
, I continued along Front Street to the sheriff’s office. Milo was in, eating a double cheeseburger and wiping his nose.

“So,” I said, sitting down in his visitor’s chair and assuming my most knowing air, “what did Marilynn have to say?”

Milo curled his lip over his cheeseburger. “Damn. I’m glad I’m a law enforcement officer. If I were a crook, I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting away with anything in this town.”

“Oh?” I gave him an arch little smile. “Does that mean you’ve caught your killer?”

Milo’s glare would have daunted someone who hadn’t raised a son on her own. I may not understand men, but I know their limits. Under that indolent exterior, Milo Dodge has a temper. It’s not difficult to rouse, but easily extinguished.

“Stick your sarcasm in your ear, Emma,” Milo snapped.
“If you’re so fired up for me to make an arrest, I could haul that nurse in right now. Who else in this town is likely to have plugged that guy? She doesn’t have an alibi, either.”

Inside, I froze. But I kept calm, seemingly casual. “Does Marilynn admit she knew Kelvin Greene?”

“Hell, no.” Milo took a swig of coffee from a heavy white mug. “But she’s lying. I’d bet on it.”

There was no point in arguing. Not just now. “She does have an alibi. She was apartment-hunting after work Friday.”

Milo made a gesture of dismissal with his free hand. “Dolph Terrill is her alibi. First of all, the old rummy says she came by on Thursday. Then he says it was Friday after lunch. Finally, maybe before dinner. He can’t remember his own name. In fact, when Dwight Gould questioned him, Dolph fell off the front porch.”

“Great.” I sighed. “What do you do next?”

Swallowing a pill, which I presumed was for his allergies, Milo flinched slightly. “Check with our liaison in Seattle. Get more information on Kelvin Greene. Find out why he came to Alpine.” His face relaxed a bit. “Say, Emma—did you hear a shot Friday night? You and Vida were at the Campbells’, right?”

I nodded. “Yes—and no,” I replied slowly, working my way through the memory of our arrival at the Campbell house. “We got there right around seven. I don’t remember hearing any shots. If there were, they could have come from the practice field. Coach Ridley had his kids going through their paces for the track meet that’s coming up. Starter guns.” I gave Milo a curious look. “Weird timing, huh?”

“Lucky timing, for the killer.” Milo’s expression was wry. “And yes, I did talk to Rip Ridley. He didn’t see anything or anybody unusual by the high school. Neither did his athletes. They’re worked up anyway, since Swede got snatched. There’s no sign that anybody broke into the high school, though. Damned odd.” Obviously baffled, Milo shook his head.

It seemed to me that the sheriff was showing more concern over Bucker Swede’s disappearance than Kelvin
Greene’s murder. “But a black male was hanging out by the high school field that morning.” Trying to get Milo back on track, I told him about Carla’s report. “It was so early that it might mean Kelvin got to town the previous night. Have you found a car?”

Milo became smug. “Sam Heppner found it yesterday. A ’ninety-one Trans AM, parked up in the cul-de-sac at the end of Fifth Street by the Tolberg farm.”

I raised my eyebrows. My log house was located on Fir, between Fourth and Fifth. The forest began where my backyard ended. The cul-de-sac was a mere hundred yards from my home. It was also an equal distance to the high school track.

“That’s not a cheap car, right?” The only thing I knew about automobiles was that I’d always coveted a Jaguar. I’d bought mine used, four years ago. I intended to drive it until the wheels fell off.

“They don’t give them away,” Milo replied. “Greene’s the registered owner, so he didn’t steal it.” The sheriff looked disappointed.

“Has Marlow recovered from having a dying man drop in?” In my mean-minded way, I figured that most of Whipp’s customers were already dead.

Milo’s hazel eyes flickered over me and came to rest on his nasal spray. “So it seems. Though …” He shrugged, leaving the little word hanging.

I pounced. “Though what? Come on, Dodge, air your doubts.”

But Milo put his feet on his desk and his arms behind his head. “I don’t know, Emma. I don’t think he’d ever seen this character before in his life. Still, Marlow is acting strange. I suppose it’s the shock.”

“Maybe.” But I was certain Milo did indeed have doubts. If the sheriff did, so did I. It was Milo’s certainties that worried me. Especially when it came to Marilynn Lewis.

E
D
B
RONSKY SEEMED
to be trying. Usually, he was only trying my patience, but in this third week of May, my ad manager was actually putting forth some effort. In a fit of remorse after work on Friday, he had tried to apologize to Lloyd Campbell. Gunning the Bronsky family station wagon up First Hill Road in hot pursuit of Lloyd’s Alpine Appliance van, Ed hadn’t quite succeeded. The old station wagon stalled twice, and Lloyd was gone by the time Ed reached the van. But Ed had further proved his newfound diligence by talking Dutch Bamberg into four inches instead of his usual two, along with a discount coupon for midweek video rentals. He also came up with an original layout for Alpine Fine Fabrics, rather than relying on his tired clip-art file. And wonder of wonders, he found a new display advertiser, Skykomish Credit Counselors, which had previously been buried in the classified section.

I praised Ed to the skies. Diffidently, he brushed off my fulsome words. “I guess it was time I tried some new tricks. It took some doing with Dutch Bamberg—he’s stubborn as a mule. They don’t call him Dutch for nothing. But we can’t wait forever for Fred Meyer and Starbuck’s to get here and zap things up. Shirley and I had a real heart-to-heart talk over the weekend. She sort of stoked my engine.” Ed chuckled and leered, not a pretty combination, but given the circumstances, I kept smiling.