The Alpine Decoy (17 page)

Disgusted, Vida swung around in her chair. “Oh, good heavens! And I thought I knew the biggest fools in town!” She gave me another quick look. I was beginning to feel less guilty, not only about the money I’d blown, but about not spending it with Francine.

“She must have gotten some nice things,” I said in a weak voice.

Francine nodded. “She did. But Wendy’s hard to dress. Her posture isn’t great and she’s awkward. We worked at it, I’ll tell you. But by the time she left, we were both happy. If nervous,” she added with a little laugh. “Me, I mean. I don’t usually have that much cash in the register, and the way things are going these days …” She made a graceful gesture with one hand, the diamonds in her wristwatch glinting in our sickly fluorescent lights.

Vida pounced. “Wendy paid
cash?”

Francine’s fine eyebrows arched. “Why, yes. She usually does.” leaning on Vida’s desk, her voice dropped to a confidential level. “It must be Todd’s father who has the money. Isn’t he a big-shot Everett businessman?”

Vida gave a snort. “He owns a muffler shop. How many mufflers do you have to install to get rich?”

Francine moved toward the door. “Somebody in that family is well-off. Lloyd’s done all right, but the appliance
store must be hurting in these hard times. Jean’s dad worked at the mill, didn’t he?”

Vida nodded. “Dust Bucket Cooper, they called him. I never knew why. After the original mill closed, he helped build the ski lodge. Then he drove a truck for one of the other logging companies, I forget which. Died in ’sixty-three. Heart.”

Having received the capsule biography of Dust Bucket Cooper, Francine left. Vida was still fuming.

“I don’t understand it,” she seethed. “Where do the Wilsons get so much money? Cash! If Lloyd and Jean were rich, they’d give more to the church. So what are Todd and Wendy up to?”

Carla had finally finished her nails. “Prostitution,” she said calmly. “Wendy is selling herself to students.”

Ed, halfway to the door, stopped to stare. “Carla—that’s a terrible thing to say! You’re joking, right?”

“No,” Carla answered blithely, “not really. I mean, I don’t think she’s selling
herself
. Grades, maybe. I’ve heard some of those kids talk about her when I’ve been up at the high school taking pictures and doing stories.”

I had perched on Ed’s desk. “What do they say?” I asked.

Carla was looking vague, a familiar expression. “Oh—it’s not
what
they say; it’s
how
they say it. Knowing looks and stuff.”

Disappointed in Carla’s lack of specifics, Ed went on his way. Ginny, carrying the mail, almost collided with him in the door. Carla sought Ginny’s support.

“Wendy Wilson,” Carla said, holding up both hands to halt Ginny, and at the same time, admire her newly filed nails. “What did Rick Erlandson say about her the other night?”

Ginny looked thoughtful. “Wendy … Let me think…. Oh, it was what his sister said to him. About something her husband told her … That Wendy’s students would do anything for her.” Ginny’s high forehead puckered. “Something like that, and that Steve—Rick’s brother-in-law—couldn’t understand it because he said Wendy wasn’t that great of a teacher.” She gazed at Carla. “Is that what you mean?”

Carla nodded vigorously. “Right. We’re trying to figure out what Wendy has going on with the students.”

I was at sea, trying to figure out the source of Ginny’s gossip. Vida noticed and took pity on me. “Rick, who works at the bank, went out with Ginny the other night, remember? Rick’s sister is Donna Erlandson Fremstad Wickstrom. She’s married to Steve, who teaches science and math at the high school.” She folded her arms and waited for me to become enlightened.

“Oh! Sure, and Steve teaches with Wendy. The Wickstroms were with the Wilsons and the other two couples at Café de Flore.”

Smiling benevolently, Vida nodded. The class dumbbell had finally come through with the right answer. It was Ginny, however, who drew Vida’s next comment:

“So Steve Wickstrom thinks Wendy has some sort of hold over her students. That’s interesting.” Vida juggled her thermos of hot water. “Emma, why don’t you assign me to a year-end story at the high school? We can use it in the special edition.”

I glanced at Carla who was already slated for the assignment. Carla, however, didn’t mind. “Go ahead. I’ll do the photos, though, if you want.”

Now that my staff had gotten down to business, I took the mail from Ginny and went into my office. I hadn’t finished the first irate letter when Milo strolled through the door. Somehow, he had gotten past Vida. I assumed she was on the phone.

“Don’t ask,” he said in a glum voice. “There’s nothing new in the homicide investigation.”

“Then why are you here? Did you find out who’s been sending Marilynn Lewis ugly mail? Or who’s been writing me anonymous letters? Maybe you’ve recovered Bucker Swede from those teenaged gangsters in Sultan.”

Milo sat down in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. He looked as if he’d like to put his feet up, but there wasn’t room. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he blew his nose.

“What I don’t get,” he said, ignoring my comments, “is that you can’t scratch your ass in this town without six people knowing it. But blow some guy away in broad
daylight—and nobody sees a thing. It’s damned aggravating.”

Idly, I started flipping through the rest of the mail. “If you came here just to bitch, I’ll give you something to do. Check out a convicted murderer named Wesley Charles. He’s down at Shelton, waiting to be transported to Monroe.

Milo jerked forward in the chair. His long face lost some of its color. “Wesley Charles? What about him?”

Puzzled by Milo’s reaction, I put the mail aside. “I told you, he’s a convicted murderer. Kelvin Greene testified at his trial. Damn it, Milo, do you ever do your homework? Why don’t you hire Vida and me and deputize us? We could use the extra money.”

But Milo wasn’t listening. He had placed one hand on the edge of my desk, and his hazel eyes were riveted on my face. “We just got an APB, Emma. A Wesley Charles escaped this morning as he was being brought to the Monroe Reformatory. Now go over what you just said, and do it slow. You talk too damned fast.”

Milo wasn’t entirely clear about how Wesley Charles had managed his escape. There had been a traffic tie-up involving an accident with an eighteen-wheeler full of produce, a U.S. Forest Service truck, and a school bus from Snohomish County. The first concern was for the children, none of whom had suffered serious injuries. But during the disruption, Wesley Charles had fled, presumably chains and all.

“So you’re saying this Charles guy whacked Marilynn Lewis’s boyfriend?” Milo asked, taking notes.

“That’s right,” said Vida, who had joined us. “That is, he was convicted of shooting Jerome Cole. Charles maintained his innocence. According to Winola Prince, Marilynn’s former roommate, Jerome and Marilynn had been romantically involved for some time. Jerome was a drug addict, I might add, and didn’t treat Marilynn at all well. Kelvin Greene testified at the trial.”

Milo was exhibiting both amusement and admiration. The latter trait seemed strained, but at least it was there.
“You two were busy in Seattle yesterday,” Milo remarked. “What was Wesley Charles’s motive?”

If Milo thought he had stumped us, he was wrong. Vida answered promptly: “Jealousy, it would appear. He was infatuated with Marilynn, or so Kelvin Greene testified. Kelvin, if you want to know, and of course you should, was seeing Winola Prince.”

Milo, who had been sitting with one leg propped on the other knee, planted both feet on the floor. “I’ve got to talk with Marilynn Lewis again. Damn.” He glanced at Vida, then at me. “I wonder if this Charles will try to see Marilynn?”

“More fool he,” Vida replied. “But don’t discount it.”

Getting to his feet, Milo wandered over to gaze at my map of Skykomish, Snohomish, and Kittitas counties. It also included the northeast corner of King.

“It’s over forty miles from here to Monroe,” Milo noted. “If Wesley Charles has any smarts, he’ll head back for Seattle and lose himself.”

“This is weird,” I said. “Wesley Charles insists he didn’t kill Jerome Cole. We know he didn’t kill Kelvin Greene, because Charles was down at the Shelton correctional facility at the time of the murder. Milo, what do you make of all this?” I hated to ask, but I had to know.

Milo turned around, his shoulders sagging. “You don’t want to hear it,” he said. “Oh, hell, nobody hates to disagree with a jury, but once in awhile a bad verdict comes down. Maybe this was one of those times. So we’ve got a common denominator in both homicide cases. Marilynn Lewis. Who else?”

“Cyndi Campbell,” Vida snapped. “Really, Milo, you don’t believe her trumped-up story about giving directions? If you don’t question that young woman more closely, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

Milo showed no enthusiasm for grilling Cyndi Campbell. “Face it, Vida, Cyndi probably got a big bang out of drinking beer with a black dude. I figure her for somebody who likes to give people a shock now and then, especially her folks. He asked how to get someplace, she said let’s talk it over. No big deal.”

Vida leaned back in the chair, and made a strangled
sound. Her green velvet toque fell off. “Milo! Try to convince me you’re not an idiot! Hurry! You’re almost out of time!”

“Vida …” Milo threw up his hands. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to Cyndi. Look, you two, I’m not a total incompetent. We may not have interviewed Winola Prince, but we got some background on Kelvin Greene, other than his rap sheet.”

Vida lifted her head. “And?”

“He was a borderline kind of guy,” Milo said, leaning against the wall next to the map. “If he’d kept away from the drugs, he might have been all right. He used, he dealt. But he finished high school, got married, had various jobs. His wife left him about five years ago. Then he moved in with some woman and had a kid. The woman took off a couple of years ago. Grandma Greene has been raising the little boy, who’s about three and a half. Kelvin held his last job for almost a year before he got laid off in April. He was working in the stockroom at Fred Meyer up on Broadway. Winola Prince moved in with him just before Marilynn Lewis left town. Now how’s that for background?” Milo looked pleased with himself.

I had been watching Vida as well as Milo. I waited for a reaction. It came more slowly than I expected, and on a lower key.

“Well now.” Vida retrieved her hat and plopped it back on her head. “So what conclusions do you draw?”

Under Vida’s close scrutiny, Milo didn’t turn a hair. “It’s too soon to draw any conclusions. Especially with this new information about Wesley Charles. We’re going to have to check that out with King County. In fact, I’d better get going.” He started for the door.

“Milo.” Vida didn’t move in the chair.

The sheriff paused, leaning against the doorjamb. “What?” A note of impatience rose in his voice.

Vida let out a big sigh. I knew what she was going to say, and had to hide a smirk. “It may not mean a thing,” Vida began, now turning around to look up at Milo, “but Shane Campbell worked at that same Fred Meyer store when he lived in Seattle. It seems to me that you have a connection not only between Kelvin Greene and Marilynn
Lewis, but between Kelvin and Shane—and thus, all of the Campbells, right down to Wendy and Todd Wilson. While you’re at it, Milo,” she continued, her voice rising, “you might also want to check on where the Wilsons get their money. We’re hearing some pretty strange rumors. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, you understand, but I also don’t want to see you make a public fool of yourself.” Vida turned back to face my desk, picked up a State Wildlife news release about endangered pigeons, and began to peruse the copy.

Over Vida’s head, Milo gazed at me with a bemused expression. “Gee, Vida, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Vida replied, still reading the release.

Milo left. I waited until I was sure he’d exited the front office before I spoke. “If I’d said all that, he would have killed me,” I noted.

“Age has its privileges,” said Vida, sliding the news release back onto my desk. “The truth is, Milo needs more help. He’s shorthanded, his budget is too small, and I suspect his technology isn’t as up-to-date as it should be. Instead of getting annoyed with us for interfering, he ought to be grateful. Deep down, I rather suspect he is.” Moving with her own peculiar brand of splayfooted dignity, Vida returned to the news office.

I returned to opening the mail. There were a half-dozen letters decrying the recent violence in Alpine, all blaming it on big-city influences, and four of the six specifically mentioning the matter of race. None, fortunately, brought up Marilynn Lewis by name, though the implication was there in two of the missives.

Then came my anonymous correspondent. I groaned as I unfolded the plain white piece of paper. “Dear Publicher,” it began again. “You are ignoring my complaints. These people have a languege all there own. They don’t even talk like the rest of us. Once they worm there way into this town, they will take over. Look at Seattle to see if what I say isn’t true. It all starts there, and it will creep out over the rest of the state like a playge. Yours, A Loyal—getting more upset—Reader.”

Annoyed, I called Milo. He was busy, Jack Mullins informed
me in his cheerful voice. “We had a homicide last week, remember?” he chided and chuckled.

“Right, right,” I acknowledged. “Can you get fingerprints off of paper? I’m getting fed up with this anonymous letter writer.”

“They’re usually pretty smudged,” Jack replied. “We tried to take a set from the hate mail that black nurse got. No dice. Did you know that crow had been shot with a .22?”

I didn’t. “You mean somebody shot the bird purposely and then sent it to Marilynn Lewis?”

“Maybe.” Jack’s voice conveyed a shrug. “Lots of people shoot crows. They’re pests. Whoever mailed the thing might have found it someplace.”

Noting the indifference in the deputy’s voice, I decided to surrender, at least temporarily. If Milo and Company had struck out on discovering who had sent hate mail to Marilynn Lewis, I couldn’t expect any better results. I thanked Jack Mullins and hung up. It was, I realized, more important that the sheriff’s office devote its efforts to the homicide investigation.