The Alpine Nemesis (15 page)

The O'Neill house had been built on a steep slope, with two and a half stories. What I assumed was the

basement had boarded-up windows in front but was below ground level in back. The whole thing was a boxy affair, with an ancient tin roof and a crooked tile chimney. Indeed, the whole house looked crooked. But then the O'Neills had always been a little crooked, too.

We trudged through the tall grass, rampant clover, and various weeds, including nettles and a sinister stand of devil's club. Three pitiful fruit trees whose branches were full of caterpillar nests stood to the right of the house. The entire place was littered with beer and liquor bottles, empty tin cans, old newspapers, articles of clothing, including at least a dozen unmatched socks, and an ancient icebox.

“I guess,” Scott said as he picked his way through the debris, “that the sheriff didn't bag this stuff as evidence.”

“Maybe that's why it's still a crime scene,” I said, then stepped into a hole and almost turned my ankle. “Drat,” I muttered, “this place is a regular obstacle course. Maybe the sheriff means to sort through this junk later.”

Scott began taking pictures—of the house, the surroundings, and a close-up of the icebox. “This place definitely lacks a woman's touch,” he remarked as we moved closer to the front door.

“The old man was widowed several years ago,” I said, “not long after I moved to Alpine. Dusty—he's the one who never married—was still living at home.” I winced as I noted at least two broken windows and several missing shingles. The gutters sagged and moss covered large patches of the house's exterior. “Anyway, Dusty stayed on after his father died, and Rusty and Stubby were in and out, depending upon whose wife had left him and for how long.”

We were on the wooden porch, where the boards creaked beneath our weight. It was a marvel that the O'Neills hadn't fallen through at some point. None of

them were small, though age and ill health had wasted Paddy O'Neill before his death.

Removing a roll of film from his camera, Scott indicated the front door, which had been padlocked by the sheriff. A boldly lettered sign read:

crime scene —keep out

by order of the skykomish county

sheriff's department

“Now what?” Scott inquired.

We checked the basement door, which was just around the corner from the front porch. It, too, was padlocked, and it bore a similar sign. So did the back door. A window at the rear of the house had recently been boarded up, perhaps by the sheriff.

“Damn,” I breathed, gazing at a couple of the other windows, which were intact. “I wonder if Milo would bust me for breaking and entering.”

“He might,” Scott said in a worried tone. “Wouldn't it be illegal?”

I nodded, then studied the padlock on the back door. “The wood's so rotten that if we leaned on it… ?” My voice trailed away.

“Gee, Emma,” Scott said, frowning, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Scott,” I began in a cynical tone, “how do you think Pulitzer Prizes are won? Not by the faint of heart.” I leaned my one hundred and twenty pounds against the door frame and pushed. The wood creaked; the hinges groaned. “Your turn,” I said to Scott.

My reporter looked dubious. “Is that an order?” he asked, then gave a start as we heard a rustling noise nearby.

Anxiously, I turned toward the source of the sound, some salal bushes at the corner of the house. A squirrel

emerged and scooted through the grass, pausing once to sniff at an empty whiskey bottle.

“Maybe he wants a stiff drink,” I remarked, then gazed at our surroundings. An old shed had collapsed about twenty yards away, its dilapidated roof covered with berry vines and morning glory. There was a surprisingly tidy woodpile, a bale of rusted barbed wire, the transmission from a car, and various other objects, including the ubiquitous bottles and cans. The brick chimney of the nearest neighbor could be seen through the cottonwood trees.

I nodded at Scott. “Go for it,” I said. If nothing else, it would serve Milo right for keeping secrets.

Scott gave me one last look, his dark eyes sparkling. Maybe he realized this was his first big adventure in journalism. With boyish enthusiasm, he slammed his shoulder into the door, which cracked in three places, all on the horizontal. But the hinges and the lock had broken. We ducked under the chain with the padlock and went inside.

The house was a mess. No doubt it had been that way before the sheriff and his deputies tossed it, but we could barely get through without stepping on all manner of objects, including a stuffed leprechaun.

“This looks hopeless,” Scott said as we picked our way through the living room, which had three TV sets, all old, all smudged with dust and grime. “What are we looking for?”

“Who knows?” I made a face. “Whatever was here— if anything but junk was ever here—has probably been removed by the sheriff.”

“Then why are we here?” Scott asked plaintivly.

I uttered a big sigh as we started upstairs. “I don't know. That is,” I said, stumbling on the uneven wooden steps, “sometimes things are overlooked by the law enforcement officials.”

“Clues?” Scott said behind me.

I gave a small laugh that sounded more like a snort. “Well … maybe. Imagination isn't Milo's strong suit. He solves crimes strictly by the book. None of his deputies is particularly imaginative, either, except maybe Dustin Fong. But Dustin's the youngest of the crew, so he may feel out of line if he makes what seems like a far-out suggestion.”

The small bedrooms—there were four of them—were remarkably spare and comparatively tidy. Each contained a crucifix, and a black-beaded rosary lay on one of the dressers.

But the drawers and tiny closets had all been searched. We trooped back downstairs and found the entrance to the basement. A single bare bulb illuminated the rickety steps, with only another bulb hanging from a beam in the middle of a dirt-covered area.

There were tools, some of which were so old that they might have fetched a good price at an antiques show. I smiled when I saw that the O'Neills' fishing equipment had been left unmolested. The same would not have been true for their hunting weapons, since they were nowhere in sight. It was possible that their last prey had been the Hartquists.

Several wooden and cardboard boxes had been opened, revealing nothing of much interest except old books, dirty magazines, worn-out clothes, and—touchingly— what might have been Mrs. O'Neill's wedding dress and veil. The tattered muslin gown had once been white, but was now brown with age; much of the veil had rotted away, but a small satin-covered bandeau still sported tiny artificial rosebuds. Gently, I refolded the ensemble and tucked it inside one of the boxes, then closed the lid.

“Hey,” Scott said, speaking from a semidark corner, “this looks suspicious.”

He was pointing at the bare floor. “I don't see anything,” I said, moving toward him.

“That's the point,” he responded. “Something's been moved from here. A couple of somethings, like cartons, maybe.”

I peered down at the dirt. Sure enough, there was an impression, three feet wide and maybe ten feet long. A small ridge of dirt rose a little past the middle, as if two items had sat side by side.

“Milo,” I breathed. “He took whatever was there.”

Scott held out his hand. “I'll bet this was part of whatever the sheriff removed.”

I stared at Scott's palm, where a frayed piece of black leather strap with part of a buckle reposed. “From a trunk?” I said.

“That's what it looks like.”

My eyes returned to the bare patch on the dirt floor. “Two trunks. They must have been filled with something heavy or they wouldn't have made that much of an impression.”

Scott fingered the bit of leather. “Do you suppose those were the trunks that Paddy brought over from the old country?”

“Possibly,” I said in a vague voice.

“Just think,” Scott mused, “I'll bet the old boy brought everything he owned in those trunks. That's what my grandfather did when he came to the United States. Except he had only one trunk, and it was cardboard.”

I smiled at Scott as I started for the stairs. “I'm not as interested in what Paddy O'Neill brought from Ireland sixty-odd years ago. What I'd like to know is what his sons had in those trunks up until the sheriff took them away.”

“Guns, maybe,” Scott said as we climbed the rickety steps to the main floor.

“Maybe,” I allowed. “Then again, maybe not.” The larger trunk, if that is what it was, must be about six feet long. I wondered if it had held a body.

W
E LEFT THE
O'Neill house just before it started to rain. Scott was doing an interview with the community college registrar about the upcoming commencement ceremony, so I made a detour out Tonga Road and onto the campus. He said he'd get a ride back to the office. No doubt, I thought, from Tamara Rostova, his current inamorata. She had nice teeth, too.

Vida was at her desk when I returned at exactly three o'clock. She was drumming her nails and looking vexed. “Dick Bourgette is behind schedule on those homes he's building out near Cass Pond,” she said. “I think that's news, but it's not my department.”

Dick was the prosecuting attorney's father. He had spent many years in the construction business, but only recently had begun building single-family dwellings in and around Alpine.

“What's the problem?” I asked.

“Plumbing,” Vida said. “He can't get the hardware from his supplier. I didn't talk to him, however. I heard this from Erin Burleson.”

“An impeccable source?” I queried, perching on Leo's desk.

Vida grimaced slightly. “The Burlesons haven't been in Alpine very long, so ordinarily I'd be wary of their information. But in this case, it's a personal matter. They've been renting up on Spruce Street—you may recall that
Scott gave me a Scene item about their kiddies—and just yesterday they put money down on one of Dick Bour-gette's houses. Very nice, three bedrooms, two baths, fenced yard, finished basement. Oh, and a fireplace. They were scheduled to move in the first of July.” Vida paused for breath while I tried to remain patient. So far, it sounded as if she had another Scene item featuring the Burlesons, rather than a big construction story.

“Then,” she continued, with a sly glint in her gray eyes, “just after they got back from Doukas Realty, Sam Heppner and Dustin Fong showed up to tell the Burlesons they had to move out of their rental, at least for a few days. This is Thursday, the motels and even the ski lodge are full for the weekend, so they don't know what to do. I suggested they try the college dorms. Some of the out-of-town students who've finished their final exams are already moving out.”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Why must the Burlesons move in the first place? What's going on with the sheriff and his deputies?”

“Well.” She sat back in her chair, hands on hips, bust jutting. “That's the interesting part. I tried to convince my nephew Billy to have lunch with me today, but he couldn't. They're very busy at the sheriff's department, it seems. As well they should be. But what's most intriguing about this whole affair is that the Burlesons have been renting from Stubby and Lona O'Neill.”

I stared at Vida. “Should this make sense? It doesn't to me.”

“Stubby and Lona lived there together off and on for several years,” Vida said slowly. “As you may recall, Lona would periodically throw Stubby out and he'd move back in with Paddy at the family home. But when Meara became pregnant, Lona and she moved away. The house didn't go up for sale, however. They—Lona, actually—rented it instead, first to someone who was
working temporarily for the state fish and game department, then this spring to Erin and Andy Burleson.”

I nodded, then told Vida about the little adventure Scott and I had had at the O'Neill place on Second Hill.

Vida scowled at me. “You should have waited until I got back. I would gladly have gone with you. You ought to have known that Scott, being young and impressionable, would have had qualms about entering the O'Neill house.”

“I wanted to go before the rain started,” I said, only half lying. “Besides, I didn't know when you'd be back. I figured you were grilling Bill Blatt.”

“I should have been,” Vida said ruefully. “I believe he's deliberately avoiding his poor old aunt.”

“So,” I said, picking up my train of thought, “Milo and his mighty men searched the O'Neill house first. They found what may have been two trunks. Something important must have been in the trunks, because they were confiscated. I'll bet that whatever it was is the big secret Milo's keeping from us.”

“How silly,” Vida declared. “What could it be? The Hartquists killed the O'Neills. Period. The O'Neills may have fired first—I wouldn't put it past them—but what's so mysterious about that? Unless they were fighting over treasure. Do you suppose,” Vida continued, looking owl-eyed behind her big orange-rimmed glasses, “that those trunks or whatever they were had gold bullion in them?”

I hadn't thought of that. “It's possible. Scott thought it was guns. I considered a corpse.”

Vida's eyes grew even wider. “Whose?”

I shrugged. “Some Hartquist shirttail relation that old Paddy plugged twenty years ago?”