The Alpine Nemesis (19 page)

The only drawback was that he felt we ought to keep our engagement quiet for the time being. He had so many loose ends to tie up, the house to sell, the transfer of his business base from San Francisco to Alpine. I wasn't pleased, and we argued a bit. But he was the one making the big sacrifice; I could cut him some slack. After all, any announcement of our plans would put me in the gossip spotlight until the wedding took place. I could do without that added nuisance.

Thus, I composed myself upon entering the
Advocate
office. Since I was almost ten minutes late, my staff had already arrived. Vida wore a quizzical expression, but I tried to ignore it. Leo, Scott, Kip, and Ginny all appeared to take me at poker-face value.

“Sheriff Dodge called first thing,” Ginny said. “He wants you to come over to his office.”

“Ah! Maybe he's going to open up.”

“It's about time,” Vida remarked. “You'd better get going.”

I intended to, but not without my own brand of coffee in hand. Ten minutes later, I was sitting across the desk from Milo.

“Can you keep a lid on this?” he inquired, looking faintly weary.

“Sure,” I said. “Don't I always?”

Milo took a minute to respond. “Yeah, you're usually good about stuff like this. But now that you've got competition, I have to wonder if Spence might goad you into something.”

“Are you going to tell Spence what you're going to tell me?” I asked.

Milo winced. “I should.”

I leaned forward in the vinyl chair. “Are you?” I demanded.

Milo sighed. “No. But it's not giving him a fair shake. On the other hand, you can't print anything until Wednesday. Unless you put out another one of those special deals.”

“I won't,” I said. “It's too expensive.” Expensive. For the first time, it dawned on me that I could excise expensive from my vocabulary. I certainly wasn't marrying Tom for his money, but it would be nice not to have to pinch every penny.

“What are you grinning about?” Milo asked in his dour fashion.

“Nothing.” I couldn't stop grinning.

Milo scowled. “You sure as hell are grinning about something. Don't tell me you really would publish a—” He stopped and slapped his forehead. “Cavanaugh! You said yes!”

“Milo!” I stifled the grin and tried to lie. But I couldn't. “Yes.” I grinned again.

“Jesus.” Milo shook his head and chuckled. “I'll be damned. Really?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yes, but don't say anything. I haven't even told Vida. In fact, Adam won't know until Tom calls him later today.”

“Jesus,” Milo repeated, but more softly this time. “When?”

I explained how we were going to wait until Adam could marry us in the spring. “So I'll keep your secret if you keep mine,” I concluded. “What's going on?”

Milo lighted a cigarette and took a big swig of coffee before he spoke. “I suppose you and Vida cruised around the O'Neill place recently.”

“Actually, no,” I replied. “That is,” I continued, not wanting to mislead the sheriff at this point, “Vida wasn't with me. It was Scott Chamoud. He takes better pictures.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Milo didn't seem annoyed. “We're done with the O'Neill place anyway. The crime scene tape's there just to keep out vandals. What we found up there was what we expected in the way of guns. The O'Neills, like their sworn enemies, the Hartquists, kept a bunch of them—shotguns, handguns, rifles, you name it. But what we didn't expect was an arms cache.”

Milo paused to drink more coffee and, I assumed, to get my reaction. “Like what?” I asked, suitably surprised.

“Like two big trunks full of rocket launchers and ammo.”

“Good Lord!” I gaped at Milo. “What for?”

“Good question,” he responded. “Rocket launchers seem a bit much to aim at the Hartquists.” He shot me a shrewd glance. “First thing this morning, we went over to Lona and Stubby O'Neill's house. You know, the one the Burlesons had been renting.”

“Yes?”

“Guess what we found there in the basement.”

“Nuclear bombs?”

Milo chuckled. “It wouldn't have surprised me. But it was more rocket launchers, stored in steel cases. I'm sure as hell glad that the Burleson kids didn't figure out a way to get inside those things. They might have launched each other into Snohomish County.”

I confessed to being mystified. “Did you ask Lona about them?”

“I had her go with Dustin and me this morning,” Milo replied. “Lona and Meara and the kid stayed over last night to attend the funeral. She claimed she didn't know anything about the weaponry, that Stubby had brought those cases in just before she moved out and rented the place to the Burlesons. Stubby had warned her that if she ever tried to open the things, he'd bust her chops.”

“Had he warned the Burlesons, too?” I inquired, finishing the coffee from the
Advocate's
pot and hoping Milo wouldn't offer me a refill.

“Lona got the point across,” Milo said. “It wasn't a big deal to the Burlesons. They were renters, they didn't care what the owners had stored in the basement. It was the O'Neills' house, after all.”

“Why rocket launchers?” I asked, still flummoxed.

Milo shook his head. “I can't answer that. Not now. But we're following up some leads. That's why I don't want this to leak out for a while. These weapons are illegal for civilians and they cost a bundle. Three big questions here—how the hell did the O'Neills get hold of them, where the hell did they get them, and why the hell did they get them?”

“Weird.” I fingered Milo's desk as if it were a piano keyboard. It appeared he wouldn't—more likely couldn't— answer all of those questions just now. “Say, did you ever look into the disappearance of Brian Conley's body at JFK?”

“Dwight called back there,” Milo replied, putting out his cigarette in a clamshell ashtray. “He got the run-

around. Just what you'd expect with those New York types. We'll try again today.”

“I should hope so,” I said, getting up. “It's your corpse, after all.”

The sheriff tipped his head to one side. “Do you really think whoever killed Brian showed up at JFK and snatched the body?”

“No,” I replied, “but losing your victim doesn't look too hot on your resume.”

Milo grimaced. “The trail's colder than Tonga Ridge at four thousand feet. According to the girlfriend and the buddy, Conley didn't have an enemy in the world. His coworkers at the consulate couldn't think of any reason why somebody would want to kill him. His parents, especially his mother, have nothing but good things to say about him.” Milo held his hands palms up. “It's got to be one of those weirdos in the woods.”

I should have been inclined to agree with the sheriff, but something held me back. “Any theories about the O'Neills' weaponry?” I asked, deciding to change the subject.

Milo fingered his coffee mug. “Well… if it were anybody but the O'Neills, I'd start sniffing for terrorists. But, like the Hartquists, the O'Neills are—were—just the kind who might want to have an honest-to-God arsenal.”

“Have you asked the Hartquists about the rocket launchers?” I inquired.

“The Hartquists?” Milo frowned at me. “Why? To give them ideas in case they ever get out of prison?”

“Oh,” I said slowly, getting to my feet, “it was just a thought.”

Milo also stood up, then loped around his desk and put an arm around me. “Hey,” he said, looking down into my face, “I'm really glad for you.”

“Thanks, Milo,” I said, turning my cheek for the obligatory kiss of congratulations. “You're still my dearest friend.”

Milo, however, didn't kiss me. Instead, he gave my shoulders a squeeze and stepped away. “If… if anything ever goes wrong, or you need … well, you know … I'm still here.”

I looked at his long, grave face. Milo was right. He was always there. Like a tree, like a rock, like a friend.

“Yes,” I said softly and felt my eyes mist just a bit. “I know.”

I'd decided I might as well attend the funeral Mass for the O'Neills. It would save listening to Vida twitter about Catholic oddities and excesses. Before heading to St. Mildred's, I called Tom to see how he was getting along.

“I spent most of the morning on the phone with business arrangements. That was enough to make me feel a need for fresh air. Now I'm cleaning your carport,” he informed me. “I found three mouse nests.”

“Really?” I wasn't surprised. Field mice often made their home in the woodpile. If they didn't hurt me, I wouldn't hurt them.

“It looks like the grass needs mowing,” Tom said. “How do you get the mower to go uphill out back? Or have you got a pet goat around here someplace?”

“It's not easy.” I laughed. “Don't knock yourself out. You haven't taken over as lord of the manor yet.”

“No, but I need the practice. What are you up to? Any hot news?”

“Yes, in fact,” I said, and made him promise not to tell about the discovery of the rocket launchers.

“The O'Neills were probably planning to sell them,” Tom said when I'd finished. “They could get a good price from terrorists.”

“I wondered about that,” I said. “Where would the O'Neills meet up with terrorists?”

“Damned if I know,” Tom replied. “The real question is, where did they get the rocket launchers in the first place?”

“Milo's looking into that,” I said. “At least, I hope he is.”

“No word on your other homicide?” Tom asked.

“Nothing. Milo thinks he's hit the wall on that one.”

“Could be.” Tom paused. “What do you want me to do with these boxes of old magazines and newspapers at the front of the carport? They're a fire hazard, you know.”

“Then throw them out,” I responded. “I waited all year for one of the schools or somebody else to have a paper drive and they never did. Too much recycling these days, I guess. Got to run. I'm attending the O'Neill funeral. Care to join me?”

Again, Tom paused. “No, thanks. I need to stick around here and earn my keep. See you this evening.”

I could hardly believe it. Tom would be there this evening and tomorrow evening, and then, though he would have to leave for a time, there'd be endless evenings when I would come home to him. I gave myself a little shake.

St. Mildred's was already jammed when I arrived at two minutes to ten. The old white wooden structure is small and modest, but it has a certain charm. At least our pastors haven't modernized the sanctuary. Too many of the new and renovated churches in the area look like bowling alleys or union halls or are otherwise butt-ugly.

I managed to find a seat in the second pew from the back. I was mildly surprised to see Vida in attendance. She was up front and easy to spot with her pigeon hat. I have tried to count how many hats Vida owns, but lost track years ago. Judging from the styles, particularly this
one with its three pigeons nestling in powder blue veils around the high crown, she had been acquiring headgear since becoming a grown-up. The pigeons were especially intriguing: They had glass eyes that moved around like a doll's. And, like Vida herself, they seemed not to miss a trick.

Most of the people who had attended the wake were present, plus several others, some of whom I didn't recognize. Noticeably absent were the Wailers. Perhaps they were at home, rehearsing for Oscar Nyquist's funeral on Saturday.

Al Driggers and Dan Peebles were both on hand, not only in their capacity as funeral director and assistant, but as pallbearers. Three caskets required eighteen men, which made for an impressive procession down the center aisle. I noted that Brendan Shaw, Buddy Bayard, Bill Daley, Jack Mullins, Jake and Buzzy O'Toole, and, to my astonishment, Ed Bronsky had been called into service. Ed wasn't Irish, but he was a member of the parish. I figured he'd volunteered because it was good publicity.

Father Kelly gave an adequate homily, considering that the O'Neills weren't regular attendees at Mass and that our pastor didn't know them well, except by reputation, which wasn't very good. Mainly, he spoke of being prepared for death, of not knowing the day or the hour. He did not add that you never could tell when your archrivals were going to show up with their .22s.

The only member of the O'Neill family to give a eulogy was Mickey, Rusty's son. He looked fairly terrified, and I suspected that the ill-fitting brown suit he wore was a castoff from someone else.

“My dad taught me a lot,” Mickey began in a quavering voice. “He taught me about logging, and how to work in the woods. I'm proud of that. I'm proud to be a logger, too, like he was. Not everybody gets to be a logger
these days, with all the tree-huggers and nature lovers and the rest of those crazy people out there making trouble.”

Mickey's voice had gained strength and momentum as he rode his sawhorse from the pulpit. I saw several people nod their heads in agreement, and at least a couple of voices mutter, “Damn straight” and “Right on.”

“My dad taught me other stuff, too,” Mickey went on. “He taught me about the old country, about how bad the Irish got treated by the English, and how everybody starved during the potato famine. My dad said all those hard times made the Irish tough. We could stand up to anybody. We don't have to take second place to nobody else in the world.”

If there'd been a Hartquist among the mourners, Mickey's blue eyes would have pierced flesh. As it was, the morning sun slanted through the stained glass windows and the last of the O'Neill males seemed bathed in a beatific glow.

Of course, it would have helped if he'd had better grammar, I thought, then winced. I was in church, at a funeral, about to receive the grace of the Holy Eucharist. Maybe there was something good in Mickey's recollections, even if his father had been a disreputable man and the son was a potential loser. I despised myself for letting my mind wander, especially to uncharitable thoughts. But then it often did. I prayed for forgiveness. As I concluded my prayer, Mickey was also coming to a conclusion.

“So thanks, Dad, for all you taught me. I wasn't an easy to kid to bring up, like you always said, but I learned something all the same. I'm proud to be Irish and glad I'm your son.”

His voice broke on the last phrase, and he put a hand to his eyes as he stepped down from the pulpit. A handful
of people in the congregation, most of whom I didn't recognize, shared their remembrances of the O'Neill brothers. These memories consisted mostly of getting wiped out at the Icicle Creek Tavern or smashing heads at Mugs Ahoy. In retrospect, it sounded like a lot of fun. In reality, a couple of people had landed in the hospital, and at least two of the O'Neills had spent the night in jail.