The Alpine Nemesis (23 page)

“You forgot your net,” Milo called to Crazy Eights, who was on the opposite corner. “It's on the other side of Front, in that concrete sidewalk planter.”

“I don't need it,” Crazy Eights called back. “There aren't any butterflies around here. Any damned fool should know that.” Pityingly, he shook his head and continued on up the hill.

“What about Roger's find?” I asked the sheriff. “Where do you think that snowboard came from?”

If Milo had looked pained a few moments ago, now he appeared downright miserable. “What do you think?”

“I'm asking you.”

Milo stepped aside as a woman pushing a stroller exited from the bank. He tipped his regulation hat at her and grimaced at me. “I have to wonder—did the O'Neills kill Brian Conley?”

The thought had briefly crossed my mind. It made some sense. Presumably, Brian had the snowboard with him when he was murdered. Ergo, the O'Neills had stabbed the young man and stolen his snowboard. Then, either not knowing how to use it, or not giving a damn, they had chucked it with the rest of their junk in the front yard of their ramshackle house on Second Hill. It was a logical solution to a thorny problem.

Still, it was unlike Milo to jump to conclusions. “How did you deduce this?” I inquired.

“I was awake half the night,” Milo replied. “Mainly, I was worrying about how much the new plumbing was going to cost. But then I got to thinking about Roger and the snowboard. Vida's so damned protective of that kid, and it took about half an hour to get the story out of him. He's not exactly talkative, at least not with adults.”

“She thought he'd be scared,” I said with a droll expression.

“He wasn't,” Milo retorted. “He was kind of surly. But then he's at that age … Anyway, along about four in the morning while I was wondering if the shower would work, I had a thought. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that the snowboard was found on the O'Neill property. You know me, I'm not too keen on coincidences. So the logical explanation was that they put it there. The next question was how did they get hold of it.” Milo lifted his hands. “Bingo. Maybe they took it off of Brian Conley. He was probably dead when they did it, which doesn't mean they killed him. But the body was tucked under
that ledge. If the killer didn't take the snowboard, then where did it go? My money's on the O'Neills, but we'll never know for sure.”

“You keep using the plural for them,” I pointed out. “Why not just one O'Neill? I mean, it would appear that there was only one assailant, two stab wounds notwithstanding.”

Milo looked skyward where the morning clouds were starting break away. “That's what I mean. We'll never know.”

“W
HAT WERE THE
O'Neills doing up on Tonga Ridge?” I asked Vida after explaining Milo's theory. “They weren't exactly athletes.”

“They fished and hunted,” Vida said between sips of hot water.

“But this was the tail end of winter,” I countered. “The fishing and hunting seasons weren't over, except for steelhead, and they wouldn't climb up the ridge to fish there.”

“True,” Vida allowed. “They would fish the Sky or Martin or Beckler Creek. The streams closer to Alpine and the highway.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Still, it makes some queer kind of sense. The O'Neills probably paid no attention to the state regulations regarding seasonal restrictions. They might have been at one of the lakes.”

“The lakes up there would have been frozen over.” I posed another question. “Motive, then?”

“Orneriness,” Vida said. “Wretched people like the O'Neills don't need a motive for violence. Too much liquor or the misinterpretation of a phrase or action can set them off. They're animals.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of Scott Chamoud, who wore a big, beautiful grin on his handsome face. “Got a Scene item for you. Mrs. R. and I ran into Grace Grundle on my way to take some summer solstice float

pictures. She was going to file a complaint with the sheriff.”

“Grace!” Vida spat out the name. “That woman is so addled. What is it now? Something to do with her cat, Doozle?”

“I thought it was Foozle,” I put in.

Vida glared at me. “You know better, Emma. What's bothering Grace now?”

“Fumes,” Scott replied. “The other night she let Doozle out and there was an odd smell in the air—a stench, Grace called it. Anyway, Doozle got sick after that and she's had to take him to Dr. Medved twice since then.”

“Grace and her silly cats,” Vida huffed. “It serves her right. I wouldn't give those animals house room, let alone put out money for them.” Vida frowned at Scott. “A stench? What kind of stench?”

Scott shrugged. “It was probably from the sawmill. You'd think the cats around here would be used to that smell. It took me a while, but I don't mind it anymore. It only gets bad on certain days and depending on which way the wind is blowing.”

“Cats are very stupid animals,” Vida asserted. “I'll use the item, however. And bear in mind, Scott, that sawmills can produce some wonderful odors as well. What's lovelier than the smoke from burning wood chips and sawdust?”

“True,” Scott said with another grin for Vida, who suddenly wore a peculiar expression. “That's a good smell. Maybe I'll do a feature one of these days about the smells in a logging town. ‘Aromas of Alpine.’ What do you think, Emma?”

“Not bad,” I said, noting that whatever had been bothering Vida seemed to have passed. She was going through her in-basket and seemed unruffled. “How did the float pictures turn out?” I asked my reporter.

Scott winced. “The Old Timers had some bad luck.

Ellsworth Overholt fell off the float and may have broken his kneecap. One of the big logging rigs got a flat. The Miss Alpine float caught fire. I should have some good shots of that.”

“Caught fire?” I echoed. “I didn't hear any sirens this morning. What happened?”

“Somebody lighted a cigarette that set off the streamers from the summer solstice pole. They put it out right away, so they didn't call the fire department. But I was able to get some pictures of the guys flailing away with their jackets.”

I had to ask: “What about the Mr. Pig float?”

Scott was grinning again. “Ed's not quite ready for prime time. He wants me to come back this afternoon. For one thing, his pig suit isn't finished.”

“He needs a suit?” I retorted.

“Ed!” Vida tossed her pencil across the desk. “Such a ninny. Does he really have to disport himself in the parade?”

“Of course,” I replied as a harried-looking Al Driggers came through the door.

“Who died?” Vida demanded.

“Nobody,” Al groaned. “It's that Mrs. Conley in Penn Yan. She says we lost her son's body.”

“Did you?” Vida asked in a stern voice.

“Of course not.” Al scowled at Vida. “Have we ever lost a body in seventy years of the Driggers Funeral Home's existence?”

Vida scowled back. “I do recall an incident in forty-nine with DeForest Vance.”

Al's pale face took on a spot of color. “Before my time,” he murmured.

“Your grandfather,” Vida said, retrieving her pencil and pointing it at Al. “DeForest disappeared for two days after he died.”

“He was in the wrong compartment,” Al asserted.

“My grandfather's eyes were failing. He thought the sign on the drawer said
vacant.”

Vida harrumphed. “An unfortunate mistake for the rest of the Vance family. Erna Vance lost her mind after that and had to be put in a home.”

“My father said Erna was always crazy,” Al countered. “Mislaying her husband had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh,” Vida fumed, “stop it, Al. In any event, that has nothing to do with poor Brian Conley. Do you or do you not have any idea of what might have happened to his body?”

Al's narrow shoulders slumped. “No.”

“At least you didn't lose Oscar Nyquist,” Vida remarked. “Or did you?”

“No.” Al was looking at the floor, as if he were being berated by his second-grade teacher. “We buried Oscar here in Alpine, you know.”

“Yes.” Vida gave a single nod. “Despite his wish to be buried in Norway.”

Al gave a faint nod.

“The family didn't want Oscar to have his way,” Vida said. “He usually did. They got back at him, in the end.”

Al gave another nod.

“So are the Conleys actually going to sue you?” Vida queried.

Al sighed. “They're threatening to. I don't blame them in a way. It's a terrible thing. But it's not our fault. The … mix-up must have occurred at one of the airports, either Sea-Tac or JFK. I've got the Port of Seattle police checking on it at this end, and the Conleys have whoever is in charge of the airport in New York. I'm also in touch with a young man named Nolan Curry at the Irish consulate. He not only worked with Brian but was a close friend. Nolan agrees that it's a real mystery, but that doesn't help me much.”

“Body snatchers?” Scott suggested. “That is, people who steal bodies for organ harvesting?”

“No,” I said. “They can only do that right after a person dies. Brian had been dead for months.”

“That's right,” Al agreed, turning to face me. “The reason I came here is because Mrs. Conley said she'd told you she was going to sue. You don't have to put that in the paper, do you, Emma?”

“Not until they actually file a suit,” I said, hoping to soothe Al.

He remained glum. “I feel as if the family business is going to be ruined by this horrible incident. Which, as God only knows, isn't our fault.”

Vida's expression had softened, no doubt at the thought that a local enterprise could go under because of unexpected forces from the distant east. “You trust that young man you hired?”

“Dan Peebles?” Al looked offended. “Certainly. He had an excellent resume.”

“Curious,” Vida murmured.

“What's curious?” Al appeared to be on the defensive.

Vida shrugged. “Being a funeral director. Now, now,” she went on, seeing Al bristle, “I don't mean you. Your father and your grandfather were in the business. It was only natural that you should go into it, too. I realize it can be a prosperous enterprise—certainly you never run out of clients—but still, it strikes me as odd.”

“It's a service,” Al declared, squaring his shoulders. “A much-needed one, I might add. Not to mention the compassion and comfort we can offer to the survivors. A sensitive young man like Dan finds that very appealing. Unlike his brother, he was certainly not cut out for the military.”

I was about to make a tactful exit from this seemingly endless discussion when Leo breezed into the office.

“Greetings, all,” he said in a rush. “Damn these adver-

tisers! They change their minds every time we have a big issue to fill. I've got to redo half the special section. Whoever told Clancy Barton he knew how to lay out an ad?”

The owner of Barton's Bootery was famous for changing his mind and offering his own not-so-bright ideas. “Good luck,” I said to Leo, and with a wave retreated into my cubbyhole. I still had an editorial to write.

Alas, it was an editorial that simply wasn't forming in my mind. What to say about one family wiping out another? Hatred was bad, killing was bad, lack of remorse was bad, too. I could write my arms off to the elbows, but I hadn't a doubt in my mind that if the Hartquists had to do it all over again, they would.

So absorbed in thought was I that the arrival of Tim Rafferty made me jump.

“Hi,” he said in a diffident voice. “I hear you've been trying to talk to me.”

“For several days,” I said, regaining my composure. “Have a seat. What's new with KSKY?”

Tim's sharp, not unattractive features had softened after he turned thirty. There was a slight puffiness around his eyes and mouth, perhaps a result of serving himself one too many beers. Now his face became suspicious.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“Because Spencer Fleetwood is the competition,” I said. “Why else?”

Tim, who had sat down, leaned forward on the desk. “You mean you think he sent me here to spy on you?”

“Sure,” I responded. “Why not?”

“I stopped by because Tiffany said you'd been looking for me,” Tim replied, on the defensive. “Spence can do his own spying. Besides, all he has to do is count advertising inches in the paper.”

“True, more or less,” I allowed. “But you're right. I wanted to ask about the night you and Tiffany found
Brian Conley. By the way, did you know his body has gone missing?”

Tim's jaw dropped. “You're kidding! How could that happen?”

“Don't ask me,” I said. “Ask around. Isn't that part of your job with KSKY?”

Tim shook his head. “No. That's up to Spence. I only do some of the on-air stuff. And maybe get some ads.” His suspicious look returned. “How come you're telling me this?”

I shrugged. “It's probably all over town by now. There's no point in keeping it a secret. You're going to beat me on this one no matter how much I keep my mouth shut. However,” I added, giving my chair a little twirl, “I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me more about your evening adventures on Tonga Ridge.”

Tim raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I've told everything already. On the air, at that. Man, there's nothing to add.”

“What about the snowboard?” I wasn't going to tell Tim that it had been found. Again, the story would probably leak before we went to press, but I wouldn't tip my hand.