The Alpine Nemesis (33 page)

“Not yet,” I said. “Tittle things were beginning to occur to me since last night. And this morning Milo was all worked up about Tara Peebles. Then you and I had the same thought about the naval station. Still, it was mostly guesswork, and while I was in Milo's office, Tara called him. I just couldn't tell him what we suspected.”

“He'll have to know,” Vida declared, “ and the sooner the better. Sentiment can't play a part in this.”

“But we could be completely wrong,” I argued. “Even with what Grace told us, it's only beginning to come into focus.”

“I still say we must tell Milo at once,” Vida said, rising to her feet.

I glanced at my watch, which told me it was almost ten-thirty. “I don't know…. Maybe I should wait until I see Janet Driggers at lunch.”

Vida, however shook her head. “No. Milo must hear this. Even if it's wrong, we should tell him.”

“But,” I protested, “you know how our sheriff feels about half-baked ideas. He'll look at us as if we're nuts.”

Vida wavered. “That's so. He may even think we're fantasizing. Dear me, such a quandary.”

“But Janet may be able to tell us something concrete,” I pointed out. “Assuming she knows what we suspect.”

With a grimace, Vida gave in. “You're right. Two or three hours won't make that much difference.”

Yet as Vida went back to her desk, I questioned my judgment. After she left to interview Jean and Lloyd Campbell of Alpine Appliance about their recent trip to Peru, I dialed Milo's number.

Bill Blatt informed me that Milo was out.

“How soon do you expect him back?” I inquired.

“I'm not sure,” Vida's nephew replied. “He took some personal time.”

I sucked in my breath. “To do what?”

“I don't really know,” Bill responded, sounding surprised that I would pry. I suppose only his aunt was allowed to do that. “He didn't say.”

The sheriff wasn't required to tell anyone where he was going. But I thought I knew.

The apprehension I'd felt earlier now crystallized into outright fear for Milo.

B
ETH
R
AFFERTY CALLED
me on her lunch break. “Toni said you wanted to talk to me. Can we do it over the phone or shall I stop by on my way back from the Burger Barn?”

The Burger Barn was across Front Street, not quite halfway between the sheriff's headquarters and the
Advocate.
My own staff were at lunch, so I asked Beth to see me at my office.

“That's fine,” she replied in the perky voice that got shelved when a 911 call came through. “Can I pick up anything for you?”

I thanked her but said I was taking a late lunch. Fifteen minutes later, Beth showed up, carrying the ubiquitous white bag marked with two big red B's and a drawing of a sizzling hamburger patty on top of a barn. Just looking at the logo made me realize I was hungry.

Beth Rafferty was Tim's older sister, close to forty, with short blonde hair and intelligent hazel eyes. She was tall, almost six feet, and painfully thin. For years I'd wondered if she was anorexic, but Vida had told me that Beth had always been just plain skinny. Vida had also informed me that Beth had married a young man from Index when they were both still in their teens. The union had lasted less than two years, and after the divorce, Beth had taken back her maiden name.

“I'm on a wild-goose chase,” I admitted. “As you've 275

probably figured out over the years, journalists like to play detective. It comes with the job description. We dig into stories, the way scientists and historians research their areas of expertise.”

Beth gave me an uneven smile, a reminder that she'd been to the dentist and that the Novocain probably hadn't worn off yet. “Digging just like detectives,” she put in.

“Exactly.” I returned the smile. “I know the sheriff questioned you about your brother Tim. I also know that you said Tim's story was consistent—what he read over the air and what he told you. But was there anything he left out? Some detail, something so minor that he wouldn't feel it was worth mentioning?”

Looking up from her deep-fried mushrooms, Beth frowned. “Didn't you also talk to Tim?”

I nodded. “And Tiffany as well.”

Beth sniffed. “Tiffany. Why my brother stays with her, I'll never know. She's the original bimbo.”

“The point is,” I explained, “I learned very little from either of them. But you see quite a bit of Tim, right?”

“Not as much as you'd expect,” Beth replied with a wry expression. “In fact, there are times when I think Tim and Tiffany deserve each other. Our last heart-to-heart talk was when our dad died a few months ago. In fact, we had sort of a falling-out, though we made up later.”

I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten about Liam Raf-ferty. He had requested that his earthly remains be buried in Ireland. Stunned by my lapse, I was silent for a few moments. Beth, eating her mushrooms and green salad, didn't seem to notice.

I took a deep breath and assumed what I hoped was a casual air. “The quarrel wasn't serious, I hope.”

“Not really.” Beth sipped her Coke before speaking again. “It was that crazy idea my dad had about be-

ing buried in the old sod. Or at least Tim insisted that was what he wanted. Our mom didn't know anything about it, but frankly, she has symptoms of Alzheimer's. Anyway, I couldn't find dad's so-called request written down anywhere. He didn't even have a will, but then there wasn't much to leave, and in this state, everything's community property, so it goes to Mom as the surviving spouse.”

“Yet your brother insisted that your father wanted to be interred in Ireland?”

Beth nodded. “I couldn't really argue. But it was a big expense, and it seemed odd to Mom—when she remembers—that Dad didn't want to be laid to rest next to her at the cemetery here. Dad was born in Ireland, but Mom is from Skykomish. She isn't Irish, she's German. It hurt her—hurts her still, when she thinks of it. They'd had their problems over the years, but they loved each other. I know they did.” Beth's eyes grew misty.

“When did your father die?” I asked.

“April fifteenth,” Beth replied. “I'm not likely to forget the date, but of course it was also income tax time.”

April. That fit. “Where's Tim right now?”

“What?” It appeared that Beth was still dwelling on her parents. “At the radio station. He fills in quite a bit on Saturdays before he tends bar in the evening.”

“Thanks, Beth,” I said. “You may not know it, but you've been a real help. I'm sorry I inconvenienced you on your lunch hour.”

Beth shrugged. “No big deal, but I'd better get back to work. It took longer than I'd planned at the Burger Barn. They were really busy.”

I didn't try to detain her. It was almost twelve-thirty, and with luck, I'd just have time to call on her brother at KSKY. The station wasn't too far off my route to the ski lodge where I was meeting Janet Driggers.

When Spencer Fleetwood formally went on the air almost a year ago, I was suffering from pique and refused to attend his open house. I'd sent Scott Chamoud instead, and of course Vida went, too. A stampeding herd of water buffalo wouldn't have kept my House and Home editor away.

The building that housed KSKY stood in a clearing just off the fish hatchery road. Several yards away was the radio tower. I couldn't guess its height, but it seemed to soar halfway to heaven. If it hadn't, the station's signal wouldn't have gone beyond the first crags of Tonga Ridge.

I didn't recognize the young woman at the desk in the tiny front office. Indeed, her wide, unflawed face indicated she wasn't more than eighteen. I assumed she was a college student and was startled by the deep voice that emanated from her flat chest.

“May I help you?” she inquired.

I told her I'd like to speak with Tim Rafferty. Ms. Deep Throat said he was on the air. I said I'd wait until he played the usual six-pack between commercials.

“He eats lunch then,” she said, glancing through the big window behind her where Tim was hunched over a large computer console. “This is the last trio of ads before he has his break.”

“Then I'll join him,” I responded, and marched into the studio.

“Hey!” The young woman thrust out an arm to stop me, but she was too late. I was already inside where a startled Tim Rafferty pressed a final key and stared at me with his mouth open.

“What the hell…? “he began.

“You're not on the air now?” I whispered, just in case the mike was still open.

“No.” He gulped. “What is this?”

“Just a couple of questions, Tim. Relax.” I sat down in
the only vacant chair, presumably reserved for interview subjects. Then I threw out my wild guess: “When did the O'Neills tell you about their weapons stash?”

Tim drew back in his swivel chair. “They didn't. What're you talking about?”

“You knew they had illegal arms,” I said. “What did they do, ask you to help sell them?”

“No!” Tim was gripping the armrests on his chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I never got mixed up in that stuff! And they didn't ask me to!”

“But you knew about it,” I said softly. “That makes you part of the conspiracy to sell stolen and illegal guns. How do you think Sheriff Dodge is going to react to your complicity? You could end up in a federal penitentiary.”

Tim pounded his fists. “No! I swear, it's not like that!”

“Then why don't you explain it to me?” I suggested. “I can plead your case to the sheriff.”

Tim shot a quick glance at the console, then picked up his headphones, apparently to make sure the broadcast was being sent without mishap.

“Look,” he said, finally starting to simmer down, “the only thing I know is that the O'Neills were up to something involving guns. I didn't know what, I didn't know where they got them, I didn't want anything to do with it because they were a bunch of nuts, in my opinion.”

“Nuts or fanatics?” I prompted.

Tim grimaced. “Fanatics, now that you mention it. You know, like obsessed.”

“That's usually the case with fanatics,” I remarked. “But the O'Neills got drunk one night and bragged about their big coup, right?”

Tim looked flabbergasted. “How'd you know?”

“I guessed,” I admitted. “But I couldn't imagine that the O'Neills could keep a secret forever, not with all the drinking they did. At some point, they had to let something slip. Or do a little bragging. When was it?”

Tim rubbed at his forehead. “Late March, I think,” Tim said. “It was when my dad was dying of cancer, and he died in mid-April. Paddy O'Neill—the old man, they called him—had died a couple of months earlier, and we got to talking about our dads. The next thing I knew, the three O'Neills were poking each other in the ribs and laughing their heads off. I couldn't figure it out, except they were pretty drunk.”

“That's when they started talking about guns?”

“Not exactly,” Tim replied, looking bemused. “I was busy, so I only caught a few words. You know, a phrase here and there. It was a Saturday, and the bar was really loud. But Rusty—or maybe it was Dusty—I never could keep those guys apart except for Stubby. I could always pick him out, because he had those missing fingers from the logging accident. Anyway, they started talking among each other about ‘firepower’ and how they'd sent dear old Da'—they called Paddy Da'—on his way, and then one of them said you wouldn't think you'd have to use a rocket launcher for the old man's send-off.”

Tim paused, his eye on the clock. It was twelve forty-six. “Then one of them asked for another refill, and I had to cut them off. That always made them mad, so just to make conversation and show my interest, I asked what they meant by a rocket launcher. The three of them started poking each other in the ribs and laughing again. ‘Wouldn't you like to know?’ Stubby said. I knew it was Stubby because of the missing fingers. Anyway, I asked something else, but they just shook their fingers—that is, Rusty and Dusty did—and told me not to get snoopy, or I'd be in big trouble. That was it.”

The story was credible. When Milo discovered the arms cache, Tim had put two and two together. But he hadn't come up with a perfect answer as far as I was concerned. My instincts told me he was holding something back.

“Who else was in the bar that night?” I asked. “Who might have overheard the O'Neills besides you?”

“Sheesh.” Tim leaned back in the chair and shook his head. “I don't remember. Some of the regulars. You know—a couple of Petersons, a Gustavson, maybe Trout and Skunk Nordby.”

They didn't seem like the type Pd had in mind. “One more question and I'll be on my way,” I said, then lowered my voice. “Who approached you about having your father buried in Ireland?”

Tim's face paled. “What are you saying?”

“You heard me. It wasn't really your father's idea, was it?”

“No.” Tim looked frightened, and I didn't blame him.

“Whose idea was it?”

“Dan Peebles,” Tim said in a wavering voice. “But he told me it was the O'Neills' idea because of their dad being buried in the old country. My dad had been born there, too, and Dan thought it was something that he— Dad—might have wanted but never told us.”

“Who paid for the extra expense?” I pressed on. “Who paid you off to do it?”