The Alpine Pursuit (6 page)

Vida poked me. “Doesn’t Roger look wonderful?”

“He looks the part,” I whispered in a noncommittal tone.

Hans addressed the runaway teen: “What are you doing here, sonny? I don’t think I’ve seen you before in Evergreen.”

Roger had assumed a certain swagger. He turned to Hans, who remained behind the serving counter. “Fuck you!” Roger shouted. “Fuck all of you!”

Vida gasped. I turned slightly in my seat. “Very convincing,” I said under my breath.
Practice, practice, practice.
Roger was smirking at the audience, who had uttered some shocked reactions of their own. Even logging towns have standards when it comes to vulgarity. What’s fit for the big city’s ears is often unacceptable to small towners.

“Really!” Vida seemed to be hyperventilating. “Really now!”

“Pipe down, Vida,” Milo said. “Everybody’s staring at you. You don’t want to take the attention away from Roger, do you?”

Milo, who shared my opinion of Vida’s grandson, had used the correct tactic. I could sense that Vida was still fuming, but her mutterings had become inaudible, perhaps at the urging of her daughter Amy. After all, this was Roger’s big moment in the sun.

To be fair, Roger wasn’t bad. In fact, he was surprisingly good. He had the monologue that closed the act, describing the wretched circumstances that had made him run away from home and his horrendous experiences living on the city’s streets. Of course he was called upon to use language that no doubt made his grandmother—among others—wince, but the applause was generous when the curtain fell.

I stood up and turned to Vida and the Hibberts. Amy and Ted exhibited great pride and no alarm over their son’s dialogue. Vida, however, looked upset.

“I don’t see why,” she declared, “Destiny Parsons had to use foul language. It’s not necessary. What’s worse, Roger seems to be the one who says most of it. Except for Rip Ridley, of course. He’s certainly not setting a good example for his high school students and the boys on the football team.”

“The play’s about real life, Mother, especially in the city,” Amy said quietly. “I should have warned you, since Ted and I’ve heard Roger rehearsing. He’s worked very hard to make his part believable.”

“He’s done a fine job of it,” I asserted, wondering if this was the first time I’d ever had a word of praise for Roger. “Maybe he’s found his niche.” Certainly he was good at yelling obscenities.

“I still don’t like it one bit,” Vida stated. “I’m going to write an article about it for my page this coming week.”

I hesitated. “It’s called freedom of speech, Vida,” I said. “If you really want to do that, then I’ll write one, too, presenting the other side of the issue. We can run the pieces on the editorial page.”

Vida glared at me from behind her big glasses. “Do you want us to squabble in public? And what must the Reverend Poole think? Surely he can’t appear in the play and condone such vulgarity!”

It was useless to argue with Vida. “We won’t squabble,” I said, “here or in the
Advocate
. We have different opinions, that’s all. Excuse me,” I went on, moving down the aisle. “Speaking of the paper, I want to see how Scott’s doing with the pictures.”

Scott was doing fine, both with his camera and with his hands. He was caressing the shoulders of Tamara Rostova, his ladylove of the past three years. With her dark beauty and tall, angular figure, Tamara looked more like a ballet dancer than a college professor. Nor did she resemble a
Tammy
, as Scott called her. I used
Tamara
when we conversed.

“I think I’ve got some good stuff so far,” Scott informed me.

“I’m sure you do,” I replied. “Maybe you’ve taken some good pictures, too.”

Scott was still young enough to look embarrassed. But he didn’t let go of Tamara, who was a few years older than her suitor and much more worldly.

“Scott needs a pay raise,” Tamara declared pleasantly enough. “We’re thinking about marriage down the road.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I admitted, appreciating Tamara’s candor. “About raises, I mean. Our ad revenue is up since we’ve been doing some co-op promotions with KSKY. Am I right in assuming you’d stay in Alpine?”

Scott looked to Tamara for the answer. “That depends,” she said, raising a slender hand to her forehead and assuming a dramatic pose that suggested she was peering into the future. “I’ve been thinking about moving on to a larger school. I like the diversity of a city.”

Recalling Scott’s comment about becoming a freelance photographer, I tried not to look disappointed. I liked more diversity, too, but I seemed to be stuck in Alpine. The disappointment was accompanied by a pang of envy. There was a wider world out there, and I was missing it.

The gong sounded for the start of the third and final act. I resumed my seat, noting that Vida still looked somewhat grim.

The act began as the others did, with Spence’s narration. Destiny’s script compelled him to summarize what had gone before and muse on the obvious themes. It seemed redundant, as if the play couldn’t stand on its own.

But it certainly could talk. Preach, argue, lecture, sermonize, moralize—all in the name of Why Can’t We Be Nice to One Another? Clea had come to realize that a small town wasn’t so different from a big city.

“We’re all human,” she proclaimed as Otis Poole smiled benignly from a swing that had been lowered a few feet from the stage. “Where
is
home? Could it be in the heart?”

I stifled a yawn. I could swear I heard Milo snoring. It certainly sounded like him, and I should know. For one brief moment, I had an urge to reach behind me and take his hand.

I didn’t catch exactly what happened next except that Rip Ridley and Rey Fernandez were suddenly confronting each other. Rip held a steak knife and was shouting something about “wetbacks” and “foreign bastards.” Clea tried to intervene but was held back by Jim Medved, who didn’t want her—or Dodo—to get hurt. Hans Berenger came slowly out from the kitchen area, doing his best to look scared yet brave. The lion apparently had gotten a dose of courage.

Nat Cardenas, playing the sheriff, raced in from stage left. He ordered the combatants to stop fighting. They ignored him. As Rip lunged with the knife to attack a struggling Rey, Nat pulled his gun. Rip started to bring the knife down, but Hans charged into the melee, apparently in an attempt to shield Rey, who was wielding a beer bottle.

Fumbling slightly, Nat pulled a gun out of his holster. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” The trio continued wrestling around the stage, knocking over tables and chairs, and evoking screams from Clea and Rita. Everyone else looked appropriately horrified—except Dodo, who was piddling on the floor. Ed actually stopped eating and turned around.

Nat fired two shots. Hans fell to the ground, motionless. Acrid smoke filtered out into the first few rows of the auditorium. I heard someone cough loudly and dramatically. Maybe it was Thyra Rasmussen, doing some acting of her own.

“Violence!” Clea exclaimed, a hand to her cheek. “Guns!” She whirled on Nat. “See what you’ve done? You’ve killed an innocent man! He was only trying to help!”

Nat, doing his best to look dismayed, tossed the gun aside. Dodo scampered over to sniff at the barrel.

Then everyone got into it, denouncing firearms, prejudice, hunger, famine, war, plague, locusts, and whatever else was screwing up the human race. Rip repented, embracing Rey. The Reverend Poole descended once more, offering a blessing. Ed finally spoke:

“Amen!” he shouted. And belched.

Mercifully, the curtain descended. I felt stiff as a board. The rest of the audience seemed enthusiastic, however, and applauded with gusto, finally erupting into a standing ovation.

I stood up, too, if only to stretch. Milo apparently had woken up, since he, too, was on his feet. Vida was applauding madly and shouting, “Roger! Roger! Roger!”

The curtain stayed down. There was no sign of the actors eagerly taking their curtain calls. The applause and cheers began to fade. Finally, as curious voices started to fill the theater, Spence came out from behind the curtain.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his usually mellifluous voice uncertain, “there’s been an accident. Would you please remain inside the auditorium?”

FOUR

Some of the audience members had already made their exit, but those who remained were stunned into silence. Spence disappeared into the wings as the houselights came up. Worried voices began to hum all over the auditorium. Suddenly I saw Dustin Fong, still costumed as an attorney in a three-piece suit, hurry past me and lean toward Milo.

“We need you, sir,” Dustin said softly but urgently. “Will you come backstage?” He leaned closer to his boss, saying something I couldn’t hear.

Wordlessly if clumsily, Milo edged past the Hibberts. Vida was already in the aisle, grasping Dustin by the lapels of his dark suit coat.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Who had an accident? Is it Roger? Has something happened to my darling?”

“Roger’s fine,” Dustin replied.

Milo attempted to elbow Vida out of the way. “We have to do our job. Let go, Vida.”

She obeyed but followed the sheriff and his deputy down the aisle. “Press!” she cried. “Coming through!”

Naturally, I had to follow her. Vida was right: We were indeed the press. And our rival was already behind-the-scenes, gathering the story for his sign-off newscast at midnight.

I couldn’t see Scott anywhere, but Thyra Rasmussen was easy to spot. She was standing in the middle of the far aisle clinging to her canes and shouting at her son, Harold, to take her backstage. Harold seemed reluctant. His wife, Gladys, dithered at his side.

The area near the stage had become clogged with curious patrons. Milo exerted his authority, both professional and physical:

“Step aside. Move. Break it up here.”

I felt like a running back, moving quickly in the wake of a hard-hitting blocker. Two blockers if I included Vida, whose pushing and shoving were almost as effective as the sheriff’s less vigorous efforts.

We went through a side door, then up some concrete steps. From there I could see the stage from the wings. It appeared that the entire cast, along with Destiny Parsons and some young people who were probably stagehands and lighting techs, had assembled amid the shambles that was now the café set.

I moved closer, still behind Milo, Vida, and Dustin. I could see stricken looks on the faces of several people, especially Nat, Destiny, Fuzzy, and Jim. Rita was slumped in one of the café chairs, sobbing hysterically while Reverend Poole tried to console her. As Milo and Dustin moved into the circle, the sheriff motioned for Vida and me to stay back. Vida didn’t look as if she was willing to cooperate, but I grabbed her coat sleeve.

“Just wait. I have an awful feeling about this,” I murmured.

Milo also asked the others to move away from the center of the stage. Through the curtains I could hear the audience’s voices rise to a crescendo. Visions of Alpine theatergoers storming the stage like French peasants attacking the Bastille flitted through my mind’s eye.

But reality came crashing down like a sandbag let loose from the flies. Peering around Vida, who was now holding Roger in a fierce embrace, I saw Hans Berenger still lying on the stage. A small pool of blood oozed over the boards. Hans hadn’t moved an inch since Nat had fired his gun.

“Damn!” I said under my breath, and crossed myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a body. But this time I steeled myself and put distance between Hans’s inert form and my emotions. I’d sworn that after having Tom die in my arms there was almost nothing that could ever wound me again.

“Okay.” Milo rose from his kneeling position. “You’re right,” he said to Dustin. “Berenger’s dead.”

The confirmation of what the others must have already suspected elicited more sobs and groans. The sheriff and his deputy conferred in voices so low that only the deceased could have heard them.

“Listen up,” Milo said after he and Dustin apparently had plotted their next moves. “An ambulance is on the way, along with a couple of our other deputies. Dr. Sung should be here any minute.”

“Where’s Doc Dewey?” Fuzzy asked with no sign of his southern drawl.

Milo shrugged. “Out of town, I guess. Ms. Parsons told Dustin that Doc and his wife are—were—coming to the final performance.” He glanced down at the body. “It looks like Doc will miss it.”

“Ohmigod!” Destiny shrieked. “How could this happen to me?”

Rita’s head jerked up, her face a blotchy tearstained mass. “You callous bitch!
How could this happen to Hans?
”

Another voice was heard from: “How could this happen in my theater?” Thyra Rasmussen was moving slowly toward the stage. “Don’t tell me those bullets were real?”

Destiny whirled around, green eyes snapping with fury. “They weren’t, you meddling old bat! Do you think I’m crazy?”

Thyra didn’t give an inch. “I think you’re careless. And stupid. I’m sorry I ever permitted you to use my facility.”

It was hard to know who to root for. But Milo intervened.

“Come on, let’s calm down. I want this stage cleared as of now. The immediate backstage area, too. This is all a crime scene.” He looked at Spence, who was holding on to Dodo and scratching the dog behind the ears. “Hey, Fleetwood, go out into the auditorium and ask everybody to leave their names and phone numbers. Then they can go home. I’ll have Sam Heppner help you with the list when he gets here.”

Spence handed the dog over to his owner. Dodo seemed like the only cast or crew member who was unaffected by the tragedy. When Jim took the dog, his hands were trembling; Spence looked pale, despite what I’d always guessed was an artificial tan.

Four feet away from where I stood, Milo was speaking with Thyra. “You should go home, too, Mrs. Rasmussen. We could be in for a long night.”

“Nonsense!” Thyra snapped. “This is my theater and I’m not leaving. Harold and Gladys can wait outside or wherever they want, but I intend to remain here with the rest of this sorry little bunch.”

The sheriff didn’t argue. “Okay, let’s have you all move . . .” He glanced around, then pointed to Destiny. “Where’s a good place?”

Destiny looked blank before finally gesturing in the direction of heavy double doors behind the stage. “The workshop.”

Milo nodded once. “Okay, let’s move. We’ll wait there for Dr. Sung.”

Slowly, warily, the group began to shuffle from the stage. Even Thyra, plying her canes, went with them. Vida, Roger, and I remained.

“Get the kid out of here,” Milo ordered.

Vida bridled. “He’s staying with me!”

“Yeah!” Roger chimed in. “Fuck you!”

“Roger!” Vida slapped a hand over her grandson’s mouth. “See here, young man,” she admonished, “don’t ever let me hear you talk like that again!”

Roger pushed her hand away. “Hey, Grams, chill. I’m still in character.”

Vida looked as if she wanted to believe him. Milo ignored Roger’s rude response and turned his back on us. “Go get his parents,” he called over his shoulder. “They can all go backstage, too.”

To my surprise, Vida gave in. Maybe she’d had too many shocks for one evening. Now I was alone with Milo, Dustin, and the late Hans Berenger. “So what do you think happened?” I inquired.

Milo gave me an ironic look. “Somebody put real bullets in the gun. That’s what happened. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not.”

“But not Nat’s fault?”

“Not necessarily.” Milo looked away into the wings as Elvis Sung hurried toward us.

“Thanks, Doc, for getting here so fast,” the sheriff said. “Here’s the victim. He’s been shot at least once.”

Dr. Sung was still in his thirties, a native Hawaiian of Korean descent who hated hot weather. The more it rained, the better he liked it. I figured he must be ecstatic when it snowed.

But I was wrong. “I almost didn’t make it,” Dr. Sung said, putting on a pair of white latex gloves. “It’s bad out there, even with four-wheel drive.”

“How bad?” the sheriff asked.

“We’ve gotten a good four inches in the last couple of hours,” Dr. Sung answered, kneeling next to Hans. “More up at the summit.” The doctor paused for a moment as he began examining the corpse. “I hope Doc Dewey can make it back from Seattle tonight. I need him in the ER.” Elvis Sung had peeled away Hans’s bloody apron and T-shirt to study the wound. “They closed Stevens Pass from Index to Leavenworth about an hour ago. Christ.” Sung moved enough to let Milo and Dustin have a look. I hung back. “I can only see one bullet hole,” Sung said, “entering under the left armpit and probably puncturing the lung and maybe the heart. We’ll know more when Doc Dewey does the official autopsy.” He gazed up into the flies. “Maybe I should try Doc’s cell phone again. He was out of range the last time I called.”

Milo grimaced. “So where’s the other slug?”

Dustin pointed toward the kitchen area of the set. “Maybe back there, sir. Nat Cardenas fired twice, in rapid succession. The other bullet must have gone that way. I bagged the gun as soon as I realized Mr. Berenger had really been shot.”

“Good,” Milo said absently, looking to the rear of the stage. “What kind of gun is it?”

“A Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver,” Dustin replied. “It’s old, but well maintained. It may be a service pistol from the Second World War. The gun belongs to Dr. Medved.”

Sam, Dwight, and the medics arrived all at once, griping about the weather.

“Why does somebody have to get killed during a freaking blizzard?” Sam demanded, wielding a camera to take photos of the crime scene. “And how does some college prof get himself shot during a play?” He stared at Dustin as if it were the young deputy’s fault for taking part in the fatal theatrics.

“You’re lucky we came at all,” declared Vic Thorstensen, one of the medics. “We’ve been on the run all night, what with so many morons not knowing how to drive in a snowstorm. Why can’t they stay home? Then we could, too.”

Dr. Sung, who was of medium height but built like a weight lifter, cocked his head to one side. “Guess what, Vic? We don’t need you. We need an ambulance. Unless,” he added in a musing manner that was becoming familiar, “you want to cart the corpse to the morgue.” He turned to Milo. “Or does the deceased stay put for a while?”

Sam was still taking pictures. Milo didn’t answer right away, but when he did, he gave Elvis Sung a thumbs-up gesture. “We’ve seen enough. You finished, Sam?”

Sam nodded.

“Go ahead,” Milo said to the medics. “Take him away.”

“Sure,” Del Amundson, the other EMT, shot back. “Maybe we can pick up a couple of stiffs out on River Road while we’re at it. Somebody just called in to say they thought they saw a car floating in the Sky. If it gets too crowded, we can always dump some of ’em off in a snowbank. They’ll keep.”

Elvis Sung held up his hands. “Just go. Take our body with you, then check out the river. I’ll meet you at the clinic.”

“Upstairs or in the basement?” Vic asked as Del rolled a gurney to center stage.

“Upstairs,” Elvis answered. “I’ll be in the ER, not the morgue. I can’t do anything for Berenger.”

As the two medics removed the corpse, I looked again for Scott and Tamara. They were nowhere to be seen. I began to suspect that they’d left after the curtain fell. No doubt they had plans of their own for the rest of the night. I couldn’t blame Scott, but it meant we were without a photographer. We couldn’t use any of Sam’s photos—they were too graphic. Nor would he let us borrow county property to take some shots of our own. Maybe someone in the cast had a camera. Vida wasn’t as good as Scott, but she was better than I was. “Remove the lens cap” was about the only instruction I got right, and upon occasion I’d forgotten even that.

Sam Heppner had gone to help Spence take down names and addresses. In the relative quiet behind the curtain I could hear the anxious buzz of conversation in the auditorium. I hoped the three hundred–plus attendees could be dispatched quickly. Nobody wanted to spend the night snowed in on campus.

The body was taken away, a pathetic bundle moving at what struck me as unseemly speed through the backstage area and out through a rear exit. As the door remained open for a few seconds, I could see the snow coming down, driven by a howling north wind. I began to wonder if I’d be stuck at the college.

Milo had cut Dustin from the herd, telling him to join the other cast and crew members. “You’re a witness, Dustman,” the sheriff said with a grimace. “For now, you’re one of them, not one of us. Sorry.”

Dustin, however, understood. He headed for the workshop, where the double doors now stood open. I trailed along, watching Dustin sit down on a stool between Destiny Parsons and Reverend Poole. Some of the twenty or so people who waited on the law’s whim seemed to have recovered their nerve. Others, like Rita, Nat, Destiny, and Jim, still appeared visibly shaken. Thyra Rasmussen refused a folding chair. She leaned on her canes and glared at Milo. Dodo was now asleep under the vet’s stool.

“Emma, Vida,” Milo said, “you’re out of here. Roger’s folks can stay because he’s a minor.” Forestalling any lip from either of us, he made a sharp gesture with his thumb. “Beat it. Now.”

Vida wasn’t going quietly. “Amy and Ted can go home. I’ll stay with Roger.”

But the sheriff was firm. Vida was out; the Hibberts were in. In her splayfooted manner, my House & Home editor stomped angrily to join me by the exit. We left just as Sam Heppner returned from the auditorium. Spence wasn’t with him, no doubt already hightailing it to the radio station to make the deadline for his midnight newscast.

“Really!” Vida exclaimed as we got outside. “How dare Milo behave in such a high-handed fashion?”

“He’s conducting a possible murder investigation,” I said loudly, my voice being swallowed up in the swirling snow and wind. “Damn it, this is bad! Did you bring your car?”

“Yes!” Vida shouted back at me as she held on to her hat. The feathers were blown backward, making it look as if she were about to take off. “Amy and Ted had to come early with Roger. If we’re careful, we’ll be fine. Go slow, Emma.”

“I hardly intend to drive like a maniac,” I replied, then remembered that I hadn’t asked anybody if they had a camera. Too late. Milo wouldn’t allow pictures during an interview.

“I’m still mad,” Vida declared loudly as she trudged through a path that had apparently been made by the medics and the deputies. “My car’s right over here at the edge of the parking lot.”