The Alpine Uproar (12 page)

I shook my head. “I stopped fussing about that a long time ago. Your record’s unblemished. In fact, I was thinking about Sunny. She seems kind of odd.”

Leo, who had a partial view of the area leading into the bar, motioned for me to be quiet. A moment later, Sunny appeared with our beers, which she placed very carefully in front of us.

“Mandy Gustavson will be waiting on you,” Sunny informed us, “unless you know what you’d like to order now.”

“Not quite,” I said. “By the way, did your son Davin know Mike O’Toole very well?”

Sunny grimaced. “Not exactly. Mike’s a bit older.”

I knew that. Davin and Roger were the same age and had always been pals—for better or for worse. Davin had been one of our carriers for several years, and was about to finish getting his AA degree from the community college. Roger was still trying to decide on a major, but the curriculum didn’t offer any classes in “Loafing” or “Sloth.”

I smiled at Sunny. “Kenny’s the younger one, right?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He was in the same high school class with Davin. I don’t know Mike very well. I think he liked to tinker with cars, but I didn’t realize he was a truck driver.”

“I’m not sure that was his regular job,” I admitted. “It sounds as if he was doing his dad a favor for the produce section.”

Sunny’s face tightened. “I’m not sure Mike had a regular job. I mean … I don’t know.” She ducked her head and looked down the aisle between the booths. “I should check on Dr. and Mrs. Starr. Excuse me.”

“You’re right,” Leo said. “Sunny’s not so sunny. I wonder why.”

I shook my head. “The only thing I can think of is that Mike O’Toole may have more problems than bad driving. Vida intended to ask Roger about him this evening. I don’t think her grandson’s reliable.”

Leo laughed. “That kid’s a train wreck. I can’t believe he’s kept out of serious trouble over the years.”

“Lucky,” I murmured. “Too lazy to get into real trouble.”

“Maybe.” Leo picked up the menu. “London broil. And you?”

“The same,” I said. “We’re going Dutch. We can split the bill.”

“Let me treat you,” he offered. “I still feel guilty about taking off so much time this summer to recover from getting shot. I don’t know how you got through it without killing Ed Bronsky.”

“You were gone only a couple of weeks,” I said. “I know that when you came back, you were still hurting.”

Leo looked rueful. “True. But work is all I have.”

I started to contradict him, but realized I’d be uttering clichés. Instead, I was candid. “Me, too. Maybe it’s enough.”

Leo’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe.”

I
T WAS ALMOST DARK BY THE TIME WE LEFT FOR THE
I
CICLE
Creek Tavern a little after six-thirty. Fog was settling in over the mountains, creeping its way through the evergreens on the slopes of Baldy and Tonga Ridge. We’d taken our own cars. I followed Leo across the railroad tracks and turned left by Icicle Creek Gas ’n Go. An older man was pumping gas into his Volkswagen Bug. Glancing inside, I could see Mickey Borg in the minimart, waiting on a couple of teenagers.

There were a half-dozen vehicles parked in the tavern’s gravel lot—one van, one pickup, a couple of beaters, an old Lincoln Continental, a dented SUV, and a Jeep. None of them looked as if they’d fetch a decent price on a used-car lot. I recognized only two—Bert Anderson’s rusty van and the Canbys’ aging Hyundai.

“Feeling out of place?” Leo asked as I met him by the front door.

“Well … I’m not a snob. I hope not, anyway,” I said, “but I do feel like I’m slumming. I haven’t been here in ages.”

“Unfortunately,” Leo said, opening the door for me, “I have. Once in a while I need to chat up Spike and Mickey, not to mention an occasional patron who might or might not buy an ad in the paper.”

The interior was dim, dreary, and relatively quiet. Two couples I didn’t recognize sat at tables. Four men, including Bert Anderson from the chop shop, were seated at the bar. So was Holly Gross, attempting to make conversation with a chunky bald man whose name I couldn’t recall but who I knew worked for Blue Sky Dairy. Spike Canby was behind the bar, pouring a mug of beer from a tap.

“Look who’s here!” he called. “It’s the press!”

Everybody at the bar except the bald man turned to stare. The two couples at the tables glanced up but quickly turned away, apparently unimpressed. Norene Anderson came into view, carrying two plates of burgers and fries. “Hi,” she said without enthusiasm before delivering the food to the nearest of the two couples.

“I figure the only way Bert can get a meal is to have his wife serve him here at the tavern,” Leo murmured with a sidelong glance at Norene’s husband.

My eyes wandered to the bar. Bert’s burly body was dressed
in grimy overalls. He was staring up at the ceiling, where faded banners from various beer companies dangled from the rafters. We sat close to the bar where we could see part of the pool table area and one of the pull-tab machines on the wall by the restrooms. Each of the ten tables could seat four comfortably, or maybe not so comfortably, considering that some of the chairs looked rickety. None of the furniture matched. I suspected that it had been acquired on the cheap from thrift stores and garage sales. Whatever the source, the chairs were an improvement. A previous owner had provided wooden crates after he got tired of replacing chairs that had been demolished in the wake of earlier brawls. Spike had also put new glass in the mirror behind the bar. The last time I’d seen the original, it was cracked in several places, giving a spidery effect that was, in a bizarre way, an interesting focal point. The dozen bar stools needed reupholstering, the bare wood floor was badly marred, but the place looked relatively clean.

I was sitting fairly close to Holly Gross, the scrawny blonde who lived on welfare to support her three children in their mobile home at the trailer park. The bald guy didn’t seem interested in spending his money on Holly. He put a ten-dollar bill on the counter and left.

Norene approached us, sticking a pencil into the wild mass of auburn ringlets that hung to her shoulders and hid her eyebrows. “Mr. Walsh,” she said in a voice that might have been deferential. “Ms. Lord?”

I nodded. “I haven’t been here for a long time. Leo and I thought we should show our support for the tavern after what you all went through last Saturday.”

Norene’s doughy face puckered. “Awful. Who could’ve expected such a thing to happen here?”

I refrained from reminding Norene that De Muth’s death
hadn’t been a first for the ICT. In fairness, the previous fatality had occurred under different ownership. “It sounds as if it was one of those arguments that get out of hand,” I said.

Norene nodded. “Silly, really.” She leaned closer. “Holly’s not worth fighting over.”

I registered surprise. “That’s what it was about?”

“As far as I can tell.” Norene shot a quick look at Holly, who had just been served another beer. “It’s bad for business. Look how quiet it is now.” Apparently, she caught Spike’s eye and straightened up. “What’ll you have?”

We both ordered a local microbrew. “You should try the onion rings,” Norene urged. “Julie’s got a real knack for making them.”

“Sure,” Leo said. “Sounds good.”

Norene smiled. Her shiny crimson lip gloss had been applied with a haphazard hand. “You’ll love them. Be right back.”

Holly picked up her beer and came over to our table. “Is Norene bad-mouthing me again?”

Leo chuckled. “Don’t you girls like to bad-mouth each other? It’s a good thing we guys don’t pay attention.”

Without being asked, Holly pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re one of the good guys, Leo. Don’t let Norene tell you that the tavern has gone downhill since the fight. The place was practically full right after work. It always is between five and six-thirty. This is just a … a lull.” She edged closer to Leo. “How come you don’t hang out here much? You’re always fun.”

Leo nodded at me. “The slave driver here keeps my nose to the grindstone. I have to hustle twenty-four seven.”

Holly studied him with pewter-gray eyes and laughed. “I do some hustling, too. Keeps me on my toes. Sort of.” She actually simpered.

“Did you see the fight?” Leo asked.

Holly took a big swallow of beer. “You mean Fred and Mickey?”

“They fought?” I said.

Holly shook her head. “They argued, but I thought they were going to go at it. Don’t get me wrong—Fred didn’t drink that night, except for some club soda. Mickey—Janie’s new husband—didn’t feel good. He wanted to go home, but Janie said it was her birthday and she was going to stay. Fred would take care of her. Mickey got mad. I don’t think he liked Fred showing up for his ex’s party.”

Leo frowned. “That’s what started the fight? How did Clive and Alvin De Muth get involved?”

Holly waved a hand in a careless gesture. “That was something else. Al and I were … well, making some plans for later on. Then all hell broke loose by the pool table. Maybe Clive was pissed off because his girlfriend walked out on him. Miss Hoity-Toity, I call her. Not Clive’s type at all.” Holly fiddled with one of her false eyelashes. “Clive’s real people. His girlfriend’s from another planet. Maybe she went off with Averill Fairbanks to look for space aliens.”

“Does Averill come here often?” I asked.

“He’s kind of a regular, but he can nurse a schooner forever.” Holly paused as Norene brought our beers. “Hey, Norene, watch your mouth. I’m a good customer, remember?”

“How can I forget?” Norene snapped. “Who’s watching your kids? Or did you leave them in British Columbia? What do you do up there besides knock down Canadian brews with their higher alcohol count?”

“What I do is none of your beeswax. I like Canada. I like Canadians. So what?” Holly deliberately turned her back on Norene. “Old hag,” she muttered. “Always on my case. She’s just jealous.”

I feigned innocence. “Of …?”

Holly looked at me with those cold gray eyes. “What do you think? Norene’s a drag. Bert likes to cut loose and party. It’s nice doing business with him—in more than one way.” Holly simpered and winked. “When I got here, Norene was telling Spike she might have the flu. Last weekend it was a migraine on Friday and bee stings on Saturday. Before that, it was her sinuses.” Seeing Leo light a cigarette, Holly reached out a skinny hand. “Mind if I bum one off you?”

“Go ahead.” Leo slid the pack across the table. “Take two.”

“Thanks.” She put a cigarette between her fuchsia lips and leaned forward, exposing a lot of pale skin but not much cleavage. “Light?”

Leo obliged with a match. “You owe me, babe,” he said. “Tell us what happened with Clive and Alvin.”

Holly took a deep drag and exhaled. “Oh, God, do I have to? I already talked to that pain-in-the-ass Sam Heppner. Dodge, too.” She shot me a hostile glance. “What’s wrong with you? The sheriff needs to get laid. Or did Delphine Corson sub for you this week?”

I stared back at her before turning to Leo. “I’ll have one of those cigarettes, Leo. It’s getting chilly in here.”

With his eyes fixed on Holly, Leo shoved the pack and the matches in my direction. “Stay focused, Holly. What started the fight?”

To my surprise, Holly giggled. “Me.” She giggled again, puffed on her cigarette, and drank more beer. “Men!” She shook her head, the limp blond strands of hair slithering over her narrow shoulders like lazy snakes. “Isn’t that what you guys usually fight about?”

“I’m not a fighter,” Leo said calmly.

Holly nodded. “I know. I can tell you’re a lover. That’s why
you’re okay with me.” She turned around to face the bar. “Hey, Spike, put on some music. I want to dance.”

Spike, who’d been talking to a couple of new arrivals, made a helpless gesture. “Can’t. The sound system’s still busted. It’ll be fixed tomorrow for the weekend customers. Sorry.”

Norene reappeared, carrying a plate of onion rings. “Here you go,” she said. “Nice and hot. Julie’s specialty. Enjoy.” Without looking at Holly, she stomped away to greet Jack Blackwell and Patti Marsh, who’d just come through the door.

“Oh, shit!” Holly exclaimed. “Here comes Patti-Cakes, the biggest two-faced bitch in the county! I’m outta here!” Cigarette clamped between her lips, she yanked a couple of onion rings off the top, snatched up her beer, spilled a few drops on the table, and hurried away past the pool table, where she disappeared from view.

“Competition?” I murmured, taking a Kleenex out of my purse and wiping up the spilled beer.

“Sour grapes,” Leo said, retrieving the spare cigarette Holly had left on the table. “Patti has a regular sugar daddy in Jack Blackwell. Besides, she still gets some money from her daughter, doesn’t she?”

Norene was all smiles as she seated Jack and Patti not far from the entrance. “Maybe,” I replied, “though Dani’s Hollywood career never really took off. I think she’s been in a couple of TV movies and at least one series that got canceled a few years ago.”

Leo looked thoughtful. “The Dani Marsh drama was before my time. Did Dani ever come back to Alpine after her ex was murdered?”

“Not that I know of,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was a quarter after seven. “Patti’s visited her a few times in LA. Dani
had too many gruesome memories of Alpine, especially,” I added, gazing at the bar, “this place.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother her mother,” Leo noted, watching Patti laugh heartily at something Jack had said to Norene.

“Nothing bothers Patti,” I said. “She has a very thick skin and a very thin conscience. Patti doesn’t live in the past, only for the moment.”

“We aren’t getting very far grilling witnesses,” Leo pointed out before tasting an onion ring. “Hmm. Not bad. Have one.”

I was pleasantly surprised. “Maybe Julie’s got a knack for deep-fried food. Maybe we should have eaten here after all. And maybe the onions will kill my beer breath before I get to Janet Driggers’s house.”

Leo nodded discreetly in the direction of the bar. “Want to talk to Bert Anderson? He’s coming this way.”

“Hey, Leo,” Bert said in a deep, rough voice. “How’re you doing?”

“Got a minute?” Leo asked.

Bert grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “Not much more than that. I’m headed for the can. What is it?” He glanced at me. “You’re the newspaper lady, right?”