The Alpine Uproar (21 page)

Clive nodded. “I recognize you. I like your editorials. Usually.” He smiled slightly. “Sorry I can’t offer anything to drink. Any news on the O’Toole kid?”

“Not since yesterday,” I said. “This may sound odd for a journalist, but I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Clive hung his head. “I should’ve made that run to Monroe. I could’ve driven the O’Tooles’ truck.”

“Yours is …” I paused, trying to remember what someone had said about Clive’s vehicle.

“It needs new brakes.” Clive’s face hardened. “It’s still at De Muth’s shop. Not that it matters now.”

“Do you know Mike O’Toole?”

Clive nodded. “He’s a good kid, basically. It’s just that … well, he’s a kid. He wanted to be a mechanic.”

“Cal Vickers at the Texaco station can’t handle everything in town. Mickey Borg never works on cars and I’m told he even resents customers who don’t want to pump their own gas. And the dealerships are always more expensive. We could use a good mechanic around here,” I said without thinking.

Clive looked stricken. “Don’t remind me.”

I winced. “I didn’t … damn, I put my foot in it.”

Clive shrugged. “It’s true, though. Al De Muth was tops, at least when it came to trucks.”

“Look,” I said, wanting to make amends, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to …” I stopped. When I was with
The Oregonian
in Portland, there had been several occasions when I’d interviewed people who had been responsible or blamed themselves for someone else’s death. I hadn’t known any of those guilt-ridden subjects, nor did I ever see them again. But Portland was a big city and Alpine was a small town. Even if I hadn’t met Clive Berentsen, the situation felt personal. Maybe I’d grown softer or maybe I’d forgotten how to feel neutral. Whatever the reason, I had a need to comfort the dejected man on the other side of the bars.

To my surprise, Clive seemed to understand. “Hey—it happened. I’d had a few beers, I was drunk, Al was being an asshole, he took a swing at me, and I swung my pool cue at him. It’s that simple.” His face crumpled. “Then he died.”

A second or two, I thought, and one life ended as another was forever changed. I summoned up my nerve. “He swung first?”

Clive nodded. “He missed. I should’ve kept my mouth shut in the first place. I was out of line.”

“What did you say to Al?”

Taking a deep breath, Clive rubbed at his temples. “Oh—it was about Holly Gross. After Jica went outside, I went up to the bar and sat down next to Al. I wanted to ask him when my truck would be fixed because I needed it Monday. Before he could answer, Holly tapped me on the shoulder and said if I needed company, she could give it to me. I told her to … to go away. She did, but Al didn’t like the way I talked to her and he acted all pissed off. I don’t know why, they aren’t a couple, but then she offered to go with him. He told her some other time, maybe. I guess he didn’t feel so good and he went over to the pool table.”

Clive’s pale blue eyes wandered around the confines of his cell. Realizing that he was getting to the hard part of his story, I merely nodded. “What happened next?”

“I still wanted to know about my truck,” Clive went on. “I got off the bar stool to talk to Al. I guess he was still mad at me because he told me I could drive my truck over a cliff for all he cared. Then we got into it and that was … that.” He sank down on his bunk, holding his head.

“I suppose your attorney has talked to you about self-defense.”

He nodded once. “What difference does it make?”

“To you—or to Al?”

“To either of us. Al’s still dead and I killed him. End of story.”

“I met Jica,” I said. “She insists you’d never kill anyone, even in self-defense.”

“Accidents happen.” Clive looked up, his expression still disconsolate. “And Jica never bad-mouths other people.”

“That may be, but she’s convinced you’re not a violent person. Jica must be very fond of you.”

“I don’t know why.” Clive shook his head. “She’s something, isn’t she? Awesome lady.”

A sound behind me caught my attention. I turned to see Fred Engelman rolling his sleeves down over his hairy arms. “Sorry, I’ve got to get in my cell.”

I smiled at Fred. “The faucets work, I assume.”

“Oh, sure.” He shrugged. “It’s not that hard a job. The water pressure isn’t so good, though. Dodge should get that checked out. I’ll remind him.” He wagged a finger at Clive who was still sitting on his bunk, looking glum. “Say, buddy, that’s no way to entertain a lady. I ought to know, having lost the best wife in the world because I drank too much. Turn your back on booze and turn your front to the folks.”

Clive glanced in our direction. “Right, Fred.” His tone was weary.

Fred gave a thumbs-up sign. “I mean it. You’ve got to stop beating on yourself and change your ways. Take it from one who knows.” He nodded at both of us, ambled a few paces to the next cell, and closed the iron bars behind him.

“I should be going,” I said rather vaguely. Fred might not mind spending the weekend in jail, but I was feeling claustrophobic.

Clive looked at me again. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Sure.” I tried to smile. The usual clichés of parting company didn’t fit, so I simply walked away.

When I got to the front, Doe was on the phone and Milo was talking to Spike Canby. “They all look alike to me,” the tavern owner said, waving at the pool cue.

“You don’t count the damned things?” the sheriff demanded.

“No. Why should I? They’re not some fancy matched set. If one disappears, Julie picks up a replacement at a garage sale.” Spike glanced at me but didn’t say anything.

Milo set the cue against the wall. “This is going to Everett. You’re done here.” He turned his back on Spike.

“What the hell difference does it make?” Spike shouted. “You got your man. That pool cue could’ve come from anywhere. It’s not like we take inventory. You want me to count the balls, too?”

“Count ’em if you got ’em,” Milo muttered.

Spike opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He stomped away, pushing one of the swinging front doors so hard that it slammed against the inside wall. Doe put down the phone and turned to her boss. The usually stolid deputy looked stunned for a moment before she spoke. “Mike O’Toole died this afternoon at two-fifty-six.”

Milo leaned his head against the wall. “Jesus!”

I closed my eyes and crossed myself. We all seemed at a loss for words. The terrible silence was finally broken by the sheriff. “That really tears it,” he said in a hoarse voice before he slumped down into a chair at the counter.

I steeled myself and went to comfort Doe, who seemed frozen in place. “Who did you talk to?” I asked.

She didn’t seem to hear me. I put a hand on her arm. “Doe?”

At last she responded. “Jake O’Toole.” She cleared her throat. “He could hardly talk. All I know is … what I said.” She shuddered. “I didn’t even know Mike.”

I nodded. “I didn’t, either, but it’s a terrible shock when somebody so young dies.”

Milo crushed his cigarette in an empty coffee mug and sat up straight. “I’ve seen him around. God, the poor family. The O’Tooles are good folks. Life’s such a bunch of crap.”

“It can be,” I said quietly. “Was Jake calling from the hospital?”

Doe shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to stop by the store.” Ordinary routine seemed to help me deal with tragedies. “If you hear anything more, let me know.” I stared at Milo. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Right.” He was gazing off into space.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the Grocery Basket’s parking lot. A young man was on a ladder, taking down the
GET WELL, MIKE!
message on the reader board. I watched him from the car. He looked vaguely familiar. I wondered if he was Mike’s brother.

Getting out of the car, I went over to the reader board. “Kenny?” I ventured.

The young man looked down at me. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry for all of you. Is there anything I can do?”

With his soft features and beardless face, Kenny looked younger than twenty-two. He also seemed puzzled. “No. Thanks, though.”

I realized he didn’t know who I was. “If you can think of anything—anything at all—call me at home or at work. I’m Emma Lord from the
Advocate
.”

Kenny didn’t move for a few moments before he replied. “I know. I’ve seen you at church.” He looked at the letters in his hand. “You’re a writer. You can tell me what to put up here. I don’t know how to say … what should be said.”

“Your parents and your aunt and uncle will know,” I told him.

He shook his head. “I have to do it now.” He glanced at the reader board where only the last few letters of the original message remained in place. “I can’t leave this blank.”

“No,” I agreed, “you can’t.” The sky had started to cloud over. Only tired phrases staggered through my mind. “Have you got plenty of letters in that box?” I asked, stalling for time.

Kenny O’Toole glanced at the cardboard carton in front of him. “I think so. I’ve got a bunch of numbers, too. For when they put up sale prices.”

“Okay.” I tried to think of something that didn’t sound like utter pap. “How about this—‘Too young, too soon.’ Then the year of his birth and … this year.” Somehow, I couldn’t say
the year he died
. “Then just ‘Mike—RIP.’”

Kenny stared into the carton. “That’s good. Thanks.”

“Are you the only family member here?”

Kenny shook his head. “Aunt Betsy’s inside.”

I went into the store, which seemed eerily quiet. Small groups of shoppers—no more than three or four—stood together in the aisles or near the front end. Only two checkers
were at the stands. For the first time, I noticed that the lighting seemed to make every face I saw look pallid.

I scanned each aisle, but didn’t see Betsy anywhere, so I headed for the office. Just before I reached it, a slim middle-aged woman I recognized but whose name eluded me called out. “Ms. Lord?”

“Yes?”

She came toward me, her dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail. “I just heard about Mike,” she said. “It’s such a waste. He came into the tavern a few times. This has been a terrible week around here.”

I realized I was talking to Julie Canby, Spike’s wife and maker of onion rings. “It’s tragic. How are you holding up, Julie?”

“Ohh …” She frowned. Up close I noticed that her olive skin was virtually unlined. “I’m all right. I’ve weathered a few storms in my life. Spike’s still trying to get himself together. Nothing’s easy, is it?”

“No,” I responded. “I just saw Spike. Some college kids found a pool cue in the Sky by Burl Creek. He didn’t recognize it, though.”

Julie shook her head. “He wouldn’t. Spike’s not one for details. He’s all about being a good barkeep and treating the customers right.”

“Of course. Is it true you realized De Muth was dead?”

“By the time I came out of the kitchen, everybody acted as if they were in shock. Poor Al. He never seemed happy. A broken heart, maybe.” She sighed. “But he never talked about it to Spike. Most customers unload after a few beers. Not Al. He kept himself to himself, as they say. He didn’t seem to have any family around here. Being lonely is tough. Looking down at him, I couldn’t help but feel that he’d led a hard life. And yet I think he was basically a good man.”

“It’s a good thing you kept your wits about you,” I said. “It sounds like nobody else did.”

“I’m a nurse. I worked for a doctor in Snohomish for over twenty years until he retired. I changed careers when I married Spike. Frankly, I’m a better nurse than a cook.”

“You did fine by me with your onion rings,” I said.

Julie smiled. “Thanks. I heard you came in with Leo. Being in the kitchen means I almost never get to mingle with the customers.”

“No girlfriend for De Muth, I assume?”

Julie shook her head. “He never brought a woman with him. Not,” she added with a touch of bitterness, “that living with somebody can’t mean you’re still lonely.”

I assumed Julie referred to her first marriage to the man in Maltby. “Take care of yourself,” I said, inching toward the office door.

“You, too.” She moved on, her step brisk.

I knocked twice. Betsy called out, telling me to come in.

“Emma!” she said in surprise, getting up from her chair. “I thought it was Kenny.”

“He’s finishing the reader board,” I said. “Oh, Betsy, I’m so sorry about Mike. How are Buzzy and Laura?”

“Numb.” Betsy sat down again. Her eyes were red and she looked haggard. “As soon as I finish here, I’m going to join them and Jake at the rectory to talk to Father Den. After that, we’ll go to Driggers Funeral Home. The faster we can make arrangements, the better.”

I sat cautiously on a couple of soup cartons. The O’Toole office was as cramped as my own. “I’d hoped Mike was improving. What happened?”

Betsy took off her half-glasses and laid them on the desk. “Mike never got out of the ICU. For some reason, they couldn’t
control his pain no matter how many meds they gave him. He was in utter agony.” She stopped, pressing her palms against her eyes. After sniffing a couple of times she put her hands in her lap and shook her head. “I couldn’t stand watching him. None of us could. This afternoon he went into cardiac arrest. They tried to save him, but …” She made a helpless gesture. “I’m trying not to blame the doctors. In hindsight, I wonder why they didn’t send Mike into Seattle where there are more sophisticated facilities. They could’ve used one of those medevac copters.”

I had no answer for Betsy. “Maybe,” I said after a long pause, “it wouldn’t have made any difference. His injuries must’ve been more serious than we first heard.”

“They were, I guess.” Betsy grimaced. “I can’t even remember all of the bad things the doctors told us. I don’t want to remember.”

“I don’t blame you.” I slid off the soup cartons. “I’ll let you get back to work so you can meet up with the rest of your family. Truly, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. You were such a help to my brother when he was filling in while Father Den was on sabbatical.”

Betsy nodded halfheartedly. “Easy to do. Ben’s a great guy.”

“I know.” I went around the desk and put my hand on Betsy’s arm. “Please tell the family I’m thinking of them. Praying, too.”