The Alpine Uproar (37 page)

And you’re not?
I didn’t say it out loud, but it crossed my mind. I looked inside the showroom. Gus and Liz were still in the cubicle. “So we sit here for how long?”

“As long as it takes.” The sheriff tossed his cigarette out the window, an unlawful act in SkyCo. At least there was no danger of starting a forest fire in the middle of a drenching rain.

“Isn’t it too soon for Liz to have her inheritance? How’s she paying for the car?”

Milo shrugged. “That’s up to her and Gus. If he figures she’s good for it down the line, something can be worked out.” He reached inside his jacket. “Want a Cert?”

“Why not?” I said, taking a mint from the roll. “I may
starve to death at this rate. Aren’t you concerned about the Andersons? They were really going at it.”

He shook his head. “Not unless they kill each other.”

“What about Vida?”

The sheriff sighed. “Sounds like Roger’s got himself into a real jam this time. I figure his grandma is trying to sort things out.”

“How? Bribing you or one of your deputies?”

Milo didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead where Gus and Liz were still wheeling and dealing in the office.

“If,” I said after a long pause, “Vida’s giving aid and comfort to the grandson, why doesn’t Amy know where her mother is?”

“Maybe Amy doesn’t know where Roger is,” Milo said and gestured toward the dealership. “Here they come. Let’s hope Liz doesn’t want to take Gus on a joyride.”

I watched as the two people inside exchanged a few words and shook hands. Liz pulled the slicker’s hood over her head before going outside. Without so much as a glance in our direction, she walked briskly to a VW Beetle in the customer parking area.

“Must’ve borrowed that,” Milo murmured. “I think it belongs to that jerk who runs the Alpine Falls Motel.” He reached for the door handle. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

“Hey!” I shouted. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not. This is business.”

I hit the power lock button on the driver’s side. The sheriff yanked at the handle a couple of times, but knew he couldn’t open the door on his side. “Goddamnit, Emma, I’m not fooling around. Open this sucker before I blow my stack.”

“Go ahead. I didn’t drive over here to sit around and watch puddles form in Mayor Baugh’s crumbling streets. This little excursion has made me even crankier than when I started out.
Why can’t I be on hand when you take down Gus’s formal statement? It’s a public document and if I need to, I’ll put it in this week’s edition. Or, as usual, have you forgotten about our Tuesday deadline?”

“You can’t come because …” Milo had started off shouting, but paused and lowered his voice to a rumble. “Because I’ve got something else to do in there.”

“What? Take a whiz on that Celica?”

The sheriff leaned toward me, his hazel eyes narrowed in a glower that would intimidate the most hardened criminal. For a moment, I thought he was going to use strong-arm tactics to make me unlock the doors. I froze in place and held my breath.

“Screw it.” He sighed wearily and sat up. “Go ahead. I don’t give a rat’s ass anymore.”

I hit the button again. We got out of the car and without another word walked into Swanson Toyota.

“It’s The Man,” Gus Swanson said with a wide, if not genuine, grin. “And he’s got a pretty girl with him. Is this the daughter who’s getting married?” He laughed heartily at his own humor.

Milo looked down at me. “No. This is my mother. They let her out of the asylum for the evening. Let’s do it, Gus. Have you finished the revised statement?”

Gus shot me a puzzled glance. No doubt he was wondering why the
Advocate’s
editor was tagging along. “I thought,” Gus said to Milo, “you had to witness it.”

The sheriff shrugged. “I trust you. You stepped up to the plate and admitted the first statement wasn’t the whole truth. I understand why you tried to keep a low profile. Pleasing a woman,” he went on as if I weren’t standing two feet away, “is tough enough, but having to put up with two of them is a real pain in the ass. The big thing is you came forward. If you
hadn’t, and we found out later that you left out crucial information, you could be charged with obstruction of justice.”

Gus nodded. “The statement’s in my office. So’s the other paperwork. It’s all set. I’ll sign mine, you sign yours.” He led the way. I trailed the sheriff and wondered what the two men were talking about. Maybe the Demerol and methocarbamol had addled my wits. After we were seated, Gus turned to me. “Will this be in the paper?”

“That depends,” I replied, pretending I knew what was happening.

Gus looked worried. “Does it have to?”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.” I gave Milo a sideways glance. “We’re up against deadline and the sheriff is always so considerate when it comes to the
Advocate
.”

Gus picked up a pen and signed the form on his desk. “Is that okay?” he asked handing the statement to the sheriff.

Milo read what looked like a half-dozen lines of handwritten information. “Sounds good.” He folded the sheet of paper and tucked it inside his jacket. “My turn,” he said to Gus.

“Right.” The car dealer handed a folder to Milo. “Everything’s been worked out. This is one terrific car. Grace Grundle drove her Camry less than ten thousand miles in the past six years.”

Milo warily eyed Gus. “Are you sure you got out all the cat hair and dander? Grace took those damned animals for a drive around town every Sunday. We’re talking serious allergies here for one of the drivers.”

“You bet. It’s good to go,” Gus assured the sheriff. “When will your daughter pick it up?”

“Probably over the weekend.” Milo dashed off his name and handed the folder to Gus. “Tricia’s bringing her up here, then they’ll drive home separately.”

“Sounds great,” Gus said, the phony grin back in place. “You’re a stand-up dad. I hope your little girl appreciates you.”

“Right.” Milo stood up. “Thanks again, Gus. See you.” The sheriff loped out of the cubicle. I followed him outside.

“What was that all about?” I asked before we reached our cars.

“My wedding present to Tanya and Buster or whatever his name is,” the sheriff replied. “They need a car, so I bought a secondhand one. It’s cheaper up here than in the Seattle or Bellevue area. You want to get some dinner?”

“No,” I said, brushing raindrops off my face. “I want to know how Gus amended his statement about the ICT brawl.”

Milo didn’t answer right away. He squinted through the rain and adjusted his hat. “Gus neglected to mention not what he saw but what he didn’t see. He’s absolutely certain that Clive swung the pool cue at De Muth but missed. Now what will I do if I arrested the wrong guy?”

I hesitated. “Find the right one?”

The sheriff grimaced. “How?” He shook his head, walked over to the Grand Cherokee, and left me standing in the rain.

A
T LEAST
I
HAD ENOUGH SENSE TO GET OUT OF THE RAIN
. Worried, confused, angry, and in pain, I sat in the Honda pondering my options. Inside the dealership Gus Swanson was talking to one of his employees, Brant Hutchins, son of Scooter and Lois Dewey Hutchins as well as Doc Dewey’s nephew. It was a typical example of Alpine’s verdant family tree. As I watched them with cursory interest, it suddenly dawned on me that Brant had worked at Cal Vickers’s gas station for a while as a mechanic.

Following my not-always-infallible instincts, I got out of the car and went back into the dealership. Gus looked at me with a smile.

“Don’t tell me you want to trade in that Honda for a Toyota,” he said. “It’s a smart move, though.”

“I know they’re both good cars,” I said, “but that’s not why I came back.” I turned to Brant. “May I talk to you for a few minutes?”

Brant looked surprised. He also didn’t seem to know who I was. “Okay. But why? Is it about your car?”

“No.” I smiled apologetically at Gus. “I’ve interrupted. Go ahead, finish whatever you’re doing and I’ll browse.”

Gus had stopped smiling. Maybe after a long day on the floor the false cheer began to wear thin as seven o’clock closing time approached. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “This fine lad has agreed to try his hand as a salesman.” Gus nudged the younger man. “Let’s see if you can coax Ms. Lord into a Prius. She’s a big booster with her outstanding environment editorials. Someone’s pulling up. I’ll handle it.”

I followed Brant into the cubicle, letting him practice the make-yourself-comfortable ritual. He seemed uneasy about settling into Gus’s chair, but managed eye contact with me. “How can I help you, Ms. Lord?” he asked after I’d turned down his offer of coffee or springwater.

I offered him a friendly smile. “I’m not here to buy a car, so relax. You started working for Gus as a mechanic, right?”

Brant nodded. “After I graduated from high school, I got some experience at Cal Vickers’s gas station, but he doesn’t take on complicated jobs. He recommended me to Gus. Then last summer, I screwed up my right arm in a river-rafting accident.” His fair skin flushed slightly. “It was a dumb stunt, kind of … well, showing off.”

I recalled the brief story we’d run in the paper. “You recovered?”

“Mostly,” Brant said ruefully. “But after Uncle Gerry operated, he told me my hard-wrenching days were over. If I went on working as a mechanic I’d seriously screw up my arm. That’s why I’m training as a salesman.” He made a face. “I love cars, but I’m not into the selling part. It’s not me.”

By chance, Brant had touched upon the topic I wanted to discuss. “Did you go through the college program or did someone teach you?”

“Al De Muth took me on.” He paused, looking at his hands. I wondered if he wished they were smeared with grease. “He did it for free. Al was a really cool teacher. Honest, too.” Brant glanced out into the showroom, probably checking to see if Gus was within hearing range. From where I sat, the owner was out of sight, probably cozying up to whomever had just come in. Brant lowered his voice anyway. “Al was always up-front with people. He’d tell them the truth, good or bad. That’s one reason why I don’t want to sell cars. It’s like you have to … not
lie
exactly, but always talk and act positive. It doesn’t seem right to … not exactly cheat people, but you aren’t straightforward with them. Like Al would’ve said, in the long run honesty pays bigger dividends, not just for the customer but for yourself.” Brant made a face. “Sorry to go on and on like this. Gus isn’t a crook or anything even close, but it’s a relief not to have to be giving you a lot of hoo-ha to make a sale.”

“I understand,” I said. “Al sounds as if he had integrity.”

“Oh, for sure.” Brant’s tone was emphatic. “I was totally bummed when he got killed. It’s weird. Clive isn’t a mean kind of guy.”

“Was Al feisty?”

Brant thought for a moment. “Not really. He had a temper, but you had to get to know him. He was kind of standoffish, but he liked teaching young guys like me. Mentoring, isn’t that what they call it?”

I nodded. “Didn’t Al mentor Mike O’Toole?”

“Yes.” Brant’s unlined, almost beardless face suddenly looked older. “Poor Mike! Omigod—what’s to say about the bad stuff around here lately?” Again he paused, shaking his head. “Mike was two years behind me in high school. He was okay, though sometimes he pissed people off. Dumb stuff, like getting other kids to jump off the high diving board at the pool
or race mountain bikes on the ice. He’d do it first and then dare the other kids to try it. Talk about showing off—that was Mike. He wasn’t a bad guy, he just made some bad choices. When you’re young you’ve got to prove stuff to yourself. Nobody can tell you what’s good or bad. I ought to know.” Brant looked at his hands again.

“Taking chances,” I remarked. “Often you learn the hard way.”

“Oh, man,” Brant said, shaking his head, “that’s the truth. Look at poor Mike. He won’t have another chance to figure it all out.”

“No,” I said quietly, “he won’t.” I waited for Brant to speak, but he seemed to be lost in some kind of dream. Or nightmare. I changed the subject. “Getting back to Al, I wonder if being hard to know irked some people.” Noting Brant’s curious expression, I tried to clarify what I meant. “You’re a native. You know how Alpiners take things more personally than big-city people. A newcomer who keeps to himself might cause hard feelings.”

Brant still didn’t seem to understand what I meant. “You mean they’d give him a bad time somehow?”

“Kind of. I’m thinking more about grudges and resentment.”

“Wow,” Brant said softly. “That’s harsh. Like maybe there was a feud between him and Clive Berentsen?”

I shrugged. “No. In fact,” I went on, lowering my voice, “your boss insists Clive never made contact with the pool cue.”

Brant looked shocked. “Gus?” He stood up halfway out of the chair and searched the showroom again. “Gosh!” he exclaimed softly, sitting down again. “I thought he didn’t see anything. He worked late that night so he stopped by the ICT to have a beer and get a sandwich.”

The sanitized version
, I thought. Maybe Gus really wanted to patch up things with his wife. Or was he trying to keep a low profile for Delphine’s sake? “That’s why Dodge came here,” I explained. “Gus wanted to set the record straight.”

Brant frowned. “I don’t get it. Does that mean it was just an accident and not Clive’s fault?”

I didn’t respond immediately because I wasn’t sure what it meant. “The only certainty is that Al died from a blow to the head,” I finally said.

“Wow.” Brant still seemed to be digesting my words. “This is all sort of … what’s the word they use nowadays? Surreal?”

I kept from cringing at the overworked and often inapt adjective. “Some might say so.” With a smile, I stood up. “Thanks, Brant. I appreciate your time. If,” I went on as he came around the side of the desk to join me, “you really don’t want to be a salesman, but you know what makes a good mechanic, why don’t you think about teaching?”

The young man stared at me. “Teaching? Wouldn’t I have to go to college for years and years like Uncle Gerry did to be a doctor?”

“Not with vocational programs,” I said. “Experience is key. You admired Al’s teaching skills, so you know what makes a good teacher.”