Alpine Gamble (12 page)

Jack sighed. “Crazy Eights is always wandering around people's yards, Ms. Grundle. You know that. He's nuts. He's also—usually—harmless.”

Grace pursed her thin lips. “Not this time. His intentions were, at best, suspect. At worst, criminal.” She took a deep breath, blushed, and focused her faded blue eyes on the smooth countertop. “When I saw him just fifteen minutes ago, he was … in the altogether.”

Jack had to turn away to keep Grace Grundle from seeing his grin. Bill Blatt ducked under the counter. Even Blake Fannucci looked amused.

“Well now,” Jack finally said in a semigulp. “That sounds … serious. Do you have any idea where Mr. Neffel went?”

Grace lifted her head. “I do not. Do you think I'd stand there at my kitchen window and watch him parade around in such a state? I waited until I thought he was gone and then drove straight down here. I hardly wanted to discuss such a thing over the phone.”

The phone, in fact, had just rung. Apparently, Toni Andreas had picked it up. Before Jack could respond to Grace Grundle, it rang again, a different, buzzing sound. Apparently, this was the signal for the deputies to answer. Bill grabbed the receiver, Ustened, and turned pale.

“Oh, shoot!” he exclaimed after a long pause. “That's … awful!” He listened some more. “Sure, okay, right. Thanks, Sheriff.” Bill hung up, then turned to Blake Fannucci. “Sir, I'm very sorry. That was Sheriff Dodge. Stan Levine is dead. The bullet wound was fatal. He was shot through the head and died instantly.”

Blake Fannucci didn't collapse this time. Instead he stared blankly at Bill for a long moment, then slowly, painfully, turned around and walked back into Milo
Dodge's office. He quietly closed the door behind him. I guessed that he was searching for the Scotch.

I didn't blame him.

GRACE GRUNDLE
HAD never heard of Stan Levine. She was shocked that a man had been killed, but pointed out that at least he wasn't a local. Did the sheriff's deputies intend to investigate Crazy Eights Neffel's lewd behavior or not?

Jack Mullins hastily assured Grace that they would act as soon as they could. For now, perhaps she'd like to fill out a complaint form? Grace would, as long as she didn't have to write anything that might be, as she quaintly put it,
suggestive.
Before setting pen to paper, she reminded Bill Blatt to stand up straight.

“How many times must I chide you about your posture, Billy?” Grace huffed.

Dutifully, Bill Blatt squared his shoulders as he checked with the Chelan County sheriff's office. He was informed that the helicopter had been requested by Sheriff Dodge to pick up the body, Milo, and Dustin Fong. They would land in Old Mill Park, which was about the only place in Alpine that could accommodate a helicopter.

I called Vida at once. Luckily, she hadn't left the office yet. After expressing appropriate, if objective, surprise, she agreed to meet me at the park.

Five minutes later I pulled the Jag into a slot next to Vida's big Buick. She was standing by her car, trying to tame a blue vinyl sou'wester.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, keeping her camera tucked under one arm. “Who do you suppose was idiotic enough to shoot that poor man?”

“Your call,” I replied dryly. “You know the local population better than I do.”

Vida gazed at me from behind rain-spattered glasses. “I'm beginning to wish I didn't. Killing a man over a resort project is utterly wanton. Why can't people use
senseV

I had no answer for Vida. We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the empty playground gear, the forlorn picnic tables, and the life-sized statue of Carl Clemans. Alpine's founder had been a handsome man, and the Everett sculptor who had been commissioned to cast the work had also captured his subject's innate dignity and kindness. At the moment, Clemans seemed a little melancholy.

While we waited, I told Vida about Blake Fannucci's reaction and that Leonard HoUenberg—maybe—had heard the shot on the trail. I also mentioned Grace Grundle's complaint.

Vida scoffed. “Grace's eyes are going. Macular, nothing to be done, according to my niece, Marje.” Marje Blatt, who worked as Doctors Dewey and Flake's receptionist, was a primary source for Vida. If Marje knew anything about patient confidentiality, she also knew that informing her aunt didn't count as an ethical violation. Nobody could keep a secret from Vida. It was a good thing the CIA wasn't headquartered in Alpine. Or maybe it wasn't so good. Vida might be able to give them some sensible advice.

“Crazy Eights was probably wearing long underwear,” Vida said, making a face into the rain. “He often does after the weather warms up in mid-May.”

Again we stopped talking. I didn't want to ask Vida any more questions about Crazy Eights Neffel's underwear.
We were both scanning the gray skies for the helicopter when the honk of a horn caught our attention.

Cal Vickers had stopped his tow truck next to the Jag and the Buick. The older model car that dangled from a heavy hook seemed familiar. No doubt I'd seen it around town. I put it out of my mind as Cal rolled down his window.

“What's this? A press conference?” Cal's usual jocular manner was back in place.

“In a way,” Vida replied evasively.

At that moment I heard the noisy whirr of approaching rotors. Then the copter itself appeared, easing in over the treetops.

“Holy Oley,” Cal cried. “What's going on?”

Keeping one eye on the descending copter, I moved closer to Cal's truck. There was no point in secrecy now. The copter's arrival would bring half of Alpine scurrying to Old Mill Park.

“Stan Levine's been shot to death,” I said in a hushed voice.

Cal's broad face grew stunned. Then, to my horror, he broke into a grin. “You don't say? Who gets the medal?”

There was no suitable reply for Cal. I gave a little shake of my head before turning away to watch the helicopter land neatly on the tennis courts. As I rejoined Vida I heard Cal drive off.

“Cal's gloating,” I muttered.

“As will much of Alpine,” Vida retorted. She sounded glum.

Milo got out of the copter first. He was wet, weary, and, judging from the look on his face, angry. “Where's the goddamned ambulance?” he shouted, as if I ought to know.

His manner irked me. “Go get Cal. Maybe you can use his tow truck to haul the body.”

“Don't be a smartass, Emma,” Milo warned. He was now standing in front of me, pulling off his gloves. “I told Bill to have the ambulance meet us. Are he and Jack asleep on their feet?”

The rhetorical question still hung on the air as the ambulance came down Alpine Way. There was no siren and the lights were off. Milo might be in a hurry, but Stan Levine wasn't.

Predictably, the helicopter's arrival was beginning to draw a crowd. Vida resettled her sou'wester and started taking pictures. When the ambulance backed into a parking place next to the tennis courts, she came in closer. A moment later a covered gurney was lowered from the copter.

“Ugh,” I groaned. Involuntarily, I turned to Milo, but he had moved off to oversee the transport of Stan Lev-ine's body. Mustering my composure, I collared Dustin Fong. Judging from his stricken expression, this was his first encounter with violent death.

“Can you give me some details?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.

Dustin, who was about the same age as Bill Blatt, was close to six feet tall, very slim, with sharp cheekbones and straight black hair that came to a widow's peak. His dark eyes were touchingly sad, especially when he tried to be businesslike.

“The victim, Mr. Levine, was shot at close range through the head. The right eye, to be exact.” Dustin paused, swallowing hard. I tried to hide my own dismay. “He's been dead somewhere between two and four hours. He probably died instantly, but the autopsy will tell us more.”

It was now 1:35. If Stan hadn't left the ski lodge until close to nine-thirty, he couldn't have arrived at the hot springs much before ten-thirty. That meant he could have been killed as soon as he got there. Was his killer
waiting for him? Had Stan hiked up the trail with his assailant? Or had he been followed?

“Where's Leonard Hollenberg?” I asked.

Dustin's gaze was fixed on the ambulance, whose rear doors were being closed. Milo was nowhere in sight. I assumed he'd gotten into the ambulance.

“Mr. Hollenberg?” Dustin echoed, wrenching himself back to my question. “We think he's still at the parking area. I'm going to get a car and drive back up there with one of the other deputies. We had to leave our other vehicle because Sheriff Dodge and I came out in the helicopter.”

“I can save the county some mileage,” I said. “I'll drive you and the other deputy. I'd like to talk to Leonard.”

The new hire obviously didn't know the protocol with the local press. Having been raised in the city, he was another outsider who must have found small-town ways very different.

“I guess so,” Dustin finally said in a diffident manner. “Does Sheriff Dodge usually let you … participate?” He winced at his own choice of words.

“We call it news-gathering.” I gave Dustin a friendly smile. “I won't interfere. But I should talk to Leonard Hollenberg while his recollections are still fresh.”

Fifteen minutes later I was driving Dustin Fong and Bill Blatt up Highway 2. They were only a few years older than Adam, and I felt as if I were carpooling. We would have gotten away sooner, but Vida had corralled her nephew, apparently to remind him where his duty lay when it came to revealing information.

The rain had dwindled to a drizzle by the time we parked under the power lines off the main highway. Leonard Hollenberg was sitting inside his aged pickup, half asleep. It took him a few moments to orient himself. Indeed, he stared at Dustin Fong in puzzlement.

“What … ? Oh! You're the Chinaman! I forgot, we keep getting integrated around here. Hell's bells, what time is it?” He fumbled inside his plaid jacket and pulled out a big railroad watch on a long chain. “Jesus! Two o'clock! I been here since before noon!”

“Yes, sir,” Dustin Fong said politely. “We'd like you to come back to the sheriff's office and give a statement.”

Leonard Hollenberg frowned. “What for? I already told Dodge what happened. I want to go home and have some lunch.”

“It won't take long,” Bill Blatt soothed. “We have to get everything in writing.”

Leonard cursed under his breath. Then he glanced at me, realized that he had an image to preserve, and grinned in a cockeyed manner. “What're you doing here, Edna? Getting a big scoop?”

“Emma,” I murmured, wondering if Leonard also confused the names of other voters. “Just a couple of questions, Leonard. Where were you when you heard the shot?”

Leonard's frown puckered his forehead all the way to the top of his bald skull. “You know that big cedar that got hit by lightning at about the one-point-eight mark?” I didn't remember the cedar. Leonard nodded sympathetically. “That's okay, Edna. It's just before the trail starts to go downhill instead of up. Hell, I thought the noise
was
lightning, maybe hitting the power lines. On the other hand, I know a shot when I hear it. I was pretty careful the rest of the way, just in case there was somebody practice-shooting. Wouldn't be the first time that people used the parking area to plug a few empty beer cans.”

For a man in a hurry, Leonard was taking his time. But of course he loved an audience. “Still, the noise'd seemed closer. But the rain and the wind can trick you.
So I finally got to the hot springs, and there he was. I thought he'd fallen and hurt himself. 'Stan,' I says, 'what's wrong? You had an accident?' Then I got right next to him, and God Almighty, he's got this hole in his head, right through his damned eye! It's a wonder I didn't have a heart attack!”

The two deputies and I paused respectfully. Leonard didn't need any prodding: “So there I was with this stiff—excuse me, I knew the poor guy, after all—and the rain had started to come down in buckets. Levine was beyond help, so I headed back down the trail to call Dodge on my CB.” Leaning on the steering wheel, Leonard let out an enormous sigh. “That's about it, Edna. I would've made record time on the trail if it hadn't been so rainy. Hell's bells, there was fog up at the springs. Lousy weather for June, if you ask me. Typical, though, around here.” He sighed again.

I had one more question for Leonard. “Did you see any other cars parked in the lot?”

Leonard scratched his bald head. “Sure. That fancy whatdayacallit over there.” He gestured at the black Range Rover, which stood a few yards away. In the veil of light rain, the vehicle looked lonely.

“That was it?”

Leonard nodded. “Who else? Levine and that other guy, Gagucci or whoever, posted a sign to warn people off.”

Dustin Fong was standing by the pickup's hood. “But somebody else
was
here. The person who shot Mr. Levine.”

“Well, I didn't see him.” Leonard's manner indicated that the killer must have been a phantom. He immediately realized the implication, and leaned out of the truck's cab. “Hey! / didn't shoot the poor bastard! Search me, I'm not carrying a gun!”

Bill Blatt nodded deferentially. “Yes, sir. We aren't
accusing you of anything. If you'll follow us into town, we'll be off now.”

The two deputies headed for their own car, which Milo had left parked in a haphazard manner. I waited until the others had pulled out before getting into the Jag. I was halfway to the highway when Cal Vickers came bumping along in his tow truck.

There wasn't room to pass on the rough dirt road. Through the windshield, Cal made a helpless gesture. Obviously, it would be easier for me to reverse. I did just that, then waited for Cal to arrive.

I was still vexed about his callous attitude toward Stan's death. But when Cal climbed out of his truck, he looked subdued.

“You must think I'm one mean S.O.B.,” he said, walking over to my car. “Look, Emma, try to forget what I said at Old Mill Park. I can't help but get steamed up when I see these adventurers move into town and try to make a fast buck off of the rest of us. You weren't here during the Burl Creek Little Theatre fiasco.”

I admitted as much. In fact, I'd only garnered snatches about the abortive plan to turn a dilapidated barn into a showplace for summer stock. Some twenty years ago a group of theatrical people from San Francisco had come to Alpine and made big promises about bringing musicals to town. Their plans hadn't worked out, and they'd ended up burning down the barn to recoup their financial losses. Naturally, the ill-fated venture had left a sour taste in the mouths of local residents.