Alpine Gamble (17 page)

Beverly regarded Gail and Brenda with skepticism. “Good for them. I wish I were as lucky.” To my amazement, Beverly's eyes filled with tears. She turned away quickly and left the shop.

It would have been presumptuous to follow her. On the other hand, I was leaving anyway. But by the time I got outside, Beverly Melville was slipping into the
bucket seat of her blue Mazda Miata. She pulled out into traffic just as Milo Dodge swung into his reserved parking space across the street.

I caught up with Milo as he reached the double doors. Despite the cool, overcast weather, he looked hot as well as tired. The sheriff glowered at me when I attempted a smile.

“Not now, Emma. Call me in the morning.” His elbows barred me from the door.

“Hold it—it's deadline.” I actually leaned into him. “What's going on? Jack's a lousy actor.”

Angrily, Milo banged the door, but allowed me to enter. “I don't want any crap on this,” he shouted, causing Jack to jump in his chair. “We can only do so much, goddamn it! Don't even think of speculating!”

More confused than annoyed, I followed Milo inside the counter area. “Facts would help. What are you talking about?”

Whipping off his regulation hat, Milo tossed it across the room. Then he unzipped his jacket with a furious motion, ran a big hand through his sandy hair, and took a deep breath. “Okay.” He paused to scowl at Jack, for no apparent reason. “Bill and Dustin went up to the springs this morning. They called in around eleven-thirty to say the place had been trashed. Teenagers, they guessed. I went up there right away. Sure enough, the place was a mess. Beer cans, condoms, general junk. They got the pools all dirty and ripped one of the plastic liners. They knocked over the birdhouse and burned part of it in a campfire. If we hadn't had so much rain lately, they might have set the woods off, too. I'd like to kill the little bastards. Every year it's the same thing—school's letting out and the kids go nuts!”

I tried to arrange the revisions in my head: The vandalism story would have to go in a box on page one. Maybe I could jump the Chamber piece to the inside
and redo Carta's skunk layout. But I still needed more information.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“Who knows? Last night, I suppose.” Milo reached for a cigarette, remembered the NO SMOKING sign he himself had posted in the outer office, and got out a roll of mints instead. “The fire was cold. It doesn't get dark until almost nine this time of year, so they probably went up when it was still light. Coming down is easier, especially if you're stoned. It would've served them right if somebody'd broken a leg.”

“Have you told Leonard Hollenberg?”

“Hell, no! I just got here!” Milo swung around, kicking at a wastebasket. “Bill and Dustin are on their way back, but I'm asking the Forest Service for help tonight. I don't want a repeat.”

Jack seemed to feel left out. “Sheriff, I'll bet we can bust some of those kids. We're getting other complaints, about trampled gardens and stolen flowers and broken windows.”

Milo sneered. “That's middle school stuff. Hell, these days it's probably first graders. These kids had to be older. They wouldn't walk all the way to the hot springs turnoff. They're too damned lazy.”

Jack was still wearing an eager expression. “That's what I mean—we pretty much know the troublemakers from the high school. Not to mention the dropouts. I'll start checking on them.”

Milo's shoulders sagged. “Okay. But they'll lie, and their lame-assed parents won't know where they were because they're more wasted than the kids. What we need is a witness who saw a bunch of teenagers heading for the hot springs trail.”

A brief silence filled the office. Milo retrieved his hat, while Jack began going through files, presumably of Alpine's most wanted adolescents.

Given Milo's mood, I hated to ask my next question: “Did you find the bullet?” I cringed inwardly, expecting a volatile reaction.

But Milo gave me a lopsided smile. “Not even my luck is all bad.” He felt inside his jacket and produced a plastic bag. “It's a .357 full-metal jacket, just like the M.E. figured. It appears to have gone through Levine, then hit a tree. It was embedded in the bark of a noble fir. I suppose we missed seeing it earlier because those nobles have kind of unusual bark.”

I was familiar with the tree's small rectangular blocks of dark gray. “What about foot- or fingerprints?” I asked.

“We'll do our damnedest.” Milo's back was turned as he tried to pour himself a cup of coffee. The pot was empty, and he swore. “Jack, can't you keep this cock-sucker going? What have you been doing all afternoon, playing NFL football on your frigging computer?”

“Hey,” Jack replied, looking put-upon, “I've been running checks on people. Levine. Fannucci. Melville. We may turn up a lead or two.”

Milo snorted. “We may turn up with egg on our faces. Who benefits from Levine's death? That's always the big question. I'll admit, it's probably some broad in Beverly Hills who's out walking her Chihuahua.”

Jack's expression grew puckish. “Maybe she sent a hit man.”

“Maybe you ought to get off your ass and figure out where this bullet came from.” Not waiting for Jack's agreement, Milo whirled on me. “You heard me, Emma—keep to the bare bones. I don't want the voters saying I botched this investigation after they approved a bond issue to beef up this department. What the public doesn't realize is that in law enforcement, it's always too little too late.”

'Too true,” I said, but my sympathy was wasted on Milo.

Leo and Carla and Ginny had gone home by the time I got back to
The Advocate
at five after five. Vida remained, looking worried.

“It's not like you to wander off on a Tuesday,” she said in faint reproach.

Delegating the layout problems to her, I explained as I worked on the vandalism story. Vida was less appalled than I'd expected.

“Nothing's sacred to young people these days,” she declared. “A murder site would merely titillate them. It's all this TV violence. When Roger stays with me, I insist that he watches only wholesome programs.”

Knowing that Roger's favorite show was
NYPD Blue
, which he called “Butts and Guts,” I made no comment. “Word will get out,” I said. “If there were girls at the springs, they'll talk. And the boys will brag.”

For some minutes we worked in silence. Then Vida spoke almost in a murmur. “He hasn't resubmitted.”

“Huh? Who?” I was proofing my completed sidebar and thought I'd missed something.

“Mr. Ree. Ginny said the ad wasn't resubmitted.” Vida looked pleased.

“Ah!” Disposing of the corrected vandalism piece, I smiled at Vida. “That means he must have gotten your response and doesn't feel a need for further fishing. Maybe you'll hear something tomorrow or Thursday.”

Vida was now making an effort at nonchalance. “Perhaps.” She leaned forward in her chair, rummaging through her in-basket. “Wouldn't it be nice to have someplace to go in Alpine?”

I assumed Vida was talking about the teenagers with time on their hands and mischief on their minds.
“Besides a murder site two miles up Spark Plug Mountain?”

“No, no.” She tugged at a piece of paper, freeing it from the stack of what I knew to be mostly publicity handouts. “I mean for adults. Did you get this news release from the state about a study of new community college sites?”

Vaguely, I remembered such a thing from a month or so ago. “That's an annual announcement, isn't it?”

Vida nodded, scanning the sheet of paper. “But this one includes prospective areas other than the 1-5 corridor. It doesn't specifically mention Skykomish County, but it proposes a study of potential sites within a hundred miles of Seattle and Tacoma. That
could
mean Alpine, couldn't it? Think what a two-year college could offer us!”

I agreed. Such an institution would bring a great deal to the county. I suspected, however, that Vida was thinking in more personal terms, such as going to a college choir concert with Mr. Ree.

“We don't have the population base to support a state-funded college,” I reluctantly pointed out. “If local kids go on to college, they usually head over the pass to Wenatchee J.C. or into Everett.”

Naturally, Vida knew as much—or more—about such things than I did. Still, she was loath to surrender the concept. “Geographically, this would be a good site. It would draw on the Highway 2 corridor and parts of Snohomish, King, and Chelan counties. I feel like writing a letter to our state senator.”

“Why not?” I studied the finished front page. It was crowded, and our only photos were of the moribund hot springs parking lot and the helicopter landing. Unfortunately, no head shot of Stan Levine had been available. The pictures we'd taken of him and Blake for our previous editions had been too cheerful and informal.

“More of our young people would be motivated to attend college if we had a campus here,” Vida said, standing up and reaching for her coat. “Let's be honest—young people today are lazy.”

I thought of Adam. “Yes, they are. Unless they're really interested in something.” To be fair, my son had worked very hard on the Anasazi dig.

“Which,” Vida continued, as if I hadn't spoken, “makes me wonder about the vandalism at the hot springs.”

Now my full attention was riveted on Vida. “What do you mean?”

Vida shrugged her shoulders into her coat, then adjusted her turquoise bowler. “Would your average troublemaking teenager—who is making said trouble because he or she is lazy as well as bored—bother hiking two miles uphill carrying party goods?”

I gazed at Vida with interest. “Good point. Why not trash Old Mill Park or the Icicle Creek Campground? Are you suggesting these weren't kids?”

Vida stroked her upper lip. “I'm not sure what I'm saying. It simply doesn't fit.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind the same thought had registered. Indeed, Milo had remarked that the culprits must have driven to the turnoff because they wouldn't want to walk. Why, then, would they want to hike?

Swiftly, I reread my sidebar story: “While the sheriff allowed that juveniles may have caused the damage,” I had written, “his department's investigation of the vandalism is being carried out separately from the homicide inquiry.” That was safe enough. Anyone reading the article would come to the same conclusion—it was probably kids.

The knee-jerk reaction made me wonder if that's what we were meant to think.

I'd already changed into my bathrobe when the phone rang a little after eight o'clock. At first I didn't recognize the low, faintly reedy voice at the other end.

“Can I trust you?” There was a tremulous quality to the question, and I wondered if I had one of the local lunatics breathing in my ear. “I have to trust somebody,” the voice said with more verve.

I recognized Skye Piersall. “Where are you? We're running your interview,” I added quickly, lest she think me a personal as well as a professional snoop.

“I'm staying with a friend,” Skye answered. “I can drive up to Alpine or maybe you could meet me here.”

I glanced at my bare toes, sticking comfortably out of a pair of worn red mules. Even the most diligent journalist has lapses when it comes to pursuing a story. “Where's
here?
”

“It's …” There was a pause. I could hear another voice which sounded oddly familiar. “It's down the highway near Startup. You know the place,” Skye went on, almost eagerly. “My friend's house is just off the main highway. Her name is Honoria Whitman.”

IT
MADE
PERFECT sense. Honoria Whitman, Milo Dodge's-girlfriend, was from California, and she had a genuine concern for the environment. Her rustic dwelling place was also her pottery studio, which I had visited on various occasions.

Having dressed, I called Vida at the last minute. She and Honoria knew each other fairly well. It occurred to me that I should ask my House * Home editor to come along.

But Vida was out. I recalled that this was the monthly meeting of her so-called Cat Club, a group of women who convened to exchange gossip and invent more. If they couldn't cram enough scandal, along with gooey desserts, into one evening, they spent much of the following day on the telephone telling tales about each other. Ironically, Vida never passed along any of the titillating tidbits for publication in
The Advocate.

It was almost dark by the time I turned onto the dirt road that led to Honoria's converted summer cabin. Warm lights glowed from the windows she'd enlarged, and a big black and white cat greeted me on the porch that spanned the front of the house. The cat was new. Milo had proudly, if somewhat diffidently, told me the animal had been named Dodger in his honor.

It was a dubious honor, I thought, as Dodger wedged his round furry body in front of me and clawed the
screen door. He then sat on the welcome mat, green eyes hostile, with his long tail swishing back and forth like a pendulum.

It took a few moments for Honoria to respond. Her lack of haste was caused not by languor, but by the wheelchair to which she'd been confined since her late husband had thrown her down a flight of stairs. Crime had paid for no one, since Honoria's brother had fatally shot Mr. Whitman for mishandling his sister. As I waited it occurred to me that I didn't know if Honoria's spouse had actually been Mr. Whitman, or if she had regained her maiden name. It wasn't the sort of question that tripped readily off the tongue.

“I feel like a spy,” Honoria declared in her throaty voice as she let me in. “Emma, it's so good to see you. But you must think me Machiavellian. Milo has no idea that Skye is staying here.”

Skye Piersall was sitting in a wire and wicker chair that must have been an original, perhaps made by one of Honoria's fellow craftsmen. The design reminded me of antique wheelchairs, and I suspected that the irony amused Honoria.

Skye, however, wasn't looking particularly amused or even at ease. She was holding a frosted glass that was decorated with a slice of lime, a sprig of mint, and a clear straw.

“Hello, Ms. Lord,” she said, and her tone was dry. “You've got me pegged as a fraud, I imagine.”

“A fraud?” With a shake of my head, I sat down on the black leather couch. “Not that—just secretive. I thought you were staying at a local motel.”