Alpine Icon (33 page)

Mystified, I leaned against Milo's desk. “Could someone have taken Warren's car for a spin? I gather it's a pretty hot little sports number.”

“The Z3? Sure, it'd be a temptation for just about every kid in Alpine. But would they take Ursula with them?” Milo dangled his keys at me. “I'm leaving. You want to stay and man the office?”

I gave an impatient little shake of my head. “Betsy's not a liar. I don't think.”

“Money,” Milo said, putting a firm hand on my back and pushing me toward the door. “She probably thought Warren was going to get everything. Betsy should have waited a couple of hours before perjuring herself.”

I came to a dead stop right on the threshold. “What are you talking about?” I whirled around, coming chin to chest with the sheriff. “Are you holding out on me, Dodge?”

Milo darted a quick look out from under the brim of his hat, saw that Toni Andreas and Dustin Fong were both absorbed in phone calls, and kissed me. “I don't think so. Didn't Bill tell Vida what Brendan Shaw told him? Or was that after Vida collared her nephew?” Milo's long face grew puzzled.

“No,” I replied, my annoyance only slightly tempered by Milo's quick kiss. “What did Brendan have to say?”

With an arm draped over my shoulder, the sheriff steered me into the outer office. “Ursula changed agents after she got to Alpine, but she hadn't yet changed beneficiaries. She was supposed to do that today, after Brendan finished doing the paperwork. It's a million-dollar policy, and I guess something that big takes time to work out. Hell, I wouldn't know, Fm lucky to have a measly—”

“Milo!” I attempted to shake the sheriff, but only managed to wrinkle his shirt. “Who gets the million bucks?”

Milo grinned at me. “You can't use this. What's the rush?”

I gritted my teeth. “Don't be a jerk.”

“Warren was supposed to get it,” the sheriff answered as Dustin tried to get his attention, “but like I said, the forms never got signed. The million bucks is split right down the middle, between Jake and Buzzy O'Toole. See you, Emma. I've got a date with a garbage can.”

I chased after Milo, but Dustin's tone was even more urgent. The sheriff stopped at the door, his good humor suddenly erased. “Now what?” he called to his deputy.

“It's Verb Vancich, Sheriff,” Dustin replied, a shielding hand over the telephone receiver. “He says Nunzio Lucci tried to shoot him. Can you go up there right away?”

“Up where?” Milo barked, and then swore under his breath.

“Mr. Vancich is calling from the Bjornsons', next door to the Lucci place. He says the Lucci kids have his stolen bikes.” Dustin's expression was apologetic, as if it were bad manners to report a crime to the sheriff.

“Hell!” Milo whirled around and pushed one of the two swinging doors so hard that it shuddered on its hinges. The last I saw was an angry figure charging
through the rain with the regulation jacket waving like a warning flag.

“You know,” Dustin said in his mild voice, “sometimes he gets too worked up over things. Do you think he's tired of his job?”

I thought back to the other night when Milo had expressed discontent with just about everything, except— but not necessarily excluding—me. “He doesn't always feel appreciated,” I said somewhat vaguely. “And of course he hates having to put his job on the line every four years. It's unsettling.”

“Not all counties elect their sheriffs,” Dustin remarked. “Why does it have to be that way here?”

I studied Dustin's pleasant, serious face for several moments before I replied: “It doesn't. Maybe that should be my next editorial campaign.” In other counties the sheriff was appointed. Why not here in SkyCo? The voice of the people was often capricious, ill informed, and just plain dopey. Obviously I was gathering steam for my leadoff editorial.

Dustin was like-minded. “That's a good idea,” he said as the phone rang again.

I hurried out, half running down the street to
The Advocate.
Kip MacDuff was just finishing an in-store poster job for Stuart's Stereo. Since Carla had nothing new to report except that there were still pilgrims lining Polly's front steps, I told Kip we were ready to roll. Then I beckoned Vida into my office and informed her about Ursula's insurance policy.

She listened to the news with keen interest. “So Milo thinks that Betsy acted out of spite because she thought Warren was going to become a rich man. Tsk, tsk.”

“I don't know anything about a will,” I put in. “If Milo has found out, he hasn't told me. He's too busy trying to keep Luce from killing Verb Vancich. Verb says the Lucci kids stole those bikes.”

“Oh?” Vida was only mildly intrigued by this bit of
information. “Perhaps. They're very unpleasant children. I wonder … Did Milo say if Jake and Buzzy know about their windfall?”

“No. I told you, Milo was in a rush. It seems strange, doesn't it?”

“That Ursula should die before she changed her beneficiary?” Vida tipped her head to one side. “Of course it does. It also seems strange that she hadn't made the change sooner.”

“Not really,” I countered. “I wouldn't own this newspaper—or my Jag—if my ex-fiance had remembered to delete me from his Boeing insurance policy. Almost twenty years went by, and he never bothered to do anything about it. Of course, he was an engineer. They're not quite like real people.”

“Mmm. Yes.” Vida had heard the tale of my unexpected boon many times. “And Ursula was an alcoholic. Muddled. Goodness, what luck for the O'Toole boys— especially Buzzy. Perhaps he can piece his life back together.” She grew pensive, apparently considering how Buzzy and Laura could mend their marriage and stabilize their family. Or, knowing my House & Home editor, maybe she was thinking of the ways that the O'Tooles might squander their windfall, and further self-destruct. “Timing, they say, is everything,” she concluded, and I realized I had been wrong about her thought processes. “Who knew about Ursula's insurance?”

“Brendan Shaw, for one,” I answered promptly. “His wife, Patsy. And Warren, I suppose.”

“The Shaws are merely tools,” Vida noted. “And for all of Brendan's heartiness and Patsy's outgoing manner, they're quite discreet.”

“So they wouldn't have gossiped, even about a million-dollar policy, which must be rare in Alpine?”

“I think not,” Vida responded. “Over the years, I've … tested them. Brendan and Patsy are really remarkable.”

In other words, they had resisted Vida's relentless
probing. Not only were they remarkable, but rare. “So Warren might be the only one who knew what Ursula intended to do,” I said. “But it wouldn't have been in his interest to kill Ursula before she could make the change.”

“Heavens, no!” Vida exclaimed. “The four OTooles have the motive. Yet I doubt very much that they knew anything about the policy. Unless …”

“What?”

Vida removed her blue felt cloche, then put it back on and repinned it to her head. “Unless Ursula told them. Drinkers blurt things, you know. Especially foolish things.”

Ursula had mentioned hosting her brothers and their wives on at least one occasion. The image of the family get-together in The Pines struck me as incongruous, yet it had taken place.

“Betsy,” Vida murmured. “I really should stop by this evening. Aren't she and Jake going to the funeral service tomorrow in Seattle?”

“I think so,” I replied. “Do you want me to come along with you?”

Vida, however, shook her head. The cloche tilted precariously, indicating that the pins hadn't quite done the job. “It would be better if I went alone. Girl talk, you know.” She stood up and fiddled again with the hat. “Which reminds me, did you ever get in touch with Marisa Foxx?”

I'd forgotten about Marisa. “I left a message, but she never called back.”

“Try again,” Vida urged, heading for the door.

It struck me as odd that Vida would encourage my friendship with another woman. Usually such relationships tended to make her jealous. “Why?” I asked bluntly. “Do you think I'm lonely?”

Vida glanced over her broad shoulder. “I think she's an attorney. A Catholic attorney. If Ursula switched
insurance agents, she'd also engage a local law firm. Call Marisa. It's the friendly thing to do.”

The rain had almost stopped by the time I got home around six-fifteen. There were no messages on my machine and nothing of interest in the mail. I'd hoped to hear from Ben or Adam by now, but of course they were busy. After taking some frozen shrimp out of the freezer, I dialed Marisa's number. She answered on the second ring, and immediately became apologetic.

“I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you, but I went away for the weekend,” she explained in her brisk voice. “Naturally, work had piled up and I was swamped all day. How can I help you?”

Suddenly I felt awkward. Possessing none of Vida's guile, I found it difficult to approach a virtual stranger and ferret out information under the guise of friendship. “Are you representing Ursula Randall's estate?” I blurted.

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. “Is this for publication?” Marisa asked.

“Not really. I'm trying to piece some things together. Deep background, you could call it.” The quasilie made me wince into the receiver.

“Ms. Randall had scheduled an appointment for Wednesday. Tomorrow,” Marisa clarified. “I've no idea what she wanted to see me about, and even if I did, I couldn't say. You understand, of course.” The lawyer attempted to soften her words, but I could sense the underlying steel.

“Oh. Well, that's okay,” I said, sounding mealy-mouthed. “Ah… I don't suppose you'd like to get together some time for a drink or dinner?”

“To what purpose?” Marisa was nothing if not direct.

I squirmed a bit, then tried to sound as straightforward as Marisa. “You've been in town for going on two years, and it seems stupid that we've never gotten acquainted. Yet we've got so much in common. We're both career
women, single, Catholic, nonnatives, about the same age. It's my fault. I've been remiss in extending an invitation.”

Marisa laughed. “After two years we're both remiss. Let me check my daily planner.”

I don't know what there is about the term
daily planner
that raises my hackles—but it does. Maybe it's the implied self-importance, maybe it's the penchant for organization, maybe it's just one of my peculiar quirks. Chiding myself, T waited for Marisa to come up with a date.

“This week's already booked,” she said with what might have been regret. “Tomorrow's a client dinner in Everett, Thursday is Father Den, Friday we have a partners' meeting, and Saturday I'm going to see my parents in Yakima. How's Monday, the eleventh?”

I had no daily planner, just a Monet Giverny gardens calendar on which I scrawled notes that I often couldn't decipher two days later. “It sounds fine,” I said. “By the way, when do you expect Father Den to get back?”

“I'm not sure—tonight?” Marisa replied somewhat uncertainly. “We've had this meeting set for over a week, so I'm sure he plans to be here for it.”

“You're not a canon lawyer, are you?” It was possible. I'd known other laypeople who had studied church law and were highly regarded canonists.

“No,” Marisa answered warily. “I'm strictly family law. But I can sometimes offer advice on other matters as long as the issues are sufficiently broad.”

I sorted through Marisa's careful legalese. “Like Father Den's rights as a pastor?”

Marisa laughed again, though the sound was strained. “Now, Emma, you're probing. Priests are people. They're not concerned solely with issues pertaining to their vocations.”

“Maybe you can help him sort through the mess the parish council got into last night,” I said, with a touch of acerbity.

“What mess?” Marisa's tone indicated that she was taken aback.

I, too, could play the professional. “It's in tomorrow's edition of
The Advocate.”
I didn't point out that the information was buried at the end of the school-board story. “Nunzio Lucci quit the parish council, and Jake appointed Ed Bronsky in his place. Or something like that,” I hedged, still not quite clear on how the agreement had been reached.

“I don't believe—from my interpretation of the parish bylaws—that Jake can do that,” Marisa said in a thoughtful voice. “The other members can recommend dismissal of one of their peers, but the pastor has the final authority. It's also up to him to appoint a replacement or call for an election. Unfortunately some parish councils naively—or egotistically—believe they hold the power. It doesn't work that way. I hope St. Mildred's council behaves sensibly so that this doesn't grow into something that will cause further schism in the community.”

“I thought they acted kind of high-handed,” I said, inwardly chortling over Marisa's revelation that she had reason to be conversant with St. Mildred's bylaws. “Of course they felt pressured. I hope Father Den isn't too upset when he finds out.”

“So do I.” Marisa's tone had turned grim. “I should go now, Emma. I brought work home. Practicing law is a demanding taskmaster.”

After hanging up, I waited thirty seconds before dialing the rectory. Sure enough, the line was busy. I then redialed Marisa's number. It, too, was engaged.

I may or may not have taken a step toward a new friendship. But I'd set off an alarm bell in Marisa's mind. I wished I knew why.

The shrimp sat in a colander on my sink counter, pink and plump. But I'd eaten a late lunch and wasn't hungry. Putting the shrimp back in the refrigerator, I left the
house and drove downtown. Sure enough, Milo was pulling up with Nunzio Lucci and Verb Vancich. Jack Mullins was with them, and he had Luce handcuffed to his wrist.

Verb kept his distance from Luce while Milo met me at the curb. “I hate to charge Luce, but this is two days in a row,” the sheriff said, removing his hat and wiping perspiration from his forehead. Now that the rain had stopped, the air had turned muggy.

I glanced at Verb, who seemed absorbed in a nearby light standard. “Did he really try to shoot Verb?”

“He threatened to, then he resisted arrest.” Milo shook his head. “Luce is out of control. Delia wasn't there, and he wouldn't tell me where she was.”

“She's at the shelter,” I said. “She went there last night.”