Alpine Icon (34 page)

“Shit.” Milo turned to Verb. “Come on, you have to fill out a statement.”

Verb, however, drew back, clinging to the lamppost. “I don't want to go near that creep. He's nuts.”

“Jack's putting him in the holding cell,” Milo replied none too patiently. “Let's go, I don't have all night.”

“I want my bikes,” Verb said, not moving. “Why didn't you bring them with you?”

“Damn it, Verb, we'll get the bikes later,” Milo shouted. “Move your ass inside or I'll have to let Luce go.”

With great reluctance, Verb trooped through the double doors. Milo stayed on the sidewalk, taking a roll of mints out of his inside pocket. “So what's the deal with Delia?” he asked.

Feeling like a snitch, I told the sheriff about the Luccis' most recent conflict. “She took two of the kids with her. Not the ones who swiped the bikes, I'd guess.”

Milo started to put the mints back in his pocket, then belatedly offered one to me. “I hate this kind of crap,” he groused. “Not the bike deal—that's kid stuff. It's these husbands and wives and so-called friends and neighbors.

The last couple of years that Mulehide and I were married, there were times when I wanted to strangle her, but I never so much as raised my hand, not even when she beaned me with a Ping-Pong paddle.”

I'd never heard that story, but this wasn't the time for juicy details. “Go book your perp,” I said, giving Milo a poke in the arm. “I'm going to check out Polly's pilgrims. There's more of a story there than the cursory one I did in such a rush for tomorrow's paper.”

Milo gave me a quick hug, then went inside. I was starting up the Jag when Verb came out onto the sidewalk, waving a hand. He needed a ride out to the Luccis' house, where he'd left his car. Could I give him a lift?

Nunzio and Delia Lucci lived just off the Burl Creek Road. Their nearest neighbors were the Bjornsons, who owned a small, neat farm populated mostly by chickens, a couple of cows, and a horse that was doted on by their teenage daughter. By contrast, the Lucci property was overgrown with tall grasses, vine maples, and wild blackberry vines. A dirt path led from the road to what had once been a comfortable two-story house, but was now run-down and ramshackle. Old railroad ties, discarded toys, shoes, tools, and a hot-water tank littered what could only charitably be called the front yard. While the door stood open, there was no sense of welcome. If Delia and the two younger children were still at the shelter, I suspected that the older offspring were hiding from the sheriff.

Verb's car was parked by the mailboxes that served the Luccis, the Bjornsons, and two other families. During the five-minute ride, Verb had griped in a subdued, almost puzzled voice against Luce, the Lucci children, and the world in general. He ran down only when I pulled up in back of his blue Hyundai.

“Thanks, Emma. That was nice of you,” he said, looking more meek than usual. “I should have driven
back to the sheriff myself. But when Dodge told me to come along, I just followed orders.”

It occurred to me that that was the trouble with Verb: he always followed orders, and seldom thought for himself. “Tell me something,” I said, ignoring his sudden look of apprehension. “How did you happen to know Warren Wells before he moved back to Alpine? Monica mentioned it the other day.”

Verb's narrow shoulders relaxed. “Oh—that. It was a long time ago, before Monica and I got married. Warren and I worked for a sporting-goods store in Seattle, in the Ballard area.”

I thought I knew the store, which was part of a large chain. “I gathered from Monica that Warren gave you a bad time.”

Verb uttered a small, choked laugh. “In a way, I guess. I was just out of high school, and let's face it, I wasn't too sharp when it came to handling the credit-card customers. I screwed up a few times, and Warren told the manager. I got fired.” Verb stared at his shoes.

“That seems a bit severe,” I remarked. “Why didn't Warren simply get you squared away?”

Verb's lifeless brown eyes moved slowly to my face. “Looking back, that's what he should have done. But I was barely nineteen, and thought it was the way people acted on the job. The funny thing was, he seemed like a nice guy. I guess he had problems of his own. Later I ran into one of the girls who'd worked there, and she said his stepson was getting into a lot of trouble and his marriage was on the rocks. That wasn't Ms. Wells, of course. I mean it was, but not Francine.”

I knew what Verb meant. “Alexis,” I said. “She was from Monroe. I understand she died a short time after the divorce.”

“Really? That's too bad.” Verb seemed genuinely touched. “I only met her once, when she came in the store to pick up Mr. Wells. Warren, I mean. She had the
kid with her, and he did seem kind of nasty. You know, a real smart-mouth. He must have been about twelve at the time. I hadn't thought of him in years, but the other day somebody reminded me of him.”

Naturally I thought of Roger. “Maybe,” I said darkly, “he's in a federal penitentiary by now.” Visions, quite delightful, danced through my mind wherein Roger was baking under a hot sun on a chain gang in a remote penal colony. I needed to refocus my brain. “Did you know Monica then?” I inquired as the penal colony faded into a dismal, alligator-infested swamp.

“We met in high school. I went to O'Dea. Monica was at Holy Names.” Verb referred to two private Catholic high schools in Seattle, one for boys, the other for girls. Though separated by gender and about four miles, the students mingled on social occasions. “Monica and I went together for quite a while before we got married,” Verb continued, smiling softly at the windscreen. “We wanted to be sure. There are too many divorces these days, even among Catholics.”

“That was very wise of you,” I said, though my mind was again elsewhere. “So the stint in the Ballard store was the only time you worked with Warren?”

Verb nodded. “That's right. The only other time I ever saw him—until he came to Alpine this summer—was a couple of years later when I was working at a sportswear shop in one of the malls. One of the other clerks had caught some kid sneaking out with a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey under his coat. It turned out to be Warren's stepson. Warren came in to talk to the manager and …” Verb grimaced. “I don't like raking up all this old stuff, not when Warren's just lost his fiancee. Do you suppose I could collect my bikes now?”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Out back. At least that's where the kids dumped them after I chased them up the Burl Creek Road.” Creases
appeared in Verb's high forehead. “Maybe they've hidden them by now.”

“Wait,” I cautioned. “The sheriff will get the bikes back for you. Those kids might be out there in the trees somewhere. If they're as feisty as their father, you don't want to tangle with them alone.”

Verb's expression was uncertain, but ultimately he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Just as he started to get out of the Jag, I detained him with one last question: “What did Warren do when he came in about the jersey?”

“Oh … he insisted that his stepson didn't try to steal it.” Verb nervously fingered the door handle. “Then he saw me, and told the manager I'd tried to get the kid in trouble to settle an old score. Luckily the manager knew I hadn't been at work when it happened. I went into the back and stayed there until Warren and the manager sorted things out. We had quite a few shoplifters there, especially teenagers. Those team-logo items are pretty expensive, and the kids just couldn't resist trying to swipe them.” He opened the car door and gazed at the vine maple, alder, and fir trees that surrounded the Lucci house. “Like bikes. Kids can't keep their hands off them, either. Sometimes it seems as if everybody's trying to keep me from earning a living. It's not fair.” Verb got out of the car and didn't look back.

I drove across town to Polly's house, trying to think of insightful questions to ask the pilgrims. In order to put together a serious article, I'd have to interview Father Den at length. His earlier, off-the-cuff comments didn't do him or the subject justice. I'd also talk to some of the locals who had visited the vase, preferably at least one who believed in its mystical properties and one who was merely a curiosity seeker.

My plans, if not my prayers, seemed answered when I saw Veronica Wenzler-Greene and Warren Wells in the line that went up Polly's steps. I would wait until they
emerged from the house and interview them individually. Parking my car a half block away, I decided to remain in place for a few minutes. Less than thirty seconds passed when I noticed that Vida's Buick was pulling up across the street. My House & Home editor got out, along with the odious Roger. Naturally Vida spotted my car at once.

“Roger's parents have come down with flu,” she announced in a worried tone. “I told them he shouldn't be exposed to germs, especially after getting so wet yesterday up on Mount Sawyer. He and Grams are going to have an overnight, so that he's fresh and rested for his first day of school.” She beamed at her grandson, who looked sullen and was plugged into a Walkman. “Chocolate marshmallow treats and big bowls of—what was it, darling?—bubble-gum ice cream? A special video about the Dance. What was the name of the little show you picked out, dearest?”

“Showgirls,”
Roger replied, not looking at either of us.

“Yes,” Vida said blithely, “a musical. Roger said he preferred it to
Carousel
, but then he keeps up with the latest films and Grams doesn't, I'm afraid.”

I could have sworn that Roger snickered, but when I looked at him he was still staring at the sidewalk. Vida was still talking. “I called ahead, to ask Polly if we might sneak in just for a peek at the vase. She wasn't sure— she's never sure of anything, such a muddleheaded woman—but finally suggested we come 'round the back, through the alley. Do you want to join us?”

I hesitated. “I've seen it, of course.” On the other hand, it would heighten the atmosphere of my story if I had another look. “Okay, let's go.”

Roger lagged behind, so that by the time we'd gone around the end of the block and entered the alley, he was nowhere to be seen. “Really,” Vida murmured, as close to exasperation as she ever got with her grandson, “why must youngsters dawdle so? I suppose he's enjoying his little songs on his radio.”

When Roger finally appeared, he was gyrating to what I guessed was a rap number that would have taken all the curl out of his grandmother's permanent. I considered telling her that
Showgirls
wasn't exactly Rodgers and Hammerstein, but a raw version of how to get to the top by lying on the bottom, at least most of the time. My opportunity fled, however, when Vida called to Roger to hurry along, as she was holding the rickety gate of the picket fence open for him.

It took forever for Polly to reach the back door. We stood waiting amid piles of newspapers, two plastic garbage cans, and stacks of empty cardboard boxes. At last Polly opened the door a crack, then hesitated for almost a minute until she recognized us.

“Mrs. Runkel. Mrs. Lord,” she said in a low voice. “And the boy.”

The boy sauntered into the kitchen as if he owned it, or perhaps he was so self-absorbed that new experiences bounced right off his stocky frame. Polly, who had had at least one child go wrong, ignored Roger. “This way,” she murmured, leading us into the long hall.

As before, the worshipers who filled the living room were representative of every age, ethnic, and economic group. I saw a man in a turban and a woman in a kimono. I also noticed several local residents, none of whom was Catholic.

“There's a Pidduck,” Vida hissed, “from
our
church. Goodness!”

The darkened room, which had smelled stale when I'd first visited with Murray Felton, now reeked of sweat and candle wax and more exotic, if not entirely pleasant, odors. I held back while Vida took Roger by the arm and led him toward the mantel. The supplicants parted with only mild grumbles of protest, though at least half of them could not have recognized Vida. She stopped in front of the fireplace, fingering her chin. Roger, still plugged into his Walkman, fidgeted at her side. After a
few moments Vida leaned down and spoke to her grandson. He dutifully gazed up at the vase, then shrugged. Vida said something else to him and started to turn away, smiling demurely at the waiting pilgrims. Roger, however, remained in front of the mantel. Then he picked up the vase, juggled it experimentally, swayed to the music only he could hear, and dropped the hallowed object onto the hearth. It smashed into a hundred pieces.

In the pandemonium that followed, I was never quite sure what happened next. Hysterical shrieks, heartrending moans, and angry curses filled the Patricelli living room. Those waiting in the hall and on the porch and even down the steps charged forward, creating a dangerous crush. Someone—perhaps the man in the turban—tried to grab Roger, but Vida was doing her best to drag him out of harm's way. She got as far as the arched entrance to the hall before she encountered Polly.

“Lucifer,” Polly whispered in a shaky voice, and collapsed into the arms of Veronica Wenzler-Greene.

“Oh, good grief!” Vida cried, hauling Roger down the hall and toward the back door. Given Roger's bulk, it was no easy task, not even for his stalwart grandmother.

Briefly I thought about following them, but realized that my place was inside the house. That was my story. It wasn't what I'd planned, but it was certainly big news. Noting that Polly seemed in capable hands, I circumvented the stampede and went upstairs in search of a phone. First I had to find a light switch, for it was dark when I reached the second floor. Luckily there was a phone on a small wooden stand. It was the old-fashioned rotary-dial type, and my fingers didn't want to track properly. On the third try, I reached Kip MacDuff in the back shop.

“Is it too late to stop the press?” I shouted over the din that roiled up from the lower floor.

“What? Ms. Lord? What's that?” Kip sounded as if his mouth was full.

“Stop everything. I'll be right there.” I hung up and raced back downstairs. Pushing and shoving my way out of the house, I slowed on the uneven cement steps, lest I take a nasty fall. Halfway down, Warren Wells grabbed my arm.