The Alpine Fury (12 page)

I was, of course. I always do. But I wasn’t foolish enough to print the sheriff’s speculations. Milo should know as much.

“It sounds as if the killer is a man,” I remarked, the grisly statement contradicting my sunny smile for a departing couple I recognized as fellow shoppers at the Grocery Basket.

Milo must have known them, too, though he merely nodded. “Probably. Linda wasn’t tiny. But we can’t rule out a woman, unless she’s feeble. Hell, you could have done the job, Emma. Strangling people when they don’t expect it isn’t as hard as you’d think. And the log was pretty big. It’d take some tugging and hauling, but it could be done by just about anybody.”

“It would take some time,” I noted. “But as I recall, that little clearing is shielded from the road. Or did the highway crew cut down the trees? I haven’t been up that far on 187 since Big Mike Brockelman started working on it.”

They had cut no trees, Milo assured me, only vine maples and underbrush. Linda and her killer would not have been visible from the road.

“But … you didn’t find any … uh, clues?” I hated to use the word because I knew how much Milo and other law enforcement people despised it as amateurish.

“I already told you, no. It’s a love nest, especially for teenagers in good weather. Also a drinking hangout. You can imagine what they leave behind.” Milo looked disgusted.

“Any guesses about how long she’d been dead?” The question had barely escaped my lips when the waiter presented Milo’s steak and my
coquilles Saint Jacques
. Fortunately, it takes a lot to make me lose my appetite.

Milo eyed his steak appreciatively. He, too, was made of sterner stuff. “It’s hard to tell with the weather we’ve been having. That’s another one for the forensics folks. If you really want a guess, I’d say twelve hours.”

Vida and Roger had discovered the body around two
o’clock Saturday. Since the bank was open until six on Fridays, Linda had probably left work no earlier than six-thirty. In all probability, she had been killed somewhere between seven
P.M
. Friday and two
A.M
. Saturday. I hadn’t yet dropped my little bombshell on Milo. But Vida might have beaten me to it.

“What was she wearing?” I asked, forking up a tender scallop.

“Clothes.” Milo’s eyes glinted. “You want a fashion description, go ask Francine Wells. Linda had on slacks, a sweater, a fuzzy hat, a long coat, boots—and that damned muffler. Oh, and underwear. I suppose.” Once again, Milo was looking faintly embarrassed.

It was then that I told Milo about seeing Linda go into the Lumberjack Motel on Monday night. The sheriff was mildly surprised. I was amazed that Vida hadn’t already relayed the news. But of course Roger had been her priority.

“It might not mean a thing,” Milo allowed, “but we’ll check the register.”

I also informed Milo about the alleged custody fight. He confirmed that Reba’s rumor was true: Larry or his wife had mentioned it when he called on them Saturday.

“Howard Lindahl will be questioned,” Milo assured me. “Spouses and ex-spouses are always the primary suspects.”

I studied Milo’s face as he devoured three french fries at once. It certainly wasn’t handsome, but it had character. It also had bread crumbs on the chin. Reaching across the table, I gave Milo a swipe with my napkin.

He looked chagrined. “See? Honoria would think I’m a clod.”

“No, she wouldn’t. Besides, I’ve probably got lettuce stuck between my teeth.” I bared them for Milo’s inspection,
but he shook his head. For several moments, we ate in silence. I didn’t know what Milo was thinking, but my mind was on the Petersens. “How are they taking it?” I finally asked.

“Depends,” Milo replied, buttering more crusty bread. “Marv and Cathleen are a mess. Larry and JoAnne seem to be in shock. Denise is hard to figure. Kind of an airhead. Uncle Elmer and Aunt Thelma are a pair of stoics. Marv and Elmer’s sister in Seattle is in New Zealand with her husband. The family—well, Marv, actually—decided to wait to tell them when they get back next week.”

We were silent again, finishing our entrees. The waiter took our plates and inquired about dessert. We declined, but ordered Bailey’s Irish Cream.

“You don’t think a stranger killed Linda, do you, Milo?” I posed the question after our liqueur glasses had been delivered.

Slowly, Milo shook his head. “From what I know of Linda, she’s not the type to go off with somebody she didn’t know. And she did go off with whoever it was. Her car is still in the Parc Pines condo garage. I’d bet my badge that Linda knew her killer.”

I wouldn’t take that bet. The fact that Milo’s reasoning ruled out a homicidal maniac should have been comforting.

But it wasn’t. There was a killer among us, and the odds were excellent that the face was familiar.

Midway through Monday morning, I called Bob Lambrecht again in Seattle. My pretext was to ask if he’d received the courtesy copies of
The Advocate
that we’d sent him last week. The real reason, of course, was to try to wheedle more information out of him about his visit to the Bank of Alpine.

Bob was in a meeting. Since I’d identified myself as the editor and publisher of a newspaper, his secretary insisted on turning me over to the public-relations department. A brisk female voice came on the line and informed me that not only had Mr. Lambrecht received
The Advocate
, he had sent off a thank-you note. The PR staff had kept a copy for file.

“That’s great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Then, on a sudden whim, I tried an old newspaper ploy: “Is it true that the Bank of Washington plans to buy out the Bank of Alpine?”

The silence at the other end of the line lasted so long that I thought we’d been disconnected. Finally the voice lost some of its briskness:

“Just a moment, please.”

Chewing my lower lip, I waited with a sense of excitement. I could hear nothing; the PR staffer must have hit the mute button. I was still waiting when Leo rapped once on my open door. I gestured for him to come in. He was still limping, and looked tired.

“The Bank of Washington has absolutely no plans to buy the Bank of Alpine,” the brisk voice said suddenly in my ear. “Thank you for your interest.”

I thanked her for the information. Or lack of it. My face must have registered surprise. Leo gave me a ghost of his cockeyed grin.

“Another stiff?” he asked, balancing precariously on the back legs of my visitor’s chair.

“No.” I frowned at the phone. “No bank buyout. That’s odd.”

“Why? It was never more than a rumor. Didn’t you start it yourself?” Leo’s brown eyes were amused.

I felt silly. “In a way. But it made sense.”

Leo was ready to dismiss the bank, even if I wasn’t.
“That’s a hell of a thing about the Lindahl broad. You hear anything from the sheriff?”

I hadn’t, and didn’t expect to for at least another twenty-four hours. Upon arriving at work, I’d briefed my staff on what little I’d learned over the weekend. Leo was fascinated; Carla was indifferent; Ginny was distracted; Vida was annoyed. Having been pried loose from Roger, my House & Home editor felt left out. She had harrumphed into her typewriter and shortly thereafter had stomped out of the office. I suspected that her nephew, Deputy Bill Blatt, was about to get the third degree.

“What do you think?” Leo’s dry voice cut into my thoughts.

“About … what?” I was feeling as distracted as Ginny.

“Linda Lindahl. You’ve been here quite a while,” Leo said, taking the last cigarette out of his pack. “You must know this cast of characters. Come on, babe, whodunit?”

“I’ve no idea.” It was true. “As I told you this morning, ex-husbands are always good suspects. But so are spurned lovers and jealous rivals.”

For a split second, I thought Leo flinched. Maybe I imagined it, or his ankle was hurting. Instead of making a further comment about Linda’s death, he changed the subject. He was trying to get all the merchants at the mall to sponsor a special insert each Wednesday between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

“You’ve always got a few who hang back, especially those fast-food restaurants,” Leo explained. “The video arcade, too. But we’ll offer a co-op deal they can’t refuse.”

I was impressed. Leo was limping out just as his predecessor bustled in. Ed Bronsky greeted Leo with a
hearty slap on the back. He shook my hand so hard that I thought he’d dislocate my shoulder.

“Just the folks I want to see,” Ed exclaimed. “Here, sit down, Leo, old buddy. I’ve got something really great for you and Emma.”

I cringed. Leo looked wary, but resumed his seat. Ed wedged himself into the other visitor’s chair. His right pinky sported a gold ring with a flashing ruby. The next thing I knew, Ed would be wearing spats.

“It’s like this,” Ed said, planting his pudgy fists on the edge of my desk. “We need to zap up the economy, right? At this week’s chamber of commerce meeting I’m going to propose that the stores start decorating a week before Thanksgiving. Let’s get this Christmas thing rolling. The longer the haul, the more we haul in. Get it?”

Leo and I exchanged dazed glances. “Uh …” I began, “the local merchants have a long-standing agreement not to decorate until after Thanksgiving. I think we should honor that. Many Seattle stores do.”

Ed’s laugh was derisive. “Seattle! What do
they
know? We don’t have anything in common. Alpine’s got big economic problems. You know it, I know it. Now we’re going to act. Extended credit, that’s the ticket. I intend to propose that any item costing over a hundred dollars requires only ten percent down and ninety days to pay without interest. How do you like them apples?” Sitting back in his chair, Ed folded his hands over his paunch and looked well pleased with himself.

Leo reached for a cigarette and came up empty. “I think it stinks,” he replied, though his tone was affable. “The local merchants need cash flow. How do they ensure collecting? It sounds like Deadbeat City to me.”

Ed wagged a finger at Leo. “Aha! That’s where
you’re wrong, Mr. Southern California. People in Alpine can be trusted. We’re not like L.A. or even Seattle. A man’s handshake is still good enough for us.”

It was too soon in the day, too early in the week, for me to get a headache. But I felt one coming on. I saw Leo’s skepticism, written as large on his face as his desire for a cigarette.

“Ed,” I sighed, rubbing at my temples, “if you can talk the merchants into advertising for Christmas early, that’s fine. But I honestly don’t think they should start decorating until after Thanksgiving. It’s just not right.”

Ed shook his head in a manner that suggested I was a willful, stupid child. “That’s sentiment talking, Emma. You’re harking back to when you were a kid and those fancy-pants department stores in Seattle didn’t unveil their Christmas stuff until Thanksgiving night. I know, I’ve heard you talk about stuffing yourself with turkey and then driving downtown to see the windows at the Bon Marché or Frederick & Nelson or one of those other ritzy places.”

Ed was right. Alas, the once-fabled Frederick & Nelson was gone, but the Bon still held off until Thanksgiving to light its big star, and Nordstrom also waited to sparkle with Yuletide delights. But Ed was also wrong. Part of the merchandising mystique lay in anticipation. I stated my case for Ed.

“You’re still talking Seattle,” Ed responded, heaving himself out of the chair. “God only knows what they did in Portland while you lived there. But wait and see—the chamber will have a group pants-wetting by the time I’m through with them tomorrow.”

With that sally, Ed departed.

Leo was looking bemused. “Was he always such a dumb fuck?”

“No. Yes.” I couldn’t explain Ed to Leo. I couldn’t explain Ed to myself.

Apparently Vida had forgiven me. Upon her return, she insisted that we eat lunch at the Burger Barn. She also insisted that we go early, at eleven-thirty. I acquiesced, and at precisely eleven thirty-one, we were seated in the booth nearest the door.

“What’s up?” I asked, noting that Vida had sat on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the entrance.

“Linda’s funeral is Thursday, if the body has been released by Snohomish County by then,” Vida replied, her eyes fixed on the door. “I called Al Driggers at the funeral home. The services will be held at the Lutheran church. The bank will be closed anyway on Thursday because of Veterans Day.”

“And?” I knew Vida had much more to tell me. Usually she didn’t need prodding.

Her gaze didn’t waver. Two furtive teenagers who were undoubtedly skipping school entered the restaurant. “Milo went over to Everett this morning to talk to Howard Lindahl. He’s not back yet.” Vida barely blinked as Tara Wesley, co-owner of Parker’s Pharmacy, and Nancy Dewey, Doc Dewey’s wife, made their way to a booth at the other side of the small dining room. “Sam Heppner is at the Lumberjack Motel, checking out their guest list for last week. Jack Mullins is interrogating the other bank employees. The non-Petersens, that is. Dwight Gould has today off, though I can’t think why, since there’s a homicide investigation under way. Billy is holding down the fort.”

Having accounted for all of Milo’s deputies, Vida was ready to order. Our pudgy, middle-aged waitress, Jessie Lott, was as harried and efficient as ever. She
trudged off to the kitchen while Vida announced that she was temporarily giving up her diet.

“So difficult, all these carbohydrates and proteins and grams of fat and such. You have to be a mathematician to keep track. What harm can an occasional fishwich do?”

Vida’s diets never last long, though there are days when she sticks to her regimen of hot water, carrot and celery sticks, cottage cheese, and sometimes a hard-boiled egg. She never seems to lose weight, nor does she gain. Having ordered a french dip, I had no right to comment.

Vida had started telling me how she had nursed Roger back to a semblance of health when she suddenly interrupted herself. Springing halfway to her feet, she waved and called out to someone I couldn’t see without turning to stare.

“Christie! Yoo-hoo!” Christie Johnston hesitated before approaching our booth. Vida was all smiles. “Do join us and I’ll finish telling you how to protect your shrubs during cold weather.”