The Alpine Recluse (14 page)

“What?” Edna Mae stared. “Oh! Yes.” She smiled. “You always have your little jokes, Emma. But you know what I mean.”

“So you haven’t seen anyone out of the ordinary around the Rafferty house?” I repeated, steering Edna Mae back to my original query.

“No.” She shook her head. “Just family now and then. Tiffany’s parents. Tim’s sister, Beth. I believe Beth brought her mother over once right after they moved in. I doubt that poor Mrs. Rafferty knew where she was, though. It’s very sad.”

The custodian looked as if he was getting impatient for us to leave him to his business. I wasn’t getting very far with my own. “Did you bring your car?” I asked Edna Mae. “If not, I could give you a ride.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’ve been here since nine o’clock this morning. I don’t like to walk in hot weather.”

“I don’t blame you.” I stood up. “I should go. I suppose I’d better check to find out if Alfred’s okay.”

Edna Mae also got to her feet, though she teetered a bit. “I do hope so. He’s really quite frail.”

I agreed. Moments later, I was back in the parking lot. Milo was still there, along with Coach Ridley and a tow truck driven by Cal Vickers from the Texaco station. I inquired after the county commissioner.

“Alfred wouldn’t go in the ambulance,” Milo replied, “so Myron took him to the clinic. He looked okay to the EMTs, at least as far as they could tell. The old fart wouldn’t let them come near him.” The sheriff nodded at the Chrysler, which Cal was studying with professional aplomb. “That’s a fairly new car,” Milo went on. “It’s got some other dents and scrapes. I guess Durwood Parker’s got a successor as the worst driver in SkyCo.”

“How are the Parkers?” I asked. “I haven’t spoken to them since Tim died.”

“Dwight Gould went to see them Tuesday afternoon,” Milo replied. “Dwight worked in the pharmacy while he was going to high school. He told me they were holding up pretty well. They’re tough old birds.”

“They’re smart, too,” I noted, “Durwood’s driving record notwithstanding.”

Coach Ridley chuckled. “I remember my first season as the Buckers’ coach. Sultan was down on our four-yard line, going for the winning TD in the final seconds. Durwood drove his car onto the field and damned near wiped out both teams. Time expired while everybody was running for cover. Durwood claimed he had to work late at the drug store and was only trying to find a parking place.”

The sheriff and Cal Vickers laughed, too.

“I don’t know how many times I had to tow Durwood’s cars,” Cal put in. “He was always so good-natured about it all, too. Hell of a guy.”

The three men were absorbed in their conversation. They didn’t notice me. I went over to the Honda and headed for home.

The library is located on First, between Pine and Cedar streets. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a big truck stalled on the hill, so I took a right instead of a left and drove along Pine. Slowing to a stop before turning right on Fourth, I noticed a figure leaning against the side of the Alpine Building. It was almost dark. My first thought was that whoever it was had staggered out of Mugs Ahoy across the street and couldn’t quite manage walking. But then I looked closer.

The man was tall and slightly stooped. Or maybe he seemed that way because he was propped up by the building. His T-shirt and pants were old and ratty. He had a long gray beard.

I was certain that he was Old Nick.

ELEVEN

T
HE SIGHTING OF
a man who looked like Old Nick presented a logistical dilemma. There was nowhere to park, except for a loading zone by the tavern across Pine Street. The object of my curiosity lifted his head and looked straight at the Honda. His reaction was the same as if he’d been a deer. He froze for just a second, then turned away and started scampering down the street toward Front.

A car coming uphill had the right-of-way. The driver was going very slowly, not more than ten miles an hour. I had to wait. As the vehicle crossed the intersection, I thought I recognized Darla Puckett. She wasn’t the worst driver in SkyCo, but she was the slowest, never going over twenty-five, even on the highway.

As for the man I thought was Old Nick, he was much fleeter of foot than I’d imagined. By the time Darla had passed by, he’d turned the corner on Front. A quartet of teenagers was crossing the main drag, apparently headed for the late show at the Whistling Marmot. I had to wait for them, too. By the time I turned onto Front, Old Nick had disappeared.

“Damn!” I swore under my breath, scanning Front Street. Several people were on the sidewalks, coming or going to the movie theater, the Venison Inn, the video store, the Burger Barn. That section was always busy by Alpine standards, especially on a warm summer night.

I was driving almost as slowly as Darla Puckett, trying to see where Old Nick had gone. If the man was the recluse, it seemed unlikely that he’d gone into any of the business establishments. The only escape route was the narrow alley between the theater and Dutch Bamberg’s Videos-to-Go on the corner.

But I didn’t see him from the car. He could be hiding in a doorway or even have reached Pine Street. Again, I was amazed at his quickness. Discouraged, I turned up Fifth, looking in every direction when I reached Pine again. The street was now deserted except for a couple who were just coming out of Mugs Ahoy. I kept going, cutting back to Fourth where the middle school blocked the street.

I called Vida as soon as I got home. “I think I saw Old Nick,” I said.

“No!” Vida sounded flabbergasted. “Where?”

I recounted my little adventure. “For an old guy, he moves pretty fast,” I added.

“You’re sure you aren’t mistaken? It’s dark; it may have been someone else with a beard.”

“It wasn’t that dark,” I responded. “This happened ten, fifteen minutes ago.” I started at the beginning, with dinner for Milo and his talk at the library.

“Alfred Cobb!” Vida exclaimed when I got to the part about the accident. “The old fool! He should have had his license revoked years ago! He must be ninety if he’s a day!”

“He has an outstanding guardian angel,” I remarked.

“Worn to a frazzle, I should think.” But Vida still had objections about my sighting. “I can’t imagine Old Nick—or any other of those hermits—staying so long in town, especially in the summer. They come for a day or two, get what they need, and go back to their lairs. It’s utterly uncharacteristic for one of them to linger.”

Vida had a point, but I wondered if she wasn’t dubious because it would mean her search—
Roger’s
search—was in vain. “All the same, I’m going to tell Milo,” I said.

“Oh, Milo, my foot! He couldn’t find Old Nick under his desk!”

“Well,” I said, piqued by Vida’s disbelief, “Roger and his buddies didn’t find Old Nick in my backyard.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s where I found them when I came home from work a half hour early.”

“You did?” Vida paused. “They were resting, of course.”

It was useless to reveal the truth to Vida. She’d accuse me of lying, of causing trouble, of being blind as a bat. Worse yet, she’d be on the peck—as she’d put it—for the rest of the week.

“Ask Roger,” I said, and let it go at that.

There was another pause at the other end of the line. “They’d probably been to the cul-de-sac, looking for clues. Or at the abandoned house.”

“You haven’t talked to him this evening?”

“No,” Vida admitted. “I only got home about ten minutes ago. I had dinner with the Thorvaldsons in Sultan. They’re distant cousins, you know.”

If I’d ever known, I’d forgotten. It was impossible to keep up with all of Vida’s relatives.

“I tried to drop off those geranium cuttings for Mandy Gustavson on my way to Sultan. Unfortunately, she wasn’t home,” Vida continued. “I’ll try again tomorrow, or perhaps Saturday. She may be working evenings at the Venison Inn. I certainly don’t want to meet her in the bar.”

I assumed she shuddered at the mere thought. “Bars are good places for gossip,” I pointed out.

“Anywhere is a good place for gossip,” Vida retorted. “I’ll call Roger right now. Don’t you dare phone Milo until I call you back.”

I agreed. For all I knew, Milo had gone off to Mugs Ahoy with Coach Ridley and Cal Vickers. The sheriff was, after all, off duty.

It was going on ten o’clock. I hadn’t checked my e-mail since I got home from work. Sure enough, there was a message from Adam.

“Mom,” he wrote. “If Toni was seeing Tim Rafferty, that’d explain the e-mail I got from her today. I’m forwarding it on to you. Make of it what you will. Love and prayers, Adam the Popsicle.”

Lucky Adam. Apparently, he wasn’t suffering from ninety-degree heat.

Quickly, I read through Toni’s message.

“Hi, Adam—I’m not at work today because I don’t feel good. Is it true that men outnumber women in Alaska? I’m thinking of moving there. Where’s a good place? I don’t think I can live in Alpine anymore. I trust you. Please help me. Your friend, Toni.”

The message sounded like Toni: immature, naïve—and trusting. If she’d trusted Tim Rafferty, she’d made a big mistake. But at least she’d had the good sense—or dumb luck—to confide in Adam. I suspected that Toni always trusted the men she dated. My son was probably one of the few that she could still locate, let alone trust.

I thought about the matter for several minutes before finally replying to Adam. Maybe he was still online. His message had been sent only a half hour ago, our time.

“Dear Adam—Upon sober reflection (no, your mother hasn’t been drinking, not for the past four hours anyway), I’ve decided that this is a perfect opening for me to talk to Toni. But first, you should e-mail and tell her what she needs to know about jobs and locations and such. Then I can take it from there. Are you really cold? I envy you. Love, Mom.”

I waited, hoping that Adam would respond. The phone rang a minute or two later.

It was Vida. “I spoke to Roger,” she said in a brusque voice. “I was quite right. He and the other searchers were merely taking a break on their way back to Old Mill Park. They’d decided to do a thorough search of the abandoned house and the murder site.”

“And?”

“They were impeded by smoldering rubble at the house,” Vida replied in a hostile tone. “There’s still a danger of flare-up there, though I can’t think why. Doe Jameson was patrolling the site and shooed them away. Honestly, you’d think that with all the water and chemicals they use on fires now, there wouldn’t be a problem. It’s been four days.”

“Only three, really,” I pointed out. “The fire was late Monday night. This is only Thursday.”

“Well,” Vida huffed, “it seems like much longer. In any event, Roger and the other brave souls went through the vacant property, though why Milo put up crime-scene tape around the house, I’ll never know.”

“To keep out trespassers?” I suggested.

Vida took umbrage. “Roger and his chums certainly aren’t trespassers, they’re on a mission. The sheriff should thank them. But they did get in and had a very good look around before Doe showed up a second time and made them leave.”

Doe had had a busy day. Maybe I could learn to like her.

“What did they find?” I inquired as a new message from Adam showed up in my in-box.

“All sorts of things,” Vida said cryptically. “Of course, Milo had taken away items that might have fingerprints or be traceable. But there was still a great deal to sort through.”

I was torn between reading my son’s e-mail and listening to Vida puff up her grandson’s importance. “Such as?”

“What you might expect from hippies and squatters,” Vida said in a self-righteous tone. “Wine bottles, candles, drug paraphernalia, music tapes, artsy-craftsy things, even some kind of kiln. Or that’s how Roger described it, though he thought it was an oven. Which, of course, it really is.”

“Yes.” I was distracted. “Good for him,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m still going to call Milo.”

“If you must.”

I would—but as soon as I hung up, I read my son’s latest missive.

“Mom—Will do, along with a warning for Toni to ignore ads that promise big bucks and may sound like they’re some kind of official Alaskan site but are a scam. I’ll do it now while I have time and CC the message to you. I’m not cold now, but I will be in about two weeks. Envy is a sin. You’d better stick to drinking.”

I smiled, as if I could see Adam’s face on the laptop’s screen. I tapped out a brief reply. Then I called Milo on his cell. He picked up, sounding irritated.

“Why didn’t you call me at home?” he demanded. “I thought this was another damned emergency.”

“I didn’t know you were home,” I said innocently. “I thought you might be out drinking with the boys.”

“What boys?” Milo grumbled. “Cal Vickers isn’t far from sixty, and Coach has got to be over fifty. Hell, they’re as old as I am. As for Myron Cobb, he’s close to seventy. Myron rode a bicycle to the library, for God’s sake.”

“You can’t blame him for not wanting to ride with his father,” I pointed out. “Guess who I
think
I saw coming home?”

“Roger?”

“No. Old Nick.”

“The hell you did.”

“This guy fit the description,” I insisted before describing the encounter.

“That’s weird,” Milo said when I’d finished. He knew that I wasn’t given to flights of fancy, so his tone was thoughtful. “Maybe he got wind of those goofy kids and their search party. Maybe he decided the best place to hide was in town.”

“Did any of them find a shack or any kind of place where a hermit might hole up in the woods?”

“Oh, a couple of old lean-tos we already knew about,” Milo replied. “They’ve been there forever, but nobody lives in them. There’s an abandoned cabin up on Martin Creek—some others around the county, too. From time to time, they’ve been occupied, but not lately. Summer people, homesteaders, whoever built those places a million years ago just left them standing vacant. They should be torn down, but that’s not my worry. Most of them are on what’s now state or federal forest service land.”

I already knew that story. Over the years, we’d run articles on the subject, hoping that rightful owners or their heirs might step forward. The only responses we’d gotten were bogus. As for the hermits, they wouldn’t set up housekeeping on property that the authorities had on record.

“One thing bothers me,” I said. “If this was Old Nick, he’s in terrific shape. He ran like a racehorse. How old is he supposed to be?”

“How should I know?” Milo retorted. “He’s always been described as having a long gray—sometimes even white—beard. That goes back twenty, thirty years. If I had to guess—which I hate to do—I’d say in his seventies.”

“He ran like he was eighteen,” I said. “Or closer to that than to eighty.”

“That’s possible,” Milo said after a pause. “Those hermits have to keep fit just to survive. They have to haul their supplies, often uphill. You’ve heard about the Iron Man of the Hoh?”

“Of course,” I replied, “but he wasn’t a hermit. He had a ranch on the Hoh River over on the Olympic Peninsula.” The old guy had been so strong that he’d allegedly carried a cast-iron stove for miles and miles over rough country trails and streams. When encountering a neighbor who asked if the stove was a heavy burden, the Iron Man responded that it wasn’t too bad—but the hundred-pound sack of flour inside the stove kind of slowed him down.

Milo’s point was well taken, however. Forest-dwelling recluses didn’t need to work out in a gym to keep in good physical condition.

After assuring the sheriff that he’d made a very effective presentation at the library, I rang off. My work was done. But I had a busy Friday ahead of me.

V
IDA GOES TO
all the funerals. She always has a wonderful time, despite the tragic circumstances or her criticism of the deceased. I go only when it’s someone I’ve known well. It’s not that funerals disturb me so much, but that I can’t endure the Wailers, a trio of black-clad women who attend every service for the dead whether they know the person or not, and who constantly moan, shriek—and wail. I’ve tried to ignore them—as Vida manages to do—but they drive me nuts.

I’d heard back from Adam shortly before going to bed Thursday night. The message he’d sent Toni was informative and relatively concise, directing her to the state of Alaska’s web page. He also wanted to make sure that she understood the size of Alaska, not to mention the harsh weather conditions. He’d suggested that she might consider seasonal work, particularly in the seafood industry, rather than making a permanent move.

I don’t know why, but I always find it surprising when my son exhibits a mature and compassionate nature. Priest or no priest, I still think of him as seventeen and utterly irresponsible. I suppose it’s one of the occupational hazards of being a mother.

Adam had also told Toni that I’d be checking in with her, as I was familiar with the situation in Alaska. That wasn’t exactly true, but what he really meant was that at least I knew where to find it on a map.

Thus, the first thing I did after securing coffee and a glazed doughnut was to call the sheriff’s office and find out if Toni was at work. She wasn’t, Doe Jameson informed me rather testily. Toni was still ailing. It was possible, Doe added, that Toni might come in later in the day.

I tried Toni at her home. She didn’t pick up. All I got was a prerecorded message informing me that the party I was trying to reach wasn’t available. And all I could do was wait.

“You really must come,” Vida declared, standing in the doorway to my office. “The funeral could be very revealing.”