The Alpine Recluse (18 page)

E
VEN THOUGH
B
ECKY
had asked me not to talk to her mother, I hadn’t promised any such thing. Journalists can’t make promises when they’re on the trail of a hot story. I ventured out of the house at five to ten Saturday morning, heading for kIds cOrNEr. Its quirky lettering, etched on oversize children’s blocks, highlighted the owner’s first name, Ione.

I parked in front of Francine’s Fine Apparel, next door to kIds cOrNEr. Luckily, Ione had just opened the store and had no other customers. I wasn’t going to bother with subterfuge.

“I’m out of line,” I declared. “But I have to ask you a question.”

Ione, who is as dark as her daughter is fair, frowned at me. “What kind of question?”

“You called 911 last week. Why?”

Ione seemed prepared. I guessed that Becky had confessed her indiscreet remark to Beth Rafferty. “I could say it’s none of your business, Emma.”

“Yes, you could,” I replied. “You’re not a fanciful person, Ione. If you called 911, it should be a matter of public record. Your call was never logged. Scott Chamoud checks the police log every workday. There was nothing listed for your neighborhood. I want to know why not.”

Ione’s sharp features didn’t soften one jot. “I’ve never been a troublemaker. I’m not going to start now.”

“Would you rather get Beth into trouble because she didn’t make an official entry in the log and didn’t respond in any way?”

Ione uttered a four-letter word she wouldn’t have dreamed of using in front of her clientele. “You’re blackmailing me,” she accused.

“No,” I asserted. “I’m doing investigative reporting. Oh, I know that some people call 911 for really stupid reasons or because they imagine something. But that’s not your style. I’m guessing your call was about Tim and Tiffany. That’s why Beth didn’t log it. Milo thought she’d simply forgotten.”

Ione’s eyes widened. “Dodge knows?”

“He knows she skipped a beat,” I said. I’d let Ione figure out what else he knew—or in this case, didn’t know.

“Okay, okay,” Ione barked. “So I overreacted.” She paused, the faint lines in her high forehead deepening. “You never knew my husband,” she said in a more matter-of-fact tone. “Kris was a logger who lost a leg in the woods. He blamed me. Can you beat that?” She made a disparaging gesture with her hand. “He was verbally abusive, day in, day out. Finally, he blew his brains out with a twenty-gauge shotgun. The girls weren’t home, thank God. They were staying at their grandmother’s. I was the one who found him. I threw up, but I never shed a tear. Becky and Dani and I were better off without the bastard.”

“That’s horrible,” I remarked, wondering why Ione was telling me this sad story.

“While I was married to Kris, nobody talked about verbal abuse,” she continued. “I guess back then it was called constructive criticism.” Ione made a face. “Or if a woman did it, she was just a nag. But it gets to you. It erodes your self-confidence. You get so damned unsure of yourself that you start making mistakes, dropping things, stumbling over your own feet. For six years, I was a nervous wreck. So were our daughters, though Kris wasn’t as hard on Dani and Becky as he was on me. In fact, he ignored them most of the time, probably because they were girls. They were two and four when Kris killed himself, and hardly remember him, which is just as well. I’d like to forget him, too.”

I was wondering—not too patiently—where all this Erdahl family history was going. Before I could say anything, Ginny Erlandson entered the shop with her two boys in tow. She greeted me with a surprised expression. “Don’t tell me you’re buying toys,” she said with a smile. “Or clothes?”

I hesitated for only a moment. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’m going to send some things to Adam for the young members of his flock in Alaska.”

“That’s really nice of you,” Ginny said, keeping one eye on her sons, who were pawing the merchandise. “Our plastic pool sprung a leak.” She looked at Ione. “Do you have any left?”

“Two,” Ione replied, her sales smile in place. “Neither is the same as the one you bought, but I’ve marked these down since summer—hopefully—is coming to an end. They’re at the back of the store. The turtle is the best deal, although you’ll have to put it on top of your car to take it home. It’s fairly big.”

Ginny gathered up her children and headed down the main aisle. Ione was still wearing her customer-friendly expression. “What are you interested in, Emma? I don’t have much for cold weather right now.”

I had to think. Like most men, my son was vague when it came to ages—let alone sizes—of children. “Pants,” I said. “Two in each size for boys and girls. And tops—same thing, as long as they aren’t sleeveless.”

“They’re all on sale, too,” Ione said, leading me to the round racks that held the appropriate items. “Or don’t you read our ad in the
Advocate
?”

“That’s Leo’s job,” I replied. “You know I’m not used to shopping for kids.”

We were out of earshot from Ginny and her boys, though they were both making enough noise to drown out a symphony orchestra.

“Are you going to tell me why you called 911,” I said in a low voice, “or do I have to give you a rubber check?”

Ione turned grim. “Are you buying toys, too?”

“Yes.” What did I know about toys? How was I going to pay for all this? First, she accuses me of blackmail; now she wants a bribe. “Of course I want toys.”

Ione nodded once. “I walk our dog, Charley, every night.” She was speaking quietly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Ginny wasn’t coming closer. “Over the years, he got in the habit of doing his business in the cul-de-sac. He won’t go anywhere else, even after the Raffertys built their house. I take a baggie, of course. The last couple of months, I could hear Tim and Tiffany fighting, yelling, screaming. It reminded me of my own marriage. That can escalate, you know. Last week, it was really bad. I stayed awake all night fussing about it, so the next day I called 911 before the situation got out of hand. Beth answered. I told her what was going on. She was really upset, but I don’t think she did anything official about it. Now that Tim’s dead, I don’t know if I did the right thing. Maybe I made the situation worse somehow. If Beth confronted Tim and Tiffany—”

Ione shut up. Ginny and the boys were hauling a large pool shaped like a turtle down the aisle. “We’ll take it,” she said. “I’ve got some rope in the car. If you help me, I’ll tie it on top.”

“I’ll help,” I volunteered.

Ginny gave me a grateful look. “Thanks, Emma. You’re a good boss.”

She paid for her purchase and ordered the boys to get out of a fire engine made for two. Ione held the door open for us. Lugging the pool down Front Street, we turned the corner. Ginny had parked halfway up the hill. I was out of breath by the time we got to the car. The boys were whooping and hollering, triumphant over their new acquisition.

It was a struggle, but we managed to get the blasted thing secured. In truth, it wasn’t heavy—just very awkward. Ginny thanked me again before settling the boys into the car and driving away. Slowly.

I went back to kIds cOrNEr. “Well?” Ione said, arms folded across her chest. “I picked out the clothes for you. What about the toys?”

“You choose,” I said, already perspiring in the morning heat. “Try to keep it under a hundred, okay?” I gave her my credit card number and Adam’s address.

“I’ll select items for all ages,” Ione said, running my card through her machine. “I’ll call you later with the total.”

“Fine. Thanks.” I sounded beat.

“The winter clothes should start coming in by the end of the month,” she said, returning my card. “You aren’t going to put anything in the paper about what I said, are you?”

“I doubt it,” I said. I’d make no promises to her, either. Like mother, like daughter.

“I hope not. I feel like a meddler. But,” she added, “I think it’s terrible the way Tiffany treated Tim.”

I did a double take. “You mean . . . ?”

Ione nodded. “It was Tiffany who was doing most of the yelling. I’d say that woman is a first-class abuser.”

FOURTEEN

I
DIDN’T KNOW
what to do or what to think about Ione’s account of the Rafferty relationship. I wanted to talk to Beth, but I’d already flunked that course. I hadn’t done much better with Tiffany. Cookie Eriks would never admit that her daughter had a problem. If anything, Cookie seemed intimidated by Tiffany. I’d taken the older woman’s coddling as concern for her pregnant offspring. But maybe there was another reason for Cookie’s humble servitude.

Wayne Eriks might be more forthcoming. He’d had dinner with Tim just a few days before the tragedy. I wanted to know why. It was Saturday, however. Wayne probably would be home with Cookie and Tiffany.

I’d been cruising Front Street, trying to think. KSKY played on the car radio, C&W classics, which was Spencer Fleetwood’s standard Saturday-morning fare. As Willie Nelson’s “Always on My Mind” ended, Rey Fernandez began the eleven o’clock news. I wondered if I was on Rolf’s mind over in Spokane. He’d been on mine—at least, at the back of it. I still couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to call him.

Nothing of interest caught my attention in Rey’s newscast. At least we hadn’t been scooped on a breaking story. I was about to turn onto Alpine Way and head home when Rey delivered the weather forecast: a high of eighty-nine, a low of sixty-four, with gathering clouds and the possibility of thunder and lightning in the Cascades. No rain, though. That wasn’t good news.

But the forecast gave me an idea. I turned right instead of left on Alpine Way and headed for the newspaper office via Railroad Avenue. Parking behind the building, I went in through the quiet back shop to reach my cubbyhole.

Unlike Vida, I don’t have most Alpiners’ phone numbers filed in my head. The phone book had only two listings for the last name of Eriks—Wayne and his cousin, Mel, who worked for Blue Sky Dairy. Cookie answered. I inquired about how the family was doing, especially Tiffany.

“She’s resting,” Cookie replied. “Jake and Betsy have given her a few days off to recover. With pay. Isn’t that nice?”

“Very,” I said, though knowing Betsy, she had to grit her teeth to do it. Betsy runs a tight financial ship for her husband’s grocery store. “Is Wayne there? I’ve got an electrical problem at the office.”

Wordlessly, Cookie turned the phone over to her husband. “Yeah?” he said by way of greeting.

Since Cookie hadn’t bothered to identify Wayne’s caller, I told him who I was and asked if he ever moonlighted.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“If I call an electrician on a Saturday, I’ll have to pay double or triple time,” I explained. “I’ll make it worth your while, of course.”

“What’s the problem?”

That was the tricky part. “We’ve got a satellite dish on the tin roof at the
Advocate.
We’re supposed to get thunder and lightning tonight, and I’m afraid something might happen.” I didn’t want to mention that lightning might cause a fire and burn the place down. Under the circumstances, that seemed tactless. Besides, I had no idea what I was talking about. “Could you check it out and make sure everything is grounded?” Whatever that meant.

“Call the cable guy,” Wayne said. “That’s his job.”

“You know he won’t come until Monday or Tuesday,” I said, sounding dismal.

“What about Kip MacDuff? Isn’t he your jack-of-all-trades?”

“I can’t reach him,” I lied.

“Do you know how hot it’s going to be on that damned roof under the noonday sun?”

“Well . . . yes. I could go up with you and hold a parasol over your head.”

To my surprise, Wayne chuckled. “I’d like to see that. Okay, I’ll come by and take a look. See you in a few.”

My thank-yous were effusive. As soon as I hung up, I rushed outside, got in the car, and drove six blocks down Front Street to the 7-Eleven. Eight minutes later I was back in the office with a six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s Private Reserve. Maybe a couple of beers would loosen Wayne’s tongue.

Wayne arrived ten minutes later. “I got a ladder on the truck,” he said. “This part of the building’s so low I could practically jump it.”

“It was an add-on,” I replied. “Marius Vandeventer had it built thirty years ago.”

“Old Marius.” Wayne grinned. “Is he still kicking?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s alive and well in Arizona. Vida hears from him every now and then. I get a Christmas card. But he was a real help when I bought the paper from him.”

Wayne went outside. I followed him. He was right about the overhead sun. It was hot, too damned hot for Alpine or any other place north of the equator, as far as I was concerned.

“Looks fine to me,” Wayne called. “Why don’t you put a different roof on this thing? Nobody uses tin anymore.”

“They use aluminum or some kind of metal on some of the new buildings in Seattle,” I quibbled. “Although I think most of them are ugly.”

He descended the ladder, folded it up, and started for his truck, which he’d parked by my Honda. “I can’t charge you for a look-see.” With ease, he put the ladder in the back of the vehicle, where other tools of his trade were stored.

“At least you can have a beer,” I said. “I’ve got some Henry’s, cold.”

“That sounds good to me,” Wayne said with his gap-toothed smile.

We went back to the newsroom. I’d stashed the beer in the small fridge next to the coffeemaker. “Paper cup or the bottle?” I asked, taking out two beers. Ordinarily, I don’t drink beer, although I make an exception during hot weather.

“Bottle’s fine,” Wayne said, giving me a quizzical look. “How come you got so worried about that satellite dish? Hasn’t it been up there for years? We get thunder and lightning all the time.”

“But not this much prolonged hot, dry weather,” I replied. “And,” I went on, tactless or not, “I’m terrified of fires.”

Wayne shuddered. “Who isn’t?”

Having broached the subject, I plunged ahead. “It was probably what happened to Tim and the house that got me so upset. Of course, I know that fire wasn’t started because of the weather. I just wish Milo would find out who did it.”

“Don’t we all,” Wayne murmured.

“This should have been the happiest time of Tim and Tiffany’s lives,” I remarked, leaning against a file cabinet. “For everyone in the family. I imagine the baby brought you all closer.”

After taking a big drink of beer, Wayne shrugged. “That’s down the line. When the kid gets here, I mean.”

“True,” I admitted, “but you and your son-in-law must have been forging a special bond. Fatherhood. It’s such a responsibility.”

“Sure is.” Wayne gulped more beer. “It’s got its ups and downs.”

I supposed Wayne was thinking of the son he and Cookie had lost in the rafting accident. Ringo. The family had had more than its share of tragedy. I said as much. “You must be very strong. I’m sure Tim could have benefited from your advice.”

“I
am
strong,” Wayne declared after swallowing more beer. “In lots of ways.” He moved a couple of steps closer. “Want to feel my abs?”

“No.” I made an effort to smile. “I believe you. How’s Cookie?”

If I thought mentioning his wife would deter Wayne, I was wrong. He set the beer bottle down on the coffeemaker table and put both hands on my shoulders. His paunch was almost touching me; I could smell sweat—and beer.

“I could use more of a payoff than a couple of brewskis. How about it, Emma? You didn’t ask me here to check your stupid dish. You’re the only dish I’m interested in.”

He’d certainly caught me off guard. Maybe I’d gotten used to being some sort of authority figure in Alpine. Or maybe it was that in middle age, I’d grown unaccustomed to a man coming on so strong so soon. “Hey!” I barked, yanking at the long sleeves of his shirt. “Knock it off!”

Wayne pulled me closer. His face was hovering over mine. “Come on, sweetie. You’re damned cute. You got a good body, too.” He began running his hands up and down my sides.

I turned away, burying my face against my shoulder. “Stop. I mean it.” My voice was steadier than I’d expected. “Do you want Dodge arresting you for attempted rape?”

His hands froze on my hips. Apparently he’d forgotten my intimate connection with the sheriff.

“Shit.” Wayne removed his hands and backed off. “You’re a prick-tease, Emma Lord. Go to hell.”

He grabbed his beer and stalked out of the newsroom.

I gasped for breath. My investigative skills were not only failing, but they were buying trouble. Going into the back shop, I looked through the peephole to see if Wayne was gone. I couldn’t see his pickup from that angle, but a moment later, I heard the engine rev and the sound of the truck pulling away. The vehicle sounded as angry as its owner.

Maybe I should call the sheriff, although it wasn’t because of what Wayne had done. It was what he hadn’t said that bothered me most.

Milo was home, going through his tackle box. “I can’t fish in this weather,” he grumbled. “It’s too damned hot. Even the trout won’t come out of the water when the sun’s beating down on the lakes and the streams.”

I managed—just barely—not to mention Wayne Eriks’s unwelcome attentions. But I did suggest that he talk to Wayne about his relationship with Tim. As I spoke, I realized that my voice was strained. I was more shaken by Wayne’s move on me than I realized.

“Just because they ate dinner together?” Milo responded, apparently not noticing that I wasn’t quite myself.

“Think about it,” I urged. “They weren’t close. So why would they go off to dinner together at the ski lodge unless there was an important reason? Why didn’t Tim and Wayne talk at the Venison Inn or have a few beers at Mugs Ahoy? Instead, they chose a place where there was both privacy and no interfering hassles.”

“How the hell do I know?” Milo retorted. “You’re doing that speculating thing again. That doesn’t work in law enforcement.”

If I wasn’t going to rat out Wayne Eriks, I certainly wouldn’t betray Beth Rafferty. “Trust me,” I said in my most earnest voice. “Something strange was going on between Tim and Tiffany. How does her alibi hold up for the time of Tim’s death?”

“Christ.” The sheriff sounded as if he’d like to take a twenty-pound test line and strangle me with it. “She says she went to the employee break room about that time and ate her dinner.”

“Witnesses?”

“Buzzy O’Toole saw her leave the check stand and come back an hour later,” Milo said in a beleaguered tone. “He was filling in as the night manager.”

Jake’s brother wasn’t the most reliable man in town. His own business ventures had failed. Buzzy was able to cope as the Grocery Basket’s produce manager only because Jake and Betsy watched him like a pair of hawks. “Tiffany ate alone?”

“Yeah. They only have three checkers at night and one of them spends most of the time restocking or facing out the shelves or whatever they call it. They close at one in the morning and reopen at six. Don’t you read your own ads?”

If one more idiot asked me that question, I was going to explode. “I know their hours,” I snapped. “They wouldn’t stay open that long if Safeway hadn’t forced them into it. Stick to the issue at hand. I’m serious.”

“What you’re telling me,” Milo said in a condescending tone, “is that you think Tiffany killed Tim and set their house on fire, right?”

The sheriff had backed me into a corner. That brought out the contrariness in my nature. “Yes, I’m saying that’s possible.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I believe stranger things have happened,” I declared, growing more contrary by the moment. “Tiffany doesn’t act like a bereaved widow. She’s still going to have a baby, she gets the insurance money for the house, she’s being spoiled to pieces by her mother, and all of the nursery items she’s bought were kept at the Erikses’ house. Maybe Tim was just a sperm donor, and after that, he’d outlived his usefulness.”

“Whoa.” Milo sounded taken aback. “What’d Tiffany ever do to you? You really have it in for her.”

“No, I don’t,” I asserted. “I’m hearing things—in confidence. Good journalists never betray their sources. Won’t you take my word for it?”

“You’ve got some bug up your ass,” Milo said, but his tone was thoughtful. “Are you okay? You sound like you’re sick.”

“It’s the heat,” I said, which was partly true. “I get depressed when we don’t get rain.”

“Who doesn’t?” Milo responded. “I mean, if you’re a real native.”

“Our roots need watering, just like the trees. Will you really talk to Wayne?”

“Oh—sure, why not? He lives just down the street. I’ll drop by this afternoon.”

“Good.” I smiled in an evil manner, wishing I could see Wayne’s face when the sheriff dropped by. A little intimidation—real or imaginary—might make the creep talk.

I was driving the car around from the back of the newspaper office when I spotted Vida coming out of the hobby shop across Fourth. She was carrying a huge box.

“Vida!” I called. “What’s that?”

She could barely see over the box. “Meet me at home. I’m parked right there.” She nodded at her Buick Regal, which was pulled in at the curb a few yards away on Front Street.

Why not? I drove straight to her house. Vida arrived a couple of minutes later, empty-handed.

“I left the Destroyer in the car,” she explained. “It’s an incentive present for Roger.”

“What kind of incentive?” I asked as we headed for her front door.

“To study hard fall quarter,” she replied. “And to reward him, too, for his efforts in trying to find Old Nick. My, but it’s warm.” She brushed at the damp gray curls under her green straw hat’s brim.

“Dare I ask what kind of Destroyer you bought him?”

Vida opened the front door. “It’s put out by Lego—over three thousand pieces. Rather pricey. It has something to do with
Star Wars.
He’s very fond of the films.”

She left the front door open. The house felt stuffy despite the big fan that she’d left turned on in the living room. “I didn’t know Roger liked
Star Wars,
” I remarked.

“Oh, very much,” Vida replied, removing the sun hat. “I believe that’s how he first got interested in becoming an actor. Not that I’ve seen the movies, but I understand they’ve been very popular. Let’s sit for a minute before we go.”

“Go? Where are we going?”