The Alpine Yeoman (24 page)

“Oh, crap!” he exclaimed, followed by a brief silence. “Tanya’s at my house. She mentioned having dinner with Bill but didn’t say where. Maybe he’s surprising her. The last thing they need is the old folks hanging out like chaperones. You want to drive over to Everett?”

“No,” I said. “You’ve had a busy week. So have I. The Grocery Basket has halibut cheeks on sale. I’ll pick some up on the way home.”

“You’re a hell of a good wife for not having had any practice.”

“Maybe that’s why.” Once again, I hung up first.

I returned to my Heppner research. Toppenish was in Yakima County. Last December Vida had called the daily
Yakima Herald-Republic
to get background on an accident Mitch’s son had been involved in while driving his Good Humor wagon. The child he’d struck had run out into traffic, but the investigating cops had found more than ice cream novelties in Troy’s possession. He’d been arrested for dealing drugs. The Yakima source had been very helpful.

Before I could find the paper’s editorial number, it occurred to me that maybe there was a closer source. Girding myself for more lewd comments from Janet, I dialed the funeral home. To my relief, Al answered, though his morbid manner was as unsettling as his wife’s lewd remarks.

“Yes, Emma,” he said as if he were confirming my demise, “I do have the mother of the deceased’s contact number at the Guest House Inn & Suites in Monroe—suite B. It’s a fine establishment, just off Highway 2 and conveniently located to Valley General hospital.”

I hadn’t asked for a testimonial, but I supposed it was better than having Al read my pre-death obituary. I jotted down the number and thanked him before ringing off.

When I called, a recording informed me that I could speak or press the room number or suite letter. No one answered. I’d have to try again later.

Vida returned shortly after I’d found the Yakima paper’s listing. “Vinica Kramer is a Gypsy,” she declared, sitting down and running a hand through her unruly gray curls. Apparently,
she’d discarded the offending hat for good. I wondered if she felt naked without it.

“You mean she moves from place to place?” I asked.

“She may, but I mean she’s a Rom, as she put it. I find that rather intriguing. I don’t recall ever having met a Gypsy until now.”

“I knew some in Portland,” I said. “But a Gypsy named Kramer?”

“Her husband, Franz, is German-born. His parents came to this country when he was a child. Franz and Vinica have an older son attending Skagit Valley College.”

“Is she a fortune-teller?” I asked—and felt guilty of an ethnic cliché.

“Yes,” Vida replied, oblivious to my gaffe. “They moved here last fall, but she intends to set up shop—that may be the wrong term—when Kristina has recovered from mono. Franz is a carpenter and has gone to work for Nyquist Construction.”

“That sounds like a story in itself,” I said. “The fortune-telling, I mean. Another new business. Did you see Kristina?”

“No.” Vida frowned. “Mrs. Kramer fears she may be contagious.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I’m not sure, though I found her quite interesting. She asked me why I wasn’t wearing a hat.”

“Maybe she’s seen you around town.”

Vida was still frowning. “Before I could answer, she told me she was glad. The hat was tainted with evil. Maybe she knows my sister-in-law. There are some people who have unusual powers of perception and observation. I can see how she could cast a bit of a spell. I didn’t recognize her, though she dresses in a rather ordinary manner. A bit more gold and silver chains,
perhaps, but I’m not fond of wearing much jewelry. Pearls for formal occasions are sufficient.”

I agreed, fingering the heirloom wedding ring Milo had slipped on my finger during our civil ceremony. I loved the simple gold band with its twin circlets of diamonds. It had once belonged to Grandma Olive Dodge. I changed the subject to my chat with Wanda Johnson.

Vida was disgusted. “She’s living in a dream world. I recall Wanda as fairly sensible. If she wasn’t, Meg wouldn’t have been her friend.”

“Maybe Wanda can’t face a more dire fate for Erin than shacking up with her boyfriend in whatever small town Rick Morris is from.”

“Perhaps. So foolish not to meet problems squarely, especially with children.” Vida’s frown returned. I wondered if she was thinking of Roger. But when she spoke again, it was of Vince Moro. “My nephew Billy related your confrontation with Wanda’s ex-husband. Really, Emma, you should never have opened the door if you were alone.”

“I’ve already heard the lecture,” I said wearily. “Milo wouldn’t let me go see Wanda, even in broad daylight. That’s why I called her.”

Vida’s face tightened, but she nodded. “Prudent of him. Billy mentioned the address Vince Moro had on his driver’s license.” She stood up. “I must get back to work. Oh—do you want me to speak to the Fritzes? They live not far from the former Rasmussen house by the river.”

Vida’s intention to venture near the site of a homicide victim’s home didn’t surprise me. She’d been shot by the killer while snooping around the premises during the murder investigation. My House & Home editor wouldn’t let the memory of a near-death experience affect her curiosity.

“You don’t mind going there?” I asked.

She shrugged. “The person who wounded me was killed by a cougar. A fitting end—though I’m not fond of cats in any form. Such proud, selfish creatures.”

If I could never stay mad at Milo for very long, it was almost as hard to remain angry with Vida. I wished Leo were more inclined to leniency, but I really couldn’t fault him. One of life’s lessons is that you can’t please all of the people all of the time. If you can please any one of them even part of the time, that’s an achievement in itself.

On that philosophical note, I went back to researching Sam Heppner, a man who had never seemed to care about pleasing anybody. I wondered why.

I was able to track down a reporter on the Yakima newspaper who was kind enough to check out the death of Amos Heppner. He said it might take him a while, but he’d try to phone me back before five. It was now after three, so I hoped he wouldn’t be called out on a hot story in the meantime.

I was considering other sources for Sam’s background—the Pentecostal church came to mind if it was still around—when I saw a dark-haired woman heading purposefully for my cubbyhole.

“Mrs. Dodge?” she said, pausing on the threshold.

“Yes?” I replied, unused to being addressed by my married name in the workplace. “May I help you?”

“Maybe,” she said, gesturing at one of my visitor chairs. I nodded. She sat down, carefully tucking her tan trench coat under her. “My name’s Carmela Dobles. I’ve come from the sheriff’s office. He wasn’t in, but the receptionist told me you might help me sort through some confusion about my son, Joe Fernandez.”

I was startled, and it probably showed. Folding my hands, I made an effort to regain my composure and noted that Carmela looked determined. Her dark eyes were intense; her piquant face was set. The brown slacks and beige turtleneck hadn’t come off the rack. A car salesman in Portland had once told me that he always checked out a woman’s shoes to judge how much she or her husband could spend on a car. I’d caught the telltale red inner heel on her pumps and recognized a Christian Louboutin signature sole even if I could never afford to own a pair. The Gucci handbag was another indication that Mrs. Dobles was definitely upscale. Maybe she came from money, but I didn’t think so, though I wasn’t sure why.

“I’m trying to claim my son’s body from the local funeral home,” Carmela said. “It appears someone else has also asked for his remains. Mrs. Driggers wouldn’t tell me who it was. I’ve been informed that only Sheriff Dodge can give me that information, but he isn’t in. Ms. Cobb—I think that’s her name—suggested I talk to you, because you’re the sheriff’s wife as well as the local newspaper owner.” She stared at me expectantly.

I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what’s going on, either. I spoke to the funeral home owner’s wife this afternoon, and they also have to wait for the sheriff’s response. Really, I wish I
could
help. I’m told your husband is recovering. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

The dark eyes were shrewd. “I think you can.”

For a split second I wondered if Carmela was part Gypsy. “Most of us don’t get this far in life without tragedies. You strike me as a very strong person.”

Carmela lowered her gaze. “I wasn’t always that way.”

“We have to acquire strength the hard way. How soon will your husband be released?”

She looked at me again. “Monday, probably. Nel will need
rehab after we get home. He’ll have to lie flat for the trip back to Visalia.” She shook her head in apparent dismay. “He’ll hate that. He’s always in a hurry—which is how he ended up crashing his car in the first place.”

“Was he here on business?” I asked.

“Here? You mean in … Alpine?” Carmela saw me nod. “No. He was going across the pass when the accident occurred. Apparently, your hospital is quite small. That’s how he ended up in Monroe.”

I nodded again. “Some of the other injured people were brought here. Given the severity of his condition, I was surprised he wasn’t airlifted to Harborview Hospital in Seattle.”

“I understand the medics weren’t sure he could make it that far,” Carmela said. “But Nel is nothing if not tough. The doctors at Valley General have been surprised at how quickly he’s recovering.”

“That’s good. You’re both lucky.” I winced, realizing that given the death of Carmela’s son, that was a stupid thing to say.

She managed a wry smile. “You won’t have to put up with Nel while he recovers at home.”

I smiled back. “I’ve had experience with men who are horrible patients,” I said, recalling Milo’s gallbladder attacks. “But I do want to tell you how sorry I am about your son.”

Carmela sighed. “I still can’t take it in. He’s my only child. Joe was … amazing.” She shrugged and stood up. “Do you have children?”

“Yes, a son. He’s a priest.”

“You and the sheriff must be very proud of him.”

“The sheriff and I don’t have children together. Adam’s father is dead.” For a reason I didn’t understand, unless it was some visceral bonding with this stranger, I went on: “I was
never married to my son’s father. They didn’t meet until Adam was twenty.”

Carmela’s pert face sagged. “That’s …” She shook her head as a glint of tears appeared in her eyes, but she swallowed and the small smile reappeared. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“It can be. Then sometimes it’s … not.”

She nodded. “Ask your son to pray for me, for Nel, for Joe. I’m Catholic. Faith gets tested, and I’ve flunked a few times. But I can’t walk away from it. In the end, what else have we got? Maybe it’s all we need.” She shrugged, turned around on her Christian Louboutin heels, and walked out through the empty newsroom.

For the next few minutes I sat at my desk wondering why Milo hadn’t told me that the accident victim’s wife was the mother of the murder victim. I wondered if she was the woman who’d come to see him during his off-hours. And why had son and stepfather happened to be in the same area at the same time? I should have asked Carmela more questions. I felt like kicking myself with my Nordstrom Rack sale flats. The only reason for the sheriff’s discretion could be the familiar phrase he’d used on me over the years: “I can’t talk about that because it’s part of an ongoing investigation.” But except for Erinel Dobles being Joe Fernandez’s stepfather, what was the implied and possibly criminal connection? Maybe I should expand my research to Dobles.

One phrase stood out from what Carmela had told me about her husband being on Highway 2. She’d said that Erinel—or Nel, as she called him—had been
going across
Stevens Pass. That indicated he was headed for Eastern Washington. Did that mean he had no idea his stepson was in the area? Was
it by chance that they both were in SkyCo at the same time? It seemed unlikely. The Dobleses were from Visalia, in California’s San Joaquin Valley. Joe Fernandez was supposedly from Wapato; Sam Heppner came from Toppenish. Both towns were in Yakima County. Maybe it
was
a coincidence. Ordinarily, I’d run all this by Vida. But unless she’d administered truth serum to Bill Blatt, she didn’t know Sam was AWOL. I wondered if Milo or his deputies had checked again to see if there was any sign of Sam at his place on River Road. I’d do it myself, but I didn’t want to miss the Yakima reporter’s call. I was looking for a Pentecostal church listing in Toppenish when Vida returned.

“The Fritzes weren’t home,” she said in disgust. “I should’ve called first, but a surprise visit from the press catches people off guard. They often reveal more than they intended.”

“What’s to reveal if their daughter’s pregnant?” I asked. “If Freeman expects her back before school’s out in June, there’s nothing mysterious about that.”

Vida leaned on one of my visitor chairs. “All the more reason to find out if she knows anything about the other missing students. The Fritz girl was in some of the same classes as the Kramer and Ellison girls. Besides, it’d be interesting to find out who the father of her baby is. Not in a prurient way, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

Vida looked at her watch, a gift from her late husband, Ernest, and the same one she’d worn all the years I’d known her. “It’s going on four. I should have time to finish my advice letters. Three more today. What ever became of fidelity?”

“It didn’t seem to mean much to Pastor Purebeck,” I said.

“You hardly need to remind me,” Vida retorted. “A poor example.”

I smiled as I watched her stalk off in her splay-footed manner, dismayed but undaunted. And still hatless.

My phone rang before Vida reached her desk.

“Jay in Yakima,” the reporter said. “I found a brief story from Toppenish dated February 8, 1978. Amos Heppner, twenty-four, died from a head injury during an altercation at a tavern. Three other men were treated at the hospital. Nothing noted about arrests or charges being filed. Sounds like an old-fashioned Saturday night drunken brawl. Is that any help?”

“Were the other combatants identified?”