The Alpine Advocate (15 page)

The sun was still peeking in and out from behind dirty white clouds, so I walked, taking a moment to admire the darkening red and gold of the trees that mingled with the evergreens on the hillside. Baldy was clear, looking comfortable above the town, its crest still free of snow.

Milo didn’t seem much like the bemused man of the previous evening who’d relied on my sophistication to distinguish a turnip from a crocus bulb. He was sitting very straight in his leather swivel chair, his hazel eyes steely and his square jaw set. I felt like a criminal, which I supposed I was, having concealed the whereabouts of Chris Ramirez.

“Emma,” he began, not bothering with small talk, “I have some questions to ask you.”

“Go ahead,” I responded, sitting down and trying to act unconcerned.

He consulted his notes. “You stated that Chris didn’t say where he’d been during the time Simon dropped him off about eight-thirty and when he actually showed up at your house around midnight. Is that correct?”

“It is. I asked, but he didn’t tell me.” Why, I wondered fleetingly, if truth was such a great ally, did I feel so defenseless?

“Did you know Simon had dropped him off?” The hazel eyes were not only cool, but remote, as if he didn’t want to make any personal contact.

“No. That is, I realized later that I’d heard a car pull up and then leave. But it might not have been them.” I thought back to the night before last, which now seemed so long ago. “The wind was really blowing. It’s a marvel I heard anything at all.”

He flipped through some papers and pulled out a single sheet. “Did you leave your house at any time during the evening?”

My eyes widened. “No. I had dinner at the Venison Inn. In fact, I ran into Eeeny Moroni there. He can verify what time I left. It was about seven, I think. Anyway, I came straight home and stayed put. I was beat.”

Deliberately, Milo shoved the paper toward me. “This is a lab report on the tire tracks in Neeny Doukas’s driveway.” He tapped at the page with his ballpoint pen. “One set belongs to your Jaguar.”

I debated the merits of candor. But half the town had no doubt seen Chris driving my car Wednesday afternoon. In any event, Mark wasn’t killed in Neeny’s driveway. Still, Mineshaft Number Three was too close to the Doukas house for comfort.

“It wasn’t me,” I asserted. Annoyance had surfaced in my voice. Milo Dodge had picked up the check at the Café de Flore the previous night. Now he was grilling me like a felon on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List. I felt like snatching up his roll of mints and sticking them in his
nose. Carla had been right the first time: the sheriff was acting more like
Mildo
than Milo.

Milo seemed unmoved by my deteriorating temper. “I know it wasn’t you. I saw the Jag coming from the opposite direction when I went up to meet Mark at Mineshaft Number Three.” He fingered his chin while I absorbed that particular piece of information. “Could Chris have borrowed your car?”

There was no point in sheltering Chris over the issue. On the other hand, anybody could have figured out I kept that extra set of keys under the car. But somehow I didn’t think they had. The simplest answers are usually the right ones. “He’d borrowed it earlier. I suppose he didn’t think he had to ask again.”

“But did he?” persisted Dodge.

“I don’t know.” The baldness of my reply seemed to sink in. “If he did, was it to go see his grandfather?”

Milo Dodge hesitated, then inclined his head. “Yes. He saw Neeny. It wasn’t a successful reunion.”

I’d hoped for better but expected worse. “Did they have a row?”

Milo was unbending a bit, extracting a mint and popping it in his mouth. He did not, however, go so far as to offer me one. “According to Neeny, it was pretty one-sided. Chris gave him some lip, and then the old man lit into him. The kid left with his tail between his legs.”

“According to Neeny,”
I quoted. Chris might have a different version. “When was that?”

“Around nine.” Milo had glanced at his notes again. “Neeny isn’t too accurate about time. The world turns on his schedule, not the other way around. It was before Phoebe made his cocoa, which usually transpires around nine-thirty.” Milo looked a bit wry. “We haven’t pressed Neeny much. He’s not feeling too well, you know. He refused to discuss Chris at all at first. I stopped by for a minute yesterday to offer my condolences, and he admitted Chris had been there. Maybe later we can get more details.”

“Like when Neeny isn’t rich?” I knew Milo Dodge wasn’t as likely as some to kowtow to the Doukases, but neither would he go out of his way to raise any hackles.

“Now Emma, the man’s grieving,” Milo admonished. “He was genuinely fond of Mark.”

I ignored the comment. “Have you checked on Phoebe and Neeny?”

Milo couldn’t restrain a little snort. “You were right about that, Emma. They were married by a J.P. in Vegas on August eighteen. Did Vida come up with that tidbit?”

I gave him a smug smile. “I can’t reveal my sources. How does Neeny’s will read?”

“How the hell do I know? That doesn’t have anything to do with Mark’s murder. Ask Simon.”

“I will,” I snapped, aware that my short chin was giving an imitation of jutting. “What if Neeny had a prenuptial agreement with Phoebe? What if she could only inherit if Mark and Jennifer and Simon died first? What if he figured out a way to circumvent the state community property laws?”

“Couldn’t do it.” Milo sat back, hands entwined behind his head. “Come on, Emma, can you see Phoebe Pratt whacking Mark Doukas over the head with a crowbar?”

“No. But I can see Phoebe
Doukas
doing it. As Neeny’s wife, she might have more to gain.” Indeed, Phoebe wasn’t exactly a lightweight. She and Vida were the same age, about the same height, and though Vida probably out-weighed Phoebe by a good twenty pounds, both women were solid citizens in more ways than one. I didn’t know Phoebe very well, but Vida did, and that was good enough for me.

If Milo’s more relaxed pose was designed to disarm me, this time it wasn’t going to work. I was ready for him when he asked about Chris. And I was honest. Up to a point.

“You drove all the way into Seattle this morning?” the sheriff queried after I’d given my brief recitation. “Where did he go?”

“California, I guess.” In truth, I couldn’t swear that Chris had headed for L.A. In his present state of agitation, he might have changed his mind and gone up to British Columbia or back East. He might even have gone home to Hawaii.

Milo mulled over the situation. “It’s no wonder he sounded scared. He ought to be. He might not have murdered Mark, but he hasn’t been square with us.”

“Oh, come on, Milo. He’s twenty years old. Are your kids rational human beings yet? What about your daughter who’s living with Gumby?”

“What?”

“Never mind. So what if Chris took my car and went to see Neeny? If anything, that gives him an alibi for Mark’s murder. It sounds as if he was with his grandfather around the time Mark must have been killed.”

Milo looked dour. “He could have done both. Chris was within spitting distance of the mineshaft when he was up at Neeny’s.”

“So was Neeny, if it comes to that. And Phoebe. No wonder Neeny hadn’t been served his cocoa. Phoebe was probably too busy smashing Mark’s skull to hear the tea kettle go off.” I felt a bit proud of myself. At least I was coming up with theories that weren’t any crazier than Milo’s.

“You’re too damned irreverent,” Milo muttered.

I gave a little laugh. “That’s part of the job description. I, like you, would have gone crazy a long time ago if I’d taken every godawful thing that came along too seriously.” I paused, watching Milo mutely accept my appraisal of the occupational hazards we both faced. “By the way, it wasn’t Chris and Mark who had words Wednesday night. It was Mark and Kent.”

This time, the sheriff registered genuine surprise. I explained my visit from Jennifer. “Kent lied so he wouldn’t invite suspicion. It may have been stupid—or maybe he has something to hide.”

“At least he’s got a motive,” Milo admitted. “With
Mark out of the way, all of the money will eventually come to Jennifer. Which,” he noted with a twist of his long mouth, “gives her a reason to get rid of Mark, too.”

“True,” I conceded, though somehow the image of Jennifer slamming a crowbar over her brother’s head seemed more farfetched than most of our other wild ideas. “The only trouble with the money motive is that Neeny is still alive, and Simon is only about fifty. My guess is that Neeny’s will is made out so that Simon inherits everything. I suspect that’s why he set up those trust funds for Mark and Jennifer.”

Milo didn’t know about the trust funds. It occurred to me that from his point of view, the sheriff’s office dealt only in hard evidence, not supposition or even motives. He did allow that maybe a check into the disposition of the Doukas fortune might be helpful.

Having dropped his interrogator’s mask, Milo finally offered me a mint. This time, I accepted. The rigors of the past fifteen minutes had left my mouth dry. I was also hungry, since it was now well after noon. Before I could make my exit, Milo reached under the desk and hauled out a bundle of newspapers. “These belong to you?”

I stared at the papers, some fifty or so, tied with twine. “It’s this week’s
Advocate
, all right. Where did you get them?”

Milo didn’t look too happy. “About twenty feet from Mineshaft Number Three.” He waited for my reaction, but I didn’t have one, other than puzzlement. “We also found an odd set of footprints—right one deep, the left a bare impression.”

So Billy Blatt hadn’t told his aunt all.

Now I was forced to respond. “Gibb Frazier?” Obviously, this stack of papers made up the missing overage. The bundle must have fallen off Gibb’s truck. “Have you talked to him?”

Milo shook his head. “He’s on a moving job for somebody in Snohomish. He won’t be back in Alpine until Saturday night.”

Vaguely disturbed, I left the sheriff to ponder his growing collection of evidence. Gibb could have driven up to Icicle Creek any time after he’d delivered the rest of the newspapers. But why he’d gone there baffled me. For the moment, I had to put that problem aside. Lunch would have to wait. Next on my schedule was a visit to Neeny Doukas. On my way out of the sheriff’s office, I used the pay phone outside to call Vida and confirm the marriage between Phoebe and Neeny.

“Ooooh,” she wailed, “doesn’t that beat all! He finally made an honest woman out of the old tramp! Neeny’s a bigger fool than I thought!”

“I’m going up there now. Shall I take them a wedding present in your name?” I asked, shielding my ear from the rumble of a passing truckload of logs.

“By all means,” Vida replied. “The only trouble is, I don’t know where you can buy a pair of jackasses on short notice.”

Neither did I, so I arrived at the Doukas residence empty-handed. As I stood on the wide veranda with its ancient window boxes and rusty lawn swing, I was aware that I wouldn’t be the most welcome of guests. The door was opened by Frieda Wunderlich, squat, square and toadlike. She had thick lips and protruding eyes the color of ripe huckleberries. I always thought of her as covered with warts, but that was only a figment of my imagination.

“His Royal Highness is resting,” she announced with her usual lack of respect. “The Queen Bee went to Monroe.”

Now I wished I had brought something with me—a bouquet, a casserole, even a sympathy card. “I just wanted to let him know I was very sorry about his loss,” I said, getting a whiff of basil and oregano from the kitchen. “I spoke with him about Mark only a few hours before the tragedy.”

The words were my ticket over the threshold. Frieda stepped aside with a mock bow. “He’s in the living room, watching television. Make him turn down the sound.”

I’d been in the elder Doukas’s house on two or three previous occasions. The furnishings were massive and dark, remnants of the Victorian era. Heavy brown draperies shut out the autumn light, and the air was thick with the scent of hothouse flowers and those spices from a sunnier climate. The rooms were cluttered with too much furniture, too many paintings, classical sculptures, potted plants, and now, floral arrangements of sympathy.

Neeny Doukas sat in a big armchair that would have swallowed a smaller man. He was rugged of build, hairy of chest, with dark eyes and an olive complexion. His hair, which had once been black and wavy, was now streaked with white and receding from a forehead that was accented by slanting black eyebrows that matched a bristling mustache and full beard. Ensconced in the big gray mohair chair complete with antimacassars and with an afghan over his knees, Neeny Doukas looked for all the world like the King of Thrace.

“Emma.” His voice boomed out as he beckoned to me with one crooked finger. “You got that story?”

“What story?” I said stupidly.

“The one correcting your screw-up. You said you’d show it to me.” He waved in the direction of an occasional chair covered in faded red and black cut velvet.

Up close, Neeny looked haggard, older than when I’d seen him a week or two earlier. The flesh on his cheekbones sagged, the big hands trembled ever so slightly, the black eyes were a trifle cloudy. I sat. Next to Neeny was a tray with a half-eaten meal grown cold. A soap opera blared on TV.

“I haven’t done it yet,” I admitted, raising my voice in the hope that he’d take the hint and shut off the set. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to run it now that Mark’s … dead.”

Neeny reared back in the armchair, the afghan twitching on his knees. “Hell’s bells, I sure do! All the more reason.” Those extraordinary eyebrows drew together like a pair of black caterpillars. “You see what happened? Some
greedy swine thought Mark had made a big strike and killed him over it! Pah!” He all but spat in the rest of his lunch.

The TV perils of a beautiful blonde and her handsome dark-haired lover were giving me a headache. I tried a different approach, this time lowering my voice so that Neeny couldn’t possibly hear me without a Miracle Ear. “You don’t really think that,” I murmured.

Neeny took the hint, using the remote control to turn the sound off but left the picture on. “What?” He didn’t wait for my response. “Hell, Emma, who else would wanna kill my grandson? Unless it was that no-good kid of Margaret’s.”