The Alpine Advocate (21 page)

I asked about his two children. Graham was at USC, studying cinema. Kelsey had just started her first year at Mills. It was just as well that they didn’t spend much time at home. Sandra’s condition had turned Kelsey into an introvert. Tom worried about his daughter. He wished she’d gone back East to school. “The farther the better, I think,” he said, briefly letting his carefully cultivated mask of good cheer slip a notch. He gave me a wry grin. “Sometimes I wonder if mental instability isn’t contagious.”

We were on our second round of plates. I told Tom about my car, including the mobile pothole. Unlike Milo, he didn’t scoff. “The sheriff may be right about one thing,” he said, digging into a mound of crisp hash brown potatoes. “It was probably kids, going for a joy ride.”

Tom could be right. The Jag was tempting, and if word had gotten out that I kept a spare set of keys under the car, some of Alpine’s brasher punks might have succumbed. After all, several of the women at the bridge party had teenagers. The kids might know I’d be at the Adcocks’ for several hours and figure they were safe to take off for a while. At least that’s what I wanted to believe. I didn’t much like the idea of Chris lurking around town in the shadows.

“Well?” Tom spoke, and I realized I’d missed a beat.
Before I could respond, he put a hand on my arm. “Hey, this murder really has you upset. Why? I gathered from what everybody said at dinner the other night that Mark was a jerk. Did you think otherwise?”

“No.” I felt the light pressure on my arm and couldn’t help but smile. “To be honest, I didn’t know Mark Doukas very well. It’s his cousin I’m stewing over.”

As briefly as possible, I explained about Chris. Tom listened closely, devouring more hash browns, eggs benedict, croissants, and link sausages. I was finally full, surfeited with cinnamon rolls, ham, beef, scrambled eggs, blintzes, asparagus, and two kinds of juice. When I concluded my recital, Tom took a slice of cantaloupe off my plate. His appetite had always amazed me.

“I can’t see why Chris would kill Mark,” he said, obviously giving the matter his usual thorough consideration. “No fight, no motive. So who had a reason to get Mark out of the way?”

“Nobody. Not a
real
motive.”

But Tom shook his head. Outside, the wind was growing stronger, whipping up the blue waters of the lake. “Unless you accept the theory of a nut on the loose, your killer has a motive. The question is:
what?
His sister would benefit from the standpoint of money. She’d get his share, and so would her husband—Kent?” He saw me nod. “But from what you say of Jennifer, she sounds meek as milk. Of course,” he added on an almost wistful note, “you never know about people.”

“And Kent did quarrel with Mark,” I reminded Tom. “Although Jennifer insists it wasn’t serious.”

The waitress was removing our plates and bringing more coffee. Tom waited until she was done before he spoke again. “As for your driver, he had a grudge. But why wait all these years?”

“I know. It doesn’t make sense. All the same, I’d like to find out when Gibb Frazier was up at the mineshaft. It had to be after he got back from Monroe, which would have been mid-afternoon.”

“Have you asked him?”

“He’s been in Snohomish the past couple of days. Milo was going to talk to him when he got back. Today, I suppose.” Gibb had been due in Alpine last night. I wondered if Milo had already seen him. Maybe I’d call the sheriff again when I got home.

The bill appeared at our table. I made a feeble gesture, but Tom laughed. “I’m rich, remember? Besides, this is a write-off. We were talking newspaper revenue.”

“We should do that, I guess.” I sounded vague.

This time he put his hand on mine. “We should do a lot of things, Emma. But not right now. You’re preoccupied.”

I started to bridle, then made a funny little noise in my throat that wasn’t exactly a squeak but came close. “Damn it, Tom. I can’t believe you’re here.”

He still had his hand on mine; his smile washed over me like balm. “Well, I am.”

“For how long?” I hated to ask the question.

He took his hand away and leaned back in the chair. “Oh—a few days. I have to be in San Diego at a publishers’ meeting the second week of October. Look,” he said, leaning forward again, “I’ve put some preliminary material together for you, but I left it at the lodge. I need some more background anyway—demographics, per capita income, property taxes. It’d bore you. But give me a day or so, and I’ll impress the hell out of you, okay?”

“Wow.” I laughed in spite of myself. “Do you do this for every poor publisher?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I do. It’s the only way I can make a decision about investing.” He glanced over at the buffet, where the last of the brunchers were lining up. “There are lots of appealing weeklies and dailies out there, just like that smorgasbord. But you have to pick and choose, or you’ll end up with the financial equivalent of a stomachache.” He palmed his credit card and stood up. “What are you thinking, that I must miss the writing?”

“Yes,” I said, though that wasn’t what I’d been thinking
at all. I’d had an evil speculation about whether or not the inn had a room available for the night.

“I do miss it. In fact, it’s not the writing so much as the editing.” Ever the gentleman, Tom helped me with my chair. “My greatest love was making a good story even better.”

It was a commendable emotion. I resisted the urge to ask Tom to name his second greatest love.

We walked along the lake for a while, but the wind was too brisk to linger. We reached Alpine about four. In the lodge’s parking lot, I felt compelled to inquire after Tom’s dinner plans.

“I’ve got a date,” he said, opening the door of the car. Between the trees, I could see the steep roof and dormer windows of the ski lodge. A weather vane twirled in the breeze and smoke curled from one of the stone chimneys.

“Oh.” I tried to sound casual. “Just as well. I don’t think I could eat until tomorrow.”

He stuck one long leg out of the car. “I’ll manage. Anyway, my hostess swears she’s not much of a cook.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

I let out a hiss. “Sure I am. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ask.”

He braced himself on the steering wheel and leaned across the well between the bucket seats to kiss my cheek. “It’s Vida Runkel. Do you think she’ll try to seduce me?”

“Vida!” I gasped. “I hope so!”

It would be better than having her bombard Tom with a litany of embarrassing questions.

A
MONG THE MESSAGES
waiting for me was the voice of Milo Dodge, inviting me to dinner at the Venison Inn. “Catch a bite,” was the way he put it, “and have a look at your busted British car.” I felt as if I were playing a role in a French farce, where all the wrong people run off with one another.

Although I still wasn’t hungry after the monumental brunch, I called Milo back and told him I’d meet him at the restaurant at six-thirty. Even as we spoke, I snagged my panty hose on the leg of my chair. They were my last good pair, and I could have faked it by wearing slacks if the run hadn’t gone all the way from toe to hip.

Parker’s Drugs stayed open on Sunday until six. Originally owned by Durwood and Dot Parker, the store had been sold almost ten years ago to a young couple from Mount Vernon, Garth and Tara Wesley. They’d kept the name and remodeled the premises. Durwood had been a fine pharmacist but not much of a retailer. He retired about the same time he hit his first cow.

Tara was behind the counter when I breezed in at 5:55. No one else was around, and she was closing up the till, but she gave me a warm smile.

“Just ring up a three-pack of No Nonsense, petite to medium sheer reinforced nude toe,” I called out, racing to the rack.

“Will do,” Tara said, “but I’ve got to scan it first.”

I zipped up to the checkout stand. Tara was a pretty brunette, mid-thirties, the mother of two small children, and,
like her husband, a registered pharmacist. “Sorry I cut it so close. It was a last-minute disaster.”

“That happens,” Tara said, still smiling. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. What’s happening with the murder? There hasn’t been a word on TV or in the weekend papers.”

I told her there wasn’t any substantive news. Sheriff Dodge was following up some leads, but he didn’t have any serious suspects.

“That’s scary,” Tara said, no longer smiling as she gave me my change and receipt. “What if it’s one of
us?”
Her big brown eyes widened with dread. “I’m always afraid of a holdup. Even in a small town, a drugstore is a sitting duck. Not the money so much as the drugs, I mean. That’s why we came here. Mount Vernon was getting too big. We wouldn’t have dreamed of going to Seattle or Everett or even Bellingham.” With one wary eye on the street and the other on the cash pouch, she started removing checks from the till. “I’m here a lot at night because Garth works days so I can take care of the kids. I don’t like being here alone.” She took out the cash and stuffed it into the pouch. “I heard Mark was killed around nine last Wednesday. I was working by myself, and you know, I had the funniest feeling.”

“Really?” Perfect hindsight always fascinates me.

Tara nodded twice. “I really did. It was so stormy. Nobody had come by in the last half hour. I had a mind to close up early and go home. Then Kent MacDuff stopped to pick up a prescription he’d had phoned in. I was sure glad I’d already made it up so I could get out of here.”

I tried not to act surprised. “Kent came in so late? He’s as bad as I am.”

Tara lifted one shoulder in an offhand manner. “He’d hurt his shoulder. For such a macho man, Kent’s a big baby. Unlike you, he didn’t apologize for coming in at closing time.”

“Jennifer said he was miserable,” I remarked, wondering why I was making excuses for Kent MacDuff. To emphasize my superior manners, I thanked Tara and asked if she wanted me to wait and go out the door with her.

She laughed, albeit nervously. “Oh, no. It’s only six. And there’s the sheriff. I feel reasonably safe with him around.”

Sure enough, Milo Dodge was just getting out of his four-wheel drive. I waved; he waved back. A minute later, I joined him on the sidewalk. “You’re early,” I said.

He was frowning, his shoulders hunched against the wind. “I stopped to see Gibb. He’s not home yet.” Milo’s hair blew back from his forehead, but that wasn’t what made his long face seem even longer. He was worried.

I decided to forget about stopping in the rest room to change my panty hose. Milo was in no mood to notice. “Do you think he’s still in Snohomish?” I asked as we headed for the Venison Inn.

“No.” Milo opened the door. He didn’t speak to me again until after the hostess had greeted us and provided a table with a view of Front Street. I felt like a window display. “I checked. He finished the moving job about five yesterday and told the people he was working for that he had to go meet a steelhead.”

“Maybe he caught one,” I remarked, hoping to strike a light note. Steelheaders are a rare breed, inclined to suffer any hardship to catch their elusive prey.

Milo wasn’t amused. “Even if he had, he’d be back by now. I sent Bill Blatt and Jack Mullins looking for him. I don’t like this, Emma.”

I debated about telling Milo what Mary Lou Blatt had said about Gibb Frazier at bridge club. I decided to hold back. “You think something’s happened to Gibb?”

Impatiently, Milo pushed the unruly hair off his forehead. “I don’t know. Gibb hated Mark’s guts, but I wouldn’t figure him for a murderer. Unless he got really pissed off.”

Which, I reflected grimly, Gibb had a right to do. Next to Chris, Gibb was my least favorite suspect. Despite his
rough edges, I liked him well enough, and he was my employee. I owed him a certain amount of loyalty.

Milo ordered Scotch; I opted for root beer. This was my day of total abstinence. Across the restaurant, the hostess was seating Jennifer and Kent MacDuff. Their arrival gave me the opportunity to change the subject.

“Kent’s alibi won’t wash,” I said, trying not to look smug.

Milo stared at me. “How come?”

I explained about Kent’s nine o’clock visit to the drugstore.

Milo looked thoughtful. “Kent never mentioned that. I suppose he was afraid to.” He glanced over at Kent, who was haranguing their waitress while Jennifer hid behind her long blond hair. “But if Kent doesn’t have an alibi, neither does Jennifer. They were supposed to be home together.”

“True.” I liked the idea of an alibiless Kent MacDuff. I wasn’t as keen on the same status for his wife. But I was reminded of Phoebe. “According to Edna Mae Dalrymple, Phoebe was driving around downtown Wednesday night.”

Milo’s ears pricked up, like a hound on the scent. “What time?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “During the windstorm, though. She got Franchie Wells’s paint on her car.”

The notepad came out. Milo wrote swiftly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Kent MacDuff was on his feet, heading our way. So were the drinks.

“Hey, Sheriff,” called Kent, oblivious to the stares from the other diners, “what’s new with your dragnet for cousin Chris?”

Milo looked annoyed. “Nothing yet. That takes time.”

Kent was blocking the waitress’s path. She tried to get around him; he refused to budge. “Hell!” Kent waved an arm, narrowly missing the waitress. “Chris could kill ten other people while you guys screw around. Neeny’s about to blow up. You’d better get Chris back here before the funeral tomorrow.”

The chilly stare Milo gave Kent would have turned a more sensitive man to stone. “You’d better get your butt down to my office first thing tomorrow morning. Your wife, too.”

“What?”
Kent bellowed as more heads turned. The waitress executed as neat a step as I’ve ever seen outside of a chorus line and deposited our drinks. “We’ve got to leave early for Seattle. Are you nuts?”

Milo was unmoved. “Then show up as soon as you get back. I’ve got some questions for both of you.”

“Oh, bull!” exclaimed Kent. He started to bluster but apparently realized the sheriff wasn’t going to relent. “It may be pretty damned late,” said Kent. “I hope you like overtime.”