The Alpine Advocate (26 page)

Tom was drinking a large Coke. “Could Gibb have killed Hector?”

Vida shook her head and sprinkled a tiny packet of salt onto her salad. “I doubt it. No known motive. Unless he was in love with Margaret. He was a widower by then. That’s possible, though I don’t recall any rumors.”

In my opinion, if Vida couldn’t remember them, they didn’t exist.

She was still speaking: “Margaret was a beautiful girl. Half the men in Alpine were crazy about her. That’s why Neeny was so put out when she married an outsider like Hector. But even if Gibb had killed his so-called rival, why would he murder Mark? And who would kill Gibb?” She gave an emphatic shake of her head. “Let’s put that aside for now. We can rule out some of the others as Hector’s killer because of age.” Setting down her plastic fork, Vida began to eliminate suspects on her fingers. “Hector disappeared fourteen years ago. Cross off Kent and Jennifer. They were too young. And Chris, of course. Anybody under, say, thirty.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “But I don’t get it. Milo says it’s virtually impossible to tell how Hector died. Why, after all this time, would the killer care if the body was found? If Mark and Gibb hadn’t been murdered, would we all jump to this conclusion about Hector? And even if we did, nothing seems to point to any specific person as his murderer.”

Tom stood up, brushing crumbs from his tailored slacks. “Emma’s right. The trail is decidedly cold. Either the killer panicked or isn’t very bright. Unless we’re missing something.”

The phone jarred us from our mutual absorption. I reached over my shoulder and fumbled at the receiver.
“Advocate,”
I croaked, still juggling.

Jennifer Doukas MacDuff’s uncertain voice came on the line. “Ms. Lord, you said I could come see you if I had a problem. Did you mean it?”

“Sure.” I finally had the receiver under control. “Yes,” I said, not wanting her to think I was being too breezy. “When do you want to talk?”

Jennifer’s words were jerky. “Now. Alone. At your house. Don’t tell anyone.
Please.”

Vida and Tom were watching me. “In fifteen minutes,” I said.

My first reaction was to shield Jennifer. But fragments of movies and books passed through my mind in which the hapless heroine falls into a trap and only the intrepid hero can show up in time to rescue her from the arch fiend. I didn’t want to set myself up for further damsel-in-distress scenarios. I broke faith with Jennifer and ratted, reasoning that I wasn’t betraying a source because she hadn’t really told me anything yet.

“If I’m not back in half an hour, send for Milo,” I said, heading out the door over protests from Tom and Vida.

It never occurred to me that Milo might like to be a hero, too.

Jennifer was already waiting for me, hunched over the wheel of her compact car at the edge of my driveway. I kept my apprehension at bay as I let us into the dark house. It was after seven-thirty, and the sun had long ago disappeared behind the mountains.

After I turned on the lights and went into the kitchen to get us each a can of soda, the house seemed as snug and safe as ever. Jennifer had flopped down on the sofa where she’d sat on her previous visit. She had changed from the plain black dress of the funeral into faded jeans and a floppy shirt.

“This is a bother,” she began, twisting her hands and
turning red-rimmed blue eyes in my direction. “But except for the sheriff, I don’t know who else to talk to.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Jennifer sighed, untwisted her hands long enough to fling a strand of hair over her shoulder, and eyed the can of pop as if it were a bomb. “Phoebe is taking my grandfather away tomorrow. I don’t think that’s right.”

“Where?” I asked, knowing I should have said
why?
But the picture of a docile Neeny Doukas, being carted off against his will by anyone, threw me off balance.

“Palm Springs. In California,” Jennifer added, in case my sense of geography didn’t extend past the Columbia River. “She says all this has been too hard on him. He needs to get away, to be in the sunshine. But it scares me.” Her chin quivered.

Now I asked the proper question. “Why?”

Jennifer finally picked up the can of soda and took a sip. “I’m afraid he won’t come back. My dad is really mad. Even my mom thinks Phoebe shouldn’t take him away.”

I leaned forward in my armchair, noting how the light from the table lamp emphasized the contours of Jennifer’s face and added character. “Have you talked to your grandfather about this?”

The blonde hair swung to and fro. “No. There wasn’t a chance, with everybody arguing and yelling. I came straight from the house,” she explained, and I knew she meant Neeny’s, not her parents’ home. “After the guests were gone, Phoebe made her announcement to the rest of us. Then they all got to fighting. Kent and I left, and then I called you.”

“How does Kent feel about this?”

“He thinks Phoebe’s up to something. He doesn’t trust her an inch.” She ran her forefinger about that far on my coffee table to underscore her point. “I don’t, either.”

I hesitated. But what I was about to say was a matter of public record. “Phoebe
is
your grandfather’s wife,” I said quietly.

Jennifer stared at me blankly. Then her mouth opened and she started to speak, but no words came out. Her hands clutched at the pop can; her blue eyes grew enormous.

“They eloped to Las Vegas awhile back. Remember the trip?” I smiled kindly.

“The old tart!” Jennifer exploded, showing more animation than I’d ever seen her display. She thrashed about on the sofa, spilling soda and beating at the cushions. Dust flew; I winced. But Jennifer wasn’t about to notice my poor housekeeping. “I hate my family! They’re a mess! I wish I were somebody else!”

“This is hard on everybody,” I pointed out. Maybe, I thought, it was time to change the subject. “How’s Kent’s shoulder?”

Jennifer stopped flouncing around long enough to consider the question. “Better. He didn’t have to take one of those pills last night.”

I tried to keep my manner casual. “I don’t suppose he saw Phoebe Wednesday night when he was downtown picking up that prescription?”

“Phoebe?” She spoke the name with disdain. “He didn’t mention it.” Obviously, it hadn’t occurred to her that she was admitting her husband had left the house after all.

“Or your father?”

“No.” Jennifer ran her fingers through her hair in an agitated manner. “Oh!” Enlightenment seemed to dawn on her. “You know,” she said uneasily, “I forgot Kent went to Parker’s to pick up that medicine. So much else happened afterward.”

It could have been true. “I heard your father was going to his office after he dropped Mark off at my house.”

Jennifer dismissed the idea with a slight shake of her head. “I doubt it. Kent said he parked in Dad’s place. It’s reserved in front of the Clemans Building for him, you know.” Behind the veil of hair, her face contorted with distress. “Are you trying to tell me my dad went someplace else that night?”

“I have no idea.” I felt as if I were pillorying the poor girl. “Look, maybe it’s advantageous for your grandfather to get away. Phoebe’s right. He’s been through a lot, losing Mark. You’ve all suffered this past week. And Palm Springs isn’t exactly the Amazon Jungle.”

From the expression on Jennifer’s face, they were one and the same to her. “My father says the sheriff won’t let Neeny go. Not until they’ve caught my brother’s killer.”

That sounded like a strange—and suggestive—remark, coming from Simon Doukas. “Did Milo say that?”

Jennifer shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him? There he is now.”

Sure enough, Milo Dodge’s Cherokee Chief had pulled up out front. I could see the vehicle’s outline under the light I’d put on in the carport. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:20. Tom had taken me at my word.

Jennifer didn’t want to stick around to talk to Milo. She went out as he came in, and I was left on the porch, feeling inadequate. Not only had I failed to console Jennifer, I’d ended up sowing doubts and doling out more bad news. Jennifer Doukas MacDuff had shown poor judgment in choosing a confidante.

“What was that all about?” inquired Milo, still wearing his rumpled suit and looking bone tired.

“Come in. I’ll tell you.” I offered him Jennifer’s place on the sofa and a fresh can of pop. He accepted both, and from out in the kitchen, I heard him utter a long sigh as he sat down.

“Did you think I’d been killed?” I asked with a grin as I handed him his soda.

“Your adviser thought so,” replied Milo. “Or is he dating Vida?”

I gave Milo a steady look. “He’s not dating anybody. He’s been married for years.”

Milo’s hazel eyes were ironic. “Oh? Funny, he doesn’t act married.”

“Knock it off, Milo.” My voice had a rough edge to it. “You ought to be grateful he’s helping with the case.” I
stopped short of telling Milo everything, but I recounted Jennifer’s concerns for her grandfather. Milo wasn’t pleased about Phoebe’s proposed trip.

“I can’t stop them from going without causing a major war, but it would be better if they stuck around.” Milo put his feet up on the coffee table. “They may be able to answer some questions. Like Chris.”

“Are you hinting that Neeny may have killed Hector?” I asked.

“I don’t
hint
things, Emma.” He gave me a disapproving look. “If you’re talking motive, Neeny had one for getting rid of Hector. But I still like the way Vida originally said he’d go about it—with money. Neeny could buy anybody off.”

I tried to picture Hector Ramirez, Hispanic laborer, who had married into a wealthy small-town family. I didn’t know what Hector looked like, but I had an inkling of how he felt. “Hector was proud, I think.”

“But Neeny is stubborn.” Milo made a slashing gesture with his hand. “And no way do I believe Neeny killed his grandson.”

“Or Gibb?”

“Gibb’s a different matter.” Milo sank back against the cushions and yawned.

“Go home,” I said. “You’re tired. So am I.” I gave him a feeble smile.

“Yeah.” He took a swig of soda. “One thing, though.” His high forehead furrowed as he regarded me across the space taken up by the coffee table. “We just got some tire tracks back from the road into Reiter and the gravel pit. Your Jag sure gets around, Emma.” His expression was vaguely abject. “I guess you were right about your car getting swiped.”

Right or wrong, it was still a shock. It made me a bit queasy to think that while I sat inside the Adcocks’ living room, Gibb Frazier’s murderer was using my car. Suddenly my Jag lost some of its charm. I was staring open-mouthed at Milo.

“Can I have the keys?” he asked.

With an effort, I recovered my voice. “Why ask? Nobody else does.”

“The extra set is gone,” said Milo. “Whoever stole them probably wanted to make damned sure no prints showed up. I’d guess they’ve floated out to Puget Sound by now.”

I’d never looked to see if the spare keys were still in place. “You’re going to check the car now?” I asked.

He’d gotten up and had gone to the window. “Sam and Dwight just pulled up. They’ve got the gear. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Great.” I waved at my purse which was at the end of the sofa. “My keys are in there, right on top.”

Milo bent over, then straightened up abruptly. “What’s this?” He was holding the Ramada Inn laundry bag with Mark’s leather jacket. I’d left it there throughout the entire weekend.

“Take that, too,” I said with a sigh of resignation. “I forgot I had it.” It was true. Sort of.

Milo opened the front door and called to Dwight Gould who took the keys and the bag.

I glanced through the window, watching Sam Heppner open my car. “I wonder where you’ll find the green paint.”

“What?” Milo was still at the door. The cool air felt good. “Oh, you mean from the dent.”

“Right.” The phone rang; it was Tom.

“Are you all right? What’s happening? Did Dodge show up?” Tom’s voice was full of concern, and I could hear Vida yapping at him in the background.

I took a deep breath. My watch said it was after nine. No wonder Tom was worried. “Milo’s here. Everything’s fine. Listen, Tom,” I said, wishing Milo wasn’t watching me so closely, “I’m going to head for bed. You and Vida had better go home. It’s been a long day.”

There was a moment of silence. “Fine,” said Tom. He clicked off.

Milo was still gazing at me. “Will you be all right alone?”

I lifted my chin. “Of course.”

Milo raised a hand in salute and loped out the front door. His deputies continued to subject my poor Jag to all sorts of scientific humiliations. I considered going outside to confer with them, but thought better of it. I’d had enough crime for one day. Besides, other matters had come home to roost for the night. I’d told Tom I was with Milo, and I was going to bed. Tom had become quite terse. Tomorrow, he would go into Seattle before I could explain. I could call him at the lodge, but it would be presumptuous of me to think an explanation was needed. Why should Tom—a married man—care what I did? Why should I care what he thought? Why should he think I was doing anything wrong? And why wasn’t I?

There were times when I thought the opposite sex was not a good idea. This was definitely one of them.

T
HE FIRST CALL
of the morning came from one of the last people I would have expected—Cecelia Doukas. At 7:35
A.M
., just before I was about to leave for the office, she phoned to ask me over for a quick cup of coffee. While I was in a hurry to get to work, I could hardly refuse the invitation.

As I drove over to Stump Hill, I kept expecting the Jag to apologize to me for hauling a killer around. I squirmed a bit on the leather upholstery, trying to visualize who had sat in my place Saturday night. Maybe it was just as well I didn’t know, or I might not have been able to drive the car at all.

The sheriff’s deputies had left without telling me much. They’d have to wait for lab reports, Sam Heppner told me in his laconic manner. Obviously, they had not come up with the cliché cigarette butt or slip of paper bearing a mysterious phone number.