The Alpine Advocate (9 page)

“And?” I kept my expression bland. The rain was pattering on the leaves, and my hair had gotten quite wet. I hate umbrellas, and I seldom wear a scarf. The air smelled of damp and decay. Only a foot away, a rotting log sprouted colorful clusters of red and brown toadstools.

Bill coughed into his fist. “I don’t know exactly what conclusions Sheriff Dodge has come to.” He sounded very formal.

“You’ll find out, though.” Vida thrust both chin and bust at her nephew.

With an anxious glance at his colleagues, Bill mumbled something in the way of reluctant assent.

I tried to bolster him with a smile. “Does anybody know why Mark wanted Dodge and Moroni to meet him up here?”

Bill considered the query. “He’d called the sheriff once or twice before, but Milo was out. I suppose it had to do with his prospecting. Maybe he really did strike gold.”

“Was he working in the mineshaft?” I inquired.

Bill looked over toward the entrance, now covered with old moss and new two-by-fours. “He may have. But usually he panned in the streams.”

Vida, who had meandered over to the quintet of deputies and specialists, turned back to us and sniffed. “That lazy lout didn’t find gold.” She swept a hand in a windmill gesture, encompassing the small clearing, the encroaching woods, and the steep hillside. “We’re twenty feet from the road. This whole area has been gone over by every professional and amateur prospector in the Pacific Northwest, not to mention numerous unsavory Californians. Mark Doukas might have discovered a lost diamond ring or a stash of cash, but he didn’t strike gold. Or silver, either. That mine is empty as the tomb.”

Vida was right. Up to a point. But we didn’t find out where she’d gone wrong until later.

S
IMON AND
C
ECELIA
Doukas’s pseudo-Colonial house was situated west of town in a small but expensive development. Called The Pines by residents and real estate personnel, to everybody else the subdivision was known as Stump Hill—having been clear-cut during World War I, reforested in the 1920s, and partially hacked down again about ten years ago.

Neeny Doukas’s father had bought Stump Hill early on and let some shirttail relation named Bump farm the land for about five years until he drank himself into a fit. The original house on what was known as Bump’s Stump Ranch had burned down shortly thereafter. A couple of hobos who were passing through on the old Great Northern line stopped to spend the night and set the place—as well as themselves—on fire with the aid of old stogies and white lightning.

The neighborhood had definitely moved up in class since then, unless you prefer virgin forest to civilization. I suppose I do, except that trees don’t buy newspapers. They just make them. I love trees for a lot of reasons.

There were several cars parked in the driveway of the Doukas house, including Simon’s ecru Cadillac, Cece’s silver Mercedes, Mark’s Trans Am, and Kent MacDuff’s blue Buick. I hesitated, but Vida gave me a whack on the arm.

“What’s the matter? Are you going to let this bunch of goons scare you away? If nothing else, you can offer your condolences. I intend to, even if it chokes me.”

In the newspaper business, being part voyeur, part ghoul, and all-around snoop is essential. But even after twenty years, once in awhile I get a twinge of guilt. Or an attack of good taste. This was one of those times. The white house with its pillars and green lawn and well-tended garden spoke not so much of Doukas wealth and power as it did of Cece’s sweet nature. The woman could be cloying, but she was also decent. I didn’t give much of a damn for the rest of the family, but I felt a genuine pang of sympathy for the mother of the murdered young man.

“Let’s hit it,” I said, getting out of the car.

Vida was already in the driveway, trudging toward the house with her peculiar flatfooted gait. I glanced at my watch; it was just after eleven-thirty. I hoped Cece wouldn’t feel obligated to ask us to stay on for lunch. Just as we rang the doorbell, another car, bearing the Driggers Funeral Home logo, pulled into the drive. Our timing was awful. On the other hand, maybe I could talk Al Driggers into reverting to the weekly ad schedule.

Al, a suitably grave man of about fifty with gray hair, gray eyes, and gray skin, joined us on the long veranda just as Jennifer Doukas MacDuff opened the door. She was a pretty young woman, in her middle twenties, with her mother’s honey-blond hair worn shoulder-length. Her pale blue eyes showed signs of fresh tears. Al put out a hand, but it was Vida who took over:

“Jenny, you look puny. It won’t do for you to get sick right now. Your mother needs you to buck her up. Where is everybody?” Vida was already in the entry hall, darting glances into the study on the left, the living room on the right, and the kitchen down the hall. “Ah! There they are!” She wheeled into the living room, long coat flapping and hat askew.

The grouping included a very white Cece, a taut Simon, and a frowning Kent MacDuff. Cece, wearing black slacks and an off-white cashmere twin set, started to get up, but her husband laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Vida. Emma. Al,” intoned Simon Doukas, as if he
were taking roll. He was of average height but seemed taller. His black hair, now graying at the temples, and his sharp beak of a nose gave him a melancholy mien. Had Simon Doukas smiled more often in less tragic circumstances, he would have been attractive. As it was, he verged on the alarming. His courtroom demeanor, which I had observed on various occasions, was dry, concise, and often sarcastic. He was, however, successful, for he came prepared. On this gray September morning, he was tight-lipped and high-strung. He was out of his element; life had not prepared him to face the loss of his son.

“Please sit,” he said, after shaking hands with all of us and gesturing at the harmonious melding of comfortable beige and brown and sea-green furniture. “There’s coffee. And tea. Unless,” he added on a too-eager note, “anyone would like something stronger.”

“Tea for me,” said Vida, plopping down next to Kent MacDuff on a long brown sofa. “Cream, no sugar. Where’s Neeny?”

Simon actually jumped. Kent scowled even more. Cece dabbed at her eyes with a flowered handkerchief. “Dad’s taken to his bed. Doc Dewey Senior has gone up to see him.” She placed a hand over her cashmere-layered breast. “It’s his heart,” she added in a faint voice.

“No wonder,” remarked Vida, wrestling out of her coat. She glanced around the room, no doubt taking in every detail of decor and nuance of emotion. “You got new drapes. I think I like them.”

Cece looked at the nearest panel as if she’d never seen them before. “What? Oh, yes, we had them made in Seattle.”

Simon, aided by Jennifer, was pouring coffee and tea from a sterling silver tray on the glass-topped table. Kent MacDuff held his cup and saucer in his lap and put up a hand. “I’m over-coffeed,” he said in the rather high voice that didn’t fit his square shoulders and bulging biceps. Even in a subdued navy blazer the muscles seemed to ripple through the wool. Kent was close to thirty, with curly
sandy hair and a florid complexion. He and Jennifer had been married for almost five years. So far, there were no children, and Jennifer had continued her job as a receptionist in her father’s law office.

I had sat down in a striped armchair next to Al Driggers and across from Kent. “We owe you an apology,” I said to Kent as Simon handed me a cup of coffee. “I think we misquoted your brother.”

Kent MacDuff looked momentarily blank, then gave a little snort. “Oh,
Kevin
. He shot his face off about Mark and the gold, right? Dumb kid.” He set the Royal Worcester cup and saucer down with a clatter and straightened his dark blue socks. “Does it matter now? I mean, with Mark gone and all. Or do you think somebody zapped him to get at the gold?”

Cece shuddered and Simon turned away. Kent seemed oblivious. He was lighting a cigarette with a sleek gold lighter that hadn’t come off the rack at the local 7-Eleven.

“What did Mark really find?” I asked to break the awkward silence as much as to get the story straight.

Jennifer and Kent looked at each other, and both came up empty. “He never told us,” Jennifer said at last in a listless manner.

I steeled myself and turned to Cece. “Neeny told me Mark was digging up maidenhair ferns for you.”

Cece burst into tears. Simon leaped across the room and sank down beside her chair. “Dearest! Please! You’re going to collapse!”

“But it’s so like him!” Cece wailed. “Mark was so
thoughtful!”
She peered at me over the wrinkled handkerchief. “Especially of his mother. He always said I was his best girl.” The sobs started up again, and this time, Simon pulled her to her feet.

“Come along, dearest. I’m putting you to bed. I’ll talk to Al about the arrangements. Don’t fret. We know what you would …” His voice trailed away as he led her out of the room and toward the spiral staircase.

“Well,” said Vida, snatching a sugar cookie off a Wedgwood
plate, “I don’t suppose Mark would have called the sheriff to tell him he couldn’t find any maidenhair ferns, would he?” She fixed her hawklike gaze on Kent and Jennifer.

“What’s that?” asked Kent. Even Al Driggers’s carefully composed face showed puzzlement.

Vida shrugged and munched. “Mark called the sheriff two, three times to tell him something. He asked Milo—and Eeeny Moroni, the old fool—to meet him up at Mineshaft Number Three. Now if that was all about a bunch of ferns, I’ll eat my hat.” She touched the brim as if to verify it was still there should the bet be called in. “Well?”

“Well what?” Kent was getting annoyed. “Damn it, Vida, what are you yakking about?”

Vida glared at Kent. “I’m yakking about the fact that Mark must have found something pretty significant to send for the sheriff. Maybe you’d better ask your little brother, unless you want to go on being as dimwitted as you act, Kent MacDuff. I remember when you had to repeat fourth grade. Twice.”

Kent turned crimson. He fairly bounced on the sofa. I was reminded of a bantam rooster. “It was only
once!
And that was because old Miss Grandle was too drunk to add up the grades right!”

“Rubbish.” Vida took a big swallow of tea, presumably to wash down her cookie. “Grace Grandle doesn’t drink. She has an inner ear problem. That’s why she staggers so much.”

I decided it was time to intervene before we got off onto a tangent about public education in Alpine, chronic alcoholism of various inhabitants, insidious diseases, or any combination thereof. “Jennifer, is it true that Mark and Chris quarreled last night?”

Jennifer, who had been pleating the folds of her baggy dress in her thin fingers, looked up with a mystified expression. “I don’t think so.” She turned to her husband. “Did they, Kent? I forget.”

“Hell, yes.” Kent thrust out his chin in a pugnacious manner. “They had a hell of a row outside, just before Mark left.”

“What about?” I asked.

Kent shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around. None of my business.” He started to drink from his cup, realized it was empty, and put it back down again. “Who knows? That Chris struck me as big trouble.”

“I kind of liked him,” Jennifer murmured.

“Where is he?” Al Driggers asked, and I was surprised to hear him speak. Somehow I was getting the impression that he’d filled himself with embalming fluid and was sitting there corpselike, waiting for his own eulogy.

I gazed unflinchingly into Al’s somber gray eyes. “He left town.”

“Oh, my.” Al shook his head sadly.

“Skipped town, you mean,” said Kent.

“Is he coming back?” asked Jennifer.

I opted for candor. “I doubt it.”

Kent stood up, smoothing the creases in his rumpled slacks. “Don’t worry. They’ll haul his ass back. Old Neeny has sworn revenge.”

“Phooey.” Vida sniffed. “Old Neeny is full of it. What he needs is a good purge.”

Jennifer looked shocked, Al Driggers winced, and Kent scowled even more ferociously than before. “That’s none of your damned business, Vida. Neeny’s a sick man.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Vida was unruffled. “I think I’ll go cheer him up.”

“Please don’t.” It was Simon’s ice-cold voice, emanating from the doorway. “Mrs. Pratt is looking in on him.”

“Ha!” Vida sprang to her feet. “That old tart! Some nursemaid. She’s got a terrific bedside manner, I’ll give her that.”

“Please!”
Simon was holding up both hands. “Cece’s trying to sleep.” He motioned to Jennifer. “That casserole Mrs. Adcock sent over—why don’t you put it in the oven for our lunch?”

The words seemed to be our exit cue, but Simon had come over to my chair. “Before you go, could we speak alone for a moment?” Not waiting for my assent, he glanced at Al Driggers. “We’ll get down to business in about five minutes,” Simon said. “It shouldn’t take long.” Apparently Al wasn’t going to partake of the casserole either.

I followed Simon across the hall into his study. Like the rest of the house, the small room was tastefully appointed, with an unlighted fireplace, an antique oak desk, two chairs, and tall bookshelves boasting an eclectic collection. Unlike the comfortable living room, the study wore a stilted air. Perhaps it was the difference between Simon’s occupancy and Cece’s touch.

Simon Doukas sat behind the desk, looking like a coiled spring. “I have to ask about Chris,” he said dryly.

I could hardly believe I’d seen this man less than twenty-four hours ago with tears in his eyes. If he had wept for Mark, he gave no sign.

“I have some questions of my own,” I responded, sitting in the chair across from him.

He stiffened even more, if that were possible, and looked down his long nose at me. “I’ll go first. What did he tell you about his relatives in Alpine?”

I felt as if I were in the witness box. “He didn’t remember any of you very well. Except for Neeny.”

Simon inclined his head. I guessed that he’d spent a lifetime being overlooked in favor of his father. “Didn’t he speak of Mark?”

“No. Well, yes, once. Some prank when they were kids, I think.”

“Oh.” Simon seemed bored by pranks. “What else?”