The Alpine Betrayal (11 page)

“You know the prayers,” he’d announced from the pulpit, so it’s at home ye’ll be saying them.” His parishioners were grateful, since the little wooden church was already unmercifully hot. We were also spared Father Fitz’s meandering sermon of the week, which frequently came out of a time warp and often featured The Hun and The Red Menace.

“Poor Durwood,” I sighed. “How’s his wife doing?”

Milo shrugged. “Dot’s pretty upset. She said she knew this would happen some day. I told her to get a good lawyer, somebody from Seattle maybe.”

“Can’t you release him on his own recognizance?”

Milo sat down heavily in his imitation leather chair. “It’s Sunday. He can’t post bail until tomorrow. What can I do?” He gave a helpless lift of his shoulders.

A silence fell between us. I was the first to break it, suddenly aware that we seemed to have forgotten about the dead man. “What on earth was Cody Graff doing out by
Burl Creek Road at six in the morning? The last time I saw him, he looked as if he’d sleep for a week.”

“Beats me.” Milo gazed at the ceiling of his small no-nonsense office. As usual, his desk was cluttered and his in-basket piled high. He was in uniform, because he was due to ride in the parade with a couple of his deputies. “Cody lived in those apartments between Pine and Cedar, across from the medical-dental clinic. How he ended up out at the edge of town at that time of day, I don’t know. Maybe Marje Blatt could tell us.”

“Have you told Curtis?” I asked.

“I don’t know where he is,” replied Milo, taking a roll of mints out of his pocket and offering me one. “We called up to the San Juans to let Cody’s parents know. They’re coming down this afternoon, if they can get on a ferry. You know what traffic is like between the islands and the mainland this time of year on a Sunday.”

I did. Despite the frequent ferry runs, car passengers were often forced to wait in line overnight on summer weekends. “Maybe Curtis is staying in a motel,” I suggested, tasting spearmint on my tongue.

“We’re checking,” said Milo. “Damn, this is a hell of a thing to happen during Loggerama. And I’ve got an election coming up.” He gave a rueful shake of his head.

“It’s not your fault,” I said in what I hoped was an encouraging tone. “Durwood shouldn’t have been driving. And the thought of Cody wandering along on a country road at dawn is pretty bizarre. In fact, it’s just plain inexplicable.” I gazed straight into Milo’s hazel eyes, waiting for him to agree with me.

But Milo’s thoughts were going off in another direction. He stood up. “I’ve got to go get my horse from the Dithers sisters’ farm. Fuzzy Baugh insisted we ride like some Wild West posse, instead of in our squad cars. Jeez!” He made a disparaging gesture with his hand. “I haven’t been on a horse in ten years.”

I wished Milo well and headed for my car. I had no desire to watch the parade, which was scheduled for one
o’clock. It was now after eleven-thirty, and I hadn’t had any breakfast. The Venison Inn and the Burger Barn both looked crowded. I stopped by the office to call Vida and asked if she’d like to drive with me down to Index, where we could get some brunch.

“Do you want to eat or have a powwow?” Vida demanded. “What’s this gruesome business with Cody Graff? Marje has been bleating in my ear for the last hour.” Vida didn’t sound too sympathetic toward her niece.

We agreed that we could eat and discuss Cody’s demise in Index as well as we could in Alpine. Five minutes later, I picked Vida up at her neat white frame cottage on Cascade Street, and we headed for the main highway. The town of Index is located some twenty-five miles down Stevens Pass on the north fork of the Skykomish River. The Bush House Country Inn is old, architecturally interesting, and serves an exceptional buffet brunch. We had to wait fifteen minutes for a table, but at last, with our plates piled high, we seated ourselves and tackled not only our food, but also Cody Graff’s death.

“You’re right,” Vida agreed, buttering a fluffy blueberry muffin. “Durwood’s an old fool, but Cody shouldn’t have been out on that road so early in the morning. Marje says she dropped him off at his apartment right after she took him home from the Icicle Creek Tavern. She took his pickup to her place. So how did he get to the Burl Creek Road?”

“You mean she’s still got Cody’s truck?”

Vida gave a jerky nod. “That’s right. It’s parked in front of her house. Or rather her parents’ house, but then you know what I think of her mother and father. Nincompoops, both of them, even if Ennis is my own brother. But Marje is sensible, all things considered. I just never thought Cody was suitable for her. Still,” she added virtuously, “I kept out of it. Now, I can’t say I’m sorry she won’t be marrying him. It’s a shame he’s dead, but it may save Marje a lot of grief later on.”

How Vida managed to say all this while consuming two
link sausages, half a muffin, and a great quantity of scrambled eggs, I’ll never know. But she did. “This is beginning to sound stranger by the minute. I didn’t ask Milo—was Doc Dewey called in to do his medical examiner’s act?”

Vida attacked a small container of marionberry jam. “Doc and Mrs. Dewey headed for Seattle early this morning. Young Doc Dewey was in emergency, setting some fool of a tourist’s broken leg. I suppose he was going to view the body after he got done, but Marje says he’s pretty busy with all the visitors in town. They don’t have enough sense not to keep hurting themselves while they’re trying to have fun. One idiot from Idaho fell out the window of the Tall Timber Inn last night.”

Visions of lawsuits and tricky news stories danced through my head. But that lay in the future. Cody Graff’s death had occurred in the last few hours. “There’s something about this whole thing that bothers me,” I confessed. “I saw Cody leave the tavern around ten o’clock last night with Marje. I know how drunk he was. He probably passed out as soon as he got back to his apartment. So he wakes up at five or even earlier this morning and
walks
two miles out to the Burl Creek Road? It doesn’t make sense.”

Vida didn’t seem at all unsettled by my pronouncement. Indeed, it was obvious she’d already come to the same conclusion. After waiting for a busboy to clear the table next to us, she leaned closer: “Of course it doesn’t, Emma. That’s why I don’t think Durwood killed Cody.”

I hadn’t gotten quite that far in my thinking. I gaped at Vida over a forkful of ham. “You mean he was already dead when Durwood hit him?”

Vida’s gaze was steady. “That’s right. Dot told me on the phone that Durwood swore he didn’t see Cody. Now Durwood couldn’t see an elephant on an escalator, but it
is
fairly light at six in the morning this time of year, and according to Dot, Durwood was just going around that little bend by the Overholt farm. The road dips down. If Cody had been walking on the pavement—or even close to it, Durwood doesn’t exactly keep to the road—he would have
seen
something
. But if Cody had been lying there, not moving, that might explain it.” She waved a spoon at me. “So we’re back to the original question. Dead or alive, what was Cody Graff doing out there in the early morning dew?”

I stared at her thoughtfully for some moments. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for young Doc Dewey to tell us what really happened.”

“Of course.” Vida poured a lavish dose of syrup over her stack of pancakes. “I told Dot to insist on an autopsy. I’m not for letting Durwood loose in that rattletrap of his, but I’d hate to see the poor old fool get sent to prison for something he really didn’t do.”

As ever, I marveled at Vida’s communication network. Already, she’d been in touch with two of the major figures involved in Cody Graff’s death, Marje Blatt and Dot Parker. For all I knew, she’d been receiving messages from Durwood in a bottle sent floating down the Skykomish River.

For the rest of the lengthy meal—Vida went back for seconds and thirds—we discussed some of the other incidents of the past twenty-four hours, including the flying axe at the timber sports competition, the row between Cody Graff and Matt Tabor, the face-off featuring Jack Blackwell and Reid Hampton, and Patti Marsh’s defamation of her daughter’s character in front of the Icicle Creek Tavern patrons—even though Milo and I had seen the two of them drive off in Matt Tabor’s custom-built car the previous night. It was only when we were paying the bill that I remembered to tell her about seeing Curtis Graff show up at the tavern just before Cody and Marje left.

“Do you know where Curtis is staying?” I asked.

But for once, Vida had to confess ignorance. She had not seen Curtis since he returned to Alpine. “A nice boy,” she allowed. “Much more character than Cody. Smart, too, but not terribly quick.” She tapped her temple.

We returned to Alpine just as the parade was ending. For the first time since I’d moved to town, I became embroiled in a genuine traffic jam. As soon as we turned off the main
highway, we found ourselves backed up on the bridge over the Skykomish River. Some of the parade participants had taken the wrong route after leaving Front Street, and a float featuring a giant fried egg, as well as a girls’ drill team from Monroe, had ended up on the bridge instead of going in the opposite direction on Alpine Way to the football field. It was after three o’clock when I got Vida home. I decided to drive back downtown and see if Milo had survived his horseback ride.

He had—barely. Looking as if he were in pain, Milo was sitting gingerly in his chair, sipping ice water. I commiserated briefly, then asked if Dot Parker had requested an autopsy on Cody Graff. Milo eyed me curiously.

“Yes, she has. How’d you know that, Emma?”

I tried to look enigmatic. “It’s my job to know all things.”

Milo pulled a face, enlightenment dawning. “Vida.” He sighed wearily. “We’ll have to get somebody from Snohomish County to do it. Young Doc Dewey is all tied up. You heard what happened to the Three Little Pigs?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but Milo told me anyway. The Three Little Pigs, whose job it was to promote homeowners’ insurance for the local independent agent, had been the victim of the Big Bad Wolf, who had huffed and puffed so energetically that he’d gone right through the flooring of the float, sending the driver into a Skykomish Public Utility District pole at the corner of Fifth and Front. The Big Bad Wolf had managed to keep his balance, but the Three Little Pigs had tumbled into the crowd, causing several lacerations, abrasions, and contusions. No one was seriously hurt, but the mending, patching, and stitching would keep young Doc Dewey busy for the next few hours. It was a driving mishap that would have made Durwood proud—if he could have seen it from his jail cell.

“When will the autopsy be done?” I asked, after I had emitted the appropriate chuckles and expressed the suitable regrets.

“Tomorrow, maybe. It depends,” said Milo, once again
showing signs of discomfort. “They’ll be doing us a favor in Everett, so we can’t push them. It’s a bunch of bull, but I suppose the Parkers have their rights. As I said, this was bound to happen to Durwood eventually.”

I decided not to let Milo in on Vida’s theory. He would dismiss it out of hand. But if the autopsy proved that Cody was already dead when Durwood’s car hit him, then Milo would have to consider other uglier possibilities.

I was on my feet, wishing Milo would install air-conditioning in his office. “I’ll see you at the banquet tonight. Are you bringing Honoria?” I tried to keep my voice light.

“No,” he said with a laconic shake of his head. “She’s going to some gallery deal in Seattle.” He looked up. “You want a lift?”

The Loggerama banquet was going to be held in the Lutheran Church hall, the only adequate facility for such a large gathering. The Lutherans also owned the retirement home in the same block. Due to Alpine’s large Scandinavian population, the members of their faith outnumbered any other flock by at least a two-to-one ratio.

“Sure,” I said, wanting to be a good sport. “By the way, I thought Honoria seemed like a lovely person.”

For a brief moment, Milo’s face lighted up. “Really? Well, yes, she’s pretty nice. Determined, too. She drives—she’s got a specially rigged car—and goes everywhere on her own. But then she’s had a lot of practice.”

I leaned on Milo’s desk. “What happened?” I wasn’t going to pry unless Milo gave me an opportunity. Now he had.

Milo’s face tightened. “She married very young. Her husband beat the crap out of her. On her twenty-first birthday, he threw her down a flight of stairs.”

I winced. “That’s awful! Did she leave him?”

Again, Milo gave a mournful shake of his head. “Her brother shot him. And got ten years for it. He should have had a medal.”

I didn’t argue.

To my relief, the banquet had gone off without incident. Pastor Nielsen had asked us to bow our heads in memory of Cody Graff. Fuzzy Baugh had introduced the new Miss Alpine, a shy redhead who was a checker at the Grocery Basket. Dani Marsh had been invited, but had bowed out of both the parade and the banquet, apparently owing to the death of her ex-husband. Harvey Adcock, as the current Chamber of Commerce president, read a brief note from Dani, expressing her regrets for not attending. I wondered if she had some other regrets as well.