The Alpine Fury (22 page)

Ella complied. It appeared that the L-shaped parking area was built around the base of the pool. The other half of the L was used for storage and utilities and equipment, Ella explained.

I counted the parking places, which were numbered for each condo. There were an extra half dozen for guests. Linda’s One C slot was the fourth space down from the elevator. Vida stared at that empty parking place for a long time.

“It
is
cold down here,” Ella said suddenly, hugging herself and her two sweaters.

Vida, however, didn’t move. It was only when I began strolling back to the elevator that she wrenched herself away. She put a hand on Ella’s shoulder.

“You’re right. It’s very cold. You shouldn’t be here, Ella. You’ve had the flu.”

We got in the elevator. It rose slowly to the first floor. When we emerged onto the walkway, with the rain falling
steadily into the open courtyard, I felt as if I’d come up out of a cave.

Or a tomb.

T
HAT
F
RIDAY WAS
one of those days when Vida stuck to her diet. “I forgot to mention that Ella has the brains of a bee,” she said, waving a celery stick at me. “But she’s nosy. I thought that might help.”

“She’s also deaf,” I said, wondering why I’d bothered to pick up a taco from our local ersatz Mexican eatery at the mall. It looked utterly unappetizing in its sea of salsa and pale sour cream.

“The problem is,” Vida went on, munching away at the celery, “Ella couldn’t see anyone come in or out of Linda’s condo. Nobody could, because her ground-floor entrance is at the back.”

After returning to the Jag, I’d drawn a quick floor plan of the condos. Sitting at Ed’s desk, I studied it with a critical eye. “That’s not entirely true,” I noted. “Marisa Foxx has a window that looks out back onto Maple Lane.”

Vida frowned in an effort of concentration. “You’re right, she would. All the condos are at right angles to each other. You know her, don’t you? Doesn’t she go to your church?”

“I’ve seen her at Mass, but I don’t actually know her.” I hesitated, aware that if there is one professional in the world who doesn’t believe in candor, it’s a lawyer. “Should I go see her?”

Apparently Vida was operating on my wavelength. “No,” she sighed. “If Marisa Foxx saw anything suspicious, she would have told the deputies. Attorneys usually feel compelled to be forthcoming with law enforcement officials. Unless their clients are involved, of course.”

Our tour of Parc Pines seemed to have been in vain. Vida finished her fodder, then headed off to cover the monthly group birthday celebration at the Lutheran retirement home. Ginny and Carla were still out at lunch, and Leo was working on an ad at Barton’s Bootery. I was choking down the last of my so-called taco when Denise Petersen drifted in.

“This is for Mr. Walsh,” she said, handing me an ad mock-up that commemorated Linda Petersen Lindahl. “Dad said I was supposed to bring it over here Tuesday, but I forgot. Does it matter? I mean, Aunt Linda’s still dead, right?”

“As far as I know.” I tried to keep any inflection out of my voice. I could imagine the scene that had ensued at the bank when Larry discovered that his daughter had neglected to deliver his sister’s memorial. There was a slip of notebook paper attached with a handwritten message:
Denise—For Leo Walsh. ASAP. Thanks
. I wondered if Denise knew what ASAP stood for, or if she thought it was a description of Mr. Walsh.

Uninvited, Denise dropped down into the vacant chair next to Leo’s desk. “It’s too busy at the bank today. It’s nice to have a holiday, but then there’s such a rush afterwards. Before, too. Maybe I should quit and get a job at Safeway. I heard they needed extra checkers for the holidays.”

The mock-up that Larry—or Marv, or both—had put together for Linda was in simple, good taste. Judging from the long pageboy hairstyle, her photograph probably
dated from at least five years ago, but she looked softer as well as younger. The wording was brief:
IN MEMORIAM. LINDA PETERSEN LINDAHL. THE BANK OF ALPINE
. Except for the dates of her birth and death, there was nothing else in the black-bordered layout.

I hardly caught what Denise had just said. “Safeway?” I looked up. “But the bank’s going to be shorthanded. Christie is going on vacation and Linda’s … dead. Wouldn’t you be leaving your dad and granddad in the lurch?”

Denise shrugged. “They’ll find somebody. Lots of people are out of work in Alpine. Besides, I hate the bank. Let my stupid brothers work there. It would serve them both right. They’re such jerks.”

I didn’t know Denise’s older brothers. They’d been away at college most of the time I’d been in Alpine. If they hadn’t been expelled by now, maybe they were smarter than their sister.

With an exaggerated air, Denise hoisted herself to her feet. “I should head back to work. The line was pretty long when I left.” Suddenly she stopped, giving me a puzzled look. “What did you say about Christie? She’s not going on vacation. She already went, last August, to Cabo San Lucas. It’s all she talked about when I first came to work at the bank.”

It was too much to expect that Denise Petersen would be aware of anyone’s plans but her own. There was no point in arguing. “Thanks for the mock-up, Denise. I’ll see that Leo gets it.”

“Leo?” Denise was looking blank. “Oh, Mr. Walsh. Right. Thanks. ’Bye.” She drifted out of the office, as aimlessly as she had entered. I almost wished that Ginny had shown up so that she could pounce on Denise and claw her into reality.

Vida returned around three, looking smug. I asked if
she’d unearthed a hot item at the retirement home birthday party. To my surprise, she had—at least by her standards.

“Leona Hanson was celebrating her eighty-first,” Vida said, unloading her camera. “Her great-nephew and his wife have moved to Alpine. They’re the Hansons I didn’t know in One D at Parc Pines. His name’s Walt, and he works for the State Fisheries Department. She’s Amanda, and is going to work for the post office when the holiday rush starts. I don’t think Leona approves.”

“Of what? The post office?”

Vida ignored my flippancy. “Leona says Amanda wears very short skirts. Tight, too. She foresees Trouble, capital
T
. Walt still has to finish up duties from his previous assignment in Eastern Washington, so he’s often away from home. Now, how can I work the Hansons into ‘Scene Around Town’?”

Offhand, I couldn’t think of any way that wouldn’t invite a libel suit. “Wait until Amanda starts at the post office,” I suggested. “Then you can do one of your bits about ‘… a new face at the blah-blah.’”

Vida gave a nod. “I suppose. I do miss the Welcome Wagon. Before Durwood Parker drove it into the river, we always found out about newcomers right away. I detest not knowing who’s who.”

I left Vida to her group birthday story and returned to my cubbyhole. It was late afternoon when I got around to calling Milo Dodge to see if he had any new information. This time Dwight Gould answered.

“If you want to catch him, look out your window,” Dwight said. “The sheriff’s just across the street, at the Bank of Alpine.”

“Maybe,” Vida allowed after I’d passed on Dwight’s information, “Milo is … banking.” Standing by my
desk, she caught sight of a cigarette butt Leo had left in the ashtray. With a repugnant gesture, she emptied it into my wastebasket. “Really, Emma, how can you let that man smoke in the office? It’s such a disgusting habit!”

I offered Vida a lame little shrug. “It’s no more disgusting than Ed’s eating habits. Smoking just smells worse. Sometimes.”

Vida shuddered. “Advertising people are very odd. When I first came to work here, Marius Vandeventer had a young man from—”

The phone rang, and on the hope that it was Milo, I answered. But the sheriff wasn’t on the other end. To my surprise, it was his light-o’-love, Honoria Whitman.

We exchanged somewhat effusive, though genuine, greetings. Then Honoria, in her charming, well-bred way, came to the point:

“I’m worried about Milo. We had dinner in Sultan last night and he seemed terribly upset about the lack of progress in this murder case. Do you suppose we could get together and talk about it? I’ll treat you to a meal at the Dutch Cup. Tonight, unless that’s short notice. I realize that you must be awfully busy….”

“You’re making my sides ache.” The words sprang out of my mouth. “I mean, my social life isn’t exactly putting me in an airplane spin. Sure, that sounds fine.” Noting Vida’s frankly curious expression, I felt a twinge of guilt. “Shall I pick you up?” My voice dropped a couple of notches, as if I could spare Vida’s feelings.

“You don’t need to.” Honoria was proud of her independence with her specially rigged car and high-tech wheelchair.

“But your place is right on the way into Sultan. Why take two cars?” It was true; I would have made the
same offer to someone who wasn’t physically handicapped.

“All right,” Honoria agreed. “You know the turnoff. Be careful, the road is rather muddy and some potholes have developed since you were here a year ago last summer.”

I pictured Honoria’s cedar-shake cottage nestled among evergreens and vine maples. She had invested it with charm, and her own personality, which were probably the same thing.

“What time?” I asked, awkwardly aware of Vida’s splay-footed exit from my office.

“Six-thirty?” Honoria’s suggestion was made easily, as if time were of no importance. Maybe it isn’t, when wherever you’re going can’t be reached on your own two feet.

“Fine,” I agreed, mentally scratching my plan to visit the murder site. “I’ll see you then.”

“Ah…” The familiar husky laugh was self-conscious. “Do you think … would you mind … that is, I was wondering if your … what do you call her? Vida, isn’t it? Do you think she might be coaxed into joining us? I don’t really know her that well, and Milo makes her sound so formidable.”

Through the doorway, I could see Vida at the window above her desk. She had put on her tweed coat and was holding a black, broad-brimmed pointed rain hat in her hand. Her broad shoulders were oddly hunched as she stared out into the gathering darkness that enveloped Front Street. For just one fleeting moment, there was something touching about her stance.

“I’ll do my best,” I promised Honoria. Then I whispered into the phone: “Vida’s really a dear. She scares Milo because he’s … a man.”

The husky laugh grew deeper. “Don’t we all? By the
way, don’t mention our little get-together to Milo.” Honoria rang off.

I was on my feet, hurrying out to tell Vida about the dinner invitation. She brushed me off, racing for the door. “Never mind just now. Milo’s coming out of the bank.” Vida jammed the black rain hat on her head and left the news office.

Throwing on my jacket, I chased after her. Vaguely I noted that Leo had left. So, apparently, had Carla and Ginny. A quick check of the old-fashioned clock that stood on a tall pedestal by the bank told me it was 5:01. My staff was entitled to be gone.

Vida had already corralled Milo and was dragging him back to the office. Milo wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, but he wasn’t pleased.

“Damn it, Vida, I’ve got work to do,” he protested. “Why don’t you people go home?”

“Journalists never sleep,” Vida asserted, all but shoving Milo into her visitor’s chair. “What’s going on at the bank?”

Briefly Milo looked rattled. “The bank? What about the bank? Why are you asking?”

Vida was slowly pacing the news-office floor, one hand fingering her chin. She looked like an inquisitor working for Torquemada. “There’s trouble over there,” she said. “Emma and I already know that. There’ve been a number of complaints. Grace Grundle. The Dithers sisters. Leo.” She glanced at our ad manager’s empty chair. “One of the Gustavsons. Two Bergstroms. Henry Bardeen from the ski lodge.” Vida whirled, a majestic figure with her coat wrapped around her and the pointed black rain hat atilt. It would have made a great picture for Halloween. If only we’d thought of it at the time.

“Screw off, Vida.” Milo was at his most phlegmatic.
He extracted a toothpick from the pocket of his regulation jacket and began to munch.

“Now, listen here, young man.” Vida was wagging a finger in Milo’s face. “Don’t speak to me like that! We’re conducting an investigation of our own at
The Advocate
. We have reason to believe that there have been some serious—possibly criminal—irregularities at the Bank of Alpine. It grieves me to say as much, but there it is. The public has a right to know. Are you going to fly in the face of the United States Constitution?”

Milo broke his toothpick. But he didn’t lose his nerve. “I’m not going to fly anywhere. I don’t know what the hell is going on yet, and I don’t intend to say one damned word until I find out. Give me a break.” Wistfully he looked in my direction. “You got any coffee left, Emma?”

I shook my head. Ginny’s last official duty of the day was to make sure that the coffeemaker was unplugged and cleaned. Despite her broken heart, she had lived up to her responsibilities.

Milo unwound his big frame from Vida’s extra chair. “Then I’m going back to work.” Resolutely he walked past Vida. “When I know something for sure, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” The sheriff slammed the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, I was home, renewing my makeup and changing clothes. It was not quite six when the phone rang. Warily I picked up the receiver, half expecting another hang-up. Instead, I heard the voice of Tom Cavanaugh. My heart turned over and my knees went weak. How silly can a woman of forty-plus be? I had the emotional range of a teenager.

“It’s happened,” Tom said, his voice not so mellow as usual.

The two words and their delivery forced me to sit down. “What’s happened?” I asked stupidly.

There was a pause at the other end. Tom was sitting in the handsomely decorated study of an expensive San Francisco mansion, or so I always imagined. Adam had never been to the Cavanaugh house. Tom had not yet had the nerve to introduce his illegitimate son to the two children born in wedlock.

“Sandra wants a divorce.” Tom’s voice was oddly flat. It stayed that way as he asked what I realized was the inevitable question: “Will you marry me?”