The Alpine Menace (19 page)

T
HE BLACK
T
AURUS'S
ghostly appearances were upsetting. I had yet to glimpse the driver. Who would want to follow me? The first answer that came to mind was the killer. That was a very disturbing thought, though someone who killed with a drapery cord might not be otherwise armed.

Winding down the hill, I couldn't catch sight of my tail. I considered turning off onto a side street, but my recollection of Magnolia was that because of the bluff's irregular topography and some peculiar city planning, there were plenty of unexpected deadends. I didn't need to get trapped in a cul-de-sac.

I thought about going to the nearest police station, but the only one I remembered was not far from my old neighborhood and had been turned into a community center and library several years ago. Frustrated, I kept driving.

Easter Sunday was becoming dangerous, as well as depressing. My hasty retreat from Darryl Lindholm's condo had seemed like the prudent thing to do. He looked absolutely murderous, and I didn't want to tempt fate. Besides, I felt like a fool. Until I mentioned Kendra's name, Darryl had seemed like a gentle soul, mourning the loss of his wife and sons, considerate of his parents, an ordinary hardworking man who had suffered a great loss.

Then he'd changed into something menacing. Unfor-148
tunately, the revelation made me realize that he could have killed Carol Stokes in one of those lightning flashes of rage. Which meant that whoever was following me couldn't be the murderer. My mind was going around in circles.

Needing to think, I pulled the car into a parking lot in front of a neighborhood strip mall. It was after four o'clock, and unless I got hold of Kendra, I had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. As much as I enjoyed the city, it didn't make sense to while away the hours in Seattle.

With one eye on the rearview mirror watching for the Taurus, I drove back to the motel, gathered up my luggage and Vida's, and checked out. It cost me half a night's stay since noon was the regular departure time, but I figured that if I headed back to Alpine, I could work all day Monday to make sure we could meet our deadline, and return to Seattle Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday, pub day, was always slow, except for the crank calls and irate letters that followed the paper's delivery.

Before leaving the motel, I called the jail infirmary to check on Ronnie. He was doing fine, the voice on the other end said, and would be transported back to his cell on Monday. I left word that I would see him Tuesday, probably in the late afternoon.

Out in the parking lot, I scanned the cars for a black Taurus. There were two of them. Through the rain, I couldn't tell if either was occupied. Confronting the person who'd been tailing me could be dangerous. I'd already had one scare with Darryl Lindholm. I decided not to test my luck. Surely the Taurus wouldn't follow me to Alpine.

There were two routes I could take out of town. Usually, I'd cross Lake Washington on the Evergreen Point Bridge and hook onto Highway 2 at Monroe. But I could also go due north on I-5, until I hit the interchange for the
Stevens Pass Highway. On a whim, I chose the latter, if slightly longer, direction. There was a stop along the way that I felt obligated to make for Ronnie.

Peter Chan's address in Lake City wasn't far from the freeway. His house was a tidy split-level, half-brick, half-frame on a side street. The rain had stopped by the time I arrived. Two young boys were riding bikes in the driveway. The smaller boy's bike had training wheels.

A chain-link fence surrounded the yard, but I went directly to the driveway. The older boy eyed me with curiosity.

“Hi,” I said, “I'm Emma. Are your mom and dad home?”

“Hi,” the older boy said. “I'm Kendall. That's Schuyler. He's dopey.” Kendall nodded at his brother, who'd just run his bike into the fence. “Mom's inside, making dinner. Dad's looking for the dog.”

My heart sank. “Is the dog's name Budweiser?”

Kendall's handsome little face looked mystified.

“Bud? Buddy?” I suggested.

“It was,” Kendall said with a show of relief. “But we call him Tubby. That's 'cause he isn't. He likes to eat all the time. Dad says he hasn't been fed much lately.”

“But Buddy—I mean, Tubby—has run off?” I asked.

Schuyler had gotten off his bike and was banging it up and down on the driveway. “I want Tubby! Mr. Fields ran over Sunshine with his truck, and we got promised a new dog. Where's Tubby?”

“You'll wreck your bike, dork,” Kendall said to his brother. “Dad's looking for Tubby, like I said. Stop that.”

A pretty Asian woman in jeans and a loose-knit sweater came out through the open garage and eyed me warily. “Are you trying to find an address?” she asked.

I was getting tired of my usual introduction, but I rattled it off anyway. “Ronnie's worried about Buddy,” I
concluded. “I thought I'd see if he was okay, but I understand he's gone.”

“I'm Jenny Chan,” the young woman said, and held out a hand. She smelled of basil and oregano, no doubt evidence of the meal she was preparing. “The dog ran off while we were at church this morning. He must have leaped the fence.”

“And your husband's still looking for him?” I remarked as the boys returned to cruising the driveway on their bikes.

Jenny gave me a wry look. “Not exactly. He looked earlier, but no luck. Pete's gone over to see his parents for a while. Frankly,” she went on, lowering her voice, “I don't care if we ever find Buddy or Tubby or Blubby or whatever he's called. Our last dog just about ruined the garden. He was a serious digger.”

Jenny's statement cheered me slightly. “If you do find Buddy, could you let me know?” I handed her one of my business cards. “That's a toll-free number to the newspaper in Alpine. I know my cousin will be delighted to take him back.”

“Sure,” Jenny said, slipping the card into the pocket of her jeans. “But I'll bet he won't be found. He may be trying to get back home, and he'll be lucky to survive in all this traffic. To be honest, he's not a very bright dog.”

Like dog, like master, I thought. “Thanks, Jenny,” I said, and headed down the driveway.

“Mom,” Kendall called, “if Tubby doesn't come back, can we get a snake?”

I didn't hear Jenny's answer, but I could guess what it was.

As I got into the Lexus, I saw a black Taurus parked on the block down the street. It pulled out when I did, following me to the freeway. In the Woodinville suburbs, it
finally disappeared. Whoever was driving must have figured that if I was leaving town, I was also leaving my inquisitive nature at the county line.

It was raining again by the time I started up Highway 2. After crossing the bridge over the Skykomish River, I drove straight up Alpine Way. The
Advocate
office and the rest of the commercial district was on my left; the mall was at my right. Under the darkening gray clouds and the shadow of Mount Baldy, the town looked bleak and insignificant. I couldn't help but kick myself for not staying on in Seattle and indulging in an expensive dinner at one of the city's finer restaurants.

Instead, I took my hunger pangs to my little log house. Usually, it welcomed me, but when I saw the lights in the windows, I knew that Amber Ramsey and Danny had returned.

Sure enough, they'd already managed to litter the living room, mostly with their unpacked luggage. Indeed, Amber had brought more back than she'd taken away. Three large cardboard cartons were stacked near the hearth and several shopping bags stood by the dining-room set.

“What's this?” I inquired, waving a hand.

Amber beamed. “My stuff. My stepmother's been cleaning out the house before they move, and she found a bunch of my old things. I decided I might as well take them now as wait until the movers come this summer.”

My house has no basement. The carport's storage area is limited. There is only a small crawl space in the attic. I worked hard to pare down my possessions so that I could still fit into what is basically a four-room bungalow.

“Adam's room—your room,” I quickly corrected myself, trying not to sound peevish, “is already jammed. Where will we put these bags and boxes, Amber?”

My houseguest stared at her belongings as if she'd
never seen them before. “Uh… your closet is pretty big, isn't it?”

“Not big enough for all this,” I said.

Danny was rolling around on the floor, making gurgling noises. It occurred to me that he'd probably be crawling before the Ramseys moved out. The thought added to my frustration.

“I could sort through it and put it away in drawers,” Amber said vaguely. “But I did that pretty much already. It's mostly clothes and CDs and tapes and souvenirs. You know, like from rock concerts.”

“Figure it out,” I said, hauling my own suitcase toward the bedroom. “It can't stay out here.”

The light was flashing on my answering machine as I headed to the hall. I continued into the bedroom, set the luggage on the bed, and returned to the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” said Adam's voice. “Just calling to wish you a blessed Easter. We celebrated a really intense vigil Mass last night. I was one of the acolytes. Have you got your reservations yet to come back here in June? The earlier the better, before it gets too hot and the mosquitoes chew off your fingers and toes. Talk to you soon.”

Burdened with guilt, I sighed at the answering machine. I hadn't thought to call Adam from Seattle. I'd spent the most sacred weekend of the liturgical year stumbling around the city, trying to help a cousin I hadn't seen in almost thirty years. Meanwhile, my son was having deep spiritual experiences in St. Paul. What kind of a mother was I?

There was a second call. I gritted my teeth as I played the message. “Where the hell are you, Emma?” demanded my brother, Ben, in his crackling voice. “I had to hear almost two hundred confessions and say four Masses this weekend, including the big bopper here in Tuba City. Now I'm back at the rectory, drinking cheap beer and
wondering if you ran off with the Easter Bunny. Call me—if you ever get home.”

I hadn't thought to call Ben, either. My brother, the person who knew me best, the companion of my youth, and the comfort of my middle years. What kind of a sister was I?

I called Adam first, and as usual, it took ages for whoever answered the phone to find my poor neglected son. While I waited Amber wandered around the living room, digging into the cartons and bags. Danny started to fuss.

“Mom?” Adam's voice sounded anxious. “What happened to you?”

There is some sort of axiom that if a mother is derelict in her duty to her child, the reason must be catastrophic. Nothing short of a paralytic stroke, being held hostage by revolutionary terrorists, or having been killed in a bungee-jumping attempt could possibly deter Mom from her appointed rounds.

“I'm fine,” I asserted. “I've been doing good works.”

“Like?” Adam sounded incredulous.

I explained about Ronnie Mallett. Adam said he'd never heard of him.

“So what's the big deal now?” my son asked. “I mean, it's not like he was real close.”

“You, my child, are studying to be a priest,” I reminded him. “What about the ‘When I was in prison, you visited me’ quote?”

“Well… you're right, okay, that's cool,” Adam agreed. “It just doesn't sound like you.”

Danny began to squall. I caught Amber's eye and motioned for her to shush the baby. She held up a Pearl Jam T-shirt, then wandered over to Danny, who had managed to wedge himself under a chair.

“Guests still there, huh?” Adam remarked dryly. “Man, you are really turning into saintly material. Have I inspired you, Mom?”

“Stick it,” I muttered. “You just never noticed before what a wonderful person I am.”

“In a way,” Adam said, “that's true. It's not just studying for the priesthood, though. I guess I'm getting to be a grownup.”

“About time,” I noted. Then, unable to keep the maternal pride out of my voice, I added, “You're turning into a top-notch person. I'd like to brag, but I don't. Much.”

As Amber removed Danny from the room, Adam and I turned to the subject of my proposed trip to the Twin Cities. I had to admit I hadn't yet contacted Janet Drig-gers at Sky Travel to make the arrangements, but I'd try to see her on my lunch break Monday. Then we got caught up with more mundane matters. Before signing off, Adam mentioned that he'd spoken with his father earlier in the day.

“I called to give him Easter greetings,” Adam said. “He sounded good.” Pause. “Have you talked to him lately?”

“No,” I said. “I owe him a call.” It shouldn't work that way. Tom and I weren't teenagers. “I'll call him sometime this coming week.”

“I think he's going out of town,” Adam said. “Business, as usual.”

“Business, babies, blah-blah,” I said, trying to sound humorous and failing. “That's your dear old dad. Meanwhile, dear old mom waits. And waits.”

“No comment.”

“None needed,” I responded. After more than a quarter of a century, there wasn't much left to say about Tom Cavanaugh.

Ben wasn't in at the rectory on the Navajo reservation, so I left a message. I was unpacking my suitcase when I heard the sirens. As ever, I went on the alert. Anytime an
emergency vehicle takes off in Alpine, it's news. An auto accident, a domestic violence call, even a heart attack usually makes it into
The Advocate
.