The Alpine Nemesis (11 page)

And now this—Tim's confession. It certainly makes me suspicious that he also happens to work for Spencer Fleetwood.”

Milo nodded slowly. “I can see that. You're not hurting for money at the paper, are you?”

I sighed. “We've never had a big profit margin. Spence cutting into it doesn't help. But with Kip MacDuff using the backshop for commercial jobs, we'll get by. I'd just hate to see some of the national advertisers drop us in favor of KSKY. You know, like Safeway and Starbucks and UPS. That would really hurt.”

“I kind of like the music he plays,” Milo remarked in what I took to be a teasing manner.

I put the steak and microwaved potato on Milo's plate, then handed him the salad. “I don't. I'd forgotten how many of those songs from way back when were god-awful.”

“Better than that junk the kids listen to now,” Milo declared, slicing open his potato.

“I'm not entirely sure,” I said, sitting down at the table across from the sheriff. “The lyrics are better today. They're more innovative, more realistic.”

Milo's only response was a grunt. I sipped my drink and watched him eat. With the kitchen full of cooking smells and the crows cawing out in the cedar trees and the soft twilight at the windows, a familiar sense of comfort swept over me. For a long time, I thought I'd lost it, that friendship could never resume where desire had intervened. But this was a different kind of intimacy than the merging of bodies, and I cherished what Milo and I had managed to salvage between us.

“So tell me about Tara,” I said. “I've met her a couple of times, but I don't really know her.”

“Nice woman,” Milo said, putting what looked like about a quarter of a pound of butter on his potato. “Tara lost her husband two years ago to cancer. She was raised
in Montana on a sheep ranch. She met her husband in the Peace Corps in… I forget—one of those countries in Africa they keep renaming. Anyway, they settled in San Francisco.” He paused to eat a forkful of salad. “Her husband, Charlie, was in the banking business. He got transferred north to Seattle after a couple of years. Then, after Charlie died, Tara decided she'd had enough of city living, so she moved up here.”

“I can see that, since she was raised in the wide open spaces of Montana,” I remarked. “All that big sky. Tell me, how does a young man decide to become an undertaker? I've always wondered about that. In Al Driggers's case, he inherited the business. But what about Dan Peebles?”

Milo didn't answer until he'd chewed and swallowed a large chunk of steak. “I don't really know. I gather that both boys—Don's the other one—were a handful growing up. Charlie worked long hours and traveled quite a bit. After their father died, the boys seemed to drift. Tara talked Don into joining the navy, but I'm not sure how Dan ended up in the funeral business. He's got an A.A. degree from one of the community colleges in Seattle. Maybe he's just filling up time.”

“And graves,” I said.

“Right,” said Milo.

Tim Rafferty worked the morning shift at KSKY, and I wasn't going near the place. I'd wait to catch him after work. He and Tiffany had moved in together a year or so ago. I planned to give them both a call in the mid-afternoon.

“Such a rush,” Vida remarked that morning. “I don't understand why Brian Conley had to be shipped out of here as if he had to keep an appointment.”

“Vida,” I said with a smile, “you resent anybody who leaves Alpine, even if they happen to be dead.”

“It's unseemly,” she declared. “I'm calling Al Driggers to find out what all the hurry was about.”

Hoping that Al had recovered sufficiently from the flu to deal with Vida, I went back into my cubbyhole to handle the first phone calls of the day. Several pertained to Tim Rafferty's confession, as I knew they would. Others either complimented me or complained about the special edition that had come out the previous day. Those in favor felt that we'd done an outstanding job of keeping Alpiners apprised of local news. The critics didn't understand why we couldn't have gotten the Rafferty story into the Tuesday Extra. At least two people griped that the
Advocate
had never come out on a Tuesday, and now their whole week was out of sync. Another crank insisted that Vida couldn't spell “toilett.”

Just after eleven, Toni Andreas called to say that Alfred Svensen, known familiarly as Sven, was in town and that the arraignment would take place at the courthouse before noon. I debated whether to send Scott or to go myself. But Scott was at the sheriff's office, trying to get Jack MuUins to tell him what kind of evidence had been found at either the Hartquist or the O'Neill property. Jack, naturally, was playing it close to his chest.

Vida had finally gotten in touch with Janet Driggers. “That makes sense,” she said as I came into the newsroom to get a coffee refill. “Janet says Al still isn't feeling well, and with Oscar Nyquist's service coming up Saturday morning, they thought it best to dispatch Brian Conley as soon as possible. Oscar should have a very large turnout.”

I agreed, though I didn't see how the number of mourners would increase Al and Dan's workload. Vida announced that she was going with me to the arraignment.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” she avowed.

We arrived at the brown brick courthouse at eleven-thirty. The old-fashioned rotunda with its WPA murals
of loggers, miners, and railroad workers was crowded with curiosity seekers.

“My, my,” Vida murmured. “The Hartquists have certainly drawn a crowd.”

Most of those who milled about on the worn mosaic tile floor greeted Vida like the old friend or relative that she was. I left her to work her way through the gathering and headed straight for the courtroom. It was a drab place, with fir-paneled walls, a bank of vertical windows on the street side, and the hardest wooden benches this side of the pews at St. Mildred's.

Our superior court judge of long standing had become incapacitated the previous autumn, and in his stead was a fortyish woman originally from Monroe. Marsha Foster-Klein was her name, and a brisk demeanor was her game. She was already in her place when I slipped onto the high-backed bench that was reserved for the press. Marsha, who wore her pale blonde hair in a Dutch bob, was giving hell to a teenaged D.U.I. I didn't recognize. In a county as small as SkyCo, the judge was forced to handle everything but speeding tickets. I was informed by the bailiff that Judge Marsha had already handed down the ruling on Doc Dewey's postmortem of Brian Conley: death by foul play, by a person unknown. That came as no surprise.

Hearing a commotion nearby, I turned, half expecting to see Vida shaking off overly inquisitive pests. Instead, I spotted Spencer Fleetwood, Gucci shades in place and wired for sound.

“This is Spencer Fleetwood, live and direct from the Skykomish County courthouse,” I heard him intone in his mellifluous voice. “We're here reporting for radio station KSKY. Judge Marsha Foster-Klein is already on the bench, dispensing her own particular brand of rough justice.”

“If I ever see you so much as looking at another half-rack of Coors,” Judge Marsha berated the young man before her, “I'll run over you myself. License suspended for six months, thirty days in jail, eighty hours of community service.” She banged her gavel. I wondered that wood chips didn't fly. “Get out of this courtroom, and don't let me ever see you in here again.”

The dejected perp shuffled off, apparently into the arms of his obese mother who had been sitting in the front row. Spence kept up his commentary with the microphone.

Vida finally appeared, her floral bonnet askew. “Goodness, people are snoopy! Why do they think I always know everything that's happening?”

The answer was as obvious to me as it should have been to Vida, so I said nothing. The courtroom was filling up. Judge Marsha was listening to a divorce proceeding involving an adulterous relationship, spousal abuse, and the question of which party would be awarded custody of a ferret named Yvonne.

“Tomlinson,” Vida said in her stage whisper. “They live out by the fish hatchery. She's from Startup, he moved here from Tacoma to work for the park service. Or was it the forest service? Dear me, I forget.”

The divorce was swiftly granted, the ferret was given to the wife. Or ex-wife, as she had become.

The judge stared at Spence, who was still crooning into his microphone. “There will be no recordings or broadcasts from my courtroom, Mr. Fleetwood. Tune yourself off or I'll turn you out.”

Spence offered the judge his most ingratiating smile. “Sorry, Your Honor, I was only setting the stage for my later newscast. You know, atmosphere, live and direct.”

“I don't know,” Judge Marsha snapped. “The only thing around here that's live and direct is justice. Take a seat, Mr. Fleetwood, and make sure you've got your little black gadget turned off.”

Still jaunty, Spence complied. I couldn't help but grin at Marsha Foster-Klein. She had made herself a candidate for my next new best friend.

A side door opened, and sherrif's deputy Sam Heppner entered behind the three Hartquists and Sven Svensen. Sam nudged the senior Hartquist, apparently reminding him to remove his wrinkled snap-brim cap, which I gathered was his signature piece of apparel. The sons also doffed theirs. Cap Hartquist busily scratched at his rear end; his offspring followed suit.

The voices in the courtroom grew hushed. Cap, though gnarled and slightly stooped with age, looked like his usual pugnacious self. There was a contemptuous expression on his weather-beaten face as his beady-eyed gaze swept over the gathering. Ozzie, the elder and the larger of the two brothers, swaggered behind their father, while Rudy attempted to joke with the dour Sam Heppner.

“Showing off,” Vida murmured. “Typical.”

Moving with the aid of a walker was Sven Svensen, whom I judged to be about Cap's age, but not in nearly as robust shape. Sven had once been a large man, or so his loose-fitting dark blue suit indicated, but he had apparently shriveled with age or illness, perhaps both. He wore an obvious toupee and there was a straw boater in the basket of his walker.

“Good heavens,” Vida gasped, “Sven Svensen! I remember him from my youth. I thought he'd been dead for years. Do you think he'll live through the trial?”

Sam Heppner, Rudy Hartquist, Judge Marsha, and the entire front row of spectators stared at Vida. Sven Svensen, however, did not. That was when I noticed his hearing aids.

Rosemary Bourgette was already in the courtroom. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties from a large family who belonged to St. Mildred's parish. The
judge ordered the group to approach the bench. As the formalities began, I saw Milo lope through the double doors at the back of the courtroom. He looked unusually grim.

“How do your clients plead?” Judge Marsha demanded after the charge of second-degree homicide had been read for all three defendants.

Sven appeared oblivious. The judge repeated her query. Sven leaned forward with one hand on his walker, the other cupping his right ear. “Eh?”

With an impatient sigh, Judge Marsha again asked for the plea. Sven gazed at each of his clients in turn. Before he could speak, Cap's ragged voice rumbled through the courtroom:

“Not guilty, goddamn it!”

“Not guilty, goddamn it!” echoed his sons.

“Watch your language in my courtroom,” Judge Marsha shot back, and pounded her gavel.

“Veil, ve're not,” Cap retorted in a testy tone. “Ve vas shot at first, pygolly.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Sven finally said as if he hadn't heard a word of the exchange.

“Very well.” Judge Marsha seemed faintly relieved. “Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars apiece. The trial date will be scheduled for …” She paused to glance at what I assumed was her court calendar. “—Monday, June twenty-first.”

Rosemary Bourgette lifted a hand. “I don't believe that these defendants should remain at large. There is the risk of flight, Your Honor. The accused are well-versed in the wilderness areas of the Pacific Northwest, including British Columbia.”

“Flight?” Cap shouted. “I never been in no damned airplane! Vhere vould ve go? Ain't no place for us but Alpine.”

“Mr. Hartquist,” Judge Marsha said in a firm voice, “I told you to watch your language. One more outburst of
profanity and I'll cite you for contempt.” She turned to the bailiff. “Get these people out of here before I lose my judicial composure.”

The three Hartquists were hustled out through the side door while the spectators began to chuckle and buzz. Judge Marsha announced the noon recess. Once again, Vida was besieged by at least a dozen people who apparently thought she knew more than the judge, the attorneys, or the accused.

I slipped away and managed to catch Milo as he was crossing through the rotunda.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Is it safe to let the Hartquists out on bail?”

“How the hell should I know?” Milo grumbled. “At least I wouldn't have to listen to them bitching and cussing in the county jail.”

“Is there anything new you can tell me?” I inquired, hurrying to keep up with the sheriff's long, loping strides.

Milo fended off a couple of people who had questions for him, then scowled at me as we reached the street. “What do you need to know now? You don't have a paper coming out until next week.”

“What's wrong?” I asked. “You're not in a very good mood.”

“That's not news,” Milo responded, jaywalking across Front Street.

Someone in a blue Honda honked at the sheriff and me. A tourist, no doubt, who didn't know or care what Milo's uniform represented.

“It's kind of news,” I said, remaining patient. “You've been in a good mood lately. Didn't Tara come back from the airport?”

“I don't know,” Milo muttered. “I haven't had time to find out.”

We crossed Second Street—legally—and headed down the half-block to the sheriff's office.

“How about lunch?” I asked in my brightest voice.

“I'll have Toni pick up something for me,” Milo said, his face now clouded with what I perceived as distress. “I've got work to do.”

I started to speak, to prod Milo further, but I knew that in his present state of mind he wasn't going to tell me anything. Parting company with him at his office, I walked on to the
Advocate.