The Alpine Nemesis (16 page)

Vida grimaced. “Again, anything's possible. But we've gone off the track. Why turn the Burlesons out of the house they rented from Lona O'Neill?”

“I wish I knew,” I said as Leo came through the door.

“Hey, what's up?” he greeted us.

“We're playing Clue,” I replied.

Leo glanced at Vida. “You must be Mrs. Peacock. Emma's definitely Miss Scarlett.”

“More like Miss Black and Blue after staggering around the O'Neill place.” I turned to Vida. “You have your assignment for the wake this evening. Find out why the Burlesons have to move.”

“I'll certainly try,” Vida promised with a lift of her chin. “You must get involved, too, Leo.”

My ad manager was settling into his chair. “Huh? Doing what?”

Vida began to explain as I went into my cubbyhole. At my desk, I considered calling Milo to see if I could squeeze any information out of him. But maybe that wasn't a good idea just yet. I wondered if, when he discovered that someone had broken into the O'Neill house, he'd figure it was me.

I was still mulling when Scott came into my office. His skin looked slightly flushed and there was a gleam in his eyes.

“I'm back,” he announced.

“It looks like you had a successful interview with the registrar,” I remarked.

He nodded and looked over in the direction of my Skykomish County map. “Yeah. It was great. I mean,” he amended, again meeting my gaze, “I think I got a decent story out of it.”

“And you got a lift back to the office,” I said with a small smile.

Scott nodded slowly, deeply. “Yes. A lift. Say,” he said, pulling himself out of what I assumed was a Tamara-induced stupor, “I don't get it. If the Hartquists admit they shot the O'Neills, what's all this other stuff about?

I'd think that the sheriff would be more interested at this point in figuring out who murdered Brian Conley.”

Briefly, I stared at Scott. “Yes, you'd think so.”

“I suppose,” Scott said in a thoughtful voice, “Dodge could be doing both at the same time.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

Scott shrugged. “The sheriff knows what he's doing, right?”

“I hope so,” I said.

It was still raining when I got home at five-thirty. I'd driven by the sheriff's office, but Milo's Grand Cherokee wasn't parked out front. Maybe he was investigating his cases; maybe he'd gone home.

Shortly after six, Tom phoned from Sea-Tac. His flight had been late getting in, and he didn't expect to finish his dinner engagement until eight-thirty. It would take him another hour and half to get to Alpine.

“Will you wait up?” he asked.

“I'll try,” I said in an uncharacteristically coy voice. “Drive safely. It's raining here.”

“Here, too,” Tom said. “Love you. See you soon.”

I purred a bit after I hung up the phone. When I'd finished eating a Stouffer's chicken-noodle casserole and a few fresh strawberries, I wondered how to pass the time for the next four hours. Then it occurred to me that I could attend the O'Neill wake. I'd never been to one before, and even aside from my journalistic interest, it might be possible to interview some of the family members.

I'd go alone, just in case the observance lasted longer than a couple of hours. That way, I could leave on my own and be sure that I arrived home in time to make myself gorgeous for Tom's arrival.

Jake and Betsy O'Toole lived in an old but well-maintained house on Cedar Street. When I arrived just
before seven-thirty, I couldn't find a parking place. It looked as if the O'Neills had drawn quite a crowd. I found a spot a block and a half away, ironically, by Drig-gers Funeral Home. At the corner I met Vida, who was dressed all in black, including her silk toque.

“Did you walk or couldn't you find a parking place, either?” I asked as we passed by John Engstrom Park, with its memorial to one of the original mill's first superintendents.

“I walked,” Vida replied tersely. “It's only two blocks. I don't mind a little rain.” There was a hard glint in her eyes.

“What's wrong?” I inquired.

“Billy,” she responded as we waited for a car to turn the corner before we could proceed. “He's avoiding me. What's wrong with that boy?”

“You mean he wouldn't tell you why the Burlesons have to move out for a few days?”

“Precisely.” Vida lowered her voice as we neared the O'Toole house, where other guests were also arriving. “If Lona O'Neill is here for this silly escapade, I intend to corner her. Maybe she knows something. She should, since she rented to the Burlesons and she was married to Stubby.”

“I'll see what I can find out, too,” I said, noting Al Driggers's hearse, which was parked in front of the O'Tooles'. “Which, I guess, is really why I came.”

“I thought Tommy was arriving this evening.”

I explained about the delay in Tom's arrival. “I figured I might as well tag along to kill time.”

The O'Tooles' living and dining rooms usually provided an airy, bright setting with splashes of chintz and cheerful pillows. Now, in the gathering dusk, it was lighted only by candles, and it fairly bulged with mourners. I wasn't prepared for the three caskets that sat in front of Betsy's breakfront cabinet. In the flickering reflection
from the glass that shielded the O'Tooles' best china, I could see the three waxen faces of the O'Neill brothers. I shuddered and clutched at Vida's arm.

“Wouldn't you think it would be a closed-casket ceremony?” I said in her ear.

“No,” Vida replied, appearing more curious than moved as she edged through the mourners to reach the coffins. “How can you properly grieve unless you can see the deceased?”

I merely shook my head and hung back. On the French doors that led from the dining room to the hallway, someone had hung photographs with Scotch tape. A rifle-toting Stubby, showing off a big buck with enormous antlers; a teenage Dusty with what I assumed was his first car; a gap-toothed Rusty, no more than six, with five fat rainbow trout hanging from a long twig. Happier times, before hatred and stupidity ruined their lives and laid them out in big steel gray coffins.

I stood back to observe the gathering. While Alpine's population has largely been made up of Scandinavians, there is a sizable Irish minority. Straight off, I recognized Jake's brother, Buzzy, and his wife, Laura; Delia Rafferty, widow of Liam, and mother of Tim and Beth, who stood next to her; the Dugans, the Shaws, the Daleys, the Dunns, Jack and Nina Mullins, and, of course, Leo Walsh. I also noticed that Lona O'Neill was there, accompanied by her daughter Meara, who was carrying a chubby baby about eight months old.

I poked Vida, who had come away from the caskets and was again standing next to me. “Did you ever hear who got Meara pregnant?” I whispered.

“No,” Vida replied, obviously anxious to move away from me and begin prying. “I would have told you if I had. Very mysterious.”

Seeing Father Dennis Kelly come through the door, I
took a couple of backward steps. Jake O'Toole had hurried over to greet our pastor, so I joined them both at the threshold, where we all exchanged greetings.

“Father,” Jake said, “have you ever done one of these before?”

“No,” Father Den admitted. “But I looked it up. I don't do much, except lead the mourners in some familiar prayers after we say the rosary.”

Betsy also came over to welcome our priest. “This is all Jake's doing,” she announced, glaring at her husband. “The big grocer, the big Irishman, the big stoop.”

Both Father Den and I were accustomed to the public bickering of the O'Tooles. The wrangling must have suited them; they'd been married for almost twenty years.

“It's a nice gesture,” Father Den said in a noncommittal voice. “I'm sure the rest of the O'Neills appreciate it.”

“Bull,” said Betsy, still glaring at Jake. “The only thing they'd appreciate is if we held the damned thing at the Grocery Basket with a free run at the beer and wine sections.”

“Take it easy,” Jake said, putting a hand on his wife's arm. “Observe Lona by the caskets. Her bereavement almost prostates her.”

I tried not to wince at Jake's overblown and often misused vocabulary, a bad habit he'd acquired after Safe-way moved to town and cut into his profits. I figured he believed that big words made him an even bigger businessman. Or something.

I looked in the direction that Jake had indicated. Lona, supported by Dan Peebles, was standing over what I presumed was Stubby's body. She had placed a red and green flannel shirt in her husband's casket. Maybe it had been his favorite garment; maybe she treasured it because he never beat her when he wore it. Lona's plump
shoulders shook and she covered her face with a handful of tissues. Jake was right: Her grief seemed genuine.

“The first ex-wife's not here,” Betsy said in a dry tone. “She moved to Seattle.”

“What about the daughters from that first marriage of Stubby's?” I inquired as Father Den slipped away.

Betsy pointed toward the front door. “Here they come now. The taller one is Kathleen. Margaret's got the spiked hair. That's Rusty's son, Mickey, behind them.”

Vaguely, I recognized the threesome. Kathleen— Kathy—was rather plain and bordered on gaunt. Margaret, nicknamed Meg, was the better-looking of the two, despite something of a weight problem and the orange-and-blue spiked hair. Their cousin Mickey was a nondescript lad of twenty—dark hair, dark clothes, dark expression. It was no wonder I'd forgotten there was a male O'Neill to carry on the family name.

“Where's Mickey's mother?” I whispered to Jake as Betsy welcomed the younger O'Neills.

“Dana?” Jake shrugged. “I don't know. She and Rusty never divorced, but the ultimate information I retained said she'd moved to Lynnwood or Mountlake Terrace— one of those suburbs north of Seattle.”

By the caskets, Lona's sobs had been joined by those of Meara. “Dana O'Neill was the wife who kept leaving and coming back, right?” I said.

Jake, who was keeping an eye on the growing crowd of mourners as if he expected someone to make off with the Belleek china on the mantel, nodded once. “Dana's been gone for a while this time,” he said. “Lona left once or twice before she finally departed the town. I heard she'd filed for divorce but I don't know if it was decreed final by the time Stubby got killed.”

“It wasn't.” Jack Mullins had come up behind me. “What do you think of our Irish rituals so far, Emma?”

“So far, they're relatively tame.”

I'd spoken too soon. The three younger O'Neills and a couple of older people I didn't recognize had joined Lona and Meara at the caskets. Yet another stranger was placing a half-dozen extravagant bouquets behind the trio of gray coffins. Virtually all the mourners were now sobbing, but the worst was yet to come. Within seconds, it did.

The Wailers arrived, three black-clad women who showed up at every funeral, interment, or other grief-related event. Long black coats, voluminous black veils, black cotton stockings, black shoes, black gloves, and black purses made them look like three black crows. Even their faces seemed dark, the wilted veils turning their natural pallor into featureless masks of gray.

As if joined at the hip, they glided together toward the coffins. Jack, who had been joined by his wife, Nina, nudged me. “This is a real bonus. How's Father Den going to say the rosary over the shrieks of the Wailers?”

Apparently, he wasn't. At least not immediately. As if on cue, the three women began to moan and keen. Apparently they struck some atavistic chord in the other mourners. They, too, began to groan and shriek.

Meara's baby joined in, crying and thrashing in his mother's arms. I caught Vida's eye from across the room. She looked as if she were about to commit Alpine's next homicide on the spot.

Father Den was trying to edge his way in front of the caskets. He looked like a slow-motion replay of a running back squirming and twisting his way to the goal line. Dan Peebles tried to run interference for him, but was partially blocked by the large form of Brendan Shaw, whose back was turned and who was apparently trying to sell life insurance to somebody I didn't recognize.

“That's it,” Jack declared, and assumed the role of law enforcer without benefit of his official uniform. “Can it,
everybody! Let Father say the prayers. Come on, pipe down, or I'll clear the room.”

Everyone but the Wailers complied. The black-clad trio kept up their grieving noises until Vida marched over to confront them. She spoke very softly; I couldn't hear what she told the women. But they stopped and withdrew to the floral stands with their masses of gladioli, roses, and calla lilies.

Father Den announced that those of us who were Catholic were about to say the rosary, I got down on my knees. Luckily, the O'Tooles' carpets were fairly plush. Fingering the mother-of-pearl beads that Adam had given me for Christmas, I made the sign of the cross with the silver crucifix.

Just as we got to the rosary's First Glorious Mystery, someone tapped my shoulder. Awkwardly, I turned around and found myself staring up at Spencer Fleetwood.

“Have I missed anything?” he whispered.

I wanted to say, Yes, you missed finding another corpse. Ha-ha. Instead, I practiced charity and merely shook my head. After all, I was praying.

Unlike some priests I've known, Father Den doesn't race through the decades of the rosary as if he were reading off the entries in the feature race at Emerald Downs. We finished about twenty minutes later, after Den had offered a few prayers for the repose of the O'Neills' souls. The Wailers were poised over the caskets, about to shriek and moan again, but Father Kelly asked for silence as we prayed privately for the dead men and their survivors.

“How long does this stuff take?” Spence whispered as he bent down closer to my ear. For once, he'd dispensed with the designer sunglasses.

I shrugged. Forever, I hoped, despite the growing stiffness in my knees. Maybe Spence would get bored and leave. His mere presence rankled me.

But after no more than five minutes, Father Den announced that the period of reflection and mourning could begin. People got to their feet, half of them moving away from the caskets, the other half moving nearer. A few soft sobs and gentle sniffs could be heard, along with the clearing of throats. Dan Peebles, looking slightly diffident and a trifle flushed, raised his hands.