The Alpine Nemesis (24 page)

“The snowboard?” Tim gazed vaguely around the little room. “Heck if I know. We never saw it. Was it supposed to be there?”

“You'd think so, since Brian Conley was using it when he was killed. You're certain you never saw it when you and Tiffany found him?”

Tim looked me in the eye. “Sure. I snowboard sometimes myself. I'd have noticed. Of course,” he added more slowly, “Tiff and I were pretty upset.”

I let the comments pass. “What I don't get is why in the world you dumped Conley's body off at the meat locker. That's never made any sense to me.”

Tim shrugged. “Panic, I guess. You ever find a dead body?”

I ignored the question. “You said that the funeral home was dark. Why didn't you simply call Al Driggers at home? Or get hold of the sheriff?”

Tim hunched his shoulders and let out a big sigh. “We should have. But like I said, we panicked. It was pretty horrible.”

I decided to move on. “Okay, here's another thing that I wondered about—why did you put Brian under the O'Neills?”

Tim looked alarmed. “How do you mean?”

I assumed an air of innocence. “Maybe I'm mistaken. I thought Brian Conley was found under the other bodies.”

“Yeah,” Tim said hastily, “that must be it. You heard wrong. He wasn't under those other guys. Anyway, it was kind of dark in there. We only turned on one light. I think.”

“Is that what you told Sheriff Dodge?”

“I can't remember now,” Tim said, appearing confused. “Jeez, it was such a mess. I mean, I really panicked, big-time.”

Panic seemed to be Tim Rafferty's middle name. Just to throw him off balance, I tossed out what would seem to him like a random question. “What is your middle name, Tim?”

He looked startled. “What? My middle name? Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.” I was smiling in a playful manner. “What is it?”

Tim grimaced. “It's kind of old-fashioned. I never use it. Why do you want to know so bad?”

“I don't,” I responded. “It just popped into my head. You know, one of those odd segues that flit through your mind.”

“Then it doesn't matter?” Tim asked. “I mean, if I don't tell you?”

“No.” I shook my head. “It came under the heading of ‘idle question.’ Now tell me what you told the sheriff about putting Brian Conley in the meat locker.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Tim relaxed, stretching his legs out to one side of the desk. “Okay, let me try to remember just what I told Dodge.” He cleared his throat, more in self-importance than because of nerves, I thought. “The O'Neills were all over the place in that meat locker. Tiff and I hauled Brian in there and… well, this sounds crazy, but being panicked and all, we weren't thinking straight. Maybe we did sort of move the other bodies around. To make room, you know. I think Tiff thought Brian looked … cold, so we might've sort of arranged the O'Neills around him.”

I suppressed my disbelief. I hoped, if this was the same tale that Tim had told Milo, the sheriff had felt the same. The only problem was that I could see no reason for Tim to lie. Nor could I see any reason why he and Tiffany would have taken the time and trouble to “arrange” the bodies in the meat locker. It simply didn't make sense.

I surrendered for the time being. Even if I got Tim to make some kind of revelation on this Monday morning, I wouldn't have an exclusive. As an employee of KSKY, Tim would feel obligated to rush out and tell Spencer Fleetwood whatever he had told me.

“Thanks, Tim,” I said. “I just wanted to clear up a couple of points for this week's edition.”

“No problem.” He got to his feet. “How are you doing with the Conley story?”

I shrugged. “So-so. It's a pretty cold trail, if you'll excuse the pun.”

“I guess.” Tim made an effort to look pensive, which didn't much suit him. “Spence figures it's one of those unsolved mysteries.”

“Yes,” I said. “Probably.”

Tim Rafferty went on his way. As soon as I was sure he was gone, I called Scott into the office. “I hate to bother you on a trifling matter, but have you gone on your rounds at the courthouse yet?”

“I was just headed that way,” Scott replied.

“Do me a favor,” I said, feeling a bit silly. “If you have time, that is. Look up Tim Rafferty's birth certificate and find out his middle name.”

Scott broke into a grin. “Sleuthing, Ms. Lord?”

“Not really,” I answered truthfully. “But Tim wouldn't tell me what his middle name was just now, so it must be something gruesome. If he hadn't been so secretive, I wouldn't give a hoot.”

“Will do,” Tim responded. “Maybe it's a girlie name.” He started to turn around, then swiveled on his heel. “Hey—congratulations. I hear you're getting married.”

I beamed at Scott. “Yes, and you'll be invited. Start saving for a lavish gift.”

“I'll do that.”

This time as he turned to leave, Vida was blocking the door. Scott excused himself and went on his way.

“I've an idea,” Vida announced. “I want to do a feature for my page on Lona O'Neill and the other women in the clan. What do you think?”

“What's the hook?”

“Grief.” Vida pursed her lips. “Pain. Not merely for the deaths of a husband and two kinsmen, but for what went before. The difficult years, so to speak.”

“It sounds a little touchy,” I said.

Vida bridled at the comment. “You don't think I could handle it?”

“Of course,” I said, though I feared the worst of what we used to call sob sister journalism. “I'm just not sure I see the point.”

“The point?” Vida looked at me as if I were the
class idiot. “The point is that this story would be the ultimate in human interest, especially for women. Abuse, estrangement, reconciliation, divorce—the whole gamut of what happens to women who fail to stand up for themselves. Making the wrong choices. Believing that love can endure anything. Three generations of terrible mistakes.”

“Three?” I said.

Vida nodded. “Paddy O'Neill's wife, Bridey. Bridget, that is. She followed him over here from Ireland even though he'd run out on her when they were engaged. Still, he married her. But the union wasn't a happy one.”

I thought of the faded wedding dress I'd seen in the O'Neills' basement. By the time I arrived in Alpine, Bridey had been dead for over a year and Paddy had already starting slipping into decline. I never knew the senior O'Neills as a couple. Apparently I hadn't missed much in the way of role models for holy matrimony.

I retained my doubts about Vida's proposed article. “It seems just a bit ghoulish, even voyeuristic,” I said.

“Nonsense,” Vida declared, then quickly turned around. “Jake! Just the person I wanted to see.” She rushed into the newsroom, where Jake O'Toole was approaching Leo's desk.

As a precaution, I followed, nodding at Jake while I pretended to check the monitor on Scott's vacant desk. Vida was temporarily deferring to Leo. Evidently Jake was yet another advertiser who wanted to make last-minute changes in his Grocery Basket spread.

“Hey,” Jake was saying to my ad manager, “I couldn't help it if Buzzy overordered on the strawberries. My brother's not always the most perspicacious man in town. Anyway, we can't let the berries rot, so we'll have to lower the price by twenty cents a flat.”

“Okay,” Leo responded, showing a patience with ad-

vertisers that always surprised me. “Is that it, now? We've already substituted cantaloupe for Crenshaws and pork shoulder for pork loin. Is it a go?”

“It's fine,” Jake said, nodding several times. “Unless the porcini mushrooms don't arrive tomorrow. They can be delicate.”

Leo merely nodded. “You know the deadline, Jake.”

Jake did. He started to turn away, but Vida tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you have a spare minute?”

Jake gave a start. “What? Oh, Vida! Certainly. I can always spare a woman of quality like yourself precious minutes.”

“Indeed,” Vida said dryly, gazing at Jake over the rims of her glasses. “Can you tell me how to reach Lona O'Neill?”

Jake rubbed at his high forehead. “She departed town yesterday. I don't have her number on my person, but Betsy has it. She's home this morning, doing her domesticities.”

“I'll call her,” Vida said, and marched over to her desk. “Thank you, Jake.”

Recognizing dismissal, Jake waved a hand and left the office. I gazed at Vida for a moment, but she didn't look up from dialing the phone. The O'Tooles' home number, like at least half of Alpine's residents, was kept in the file that was Vida's brain.

Back in my cubbyhole, I told myself that maybe her feature idea wasn't the worst thing she could write. In fact, it might inspire an idea for my editorial. The Legacy of Violence. I'd have to wait and see how Vida handled it first.

Scott returned just before noon. He poked his head through the door and grinned at me. “No wonder Tim Rafferty didn't want to tell you his middle name.”

“What is it?” I inquired.

“Well, maybe it's not all that bad,” Scott said, “but I wouldn't brag about it if I were him. It's Cornelius.” That rang a bell. I wondered why.

“Vida,” I said as she tied the ribbons of a flowered bonnet under her chin, “where have I heard the name Cornelius lately?”

“Where indeed?” She cocked an eye at me. “Ah! That was Stubby O'Neill's given name. Meara named the baby after him. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really. It's Tim Rafferty's middle name. He wouldn't tell what it was, so I had Scott check it in the birth records over at the courthouse. Tim must be embarrassed because it's kind of old-fashioned. Frankly, I like it.”

“It has a certain dignity,” Vida conceded. “Though Stubby suited him much better, especially after he lost two fingers in a logging accident.”

Vida started for the door, but I called after her. “One other thing—this sounds silly, but I have to ask. Is Tim Rafferty any relation to the O'Neills? The names are both Irish.”

“Heavens, no,” Vida responded. “The O'Neills are— were—Irish Catholics.” She paused for emphasis, as if all Irish Catholics must be as disreputable as Paddy and his sons. “Tim Rafferty's family are Protestants. Not that they attend regularly, but his parents were married in my church, First Presbyterian. Now I must dash. I'm meeting Kathleen O'Neill at the Burger Barn on her lunch hour. This afternoon I'll try to see Margaret—Peggy, that is—and I suppose I'll have to interview Lona and Meara over the phone.”

Leo watched Vida sail out through the door. “That hat,” he mused. “Were those real flowers once? Did the Duchess grow them out of the top of her head?”

“No,” I laughed, “they're fake.” I hesitated, won-

dering if I should join Vida and Kathleen O'Neill. Unlike Vida, I had qualms about butting in where I wasn't invited.

Scott looked up from photos he'd been studying. “Do you suppose that guys named Cornelius are called Corny?”

“Not if they're big, burly guys with bad tempers,” I replied with a smile. “That's a problem Meara O'Neill's baby will have to face later on. Maybe she'll give him a nickname. His initials, for instance.”

“Tike if Tim used initials, he'd be T. C,” Scott remarked.

“Tike that,” I said heading back into my cubbyhole. “Except Tim's a good nickname in itself.”

My phone rang before I could sit down. I snatched up the receiver, banged into the desk, and half-fell into my chair. “Hel-/o?” I yipped at my caller.

“Hel-/o, yourself, Sluggly,” said my brother Ben. “Did an irate reader just shoot you?”

“Oh, Stench,” I cried, using his childhood nickname in exchange. At least neither of us was Corny. “I sort of crashed and burned getting back into my office. What's up?”

“My ire,” Ben said, his crackling voice dropping a notch. “What's with you? Have you forgotten I exist just because I'm a man of the cloth?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.

“What do you think I mean, you little twit. I had to find out about your impending marriage from my nephew. Damn it, Sluggly, why didn't you call me?”

I clapped a hand to my head. “Oh, Ben! I'm so sorry! I was going to call you tonight. So much went on this weekend, and not just with Tom and me. We've got a big story—”

“I don't give a rat's ass about your big story,” Ben growled. “Unless it's the one about your wedding. You
wait almost thirty years to get married, and then you can't let your only brother know? I'm plenty pissed.”

Ben wasn't kidding, and I felt terrible for putting off the phone call. “I don't know what to say. Tom didn't leave until this morning, and I had to start work on my—”

“Don't try to apologize,” he said, still angry. “In time, I will forgive you, as my Christian faith dictates. But right now I'd like to strangle you until you turn penitential purple.”

“I don't blame you.” There was nothing more to say.

“Okay.” Ben sounded as if he were getting control of his emotions. “I offer you prayers and congratulations. In fact, I'll say a Mass for you and Tom later this week when I don't feel like kicking your ass from Alpine to Arizona.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you happy?”

“Delirious. That's probably why my mind is shot.” Happiness was new to me; I had to break it in, like a pair of shoes.

A faint chuckle arose from the other end of the line. “Maybe so.”

“Ben—are you angry because we asked Adam to celebrate the nuptial Mass?”

“No,” Ben replied. “I think it's a wonderful idea.”

“The two of you could concelebrate it,” I said eagerly. “We should have thought of that before.”

“It's better if Adam does it alone,” Ben said.

“But he might be nervous. It'll take place right after he's ordained. It'll probably be his first wedding.”

“Yours, too,” Ben remarked dryly.

“Let's think about it,” I urged. “Tom would be happy to have you and Ben perform the ceremony. I'll speak to Adam about it.”

“Slow down,” Ben cautioned. “You're already run-

ning off the tracks. This is a huge change in your life. Now tell me how it came about while I contemplate why I shouldn't be mad anymore.”

For the next five minutes, I regaled Ben with how Tom and I had reached a compromise concerning our future living arrangements. I was still waxing eloquent when Ginny Erlandson entered my office and placed a sheaf of bills on the desk. I waved at her, signaling that I'd get to them later. Ginny, however, gave a shake of her head and stood firm.