The Alpine Nemesis (27 page)

T
HE ARMS THEFT
from the naval station was a tricky story to write. Without proof, the O'Neills couldn't be mentioned as suspects, only as having been in possession of illegal weapons. I didn't want to burden Scott with such a complex article this late in the day, especially since there were some holes that Milo couldn't fill. Consequently I spent over half an hour on the phone, talking to three different people in Everett. When I finished, I didn't have much more than I started with. To say that the military can be discreet is putting it mildly. They're a bunch of damned clams when it comes to security. Maybe that should make me feel more secure, but as a journalist I felt only frustration.

The basic, attainable facts were these: there had been three separate break-ins during the past six months, one in February, one in March, and one in late May. No details of how or who were revealed, nor would my sources tell me if there were any accessories who had conspired with the O'Neills. I knew there were, because Milo had let me know that an investigation of at least one person was under way. Aware that Lona O'Neill worked at the base, I asked if she was a suspect. The query was stonewalled, but Milo had indicated that her relationship with Stubby and the other O'Neills would arouse suspicion. The sheriff also planned to interrogate her Wednesday morning.

“Very odd,” Vida declared just as I sent the story to the backshop at five to five. “Lona works for the navy, her husband had the stolen arms in their house, and there were other weapons at the O'Neill house on Second Hill. The only problem is, I don't believe she took the job in Everett until a month or two ago.”

“That's not the only problem,” I said, trying to get the kinks out of my neck and back. “Can you see Lona involved in something like that? Or imagine Stubby trusting her, especially since they'd been estranged for a year or more?”

Vida was putting on her coat. “Perhaps not, but it's certainly an odd coincidence.” She finished the sentence in a rush as her phone rang.

I started for the backshop to check with Kip MacDuff. I'd gotten to the door when Vida put the phone down and gave me a peculiar look.

“That was my daughter Amy,” she said in a strange voice. “Meara O'Neill is at her house.”

“Meara?” I was taken aback. “At Amy and Ted's house? Why?”

“I've no idea.” Vida seemed thunderstruck. “I'd planned to interview her over the phone this evening. There was no mention of her coming to Alpine from Everett, and certainly not of going to Amy and Ted's. I had no idea Meara knew them, except in passing. Goodness.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” I asked, forgetting all about my date with Janet Driggers.

“No, certainly not,” Vida responded, now purposefully striding toward the door. “I'm not uneasy, I just don't understand the connection.”

Vida went out one door, Kip came in the other. “It's looking good,” he declared. “Twenty-four pages, plus the summer solstice preview section. Leo managed to get
the ads to sustain this big issue. How does he do that with Fleetwood and the radio station here?”

“Hard work and knowing how to entice the local merchants,” I said. “Leo's very creative when it comes to putting advertising packages together. By the way, you left the Driggers ad in?”

Kip nodded. “But what if Al doesn't want to pay?”

“Then I won't charge him. Oh!” I exclaimed. “I'm supposed to meet Janet Driggers in five minutes. Thanks for reminding me.”

I grabbed my belongings and hurried out of the office. I'd be a couple of minutes late, since the ski lodge was almost a mile from the
Advocate.
When I arrived in the bar with its ersatz northern lights and Nordic gnomes, Janet wasn't there yet. I sat down in a small booth against the wall where I could watch the entrance. To my surprise, Tiffany Eriks came over to take my order.

“When did you start working here?” I inquired, probably sounding more abrupt than I intended.

Tiffany, however, didn't seem to take offense. “I'm just filling in,” she replied, brushing her long blonde hair off her forehead. “Dani Erdahl is getting married this weekend.”

I glanced around the bar, which wasn't very busy early on a Tuesday evening. “I'll wait to order when my friend gets here. Have you recovered from your terrible shock last week?”

“Shock?” Tiffany's long eyelashes fluttered. “Oh, you mean with that guy's body. Yes, I'm pretty much okay. It was really creepy, though.”

I offered Tiffany my most ingenuous smile. “I'll bet that was your idea—the part about Brian looking cold.”

“He
was
cold,” Tiffany said. “I mean, he'd been up there on the Ridge for so long.”

“And,” I added dryly, “he was dead.”

Tiffany nodded eagerly. “That's right, he'd been dead
for ages. At least that's what Tim told me. He wasn't just stiff from the cold.”

I wondered if Tiffany's apparent obtuseness was genuine or a front. I didn't know her well, though I'd become acquainted with some of her family over the years. Certainly her maternal grandfather, Durwood Parker, laid claim to being the worst driver in Skykomish County, but he'd been an excellent pharmacist before his retirement some twelve years earlier. Recklessness might be in the genes, but not necessarily stupidity.

“I was referring to when you and Tim placed Brian's body in the meat locker,” I said, trying to steer Tiffany back on course.

“Oh.” She blinked at me some more. “That was awful. We panicked.”

It was like a recording. Tiffany panicked, Tim panicked, they both panicked. I wasn't getting anywhere. Two well-dressed men who looked as if they might be sales reps entered the bar. Tiffany excused herself and went over to wait on the newcomers.

Sitting in bars, especially alone—which wasn't often— made me want to start smoking again. The cigarette machine was mercifully out of sight, but an older couple in a corner booth had just lighted up. I wriggled around in my seat, wished I hadn't decided to wait for Janet, and wondered if there was any gum in my purse.

I was still squirming when Tiffany returned. “Mrs. Driggers called to say she couldn't make it. She said she was very sorry, but something came up.”

Disappointed, I thanked Tiffany and told her I'd be leaving. I put a couple of dollar bills on the table and headed home. For once, I wasn't terribly anxious to arrive at an empty house. Tom's increasingly frequent visits and my contemplation of our future cast a pall over living alone. Maybe, finally, the independence I'd fought for all my life had lost its luster. It occurred to me that it
might not have been self-reliance I'd sought, but a hedge against loneliness and a sop for hope. I felt I was already changing, no longer thinking solely of
me
but of
us.
I liked the new concept.

My meandering route took me past The Pines, the upscale development where Amy and Ted Hibbert had moved a year or so before. With nothing better to do, I drove past their house, where I saw Vida's Buick parked out front by the mailbox. I wondered what she'd found out from Meara O'Neill. Then I noticed an older, smaller car parked just a few yards from the Buick. The other car, which looked like a Honda, had an infant seat in the back. Meara's, I figured. She must still be there.

Fidgety, I drove along the winding roads that traversed the sloping area once known as Stump Hill. Maybe if I timed it right I'd go by the Hibbert house just as Vida came out. In a cul-de-sac by Dr. Starr the dentist's home, I stopped and took out my cell phone to call Janet. Maybe she'd gotten sick; maybe Al had had a nervous breakdown.

Janet didn't answer until the fourth ring. “Yes?” she said in a breathless voice.

“It's Emma. Are you okay?”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Emma?” Janet finally echoed. “Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Are you up at the ski lodge?”

I explained that I'd left and was waiting for Vida in The Pines. “I was afraid you might have gotten sick. Or that something had happened to Al. I mean, I know he's been upset lately.”

This time the pause was so long that I could hear Janet's breathing. “Emma?”

“Yes, I'm still here.”

“I can't find Al.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Janet said with the old fire returning to her
voice, “Al's not home, he's not at the funeral parlor, he's not anywhere. I tried his cell phone. He doesn't answer. Do you think I should call the sheriff?”

“Maybe he stopped for a drink after work,” I suggested. “You know, to steady his nerves.” I had started the car again and was creeping along the road back toward the Hibbert house.

“Al doesn't drink,” Janet said flatly. “And he always leaves his cell on in case somebody croaks.”

“Have you spoken with Dan Peebles?”

“Yes,” Janet replied. “Dan was still at work, but he said he hadn't seen Al since around four. I left about three-fifteen. I had to catch up on my housework. This working two jobs is nuts. Cammy still has spots and doesn't want anyone to see her looking so gruesome. But,” she added, her voice suddenly a wail, “where the hell is Al?”

“Janet,” I said soothingly, “he's only been missing for less than two hours. If it makes you feel better, call the sheriff. They'll probably find Al in about fifteen minutes.”

Janet's voice dropped, becoming more normal. “You're right. It's just that I feel so … oh, I don't know … these last few days have been pretty damned rugged.”

“That's true enough,” I said, putting on the brake as I approached the Hibberts' driveway. “Listen, I'll be home in a little while. Call me there and let me know what's going on.”

Janet promised she would and rung off. I'd just disconnected my phone when I saw Vida, Roger, and Meara come flying out of the house. Vida was in the lead, but hurrying backwards, with her arms outstretched. Halfway down the drive, Roger stopped abruptly, jammed his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, and put his head down.

“Don't you dare run off!” Vida shouted, wildly waving an arm.

“Please, Mother …” Amy wailed from the porch. I couldn't catch the rest of her words.

Meara, who was holding the baby, made a couple of quick moves, sidestepping Vida. Just as I got out of the car, Ted appeared in the doorway next to his wife, looking cowed.

I ran over to the Honda, barring the driver's side. “What's going on?” I yelled as Meara came within ten feet of me and stopped.

“I want to go home!” Meara shouted. “Let me alone!”

Having noted my presence, Vida faced Roger, putting an arm around him. The kid made a feeble effort to break loose, but let his grandmother steer him back up the driveway. Halfway to the house, she turned around, shook her fist, and cried, “Hussy!”

I looked into Meara's face; she was pale and frightened.

“Okay,” I said, stepping aside. “Can I ride with you? My car broke down.”

“What?” Meara stared at me and clutched the baby closer to her breast.

“I need a ride to Cal's Texaco,” I said, hurrying around to the Honda's passenger side. “Do you mind? Come on, we'd better get out of here.”

Suddenly energized, Meara opened the rear door on my side and put little Cornelius into his infant seat. Her movements were deft. The baby smiled and gurgled at his mother.

“Emma!” Vida cried, frantically waving at me. “Wait!”

The car window didn't have a power function and Meara was already sliding into the driver's seat. “Later!” I shouted at Vida.

She looked irate, seemingly rooted to the spot as we pulled away and lurched down the winding road. The car was old, and probably in need of repair. Either that,
or Meara wasn't a very good driver. Then I realized she was only sixteen. Roger's age. I began to wonder.

We didn't speak until we reached Alpine Way, where the Texaco station was located, just a few blocks north. “Meara,” I said in my most humble voice, “could I impose on you for a big favor? I left my checkbook at home. Could you turn right up here on Fir Street? It's only a few blocks. I'll run in and get it if you'd be so kind as to wait.”

“Jeez!” Meara shifted gears and gritted her teeth. The gears sounded as if they were gritting their teeth, too. But she made the quick turn and a few seconds later I pointed out my log house.

“You'd better be quick,” she said, pulling up in front. “I've got to go home to feed Cornelius. He's going to fuss pretty soon, and I have to drive all the way to Everett.”

I seized the opportunity. “Have you got a bottle with you or are you breast-feeding?”

“He's a bottle baby,” Meara replied. “Why?”

“Do you have a bottle with you?” I repeated.

“Yes.” Meara scowled at me. “So what? I can't drive and feed him.”

“I thought,” I said gently, “you might like to come inside to feed him. It'll be an hour, maybe more this time of night, before you get to Everett. You know how bad the commuter traffic gets between five and seven once you reach Monroe.”

Meara stared at me, looked at the baby, then gazed out the car window. “Maybe that's a good idea,” she said. “The traffic won't be so bad. I don't like driving Highway Two. I've only had my license for six months.”

“Come on in, then,” I said, starting to get out of the Honda.

“What about your car?” Meara asked.

“Cal's open late tonight,” I lied. “I may have him tow
it into the garage.” Cal Vickers, like most Alpine businessmen, didn't believe in working past six o'clock. “If you can't make it in eight, you won't make it in nine” was the local byword.

After Meara got Cornelius out of the infant seat, we trudged into the house.

“This is cute,” she said, looking around the snug living room. “Mom and I are stuck in an apartment about the size of a matchbox.”

“Do you need to warm the bottle?” I asked, having decided to hold off on inquiring about the scene at the Hib-berts' house. I needed to gain Meara's trust; she needed to collect her thoughts. “I can heat some water,” I added.

Meara shook her head. “Room temperature is fine.”

She sat down on the sofa, kept a firm grip on the baby with one hand, and reached into a diaper bag shaped like an elephant with big ears for pockets.

“Do you think,” I asked, “that he looks like you?”

Offering Cornelius the bottle, Meara peered down into his face. He had a thatch of brown hair, blue eyes, and a slightly receding chin.