The Alpine Scandal (6 page)

“What?”

“Rey tells me Ed came by this morning to apply for his job,” Spence explained, looking serious. “Rey’s leaving Alpine at the end of the month or whenever I can find a replacement. He finished his AA degree in December and wants to try a larger radio market. Ed wants Rey’s spot. He said you recommended him. What does he know about radio, and why does he want to work?”

“Because he’s broke,” I said bluntly. “As for what he knows about radio, I can’t tell you. He can turn one on, I suppose. But I certainly didn’t recommend him for a job with you. Ed’s dreaming.”

“That’s what I figured,” Spence said. “I have to get—or train—a replacement who can act as an engineer as well as do the on-air stuff. I plan to get somebody else from the college.”

I didn’t blame Spence. Students, especially older ones like Rey, were a good investment. They needed the experience and were willing to work for meager wages. I’d thought about hiring a journalism student if and when the time came for Scott to move on. It’d be taking a chance, but maybe I’d get lucky as Spence had and find someone who was more mature than your average nineteen-year-old.

“I can’t help you,” I said, “when it comes to Ed. I feel kind of sorry for him, but I’m not recommending him for a job at your station.”

“Not even to solicit advertisers?”

I managed to keep a straight face. The best thing that could happen to me when it came to competing for ads would be having Ed work for KSKY. He’d send potential merchants running like deer during hunting season.

“That’d be up to you,” I said. “Come on, Spence, let me out of here. It’s one o’clock.”

He hesitated. “You won’t tell me about Nystrom?”

“Do your own digging,” I snapped as he finally got out of the booth. “After all,” I added, standing in the aisle, “I did my share. I found the body.”

It was a great exit line, but I knew Spence would scoop me anyway. Back in the office, I wrote the lead story. After I’d sent it off to Kip in the back shop, I walked up Front Street to the Nordby Brothers GM dealership between Sixth and Seventh.

The showroom faced Front; the car lot was on the other side of the main building next to the railroad tracks. As usual, a couple of men were browsing around the display models, especially a hot yellow Corvette. They were unmolested by sales personnel. In fact, I didn’t see any sales personnel on the floor. Behind a glass partition I spotted the brother who must have been Trout, talking on the phone. He definitely had fish lips.

“A beauty,” I heard one of the men remark.

I knew they weren’t talking about me. They meant the ’Vette. I had, however, caught Trout’s eye. He was putting down the phone and smiling in my direction.

“Emma Lord,” he said, coming out from behind the partition and offering his hand. “Don’t tell me you fired Leo and are doing the ad job yourself.”

“Never,” I asserted, shaking his hand. “But I am here on business. I’m very sorry about Elmer. It’s a loss for you and your brother.”

Trout’s fish lips turned down. “Hell, yes. So damned sudden. Come on in.” He led the way into his office.

“Looky-loos,” he said, nodding at the two men in the showroom. “Some guys spend their lunch hours in here, just staring at the vehicles. Down the line they might actually buy one. But it won’t be that Corvette.”

“Out of my price range,” I remarked, sitting in a customer chair that was far more comfortable than what I provided for visitors at the
Advocate
. But then, I wasn’t catering to people I necessarily wanted to feel at ease. “Who would you sell that car to in Alpine?” I inquired.

Trout smiled wryly. “Ordinarily, nobody. Some of the small-town dealerships borrow a really hot car just for show purposes. Having a ’Vette like that on the floor brings in potential customers who can’t fork out fifty, sixty grand but may buy something a lot cheaper. But in this case, I may have a buyer. Or did, until today. We’ll see.”

I hadn’t come to discuss car sales, but I wanted Trout’s cooperation. “That one’s a convertible. Isn’t it sort of impractical for Alpine?”

“Hey,” Trout said, leaning closer in his padded swivel chair, “when it comes to a car like that and a buyer who can’t live without it, I could sell the danged thing practically without an engine. It’s like true love. There’s no way to get over it.”

“True enough,” I said, recalling the secondhand Jaguar I’d owned for years simply because I’d always wanted one. What I hadn’t considered was the frequent and expensive repair bills. “You and your brother have a good reputation in this community. So did Elmer. Was he as wonderful as everyone says?”

Trout made a clicking noise with his tongue. “You bet. We were so lucky to inherit him when Skunk and I bought the dealership from Old Man Jensen almost twenty years ago. My brother and me were pretty green: We thought we should start fresh, can everybody, hire our own people, especially guys we’d grown up with who knew about cars. But ol’ Jensen, he said Elmer came with the dealership. If we didn’t keep him on, the deal was off.” Trout shrugged and chuckled. “So we did like he told us, and never been sorry for it.”

I assumed that Trout hadn’t yet heard that Elmer might have been murdered, so I had to skirt the obvious questions. “Did customers ever get mad at Elmer?”

“Heck, no.” Trout hooked his fingers in the empty belt loops of his polyester pants. He wore wide brown suspenders over a bright yellow shirt. “Nobody could get mad at the guy. He treated the customers like royalty. Oh, he’d give ’em the occasional lecture about maintenance and taking pride in your vehicle, but that was always for their own good. But never any shuck-and-jive about when your car was ready or ordering a wrong part or screwing with an estimate. Organized, too, and his work area was always neat as a pin. He was tops. Look…” Trout pushed his chair away from the desk and folded his pudgy hands in his lap. “We got Nissan across the street, Honda and Toyota in town, too. You drive a…Honda, right?” He saw me nod. “That’s fine. Those Jap cars are good. Danged good. But we manage to keep right up with ’em in this town, and a truckload of the credit goes to Elmer. Owners know they can trust him when it comes to parts and repairs.” Trout hung his head. “
Knew
they could trust him. Dang it, I can’t believe he’s gone. What’ll we do without him?”

I asked if Elmer had someone working directly under him.

Trout made a face, which emphasized his big lips. “Yeah—half a dozen over the years. The one we got now is Dink Tolberg’s son, Alex. He’s young, just out of that auto mechanics course they got at the college. But you know these kids nowadays.” He shrugged again.

“It can be a problem,” I allowed.

Trout was looking out into the showroom. “The looky-loos are gone. Maybe they decided to go eat something. Here comes Skunk. I wonder if I should call Carter,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“That would be very considerate,” I said, also getting up.

“Oh, I already talked to Polly,” Trout said, walking slowly out of the office. “She was holding up better than you’d expect. I meant calling Carter about that car. I suppose it’s bad timing.”

“What car?” I asked, nodding at Skunk, who was tending to a smudge on a dark green Saab.

“The ’Vette.” Trout jerked a thumb at the classy sports car. “Carter’s the one who’s interested in buying it. I wonder if he’s changed his mind now that his father’s dead.”

Chapter Five

V
IDA WAS REQUESTING
items for her “Scene Around Town” gossip column from her colleagues. “I have one Christmas tree thrown away with several ornaments still on it at a house on Cascade Street,” she said as she gazed through her big glasses at the computer screen she’d grudgingly learned to use in recent months. “The latest Gustavson, Rikki, aged fourteen months, refusing to relinquish his Baby New Year top hat after the family holiday brunch—I ought to know, I was there. That awful child pulled the hat down over his head and it got stuck on his enormous ears, and he shrieked like a banshee. Furthermore, the food was perfectly dreadful, especially that ridiculous couscous.”

Leo looked up from the floor where he’d dropped his matches. “Duchess,” he said, using the nickname Vida loathed, “you subscribe to a recipe service. Couscous has been in for years.”

“Then it’s time for it to be out,” Vida declared. “It tastes like postage stamp glue, and it’s just an exotic name for rice. Where was I? Oh—Valentine’s already on display at Alpine Stationers, Blue Sky Dairy delivering the last of this season’s eggnog, Francine Wells showing off the redesigned diamond and platinum wedding ring Warren gave her for Christmas. Come, come—who has something?”

I considered the two men ogling the yellow Corvette at Nordby Brothers, but I didn’t know their names. Besides, the dealership was already getting news coverage in this week’s edition, even if it was of the unwelcome sort.

“Two goldfish floating upside down in a bowl at the pet store,” Scott offered. “Or is that too grim?”

“It is,” Vida informed him. “Something more cheerful, please.”

“That leaves out Ed,” I remarked.

Vida shot me a dirty look. “It’s always good to leave out Ed.”

Leo snapped his finger. “I saw something. The Reverend Poole riding his tractor lawn mower down Fourth Street yesterday afternoon. Don’t ask why. I didn’t. But this is a weird time of year to mow your grass. Maybe it’s a Baptist thing.”

“Very well,” Vida said. “I’ll use that. One more.”

“I’ve got one,” I said suddenly. “Stella and Richie Magruder’s grandchildren—the twin boys—standing at the top of First Hill with a brand-new sled and no snow.”

Vida passed judgment. “Poignant but acceptable.”

I’d been standing in the doorway to my office. As Vida entered the latest tidbits, I walked over to her desk. “What did Milo make of that obit on Elmer? I didn’t ask him at lunch because I was verging on being a nag.”

Vida looked disgusted. “He thought it must be a very unfortunate joke.” She paused and pursed her lips. “Of course that was his initial reaction. You know Milo—like most men, he needs to think things through and come to his own conclusions.”

“A joke seems unlikely,” I pointed out.

“Of course it does,” Vida agreed. “But you must admit, it’s very strange. Surely Milo must realize that the only person who knew in advance that Elmer was going to die would be the person who killed him.”

“Yes. Or Elmer himself,” I said. “Maybe he had a premonition.”

“Elmer doesn’t strike me as a fanciful person,” Vida noted. “Perhaps he had been threatened. On the other hand, he must have been a very careful and well-organized man. Polly might know if he’d written his obituary to save her—or Carter—the trouble by doing it himself.”

“Possibly,” I allowed. “A trustworthy and conscientious service department manager would want to help customers prevent problems before they happen. Elmer probably was the type who considered all sorts of contingencies. But he wouldn’t have mailed it to you.”

Vida sighed. “I regret in some ways I didn’t know Elmer better. Except for anything complicated, my nephew Billy has always been kind enough to work on my Buick. He’s quite handy with cars, you know.”

“He’s probably saved you a bundle of money,” I pointed out.

“Oh, my, yes. But I always buy him ice cream afterward.”

I didn’t comment. Bill Blatt was now over thirty, but that didn’t mean he had lost his taste for ice cream. I was about to say something else, but Vida had craned her neck to look around me as someone came into the newsroom. “Tara, how nice to see you! Have you brought us a news item just before deadline?” The hint of reproach in Vida’s voice may have been detectable only by me.

Tara Wesley, who owns Parker’s Pharmacy along with her husband, Garth, approached Vida’s desk. The usually unruffled Tara seemed tentative, as if she were approaching the prison warden, begging for special privileges.

“Hi, Vida, Emma,” she said with barely a nod at me but her eyes fixed on my House & Home editor. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course,” Vida said smoothly. “What is it? Do sit,” she urged, indicating her visitor’s chair.

I backed away, going over to Scott’s vacant desk to see if he’d left any loose ends in his stories or photos before we went to press. He was a good writer, an excellent photographer, and a better-than-average interviewer, but he still had trouble meeting deadlines.

Tara had sat down, though she obviously wasn’t relaxed. “This morning on my way to the drugstore I mailed you a story about Jessica.”

“Oh, yes,” Vida said. “Your pretty daughter.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tara nod. What I wasn’t seeing was any problems Scott had left on his desk or in his in-basket. But Tara had aroused my curiosity. I stalled to listen in, pretending to concentrate on my reporter’s work area.

“Ordinarily,” Tara went on, “I would have dropped the little story off, but I had to mail three Christmas cards to people I didn’t expect to hear from and whose greetings didn’t get delivered until Friday or Saturday. You know—every year you hope to eliminate some names from your list, but they pop up anyway.”

“Of course. So awkward,” Vida said in her most sympathetic tone.

“I put the cards and a couple of bills and the article all in the mailbox by our house,” Tara continued. “But it turns out that I should have held off. The story’s no good.”

“Oh?” Vida was giving Tara her most owlish expression.

“You see,” Tara said, leaning forward in the chair, “Jessica quit the UW at the end of the winter quarter. She doesn’t want to follow in our footsteps and become a pharmacist, after all. She’s decided to take some time off from school.”

“Very sensible,” Vida said. “There’s no point in wasting money on tuition these days when you don’t have a goal.”

“Yes, right,” Tara agreed. “Jessica’s only eighteen. Anyway, she decided to get a job here in town. So yesterday she started work for Dr. Nystrom as a receptionist. That’s what I wrote the little story about because I know you like to print that sort of thing.”

“Yes, always of interest to our readers,” Vida said, shifting slightly in her chair, which I recognized as a sign of impatience. “And?”

“She quit this morning.”

“Oh?”

“So would you please just toss the thing out when it comes?”

“Of course,” Vida assured her. “My, my—this hasn’t been a very good day for Dr. Nystrom. Not, certainly, that Tara quit because his father passed away. Or was your daughter terribly upset by the news?”

Tara had gotten to her feet and was putting the hood of her jacket up over her salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m not sure Tara knew about that when she gave notice. I haven’t had a chance to really talk to her. Both Garth and I are working today. Frankly, this is embarrassing. I expected better of Tara. When she worked for us at the pharmacy, she was very reliable.”

“A mismatch, perhaps,” Vida said. “Personalities sometimes clash. I must confess my grandson, Roger, had a bad experience this past summer working for Sky Dairy. He and Norm Carlson simply never hit it off. Norm can be very unreasonable and demanding. That’s terribly hard on a young person, particularly when it was Roger’s first job.”

And his only one so far
, I thought. Along about August 1, Roger had finally gotten off of his fat rear end and gone to work at the dairy. He’d lasted less than a week. Leo insisted the kid had fallen into the ice cream vat, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. It was more likely that he’d gone to sleep on the job or simply not shown up.

Tara said goodbye, remembering to include me as an afterthought. I was used to it when Alpiners came calling on Vida.

“Drat,” Vida said, using her strongest oath. “I wish I’d gotten to know Carter Nystrom better. His name keeps cropping up.”

“Of course it does,” I said, walking back toward her desk. “His father died this morning. Though I admit, I was surprised to hear it in another context when I was at the car dealership.”

Vida regarded me with interest. “Oh?”

I told her about the yellow Corvette that Carter was interested in buying. “I suppose he can afford it,” I said, “though he’s only been in practice a couple of years.”

“Orthodontists charge the world,” Vida remarked. “Still, you’d think he’d have student debts. I’ve always understood that doctors and dentists and such have to pay off some very large loans before they actually start making money.”

“Did Polly ever work?” I asked.

“Heavens, no!” Vida’s expression was disparaging. Upon becoming a single mother in her forties, she had begun her career with the
Advocate
to support her three daughters. “I’ve always thought of Polly as a hothouse flower. Pampered. Catered to. Husband and son only too eager to wait on her hand and foot. You wouldn’t believe the fuss that was made a few years ago when Polly had hammertoe surgery. You would have thought she’d had all of her extremities amputated. Elmer and Carter were running around like chickens with their heads cut off.” Vida clucked her tongue, sounding appropriately like a noisy hen.

“I sort of recall that,” I said. “It happened not long after I moved to Alpine.”

Vida nodded. “That’s right. Carter hadn’t yet started college. It’s no wonder I’ve never been particularly friendly with Polly. I did try when they moved here. I had an ice cream social for her. But I heard afterward that she’d complained about the cookies I served. Imagine! Talk about an ingrate.”

Maybe that was why Carter had decided to go into dentistry. If Vida had made the cookies, his mother might have broken a couple of teeth trying to chew them. But I merely nodded sympathetically.

“Very critical,” Vida murmured. “And inclined to embroider her tales. That serves no purpose with gossip. The truth is always sufficiently damaging. When it’s told, of course.”

I left Vida to ponder Polly Nystrom’s errant tongue. I had some loose ends of my own to clear up before five o’clock. One of them was the sheriff. I called him around four.

“Anything on that obit Vida gave you?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Invisible ink. Poisoned paper. A secret code.” I paused. “What do you think, Sheriff? Fingerprints, DNA, how it was generated—what you law enforcement types call
evidence
.”

“Get real,” Milo said in a tired voice. “We don’t have expensive forensic testing equipment in SkyCo. The damned thing went over to Everett. And what kind of DNA do you expect? A long blond hair?”

“The envelope,” I snapped. “Whoever licked it would leave DNA.” Did Milo think I never watched TV?

“Maybe, maybe not. The sender could have moistened the flap with water.” He sighed into the receiver. “Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it unless we’re dealing with a nut case. You’re not going to print anything about the obit, are you?”

“No,” I replied. “It can wait until we—you—find out who might have sent it to Vida.”

That was fine with Milo. “By the way,” he added, “Spence broke the homicide story on the three o’clock news.”

“Of course.”

“Sorry.”

“You can’t help it,” I said. “Who’d he get to?”

“Dustin,” Milo replied. “You know how damned polite he is. Anyway, he couldn’t lie.”

“What did he and Bill find at the Nystrom place?”

“What you’d expect,” Milo answered. “Lots of garden tools, all the usual hardware. They kept that place up, I guess. Hard to tell this time of year, when nothing’s in bloom.”

Since I was fond of puttering in my own sloping patch of mountainside, I sensed who was good at gardening and who was not. “I imagine their yard is very pretty during the spring and summer. Shrubs, a fruit tree, probably lots of flowers. If a place looks tidy in January, you can bet it’s lovely during the growing season.”

“I’m not much good at that stuff,” Milo confessed. “Old Mulehide used to nag me about pruning this and planting that on my days off. All I wanted to do was veg out in front of the TV. She never figured that law enforcement was hard work.”

I’d often heard that complaint about Milo’s ex-wife, who’d finally left him for a high school teacher. Fortunately, I’d never met Old Mulehide, or Tricia, as she was known to the less bitter. Maybe it was just as well that we hadn’t crossed paths. I might have liked her.

“Give me a quote,” I said.

“About Old Mulehide?”

“Of course not. Something to wrap up the front-page story.”

“Make one up,” Milo drawled. “That’s what you usually do, isn’t it?”

In the past, I had put words in Milo’s mouth, but never without running them by him first. “Okay. How about ‘The victim was a well-respected and a well-liked member of this community. The sheriff’s office is expending every effort to solve this tragic murder.’ How’s that?”

Milo didn’t respond immediately. “Ditch the ‘expending.’ It doesn’t sound like me.”

That was accurate. I suggested “will exert” Milo quibbled briefly but gave in. I rang off and finished the article.

After conferring with Kip MacDuff about the
Advocate
’s layout and checking the wire for any last-minute news that might have had a local tie-in, I shut down my computer and got ready to go home.

But I was antsy. As much as retreating to my little log house appealed to me on a winter night, I felt there must be something I could do to help move the Nystrom investigation forward. It wasn’t conceit. Over the years, I’d become so involved in various homicides that I couldn’t dismiss this one just because we’d met our deadline. Instead, I felt compelled to act.

But I didn’t know what to do.