The Alpine Uproar (2 page)

“You could always use it in next week’s ‘Scene,’” I said referring to Vida’s front-page one-by-three-inch gossip column.

“That’s not funny,” Vida retorted. “Maud will be humiliated. She’s so upset. She’s afraid she’ll be evicted from the retirement home.”

“Maud’s overreacting,” I pointed out. “Half the people who read her column at the retirement home won’t get it.” I stopped just short of saying that the other half of the residents were either gaga or almost dead. The callous thought made me realize that I wasn’t in a very good mood. I changed the subject. “Fill me in,” I said, picking up Vida’s copy of the
Advocate
with its lead story under Mitch’s byline and a photo he’d taken of the Icicle Creek Tavern exterior. His interior shots included one of De Muth’s body lying halfway under the pool table with only his legs and lower torso showing. I’d decided that was too grim for the front page. “I made sure he didn’t use any quotes from the other patrons and kept just to the facts that Milo and Sam had given him. Being an old hand at covering homicides, he didn’t need reminding. But down the road we’ll have to find out what the witnesses had to say about the incident.”

“Of course you will,” Vida said. “We’d be a poor source of information if we avoided printing what the bystanders saw and how they responded. Human interest, that’s so important.”

What Vida really meant was that Alpine was agog, its residents waiting impatiently for reactions from their friends and
neighbors. “The gossip mill is already grinding,” I said. “What have you heard so far?”

“Well now.” She rested her elbows on the desk and folded her hands. “I already mentioned Fred Engelman being there. Very unusual, since he never goes to the tavern. Of course it was his ex-wife’s birthday, so I suppose he felt an obligation to be with Janie instead of in jail.”

“Probably,” I allowed. “It’s ironic that the first time he shows up in months there’s a big brawl and a fatality. He would’ve been better off spending the weekend in his favorite cell.”

“Perhaps.” Vida paused. “I rather admire Fred for acknowledging his problem with alcohol, but you’d think he’d join AA rather than checking himself into jail every weekend to avoid carousing and brawling. Admittedly, he never drank during the rest of the week while working for Blackwell Timber, but I don’t think Milo likes having one of his cells used on a regular basis. On the other hand, Fred’s always very good about keeping the place tidy.”

“A real plus,” I murmured.

“It is, actually,” Vida said. “I understand Fred does some chores at the sheriff’s office. He’s quite the handyman. I’ve had him do some repairs at my house and I’ve always been rather pleased, particularly with electrical problems. Oddly enough, he never wears gloves. He insists that the shocks he gets from live wires are invigorating.”

“As fun goes, I suppose that’s better than getting blotto on several schooners of beer.” I sat down in her visitor’s chair. “Fred and his ex, Janie, are on good terms?”

“Apparently,” Vida replied. “During their courtship some thirty years ago and even after their marriage, Janie and Fred would go out for a drink or two. But after a while, Fred began
losing control and drinking much more heavily. They had three children by then, so Janie stayed home. It got to the point where she couldn’t take his awful mood swings and what often turned into violence. Never, of course, directed at her or the children, only at the other tavern drinkers. She finally sued for divorce and married again.”

I nodded. “Husband number two being Mickey Borg, who owns the Icicle Creek gas station and minimart. He was with her Saturday.”

“Yes,” Vida said. “Mickey and Fred
seem
to get along, though it must be awkward. Of the men who were there that night, Fred’s had dustups with most of them except the Peabody brothers—two against one, and the Peabodys are built like bulls. Oh,” she added as an afterthought, “he never challenged Averill Fairbanks.”

Our resident UFO aficionado probably had been spared because he rarely seemed to be attached to Planet Earth. “Aver-ill’s annoying,” I remarked, “but harmless and nonthreatening. What about Spike Canby, the tavern owner?”

“Yes,” Vida said, “I’m sure Fred was tempted to provoke Spike, but perhaps he had enough sense to back down. Fighting with Spike would be killing the goose that laid the golden egg.”

“And yet,” I said as Ginny Erlandson slogged in with the morning mail, “Fred didn’t get involved in the melee that killed Alvin De Muth.” I turned to Ginny. “Anything of interest in that stack?”

“No.” Ginny handed me my eight-inch-high pile of mostly junk. “Honestly, does Marlowe Whipp think I care about some drunk killing another drunk? The only thing I can think of now is when this baby is going to come. It seems like I’ve been pregnant for years.”

“So it does,” Vida said, a beleaguered note in her voice. My House & Home editor, along with the rest of the staff, had suffered almost as much as Ginny had during her third pregnancy. “October 12, correct?”

“A week from yesterday,” Ginny said bleakly. “Columbus Day.”

“Babies come when they come,” Vida said for what must have been the fiftieth time. “You got some lovely presents at your shower Friday night. Cammy Anderson’s chocolate cake was delicious. I must get the recipe from her and run it on my page.”

“Cammy’s a good cook,” Ginny said, placing Vida’s mail in her in-basket. “I shouldn’t have eaten it, though. I was miserable all night.”

I didn’t dare look at Vida, knowing that her reaction to Ginny’s litany of complaints matched my own. “What,” I inquired, “did Marlowe have to say about the fatal fight?”

Ginny had delivered Leo’s mail and was carrying Mitch’s bundle across the newsroom. “That’s another thing,” she groused. “I’ve changed the names on most of these mailings to Mitch Laskey, but they’re still coming to Curtis Mayne or even Scott Chamoud. I asked Marlowe what was going on at the post office. He said it wasn’t their fault, it’s the senders’ responsibility.” She plopped my reporter’s mail on his desk, dropping a couple of envelopes on the floor. “Oh, shoot! Emma, can you pick those up for me? I can’t bend very well.”

“Sure.” I retrieved the letters. “I meant,” I said, putting them in Mitch’s in-basket, “what was Marlowe’s reaction to a real live murder?”

Ginny looked blank. “You mean at the tavern?”

“Yes,” I said, deadpan, catching Vida’s expectant gaze. Even when not totally absorbed with her body and the baby it
carried, Ginny had neither a sense of humor nor an imagination.

Ginny shrugged. “The past three days that’s all he talks about. I tune him out. One drunk beating up on another drunk isn’t that big a deal. At least it wasn’t when I was a kid. Three or four guys got killed in brawls, not to mention accidents in the woods or the mills. Lots of lost arms and legs and fingers and toes, too.” She shuddered. “Gruesome, but typical of what went on back then. Those things aren’t what I want to dwell on when I’m having a baby. I’d rather think positive thoughts about autumn leaves and mountain meadows and big, fat pumpkins.”

My eyes strayed to Ginny’s bulging stomach. The pumpkin reference was apt, confirming my long-held opinion that Ginny didn’t have much imagination.

Vida, however, wasn’t giving in to Ginny’s indifference to tavern murders. “I might be able to catch Marlowe on his route this afternoon. He comes by my house around two. Usually,” she added, grimacing.

“Our mail at home gets later all the time,” Ginny grumbled and lumbered out of the newsroom.

Vida sighed. “I refrain from making the all-too-obvious comments.”

I agreed. “But should we talk to the people who were at the ICT?” I asked, using the tavern’s nickname, which was pronounced
Icked
.

“Yes,” Vida responded. “Human interest, as I mentioned.”

Not to mention Vida’s overwhelming curiosity
, I thought. But she had a point. “I suppose,” I allowed, “but if these people have to testify at a trial, I’m not sure if we should publish their reactions. It’s going to be tough to pick a jury with such a small pool to draw from in this county.”

“It often is,” Vida pointed out. “Of course, we must be over
eight thousand residents since the last census. The influx of commuters and people who can work out of their homes like Brenda Laskey has made Alpine and the rest of Skykomish County extremely desirable. I hate to bring this up, but Ed and Shirley Bronsky’s sale of their home to the group that wants to turn it into a retreat center is quite a coup. Naturally, the idea wasn’t Ed or Shirley’s, but their CPA’s.”

My former ad manager and his wife’s sale of the so-called villa known as Casa de Bronsky, or Bronska, or whatever the hell Ed called it, had been a relief not only to the family but also to everyone else who knew them, including me. When Ed had barged into my office and insisted on replacing Leo during my ad manager’s recovery from a gunshot wound, I thought I’d go nuts. The ten working days—or, in Ed’s case, nonworking days—had almost driven me to distraction.

“Let’s hope the ReHaven bunch finishes at least the exterior improvements on the place before the first big snow,” I said. “They’ll have to if they plan to open right after the first of the year.”

Vida nodded. “Three million dollars to refurbish and repair that monstrosity! It’s a wonder Ed and Shirley didn’t have to pay
them
to take the place off their hands. No upkeep over the years, so foolish. I’m surprised Ed got two and a half million for it. Of course he started out at what? Eight? I hope he’s learned his lesson about squandering money and making his own investments.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Ed’s not the type who ever learns. Of course he’s not likely to inherit another big chunk of cash from a dead relative.”

“Reduced to living in a mobile home,” Vida said, shaking her head. “And with all those children. So cramped, and no doubt so cluttered.”

“It’s actually nice for a double-wide,” I pointed out. “But Ed’s going to have to get a job.”

“Not here,” Vida declared.

“No, never,” I assured her, using the back of my hand to take a swipe at my bangs, which needed a trim. “Shirley’s renewing her teaching certificate so she can at least substitute. The older kids are able to work, too. But you’re right. Ed’s got to get off his fat rear end and bring in some income.”

Vida pushed back in her chair. “And I must head out for my ten o’clock interview with Doc Dewey’s wife, Nancy. I suppose the Rhine River and those German castles are nice, but when it comes to rivers and autumn scenery, how can you beat driving along Highway 2 through the mountain pass?”

I didn’t have to answer Vida’s question. Fortunately, Mitch Laskey came in the door. “How did the arraignment go?” I asked.

“What you’d expect,” Mitch replied, setting his laptop on his desk. “Not guilty, self-defense, and so on. Berentsen’s hired a lawyer from Everett, a woman named Esther Brant. Can he pay for that?”

“Clive’s divorced,” I said. “His ex lives …” I looked at Vida, who had put on her raincoat. “Where?”

“Bremerton,” Vida responded, not missing a beat while heading for the door. “They had no children. The wife remarried. The second husband works in the naval shipyard over on the Kitsap Peninsula.”

Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “Amazing woman. Is there anything she doesn’t know?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

Reflecting on Vida’s vast stockpile of local lore, it suddenly occurred to me that not only a little, but sometimes a lot, of knowledge was a dangerous thing.

S
HORTLY BEFORE NOON
, I
DECIDED TO PAY A VISIT TO THE
sheriff. I was still irked over his implied criticism of my hiring acumen, but having known Milo Dodge for so long as ally, friend, and sometime lover, I could never stay mad at him for long.

Walking along Front Street, I gazed to my left, beyond the Bank of Alpine and the Alpine Building. The town’s older residential section, including my own little log house, clung to the side of Tonga Ridge. The vine maples, cottonwoods, and alders at the lower elevations were turning color, their slashes of red, yellow, and orange slowly merging into the dark green stands of Douglas firs, western hemlocks, and cedars. Vida wasn’t wrong about the local scenery. It was spectacular this time of year with just a few pockets of snow still tucked into the mountains’ recesses and an occasional waterfall trickling over moss-covered rocks. I stopped at the corner of Front and Third, waiting for a UPS truck to pass. A few high white clouds moved slowly across the sky. The temperature was cool but not yet crisp. The smell of diesel fuel didn’t quite manage to spoil the scent of sawdust from
Alpine’s only remaining mill. By the time I reached the sheriff’s office, the air was also tinged with grease from the Burger Barn across the street. I realized I was hungry.

The sheriff was coming out just as I turned to go in.

“Is this an ambush?” he asked.

“Yes. No.” I craned my neck to look up at him. Milo is over a foot taller than I am, and in his regulation Smokey Bear hat he looms like a leviathan. “I thought I should touch base with you on the murder.”

“Ah.” The expression on Milo’s long face was wry. “So you don’t trust this Laskey dude after all?”

“Of course I do,” I retorted. “But I’m ultimately responsible. It’s a homicide, for heaven’s sake!”

Milo shrugged. “This one’s pretty cut and dried.” He gestured at the Burger Barn. “You want to eat or stand here and block foot traffic?”

“Eat,” I said.

The sheriff loped ahead of me, jaywalking across Front Street. “No breakfast,” he said over his shoulder. “We had a power outage in my neighborhood this morning.”

“Did you tell Mitch?” I asked, hurrying to catch up with him.

Milo leaned into the restaurant’s door, opening it with his shoulder. “Why? He doesn’t live in the Icicle Creek development.”

There are times when I honestly don’t know if the sheriff doesn’t recognize a news item or if he’s simply trying to annoy me. “Besides,” he added as we went inside, “it came back on about twenty minutes after I got to work.” Espying an empty booth near the back, he led the way, giving a couple of nods to some of the other patrons, including Scooter Hutchins and Lloyd Campbell, a couple of our local businessmen.