The Alpine Uproar (22 page)

“I will,” she said, standing up again and hugging me. “Thanks. By the way,” she went on, releasing me and checking her watch, “if you see Kenny, tell him we leave here at four-fifteen. We can meet up at my car.”

After exiting the office, I stopped, wondering if I should pick up something quick and easy for dinner. It seemed strange to be in the Grocery Basket and not tossing items in a cart. But I couldn’t act as if nothing had happened to the people who
worked at the store. I began walking faster, trying to ignore the dozen or more customers I saw who were talking softly to one another or staring blankly ahead as they moved in solitude down the aisles.

When I got to the entrance, Kenny was about to enter the store, apparently having finished his sad task with the reader board. I waited for him to get inside before I delivered the message from his aunt.

He nodded but didn’t speak.

“You shouldn’t have to be doing this,” I said quietly. “None of your family should. I’ve heard you’re smart, so you’ve probably already figured out that life is often cruel and we’re all mortal.”

Kenny nodded again. He looked at me with soft brown eyes. “I remember when the man you were going to marry was killed. I was there, at the summer solstice parade. I didn’t see what happened because we were all down the street by the post office. But I heard the gunshot. We thought it was a firecracker.”

I tried to fend off the ghastly image when Tom fell dead at my feet. Five years had passed, yet the memory still could send devastating chills down my spine. I did my best to curb my emotions. “That’s what I mean,” I said, my voice steady while shoving the horrific scene back into the darkest corner of my mind. “You and Mike must have been close.”

“We were,” Kenny replied. “Well … the last couple of years it was different. I was going to college here and then to the U. He was into cars and trucks. I suppose we’d both changed.” His tone turned wistful. “I guess that’s part of growing up. We went in different directions.”

“That’s natural,” I conceded and tried to smile. “You did a good job with the reader board. I know it was a hard thing to do.”

Kenny’s expression was wry. “Not as hard as saying goodbye.”

“No,” I agreed. “No, it isn’t. Letting go is even harder.”

“You can’t change what’s already happened,” he murmured and turned to glance at the reader board’s message. “I put that sign up, but I won’t take it down. I want to make sure everybody remembers.”

W
HEN I GOT BACK IN THE CAR
, I
CALLED
G
INNY
. R
ICK ANSWERED
. He told me that both mother and baby were asleep. I suggested dropping the present off and seeing the new addition at another time. “Do you have a name?” I asked.

“Brandon,” Rick replied. “It goes with our older two, Brad and Brett. I suppose he’ll end up being Bran. I told Ginny that Brandon Erlandson was kind of a mouthful, but she insisted. I gave in. If we’d had a girl, we planned to call her Brianna.”

“Brandon’s a nice name,” I said. “I’ll put the present on the porch.”

After I rang off, I removed the small gift card and wrote a short message: “For Brandon—wishing you and your family much happiness in the years to come.”

As I tucked the card in with the present, I glanced again at the reader board. The irony of welcoming a new baby boy into the world and saying good-bye to a young man who had left us wasn’t lost on me. The weather’s mood was changing to gloomy. Gray clouds were settling in over Alpine, promising
rain before evening. Feeling sad, I started the car and headed for the Erlandson house.

Their neat frame bungalow on Pine between Seventh and Eighth streets looked soothingly quiet. I left the present by the front door, got back into my Honda, and followed Seventh up to Tyee. Taking a right, I drove to Vida’s house. Her Buick was in the driveway, so I assumed she was home.

“Well now!” she exclaimed as she ushered me into the living room. “I’ve been trying to call you. I should’ve dialed your cell phone.”

“I take it you’ve heard about Mike?”

“Yes,” she replied as I sat on the sofa and she stood by the hearth. “Marje Blatt called me. Doc had phoned her. He’d contacted the hospital in Monroe and was given the terrible news.” She glanced at a framed photo of her loathsome grandson on the mantel. “Just think—Mike was only a year or so older than Roger.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. “Shall I make tea?”

I declined the offer. Vida sat down in an easy chair while I told her about my visits to the sheriff’s office and the Grocery Basket.

She nodded when I finished. “I tried to call the O’Tooles a few minutes ago, but Betsy had just left. Tell me more about Julie Canby. I scarcely know her. What did she say about the tragedy?”

“She was cooking when the mayhem started. Julie mentioned that she felt sorry for De Muth because he always seemed unhappy. No family, at least not close by. In fact, we don’t know much about him.”

Vida drummed her short nails on the padded chair arm. “True. I’m trying to recall when he came to Alpine. The repair shop’s previous owner was Milt Weiss. He and his wife, Emaline,
sold it to De Muth when they—foolishly, in my opinion—moved to Arizona. That would be about six years ago.”

“We must’ve done a story on it,” I said. “Sky Service and Towing has always run a small ad in the paper.”

“Yes. I believe Leo passed on the details about the new owner and Scott Chamoud wrote a short piece.” She paused again. I was certain that she was diving into her deep well of memory. “There wasn’t much to write about. Alvin De Muth was from east of the mountains. He preferred small towns.” Vida grimaced. “Scott said he was a man of few words.”

I nodded. “So I’m told. Milo did a background check. If he’d found anything about Al, he might’ve mentioned it.”

“He might not.” Vida grimaced. “Milo can be very unforthcoming.”

“Maybe,” I said, “I should see if Milo wants to eat the other crab tonight. Marisa and I only demolished one between us. I froze the torte.” I stood up. “How was your evening with Buck?”

She got out of the easy chair but didn’t look at me. “Fine.” I waited while she arranged some of the family photos on the mantel. Fondly, she fingered Roger’s picture and moved it closer to the front. “You’d think,” she said, finally coming toward me, “that Mike O’Toole’s youth and general good health would have seen him through this, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d hoped as much,” I said, “but they didn’t. He’s not the first young person around here to die in a vehicular accident.”

“Still,” she added, glancing back at her grandson’s smarmy smile, “I get the shivers when I think of something like that happening to Roger. Young people shouldn’t die before their time.”

“I know.”

We walked to the front door. “It’s very different raising children
these days,” she murmured when we got to the porch. “So many more temptations. Not that it’s ever easy, but I don’t recall sending our three girls out the door and constantly fretting over what might happen to them before they came home again. Or even,” she added, more softly, “if they’d come home at all.”

I shot her a curious glance as she walked down the front steps with me. “Adam is several years younger than your daughters. I have to admit I worried quite a bit about what could happen when he was out of my sight. Being a single working mom and living in a big city made it even harder.”

Vida stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Of course,” she remarked in a vague tone. “It feels like rain.” Her gaze moved south to Tonga Ridge, which was virtually obscured by gray clouds.

“It’s not cold enough for frost, though,” I said. “I think I’ll call Milo to see if he’s free for dinner.”

Vida nodded absently. “The park by Redmond has a windmill.”

I glanced at her. “What’s that got to do with … anything?”

“Milo’s future son-in-law is half Dutch,” Vida replied in her usual brisk voice. “That’s why Tanya and her fiancé are being married there. The nearest windmill is in Marymoor Park on Seattle’s Eastside.”

We walked on to the curb. “Will everyone wear wooden shoes?”

“Perhaps.” Vida shrugged. “They can’t do anything more unconventional than some of the marriage ceremonies I wrote up this summer. The Roberson-Corey wedding on horseback at the Evergreen State Fairgrounds was the worst. So disgusting having the bridesmaids and groomsmen carry those satin-trimmed shovels.”

“And because Britney Roberson’s dad owns Platters in the
Sky and takes out a weekly ad, we were forced to run pictures to prove it,” I murmured, opening the door on the driver’s side.

As Vida waved me off, I decided to call Milo from my car. A whole crab and most of the garlic bread was left over, but Marisa and I had eaten most of the Caesar and potato salads. I dialed the sheriff’s cell in case he’d left the office.

“Last call for crab,” I said. “Are you interested?”

“Yeah. Six?”

For some reason I thought the single-word query was
Sex?
It took me a second to realize I was mistaken. “That’s fine. See you.” I rang off. The Grocery Basket was closer to my house than Safeway, but I didn’t feel up to coping with the gloomy atmosphere pervading the O’Tooles’ store. I turned right on Sixth, followed Cedar to Alpine Way, and continued to Safe-way, which anchored the northwest corner of the mall. It was starting to drizzle when I pulled into the parking lot.

The deli section was toward the front end. As I waited for the clerk to fill a medium-size carton with potato salad, I heard a commotion coming from farther down the aisle. Holly Gross had grabbed a little girl, who was kicking and yelling. A toddler in the cart’s kiddy seat was screaming his head off, and a third youngster was trying to climb into the sweet potato bin. I turned away, trying to ignore the unruly Gross tribe. Memories of Adam having a tantrum at a Fred Meyer store in Portland came back to me—a frightening and embarrassing occasion when he’d tried to swallow a miniature soldier I’d refused to buy for him. After much choking and turning my son upside down, the tiny GI had been dislodged. Luckily, Adam got over public displays of temper at an early age. I finally got it through his ornery little head that if he ever pulled any more stunts like that, I would
never, ever
buy him anything he didn’t need. I’d pointed out that there was a difference between
needs
and
wants
. On my way to the checkout stand, I realized I’d forgotten to take care of Adam’s most recent requests. Although they were
needs
, the outlay of money would shrink my meager savings. I’d go online, compare prices, and have the
needs
shipped directly to St. Mary’s Igloo.

In the express line, I heard a familiar voice. “Are you dieting?”

I turned to see Mitch Laskey, who had placed a brick of cheddar cheese, a pint of whipping cream, and a can of pumpkin on the conveyor belt. “I don’t need to do diets. Neither do you,” I added, gesturing at Mitch’s lanky form.

He nodded. “Brenda tries every fad diet that comes along. I don’t know why. She’s tall, and an extra ten pounds looks good on her. I can’t eat the pumpkin pie she’s going to make all by myself.”

I paid cash for my purchases and waited for Mitch. “I suppose,” he said after collecting his items from the courtesy clerk, “you’d like to know about our visit with Jica Weaver in Snohomish yesterday.”

We stopped just short of the exit. “You found out something?”

“Yes and no,” he said. “Jica assured us that Clive is a peaceful type and insisted that even provocation wouldn’t drive him to violence. She didn’t see the fight, and she dismissed Clive taking responsibility as some kind of noble or gallant gesture.”

“To what purpose?”

Mitch looked bemused. “It translated as protecting a lady’s honor.”

The concept sounded unlikely. “Any lady in particular?” I asked.

“No. Frankly, I thought she was kind of nuts, but Brenda didn’t agree. The word my wife used was
fanciful.”

I grappled with the distinction. “She means Jica is … delusional?”

“Not exactly.” Mitch stepped aside for a young couple who’d just entered the store. “Brenda thinks Jica’s created an emotional haven, possibly to keep some very ugly experiences at bay.”

“That could be,” I said. “She seems fragile in every way.”

“Not a local?”

“No.” I frowned. “I shouldn’t say that. I honestly don’t know.”

“Brenda thinks Jica’s in love with Clive.” He shrugged. “Women are better at gauging that sort of thing than men. Why else would Jica pay for his attorney?”

I nodded. “I gathered she’s very fond of him.”

“So it seems.” Mitch glanced outside where the rain was now pelting the parking lot. “By the way, I heard about the O’Toole kid. That’s damned rough.” He looked grim. “You know the family pretty well, I gather.”

“Yes. I’ve already talked to Betsy and Mike’s brother, Ken.”

“Nothing worse for parents.” Mitch paused, slowly shaking his head. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “I’d better go. Brenda won’t have time to make the pie for dessert if I’m not home before five.”

After exiting, we walked in opposite directions to our cars. Puddles were already accumulating on the concrete and the sky had turned very dark, with the wind blowing down off the invisible mountains and through the river valley. I all but ran to my Honda. Behind the wheel, I brushed water off my face and turned on the engine and the headlights. I reversed cautiously out of the diagonal space, then crept along to turn off onto Park Street and Alpine Way. My windshield wipers did their highest-setting best to let me see at least ten feet in front of me.

But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden crash of metal on metal that sent me forward so sharply that the seat belt seemed to squeeze the air from my lungs. I braked, but the Honda still skidded slightly before coming to a full stop. I sat for a moment to make sure I had all my faculties and that my appendages were in working order. I turned off the ignition and looked to see where the car had been hit. A battered red beater had backed into the rear door on the driver’s side. I could hear screams but couldn’t tell where they were coming from. I took off my jacket, put it on over my head, and got out of the car.