The Alpine Uproar (3 page)

“To think,” I said, sliding into the booth across from him, “I was going to thank you for making such a timely arrest in terms of our deadline. But I realize you probably never gave it a thought.”

“I sure as hell didn’t,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette. “Good God, don’t I have plenty on my plate without worrying about your paper?”

It was pointless to argue. After fifteen years of dealing with the sheriff and trying to make him understand the print media’s demands, I knew it was a lost cause.

“Is Clive being a model prisoner?” I asked politely.

“So far.” Milo was studying the menu, though I didn’t know why. He almost always ordered the same thing. “Clive’s pretty upset. He swears he didn’t hit De Muth hard enough to kill him.”

“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so.” Milo slid the menu back behind the napkin holder. “I thought his attorney might ask for bail, but she didn’t. I figure she’s going for a plea bargain. Anyway, bail might not have been granted since Clive’s a trucker.”

“That translates as an automatic flight risk?”

“Around here it does.” Milo leaned out into the aisle. “What did they do, fire all the waitresses?”

“They’re busy,” I said. “It’s almost noon.”

The sheriff exhaled smoke and looked grumpy. “So why’s everybody here early?”

“It’s five to twelve,” I said. “It’s Wednesday. They probably want to finish in time to get their copy of the
Advocate
.”

“Bullshit.” He leaned back in the booth. “Oh, God, here comes Delphine Corson.”

“So?”

“She called this morning to ask me not to …” He stopped
as Delphine reached our booth. “Hi,” he said halfheartedly. “What’s up?”

Our local florist was inching toward sixty, but she’d done a good job of keeping her looks. Delphine’s short ash-blond hair was cut in a style that accentuated her high cheekbones and azure-blue eyes. “I was hoping to buy you lunch,” she said to the sheriff after giving me a quick if not sincere smile. “I see you’re already booked.”

Milo’s gaze was steady. “Oh? You should’ve called first.” He gestured at me. “I picked this one up on the sidewalk.”

Delphine’s smile became a smirk. “No kidding. Seriously, we have to talk,” she said. “Are you free this evening? I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“The ante’s going up,” Milo remarked. “I’ll have to check my social calendar. It’s pretty damned crowded these days.”

“Come on, Dodge,” Delphine said, leaning a hand on the back of his booth. “Have you tried the Sailfish Grill in Monroe? It’s really good.”

“I’ll call you,” Milo said.

Delphine had stopped smiling. “When?”

“This afternoon.” His gaze remained steady. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

Looking far from convinced, Delphine turned around and headed back toward the front of the restaurant.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered, “that new waitress—Lisa or Liza or whoever—was coming our way but gave up when she saw Delphine in the way. Now she’s disappeared.” He tapped ash onto the Formica tabletop, then swept it into his hand and dumped it on the floor. There was no ashtray because we were sitting in the No Smoking section. The sheriff didn’t uphold laws that inconvenienced him.

“Take it easy,” I said. “The waitress—whose name is Liz, by
the way—is coming from the other direction. She’s lean and mean, recently arrived from Idaho.”

For once, the sheriff altered his usual order of a cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad. “Bacon burger, fries, and that new fruit cup.”

“We’re out of the fruit cup,” Liz replied, and added archly, “thanks to you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Milo demanded.

“I heard you arrested the guy who drives the truck that brings the canned fruit here,” Liz said, her thin lips barely moving. “So what do you want instead?”

“The salad, blue cheese.” Disgruntled, Milo stubbed out his cigarette and tossed the butt into his empty coffee mug. “Did you run out of coffee, too?”

“Not yet.” Liz glared at him and snatched up the mug before turning to me. “The beef’s rare today.”

“Oh.” I smiled feebly. “Good. Then I’ll have the dip with fries and a salad exactly like the sheriff’s.”

Without another word, Liz stalked off.

Milo began his customary ritual of rearranging the salt and pepper shakers. “You had a run-in with her already?”

“Last week. I ordered the beef dip rare and it was well done, so I—politely—inquired if any of it was rare. Liz informed me that the only thing rare she’d found around Alpine was real men.”

“She’d better watch her mouth,” Milo said, craning his neck. “Where the hell is the coffee?”

“Don’t have a heart attack,” I cautioned. “Your gallbladder episode last winter scared everybody. Anyway,” I went on, “when I was here last week I wanted to ask Liz some questions, since she was obviously new in town. I didn’t because she wasn’t very friendly and I was annoyed. Bad start. I had Vida
interrogate her the next day. Liz moved here from Idaho Springs in September. Even Vida couldn’t find out why, so instead of doing a short newcomer feature, we decided to put it in the ‘Scene Around Town’ box on the front page. ‘Liz Kirby, an Idaho transplant, is a new face at the Burger Barn.’ Or something like that. Liz should know that a small town is no place to remain anonymous.”

Milo stopped fiddling with the salt and pepper. “Vida couldn’t get her to open up? Liz must be in the witness protection program.”

“Vida’ll find out eventually,” I assured him and kicked his shin, hoping he’d catch on as Liz approached with the coffee carafe and a clean mug. She poured my coffee first. “Thanks,” I said cheerfully.

Liz didn’t say anything; neither did Milo. I kept expecting her to remind him he was in the No Smoking area.

“What’s with you and the fruit cup?” I asked after Liz had left us.

“Doc Dewey. He said I should eat more fruit and fewer spuds.”

“You ordered fries.”

“So? I was compromising.”

I shook my head. “You’re hopeless. Tell me why Delphine is sucking up to you.”

Milo’s long face looked pained. “I went out with her a few times,” he said, speaking quietly and more rapidly than usual. “Long time ago.”

“I recall your brief and apparently unsatisfactory … courtship. Leo Walsh dated her, too, but that never went anywhere, either.”

“That’s the trouble,” Milo said. “Delphine’s always in a rush to get married again. I don’t know why—she and Randy
weren’t exactly an ideal couple. That marriage was rocky from the start. But after three dates with a guy, she starts talking long-term commitment. Who needs that kind of pressure?”

I nodded. “She did get engaged to Spike Canby. Then he got hurt in that construction accident on the bridge into town. They broke up not long afterward.”

“Right.” Milo paused as Liz brought our food, all but dumping it on the table.

The sheriff peered at his burger. “Where’s the bacon?”

“We’re out of that, too,” Liz replied, looking as if she had to force herself from smiling in triumph. “No delivery. We ran out after breakfast.”

“You can’t find another driver for Berentsen’s truck?” Milo snapped. “This town’s got plenty of them, with all the ex-loggers.”

Liz pressed her thin lips together before responding. “The truck needs new brakes. The guy who got killed was supposed to fix them over the weekend.”

“Oh, for …” Milo made an angry gesture, narrowly missing knocking over his coffee mug. “Forget it.”

“I’d like to,” Liz snapped. “This town’s a real cesspool.” She stomped off toward the serving area.

“I still don’t know why Delphine’s so anxious to talk to you,” I said after a brief pause. “Is she lusting after your body?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Milo took a vicious bite of his burger. I waited for his response. “Spike couldn’t work construction anymore with his bum back,” he said at last, “so he had to find a job. I guess he’d managed to save some money and when Virgil Post’s family put the Icicle Creek Tavern up for sale, Spike bought it. Right after that, he married Julie Whatever-Her-Name-Was.”

“Blair,” I said. “She was married before to a guy from Maltby.”

“That sounds right.” Milo ate two fat french fries. “Anyway, Delphine was at the ICT Saturday night when De Muth got killed. She never goes there, but she’s been seeing Gus Swanson since he and his wife split a couple of months ago. Gus worked late because the new models had arrived and he was going over his inventory. He asked Delphine to meet him at the ICT for a drink.”

I nodded. Gus owned the local Toyota dealership, which was located off the Icicle Creek Road a couple of blocks from the tavern. “What happened? Did Delphine get into it with Spike and somehow start the brawl that led to the murder?”

Milo shook his head. “Not as far as I know. That is, according to her, they’d just gotten served when all hell broke loose. She and Gus took off. Delphine says nobody was dead when they left. Anyway, she doesn’t want me or anybody else mentioning that she was at the tavern. Too embarrassing, I guess, to show up at the place owned by her ex-boyfriend. It’s dumb. Who cares?”

“Well …” I munched on some lettuce. “Delphine isn’t the type who’d usually hang out at the ICT no matter who owned it. I suppose Gus goes there because it’s close to the dealership.”

“So?”

I shrugged. “I can kind of see her point. She’s a businesswoman. She’s done quite well for herself since the divorce. That was—what? Fifteen, sixteen years ago? She and Randy had already broken up when I moved to Alpine.”

“I still say it’s dumb. Everybody in town probably already knows who was at the tavern that night. Hell, you can’t keep something like that a secret around here.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “So are you going to dinner with her?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how I feel at the end of the day.” He shook more salt onto what was left of his fries. “I don’t much like driving all the way into Monroe for dinner. Does Delphine want to get out of town so people don’t talk about the two of us?”

“Possibly.” I couldn’t resist a gibe. “Next week Vida could mention in ‘Scene’ that the sheriff and the florist enjoyed a scrumptious meal at the Sailfish Grill in Monroe. The restaurant might buy an ad from Leo.”

Milo’s hazel eyes flickered with what might’ve been amusement—or mockery. “Fleetwood’s not sharing ads from Monroe with you since he got FCC approval for more broadcasting range?”

The query rankled. “He’s steered a couple of businesses our way. We’ve been doing co-op advertising for several years, even before KSKY got the new license.” My mood, which had been buoyed by the clear autumn air and quelled hunger pangs, began to darken again. “Let’s change the subject. What’s Clive Berentsen going to get for whacking Alvin De Muth with a pool cue?”

“Oh …” Milo finished his burger and gazed up at the grease-stained ceiling. “Ten to fifteen, probably. Eligible for parole in seven.”

“What if the case goes to trial?”

The sheriff looked at me curiously. “Why would it?”

“Well,” I said, wishing I hadn’t raised the issue, “it was a fight. Berentsen says it was self-defense, right?” I paused as Milo nodded faintly. “If it can be proved that Clive was defending himself, why shouldn’t he—or his lawyer—hope to get him off? You don’t have a final autopsy report from Snohomish County, do you?”

Milo went on the defensive. “Do I need one? Doc Dewey says De Muth was killed by a blow to the head. End of story.”

“So why did you ship the body to Everett for a second opinion?”

The sheriff shot me a stern look. “Doc doesn’t have the technology or the time to make a thorough diagnosis. I like to touch all the bases.”

I nodded. “I know. Skykomish County doesn’t have the money for anything beyond the bare necessities. When will you hear back from the ME in Everett?”

Milo appeared to be ruminating. “Tomorrow, or Friday? They get backed up over there in Everett. Too damned many people in that county and too many autopsies.”

“Okay.” I put aside the remnants of my beef dip. Only half of it was rare; the rest was dried out around the edges. “So if …?” I left the question unfinished.

Milo sighed. “Let’s hope there’s no if. I want this one out of the way real quick. Hell, Emma, it’s just another drunken brawl. They happen. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Of course not,” I said. But I knew the sheriff all too well. A quick glance at him indicated he was uneasy. I guessed Milo realized that not looking for trouble didn’t mean he couldn’t find it.

U
NTIL ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK, THE REST OF
W
EDNESDAY’S
workday passed in relative calm. I’d intended to drop by Stella’s Styling Salon to get my bangs trimmed, but both she and the other stylist were busy. I considered whacking at them myself, but knew I’d make a hash of it. “Butchering” was what Stella Magruder called any attempt on my part to deal with my thick, unmanageable brown hair.

Vida departed a few minutes early to pick up a dessert at the Grocery Basket for the annual Harvest Home potluck supper at her Presbyterian church. Ginny had left shortly after four-thirty, pleading exhaustion. Kip and his wife were hosting a pizza party for our carriers, a once-a-month get-together to keep up morale and also to figure out if any of the younger set might be slacking, doing drugs, or God-only-knew-what that could impede delivery of the
Advocate
. Mitch’s wife was having more problems with her loom. He left just before the calm was broken by an angry Spike Canby, who charged into the newsroom to face off with Leo.

“I want my money back!” Spike demanded, pounding a fist
on my ad manager’s desk. “You shouldn’t have run that ad in the paper this week! Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe,” Leo replied, his aplomb intact. “What’s the problem?”

“This!” Spike jabbed a stubby finger at the current edition on Leo’s desk. “Look at page five!”

Leo didn’t even blink. “You mean your ad? It’s the same one you’ve been running for over a year. All one column by two inches of it.”

“I know that!” Spike paused, hitching his pants up over his paunch. “That’s what I mean. ‘Where the Sky meets the creek,’ ‘where the brew meets the ski,’ and ‘where you and your buddies can take a cue from us and pool your talents.’ It sounds as if I’m responsible for that poor bastard De Muth’s death!”