The Alpine Betrayal

by Mary Daheim

  Visions of lawsuits and tricky news stories danced through my head. But that lay in the future. Cody Graff’s death had occurred in the last few hours. “There’s something about this whole thing that bothers me,” I confessed. “I saw Cody leave the tavern around ten o’clock last night with Marje. I know how drunk he was. He probably passed out as soon as he got back to his apartment. So he wakes up at five or even earlier this morning and walks two miles out to the Burl Creek Road? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Vida didn’t seem at all unsettled by my pronouncement. Indeed, it was obvious she’d already come to the same conclusion. After waiting for a busboy to clear the table next to us, she leaned closer: “Of course it doesn’t, Emma. That’s why I don’t think Durwood killed Cody.”

  I hadn’t gotten quite that far in my thinking. I gaped at Vida over a forkful of ham. “You mean he was already dead when Durwood hit him?”

  Vida’s gaze was steady. “That’s right. Dot told me on the phone that Durwood swore he didn’t see Cody. Now Durwood couldn’t see an elephant on an escalator, but it is fairly light at six in the morning this time of year, and according to Dot, Durwood was just going around that little bend by the Overholt farm. The road dips down. If Cody had been walking on the pavement—or even close to it, Durwood doesn’t exactly keep to the road—he would have seen something. But if Cody had been lying there, not moving, that might explain it.” She waved a spoon at me. “So we’re back to the original question. Dead or alive, what was Cody Graff doing out there in the early morning dew?”

  I stared at her thoughtfully for some moments. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for young Doc Dewey to tell us what really happened.”

  “Of course.” Vida poured a lavish dose of syrup over her stack of pancakes. “I told Dot to insist on an autopsy. I’m not for letting Durwood loose in that rattletrap of his, but I’d hate to see the poor old fool get sent to prison for something he really didn’t do.”

  As ever, I marveled at Vida’s communication network. Already, she’d been in touch with two of the major figures involved in Cody Graff’s death, Marje Blatt and Dot Parker. For all I knew, she’d been receiving messages from Durwood in a bottle sent floating down the Skykomish River.

  For the rest of the lengthy meal—Vida went back for seconds and thirds—we discussed some of the other incidents of the past twenty-four hours, including the flying axe at the timber sports competition, the row between Cody Graff and Matt Tabor, the face-off featuring Jack Blackwell and Reid Hampton, and Patti Marsh’s defamation of her daughter’s character in front of the Icicle Creek Tavern patrons—even though Milo and I had seen the two of them drive off in Matt Tabor’s custom-built car the previous night. It was only when we were paying the bill that I remembered to tell her about seeing Curtis Graff show up at the tavern just before Cody and Marje left.

  “Do you know where Curtis is staying?” I asked.

  But for once, Vida had to confess ignorance. She had not seen Curtis since he returned to Alpine. “A nice boy,” she allowed. “Much more character than Cody. Smart, too, but not terribly quick.” She tapped her temple.

  We returned to Alpine just as the parade was ending. For the first time since I’d moved to town, I became embroiled in a genuine traffic jam. As soon as we turned off the main highway, we found ourselves backed up on the bridge over the Skykomish River. Some of the parade participants had taken the wrong route after leaving Front Street, and a float featuring a giant fried egg, as well as a girls’ drill team from Monroe, had ended up on the bridge instead of going in the opposite direction on Alpine Way to the football field. It was after three o’clock when I got Vida home. I decided to drive back downtown and see if Milo had survived his horseback ride.

  He had—barely. Looking as if he were in pain, Milo was sitting gingerly in his chair, sipping ice water. I commiserated briefly, then asked if Dot Parker had requested an autopsy on Cody Graff. Milo eyed me curiously.

  “Yes, she has. How’d you know that, Emma?”

  I tried to look enigmatic. “It’s my job to know all things.”

  Milo pulled a face, enlightenment dawning. “Vida.” He sighed wearily. “We’ll have to get somebody from Snohomish County to do it. Young Doc Dewey is all tied up. You heard what happened to the Three Little Pigs?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but Milo told me anyway. The Three Little Pigs, whose job it was to promote homeowners’ insurance for the local independent agent, had been the victim of the Big Bad Wolf, who had huffed and puffed so energetically that he’d gone right through the flooring of the float, sending the driver into a Skykomish Public Utility District pole at the corner of Fifth and Front. The Big Bad Wolf had managed to keep his balance, but the Three Little Pigs had tumbled into the crowd, causing several lacerations, abrasions, and contusions. No one was seriously hurt, but the mending, patching, and stitching would keep young Doc Dewey busy for the next few hours. It was a driving mishap that would have made Durwood proud—if he could have seen it from his jail cell.

  “When will the autopsy be done?” I asked, after I had emitted the appropriate chuckles and expressed the suitable regrets.

  “Tomorrow, maybe. It depends,” said Milo, once again showing signs of discomfort. “They’ll be doing us a favor in Everett, so we can’t push them. It’s a bunch of bull, but I suppose the Parkers have their rights. As I said, this was bound to happen to Durwood eventually.”

  I decided not to let Milo in on Vida’s theory. He would dismiss it out of hand. But if the autopsy proved that Cody was already dead when Durwood’s car hit him, then Milo would have to consider other uglier possibilities.

  I was on my feet, wishing Milo would install air-conditioning in his office. “I’ll see you at the banquet tonight. Are you bringing Honoria?” I tried to keep my voice light.

  “No,” he said with a laconic shake of his head. “She’s going to some gallery deal in Seattle.” He looked up. “You want a lift?”

  The Loggerama banquet was going to be held in the Lutheran Church hall, the only adequate facility for such a large gathering. The Lutherans also owned the retirement home in the same block. Due to Alpine’s large Scandinavian population, the members of their faith outnumbered any other flock by at least a two-to-one ratio.

  “Sure,” I said, wanting to be a good sport. “By the way, I thought Honoria seemed like a lovely person.”

  For a brief moment, Milo’s face lighted up. “Really? Well, yes, she’s pretty nice. Determined, too. She drives—she’s got a specially rigged car—and goes everywhere on her own. But then she’s had a lot of practice.”

  I leaned on Milo’s desk. “What happened?” I wasn’t going to pry unless Milo gave me an opportunity. Now he had.

  Milo’s face tightened. “She married very young. Her husband beat the crap out of her. On her twenty-first birthday, he threw her down a flight of stairs.”

  I winced. “That’s awful! Did she leave him?”

  Again, Milo gave a mournful shake of his head. “Her brother shot him. And got ten years for it. He should have had a medal.”

  I didn’t argue.

  To my relief, the banquet had gone off without incident. Pastor Nielsen had asked us to bow our heads in memory of Cody Graff. Fuzzy Baugh had introduced the new Miss Alpine, a shy redhead who was a checker at the Grocery Basket. Dani Marsh had been invited, but had bowed out of both the parade and the banquet, apparently owing to the death of her ex-husband. Harvey Adcock, as the current Chamber of Commerce president, read a brief note from Dani, expressing her regrets for not attending. I wondered if she had some other regrets as well.

  Monday was a wild day at work. We were going to have another jam-packed issue, but this week we wouldn’t have the extra Loggerama ads to support so many pages. I decided to hold off writing the story about Cody’s death until we got the autopsy report. I hoped it would come in before our late Tuesday deadline. I also chose not to run anything about the axe incident. Now that Cody was dead and couldn’t
defend himself, it didn’t seem right to carry an article that would, by its very existence, imply that he’d been trying to injure his ex-wife or her companions.

  Meanwhile, Durwood no longer languished in jail. Dot had posted bond and taken him home in the early afternoon. I didn’t talk to Milo all day, since I was too busy putting the paper together. Vida, however, had stopped in at the sheriff’s office and said that he had told her he hoped the autopsy would be completed before five o’clock. Meanwhile, Cody’s parents were at the Lumberjack Motel, waiting for the body to be released. Curtis Graff was with them.

  Out on Front Street, a small crew of city employees and several merchants were dismantling the Loggerama decorations. Down came the bunting, the banners, and the bigger-than-life-sized model of a woodsman that Fuzzy Baugh insisted on referring to as “an erection.” I don’t think the mayor ever stops to listen to what he’s saying, but I suppose that’s all right, because none of the rest of us do either. Fuzzy, in his native New Orleans fashion, does tend to run on.

  Hot, tired, and feeling a headache coming on, I drove home shortly before six. This time, the mail held no surprises. But it reminded me that I had yet to deal with Tom Cavanaugh’s letter. Tomorrow night, perhaps, I told myself as I fell onto the sofa and kicked off my shoes. I needed one more day to recover from the rigors of Loggerama.

  I was in the kitchen cleaning up from my meager supper of creamed shrimp on toast when the phone rang. It was Milo Dodge.

  “We got the autopsy report from Everett about an hour ago,” he said, sounding as weary as I felt. “It’s the damnedest thing you ever heard.”

  “So what am I hearing?” My voice was a little breathless.

  Milo cleared his throat. “Cody Graff had been dead for several hours by the time Durwood hit him. The extent of rigor—” He stopped, obviously reading his notes. “Anyway, we’ll have to dismiss the charges against Durwood.” Milo sounded almost sorry. I’m sure he had visions of Durwood immediately leaping into his old beater and wiping out a whole herd of cows.

  “Go on,” I urged. “Who did run over him?”

  “Nobody,” replied Milo. “The medical examiner says he didn’t die from getting hit by a car. Cody Graff was murdered. Somebody poisoned the poor bastard. What do you think of that?”

  Chapter Eight

  MILO AND I were having drinks at the Venison Eat Inn and Take Out. We were both relieved to note that most of the tourists had departed from Alpine, leaving our streets and restaurants and shops back under our control. Even though Pacific Northwest politicians and Chamber of Commerce types may work hard to promote tourism and thus beef up the economy, the truth is that most people, merchants included, aren’t fond of visitors. Worse yet, some of the tourists may decide to move in. Growth is not good. Money is suspect. Space is much better.

  “What kind of poison?” I asked after the cocktail waitress had glided away. I didn’t want her to think I was talking about the Venison Inn’s beverages.

  “Haloperidol,” said Milo, emphasizing each syllable. “A central nervous system depressant. It’s especially lethal with alcohol. It also produces symptoms that are very similar to drunkenness. Marje Blatt insisted that Cody had only two beers when I told him he ought to go home. They’d had an early supper at the Loggerama fast food stand in Old Mill Park because Cody was hungry from all that action with the axe at the high school field. Then they went to see some of the Miss Alpine competition. They got to the Icicle Creek Tavern about half an hour or forty-five minutes before I did.”

  “So how did he ingest this stuff?” I asked, reconstructing Marje’s account of their evening to see if it made sense. As far as I could tell, it did. If she wasn’t lying.

  “The M.E. in Everett says it was probably in the beer. Marje says they ate around five-thirty. If it had been in Cody’s food or his coffee, it would have started to act much sooner, maybe even by six o’clock. There’s no sign that he had anything to eat or drink after he left the Icicle Creek Tavern shortly before ten. Maybe Marje was right about how much—or how little—he had to drink. I just thought she was covering for him.”

  “How long does this stuff usually take to act?” I asked, unable to keep from looking at my bourbon without a certain amount of suspicion.

  “That depends, according to the M.E. If Cody had been some old guy in poor health and was drinking shots of gin, he could have been a goner within fifteen minutes. But Cody was young and in good shape. He’d only had a couple of beers. The M.E. says it might take up to two hours before he died.”

  I shuddered. “Poor Cody. But how on earth did he end up dead by the Burl Creek Road?”

  Milo lifted his shoulders and hoisted his Scotch. “Nobody’s come forward to say they carted him off. What I’m trying to figure out is why somebody would poison him, then drive him off and dump him on the road. It’s crazy.”

  “Marje doesn’t know anything, I take it?”

  “No. She said it was just after ten when they got to his apartment. There’s no elevator, so she had to help him up the stairs to the second floor. She left him on the couch.”

  “Had he passed out?” I asked.

  “No. She said he was muttering about his brother Curtis, and Dani, and Matt Tabor. He was sort of incoherent, but still conscious.” Milo nodded to a young couple I knew only from seeing them at church. They sat down at a table near the unlighted fireplace. I gave a little wave. It wouldn’t hurt for me to help Milo woo his constituents.

  “Where would anybody get that …” I reached down for my purse and took out a notepad. “Spell it, will you Milo?”

  He did, and I jotted the unfamiliar word down. Haloperidol. I’d never heard of it. I repeated my question.

  Milo gave a wry little laugh. “Five, six years ago, Durwood would have been the prime suspect, being a pharmacist. But nowadays, who knows where drugs, legal and otherwise, come from around here? The only thing I can say for sure is that somebody planned ahead.”

  “Premeditated,” I murmured. It was an ugly thought. “Why? Who? And how?”

  Milo’s smile became more genuine. “Ever the reporter, huh, Emma? I sure as hell don’t know who or why. But how? If it was in his beer, somebody slipped it to him when nobody was looking. Even Marje couldn’t be watching every minute. Unless,” he added, the smile fading, “it was Marje who did it.”

  My eyes widened at Milo. “Marje? No, that’s crazy. If she wanted to get rid of Cody, all she had to do was break the engagement. Besides, I think she genuinely loved the guy.”

  Milo nodded. “Could be. But there was so much commotion going on that anybody could have dumped this stuff into his schooner. It can come in several forms, including a syrup. Cody wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He liked to guzzle. And frankly, if something tasted funny at the Icicle Creek Tavern, I’m not sure I’d notice. I’d half expect to find a trace of ugly in my brew.”

  Milo was only half-kidding. I mulled over his words, then had a sudden flashback. “Hey, Milo—Cody had three beers the other night. He got another one after you warned him off. Would that make the poison work faster?”

  Milo said it probably would. But he cautioned that the M.E. was cagey about fixing the time of death. “Somewhere between ten and midnight is as close as he’ll come.”

  Somebody had seen Cody during those two hours. But it suddenly dawned on me that that mysterious blank face didn’t necessarily belong to the killer.

  Selfishly, I wished the autopsy hadn’t been concluded so soon. The old-fashioned concept of a newspaper scoop had all but died out with the advent of the electronic media. In a small town like Alpine, a scoop had never had a chance: the grapevine was always faster and more effective. Everybody from Burl Creek to Stump Hill would know that Cody Graff had been poisoned before we could get the paper to Monroe to be printed.

  I spent most of Tuesday tying up loose ends. I wrote the story of Cody’s death, careful to stick to the facts and quote strictly from Milo and the Snohomish County Medical
Examiner. For the time being, I avoided contacting Cody’s parents, his brother, or his ex-wife. Their comments could come later, for next week’s edition, when I had more room and the sheriff had more results.

  Vida did the obituary, noting that the funeral was set for Thursday. It would not be held in Alpine, but up at Friday Harbor, with burial in the cemetery on the San Juan Islands.

  “Marje thinks that’s a shame,” said Vida, yanking the article out of her typewriter. “She said she thought Cody would want to be buried here, next to his baby. But I suppose his folks have a plot up at Friday Harbor.”

  I looked up from the headline Carla had written about the wet T-shirt contest. I hadn’t seen it until just now and was dismayed: NO FALSE FRONT FOR ADVOCATE ENTRY; RUNKEL BUSTS UP COMPETITION. It wouldn’t do. What had become of Carla’s high-minded principles?

  RUNKEL WINS T-SHIRT CONTEST; ASKS BOOKS FOR BEER. My revision was deadly dull, but it would keep Vida from blowing up—and prevent a stack of letters from irate readers.

  “Is Marje going to attend the funeral?” I inquired.

  “She doesn’t know yet,” Vida replied, looking up from the finished version of her House & Home page. “With Doc Dewey Senior gone, there’s not as much for her to do, but young Doc has been so busy she may have to help cover. They only have the two nurses and Marje at the clinic, you know.”

  I did. But it seemed strange that Marje wouldn’t attend Cody’s services. Of course, it wasn’t easy to get up to the San Juans this time of year. “How’s she taking it?” I asked.

  Vida handed her completed page over to me. “Oh—she’s upset, of course. But Marje isn’t an emotional type. Crying her eyes out won’t bring Cody back. Maybe she hasn’t taken it all in yet. She certainly refuses to consider that Cody was murdered.”