The Alpine Betrayal

by Mary Daheim

  I uttered a wry laugh. “Probably not.”

  Patti nodded. “I didn’t think so. But you could say it in the book. On the pages inside, I mean.” She took another gulp of vodka and settled back into the cut-velvet chair, the smoke from her cigarette swirling around her like a snake. “Twenty-four years. I waited twenty-four years.” She glanced at Dani who looked faintly alarmed. “Oh, screw it, honey! What do we care? I already told Jack.”

  Dani gave a little jump, then reached for the package of cigarettes in the drawer. “You did?” She sounded incredulous.

  “You bet. I didn’t mind having a laugh at his expense, but I don’t want a broken jaw.” Gingerly, she touched her cheek. “He was still pissed this morning, so I told him. God, I thought he’d have a heart attack!” She drank some more and laughed uproariously.

  Dani cradled her almost-empty seltzer bottle in her slim hands. “Oh, Mom …” She sounded disapproving.

  “Oh, hell!” Patti drank, smoked, waved her hand. “The bastard owed me! And you! Never mind!” She shot a finger in her daughter’s direction. “Sure, sure, he’s helped you with your career and all that crap. But that’s now, not then, when we really needed it. Stop looking so prissy, kiddo.” Patti turned to me; I knew I wore an utterly mystified expression. Who was she talking about? Blackwell? Or someone else? “Reid Hampton didn’t pay me fifty grand because he cut down a bunch of frigging trees,” Patti declared. “He owed me that money from way back. Reid Hampton’s real name is Ray Marsh. The son of a bitch is Dani’s father.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  VIDA WAS INCREDULOUS. She slammed the carriage of her typewriter so hard that I thought I’d have to do some more repair work.

  “Reid Hampton is Ray Marsh? Oooooh … that’s … silly!”

  “It’s true.” I eased into Ed’s chair. He and Carla had both left for the day, since it was now nearing five o’clock. Roger was out in the front office, driving Ginny Burmeister crazy. Or so I guessed. “You said yourself Ray went to California. He did, he’d always been fascinated by movies and he got a job as a gofer at Paramount. He changed his name—Reid, as in r-e-e-d, apparently being derived from Marsh and the Hampton coming from the side of the family that was related to the two Wades, American Revolution and Civil War generals.”

  “Oh, nonsense! Ray’s family didn’t have any distinguished ancestors hanging on their family tree. They were the sort who’d have been related to camp followers.” Vida uttered a deep, impatient sigh. “Honestly, Emma, I can’t believe I wouldn’t have recognized him. I think Patti is pulling your leg.”

  “Not for fifty grand, she isn’t,” I countered. “Reid—Ray—gave her that check to make up for all the years he missed paying child support. Listen, Vida, you haven’t seen Ray Marsh in almost twenty-five years. He’s gotten older, grown a beard, dyed his hair. He worked his way up in the business, through the ranks. Then he launched his own production company about eight years ago. When he discovered that Dani had come to Hollywood, he must have felt a pang of conscience. He helped launch her career. He’s been a patron and a father to Dani, at least in the last few years.”

  “Did she know who he was all along?” Vida was still looking skeptical.

  “No. It was Patti who figured it out. She did recognize Reid. I remember how she looked at his photograph on my desk the day she came in to complain about the article on Dani. I suppose it was the eyes, because he wasn’t wearing sunglasses in that picture. Then she went after him, threatening to reveal all if he didn’t pony up.”

  Vida’s forehead creased in a frown as she considered my explanation. “I’m slipping,” she murmured. She gave me a look that bordered on the pathetic. “I’m turning into an old fool, just like everybody else. Do you want to put me out to pasture?”

  “Vida!” I laughed, though more in exasperation than amusement. “Have you seen Reid Hampton up close since he came to Alpine?”

  Vida rested her chin on her fist and thought for a moment. “No. But I did glance at those pictures.”

  “Big deal.” I waved a hand in dismissal of Vida’s nonexistent senility. “The problem is, I don’t know what to do about using the information as a story. Patti blabbed everything to Jack Blackwell so he’d stop slapping her around and realize that she wasn’t taking a payoff for his blasted trees. Jack won’t keep quiet. And I’ll bet Patti won’t stop with Jack.”

  “So Ray—Reid—paid in vain. At least as far as Patti’s silence is concerned. That’s very ironic.” Perplexity crossed Vida’s face, but she appeared to be growing resigned to Reid Hampton’s true identity. “How did Dani react to all this?”

  “I guess she was shocked when Patti told her a few days ago. But she seems to be comfortable with it now. After all, she’s known Reid for quite a while, and he’s always been in her corner. Just like a father. In fact, she said she could never understand why he didn’t make the obligatory pass at her.”

  As usual, Vida went straight to the heart of the matter: “That’s nice, family reunion, dues paid, all that. But what has it got to do with Cody’s murder?”

  I gave a little shake of my head. “I don’t know. Reid’s never been at the top of my list as a suspect. The only motive I could think of was something to do with the trees, but it would have made more sense if he’d killed Jack, instead of one of Blackwell’s underlings. Now I’m wondering if he might have killed Cody because he mistreated Dani—or the baby. You know, sort of expiating his own sins for walking out on Patti and Dani.”

  Vida didn’t look impressed by my theory. “I don’t hold with all this psychological claptrap. It’s too convoluted. Whatever happened to financial gain, jealousy, revenge, and all those horrible secrets that only one person knows, at least in books?”

  “Half of Alpine probably knows Reid’s secret by now,” I said dryly. “Maybe I can do a feature, ‘From Alpine to L.A.—Father and Daughter Reunited on Sunset Boulevard.’”

  “Oh, good grief, you sound like Carla!” Vida rolled her eyes. She put the plastic cover on her typewriter, tugging it over the machine like a dressmaker trying to fit a size eight sheath on a size fourteen figure. “Let’s talk motive.”

  I didn’t answer right away. My personal apprehensions about the case still appalled me. “I don’t think we can talk motive until we deal with what happened to little Scarlett.”

  “You mean whether or not Cody killed her.” Vida spoke briskly. “He did, of course. That’s why Art Fremstad had to die. Brother or not, Curtis Graff would have been next, if he hadn’t left town. As for Doc Dewey …” She slowly shook her head. “Maybe some people are still sacred. Or maybe Cody lost his nerve.”

  I dragged Ed’s chair closer to Vida’s desk. “Are you saying that Art, Curtis and Doc all knew that Cody murdered his baby? Oh, Vida!”

  “Knew, or suspected. Dani, too—perhaps.” Vida removed her glasses, but instead of the usual vigorous rubbing of her eyes, she gently massaged the lids. “Emma, some things are so awful. You don’t want to believe them, your instinct is to turn away and pretend they couldn’t possibly have happened. I wonder if that isn’t what went on with Dani and some of the others as well. We humans are such a terrible mix of good and evil. Yet we must pretend that evil doesn’t exist—or we’d go quite crazy.”

  For some moments, I gazed at Vida, moved by her little soliloquy. “If,” I said at last, in a quiet voice, “we accept the fact that Cody caused that baby’s death, we don’t need any other motive. There’s Dani, Patti, Curtis, even Reid. Or Jack Blackwell, acting on Patti’s behalf.”

  “What about Matt Tabor? He’s engaged to Dani.”

  I explained that the engagement was off, if indeed it had ever really been on. Vida took the news in stride. “A publicity romance. Oh, well.” She gave a start. “So who was Matt quarreling with up at the ski lodge?”

  I admitted I didn’t know. We were mulling over the possibilities when Roger charged into the news office, carrying a fake snake.

  “Ginny went home,�
�� Roger announced. “She ran. I guess she doesn’t like snakes.” He put the wiggly creature next to me on Ed’s desk. I gave Roger a half-smile. The snake moved. I let out a shriek and leaped from the chair.

  “Damn it, Roger, that’s real! Get that sucker out of here!” I was flat against the wall, while Vida gaped at the snake.

  Roger’s round face was wreathed in a cherubic smile. “It’s just a little ol’ garter snake, Mrs. Lord. They don’t bite. Here, pick it up.” He made as if to shove the snake in my direction.

  “Out! Now!”

  Roger took my measure, then darted a look at his grandmother, who was trying very hard not to laugh. “Do as Ms. Lord says, Roger. It’s her office.” Vida didn’t sound too pleased with the concession.

  With a heave of great reluctance, Roger grabbed the snake and exited. I hoped he would take the damned thing down the street, across Railroad Avenue, and leave it by the river. Which, I presumed, was where he’d found it in the first place. But knowing Roger, I suspected he would put the garter snake in one of the concrete planters that lined Front Street. Or, I thought with alarm, in my car.

  I leaped across the office. “Vida, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tonight.” Gathering up my belongings, I raced outside, but Roger was nowhere to be seen. The Jaguar appeared safe, devoid of snakes. I drove to Cal Vickers’s Texaco station to get gas. Cal, who used to do business across from the General Motors dealership down the street, had moved last year to Alpine Way, directly in front of the shopping mall. He looked busy, with activity inside the garage; three cars, an RV, and a van lined up at the pumps; and a pickup parked in front of the snack shop that Cal had added at his new location. The pickup didn’t strike any chords, but the young man who was standing by it did: Curtis Graff was waiting for Cal Vickers to finish with a customer.

  Pulling the Jag up near the car wash, I got out and strolled over to Curtis. He was wearing stone-washed jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. When I called a greeting, he looked puzzled, then shaded his eyes against the western sun, and gave me a half-smile.

  “Mrs. Lord,” he said, “I didn’t recognize you at first. I forgot to come in and get those newspapers. Are you closed?”

  “Yes, but I can send them to you. Or your parents.” I nodded at the pickup. “Is that your brother’s?” It seemed a logical guess.

  “Right.” He patted a rusty red fender. “I’m selling it. But I thought Cal ought to give it a once-over. It’s pretty beat-up, but I might as well get something out of it and use the money to pay off Cody’s bills.”

  I nodded. “I suppose he had his share of debts like the rest of us.”

  “The usual.” Curtis didn’t seem too interested in his brother’s financial obligations.

  “I’m glad he and Marje didn’t get themselves in too deep,” I remarked, angling for an opening. “She strikes me as a sensible soul.” The statement implied her fiancé was not.

  “Marje is a good kid,” said Curtis, pulling a pack of gum out of his back pocket and unwrapping a stick. As an afterthought, he offered me a piece.

  “No, thanks,” I said, recalling the last time I’d tried a wad of bubble gum and had ended up at Dr. Starr’s with a shiny gold crown, a large dent in my savings account, and the happiest dentist in Skykomish County. “Marje seems to be coping,” I noted, still at a loss in my effort to get Curtis to open up.

  “She’s tough.” Curtis chewed with vigor.

  “I saw Dani and her mother today.” Cal was coming our way, his wide, florid face beaming at us under his billed cap. “I suppose you can’t blame her for dumping Cody off by the side of the road the night he died.”

  Curtis, who had been turning toward Cal, rocked slightly on his heels. “She told you that?”

  I acted nonchalant. “Sure. Cal and Charlene saw them. Right, Cal?”

  “What’s that?” Cal took off his cap, used his forearm to wipe the perspiration from his brow, and grimaced into the sun.

  “You and Char—you saw Dani Marsh and Cody Graff in that Zimmer last Saturday night.” I ignored Curtis’s scowl, which was uncannily reminiscent of that of his dead brother.

  “We saw somebody,” replied Cal, smoothing back the fringe of black hair that curled around his ears.

  Curtis shot me a belligerent look. “What did Dani say?”

  I gave a little shrug, shifting around to avoid the sun in its downward path over the mall. “She said he was too drunk to talk to. So she let him out of the car. I suppose she thought the fresh night air might revive him. It didn’t.” My own gaze was as harsh as his.

  Under the sawed-off T-shirt, Curtis’s shoulders relaxed. “He was smashed, all right. On drugs, too. It doesn’t surprise me.”

  I was about to protest, but Cal spared me the effort. “Aw, Curt, Cody had his problems, but he wasn’t mixed up with drugs. He’d come in here, once, twice a week, and josh around with me and the guys. I never saw him look squirrely. And I check eyes, just in case somebody is about to gas up and go off goofy. I’ve called Dodge half a dozen times to let him know I thought we had a druggie on the road.”

  Curtis made a disaparaging gesture with his hand. “You’re no expert, Cal. Believe me, I knew my brother. I’m surprised nobody found out he was taking stuff before this.”

  “But he wasn’t,” I protested. “His death was caused by an antidepressant, not some illegal substance.”

  “Whatever,” said Curtis, turning to Cal. “Hey, can you look over this pickup? I think the fuel pump …”

  Feeling snubbed, I started to walk away. I also felt frustrated. What had happened to my journalist’s right to ask and the public’s need to know? Or was I treading on ground so private that my lingering status as an outsider created a conspiracy of silence? Feeling the perspiration drip down my neck, I considered going through the car wash. Without the car. But Milo Dodge was pulling up in his Cherokee Chief. I ran over to meet him.

  “Milo,” I hissed, leaning into his open window, “get off your duff and go over and ask Curtis if he thinks Cody killed his little daughter.”

  From behind his sunglasses, Milo gaped at me. “Emma, are you nuts? I can’t ask Curtis something like that!”

  “If you don’t, I will.” I gave his regulation shirt collar a tug. “The trouble is, he won’t tell me. But he might tell you. Come on, Milo, you’re the sheriff. Do you want to get beat by Averill Fairbanks and his UFOs?”

  Milo’s long face worked in consternation. At last he uttered a sigh, presumably of surrender. “I’ve got to pick Honoria up by six-thirty … Oh, hell, I’ll take Curtis out for a quick beer. This is no place to interrogate anybody.” Milo got out of his Cherokee Chief, long legs unwinding onto the gas-stained tarmac.

  Satisfied, I got back into the Jag and wheeled it in behind the RV, which was about to leave. Curtis, Cal, and the sheriff now formed a tight little trio, hovering around the open hood of the pickup. My victory over Milo had proved almost too easy.

  Five minutes later, I was on my way to the Grocery Basket, proving my loyalty to a home-grown merchant. I lingered in the frozen food section, feeling blissfully cool, and wondering if the forecast for ninety the next day was accurate. I hoped not.

  I was tossing frozen chicken pies in my cart when I saw Donna Fremstad Wickstrom approaching. Her manner was frazzled, her attention riveted on the orange juice section. I reversed directions and came up alongside of Donna. To my surprise, she looked as if she’d been crying. A rumpled Kleenex was stuffed in the top of her polka dotted sundress.

  “Heat got you down?” I asked guilelessly.

  Donna didn’t look fooled by my feigned innocence. “It’s all this Cody Graff business that’s got me down,” she snapped. “First you and Vida, now the sheriff. I’m so upset I don’t know what to do.”

  Feeling repentant, I put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Donna, I know this is rough on you. What did Milo want?” My triumph with the sheriff now seemed easier to understand; maybe he wasn’t as slow of wit as I somet
imes thought him.

  Donna lowered her head, chin almost resting on her breastbone. “It should make it easier … but it doesn’t, not in a way,” she murmured. Slowly, she raised her face to meet my gaze. “Sheriff Dodge thinks Art may have been murdered, maybe by Cody Graff. I’d rather believe that than think Art killed himself. But it makes me so angry …” She literally gnashed her teeth. “I wish Cody was still alive. I swear I’d kill him!”

  I blinked. Had she? Donna and Steve Wickstrom had been at the Icicle Creek Tavern Saturday night. Had Donna, who must have known her late husband better than anyone, suspected that the suicide note was written by somebody else? I shivered, and not from the blast of cold air that poured out of the freezer as an elderly woman reached for a bag of frozen peas.

  “Why do you think Cody killed Art?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  Donna rolled her cart back and forth, the wheels grating on the floor. “I don’t know!” she whispered, the tears back in her eyes. “Art never did anything to Cody. That’s what makes it so awful! It’s like one of those gang stories you read in the Seattle papers, where somebody shoots somebody just to see what it’s like. It doesn’t make sense!”

  It did, though, to me. Fleetingly, I wondered if I should say as much to Donna. Perhaps it would help. The irrational taking of a life is harder to bear than death with a reason. At least that’s how my mind works.

  “Donna,” I said in a level voice, “I think Cody murdered his own baby. I also think Art knew that but didn’t quite know what to do about it. Or if he did, he never had a chance. Cody killed him first.”

  As the words came out, Donna’s face stiffened and her eyes grew huge. The knuckles clutching the grocery cart turned white. But the tears didn’t fall. “Shit,” breathed Donna. The cart rocked back and forth, but more gently now, as if she were rocking a baby. Hers, maybe. Or even little Scarlett, forever small, always ready to be soothed.