The Alpine Betrayal

by Mary Daheim

  Momentarily sidetracked by Honoria’s apparent concern for my feelings about Milo, assuming I had any, I smiled wryly. “He palmed her off on Janet and Al Driggers, knowing full well that if anybody was up to the task, it would be Janet.”

  “Yes, and it raised him a notch in my esteem.” Honoria paused to sip from her drink and watch a pair of blue jays hop around a slim cedar tree just off the porch. “But I didn’t want him to catch me staring at him like a teacher watching a pupil, so I made myself look the other way. You may recall that we were sitting at the far end of the bar, near the rest rooms and fairly close to Cody and his fiancée.”

  I nodded. I remembered that part well enough. “Most of the time, my view of you was blocked by all the action. But I remember catching your eye when things seemed to simmer down.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Honoria. “But before that, while Milo was getting rid of Patti, I kept my eyes on the bar itself. That timber fellow—Blackwell?—was serving the service station man a beer, I think, and the doctor poured one for somebody else. Dani took it off the bar and handed it to Marje Blatt who carried it over to Cody. I suppose he drank it.” Her gaze was meaningful, yet it conveyed a question.

  “I suppose he did,” I replied, wishing that Honoria could have arrived at the Icicle Creek Tavern earlier. She had confirmed some of my suspicions, but not quite all of them. For a full minute, we let the silence wrap around us, feeling the heat of the day and the tension of the moment. “That’s it?” I finally asked.

  Honoria made a rueful face. “I’m afraid so. I didn’t see Dani or Marje slip anything into that beer mug. And I didn’t notice if anyone went up to Cody after that. Milo came back and the next thing I knew, Cody and Marje had left the tavern.” With a helpless gesture of her graceful hands, Honoria gave me an apologetic look. “I’m not much help, am I?”

  I tried to make my expression encouraging. “Every tiny bit helps. This is Milo’s job, after all.” Maybe it was wrong of me to meddle; certainly it wasn’t fair to criticize the sheriff’s handling of a difficult case.

  Honoria raised her glass. “To Milo, then.”

  I nodded as we clicked glasses. Something clicked in my brain as well.

  “I think you just showed me a missing link,” I asserted, noting the puzzled expression on Honoria’s face. “Now we’ll let Milo take over. Let’s hope he passes this test as well as he did the one at the Icicle Creek Tavern.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  MY HANDS WERE tied until evening, when Milo returned from Seattle. By then, Vida should be free of Roger, though I realized she would not regard his departure with the same enthusiasm I would. Meanwhile, I made another attempt to call my son in Ketchikan. He was working, I was told, and wouldn’t be back until ten, my time. Maybe, I thought, I should set aside some of Tom’s $2500 to help defray the cost of long distance.

  I spent what was left of the afternoon piecing together the evidence, most of which was circumstantial, as well as guesswork. Much of what I’d learned had nothing to do with Cody Graff’s murder. At least not on the surface. The relationship between Patti Marsh and Jack Blackwell was, alas, what it was: an abusive man and a woman who could defend herself only against those who meant her no serious harm. I didn’t know if Reid Hampton had abused Patti, but their daughter apparently had carried on the family tradition by marrying Cody Graff. And Cody, fueled by jealously or maybe just a vicious streak, had smothered little Scarlett, and then killed Art Fremstad. For five years, Cody Graff must have figured he’d gotten away with murder.

  Dani must have realized early on in her marriage that Cody was a nasty piece of work. My guess was that she’d sought consolation from his brother, who had been more than willing to give her his all. Curtis had said he and Cody had fallen out over a girl. Had he meant Dani? Or Scarlett? Or both? Dani had run away to Los Angeles; Curtis had fled to Alaska. No doubt both had been horrified as well as grief-stricken. And probably afraid.

  In California, Dani had found not only a mentor but a father. I couldn’t help but speculate that the lure of Hollywood had been in their blood, sending each of them from the evergreens of Alpine to the palm trees of L.A. As for Reid Hampton, the revelation of his real identity didn’t perturb him as much as any hint of his relationship with Matt Tabor. But I didn’t think that their feelings for each other had anything to do with Cody’s death. Reid had tried to cover up his sexual preference for professional, not personal, reasons. He had promoted a nonexistent romance between Dani and Matt while dating women—such as me—casually but publicly. Who better to ask out for an evening than the local newspaper publisher? Nor did I think that Matt’s jealous rage was aimed in my direction—if Reid Hampton was straying, the object of his affections could be anybody, and probably another man. Again, I felt that episode had very little to do with Cody’s murder.

  I could also dismiss the ruckus between Jack Blackwell and Reid Hampton. Strictly business, to be settled by their lawyers, not with their fists. Matt might make a show of defending Reid’s rights, and Jack had certainly pitched a fit over Patti’s fifty grand, but nobody was going to kill one of Blackwell Timber’s employees because of financial gain or loss.

  The key, I kept telling myself, was what Marje Blatt and Dani Marsh and so many others had told me all along: that Cody Graff had not been murdered, that his death was accidental, that he had overdosed. I didn’t believe that for a minute.

  The problem was that the tighter I pulled the pieces together, the less I liked my conclusions. There is a truism in the news business that as long as a journalist is on the scent of a story, real emotions are held at bay. Once all the facts are gathered, personal reaction sets in. On this oppressive, humid evening in August, I had reached that point. I was almost sure I knew who the killer was, and I didn’t like the answer one bit. I didn’t even much like myself for coming up with such a terrible solution. The combination of too much heat and too little wisdom was making me feel depressed and faintly nauseous. Maybe I was hungry. Food, which can usually sustain me through almost any crisis, is not quite as appealing when the temperature nudges ninety.

  As I got up from my writing desk to forage in the kitchen, I realized I was dizzy. I stumbled over the phone cord and went down hard. The wind was knocked out of me, but it was my left foot that hurt badly. Writhing about, I regained my breath and tried to pull myself up.

  The foot did not want to bear my weight. I knelt on my right knee, feeling tears of pain sting my eyes. It had been a few minutes after seven when I’d last looked at my watch. Would Milo be home? Would Vida have bade Roger good-bye? Should I call the hospital?

  Feeling foolish as well as awkward, I stretched for the phone. It rang in my hand. My voice was feeble as I said hello.

  “Mom? Hey, you sound weird. Did I screw up the time change again? I got off early and somebody told me you’d called a couple of times.”

  For once, my son’s voice was not the most welcome sound in the world. “Oh, Adam,” I began dismally, “I just fell flat on my face.”

  “What did you do, break your beak?” He sounded more amused than alarmed. “Hey, if you knocked out your front teeth, you can probably use the dental insurance to get caps.”

  In spite of my pain, I laughed. “It’s my foot. Or ankle. Not nearly so mirth-making as the prizefighter or jack-o-lantern look.”

  “No, that’s pretty boring,” Adam agreed, beginning to show a bit of concern. “Can you walk?”

  “I can’t even get up.” I was, however, edging my way onto the sofa. “It’s okay, I’ll get somebody to check it out for me tonight. How are you?” God forbid, I didn’t want my son to worry about his mother. God give me reason—would Adam really spare me a pang?

  To my amazement—and probably God’s as well—he did. “You better have it X-rayed, Mom. Remember the time I fell out of that old pear tree next door to our house in Portland and I crawled around for two days before you decided it wasn’t just a sprain?”

  “Right,” I said in a
guilty voice. “It was your third crash-and-burn in less than a month. I was getting blasé. Adam, I got a letter from your father.” Wincing as I pulled myself onto the sofa, I waited for my son’s reaction.

  “No kidding.” His voice had dropped an octave. “What about?”

  I explained, in as businesslike a tone as I could, caught as I was in a web of pain and a wash of uncertainty. “So,” I concluded, “this is your father’s way of making a contribution to your education. I haven’t yet checked on what the airfare is between Ketchikan and Fairbanks, but—”

  “I have,” Adam put in, again amazing me. “Jeez, Mom, that $2500 will pay for a ton of trips. Maybe I can come home before school starts. Or go to Japan.”

  “Japan!” For just an instant, my foot didn’t hurt any more. My son’s irresponsibility had obliterated my suffering. “Adam! Don’t be an idiot! That isn’t what Tom intended.” I tried to simmer down and lower my voice. “Why would you want to go to Japan anyway? Now, I mean.”

  “Don’t you remember Miko Nagakawa, that major babe I met just before I moved from Honolulu? She lives in Kyoto. I called her last week and she said it would be cool for me to come over any time.”

  “It’s not cool,” I said sternly. The foot was throbbing again, so hard I was sure I could hear it. “Let her come over here. As I recall, her father owns about six corporations and a couple of third world countries.”

  Eventually, it seemed that I had talked Adam out of his notion to fly to Japan. As a veteran of the motherhood wars, I’ve learned never to be certain of anything. But he was definite—as definite as any young person his age—about flying home for the Labor Day weekend. I didn’t argue that one. I’d be too glad to see him.

  “You go take care of your knee,” he said, obviously no longer obsessed with my dilemma. “But give me his address, okay?”

  “What?” I stopped, aware that Adam never called Tom by name, almost never referred to him as father. “Oh—you mean …” I faltered, feeling the moment’s awkwardness.

  “That’s right.” Adam suddenly sounded older. “I want to write a thank-you letter. To … him.”

  When I hung up, the tears in my eyes weren’t just from pain.

  Vida drove me to Doc Dewey’s, half-carrying me to her car. She is literally a tower of strength, and I thanked her profusely.

  “Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did this on purpose.”

  I gave her a sidelong look as we drove down Fourth Street in the twilight. “Maybe I did.” Vida merely snorted.

  Doc had directed us to go to the clinic, rather than the emergency room of the hospital. Young Doc was on duty and the father didn’t want the son to think he was usurping patients. Or so Doc informed Vida when she made the call from my house.

  “I can run an X-ray machine as well as any whippersnapper,” Doc said, pushing a wheelchair toward us. “It’s all these damned specialists who can’t do anything but tend to one part of your anatomy. Take a bone man: he’d be out of luck trying to tell you what to do with a sore throat. Or a urologist—now there’s a fellow who may know an asshole when he sees one on the examining table, but can’t deal with one in real life. Specialists—no sense of a patient’s overall well-being, girlies. Take my word for it.”

  Vida had wheeled me into the room which contained the portable X-ray unit while Doc lectured us and adjusted the equipment. He was wearing a faded cotton sports shirt and baggy suntan pants. His face was drawn and his color seemed off, especially since we’d had so much sun in recent weeks.

  With Vida’s help, I got up on the examining table. Doc was still griping about certain segments of the medical profession, interspersed with directions on how I should hold my battered body.

  “A first-year resident can make between twenty-five and thirty thousand these days,” he was saying as he clicked on the X-ray machine. “Hell, I didn’t make that much in the first five years I was in practice. Try to turn your ankle to the right, girlie. Oh, I know, everybody talks about inflation, but I still say—no, no, a little more to the right … That’s better—the problem is, these young people are spoiled today, they’ve been given everything …”

  Doc rambled on. I realized Vida had slipped out of the room. Gritting my teeth, I tried to keep the ankle from flopping over into a less painful position.

  “Just one more,” Doc was saying. “Straight. Point that toe, girlie.”

  I winced some more, but Doc was quick. He took the films into the little darkroom while I tried to relax. I was beginning to recover from the shock of the fall, which I felt should be a good sign. But even as I collected my wits and stared at the ceiling, my nerves became unraveled for different, more tragic reasons. By the time Doc emerged from the darkroom, I was feeling giddy.

  “No break,” he said, plastering the three X-rays up against the wall under a strong light. His thin fingers trailed the outline of my foot bones. “It’s a bad sprain, though, girlie. Keep off it for about three days. You want crutches?”

  My mind, which had been wandering in circles over Cody Graff’s corpse, snapped back to earth with a thud. “Oh, Lord! I never could manage crutches!”

  Doc eyed me sharply. “Can you stay home from work for three days?”

  “No,” I admitted with a heavy sigh as he helped me sit up. “I’d better get the damned crutches.” At least there were no stairs at The Advocate or inside my house.

  Doc pushed me back into the waiting room just as Vida came out of the supply closet. I was too preoccupied with figuring out how to avoid getting blisters under my arms to notice that she was holding something in her hand.

  “Here, Doc,” she said, unfolding her fingers. A small glass bottle caught the overhead light. “I found some more Haloperidol syrup. Do we congratulate you or call the sheriff?”

  What little color Doc had retained was sapped by Vida’s words. His drawn face turned haggard and his hands shook as he groped for the back of the nearest vinyl chair. He seemed to shrivel up inside his shirt and pants. I realized that his clothes weren’t baggy so much as they were ill-fitting. Doc had lost a considerable amount of weight. My heart sank even deeper. “Call ’em,” he replied. “And don’t forget Al Driggers. I don’t want to cheat him out of an undertaking job.”

  We sat in Doc’s office for close to an hour, with the night enfolding the clinic like a shroud and the wind finally blowing up through the river valley between the mountains. Doc was behind his desk. Vida had the patient’s seat. And I languished in the wheelchair.

  I’d interviewed murderers before. Some were sullen; some were self-righteous; some were scared to death. There had been a few I’d felt sorry for, but there had never been one I’d admired. Until now. Doc might not have acted in self-defense, but he’d killed Cody to save others. In effect, he’d defended the community. Cecil Dewey had devoted a lifetime to saving lives. Now he’d taken one, but only to spare others. The earnest young priest, with his call for justice, had jolted my mind. It was Doc himself who had said only God could straighten out the Marsh family’s problems. But Doc had decided not to wait for divine intervention.

  “I couldn’t let Cody marry Marje,” Doc said flatly, after he’d recovered from the shock of being discovered and ushered us into his private office. “She’s been like a daughter to me and she wouldn’t listen to reason. But I knew that what happened to Dani and little Scarlett could happen to Marje and her baby some day. Cody was a vicious spoiled brat with no conscience.”

  “He had charm,” Vida put in. “I couldn’t see it, but those girls could. Girls can be so silly.”

  Doc nodded, a gesture that seemed to tax him. “Dani and Marje may seem unalike, but they’re not. Basically, they’re small-town girlies who figure they can reform the Cody Graffs of this world.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “No woman can do that with any man, let alone a bad apple like Cody.”

  Silence filled the room for a few moments, while the three of us contemplated the futilit
y of trying to improve on nature. It was Vida who spoke next, her elbow resting on Doc’s desk and looking for all the world like a patient giving advice to her doctor.

  “It was the denials that gave you away,” she said. “Nobody—at least among the people who could be considered suspects—would admit it was murder. When Emma and I finally discovered that little Scarlett hadn’t died of SIDS, we assumed that either Dani or Cody had killed her. Then we figured that Art Fremstad must have realized the truth, so he was pushed over the falls. That didn’t seem like the work of a woman, especially a little thing like Dani. So it had to be Cody, and of course it was Cody who was poisoned.”

  Doc inclined his head. His eyelids seemed very heavy, but when he looked up at us, his gaze was as shrewd as ever. “I knew, too. I went around looking over my shoulder for almost a year. And Curtis—I think he guessed, but he didn’t want to turn in his own brother, and he was in love with Dani.”

  “Was the baby his?” I asked.

  Doc frowned. “I’ve never been sure, but I think so. Which may be why Cody killed the poor little thing. But I wouldn’t have put it past him to do it to his own. God help us, it happens. My problem was that I wasn’t positive who had smothered that tyke. And maybe I was wrong. It’s not the kind of thing you run around asking people to help you make up your mind. If it had been Dani, she’d left town and there was nothing I could do about her. As for Cody, as long as he wasn’t remarried or living with some woman who had kids, I figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. I could have done an autopsy, but I didn’t have the heart for it. And somehow, knowing that one of the parents—maybe both, as it turned out, if Curtis was Scarlett’s father—were innocent, I couldn’t put them through that. It was a mistake, of course.”