Bitter Alpine

by Mary Daheim

  I’d heard most of this before, except the part about Lori’s aunt in Chilliwack. “My social life in Portland revolved mostly around Adam. If you count PTA meetings and watching my son play sports with a bunch of other klutzy adolescents as a social life, so be it. Mother Lord didn’t have much time to herself.”

  Alison actually evinced some remorse. “I sort of forget that you had a life before I came to work for you. I mean, I met you when my birth mother was killed over ten years ago, but I was only twelve. Then I didn’t see you again until a little over a year ago. Everybody knew that you and Dodge had an affair earlier and broke up, but finally got back together and then got married….” Her voice trailed away as she grasped the doorknob.

  “Yes, Milo and I had a rocky history,” I agreed. “We’d both had love stories that didn’t end happily ever after.”

  “That happens to some people. It happened to my father and to my birth mother. And then she was killed.” She paused, and I wondered if she was thinking of how her mother, Linda Petersen Lindahl, had given custody of her child to her ex-husband, Howard. Linda had chosen to pursue her career in the family-owned Bank of Alpine. Alison opened the door. “I don’t want to wait thirty years to get married. Is that so wrong?”

  I smiled. “Not if you find the right man.”

  “I will.” Her effort at a smile struck me as feeble. Maybe her determination was stronger. I hoped so, for her sake. And wondered if Rachel Douglas had found the wrong man.

  Chapter 7

  Milo returned home just after noon, bearing takeout from the Burger Barn. “I was going to eat there before I came home, but then I remembered that my cute little wife might be hungry, too.”

  “Gosh,” I said in mock surprise, “when you’re on a homicide case, I’m stunned that you remember you’re married.”

  My husband narrowed his hazel eyes as he shed his heavy jacket and put it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Mulehide thought I didn’t remember. We could have found a stiff in the bathtub and she’d have bitched while I was trying to figure out who it was.”

  I took a couple of plates out of the cupboard. “Really, I think you exaggerate. Vida once told me that when you became sheriff, Tricia bragged all over town.”

  “She did.” Milo had sat down and was removing the contents from the bag with its familiar logo of a cow going into a barn and coming out on the other side as a burger. “But Mulehide never stopped to think what the job would entail. She was too busy counting the digits in my raise. Which, seeing how strapped SkyCo was for money back then, wasn’t all that big. And by the way, Heppner should have the snowplow up here in the next half hour.”

  “I don’t plan on going anywhere,” I said, joining him at the table. “But I am interested in what you may have found out about the murder. It could be news.” I fluttered my eyelashes at him just to see his reaction.

  “Right.” He was unmoved. “What if I told you I couldn’t because it’s…”

  “Part of an ongoing investigation,” I interrupted. “Yes, I know. But I need at least some basics to post online. Consider the public’s need to know.”

  Having taken a big bite out of one of the two cheeseburgers he’d bought for himself, he nodded. “We got lucky. Do you remember Lloyd Campbell’s younger brother, Eugene?”

  Lloyd was the longtime owner of Alpine Appliance. His family had been involved—innocently—with one of the early homicides I’d covered in Alpine. “No,” I replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  Milo devoured three fries before he spoke. “You probably wouldn’t. Eugene—Gene, for short—and his first wife divorced. He’d cheated on her with a woman who’d moved here with her husband from California, and they ran off together to the Bay Area. Turns out the son he had by the second wife works for Alameda County. Jason Campbell’s visited his relatives up here a few times, so he felt obligated to do some digging for us about Rachel.”

  I vaguely recalled a couple of mentions Vida had given Jason in her “Scene Around Town” column. “That was a stroke of luck,” I said.

  “You bet. He knew Rachel and was shocked when he found out she’d been killed. Jason had taken her out for drinks the night before she left Oakland. I got the impression they were seeing each other, at least casually. He knew she was adopted and had been married for a few years in her twenties—no kids—but she’d taken back her original name, which she used on her personnel forms when she started working for the county.” Milo paused to polish off the first burger.

  “How long had she been with Alameda County?”

  “Eight years,” Milo replied. “Before that she worked for the city of Oakland for a few years, which is why she handled a lot of the liaison stuff between the two government entities.”

  I downed my last french fry. “Can you find out what her married name was?”

  Milo nodded. “But not until Monday. Jason can’t get at the records over the weekend.”

  “Was he upset? I mean, overwhelmed with grief or just…?”

  “Shocked. That’s as close as I could come over the phone.”

  “Do you think he’ll follow through and call you back Monday?”

  Milo made a face. “If he doesn’t call before noon, I’ll call him. What are you thinking? He followed her up here and whacked her at the motel?”

  “No,” I replied. “But it’s possible. Nobody in Alpine seems to know who she was.”

  “So why did she come here? She knew Blackwell’s name even if he swore he never heard of her. Maybe he didn’t—at least not as Rachel Douglas.”

  I began clearing the table while Milo took his jacket out to hang on a peg by the front door. When it came to posting news on our website, I didn’t have much. Mentioning Rachel’s work connection with one of the Campbells’ relatives could upset the local family. Lloyd’s Alpine Appliance was a good advertiser. Besides, Milo had bought all of the items in our remodeled kitchen at the Campbells’ store. If I upset them, they might cancel our warranties. I decided to wait until Monday, when Milo would hear back from Jason in Oakland.

  But I did call Mitch Laskey to let him know of the latest developments, since he’d be covering most of the story. My reporter tended to be touchy if he felt he hadn’t been kept up to speed on an assignment.

  His initial response was, not unexpectedly, a bit gloomy. “We’d planned to drive to Monroe to visit Troy, but Brenda gets so nervous when we drive in snow. I guess we’ll have to see if it melts by tomorrow.”

  “The highway may be cleared by then,” I said, even as I looked out the window and saw more flakes coming down. “You must have had quite a lot of snow in Michigan.”

  “We did,” he agreed, “but unless it was a blizzard, our suburb of Royal Oak was very efficient about keeping traffic moving.”

  In other words, we Alpiners were a bunch of lazy slobs. But even as I spoke, I saw the snowplow approaching. It appeared that Sam Heppner was in charge, though it was hard to tell because he was so bundled up. In fact, he was even wearing earmuffs. Maybe he was afraid of joining Dwight Gould on the sick list.

  I announced the snowplow’s appearance to Mitch. As I figured, he wasn’t cheered. “That doesn’t mean Highway 2 is being cleared by the state,” he said. “Maybe I should call someone to find out. They probably won’t know. Oh well.” He rang off.

  I’d migrated only to the sofa. Milo looked up from The Seattle Times’s sports TV schedule. “Laskey, right?”

  “Not a bundle of fun,” I replied. “Speaking of bundles, the snowplow’s outside. I think it’s Heppner, but I can’t tell by looking at his mummy-like state.”

  “It should be,” my husband replied. “I’ll ask him if he wants to come in for a cup of coffee. Or are we out?”

  “I’ll check.” There was still enough for at least one full mug. But when I returned to the living room, Milo had gon
e outside to talk to Sam, who was turning the plow toward our driveway. I waited by the open door, shivering. The temperature had to be in the mid-twenties. My mate hadn’t put on his jacket. I fretted that he, too, would come down with a cold.

  But not more than a minute passed before he headed into the house and the snowplow started up our driveway. I waved to Sam, but, being Sam, he didn’t wave back. Maybe he couldn’t, since he was steering the thing with both hands.

  Milo shook himself when he came in and closed the door. “It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out there,” he declared. “Would you believe that Roy Everson showed up at headquarters half an hour ago to inform De Groote that he’d found his mama’s footprints outside their house on the Burl Creek Road? The damned fool had walked all that way because their car’s battery was dead.”

  That sounded weird even for Roy. “He’s going to walk back?”

  Milo shook his head. “Bill Blatt had stopped by to pick up his gloves. He’d left them at work yesterday. He gave Roy a ride home. Oh—Sam declined the offer of coffee. He wants to finish the damned job and go home. He’s not officially on duty today, but I’ll make sure he gets an extra couple of bucks in his paycheck this time around.”

  Since my husband had parked himself in the easy chair, I sat down on the sofa. “What’s new with Bill and Tanya? They’ve been dating for over a year now. Do you think they have plans?”

  The query caused Milo to heave a big sigh. “I’m not sure, but they seem serious. Tanya’s dealing pretty well with the PTSD.” He paused to light a cigarette. Milo and Tricia’s daughter was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder after her estranged fiancé had shot her and then killed himself a little over a year ago. Milo had spent three weeks away from Alpine, first at Harborview Hospital, where Tanya had been taken by helicopter, and then at Tricia’s home in Bellevue while their daughter continued to recover. Milo’s ex had done her best to cope with their daughter, but finally she had to bring her to Alpine. The poor girl only felt safe with her father in the family home that Milo still owned. The stay turned out to be permanent. Tanya had gone to work for the Forest Service and Bill had volunteered to help her recover from the traumatic experience. He, too, had recently experienced a romantic disaster.

  “The problem,” Milo went on, “isn’t with Tanya and Bill. It’s Lila Blatt, Bill’s ornery mother. You know what she’s like.”

  I did. Lila was one of Vida’s sisters-in-law and a control freak. She’d been widowed when she was fifty, which had made her obsessive about her two children, Marje and Bill. Both were in their thirties and neither had ever married. A year or so after I arrived in Alpine, Marje’s fiancé was murdered. She’d rarely dated since, but Lila had allowed her to keep the apartment she’d rented as a future home for her and the ill-fated fiancé. Bill hadn’t been so lucky. Lila had insisted he live at home because she had to have a man around the house. Her sister-in-law Vida thought she was a ninny. Bill had finally found his backbone and told his mother that his intentions were honorable as far as Tanya was concerned. Apparently, the prospect of grandchildren had won him his freedom.

  Just as Milo was about to turn on the Seahawks’ playoff game against the Redskins, his cell went off again. Seeing him scowl, I stayed on the sofa. “Don’t bother Jamison about it,” he said into the phone. “If there’s a real problem and not another false alarm, she can stop by. Has the highway been plowed?” He paused. “Okay, if they’re up past Startup, they should be by the turnoff here in another twenty minutes….Right.” He ended the call. “Those old coots reported another prowler. It’s probably the wind blowing stuff around. Everything has grown up around that cabin in the last year after the former occupant went away.”

  “The last time I drove by before Christmas, from what I could see of the cabin itself, it looked okay,” I said, “but all the greenery has gotten out of control over the years. Did you ever run a current title of ownership or find out if the property was actually sold?”

  Milo nodded. “According to what we found, the ownership had been passed on to the late Crystal Bird’s daughter Amber by Dean Ramsey, who was temporarily on leave from his job as county extension agent. As you know, the cabin was owned back then by Crystal and her estranged husband, Aaron Conley.”

  “The daughter was also estranged from her mother,” I said. “Crystal didn’t get along with a lot of people, including me. You gave me a rough time after she was killed because you knew I’d been to see her that night. Crystal had been really nasty, and you virtually accused me of having killed her.”

  “Gosh, I forgot about that.” Milo turned thoughtful. “The daughter may still be the owner. Didn’t she get married and move away?”

  “She did. I think she lives in Seattle or one of the suburbs.” I glanced at the SkyCo directory I kept by the landline. “Except for his office at the courthouse, I don’t know if Dean’s home number is listed. Remember when we had to go see him a while back in Sultan?”

  Milo nodded. “His wife claimed he was at the fairgrounds with their kids. I still think he was hiding in the shrubbery. Don’t you have a Sultan directory stashed someplace?”

  I did, so I pulled it out of the end table drawer. I found the Ramseys’ number, but when I dialed it, I got a recorded message and disconnected without identifying myself. “Drat! I forgot. Liza wrote up a little piece before New Year’s saying the Ramseys had bought an RV and were taking a trip to Oregon to visit Mrs. Ramsey’s family and then come back north to go around the Olympic Peninsula.”

  “Somebody at the courthouse should know how to get hold of the daughter,” Milo said. “Check it out on Monday.”

  “Why don’t you? You’re the sheriff.”

  “I only ask questions of perps,” Milo replied. “You like to nose around in what people are doing. Better yet, have Vida do it.”

  “Maybe I will,” I replied. “She’ll find out more about what they’re doing than either of us would.”

  “I don’t give a damn what they’re doing except to find out who owns the cabin. Hell, Waldo Danforth is living there with his old lady. He must know. He’s got a phone to call headquarters and pester us.”

  I flipped through both directories. “No Danforths. The number must be unlisted.”

  “Cellphone, maybe,” Milo said, and finally turned on the TV.

  I took that to mean we were dropping the subject. But I still intended to find out about Waldo Danforth. The good news was that the Seahawks didn’t drop the ball. They beat the Redskins by ten points. After the game was over, I could hear firecrackers go off. No danger there—they’d melt in the snow. There are some benefits to living on a mountainside.

  By Monday morning, the snow was gone, swept away by a Chinook wind that occasionally brought warmer air to the region on the west side of the Cascade Mountains. Sunday had been a quiet, uneventful day. Milo had checked in on Dwight Gould, who had been treated and sent home from the hospital that afternoon with a lot of antibiotics.

  We’d spent the time watching more football, reading the Sunday Seattle Times, and just enjoying our own company. Despite our long history, there was still a sense of newness in finally being married.

  Chapter 8

  Vida showed up shortly after I arrived at the office. She was wearing a hat I’d never seen before—or at least didn’t remember. It was another pillbox, but covered in black and white checks with a big black satin bow set at an angle. I rarely made the mistake of asking her if she was wearing a new hat. Several years ago she’d told me that she had a bedroom reserved for her hats and estimated she had at least four hundred of them, all stored in individual boxes. On rare occasions she would buy a new one. I supposed that some of the hats would become unwearable from age rather than use.

  “So confusing,” she said to me as she loomed above my desk. “I wanted to go to the post office this morning, but discovered it was closed for Martin
Luther King Jr. Day. I’m surprised you didn’t shut down here.”

  “I thought about it, but we’ve got a special edition coming out next week and we need the time to put it together.” We also needed to decide what it would feature, but I didn’t want to admit that to Vida. “I’m paying the staff time and a half to work today.”

  “That’s fair. Really,” she went on, “people are so silly. Why must Grace Grundle call me to find out details about the woman who got herself killed? She knows I rarely covered crime stories. And two of my fellow Presbyterians asked me the same thing after church yesterday. If this poor woman knew someone in Alpine, I would have heard about it.”

  Of course. “Do you remember if there were ever any Douglases in SkyCo over the years?”

  Vida leaned one hand on the back of a visitor chair and fingered her chin with the other. “No,” she replied after a pause. “Unless it was before my time. We could check Mr. Clemans’s yearbooks, but they only go up to 1929, when he moved his logging operation to the Robe Valley near Granite Falls.”

  “That would be a big stretch,” I pointed out. “Rachel Douglas inquired about Jack Blackwell.”

  “Ye-e-s,” Vida said slowly, now standing upright. “But he is in the logging business. You’re right, though. I can hardly see Blackwell as the benevolent kind of logging company owner that Carl Clemans was.”

  That wasn’t quite fair to Blackwell. His employees were generally well treated. Except, of course, for the deluded young man who’d tried to shoot him at last year’s infamous Labor Day picnic. That had been a holiday celebration most of us wanted to forget.

  Before I could respond, the set of extra eyes we all swore were in the back of Vida’s head apparently caused her to turn around as Mitch arrived with the morning’s bakery goods. “My, my!” she exclaimed. “I wonder what the Upper Crust has to offer this morning. The holiday season always provides too many temptations, so I’m trying to shed a few pounds. But I skimped on breakfast and might be convinced to have a little something.”