by Mary Daheim
The small bedrooms—there were four of them—were remarkably spare and comparatively tidy. Each contained a crucifix, and a black-beaded rosary lay on one of the dressers.
But the drawers and tiny closets had all been searched. We trooped back downstairs and found the entrance to the basement. A single bare bulb illuminated the rickety steps, with only another bulb hanging from a beam in the middle of a dirt-covered area.
There were tools, some of which were so old that they might have fetched a good price at an antiques show. I smiled when I saw that the O'Neills' fishing equipment had been left unmolested. The same would not have been true for their hunting weapons, since they were nowhere in sight. It was possible that their last prey had been the Hartquists.
Several wooden and cardboard boxes had been opened, revealing nothing of much interest except old books, dirty magazines, worn-out clothes, and—touchingly— what might have been Mrs. O'Neill's wedding dress and veil. The tattered muslin gown had once been white, but was now brown with age; much of the veil had rotted away, but a small satin-covered bandeau still sported tiny artificial rosebuds. Gently, I refolded the ensemble and tucked it inside one of the boxes, then closed the lid.
“Hey,” Scott said, speaking from a semidark corner, “this looks suspicious.”
He was pointing at the bare floor. “I don't see anything,” I said, moving toward him.
“That's the point,” he responded. “Something's been moved from here. A couple of somethings, like cartons, maybe.”
I peered down at the dirt. Sure enough, there was an impression, three feet wide and maybe ten feet long. A small ridge of dirt rose a little past the middle, as if two items had sat side by side.
“Milo,” I breathed. “He took whatever was there.”
Scott held out his hand. “I'll bet this was part of whatever the sheriff removed.”
I stared at Scott's palm, where a frayed piece of black leather strap with part of a buckle reposed. “From a trunk?” I said.
“That's what it looks like.”
My eyes returned to the bare patch on the dirt floor. “Two trunks. They must have been filled with something heavy or they wouldn't have made that much of an impression.”
Scott fingered the bit of leather. “Do you suppose those were the trunks that Paddy brought over from the old country?”
“Possibly,” I said in a vague voice.
“Just think,” Scott mused, “I'll bet the old boy brought everything he owned in those trunks. That's what my grandfather did when he came to the United States. Except he had only one trunk, and it was cardboard.”
I smiled at Scott as I started for the stairs. “I'm not as interested in what Paddy O'Neill brought from Ireland sixty-odd years ago. What I'd like to know is what his sons had in those trunks up until the sheriff took them away.”
“Guns, maybe,” Scott said as we climbed the rickety steps to the main floor.
“Maybe,” I allowed. “Then again, maybe not.” The larger trunk, if that is what it was, must be about six feet long. I wondered if it had held a body.
WE LEFT THE O'Neill house just before it started to rain. Scott was doing an interview with the community college registrar about the upcoming commencement ceremony, so I made a detour out Tonga Road and onto the campus. He said he'd get a ride back to the office. No doubt, I thought, from Tamara Rostova, his current inamorata. She had nice teeth, too.
Vida was at her desk when I returned at exactly three o'clock. She was drumming her nails and looking vexed. “Dick Bourgette is behind schedule on those homes he's building out near Cass Pond,” she said. “I think that's news, but it's not my department.”
Dick was the prosecuting attorney's father. He had spent many years in the construction business, but only recently had begun building single-family dwellings in and around Alpine.
“What's the problem?” I asked.
“Plumbing,” Vida said. “He can't get the hardware from his supplier. I didn't talk to him, however. I heard this from Erin Burleson.”
“An impeccable source?” I queried, perching on Leo's desk.
Vida grimaced slightly. “The Burlesons haven't been in Alpine very long, so ordinarily I'd be wary of their information. But in this case, it's a personal matter. They've been renting up on Spruce Street—you may recall that Scott gave me a Scene item about their kiddies—and just yesterday they put money down on one of Dick Bour-gette's houses. Very nice, three bedrooms, two baths, fenced yard, finished basement. Oh, and a fireplace. They were scheduled to move in the first of July.” Vida paused for breath while I tried to remain patient. So far, it sounded as if she had another Scene item featuring the Burlesons, rather than a big construction story.
“Then,” she continued, with a sly glint in her gray eyes, “just after they got back from Doukas Realty, Sam Heppner and Dustin Fong showed up to tell the Burlesons they had to move out of their rental, at least for a few days. This is Thursday, the motels and even the ski lodge are full for the weekend, so they don't know what to do. I suggested they try the college dorms. Some of the out-of-town students who've finished their final exams are already moving out.”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Why must the Burlesons move in the first place? What's going on with the sheriff and his deputies?”
“Well.” She sat back in her chair, hands on hips, bust jutting. “That's the interesting part. I tried to convince my nephew Billy to have lunch with me today, but he couldn't. They're very busy at the sheriff's department, it seems. As well they should be. But what's most intriguing about this whole affair is that the Burlesons have been renting from Stubby and Lona O'Neill.”
I stared at Vida. “Should this make sense? It doesn't to me.”
“Stubby and Lona lived there together off and on for several years,” Vida said slowly. “As you may recall, Lona would periodically throw Stubby out and he'd move back in with Paddy at the family home. But when Meara became pregnant, Lona and she moved away. The house didn't go up for sale, however. They—Lona, actually—rented it instead, first to someone who was working temporarily for the state fish and game department, then this spring to Erin and Andy Burleson.”
I nodded, then told Vida about the little adventure Scott and I had had at the O'Neill place on Second Hill.
Vida scowled at me. “You should have waited until I got back. I would gladly have gone with you. You ought to have known that Scott, being young and impressionable, would have had qualms about entering the O'Neill house.”
“I wanted to go before the rain started,” I said, only half lying. “Besides, I didn't know when you'd be back. I figured you were grilling Bill Blatt.”
“I should have been,” Vida said ruefully. “I believe he's deliberately avoiding his poor old aunt.”
“So,” I said, picking up my train of thought, “Milo and his mighty men searched the O'Neill house first. They found what may have been two trunks. Something important must have been in the trunks, because they were confiscated. I'll bet that whatever it was is the big secret Milo's keeping from us.”
“How silly,” Vida declared. “What could it be? The Hartquists killed the O'Neills. Period. The O'Neills may have fired first—I wouldn't put it past them—but what's so mysterious about that? Unless they were fighting over treasure. Do you suppose,” Vida continued, looking owl-eyed behind her big orange-rimmed glasses, “that those trunks or whatever they were had gold bullion in them?”
I hadn't thought of that. “It's possible. Scott thought it was guns. I considered a corpse.”
Vida's eyes grew even wider. “Whose?”
I shrugged. “Some Hartquist shirttail relation that old Paddy plugged twenty years ago?”
Vida grimaced. “Again, anything's possible. But we've gone off the track. Why turn the Burlesons out of the house they rented from Lona O'Neill?”
“I wish I knew,” I said as Leo came through the door.
“Hey, what's up?” he greeted us.
“We're playi
ng Clue,” I replied.
Leo glanced at Vida. “You must be Mrs. Peacock. Emma's definitely Miss Scarlett.”
“More like Miss Black and Blue after staggering around the O'Neill place.” I turned to Vida. “You have your assignment for the wake this evening. Find out why the Burlesons have to move.”
“I'll certainly try,” Vida promised with a lift of her chin. “You must get involved, too, Leo.”
My ad manager was settling into his chair. “Huh? Doing what?”
Vida began to explain as I went into my cubbyhole. At my desk, I considered calling Milo to see if I could squeeze any information out of him. But maybe that wasn't a good idea just yet. I wondered if, when he discovered that someone had broken into the O'Neill house, he'd figure it was me.
I was still mulling when Scott came into my office. His skin looked slightly flushed and there was a gleam in his eyes.
“I'm back,” he announced.
“It looks like you had a successful interview with the registrar,” I remarked.
He nodded and looked over in the direction of my Skykomish County map. “Yeah. It was great. I mean,” he amended, again meeting my gaze, “I think I got a decent story out of it.”
“And you got a lift back to the office,” I said with a small smile.
Scott nodded slowly, deeply. “Yes. A lift. Say,” he said, pulling himself out of what I assumed was a Tamara-induced stupor, “I don't get it. If the Hartquists admit they shot the O'Neills, what's all this other stuff about?
I'd think that the sheriff would be more interested at this point in figuring out who murdered Brian Conley.”
Briefly, I stared at Scott. “Yes, you'd think so.”
“I suppose,” Scott said in a thoughtful voice, “Dodge could be doing both at the same time.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
Scott shrugged. “The sheriff knows what he's doing, right?”
“I hope so,” I said.
It was still raining when I got home at five-thirty. I'd driven by the sheriff's office, but Milo's Grand Cherokee wasn't parked out front. Maybe he was investigating his cases; maybe he'd gone home.
Shortly after six, Tom phoned from Sea-Tac. His flight had been late getting in, and he didn't expect to finish his dinner engagement until eight-thirty. It would take him another hour and half to get to Alpine.
“Will you wait up?” he asked.
“I'll try,” I said in an uncharacteristically coy voice. “Drive safely. It's raining here.”
“Here, too,” Tom said. “Love you. See you soon.”
I purred a bit after I hung up the phone. When I'd finished eating a Stouffer's chicken-noodle casserole and a few fresh strawberries, I wondered how to pass the time for the next four hours. Then it occurred to me that I could attend the O'Neill wake. I'd never been to one before, and even aside from my journalistic interest, it might be possible to interview some of the family members.
I'd go alone, just in case the observance lasted longer than a couple of hours. That way, I could leave on my own and be sure that I arrived home in time to make myself gorgeous for Tom's arrival.
Jake and Betsy O'Toole lived in an old but well-maintained house on Cedar Street. When I arrived just before seven-thirty, I couldn't find a parking place. It looked as if the O'Neills had drawn quite a crowd. I found a spot a block and a half away, ironically, by Drig-gers Funeral Home. At the corner I met Vida, who was dressed all in black, including her silk toque.
“Did you walk or couldn't you find a parking place, either?” I asked as we passed by John Engstrom Park, with its memorial to one of the original mill's first superintendents.
“I walked,” Vida replied tersely. “It's only two blocks. I don't mind a little rain.” There was a hard glint in her eyes.
“What's wrong?” I inquired.
“Billy,” she responded as we waited for a car to turn the corner before we could proceed. “He's avoiding me. What's wrong with that boy?”
“You mean he wouldn't tell you why the Burlesons have to move out for a few days?”
“Precisely.” Vida lowered her voice as we neared the O'Toole house, where other guests were also arriving. “If Lona O'Neill is here for this silly escapade, I intend to corner her. Maybe she knows something. She should, since she rented to the Burlesons and she was married to Stubby.”
“I'll see what I can find out, too,” I said, noting Al Driggers's hearse, which was parked in front of the O'Tooles'. “Which, I guess, is really why I came.”
“I thought Tommy was arriving this evening.”
I explained about the delay in Tom's arrival. “I figured I might as well tag along to kill time.”
The O'Tooles' living and dining rooms usually provided an airy, bright setting with splashes of chintz and cheerful pillows. Now, in the gathering dusk, it was lighted only by candles, and it fairly bulged with mourners. I wasn't prepared for the three caskets that sat in front of Betsy's breakfront cabinet. In the flickering reflection from the glass that shielded the O'Tooles' best china, I could see the three waxen faces of the O'Neill brothers. I shuddered and clutched at Vida's arm.
“Wouldn't you think it would be a closed-casket ceremony?” I said in her ear.
“No,” Vida replied, appearing more curious than moved as she edged through the mourners to reach the coffins. “How can you properly grieve unless you can see the deceased?”
I merely shook my head and hung back. On the French doors that led from the dining room to the hallway, someone had hung photographs with Scotch tape. A rifle-toting Stubby, showing off a big buck with enormous antlers; a teenage Dusty with what I assumed was his first car; a gap-toothed Rusty, no more than six, with five fat rainbow trout hanging from a long twig. Happier times, before hatred and stupidity ruined their lives and laid them out in big steel gray coffins.
I stood back to observe the gathering. While Alpine's population has largely been made up of Scandinavians, there is a sizable Irish minority. Straight off, I recognized Jake's brother, Buzzy, and his wife, Laura; Delia Rafferty, widow of Liam, and mother of Tim and Beth, who stood next to her; the Dugans, the Shaws, the Daleys, the Dunns, Jack and Nina Mullins, and, of course, Leo Walsh. I also noticed that Lona O'Neill was there, accompanied by her daughter Meara, who was carrying a chubby baby about eight months old.
I poked Vida, who had come away from the caskets and was again standing next to me. “Did you ever hear who got Meara pregnant?” I whispered.
“No,” Vida replied, obviously anxious to move away from me and begin prying. “I would have told you if I had. Very mysterious.”
Seeing Father Dennis Kelly come through the door, I took a couple of backward steps. Jake O'Toole had hurried over to greet our pastor, so I joined them both at the threshold, where we all exchanged greetings.
“Father,” Jake said, “have you ever done one of these before?”
“No,” Father Den admitted. “But I looked it up. I don't do much, except lead the mourners in some familiar prayers after we say the rosary.”
Betsy also came over to welcome our priest. “This is all Jake's doing,” she announced, glaring at her husband. “The big grocer, the big Irishman, the big stoop.”
Both Father Den and I were accustomed to the public bickering of the O'Tooles. The wrangling must have suited them; they'd been married for almost twenty years.
“It's a nice gesture,” Father Den said in a noncommittal voice. “I'm sure the rest of the O'Neills appreciate it.”
“Bull,” said Betsy, still glaring at Jake. “The only thing they'd appreciate is if we held the damned thing at the Grocery Basket with a free run at the beer and wine sections.”
“Take it easy,” Jake said, putting a hand on his wife's arm. “Observe Lona by the caskets. Her bereavement almost prostates her.”
I tried not to wince at Jake's overblown and often misused vocabulary, a bad habit he'd acquired after Safe-way moved to town and cut into his profits. I figured he believed that big w
ords made him an even bigger businessman. Or something.
I looked in the direction that Jake had indicated. Lona, supported by Dan Peebles, was standing over what I presumed was Stubby's body. She had placed a red and green flannel shirt in her husband's casket. Maybe it had been his favorite garment; maybe she treasured it because he never beat her when he wore it. Lona's plump shoulders shook and she covered her face with a handful of tissues. Jake was right: Her grief seemed genuine.
“The first ex-wife's not here,” Betsy said in a dry tone. “She moved to Seattle.”
“What about the daughters from that first marriage of Stubby's?” I inquired as Father Den slipped away.
Betsy pointed toward the front door. “Here they come now. The taller one is Kathleen. Margaret's got the spiked hair. That's Rusty's son, Mickey, behind them.”
Vaguely, I recognized the threesome. Kathleen— Kathy—was rather plain and bordered on gaunt. Margaret, nicknamed Meg, was the better-looking of the two, despite something of a weight problem and the orange-and-blue spiked hair. Their cousin Mickey was a nondescript lad of twenty—dark hair, dark clothes, dark expression. It was no wonder I'd forgotten there was a male O'Neill to carry on the family name.
“Where's Mickey's mother?” I whispered to Jake as Betsy welcomed the younger O'Neills.
“Dana?” Jake shrugged. “I don't know. She and Rusty never divorced, but the ultimate information I retained said she'd moved to Lynnwood or Mountlake Terrace— one of those suburbs north of Seattle.”
By the caskets, Lona's sobs had been joined by those of Meara. “Dana O'Neill was the wife who kept leaving and coming back, right?” I said.
Jake, who was keeping an eye on the growing crowd of mourners as if he expected someone to make off with the Belleek china on the mantel, nodded once. “Dana's been gone for a while this time,” he said. “Lona left once or twice before she finally departed the town. I heard she'd filed for divorce but I don't know if it was decreed final by the time Stubby got killed.”