The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “Weird.” I fingered Milo's desk as if it were a piano keyboard. It appeared he wouldn't—more likely couldn't— answer all of those questions just now. “Say, did you ever look into the disappearance of Brian Conley's body at JFK?”

  “Dwight called back there,” Milo replied, putting out his cigarette in a clamshell ashtray. “He got the run-

  around. Just what you'd expect with those New York types. We'll try again today.”

  “I should hope so,” I said, getting up. “It's your corpse, after all.”

  The sheriff tipped his head to one side. “Do you really think whoever killed Brian showed up at JFK and snatched the body?”

  “No,” I replied, “but losing your victim doesn't look too hot on your resume.”

  Milo grimaced. “The trail's colder than Tonga Ridge at four thousand feet. According to the girlfriend and the buddy, Conley didn't have an enemy in the world. His coworkers at the consulate couldn't think of any reason why somebody would want to kill him. His parents, especially his mother, have nothing but good things to say about him.” Milo held his hands palms up. “It's got to be one of those weirdos in the woods.”

  I should have been inclined to agree with the sheriff, but something held me back. “Any theories about the O'Neills' weaponry?” I asked, deciding to change the subject.

  Milo fingered his coffee mug. “Well… if it were anybody but the O'Neills, I'd start sniffing for terrorists. But, like the Hartquists, the O'Neills are—were—just the kind who might want to have an honest-to-God arsenal.”

  “Have you asked the Hartquists about the rocket launchers?” I inquired.

  “The Hartquists?” Milo frowned at me. “Why? To give them ideas in case they ever get out of prison?”

  “Oh,” I said slowly, getting to my feet, “it was just a thought.”

  Milo also stood up, then loped around his desk and put an arm around me. “Hey,” he said, looking down into my face, “I'm really glad for you.”

  “Thanks, Milo,” I said, turning my cheek for the obligatory kiss of congratulations. “You're still my dearest friend.”

  Milo, however, didn't kiss me. Instead, he gave my shoulders a squeeze and stepped away. “If… if anything ever goes wrong, or you need … well, you know … I'm still here.”

  I looked at his long, grave face. Milo was right. He was always there. Like a tree, like a rock, like a friend.

  “Yes,” I said softly and felt my eyes mist just a bit. “I know.”

  I'd decided I might as well attend the funeral Mass for the O'Neills. It would save listening to Vida twitter about Catholic oddities and excesses. Before heading to St. Mildred's, I called Tom to see how he was getting along.

  “I spent most of the morning on the phone with business arrangements. That was enough to make me feel a need for fresh air. Now I'm cleaning your carport,” he informed me. “I found three mouse nests.”

  “Really?” I wasn't surprised. Field mice often made their home in the woodpile. If they didn't hurt me, I wouldn't hurt them.

  “It looks like the grass needs mowing,” Tom said. “How do you get the mower to go uphill out back? Or have you got a pet goat around here someplace?”

  “It's not easy.” I laughed. “Don't knock yourself out. You haven't taken over as lord of the manor yet.”

  “No, but I need the practice. What are you up to? Any hot news?”

  “Yes, in fact,” I said, and made him promise not to tell about the discovery of the rocket launchers.

  “The O'Neills were probably planning to sell them,” Tom said when I'd finished. “They could get a good price from terrorists.”

  “I wondered about that,” I said. “Where would the O'Neills meet up with terrorists?”

  “Damned if I know,” Tom replied. “The real question is, where did they get the rocket launchers in the first place?”

  “Milo's looking into that,” I said. “At least, I hope he is.”

  “No word on your other homicide?” Tom asked.

  “Nothing. Milo thinks he's hit the wall on that one.”

  “Could be.” Tom paused. “What do you want me to do with these boxes of old magazines and newspapers at the front of the carport? They're a fire hazard, you know.”

  “Then throw them out,” I responded. “I waited all year for one of the schools or somebody else to have a paper drive and they never did. Too much recycling these days, I guess. Got to run. I'm attending the O'Neill funeral. Care to join me?”

  Again, Tom paused. “No, thanks. I need to stick around here and earn my keep. See you this evening.”

  I could hardly believe it. Tom would be there this evening and tomorrow evening, and then, though he would have to leave for a time, there'd be endless evenings when I would come home to him. I gave myself a little shake.

  St. Mildred's was already jammed when I arrived at two minutes to ten. The old white wooden structure is small and modest, but it has a certain charm. At least our pastors haven't modernized the sanctuary. Too many of the new and renovated churches in the area look like bowling alleys or union halls or are otherwise butt-ugly.

  I managed to find a seat in the second pew from the back. I was mildly surprised to see Vida in attendance. She was up front and easy to spot with her pigeon hat. I have tried to count how many hats Vida owns, but lost track years ago. Judging from the styles, particularly this one with its three pigeons nestling in powder blue veils around the high crown, she had been acquiring headgear since becoming a grown-up. The pigeons were especially intriguing: They had glass eyes that moved around like a doll's. And, like Vida herself, they seemed not to miss a trick.

  Most of the people who had attended the wake were present, plus several others, some of whom I didn't recognize. Noticeably absent were the Wailers. Perhaps they were at home, rehearsing for Oscar Nyquist's funeral on Saturday.

  Al Driggers and Dan Peebles were both on hand, not only in their capacity as funeral director and assistant, but as pallbearers. Three caskets required eighteen men, which made for an impressive procession down the center aisle. I noted that Brendan Shaw, Buddy Bayard, Bill Daley, Jack Mullins, Jake and Buzzy O'Toole, and, to my astonishment, Ed Bronsky had been called into service. Ed wasn't Irish, but he was a member of the parish. I figured he'd volunteered because it was good publicity.

  Father Kelly gave an adequate homily, considering that the O'Neills weren't regular attendees at Mass and that our pastor didn't know them well, except by reputation, which wasn't very good. Mainly, he spoke of being prepared for death, of not knowing the day or the hour. He did not add that you never could tell when your archrivals were going to show up with their .22s.

  The only member of the O'Neill family to give a eulogy was Mickey, Rusty's son. He looked fairly terrified, and I suspected that the ill-fitting brown suit he wore was a castoff from someone else.

  “My dad taught me a lot,” Mickey began in a quavering voice. “He taught me about logging, and how to work in the woods. I'm proud of that. I'm proud to be a logger, too, like he was. Not everybody gets to be a logger these days, with all the tree-huggers and nature lovers and the rest of those crazy people out there making trouble.”

  Mickey's voice had gained strength and momentum as he rode his sawhorse from the pulpit. I saw several people nod their heads in agreement, and at least a couple of voices mutter, “Damn straight” and “Right on.”

  “My dad taught me other stuff, too,” Mickey went on. “He taught me about the old country, about how bad the Irish got treated by the English, and how everybody starved during the potato famine. My dad said all those hard times made the Irish tough. We could stand up to anybody. We don't have to take second place to nobody else in the world.”

  If there'd been a Hartquist among the mourners, Mickey's blue eyes would have pierced flesh. As it was, the morning sun slanted through the stained glass windows and the last of the O'Neill males seemed bathed in a beatific glow.

  Of course, it would have helped if he'd had b
etter grammar, I thought, then winced. I was in church, at a funeral, about to receive the grace of the Holy Eucharist. Maybe there was something good in Mickey's recollections, even if his father had been a disreputable man and the son was a potential loser. I despised myself for letting my mind wander, especially to uncharitable thoughts. But then it often did. I prayed for forgiveness. As I concluded my prayer, Mickey was also coming to a conclusion.

  “So thanks, Dad, for all you taught me. I wasn't an easy to kid to bring up, like you always said, but I learned something all the same. I'm proud to be Irish and glad I'm your son.”

  His voice broke on the last phrase, and he put a hand to his eyes as he stepped down from the pulpit. A handful of people in the congregation, most of whom I didn't recognize, shared their remembrances of the O'Neill brothers. These memories consisted mostly of getting wiped out at the Icicle Creek Tavern or smashing heads at Mugs Ahoy. In retrospect, it sounded like a lot of fun. In reality, a couple of people had landed in the hospital, and at least two of the O'Neills had spent the night in jail.

  After the service had concluded, I stayed at the rear of the church, waiting for Vida. But, as usual, she was being waylaid by various persons. The caskets had been rolled outside, so I joined the other departing mourners. Three hearses, which I hadn't noticed on my way in, awaited the bodies.

  “Al had to borrow a hearse from Sultan and one from Monroe,” said Roseanna Bayard, Buddy's wife.

  “Al's busy these days,” I remarked. “Tomorrow is the Nyquist funeral.”

  “We'll be busy, too, developing all these photos for you,” Roseanna said, as Dan Peebles gave directions to the pallbearers. “Is Vida taking the pictures for both services?”

  Watching the first coffin being placed inside the hearse from Driggers Funeral Home, I nodded. “Scott's got his hands full with the upcoming summer solstice preparations, the high school and college graduations, and all the usual end-of-year school stuff. We should have a big issue Wednesday. I hope the advertising can support it.”

  “You worry too much, Emma.” Roseanna gave me her slightly gap-toothed smile, then gestured off to her left. “Or is he the problem?”

  I looked in the direction Roseanna had indicated. Spencer Fleetwood was interviewing Mickey O'Neill. “You know darned well he's the problem,” I said. “By the way, I appreciate the fact that you and Buddy haven't advertised with him so far.”

  Roseanna shrugged her plump shoulders. “We don't need to. Besides, he doesn't give us any business like you do.”

  “I don't know how he keeps afloat,” I said as the Drig-gers hearse pulled slowly away from the church. “He must have money somewhere in his background.”

  “You interviewed him for the paper when he got here,” Roseanna recalled. “Did he let on about his financial status?”

  I made a face. “He gave me a big line about how successful he'd been in radio over the years and how when he hit forty—fifty would be more like it—he wanted to escape the Big City and Big Network rat races. I didn't believe him, but that's as much as he'd tell me.”

  “Maybe he's a crook,” Roseanna said. “You know, one of those radio personalities who took payola.”

  “Could be,” I said, watching the second casket being put into the borrowed hearse from Sultan. “I suppose I could launch an investigation, but I don't have the time or the staff for that.”

  As Lona and Meara O'Neill got into Al's black Cadillac limousine, Roseanna nudged me. “You heard about the change of plans?”

  “What change?” I asked.

  “Before Mass,” Roseanna said, her voice still low, “Al Driggers announced that the O'Neills would be buried in Alpine after all. I guess the rest of the family nixed the trip to Ireland. It must cost the world to do that. None of them have that kind of money.”

  “You mean,” I asked in surprise, “the hearses are headed for the cemetery right now?”

  Roseanna nodded. “Yes. Buddy has to go along as a pallbearer, but I'm going back to the studio. I can't keep the place closed up all morning.”

  I couldn't afford to linger, either. As soon as the third hearse had pulled out, I got into my car and headed for the Advocate. I was distracted, however, and almost ran an arterial stop sign at the Icicle Creek Road and Front Street. Something was bothering me, and for once it had nothing to do with my personal life.

  It was those damned weapons, and the concept of terrorists. Mickey O'Neill had bragged about being Irish. No doubt his father, as well as his uncles and grandfather, had instilled Celtic pride in the young man. Was it possible that the O'Neills had been running guns for the IRA?

  The suggestion was so ludicrous that I laughed aloud behind the wheel and actually did go right through the yield sign at the pedestrian walk on Front at Fifth. Unfortunately, it was occupied; I managed to scatter Edna Mae Dalrymple, the town librarian and one of my erstwhile bridge partners, Jim Medved, the local veterinarian, and Averill Fairbanks, our resident sighter of UFOs.

  “Save the Earthlings!” Averill cried as my bumper missed him by inches. “Death to Uranus!”

  “Sorry!” I shouted through the window as the trio collected themselves and staggered toward safety. “I thought this was the landing pad,” I added for Averill's benefit. Clinging to a light standard, he glared at me as I drove on.

  Back at my desk, I asked Leo to join me. “What do you know about the IRA?” I inquired.

  Leo shot me a quizzical look. “They cause trouble,” he replied, sitting down in one of my visitor's chairs. “Why would I know anything about it?”

  Did he sound defensive? I thought so, and said as much. “Are you a sympathizer?”

  Leo laughed. “Hell, no. They're a bunch of hoodlums. The current wrecking crew is actually the Provisional Irish Republican Army. They're from the north, and broke off from the more conciliatory Dublin-based organization thirty years ago. I'll bet at this stage hardly any of them know Ireland's real history. ‘Bloody Friday’ is just a catchphrase, and Michael Collins is only a name.”

  “Mickey O'Neill said this morning that his father taught him all about Irish history,” I said. “He even mentioned the potato famine.”

  “Potato famines,” Leo corrected me. “There were two, you know. But then you're not Irish.”

  “No,” I said, “I'm not. I'm mostly English and part German.”

  “Were the Germans the Catholic ancestors?” Leo asked.

  I nodded. “I suppose you'd call it English whimsy, but I can't help wondering if the O'Neills had some kind of IRA ties.”

  Leo looked at me as if I were crazy. “The O'Neills? You're kidding.”

  I couldn't confide in Leo about the rocket launchers, but I could tell him my suspicions about bodies being shipped abroad to Ireland. “Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

  Leo shrugged. “I thought Oscar Nyquist wanted to be buried in Norway. Does that make Oscar a Norwegian terrorist?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  Leo held up a hand. “Hold it, Emma. You just said the family had changed their minds about burying the O'Neills in the old sod, right? So how do you explain that?”

  I admitted that I couldn't. “But I've heard things over the years,” I persisted, “about an Irish network all across the United States and Canada. You know darned well that most of the IRA's arms are shipped out of this country.”

  “Call them the Provisionals,” Leo advised. “For Provisional Irish Republican Army. No, Alpine's never been a hotbed of pro-Irish sentiment.”

  “Seattle is, though,” I noted. “I heard some tales when I was growing up.”

  Leo shrugged. “Could be. I've never lived there.”

  My ad manager wasn't being much help, and, to be fair, he was at a disadvantage because I couldn't mention the weapon stash. Of course, I'd told Tom, but that was different. Now that we were engaged, I felt that we two were one. It was a romantic notion to be sure, but also a novel concept. For me, anyway.

  Leo wandered back to his desk
while I considered my editorial for the coming edition. I'd have to do the obligatory summer solstice piece, urging Alpiners to support and enjoy their annual festival. I should expound on the recent violence between the Hartquists and the O'Neills, but meaningful ideas proved elusive. When I wasn't trying to think of reasons why Brian Conley had been murdered or how the O'Neill clan had acquired serious weaponry, I was envisioning my life with Tom. This particular Friday wasn't lending itself to creativity at the word processor.

  Tom called just before noon to tell me that he'd made reservations at Le Gourmand, the French restaurant down the highway. We should celebrate, he said. Besides, he was in the mood for duck.

  It crossed my mind that once he was living in Alpine, Tom might be in the mood for many things, of which few were available less than two hours away. All those years he was married to Sandra, I'd had visions of him attending the opera, the theatre, the symphony, and all sorts of Giants and Forty-niners and Warriors games. Yet I knew that as Sandra declined, he socialized very little. His contacts seemed to be all business, with little time or energy left for pleasure. Maybe he wouldn't care that Alpine's extracurricular offerings were limited to high school football, the college's faculty talent show, and the Burl Creek Thimble Club's annual Quiltathon.

  Although I didn't write a meaty editorial that afternoon, I was busy. Civic-minded locals brought in items they wanted in the summer solstice edition, Oscar Nyquist's relatives fed Vida anecdotes about the local movie impresario, and what seemed like a hundred proud parents came by to make sure we carried their offsprings' high school and college achievements.

  I got stuck with some of the latter, featuring a Petersen scion who'd been chosen “Most Likely to Become a First-Class Chicken Farmer,” a Pidduck lass who'd won the Miss Charm Award, and a cheerful chubster nicknamed “Meringue” who'd chomped his way through the annual pie-eating contest in the high school parking lot. By the time I'd whipped out copy on this trio, I was ready for a break. In fact, I was hungry for a piece of pie, but since it was almost four and I didn't want to spoil my gourmet dinner, I avoided the Upper Crust Bakery and marched to the sheriff's office.