The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “The lakes up there would have been frozen over.” I posed another question. “Motive, then?”

  “Orneriness,” Vida said. “Wretched people like the O'Neills don't need a motive for violence. Too much liquor or the misinterpretation of a phrase or action can set them off. They're animals.”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of Scott Chamoud, who wore a big, beautiful grin on his handsome face. “Got a Scene item for you. Mrs. R. and I ran into Grace Grundle on my way to take some summer solstice float

  pictures. She was going to file a complaint with the sheriff.”

  “Grace!” Vida spat out the name. “That woman is so addled. What is it now? Something to do with her cat, Doozle?”

  “I thought it was Foozle,” I put in.

  Vida glared at me. “You know better, Emma. What's bothering Grace now?”

  “Fumes,” Scott replied. “The other night she let Doozle out and there was an odd smell in the air—a stench, Grace called it. Anyway, Doozle got sick after that and she's had to take him to Dr. Medved twice since then.”

  “Grace and her silly cats,” Vida huffed. “It serves her right. I wouldn't give those animals house room, let alone put out money for them.” Vida frowned at Scott. “A stench? What kind of stench?”

  Scott shrugged. “It was probably from the sawmill. You'd think the cats around here would be used to that smell. It took me a while, but I don't mind it anymore. It only gets bad on certain days and depending on which way the wind is blowing.”

  “Cats are very stupid animals,” Vida asserted. “I'll use the item, however. And bear in mind, Scott, that sawmills can produce some wonderful odors as well. What's lovelier than the smoke from burning wood chips and sawdust?”

  “True,” Scott said with another grin for Vida, who suddenly wore a peculiar expression. “That's a good smell. Maybe I'll do a feature one of these days about the smells in a logging town. ‘Aromas of Alpine.’ What do you think, Emma?”

  “Not bad,” I said, noting that whatever had been bothering Vida seemed to have passed. She was going through her in-basket and seemed unruffled. “How did the float pictures turn out?” I asked my reporter.

  Scott winced. “The Old Timers had some bad luck.

  Ellsworth Overholt fell off the float and may have broken his kneecap. One of the big logging rigs got a flat. The Miss Alpine float caught fire. I should have some good shots of that.”

  “Caught fire?” I echoed. “I didn't hear any sirens this morning. What happened?”

  “Somebody lighted a cigarette that set off the streamers from the summer solstice pole. They put it out right away, so they didn't call the fire department. But I was able to get some pictures of the guys flailing away with their jackets.”

  I had to ask: “What about the Mr. Pig float?”

  Scott was grinning again. “Ed's not quite ready for prime time. He wants me to come back this afternoon. For one thing, his pig suit isn't finished.”

  “He needs a suit?” I retorted.

  “Ed!” Vida tossed her pencil across the desk. “Such a ninny. Does he really have to disport himself in the parade?”

  “Of course,” I replied as a harried-looking Al Driggers came through the door.

  “Who died?” Vida demanded.

  “Nobody,” Al groaned. “It's that Mrs. Conley in Penn Yan. She says we lost her son's body.”

  “Did you?” Vida asked in a stern voice.

  “Of course not.” Al scowled at Vida. “Have we ever lost a body in seventy years of the Driggers Funeral Home's existence?”

  Vida scowled back. “I do recall an incident in forty-nine with DeForest Vance.”

  Al's pale face took on a spot of color. “Before my time,” he murmured.

  “Your grandfather,” Vida said, retrieving her pencil and pointing it at Al. “DeForest disappeared for two days after he died.”

  “He was in the wrong compartment,” Al asserted.

  “My grandfather's eyes were failing. He thought the sign on the drawer said vacant.”

  Vida harrumphed. “An unfortunate mistake for the rest of the Vance family. Erna Vance lost her mind after that and had to be put in a home.”

  “My father said Erna was always crazy,” Al countered. “Mislaying her husband had nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh,” Vida fumed, “stop it, Al. In any event, that has nothing to do with poor Brian Conley. Do you or do you not have any idea of what might have happened to his body?”

  Al's narrow shoulders slumped. “No.”

  “At least you didn't lose Oscar Nyquist,” Vida remarked. “Or did you?”

  “No.” Al was looking at the floor, as if he were being berated by his second-grade teacher. “We buried Oscar here in Alpine, you know.”

  “Yes.” Vida gave a single nod. “Despite his wish to be buried in Norway.”

  Al gave a faint nod.

  “The family didn't want Oscar to have his way,” Vida said. “He usually did. They got back at him, in the end.”

  Al gave another nod.

  “So are the Conleys actually going to sue you?” Vida queried.

  Al sighed. “They're threatening to. I don't blame them in a way. It's a terrible thing. But it's not our fault. The … mix-up must have occurred at one of the airports, either Sea-Tac or JFK. I've got the Port of Seattle police checking on it at this end, and the Conleys have whoever is in charge of the airport in New York. I'm also in touch with a young man named Nolan Curry at the Irish consulate. He not only worked with Brian but was a close friend. Nolan agrees that it's a real mystery, but that doesn't help me much.”

  “Body snatchers?” Scott suggested. “That is, people who steal bodies for organ harvesting?”

  “No,” I said. “They can only do that right after a person dies. Brian had been dead for months.”

  “That's right,” Al agreed, turning to face me. “The reason I came here is because Mrs. Conley said she'd told you she was going to sue. You don't have to put that in the paper, do you, Emma?”

  “Not until they actually file a suit,” I said, hoping to soothe Al.

  He remained glum. “I feel as if the family business is going to be ruined by this horrible incident. Which, as God only knows, isn't our fault.”

  Vida's expression had softened, no doubt at the thought that a local enterprise could go under because of unexpected forces from the distant east. “You trust that young man you hired?”

  “Dan Peebles?” Al looked offended. “Certainly. He had an excellent resume.”

  “Curious,” Vida murmured.

  “What's curious?” Al appeared to be on the defensive.

  Vida shrugged. “Being a funeral director. Now, now,” she went on, seeing Al bristle, “I don't mean you. Your father and your grandfather were in the business. It was only natural that you should go into it, too. I realize it can be a prosperous enterprise—certainly you never run out of clients—but still, it strikes me as odd.”

  “It's a service,” Al declared, squaring his shoulders. “A much-needed one, I might add. Not to mention the compassion and comfort we can offer to the survivors. A sensitive young man like Dan finds that very appealing. Unlike his brother, he was certainly not cut out for the military.”

  I was about to make a tactful exit from this seemingly endless discussion when Leo breezed into the office.

  “Greetings, all,” he said in a rush. “Damn these adver-

  tisers! They change their minds every time we have a big issue to fill. I've got to redo half the special section. Whoever told Clancy Barton he knew how to lay out an ad?”

  The owner of Barton's Bootery was famous for changing his mind and offering his own not-so-bright ideas. “Good luck,” I said to Leo, and with a wave retreated into my cubbyhole. I still had an editorial to write.

  Alas, it was an editorial that simply wasn't forming in my mind. What to say about one family wiping out another? Hatred was bad, killing was bad, lack of remorse was bad, too. I could write m
y arms off to the elbows, but I hadn't a doubt in my mind that if the Hartquists had to do it all over again, they would.

  So absorbed in thought was I that the arrival of Tim Rafferty made me jump.

  “Hi,” he said in a diffident voice. “I hear you've been trying to talk to me.”

  “For several days,” I said, regaining my composure. “Have a seat. What's new with KSKY?”

  Tim's sharp, not unattractive features had softened after he turned thirty. There was a slight puffiness around his eyes and mouth, perhaps a result of serving himself one too many beers. Now his face became suspicious.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Because Spencer Fleetwood is the competition,” I said. “Why else?”

  Tim, who had sat down, leaned forward on the desk. “You mean you think he sent me here to spy on you?”

  “Sure,” I responded. “Why not?”

  “I stopped by because Tiffany said you'd been looking for me,” Tim replied, on the defensive. “Spence can do his own spying. Besides, all he has to do is count advertising inches in the paper.”

  “True, more or less,” I allowed. “But you're right. I wanted to ask about the night you and Tiffany found Brian Conley. By the way, did you know his body has gone missing?”

  Tim's jaw dropped. “You're kidding! How could that happen?”

  “Don't ask me,” I said. “Ask around. Isn't that part of your job with KSKY?”

  Tim shook his head. “No. That's up to Spence. I only do some of the on-air stuff. And maybe get some ads.” His suspicious look returned. “How come you're telling me this?”

  I shrugged. “It's probably all over town by now. There's no point in keeping it a secret. You're going to beat me on this one no matter how much I keep my mouth shut. However,” I added, giving my chair a little twirl, “I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me more about your evening adventures on Tonga Ridge.”

  Tim raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I've told everything already. On the air, at that. Man, there's nothing to add.”

  “What about the snowboard?” I wasn't going to tell Tim that it had been found. Again, the story would probably leak before we went to press, but I wouldn't tip my hand.

  “The snowboard?” Tim gazed vaguely around the little room. “Heck if I know. We never saw it. Was it supposed to be there?”

  “You'd think so, since Brian Conley was using it when he was killed. You're certain you never saw it when you and Tiffany found him?”

  Tim looked me in the eye. “Sure. I snowboard sometimes myself. I'd have noticed. Of course,” he added more slowly, “Tiff and I were pretty upset.”

  I let the comments pass. “What I don't get is why in the world you dumped Conley's body off at the meat locker. That's never made any sense to me.”

  Tim shrugged. “Panic, I guess. You ever find a dead body?”

  I ignored the question. “You said that the funeral home was dark. Why didn't you simply call Al Driggers at home? Or get hold of the sheriff?”

  Tim hunched his shoulders and let out a big sigh. “We should have. But like I said, we panicked. It was pretty horrible.”

  I decided to move on. “Okay, here's another thing that I wondered about—why did you put Brian under the O'Neills?”

  Tim looked alarmed. “How do you mean?”

  I assumed an air of innocence. “Maybe I'm mistaken. I thought Brian Conley was found under the other bodies.”

  “Yeah,” Tim said hastily, “that must be it. You heard wrong. He wasn't under those other guys. Anyway, it was kind of dark in there. We only turned on one light. I think.”

  “Is that what you told Sheriff Dodge?”

  “I can't remember now,” Tim said, appearing confused. “Jeez, it was such a mess. I mean, I really panicked, big-time.”

  Panic seemed to be Tim Rafferty's middle name. Just to throw him off balance, I tossed out what would seem to him like a random question. “What is your middle name, Tim?”

  He looked startled. “What? My middle name? Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.” I was smiling in a playful manner. “What is it?”

  Tim grimaced. “It's kind of old-fashioned. I never use it. Why do you want to know so bad?”

  “I don't,” I responded. “It just popped into my head. You know, one of those odd segues that flit through your mind.”

  “Then it doesn't matter?” Tim asked. “I mean, if I don't tell you?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It came under the heading of ‘idle question.’ Now tell me what you told the sheriff about putting Brian Conley in the meat locker.”

  Somewhat to my surprise, Tim relaxed, stretching his legs out to one side of the desk. “Okay, let me try to remember just what I told Dodge.” He cleared his throat, more in self-importance than because of nerves, I thought. “The O'Neills were all over the place in that meat locker. Tiff and I hauled Brian in there and… well, this sounds crazy, but being panicked and all, we weren't thinking straight. Maybe we did sort of move the other bodies around. To make room, you know. I think Tiff thought Brian looked … cold, so we might've sort of arranged the O'Neills around him.”

  I suppressed my disbelief. I hoped, if this was the same tale that Tim had told Milo, the sheriff had felt the same. The only problem was that I could see no reason for Tim to lie. Nor could I see any reason why he and Tiffany would have taken the time and trouble to “arrange” the bodies in the meat locker. It simply didn't make sense.

  I surrendered for the time being. Even if I got Tim to make some kind of revelation on this Monday morning, I wouldn't have an exclusive. As an employee of KSKY, Tim would feel obligated to rush out and tell Spencer Fleetwood whatever he had told me.

  “Thanks, Tim,” I said. “I just wanted to clear up a couple of points for this week's edition.”

  “No problem.” He got to his feet. “How are you doing with the Conley story?”

  I shrugged. “So-so. It's a pretty cold trail, if you'll excuse the pun.”

  “I guess.” Tim made an effort to look pensive, which didn't much suit him. “Spence figures it's one of those unsolved mysteries.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Probably.”

  Tim Rafferty went on his way. As soon as I was sure he was gone, I called Scott into the office. “I hate to bother you on a trifling matter, but have you gone on your rounds at the courthouse yet?”

  “I was just headed that way,” Scott replied.

  “Do me a favor,” I said, feeling a bit silly. “If you have time, that is. Look up Tim Rafferty's birth certificate and find out his middle name.”

  Scott broke into a grin. “Sleuthing, Ms. Lord?”

  “Not really,” I answered truthfully. “But Tim wouldn't tell me what his middle name was just now, so it must be something gruesome. If he hadn't been so secretive, I wouldn't give a hoot.”

  “Will do,” Tim responded. “Maybe it's a girlie name.” He started to turn around, then swiveled on his heel. “Hey—congratulations. I hear you're getting married.”

  I beamed at Scott. “Yes, and you'll be invited. Start saving for a lavish gift.”

  “I'll do that.”

  This time as he turned to leave, Vida was blocking the door. Scott excused himself and went on his way.

  “I've an idea,” Vida announced. “I want to do a feature for my page on Lona O'Neill and the other women in the clan. What do you think?”

  “What's the hook?”

  “Grief.” Vida pursed her lips. “Pain. Not merely for the deaths of a husband and two kinsmen, but for what went before. The difficult years, so to speak.”

  “It sounds a little touchy,” I said.

  Vida bridled at the comment. “You don't think I could handle it?”

  “Of course,” I said, though I feared the worst of what we used to call sob sister journalism. “I'm just not sure I see the point.”

  “The point?” Vida looked at me as if I were the class idiot. “The point is that this story
would be the ultimate in human interest, especially for women. Abuse, estrangement, reconciliation, divorce—the whole gamut of what happens to women who fail to stand up for themselves. Making the wrong choices. Believing that love can endure anything. Three generations of terrible mistakes.”

  “Three?” I said.

  Vida nodded. “Paddy O'Neill's wife, Bridey. Bridget, that is. She followed him over here from Ireland even though he'd run out on her when they were engaged. Still, he married her. But the union wasn't a happy one.”

  I thought of the faded wedding dress I'd seen in the O'Neills' basement. By the time I arrived in Alpine, Bridey had been dead for over a year and Paddy had already starting slipping into decline. I never knew the senior O'Neills as a couple. Apparently I hadn't missed much in the way of role models for holy matrimony.

  I retained my doubts about Vida's proposed article. “It seems just a bit ghoulish, even voyeuristic,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” Vida declared, then quickly turned around. “Jake! Just the person I wanted to see.” She rushed into the newsroom, where Jake O'Toole was approaching Leo's desk.

  As a precaution, I followed, nodding at Jake while I pretended to check the monitor on Scott's vacant desk. Vida was temporarily deferring to Leo. Evidently Jake was yet another advertiser who wanted to make last-minute changes in his Grocery Basket spread.

  “Hey,” Jake was saying to my ad manager, “I couldn't help it if Buzzy overordered on the strawberries. My brother's not always the most perspicacious man in town. Anyway, we can't let the berries rot, so we'll have to lower the price by twenty cents a flat.”

  “Okay,” Leo responded, showing a patience with ad-

  vertisers that always surprised me. “Is that it, now? We've already substituted cantaloupe for Crenshaws and pork shoulder for pork loin. Is it a go?”

  “It's fine,” Jake said, nodding several times. “Unless the porcini mushrooms don't arrive tomorrow. They can be delicate.”