The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “Okay.” Spence gave me another grin. “Back to the facts. Rocket launchers and other weaponry, the heavy stuff stolen from the Everett naval station. To what purpose?”

  “To sell it?” I replied. “What else?”

  “To whom?”

  “I don't know. Who's buying?”

  “It's a hot market out there,” Spence said. “Lots of people are buying arms, legally and illegally. The whole Middle East. Africa. Central and South America. You name it.”

  “I considered the IRA,” I confessed, “but haven't they declared a truce?”

  Spence shrugged. “It's not holding very well.”

  “Stupid,” I remarked. “The Irish can't get along in the old country; you put a Catholic family and a Protestant family together in Ireland, and too often they want to kill each other. You set them down in Alpine, and they get along just fine.”

  “It's history, it's oppression, it's in the old sod,” Spence responded. “Have you been to Ireland?”

  “No,” I admitted. “When I was in Europe years ago, I missed Ireland. I'm not Irish.”

  Spence chuckled, a rich, rolling sound that no doubt endeared him to his listeners. “That often doesn't keep Americans from visiting the Emerald Isle. And may I point out that the Hartquists and the O'Neills seem to have revived an ancient Viking-and-Gael animosity?”

  Maybe he had a point. But I was growing anxious for my guest to leave. So far, I'd learned only that the O'Neills were drunk at the time of the shooting. That wasn't news; their enemies probably were, too. Besides, the Hartquists had said at their arraignment that the shooting had taken place outside the O'Neill house. Whether the rest of their story was an exaggeration or even a lie would come out in the trial. As for the arms cache, Spence had merely added a few potential buyers to my mental list.

  “One more thing,” Spence said as if he could read my mind, “why was Brian Conley's body removed from his casket?”

  “Honestly,” I replied, “I've no idea.”

  Spence pointed a finger at me. “Think about it. Why are the Conleys threatening to sue Al Driggers and a bunch of other people?”

  “Because they're crazed with grief?” I said. “I don't blame them, they have to focus their sense of loss on something or somebody, since the killer hasn't been identified. Besides, you can't criticize them for being upset over what in effect is a double loss.”

  “But an intriguing one,” Spence remarked, looking rather smug. “For instance—why did the Conleys receive their son's recently issued passport just yesterday?”

  I couldn't hide my surprise. “How do you know?”

  “Because,” he answered easily, “I spoke with Mrs. Conley on the phone. I discovered you'd gotten pretty chummy with her since Brian's body was found. How could I let the Advocate get one up on KSKY?”

  “She called you?” I demanded.

  “I called her. Although she did say she'd tried to reach the radio station a couple of times but couldn't get through to me. She may have dialed wrong.” He shrugged.

  “So what about a passport?” I asked, still irked. “Has this information been broadcast?”

  “No.” Spence's expression was still self-satisfied, maybe because he had a scoop, maybe because he enjoyed getting me rattled. “I'm in no rush, since you've already gone to press for the week. The outside media dropped the Conley story within twenty-four hours. Oh, I think one of the metropolitan dailies and maybe a couple of radio and TV stations picked up the bit about the empty coffin. The Hartquist-O'Neill shoot-out didn't get that much coverage, either. But now I hear the big city boys and girls are snooping around the naval station at Everett. The Herald over there certainly will be on top of the arms theft.”

  The Everett Daily Herald had run several articles about the break-ins, including a follow-up feature a couple of weeks earlier concerning security at the naval station. We took the Herald at work, and there were several other subscribers in Skykomish County. But when it came to timing, I couldn't compete with a daily newspaper, any more than I could with a radio station.

  “The passport,” I put in. “What about it?”

  Spence craned his neck in the direction of the dining alcove and then the kitchen. I figured he was trying to find out where I kept the liquor. Or at least the coffeepot. I, however, remained an ungracious hostess.

  “Mrs. Conley told me that yet another upsetting thing had happened to her and her husband,” Spence said, giving up on his perusal of the house. “They'd received Brian's passport in the mail. It was dated March thirty-first, and had been sent by the Irish consulate in Seattle.”

  “That doesn't make sense,” I countered. “Brian went missing on Tonga Ridge the last week of March. Did Mrs. Conley say when her son had applied for the passport?”

  “She wasn't aware he'd done it,” Spence replied. “She and her husband had no idea that their son was planning atrip.”

  “So they didn't know where he was going,” I murmured.

  “What do you think?” Spence asked, almost as if he really cared.

  I kept my expression blank. “How would I know?”

  “Conley worked at the Irish consulate, didn't he?”

  “I believe so. Yes, that sounds right.”

  Spence cocked an eyebrow at me. “Come on, Emma, you know perfectly well that he did. Have you talked to the consul?”

  “No.” It was the truth, but it was an oversight.

  “I have,” Spence said, confirming my sudden realization that once again he had been more thorough. “The consul didn't know of any trip planned by Brian until he heard about the passport and sent it on to the Conleys in Penn Yan.”

  “Interesting,” I remarked, though I kept my tone neutral. “Was the consul helpful?”

  “As much as he could be,” Spence replied. “He's clearly not someone who's comfortable talking to the media.”

  Spence as the media almost made me want to smile. “Consulates aren't usually in the limelight, unless the country is a trouble spot,” I said in an offhand manner.

  “So.” Spence gave me a conspiratorial grin. “I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

  “My what?”

  “Your bit of information that I don't have which might help us piece this whole thing together.”

  “We're working as a team? Since when?” I knew I sounded belligerent.

  Spence made an expressive gesture with his hands. “Doesn't your newshound's soul demand that you figure all this out? Do you really have that much faith in Milo Dodge?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm disappointed in you,” Spence said, pulling a long face. “You and I are city people. We ought to band together.”

  “To outwit the local yokels?” I asked wryly.

  Spence shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Small towns move at a slower pace, and so do the brains of the people who live in them. It's perfectly natural.”

  I didn't dignify his comment with a response. “Where are you from, Spence?” I inquired.

  “Boston.” He was gazing around the room again, as if he expected a butler to show up with the drinks tray. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” I gave him an ironic little smile. “My newshound instincts. You don't sound as if you're from Boston.”

  “I worked hard to get rid of the accent,” he responded. “How well do you think a ‘strawr’ vote or a speeding ‘cahr’ would go down in T.A. or Chicago?”

  “Good point,” I said, and shut up. Maybe Spence would take the hint and go away.

  Surprisingly, he did. Or maybe he was merely bored and frustrated. “If you change your mind,” he said, standing up, “let me know. You have almost a week before you can print anything again. Unless,” he added, offering me a caustic glance over his shoulder, “you put out another special edition.”

  “I might do that,” I said, also getting to my feet.

  “I suppose you might.” The brown eyes glinted with what could have been amusement. “Good night, Emma.”
>
  “Good night, Spence.”

  I closed the door, but put my eye to the peephole to make certain he was leaving. Sure enough, I saw him head toward his car, which he'd left parked by my mailbox.

  Letting out a big sigh of relief, I hurried to the telephone. He'd shown me his, but I hadn't shown him mine. The information he'd given me might pay some dividends.

  I dialed directory assistance and asked for the phone number of Gina Ancich in Seattle.

  APPARENTLY SPENCER FLEETWOOD hadn't known that Gina Ancich and Nolan Curry had visited Alpine. Or if he'd heard about it, it had slipped his memory. Such a small incident wouldn't make it onto KSKY's hourly news update.

  Gina answered on the second ring. At first she didn't seem to remember me, despite the visit to my house.

  “The log cabin,” I coaxed, “at the edge of town.”

  “Oh!” Gina exclaimed. “You're the newspaper person.”

  “That's right,” I replied in an encouraging tone. “Have you spoken with Brian's parents lately?”

  “Not since they heard his coffin was empty,” Gina said. “Can you imagine how careless people are these days?”

  I could, but I was beginning to think that carelessness had nothing to do with it. “It's terrible,” I remarked. “Gina, did you know that Brian planned to go abroad?”

  Dead silence. When Gina spoke again, her voice had dropped an octave and all the usual flightiness had disappeared. “How do you know that?”

  “Because his parents received his passport,” I said. “I gather it had been delivered to the Irish consulate, probably at Brian's request. They didn't know what to do with it after he died, so they forwarded it to Mr. and Mrs. Conley.”

  “I see.” Gina's tone had gone stone cold. “If he was planning a trip, I don't know anything about it. But,” she added, a bitter note surfacing, “there were lots of things I didn't know about Brian. That's why I was about to break up with him.”

  “You were? I didn't get that impression when I saw you last week.”

  I heard Gina sigh. “It would have been inappropriate. Besides, Nolan Curry—Brian's friend—didn't know. He still doesn't. What's the point of telling anybody now?”

  “You just told me,” I pointed out.

  “That's different,” Gina declared. “I don't know you. You didn't know Brian.”

  Her point was apt. I realized that I was dealing with a different person than the one who had called on me earlier. There was nothing vague about Gina now; she was no airhead, no Tiffany Eriks. Whatever the reason for the birdbrain act, Gina had abandoned it in favor of candor.

  “Do you have Nolan Curry's phone number?” I inquired.

  “At the consulate or at home?”

  “At home.”

  “Why do you want it?” Now it seemed that Gina was interrogating me.

  “I want to find out if Nolan knew where Brian was going. On his trip, that is.”

  “With another sigh, Gina gave me Nolan's number. “Look,” she said, “I don't mean to be rude, but please don't call me again. I'm trying to work my way through this whole Brian thing. I was just starting to pull myself together when his body was found. Now I feel like I have to start over, and conversations like this don't help.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “Really. But it's my job as a newspaper editor to present the entire story, especially when it involves a murder investigation. Alpine isn't like Seattle. Murder—any murder—is big news here.”

  “Okay, I understand,” Gina said a bit testily. “But I still need to heal. This has been going on for way too long.”

  “Believe me,” I assured her, “I know all about loss and heartache. Not quite three months isn't all that much time. Give yourself at least a year.”

  “A year?” Gina let out a gusty laugh that would have made Janet Driggers proud. “It's been more than that.”

  The response puzzled me. “But Brian went missing at the end of March. This is the middle of June.”

  “I don't mean that,” Gina said with no sign of mirth, ironic or otherwise, in her voice. “Did you think I was referring to his death or his disappearance?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Brian and I were off and on for a year,” Gina said with bite. “That's why he went snowboarding alone. He was supposed to figure out if we had a future. I refused to put up with his cheating one more time. When I found out he'd gone up to Tonga Ridge by Alpine, I made up my mind that it was over. I planned to tell him when he got back to town.”

  My confusion still reigned. “I don't get it. Why was Tonga Ridge the breaking point?”

  “Because,” Gina said through what sounded like gritted teeth, “Alpine was where he knocked up some high school girl a year or so ago. And it sure wasn't the first time he'd fooled around on me. Brian wasn't exactly Mel Gibson in the looks department, but he had a way with women. And underage girls, I might add.”

  I took a deep breath. “Underage girls like Meara O'Neill?”

  “What?”

  “Was the teenager named Meara?”

  “Maybe. I don't remember. I don't care. It's over.” It might be for Gina Ancich, but not for the rest of us.

  I felt that the call to Nolan Curry would be anticli-mactic. Since he didn't answer, it wasn't even that. I left my name and number on his voice messaging, then checked in with Janet Driggers. She didn't answer, either.

  Ordinarily, I would have called Vida immediately after the conversation with Gina Ancich. Now I hesitated. My House and Home editor had been so hostile that I thought it was best to let her cool off until morning.

  It was well after nine when darkness finally settled in over the mountains. I considered finishing what was left of the tuna sandwich, but still had no appetite. The sense of unease that I'd felt in The Pines returned. Stepping outside for a moment, I took deep breaths of the evergreen-scented air and tried to clear my head. A silver moon was on the rise, peeking through the big cedar tree next door. I could see a trillion stars above the mountains, a thousand lights in the town below. The soft June night and the faraway sound of the river should have been soothing. But they weren't.

  The phone rang, summoning me inside. Nolan Curry was on the line, sounding curious. “What's up?” he asked.

  “A couple of questions for you regarding Brian Con-ley,” I said. “Did you hear about his passport at the Irish consulate?”

  “Sort of,” Nolan replied. “I guess it showed up at the office a couple of months ago.”

  “You knew that at the time?”

  “I heard about it later,” Nolan said. “The receptionist had it. I don't talk to her unless I have to.”

  Hit on her, got turned down, I figured. “So it just sat there until the last few days?”

  “I guess,” Nolan replied. I pictured him tugging at his red forelock. “I mean, it wasn't like we knew Brian was dead, right?”

  Wrong. “Where did you and the other people at the consulate think Brian was?”

  “You never know, do you?” Nolan responded.

  I suppressed a sigh of impatience. “Did you know where he was planning to go?”

  “You mean when he went snowboarding?”

  That wasn't the question, but I played along. Gina appeared to have learned of Brian's destination after the fact, which meant someone else must have told her. “Right,” I said.

  “Yeah, I knew he was going to Tonga Ridge. That's why we called the ranger station up there when Brian didn't get back.”

  ” ‘We’?”

  “Gina and I called. I mean, she made the actual call after we started to get worried,” Nolan explained. “He went up that Sunday just for the day. When he didn't come back that night, Gina started to get upset, so she phoned me to ask if I'd heard from Brian. I'd been gone all day, but he hadn't left either of us a message. That made Gina even more upset.”

  Maybe Gina had thought that Brian was with Meara. “She thought he'd had an accident?”

  “I guess.” Brian was sounding vag
ue again. “I figured he'd gotten a late start.”

  “How come?”

  “It was Palm Sunday, and I knew Brian was going to early Mass at the cathedral before he took off,” Nolan recalled. “So it seemed that maybe he'd run into some bad weather up around Alpine and had decided to wait a day. But when Brian didn't show up for work Monday, I got worried, too, and told Gina we'd better call the ranger station.”

  “Where was Brian going on that passport?” I inquired, reverting to my original question.

  “Ireland,” Nolan replied. “He'd never been there, and he thought that as long as he worked for the consulate, he ought to visit the place.”

  “When did he plan to leave?”

  Nolan hesitated. “I'm not sure. He wanted to have the passport on hand in case one of those real hot deals on airfares came up.”

  “Have you been to Ireland?” I asked.

  “A couple of times,” Nolan replied. “Once with my folks when I was a kid. Then right after I got out of college. It's really pretty, all green, with lots of great seacoast.”

  My queries had run out, and so had my luck. I hadn't learned much from Nolan Curry. I thanked him for his time and rang off. The call had indeed been anticlimactic.

  And still I felt apprehensive.

  Maybe Vida was the cause. I almost dreaded going in to work that Wednesday morning. But for the first time in recent memory, Vida had phoned Ginny Erlandson to say that Roger was unwell and that only his doting grandmother could nurse him back to health.

  “Vida sounded very concerned,” Ginny informed Leo and me shortly after my arrival. “Vida's daughter Amy had a dental appointment with Dr. Starr. Ted had to go to work, and Vida wouldn't hear of Roger's being left alone, even for an hour. I gather she'll be in the office by one o'clock.”

  Roger was no doubt faking, trying to gain the sympathy of his parents as well as his grandmother. Not that he needed to try with Vida—she already had too damned much sympathy for the kid, in my opinion.

  After Kip arrived with the morning's confectionery, I grabbed a sugar doughnut to go with my coffee and secluded myself behind a closed door. It wasn't yet eight-thirty, but I figured that, with a baby, Meara O'Neill would be up and about. I dialed Lona's number in Everett and waited through six rings before I got an answer.