The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “Ms. Lord,” Meara said, breathless. “I was just changing Cornelius. He was crying, and I didn't hear the phone at first.”

  “That's okay,” I responded. “Meara, I know who Cornelius's father is.”

  “You do?” she gasped.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I hope you're not ashamed of him.”

  “No,” she said slowly, “it's not that. It's more like that… we could never be together.”

  “Brian's parents might like to know about his son,” I pointed out.

  “Maybe.” Meara didn't sound convinced.

  “Does the name Gina Ancich mean anything to you?” I asked.

  There was a long pause. “Gina does,” she said slowly. “I don't know her last name.”

  “Are you referring to Brian's sometime girlfriend?”

  Another, shorter pause. “Yes.”

  I explained how I'd spoken to Gina the previous evening. “Brian's”—I stopped, searching for the right word—“romance with you came up only because of Gina's jealousy. By the way,” I continued, keeping my voice casual, “did you see Brian the weekend that he was in Alpine?”

  “No,” Meara said, and there was grief in her voice. “I planned to, after he got back from snowboarding. When I didn't hear from him later that day, I figured he'd decided that meeting me was a bad idea. He'd never seen Cornelius, and I felt he should. Until I learned Brian was missing, I thought he'd … panicked and gone back to Seattle. To Gina. The two of them always seemed to be having problems.”

  Something Meara had said distracted me so that the rest of her words went by in something of a blur. “You mentioned you didn't hear from Brian later on in the day. Did he call you when he got to town?”

  “No,” Meara answered, “he called from Seattle just before nine. He was leaving to come up to Alpine. He said he'd go snowboarding first, while the weather held.”

  “I see.” It was time to change the subject. “How's your mother doing?”

  “She's okay, I guess,” Meara replied. I could hear Cornelius fussing in the background. “She had to go to Alpine this morning, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the rental house.”

  I remembered: Milo was interrogating Lona O'Neill today. “Did your mother take the day off?”

  “Yes. Excuse me,” she apologized. “I have to feed Cornelius. Sometimes it makes me so sad to think that he never got to see his father. You won't tell anyone, will you?”

  I couldn't promise. “Don't worry about it. You're doing very well as his mother.” It was the least and the most I could say; it was also the truth.

  After hanging up, I felt a rush of excitement. Tiny bits and pieces of the puzzle were beginning to show up, if not yet fall into place. It was like doing a jigsaw, with all blank blue coming out of the box first, then the tip of a tree branch or the top of a hill. No real meaning, but at least some guidelines.

  My head jerked up as someone knocked on my door. “Come in,” I said, feeling a bit guilty, since my staff wasn't accustomed to their boss working in private.

  But it wasn't one of my employees who loped into the little room and closed the door behind him.

  “Dammit,” Milo Dodge breathed. “I don't need more complications in my life right now.”

  My curiosity climbed. “Such as?”

  Milo sighed as he took off his regulation hat and perched it on his knee. “Tara gave me an ultimatum last night.”

  “What?” I leaned forward in my chair. “But you two haven't gone together that long.”

  “Six months, since the holidays,” Milo said, his expression grim.

  “Do you mean she wants to get married?”

  Milo nodded, his long chin almost touching his chest. “She doesn't like being a widow, I guess.”

  Over the years, I'd come to realize that I was the only person in whom Milo confided his personal feelings. The sheriff was a real Lone Ranger, with a few buddies but no real friends. Perhaps because of or maybe in spite of the physical intimacy we'd shared, he trusted me. “How did you react to Tara's ultimatum?” I asked.

  Milo grimaced. “You got any of that fancy coffee?”

  It wasn't “fancy,” though Milo deemed it so, if only because what came out of the sheriff's urn tasted like sludge to the rest of us.

  “I'll get you some,” I said and scurried out into the editorial office.

  Surprisingly, Vida was at her desk. She gave me a narrow-eyed stare as I poured coffee into a Starbucks mug. “What's he doing here so bright and early?” she demanded.

  “I'll tell you later,” I said, noting that Vida's demeanor was still frosty. I thought I heard her snort as I went back into my cubbyhole and closed the door.

  “So,” I said, sitting down again. “Tell Mother Emma how Tara's sudden burst of desire for marital bliss really makes you feel.”

  I don't think I'd ever seen Milo sneer before, but he did now. “Stupid,” he replied, never one to go deeply into his inner self.

  “I don't think that's quite the proper description,” I remarked dryly. “Do you reciprocate the lady's feelings?”

  “Not about getting married,” the sheriff retorted. “Hell, Emma, even when you and I were dating, we talked about living together, but not about getting married. I was burned pretty bad by Mulehide. I'm still running scared.”

  “Mulehide” was Milo's name for his ex-wife, Tricia. She was a teacher at the middle school and had had an affair with one of her colleagues. He had left his wife and moved to Bellevue to escape the scandal. Tricia soon followed her lover out of town, taking the three Dodge children with her. That had been over ten years ago, but Milo's heart was like everything else about him—slow, cautious, and difficult to change.

  “Are you in love?” Strange, it wasn't an easy question to ask.

  Milo grimaced again. “I don't think so.”

  “But you could be?” I hesitated. “I mean, if you gave it time?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed after a hesitation of his own. “She's a fine woman, smart, good-looking, a decent cook. I could do worse. If I wanted to get married again.”

  “What's Tara's rush? I mean, aside from the fact she doesn't like being a widow.”

  The sheriff took a swig of his coffee. “I don't know. She just sort of sprung it on me last night. I thought we were doing fine just the way things were.”

  Men always thought that. As long as a woman didn't get hysterical every other day or try to hang herself from a clothes hook in the ceiling, the couple was “doing fine.”

  A few drops of rain spattered the small and only window in my office. “Be honest with Tara. Tell her you aren't ready for anything permanent.”

  Milo was silent for several moments, staring at the rubble on my desk. “Right. That's the truth. Even if she wants to break up, that's the way it has to be.”

  “Break up?” I echoed. “She threatened you with that?”

  “Kind of.” Milo winced. “Fish or cut bait, that's how I'd put it.”

  “That's not fair,” I declared. “Not this early in the game. If Tara's unwilling to compromise, maybe you don't need her.” I refrained from adding that she sounded selfish.

  “You're right.” Milo batted his hat against the edge of my desk and stood up. “Thanks for listening, Emma. You've always been pretty good at that.”

  For Milo, the compliment was extravagant. “Sure, any time. Say, have you heard anything about Al Driggers?”

  Milo looked puzzled. “Al? Like what?”

  “Janet told me he was missing,” I said. “I thought she was going to report it to you.”

  Milo shook his head. “Nobody's heard anything about it at headquarters. Are you sure Janet wasn't off on some tangent?”

  “No,” I admitted. “You're probably right. Janet can jump to conclusions.”

  “Sounds like her,” Milo said, his hand on the doorknob. “I have to question Lona O'Neill. She's due in at nine. Thanks for everything.”

  I asked Milo to let me know if
he found out anything from Lona. I also asked him to leave the door open. Apparently preoccupied with his romantic problems, he forgot. After opening the door myself, I dialed Janet Driggers's home number.

  “What's going on with Al?” I inquired without preamble. “Did he show up?”

  Janet laughed in her raucous manner. “Al's fine,” she replied. “He was just running some errands.”

  I was relieved. “When did he get home?”

  “Home?” Janet sounded odd. “Well, he didn't. He went to Seattle.” She cleared her throat. “Business stuff. He'd been too busy with all these funerals to tend to it until now.”

  “Oh.” I frowned into the phone. “Of course. That makes sense.”

  It didn't, but I didn't say so.

  Then, after I hung up the phone, I realized that it did make sense. I felt appreciably enlightened.

  I also felt more than apprehension.

  I was suddenly afraid.

  CURIOSITY—ALONG WITH her basically good heart— seemed to have cured Vida of her anger toward me. I was still thinking about Al and Janet Driggers when my House and Home editor tromped into my cubbyhole.

  “Well now,” she said, looming over my desk, “what's all this with closed doors and Milo and goodness knows what else?”

  I gave Vida a sardonic look. “When did I stop being a traitor?”

  “Mmm.” She sat down, a slightly sheepish expression on her face. “I decided you weren't using sense. The engagement, you know. You're muddled by love.”

  I refrained from saying something like gack, and shook my head. “Dubious, but if it means we're not on the outs, I'll take it. I thought you wouldn't be in to the office until later.”

  Vida waved a hand. “Amy canceled her dental appointment. She had too many other things on her mind. Meanwhile”—Vida glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice—“Ted went to see Marisa Foxx first thing this morning. Marisa's quite a good attorney, and she informed Ted about Roger's rights and responsibilities with regard to Meara's child. Ted conveyed all of this to Amy, who told Roger, who said he must have made a mistake. He wasn't really certain that he could be the baby's father, and I—I'd already gone over to Amy's—I

  said no doubt Roger was feverish yesterday when he spoke so out of turn. Coming down with the flu, you see. Sometimes it causes delirium.”

  “Really.” I didn't believe Roger was sick, feverish, or delirious. He'd wanted to boast of his manly prowess. Period. When he heard that a child would involve all sorts of legal and other entanglements, Roger had bowed out.

  But I was of two minds about confiding in Vida. Having been begged by Meara not to let on who had fathered her baby, I hadn't revealed Cornelius's paternity to Milo. Not yet. I decided to hold off telling Vida, too.

  Vida shot me a skeptical glance, but I feigned innocence. “You wanted to know why Milo was here?”

  “Of course,” Vida said.

  “First of all, Al Driggers isn't missing,” I began, “though Milo was never asked to find him. Janet told me this morning that he'd gone to Seattle on business. Apparently she'd forgotten, didn't get the message or whatever.” I paused for Vida's reaction.

  “Well.” Vida's eyes blinked several times behind the big glasses. “I didn't realize Al had seemingly disappeared. Janet is rarely so rattled or so vague.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Which makes me wonder. I've never known Al to go out of town overnight and not take Janet with him.”

  “Very odd,” Vida murmured. “So, what did Milo have to say for himself?”

  It wasn't prudent to keep too many secrets from Vida, especially when she'd been so angry with me earlier. “The romance with Tara Peebles isn't going as smoothly as he'd hoped.”

  “Why not?” Vida pressed.

  I hadn't intended to go into details. But Vida knew I was being evasive. “Tara wants to get married. Right away. Milo isn't ready for that yet.”

  “I should think not,” Vida sniffed. “Tara is a virtual stranger around here. What does Milo actually know about her?”

  “She seems to have come with a fairly complete resume,” I pointed out. “Banker husband, widowed, mother of two sons, Dan and … I forget the name of the one who joined the navy.”

  I looked at Vida; Vida looked at me.

  “Goodness,” Vida breathed, “what's wrong with us?”

  “I'm going to see Milo,” I said, getting up and scooting around the desk.

  Vida grimaced. “I'd come, but I told Amy I'd stay by the phone in case she needed me. With Roger. She also promised to call if his temperature went up again.”

  Again? What had the kid been doing? Spinning himself in the clothes dryer? He couldn't possibly fit, unless it was industrial size.

  I was halfway down the street when I saw the big old-fashioned clock that stood on the sidewalk outside the Bank of Alpine. It read fifteen minutes after nine. Milo was probably still questioning Lona O'Neill. Dare I interrupt? Probably not. I'd have to wait until he was finished. Luckily, the morning light rain had stopped, though the skies were still a gloomy gray.

  Mayor Baugh was coming out of the bank. He spotted me before I could duck into Parker's Pharmacy.

  “Just the little lady I wanted to see,” the mayor drawled, crossing Front Street against the light.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying to exude patience. “I was just going to the drugstore.”

  Fuzzy looked puzzled. “You were? But Parker's doesn't open until ten.”

  I struck my head with the palm of my hand. “Of course! What was I thinking of? I got such an early start that it seems later in the day.”

  The mayor uttered one of his false, hearty chuckles.

  “That does happen sometimes, doesn't it? I wanted you to know that the toilets will be installed in time for the parade Saturday. You might want to get a picture of the men at work.”

  That was a reasonable suggestion. “Sure. I'll send Scott over there in the next day or so. How long will it take?”

  “Two days, that's all,” Fuzzy replied with pardonable pride. “But the really fine photo you can have for the next issue is the Potty Party Float.”

  “Oh.” I tried to summon up enthusiasm. “Just what will that be?”

  “Me,” Fuzzy said, all but bursting the buttons on his summer-weight jacket. “Irene will drive our Cadillac convertible and I'll be sitting on a toilet I'm going to borrow from Sky Plumbing. Naturally, I'll have a lot of reading material, including the Advocate. What do you think?”

  Pants on or pants off? I couldn't tell the mayor what I thought, nor did I want to take the time to find out more. Still, I had to wonder what Irene Baugh made of her husband's latest bit of self-aggrandizement. They had married young, divorced after a few years, then remarried in middle age. Irene must be used to him. Amazingly, the voters were used to him, too. Maybe they enjoyed the comic relief he provided.

  By the time I shook off Fuzzy, almost ten minutes had ticked off the bank clock. Toni Andreas was waiting for me behind the curving counter at the sheriff's office.

  “He's conducting an interview,” Toni replied, “but he shouldn't be long.” She jumped as a sharp ring sounded. “911,” she whispered.

  I pricked up my ears. Toni was frowning as she took the call. “But Ms. Grundle, your cat will probably come back. He always has.” She paused and rolled her eyes at me. “Why don't you check back later—say, this evening?

  I'm sure Toozle will … Doozle? Oh. I'm sure Doozle will be hungry by then.”

  “Honestly,” Toni sighed, hanging up. “Every time one of Ms. Grundle's cats disappears for more than an hour, she calls 911. It's really annoying. The cats always come back, usually the same day.”

  “How come you're taking 911 calls this morning?” I inquired.

  Toni acknowledged Dwight Gould's arrival from somewhere in the rear of the building. I, too, waved. “Because,” Toni explained, “Beth Rafferty had to go to the dentist. She broke a tooth Tuesday and Dr. Starr couldn't fit her in un
til tomorrow, but somebody canceled today so she was able to see him.”

  The somebody was probably Amy Hibbert. “When is Beth due back?”

  “Mmmm …” Toni glanced at the big round clock on the wall. “Any minute. I think she went in to the dentist a little after eight.”

  I told Toni I'd like to talk with Beth. At the vile urn of coffee, Dwight turned around.

  “We already did,” he said.

  “You mean about her brother, Tim?” I asked.

  Dwight nodded. “Beth insists that Tim's story didn't vary when he told her about what had happened up on Tonga Ridge. I guess she really reamed him for not calling her—that is, 911.”

  “That's what he should have done, of course,” I said.

  “You can trust Beth,” Dwight assured me as loud noises erupted from a distance. “Damn!” the deputy exploded, setting down his mug so hard that he spilled coffee on the counter. I half expected the dark liquid to eat away at the fine mahogany grain. “Those Hartquists are at it again! I thought I'd settled their hash. Excuse me.” Dwight hurried away to the jail area.

  He'd barely disappeared when the door to Milo's office opened. The sheriff and Lona O'Neill appeared, still talking with each other.

  “Don't let them pester you too much,” Milo said, giving Lona a pat on the shoulder. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Looking weary, Lona nodded at me and at Toni, then departed. “Hey, Emma, what's up?” the sheriff asked, no doubt surprised to see me again so soon.

  “I've got some information,” I declared, stretching the truth only slightly. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” Milo replied. “Let me refill my coffee mug. You want some?”

  “No, thanks.” I skirted the urn as if it might explode. “How'd the interview with Lona go?”

  Milo eased himself into his big leather swivel chair. “Fine. I'm convinced she doesn't know anything about the arms thefts. I have a feeling naval security believes her, too, though they're damned tight-lipped when it comes to keeping me up to speed.”