The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  Tim pounded his fists. “No! I swear, it's not like that!”

  “Then why don't you explain it to me?” I suggested. “I can plead your case to the sheriff.”

  Tim shot a quick glance at the console, then picked up his headphones, apparently to make sure the broadcast was being sent without mishap.

  “Look,” he said, finally starting to simmer down, “the only thing I know is that the O'Neills were up to something involving guns. I didn't know what, I didn't know where they got them, I didn't want anything to do with it because they were a bunch of nuts, in my opinion.”

  “Nuts or fanatics?” I prompted.

  Tim grimaced. “Fanatics, now that you mention it. You know, like obsessed.”

  “That's usually the case with fanatics,” I remarked. “But the O'Neills got drunk one night and bragged about their big coup, right?”

  Tim looked flabbergasted. “How'd you know?”

  “I guessed,” I admitted. “But I couldn't imagine that the O'Neills could keep a secret forever, not with all the drinking they did. At some point, they had to let something slip. Or do a little bragging. When was it?”

  Tim rubbed at his forehead. “Late March, I think,” Tim said. “It was when my dad was dying of cancer, and he died in mid-April. Paddy O'Neill—the old man, they called him—had died a couple of months earlier, and we got to talking about our dads. The next thing I knew, the three O'Neills were poking each other in the ribs and laughing their heads off. I couldn't figure it out, except they were pretty drunk.”

  “That's when they started talking about guns?”

  “Not exactly,” Tim replied, looking bemused. “I was busy, so I only caught a few words. You know, a phrase here and there. It was a Saturday, and the bar was really loud. But Rusty—or maybe it was Dusty—I never could keep those guys apart except for Stubby. I could always pick him out, because he had those missing fingers from the logging accident. Anyway, they started talking among each other about ‘firepower’ and how they'd sent dear old Da'—they called Paddy Da'—on his way, and then one of them said you wouldn't think you'd have to use a rocket launcher for the old man's send-off.”

  Tim paused, his eye on the clock. It was twelve forty-six. “Then one of them asked for another refill, and I had to cut them off. That always made them mad, so just to make conversation and show my interest, I asked what they meant by a rocket launcher. The three of them started poking each other in the ribs and laughing again. ‘Wouldn't you like to know?’ Stubby said. I knew it was Stubby because of the missing fingers. Anyway, I asked something else, but they just shook their fingers—that is, Rusty and Dusty did—and told me not to get snoopy, or I'd be in big trouble. That was it.”

  The story was credible. When Milo discovered the arms cache, Tim had put two and two together. But he hadn't come up with a perfect answer as far as I was concerned. My instincts told me he was holding something back.

  “Who else was in the bar that night?” I asked. “Who might have overheard the O'Neills besides you?”

  “Sheesh.” Tim leaned back in the chair and shook his head. “I don't remember. Some of the regulars. You know—a couple of Petersons, a Gustavson, maybe Trout and Skunk Nordby.”

  They didn't seem like the type Pd had in mind. “One more question and I'll be on my way,” I said, then lowered my voice. “Who approached you about having your father buried in Ireland?”

  Tim's face paled. “What are you saying?”

  “You heard me. It wasn't really your father's idea, was it?”

  “No.” Tim looked frightened, and I didn't blame him.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Dan Peebles,” Tim said in a wavering voice. “But he told me it was the O'Neills' idea because of their dad being buried in the old country. My dad had been born there, too, and Dan thought it was something that he— Dad—might have wanted but never told us.”

  “Who paid for the extra expense?” I pressed on. “Who paid you off to do it?”

  “Christ!” Tim exploded, a hand over his eyes. “Nobody paid me off. That is, Dan promised all the funeral expenses, including the shipping of the body, would be free.” The hand dropped to his side. “I couldn't figure out why, but Dan insisted it would all be taken care of by somebody. Look,” he went on earnestly, “it didn't make much sense, but Mom wasn't able to make decisions, and I thought that if we could get a free funeral out of it, so what? I never told Beth—she was mad at me about the whole idea anyway. But it seemed like a good deal. You don't have much time when someone dies to think things through. You know what I'm saying?”

  “I do,” I said with a sigh. When our parents had been killed in a car wreck right after Ben's ordination, neither of us was capable of making well-thought-out decisions. We'd merely let the undertaker guide us through those four horrible days between death and burial.

  “Thanks, Tim,” I said, getting up from the chair. “You've been a big help.”

  “Hey,” he called after me. “Does this go in the paper? Are you going to tell Sheriff Dodge?”

  “Don't worry about it,” I replied with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I don't see that you've done anything illegal or even anything to be ashamed of. Except with Beth. You should tell your sister the truth. It's bound to come out.”

  Janet Driggers pulled into the ski lodge parking lot right behind me. I scampered over to her car and motioned for her to roll down the window.

  “My turn to bail out,” I said. “Look, Janet, I can't explain everything now, but where's Al?”

  “At Doc Dewey's clinic,” she replied grimly. “I drove up here to tell you I couldn't do lunch, either.”

  “What's wrong?” I asked in alarm.

  “Al's having chest pains.” Janet gave a violent shake of her head. “Damn! What's going on around here? Why are all these horrible things happening to us?”

  I couldn't take time to explain that I knew what had been going on at the funeral home. Instead, I posed a question: “Al went to Seattle to check on Dan Peebles, right?”

  Janet was wide-eyed. “How did you know?”

  “I've been trying to put the puzzle together,” I responded, speaking far too fast. “Do you know where Dan is now?”

  “No.” Janet chewed on her lower lip. “Nobody answered at the funeral home when I called to tell him about Al. Poor Al, if this mess is what we think it is, the scandal could ruin him. No wonder he's having chest pains! He hasn't felt this bad since he flunked sexual bondage.”

  I'd never wanted to hear details of the Driggerses' sex life, and certainly didn't want to now. “Don't worry about the business. You're the only game in town, and none of this is your fault.” I stepped away from Janet's car. “How did Al manage to drive all the way to Alpine?”

  “He didn't, quite. He had to pull off by the ranger station at Skykomish. They sent for Milo.” Janet turned the ignition back on. “Talk to you soon.”

  Milo. Maybe he was safe after all. But the fears persisted. I followed Janet away from the ski lodge and down Tonga Road. Janet was driving like a demon, and so was I. The Lexus hit seventy-five just before we slowed at the arterial onto Alpine Way. Maybe we'd both get arrested. With any luck, it'd be by the sheriff.

  Janet turned right onto Pine Street, where the medical clinic was located. I kept going, heading for Front Street. To my vast relief, Milo's Grand Cherokee was parked out front in his usual reserved spot.

  “Milo!” I cried, seeing him behind the desk chewing on a toothpick. “Where have you been? Besides rescuing AlDriggers?”

  “Organizing a manhunt,” he said, his face as grim as I'd ever seen it. “Don't pester me, Emma. I've got too much on my plate to talk to you.”

  “Please,” I begged. “I have some really important things to tell you.”

  “No can do.” He handed some forms to Bill Blatt. “Maybe around three or so.”

  “But Milo—”

  The sheriff swung through the opening in the counter, all but pushing
me out of the way. “Later, damn it. I'm off.”

  I followed him out to the Grand Cherokee, and before he noticed, I'd jumped into the passenger seat. “I'm going with you,” I said, buckling myself in.

  Milo swore long and loud. “You can't! This is serious stuff! Get the hell out!”

  “I won't,” I retorted, arms folded across my chest. “Let's go.”

  I knew Milo wouldn't take time to argue or even to remove me bodily from the Cherokee. He swore some more as he pulled out of the parking place and headed down Front Street.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, suddenly assuming a meekness I felt Milo might appreciate.

  “To search the Peebles house,” Milo barked. “The state police have already set up roadblocks, but it may be too late.”

  “So you know about Dan and Don Peebles?” I said, still meek. “What happened with Tara?”

  “She never showed.” A muscle twitched near Milo's right eye. He seemed to be holding himself in, trying to control the anger and resentment he felt for his ladylove. “Tara wanted me to meet her at the Number Three Stove in Old Mill Park. It was a ruse, to keep me away from her place.”

  I was silent for a few moments as we headed into the Icicle Creek development, where Milo lived. Apparently Tara lived there, too, though her modest bungalow was closer to the golf course.

  I put a hand on Milo's arm. “You know that Dan was in league with the O'Neills?”

  “I need proof,” Milo growled.

  “The O'Neills got the weaponry through Dan's brother, Don, right? I mean, he's stationed at the naval base in Everett.”

  “The navy's working on that angle.”

  “Dan cremated the bodies that were supposed to be sent to Ireland. Then he filled the caskets with illegal arms. Paddy O'Neill, Liam Rafferty, Brian Conley. Had Dan done it before? Is that what Al Driggers found out in Seattle?”

  “Not exactly,” Milo replied, “but he was close. Come on, Emma, get out of the damned vehicle. I've got work to do.”

  I complied. “Was Dan ever employed at the same funeral home as Gina Ancich?”

  “No,” Milo answered tersely as we made our way along the flagstones in the beautifully tended garden. Tara Peebles definitely had a green thumb, though the rest of her fingers may have been bloodstained. “But,” the sheriff went on after a brief lull, “Dan did work for a Seattle mortuary. Before moving up here.”

  The next question almost stuck in my throat. “Was Tara in on it?”

  Milo didn't look at me. “I'm not sure.”

  “Peebles,” I murmured. “That's not an Irish name, is it?”

  Milo didn't respond.

  I had to ask. “Do you know what Tara's maiden name was?”

  Milo swore under his breath. “Yes.” He hesitated. “She was Tara O'Hara.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, very softly, and changed the subject. “Why was Brian's casket found empty in New York?” I asked as Milo opened the front door with what I assumed was his own key.

  “I don't know,” he mumbled. “Maybe somebody was onto the scheme. Maybe somebody stole the weapons out of Brian's casket.”

  The sheriff stopped in the middle of the living room. It was rather sparsely, if tastefully, furnished. I had the feeling that Tara traveled light. But Milo didn't move for what seemed like minutes. No doubt he was remembering the happy times. I hoped he wouldn't burst into tears when we got to the bedroom.

  “As long as you're here,” he said in a curt voice, “you might as well help. I've got a warrant, and we're going to haul out anything that might look like evidence.”

  “You mean file cabinets, boxes, that sort of thing?”

  “There are no file cabinets,” Milo replied, going through a trio of drawers in an end table by the sofa. “Frankly, I don't expect to find much.”

  We didn't. It took less than half an hour to search the main floor and the basement. Indeed, what we didn't find was more incriminating: most of Tara's clothes, as well as some of Dan's, had been removed. Nor did I notice any items of real value. Mother and son were apparently on the lam.

  “Am I deputized?” I asked as we carried out a cardboard box and a couple of garbage bags full of what appeared to be sales receipts, carbon copies of checks, and other innocent-looking items.

  “I guess,” Milo sighed. “Jeez, how do I get into these messes?”

  I assumed he meant with women. Before we had begun our romantic relationship, Milo had been involved with a woman from Startup. That affair had also ended badly. The sheriff was indeed unlucky in love. I counted my blessings, and tried to comfort him.

  “Maybe she's not criminally culpable,” I suggested as we got back into the Cherokee. “After all, any mother would try to help her children no matter what kind of trouble they got into.”

  “That's still aiding and abetting,” Milo muttered. “I'll never go out with another woman as long as I live.”

  I didn't comment, except for the growling of my stomach. It was two o'clock, and I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Maybe I could nip into the Upper Crust across the street from the sheriff's office.

  But even as we pulled into Milo's parking space, his beeper went off. “Damn,” he said. “I'll get that inside.”

  As he hurried into headquarters, I grabbed the two garbage bags and followed him. An excited Bill Blatt was relaying the latest news to Milo as I staggered through the door.

  “… outside the naval base,” Bill said. “Mrs. Peebles and Dan had beaten the roadblocks by just a few minutes, but the navy was waiting for them when they came to pick up Don.”

  “Of course.” Vida spoke from behind the counter. She was sitting down, and at first all I could see were the artificial roses on her pink straw hat. “They were on the alert, they acted. I'm proud of our brave fighting men.”

  Milo, however, wasn't looking happy. “That means they've got jurisdiction, at least with Don. The military can't arrest civilians, but the Everett police are detaining Dan and … his mother. SkyCo's out of the loop. Goddamn it!” He pounded his fist on the mahogany counter.

  “Now, now, Milo,” Vida reprimanded. “Mind your language. You'll have your day in court.”

  Milo expelled a heavy sigh. “I guess. But it still pisses me off.”

  “Milo”—Vida gave the sheriff her eagle eye—“please.”

  “So,” Dustin Fong intervened, “Don Peebles stole a bunch of those rocket launchers and maybe some other weapons, then sold them to the O'Neills, right?”

  The sheriff gave a halfhearted nod.

  “Where did the O'Neills get the money?” Bill Blatt asked.

  “If, in fact,” Milo said in a weary voice, “they were shipping the arms to the IRA in cahoots with Dan Peebles through the funeral home, somebody else was the money man. But not all those weapons we found came from the naval base. I have a feeling the O'Neills had been gathering other items, especially legal handguns, all along. They were probably involved up to their chins.”

  “I agree,” Vida said, standing up and tugging her dress down over the hem of her white slip. “Paddy, too. There was probably some connection between the O'Neills and Dan Peebles even before he came to Alpine. Indeed, I wonder if that's why he came in the first place. His brother was stationed in Everett, there was a job opening with Al Driggers, the O'Neills were already in place.”

  “Maybe things got too hot for them in Seattle,” Bill suggested. “A small town like Alpine might seem like an ideal spot to settle down for a while.”

  Toni Andreas sat back down in the chair Vida had usurped. “Wouldn't it be easier to find them here?” Toni asked. “I mean, there aren't that many people in the whole county.”

  “The authorities would have to have a reason to look for them in the first place,” Dustin responded. “It isn't like they changed their names.”

  “Or did they?” Vida asked.

  Milo shot Vida a sharp glance. “I don't think so.”

  “I suppose you ought to know,” Vida said with a
touch of acrimony, then assumed a more cordial manner. “I do wish we could find out who removed the weapons from poor Brian's coffin. Have you heard anything from New York, Milo?”

  “Not yet,” the sheriff replied. “But I think somebody got wise. They'll probably figure it out back east. New York might be one big jungle of a city, but they've got the resources and manpower to conduct a thorough investigation.”

  “Wow,” Dustin breathed. “This has really been some kind of case.”

  “It sure has,” Bill agreed. “But at least it's over.”

  I hadn't uttered a word for the last five minutes. Suddenly I felt compelled to speak my mind.

  “It's not over,” I said through lips that had gone dry. “We still don't know who killed Brian Conley.”

  MILO THOUGHT I was wrong. “It'll all tie in,” he asserted. “Dan must have murdered Brian. I've sworn out a warrant for his arrest on the homicide charge. Hell, I can't do anything until the navy and the Everett police finish their investigations.”

  “You could check Dan's alibi for the weekend that Brian disappeared,” Vida put in.

  “I can't do that until I talk to him,” Milo retorted, fingering a copy of the SkyCo phone directory. Suddenly, he slammed it down on the counter. Bill, Dustin, and Toni all gave a start. “Let's move on. We've got other work to do around here.”

  Vida, who is never easily dismissed, came from behind the counter and headed for the double doors. “Milo's right,” she said with a pleasant smile. “We're in limbo at the moment. Let's be on our way, Emma.”

  We went, though I managed to run across the street and purchase a big gooey cinnamon roll with a pat of butter. This late in the day, the Upper Crust Bakery was out of doughnuts.

  Leo and Scott were at their desks; Ginny and Kip joined us from their respective posts. Vida and I regaled the staff with the latest turn of events.

  “The IRA's just a bunch of thugs,” Scott declared, “like those terrorists from the Middle East. I don't know how Irish-Americans can get sucked into that game. I'm