The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  Of course not. He had to say Mass for his flock this evening and Sunday morning. He'd remember Tom in his prayers. And me.

  “I don't have any numbers of who to call in San Francisco,” Vida went on, “but Tom's children must be notified as soon as possible. Do you know where they can be reached?”

  I didn't. “Call his office. The number's in my purse, in my little address book. Even on Saturday, someone should be there. They always keep some staff on hand in case one of his dailies runs into a problem.”

  “I'll do that,” Vida promised. She looked at me closely, her eyes very grave. “Emma, don't you want to know who did this horrible thing?”

  I blinked at Vida. “Do I? What does it matter? Knowing won't bring Tom back.”

  Vida reached for the hand that didn't have the IV attached. She gave my fingers a firm squeeze. “But you must know who—and why. It matters. If not now, it will later.”

  I sighed. “Okay, tell me.”

  “The man who shot Tom was the same one who stabbed Brian Conley,” Vida said. “Milo's certain of it. You see, after the culprit was wounded, he became … not precisely demented, but irrational. He kept shouting ‘Erin Go Bragh.’ Milo told me he wanted to … brag.” She flinched at the word. “A fanatic, you see.”

  Vida had finally captured my attention. Maybe the Valium was wearing off. “Who was it?”

  “Nolan Curry,” Vida said. “Brian's best friend and coworker at the Irish consulate.”

  Leo Walsh was the one who told me the details. He came to see me in the hospital that evening right after Father Kelly had stopped by. Doc Dewey had checked on me earlier, insisting that I spend the night. I'd told him I couldn't possibly do that; Adam was arriving in the wee small hours. Doc, who is wise beyond the practice of medicine, told me that it might be better if I came home to Adam—instead of to an empty house.

  And then Leo showed up, looking tired and sad. “You never guessed about Tom, I take it,” he said. “You never knew he was involved with the Irish cause.”

  “No.”

  “I thought not,” Leo said. “I found out by accident when I worked for Tom on one of his papers in Orange County.”

  I stared at my ad manager. “You knew all these years and never told me?”

  Leo let out a little grunt that might have been part laugh. “I couldn't. I wasn't supposed to know. Too dangerous.” He gave me one of his quirky little smiles. “Seven, eight years ago when I found out, I confronted Tom. He tried to make me understand his motives. I suppose I did, in a way. But I had to swear to secrecy.”

  “Why did he get involved?” I asked, surprised at the anger in my voice.

  “You knew his father had an artificial leg?”

  I nodded. “Tom mentioned it.”

  “That was courtesy of a British soldier,” Leo explained. “His dad was born just before the turn of the last century in Ireland. Do you know about the Easter Rebellion in 1914?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “I know it was triggered by the outbreak of the First World War. Didn't Britain put the independence movement on hold? The Irish—mainly the Catholics—rebelled and tried to take over Dublin.”

  “You're close enough,” Leo said with a pat on my arm. “Anyway, Aidan Cavanaugh was a teenage hothead. He wanted a piece of the action, and unfortunately he got it after the Brits sent reinforcements. Fighting in the streets broke out all over Dublin. Aidan was behind a barricade not far from the post office that the rebels had seized. The British soldiers overran the barricade, and Aidan was severely wounded and left for dead. Eventually he crawled away and got medical help, but the leg had to be amputated. The uprising was over, and the insurgents were being arrested. Aidan managed to hide out until—I think it was almost six months later—he took ship to America. He was only fifteen.”

  I was silent for some time. “It's ironic,” I murmured. “I always blamed Sandra for holding Tom hostage with her inherited wealth. I never dreamed that Tom's own father had passed on an equally fatal legacy.” Again, I was quiet for a few moments. Then I looked at Leo. “But why did Nolan Curry shoot him?” There. I'd said it out loud.

  Leo grimaced. “Remember last Saturday?”

  I did. Tom had been working in the yard, hauling debris to the dump. I'd been so happy. I thought he was, too.

  “Tom stopped by my apartment to see me for a few minutes,” Leo went on. “He wanted to explain himself to me. Tom was very perceptive about people. He always sensed that because I knew he was involved in helping the Irish, I not only didn't approve, but I wouldn't want to see you get mixed up in it in any way. To my surprise, he agreed. He confided that he'd been trying to make a clean break. But since he was the money man, it would be difficult. It's rare that anybody abandons the cause, at least if his associates are zealots. Tom had been a major West Coast financial supporter. Nolan Curry and Brian Conley were both involved, mainly through their work at the Irish consulate. Not that the consul or any of the others knew—but Nolan and Brian had gotten caught up in the thing as teenagers. It was romantic, it was an adventure, they felt like heroes.”

  “Gangsters,” I muttered. “No different from other gangs, really. A sense of belonging, empowerment—and needless violence.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Leo said, “at least for the younger generation, both in Ireland and North America. Ironically, Brian Conley wanted to get out, too. Unlike Nolan, Brian believed that the recent truce in Northern Ireland should be given a chance. I gather that's why he wanted to go to Ireland, to see for himself what was happening. Last March, Brian used snowboarding as an excuse to come to Alpine. He knew Tom was in town visiting you and he wanted to see him, get his take on what was happening overseas.”

  I gaped at Leo. “Tom knew Brian Conley?”

  Leo nodded once. “Tom was known to the other Irish sympathizers as T C.”

  T. C. Nolan Curry had mentioned the name—the initials—in reference to somebody or something. My fuzzy brain couldn't quite recall. I closed my eyes and tried to think.

  “My house,” I said slowly. “Nolan and Gina Ancich stopped by. They mentioned a man called T C. who'd taught somebody—maybe Brian—how to snowboard at Lake Tahoe.”

  “Is that right?” Leo gave a shake of his head. “Tom told me he'd known Brian, but he couldn't imagine who'd killed him.”

  “He didn't suspect Nolan?” I responded in a flabbergasted voice.

  “No,” Leo said. “He thought Brian and Nolan were best friends. Face it, Tom's connection with what I'd call the foot soldiers was remote. Remember all those dinner engagements Tom had in Seattle on his way up here? Maybe they were with the middlemen. Anyway, I think he was ignorant of the Alpine connection until the O'Neills' arms cache was found. Brian never came down from Tonga Ridge that Sunday. Tom told me he never heard from him. If anything, Tom may have believed that the O'Neills killed Brian.”

  “So,” I said after another pause, “Tom was going to end his association. I suppose he wanted to see how the truce worked out, too.”

  “That was part of it,” Leo agreed, then put his hand back on my arm. “But not the main reason. He was getting out because of you.”

  “Me?” I stared again at Leo.

  He nodded. “I've always felt that was one of the reasons he put off marrying you after Sandra died. Tom was rethinking his support for the cause. But even if he still believed in it at some level, he couldn't put you in danger. In marrying you, he wanted a fresh start, a clean slate. Unfortunately, one of the extremists didn't see things that way.”

  “Nolan Curry,” I said, barely able to speak his name. “You mean it wasn't all political?”

  “Not from what Nolan told Milo in his ranting and raving,” Leo replied. “Brian didn't tell Nolan about his decision to quit until they were up on the Ridge. Still, Milo thinks Nolan had an inkling of what was to come. Maybe that's why only Brian signed in at the ranger station. I gather Nolan went off his nut when Brian said he was finished with the cause. That was his deat
h warrant. But it was different with Tom.”

  It was hard to bear, but I had to hear why Tom—and my dreams—had died. “How so?”

  Leo gave me a grim little smile. “What did you think of Nolan Curry when you met him?”

  I thought back to the get-together in my living room. “He seemed like a dork. Vague, not too bright, nobody you'd pay much attention to.”

  Leo nodded. “That, according to Milo, is how Gina Ancich felt about him. But Nolan wanted attention. Being an Irish sympathizer gave him an identity, like being in any gang. A successful, sophisticated financial backer like Tom who never got involved in the dirty work angered Nolan. He saw Tom as having it easy, sliding through life on his money and prestige. Tom got in, Tom could get out. That was anathema to Nolan. He considered Tom not just a traitor, but a personal affront.”

  “My God.” I held my head. “Jealousy? I can't believe it.”

  Leo gave me another pat. “It wouldn't be the first time. Hey, for all I know, maybe he was jealous of Brian and Gina, too. Nolan Curry is probably mental.”

  I knew there were sparks in my eyes. “He won't get off on an insanity plea.”

  “No,” Leo agreed. “He won't. Milo will see to that.”

  Ben and Father Kelly offered a memorial Mass for Tom Monday morning. Adam assisted, and, somewhat to my surprise, Leo gave the eulogy. St. Mildred's was almost full, though due to the lack of prior publicity, the Wailers were mercifully absent.

  I managed to get through it with the help of my menfolk and two Valium. The following day, Ben, Adam, and I flew to San Francisco with Tom's body. Al Driggers, on his feet again, but still extremely upset, had offered to take care of everything for free. I appreciated the gesture, and promised I would make sure that Scott Chamoud's articles absolved him of any blame. The burden of reporting on Tom's death would fall mostly on Scott. I couldn't have written a single word without falling apart.

  The funeral Mass was held Thursday in the new marble and glass cathedral, which I found impressive but lacking in warmth. When the white pall was placed over Tom's casket, Adam leaned down and kissed it. I rarely cry, but the tears flowed freely until we were out of the church. They began afresh when a trio of Irish bagpipers played at the graveside.

  I was too distraught to feel awkward in the presence of Tom's children. They seemed polite, if curious. I couldn't blame them. To Kelsey and Graham Cavanaugh, I was the Other Woman.

  The hard part was acknowledging that Tom would be buried next to Sandra in the cemetery of her ancestors. But, as Ben counseled me, Tom had never belonged to Alpine, only to me. That was one reason we didn't attend the funeral reception. I didn't want to see Tom's home in Pacific Heights. I'd never been a part of his life in the Bay Area. I needed no reminders of Tom with Sandra, of Tom

  with his other children. I had my own memories of him, if ever I dared to bring them back into the open.

  Ben flew from San Francisco to Flagstaff and on to Tuba City. Adam returned with me to Alpine, where he planned to stay for a few days. We'd come home Thursday night, and I resisted my son's urgings to take Friday off. There was the Hartquist murder trial under way, the arraignment of Nolan Curry, and the Everett police had turned Dan Peebles over to SkyCo. Tara had already been charged by the Everett police as a co-conspirator with her sons. Her fate and Don's were out of Milo's hands. He was bitter, of course, since she had tried to manipulate him into marriage as part of some lamebrained scheme to avoid prosecution.

  That Friday morning, the sheriff filled me in on the gaps in the Curry case. Nolan had come with Brian to Tonga Ridge. I'd figured that much out from talking to Gina Ancich—Nolan had lied about Brian going to early Mass at St. James Cathedral in Seattle. Meara O'Neill had heard from Brian shortly after nine o'clock that morning. He was already in Alpine. With Nolan Curry.

  As Leo had related, when the two young men got up on the Ridge, Brian announced that he wanted out. Nolan had stabbed him to death and hidden his body. He bragged about it, considering himself a martyr to the cause, comparing himself to the Irish patriot Bobby Sands, who went on a hunger strike and died in prison many years ago. Milo figured that Nolan's martyr complex was why he'd shot Tom so boldly and so publicly. Nolan was making a statement. For Ireland. As if most Irish men and women on either side of the ocean cared.

  But I cared. I cared so much that I couldn't have borne going home from work that night if Adam hadn't been waiting for me.

  But he was. When I pulled up in the driveway, I saw him standing in the front yard, looking at some of

  the new plantings I'd put in to fill the spaces Tom had cleared.

  The Lexus drives so smoothly that my son didn't hear my arrival. For a moment, I watched him, his back to me, and looking so like his father at that same age. My heart filled up with longing. No wonder I had felt such apprehension. I'd mistaken it as worry for Milo. How odd that we often can't read our own feelings.

  Odd, too, that we don't ever really know another person. In the past couple of weeks, I'd misjudged a number of people: Gina Ancich, Dan Peebles, Nolan Curry, and maybe—just maybe—Spencer Fleetwood. They'd hidden their true selves from me. But we all do that, and Tom had good reason to keep his secret.

  There were so many questions that would never get asked. The future I'd glimpsed so briefly had withered, like spring buds in a killing frost.

  Adam was still studying the garden, still reminding me of Tom. For almost thirty years, ever since I met Tom, he had rarely been at my side. But Adam had been with me always, from the womb.

  Getting out of the car, I called his name. He turned to look at me with Tom's blue eyes. The last time I'd seen Tom's face, he'd looked at me with those same eyes. I didn't know it then, but they were the eyes of the dead.

  Adam was still alive.

  Maybe I was, too.

  ALPINE, WASHINGTON WAS a real town, a company town, and as such, it was doomed from the start.

  In the early twentieth century, Carl Clemans and two partners went into the timber business, first in eastern Washington, and later in the Cascades, a mile off the Stevens Pass Highway. The site they chose was a whistle stop called Nippon on the Great Northern Railroad. Carl Clemans rechristened the town-to-be as Alpine. He built a mill and began logging operations.

  A benevolent man, Clemans was both boss and father figure to the men and the families who moved to Alpine. From 1915 until 1921, my grandfather and my great-uncle were among the workers he employed. My mother and her five siblings were raised in the town, which could be reached only by railroad or by climbing a mile up the mountainside.

  The family returned to Seattle after my mother graduated from high school. But that was not her last look at Alpine. In 1926, she married my father, who took a job at Carl Clemans's sawmill. My parents remained there for almost two years, but saw the handwriting on the clear-cut slopes. By 1929, Clemans's parcel of land had been logged out. There was no other reason for the town's existence, so it was shut down and burned. Such was the fate of many company towns that had outlived their reason for being.

  But memories lingered on and were possibly gilded. From my earliest days, I listened to my parents and grandparents and other relatives speak of Alpine with great fondness and good humor. Geographically isolated, snowbound six months of the year, these hardy souls formed a bond that endured through the rest of the century.

  That sense of community and continuity for a tiny town that had been erased from the map inspired me to make Alpine come alive again in my series of mystery novels. I suppose it was inevitable. I never saw Alpine, but it has been with me since the beginning. It lives again, at least in my imagination.

  —MARY DAHEIM

  Don't miss any of the

  Emma Lord mysteries:

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  The first Emma Lord novel

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  THE ALPINE ESCAPE

  THE ALPINE FURY
/>
  THE ALPINE GAMBLE

  THE ALPINE HERO

  THE ALPINE ICON

  THE ALPINE JOURNEY

  THE ALPINE KINDRED

  THE ALPINE LEGACY

  THE ALPINE MENACE

  by

  Mary Daheim

  Published by Ballantirie Books.

  Available at your local bookstore

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  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by Mary Daheim

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