The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  “No.” It was a little after eleven. “We should hear soon, though.”

  Kip returned to the back shop just as Mitch Laskey entered the newsroom. Vida looked up from her keyboard.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Well what?” Mitch asked in his typical affable manner.

  “What did you find out from the sheriff this morning?”

  I was standing just outside my office. Mitch glanced at me. “I believe Sheriff Dodge is hung over this morning. He wouldn’t come out of his office. Jack Mullins did some wink-wink stuff about his boss being under the weather.”

  Vida, who had removed the bothersome hat with its dangling black balls, arched both eyebrows. “Really. That isn’t typical, Mitch, in case you were wondering.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, going to his desk, “I was wondering. Dodge strikes me as a guy who keeps a pretty tight rein on himself.”

  “He is,” I said, feeling a need to defend Milo despite my surprise. I’d never seen the sheriff drunk. “Jack Mullins better keep his big mouth shut. We don’t need rumors about Milo getting blotto in the middle of a murder case or at any other time.”

  Mitch looked sheepish. “Sorry. Don’t worry, I won’t tell any tales. I still have to adjust to small-town mentality.”

  “You will,” Vida said, making it sound like a command. “Milo has his faults, but drinking to excess isn’t one of them. Emma knows that better than anyone.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that remark, but let it pass. Still, I wondered why the sheriff had apparently ended up with a hangover. Was he having such a wonderful time with Delphine? Or did he overindulge to put up with her company? Surely I wasn’t jealous. For years I’d hoped he’d find the right woman so I could stop feeling guilty when I rejected his sexual overtures.

  Vida turned in my direction. “You did say that Delphine Corson wanted to speak privately with Milo, didn’t you?” She saw me nod. “It’s foolish for him to socialize with a witness in a murder investigation. If, in fact, that’s what he did.”

  “Delphine was trying to bribe him with a free dinner,” I said as Leo Walsh entered the newsroom.

  “Him who?” Leo asked, stopping in front of Vida’s desk.

  “The sheriff,” Vida replied.

  “Hunh.” Leo shook his head and chuckled. “She never tried to bribe me with much of anything during our brief whatever-you-want-to-call-it. I always had to pick up the tab.” He went over to his desk and sat down. “Hey, Emma, we’re going Dutch tonight. Understood?”

  I smiled and nodded. “It’s a business expense.”

  “Hold it!” Mitch said as he finished pouring himself more coffee. “Delphine Corson, local florist, romantically involved with … the Toyota guy?” He saw Vida nod confirmation. “What’s her problem?”

  For once, I beat Vida to the answer. “She doesn’t want the public to know she set foot inside the ICT That’s despite the fact that everybody already knows because that’s how it is in a small town.”

  Mitch nodded. “So there’s another reason for cozying up to Dodge.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, having ascribed her motive to personal embarrassment that might temporarily harm her business. “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” Mitch admitted, sitting down at his desk. “Shall I talk to her? I can play the dim-witted-new-man-in-town card.”

  “Yes,” I said. “How many witnesses have you talked to so far?”

  “Among the customers, only the hulking Peabody brothers,” Mitch replied. “Neither of them had much to say.”

  “What about the Canbys and Norene Anderson, the waitress?”

  “Julie Canby heard the rumpus, but she was closing the kitchen,” Mitch said, checking the text he’d entered into his computer. “She figured the noise was the usual Saturday-night rough stuff. Hannibal could’ve driven his elephants through the tavern, and she wouldn’t care unless they interfered with her bagging the evening’s glass breakage.”

  I’d walked over to Mitch’s desk. “So she saw nothing?”

  “Not until the place suddenly went quiet after De Muth hit the deck. That,” Mitch added with a wry little smile, “made her think something was wrong. Then there were some screams and shouts. She arrived on the scene just as everybody was wondering why De Muth wasn’t getting up. Julie realized he was dead.”

  Vida was listening intently. Maybe Leo was, too, though he seemed engrossed in his computer screen. “What about Spike?” I asked.

  “Spike’s upset, as you know from his tirade about the ad.” Mitch glanced at Leo. “You talked to Spike since?”

  “Huh?” My ad manager looked up from his monitor. “No. Julie’s dreaming up some user-friendly words for the ad. Taking out more space won’t cost much, but maybe she’s figuring out how many people can read agate-size type and save the Canbys twenty bucks a week.”

  Mitch nodded. “That sounds like Spike. Anyway, he insists he tried to break up the fight, but Bert and Norene Anderson were in his way and suddenly De Muth hit the deck. Apparently Norene had just served Delphine and Mr. Toyota—Gus, right?—and was talking to somebody before she went back to the bar.” Mitch grimaced. “I’ve covered plenty of brawl-related stories. They’re hard to sort out, especially when liquor’s involved, because it fogs up both the brain and the memory.”

  I nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why we have to be so careful about what we put in the paper.” I looked at Leo. “What was it Spike told you about Julie feeling sorry for De Muth?”

  Leo frowned. “She has sympathy for loners like him, even though Spike thought De Muth was an ornery cuss.”

  Vida turned back to Mitch. “Anyone else?”

  “The Andersons.” He glanced at his screen. “Bert owns the body and chop shop, so he probably knew both Berentsen and De Muth pretty well since all of their own jobs are truck-related.”

  “And?” Vida urged.

  Mitch sighed. “Norene didn’t say much. Somebody said she’d been stung by a wasp or a bee. I figured her for the gabby type. What little she added was vague. She didn’t see the blow that struck De Muth.” He glanced from Vida to Leo to me. “Well?”

  I shrugged. Leo nodded. Vida, naturally, spoke up: “I haven’t seen much of her recently, but she was a talkative child. My Meg was in school with her. Norene was a mediocre student, but very outgoing.”

  Mitch smiled. “Waitresses and barmaids often are. People-oriented, if they’re any good at what they do.”

  I thought of the surly Liz at the Burger Barn. Given Mitch’s criterion, she was in the wrong job. “What about Bert?” I asked.

  “He seemed upset, too,” Mitch said. “He liked De Muth, though he allowed that he was moody and would provoke arguments sometimes just for the sake of arguing. Still, they were both regulars at the ICT and usually got along. They had business dealings, too. De Muth sometimes worked on trucks and other vehicles that needed bodywork or were beyond repair. He’d turn the wrecks over to Bert for demolition.”

  Vida shuddered. “I’m so glad Bert finally put up that big fence around the wrecking yard on the other side of the railroad tracks. Until then, the property was a terrible eyesore.”

  “Vida,” Mitch said in his droll manner, “do yourself a favor and don’t visit Detroit. If you want to ogle vehicle wreckage, including on the city streets, that’s your destination. I haven’t seen Bert’s pile of junk, but it has to look like the Garden of Eden by comparison.”

  Vida sat up straight. “I’d never dream of going to Detroit. I’m not much of a traveler. If you’ve lived your entire life in Alpine as I have, there’s very little in the rest of the world to match its scenic beauty.”

  “This is beautiful country, all right,” Mitch agreed. “My wife and I are anxious to see more of it.”

  Leo couldn’t resist needling my House & Home editor. “Wait until the low-hanging gray rain clouds lift,” he said to Mitch. “It usually happens at least one more time in October before the long wait till May. O
h, and by the way, if you get homesick for Detroit, take a drive out on the Burl Creek Road. A lot of the folks who live there decorate their gardens with rusted-out DeSotos, F-Series Ford pickups circa 1958, and the much rarer remnants of a Model A chassis.”

  Vida glared at Leo. “That is so unfair! Granted, some people don’t enjoy gardening and tend to be slothful by nature. But I would hardly compare Alpine to Detroit. Parts of your old stomping ground in Los Angeles might be a more apt analogy.”

  “True enough, Duchess,” Leo admitted with his off-center grin. “On the other hand, Alpine doesn’t have Beverly Hills or Bel Air.”

  Before Vida could respond, her phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring. “Vida Runkel here,” she said in her usual brisk manner. “Slow down, please,” she urged after a pause. “I can’t understand you.”

  Leo, Mitch, and I remained silent, watching Vida, who was now holding up one finger to signal she was receiving news of interest to the rest of us. “That’s wonderful, Rick,” she said at last. “Tell Ginny the main thing is that the baby is healthy. Besides, he’ll have hand-me-downs from his two brothers.”

  “Another boy,” I murmured. “Let’s hope Ginny stops griping about that by the time she comes back to work.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Leo said under his breath.

  Vida congratulated Rick one last time and hung up. “A boy, eight pounds, four ounces, twenty inches long, born at eleven-eighteen, delivered by Dr. Sung.” She glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes ago. It was good of Rick to call me first, though he sounded rather muddled.”

  “Have they named him?” I inquired.

  Vida shook her head. “Ginny refused to consider a boy’s name this time, being so sure that she was having a girl. Personally, I think it’s just as well. I had three girls, which made raising them much simpler. The same should be true of bringing up boys. If anything, I believe boys must be comparatively easy. Girls tend to be moody and unpredictable. If Ginny had a girl, the poor child might become unbearably spoiled.”

  The word spoiled automatically conjured up a vision of Vida’s grandson, Roger. When it came to him, Vida had a maddening blind spot. He was twenty-three, taking—and quitting—an occasional class at the community college. His attitude toward work followed the same pattern. Get hired, get fired—or simply not show up. Vida, of course, always blamed the teachers, the employers, or a world that didn’t appreciate Roger’s fine qualities. I changed the subject.

  “Mitch,” I said, “I’m puzzled by something in these witness accounts. Have you talked to Fred Engelman?”

  “No,” Mitch replied. “He lives in a camper somewhere along the Icicle Creek Road. I called him twice, but he doesn’t have an answering device. I’ll try to catch him at Blackwell Timber. He’s the one who used to get into fights all the time, right?”

  I nodded. “That’s why it seems odd that he apparently wasn’t involved in this one. Maybe he was on his best behavior because it was his ex-wife’s birthday.”

  “What about Berentsen’s girlfriend with the goofy name?” Mitch asked. “Should I talk to her or is it worth a trip to … Snohomish? And what’s with this mish at the end of so many local place names?”

  “The mish,” I explained, “is a Native American name around here for ‘river,’ as in Snohomish, Skykomish, Stillaguamish, Duwamish, and so forth. Hold off interviewing Jica Weaver. The sheriff should talk to her first. In fact, I’m going to stop by his office on my way to lunch and see if he’s recovered from whatever he was doing last night.”

  I tried to keep my tone neutral. Obviously, I failed. Vida gave me a sharp look. “With Delphine?”

  To save face, I shrugged. “Whoever.”

  Vida didn’t quite manage to conceal a smirk, but turned to her keyboard. “It’s never too soon to suggest items for ‘Scene,’” she reminded us. “I will use Rick’s minor car mishap, but without names. Nervous fathers-to-be have a certain charm. As usual, I’ll put the baby’s birth on my page. I trust that the child will have a name by press time.”

  “Say,” I said, having a sudden thought, “getting back to Jica Weaver, did any of you listen to KSKY this morning?”

  “I did,” Leo replied. “I wanted to check on a co-op ad we did with them for the Columbus Day sale at Stuart’s Sight and Sound. Why?”

  “Jica Weaver was going to the station last night to proclaim Berentsen’s innocence. Maybe Fleetwood wasn’t there or he felt like I did about going public with something as flimsy as a girlfriend’s opinion.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Leo said. “I’m going to KSKY later.” He glanced at Vida. “A cooking store in Monroe wants to be one of your sponsors. You don’t want your real employer to lose out on that, Duchess.”

  “Certainly not,” Vida asserted. “A cooking store.” Her tone turned musing. “My, my, that’s good news.” In an instant, she whipped off her glasses to glare at Leo. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I didn’t know it until a few minutes ago,” Leo said. “Spence sent me an FYI e-mail. You got one, too.”

  “Oh.” Taken aback, Vida blinked rapidly. Having held out for a long time on using a computer, she often forgot that it had uses beyond typing up news copy.

  “That’s some kind of bright spot,” I said. “I don’t see how Fleetwood could turn us down.” I looked at Vida, who had put her glasses back on. “If he did, you could threaten to quit and KSKY’s ratings would plummet.”

  “Perhaps,” Vida said with an inclination of her head. “I try to bring a certain amount of local lore and neighborliness to my program.”

  Vida’s Cupboard had been an instant hit when she began her fifteen-minute weekly broadcast three years earlier. It usually aired live on Wednesdays, but this week she’d insisted that Spence move the show to Tuesday because of the conflict with the Presbyterian Harvest Home supper. It was a testimonial to her popularity that Mr. Radio had complied. It also gave her the opportunity to remind her brethren about the potluck. When I first learned of the original offer for Vida to do the program, I’d had qualms, but my House & Home editor had vowed never to use material better suited to the Advocate. Naturally, she’d kept her word. The show featured interviews with local residents, helpful hints on gardening, and reminders of upcoming events in Alpine. The irony of the cooking store advertisement didn’t elude me. Although Vida ran recipes and other food-related advice on her page, she never applied any of the information to herself, relying instead on her family’s time-honored concoctions and methods. Unfortunately, her ancestors were reputed to have been the worst cooks in Skykomish County’s history. If the Detroit bar actually served gopher as Mitch claimed, it probably wouldn’t taste worse than most of Vida’s culinary efforts.

  Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was going on twelve. “I’m heading out to check in with the sheriff,” I said, ignoring what I figured was Vida’s intrigued expression. “I’m running out of ways to write another editorial begging the state to do something about the horrendous accidents on Highway 2. Maybe the fresh air will inspire me.”

  I thought I heard Vida snicker.

  THAT FRESH AIR HAD TURNED CHILLY WHEN I STARTED DOWN Front Street. Maybe we were due for an early frost. Approaching Parker’s Pharmacy, I suddenly remembered that I had to replenish my stock of Band-Aids, Kleenex, and mouthwash. Trying to recall if I needed anything else, I didn’t pay attention as I crossed the well-worn blue and white hexagonal tiles leading inside the store. The door flew open and almost hit me.

  “Watch it!” Patti Marsh shouted. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

  Her greeting lacked warmth, but that was no surprise. We had a history. “Hello, Patti,” I said.

  “Hello.” She shot me a hostile look. “I hear the sheriff’s seeing Delphine Corson.”

  “I heard that, too,” I said, forcing a smile. “I guess she figures Gus Swanson and his wife are only temporarily estranged. Or maybe Delphine’s playing the field after Spike Canby dumped her.”


  “That was a while ago,” Patti pointed out, both of us stepping aside for a young woman pushing a baby in an elaborate stroller that Averill Fairbanks might have mistaken for an alien space ship. “Delphine has kept her looks,” she added.

  “Where does she keep them?” I retorted, and immediately wished I’d kept my big mouth shut.

  Patti, however, seemed to find my remark amusing. I figured it wasn’t because of my flippant response, but that she felt she’d succeeded in her attempt to rile me. “Delphine has a way with men,” Patti said. “Gus and his wife may not be divorcing, but he certainly acts like he’s crazy about her. Last Saturday, she was showing off a very pretty Judith Ripka bracelet he’d given her.”

  “Nice,” I said, trying to lighten my tone. “A man dating a florist can’t send flowers.” I refrained from saying that he shouldn’t give his girlfriend candy when she was carrying an extra twenty-five pounds.

  “I suppose,” Patti said. “Got to run. Jack and I are going to dinner at Le Gourmand tonight and I have an appointment with Stella for a foil job.” She touched her short hair, which was a different shade—or shades—of blond every time I saw her. Luckily, our meetings were infrequent.

  Inside the drugstore, I grabbed a forest-green basket and headed down the aisle that featured Band-Aids and a raft of other wound care products. I was trying to find the Quick Stop variety when something Patti had said came to mind. She’d mentioned seeing Delphine on Saturday. Where and when? I wondered. To my knowledge, Patti Marsh and Delphine Corson weren’t close. I had no idea what Delphine’s bracelet looked like, but I knew that Judith Ripka items weren’t cheap. Few women—at least in Alpine—would wear anything that expensive and elegant during the day. If Delphine was showing off her new bauble, what better way to do it than in a social setting? Pricey designer jewelry seemed out of place at the Icicle Creek Tavern. But that didn’t mean Delphine hadn’t worn it anyway.