The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  Viv’s expression was ironic. “Amanda blames Walt for everything, including the weather. Which,” she went on, looking skyward, “is good today so we’d better get back to work.” She punched Val in the upper arm. “Let’s hit the dirt, darlin’. The Peabodys will be along in a while.”

  I returned to my own patch. It was almost noon. Clipping, clearing, and cleanup filled the next hour. By the time the Peabodys pulled up in their battered truck, I had enough yard waste to fill a small dumpster. I decided to take the offer of adding my pile to the Marsdens’.

  I’d never been able to tell Myron from Purvis. They weren’t twins, but only about a year apart, and both were well over six feet tall and must have each weighed 250. They seemed to be balding at the same rate, their agate-blue eyes were identical, and neither spoke much. For a long time, I’d considered the brothers to be slow-witted, but Vida informed me that wasn’t so. Their mother, Alva, had been a nonstop talker. Neither her husband nor her sons had ever been able to get a word in edgewise. “Alva Peabody,” Vida insisted, “would talk to me until I withered. Imagine!”

  I’d admitted being stupefied by such a garrulous woman. Now, as the Peabodys headed into my yard after they’d finished hacking down the holly and put the remains in their truck, I marveled that they were able to talk at all. “I appreciate your help,” I told them. “Are you sure you have room for my stuff?”

  One of them—I decided he was Myron—nodded. “It’ll fit in.”

  Purvis—I was still guessing, of course—nodded, and began gathering up the leaves, branches, and other debris. It took two trips to the truck for the Peabodys to dispose of what would’ve taken me a half-hour of work if I’d done it myself.

  I handed each of the brothers a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

  “Right,” Myron said, showing a gap-toothed smile.

  “Hey, you two must have had a weird adventure the other night at ICT,” I said.

  The brothers glanced at each other. Purvis spoke first. “You mean Clive and Al?”

  “Yes.”

  “Real bad,” Myron murmured.

  “Fights happen,” Purvis said, frowning at some fresh scratches on the back of his hand that had probably been caused by the holly.

  Myron nodded. “Al should’ve backed off.”

  Purvis also nodded. “He was under the weather.”

  I felt confused. “I thought it was Mickey Borg who was ill.”

  “Him, too,” Purvis said.

  “Flu.” Myron grimaced. “It’s going around.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It’s that time of year. Did Al say he was sick?”

  “He had a headache,” Purvis replied. “He looked bad.”

  “Who started the fight?”

  Again, the brothers looked at each other. Was the younger deferring to the elder? Or the other way around? Which one was the elder or the younger? Which one was Myron and which one was Purvis? Did it matter? They seemed to be one person in two bodies.

  “Clive,” Myron finally stated.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “That lady,” Purvis said. “Clive’s lady.”

  Myron nodded. “Al was rude to her.”

  Purvis also nodded. “She left.”

  I tried to digest this new bit of information. “Jica Weaver,” I said under my breath. “I thought the fight was about Holly.”

  Both Peabodys shook their heads. “No,” Myron said.

  “Holly was going with us,” Purvis added, his ruddy face darkening.

  Taking a pocket watch out of his overalls, Myron squinted at the face. “Getting on to two. Got to go.”

  “Right,” Purvis agreed.

  They both nodded at me before going to their truck. I stood at the edge of my driveway, trying not to visualize the ménage à trois of the Peabody brothers and Holly Gross. It was a difficult image to dismiss. So was their take on the ICT tragedy. Myron and Purvis had given statements. I wondered if they jibed with the account I’d just heard.

  There was only one way to find out. I went inside and called the sheriff. He didn’t answer his home phone, so I dialed the number for his cell. He didn’t answer that, either. In fact, I got a message saying that the party I was trying to reach was out of range.

  The sheriff was seldom incommunicado—unless he was fishing. There are many dead zones around Alpine where rivers, streams, and lakes nestled in the rugged terrain. A riot could break out at the Alpine Mall, a gun-toting psycho might be on top of the old water tower, an arsonist could set fire to city hall, but if the fish were biting, Milo didn’t much care. To make sure he was still alive, I rang his office.

  Doe Jamison was on duty. “You’re right,” she said. “The boss went fishing at Goblin Creek. After last night, he had to get away.”

  “It was that bad with the former Mrs. Dodge?”

  Doe was admirably if annoyingly reticent about the sheriff and his personnel. “Let’s say that he needed a break,” she replied.

  “I understand. Maybe you can help me. Have you got the Peabody brothers’ statement handy?”

  She paused. “I can find it. Why? Has something come up?”

  “I’m on a fishing expedition of my own.”

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  Five minutes passed before I heard Doe’s phlegmatic voice again. “Do you know which Peabody is which?” she asked.

  “No. I’m not sure anybody does unless it’d be Vida.”

  “Their statements were taken by Sam Heppner,” Doe said. “The brothers arrived a little after nine, sat at a table, and ordered beer and food. They’re regulars, especially on weekends. An hour or so passed. By the way, Sam has a notation that the Peabodys seem vague about time. They ordered a couple more beers and then one of them—Sam’s got a question mark after Purvis’s name—tried to use the men’s room but Mickey Borg was in there and wouldn’t come out. Purvis—assuming it was Purvis, not Myron—went out the back way to take a leak. As he was going out, Al De Muth was coming in, cussing out somebody under his breath. Purvis thought he was bitching about Mickey’s long session in the can. The brothers then joined the Hansons and the Borgs at the pool table. Al and Clive were arguing, but the boys didn’t pay much attention until the fight broke out. The Peabodys wanted to break it up but before they could act, Al suddenly went down.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s what Sam put down,” Doe said. “You know Heppner—he hates taking statements. The Peabodys don’t like giving them.”

  “They’re not talkers,” I said, and explained that I’d spoken to them earlier. “I got an even more abbreviated version. The brothers didn’t mention Holly going home with them?”

  “No. I can check her statement. Just a sec.”

  I waited, standing by the front window as a red motor scooter rolled along on Fir Street. Mike Corson—Delphine’s son and the Saturday mailman—pulled up in his US Postal Service Jeep to stuff what looked like another bunch of junk into my box. A chipmunk raced across the front yard. Idly, I wondered if chipmunks, like dogs, bit mailmen.

  “More of Sam’s notes,” Doe finally said. “No, there’s nothing in them about the Peabody brothers. Holly went home on her own.”

  “That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have had them join her at the mobile home park,” I pointed out. “How did she say the fight started?”

  “She claims it was over her,” Doe replied. “She also says she was pretty drunk. Let me check something …”

  Again, I waited. A forest service truck drove by. A couple of kids on bikes pedaled in the other direction. One of Mrs. Holmgren’s cats wandered into my yard, sniffed around, and meandered off again.

  “I’m looking at Janie Borg’s statement,” Doe said. “She mentions that Holly came on to Clive and he called her a tramp. Al came to Holly’s defense. Before the fists started flying Al told Clive he wouldn’t fix his truck because he was, and I quote, ‘one bigmouthed bastard.’ That, Janie stated, is when they started to go at it. Have you talked to Cl
ive?”

  “No,” I admitted. “This story belongs to Mitch. He’s a veteran reporter so I didn’t want to interfere. Anyway, I hardly know Clive.”

  “You might want to stop by,” Doe said. “Clive’s getting bored with Fred’s stories about his drinking days.”

  “Oh—that’s right,” I said. “Clive has Fred for company over the weekend. Is that cruel and unusual punishment?”

  “I can tune him out,” Doe replied, “but Clive’s a fresh audience for Fred. He gets preachy, insisting Al would still be alive if not for Demon Rum. At least Fred didn’t call liquor ‘firewater.’ I might’ve decked him.”

  I smiled to myself. Doe was part Native American, a stocky, stolid young woman whose dander wasn’t easily raised. I had to assume Fred and Clive were probably driving her nuts on what should’ve been a fairly quiet Saturday holding down the fort at the sheriff’s office.

  I hesitated, not wanting to trump Mitch. “I suppose I ought to know what Clive looks like. I don’t recall meeting him.” My watch told me it was almost two-thirty. “I have an errand to run and then I’ll stop by. See you.” I hung up and changed clothes before driving to kIds cOrNEr at the mall. The capital letters spelled the owner’s first name, Ione. Her last name was Erdahl.

  “Another Erlandson shopper?” Ione asked when I entered the store. “We’ve had several of them already.”

  “Okay. Don’t let me duplicate what the others bought.”

  “Get onesies,” Ione said. “You can’t go wrong. Babies use up about three a day.” She pointed to a display next to the counter. “This bunch just came in Friday. They’ve got matching pants and jackets.”

  “I’ll go for a set in the brown shade.” I tried not to flinch at the price tags. “I’ll take a set in that raspberry color and a dark green one. I need a gift card. You’ll do the wrap—”

  My cell phone rang. “Sorry,” I said to Ione. After fumbling around in my handbag, I found the cell on the third ring.

  “We’ve got a bit of a mystery,” Doe Jamison said.

  “What is it?”

  “Yesterday some college kids were horsing around where Burl Creek joins the Sky,” Doe explained. “Guess what they found?”

  I had no idea. “What?”

  “A pool cue caught up in the underbrush. Dodge is on his way.”

  TWELVE

  AFTER SHELLING OUT FIFTY-SIX BUCKS FOR THE NEWEST Erlandson, I drove to the sheriff’s office. Doe was behind the counter, talking to Dwight Gould. The two deputies were looking at a plastic-encased pool cue propped up against Lori Cobb’s desk. “We bagged and tagged it,” Doe informed me. “Dodge should be here any minute.”

  “It looks like a pool cue to me,” I said. “But is it from the ICT?”

  Dwight looked sour, a not-uncommon expression for the longtime deputy. “Maybe.”

  “Spike Canby’s going to take a look,” Doe said. “He’s not sure that any of his cues are missing.” She made a face, indicating her disgust.

  “When did the college students bring the cue in?” I asked.

  Doe glanced at Dwight. “It was just before you stopped by to take your break. A half-hour ago?”

  “Not that long,” Dwight retorted. “I should be back out on patrol. Let me see if Dodge is here yet.” He picked up his regulation hat and went out the door.

  “Dwight’s an asshole sometimes,” Doe said, and immediately apologized. “Sorry. I don’t usually bad-mouth my co-workers.”

  I glanced again at the pool cue. “The kids found it yesterday but waited until now to bring it in?”

  “They’re kids,” Doe said. “Eighteen, nineteen. There were four of them, two girls, two boys, and at least one of them knows how to read. They remembered something about a pool cue from the Advocate story.”

  “Gosh,” I said in mock surprise, “I didn’t think anybody under thirty read the newspaper anymore.”

  Milo loped through the door with Dwight bringing up the rear. “Don’t ask,” the sheriff said. “I’m never going back to Goblin Creek. I didn’t even get a bump and I lost two leaders.” He barged past me and went through the counter’s swing door. “Let’s see the damned thing.”

  “It’s definitely a pool cue,” Doe said dryly.

  “Right.” Milo studied the object for almost a full minute. “It looks beat up enough to belong to Canby. But then it would, if it had been traveling downstream in the river.” He moved a few steps to look at a detailed county map on the wall. “It’s what—a mile and a half from the ICT?” He paused, frowning. “No, closer to two.”

  Dwight gestured at the cue. “No prints, I’ll bet. Probably no forensics hocus-pocus to help us out.”

  The sheriff glared at his deputy. “For chrissakes, we’ve got the guy locked up and a signed confession. Clive Berentsen, in the tavern, with the pool cue. You want to bring in Colonel Mustard?”

  Dwight, who was actually a year older than his boss, wasn’t backing down. “You haven’t got the weapon. Didn’t the ME in SnoCo say the pool cues he checked out weren’t used to kill De Muth?”

  Milo scowled at Dwight, creating an awkward moment—at least for me. Doe seemed unmoved. She was probably used to the men’s bickering.

  “Okay, smart-ass,” the sheriff finally said, “let’s ask Berentsen if he recognizes this thing.”

  “You can ask Fred, too,” I said.

  Milo stared at me as if he hadn’t noticed my presence earlier. “What are you doing here? Did somebody steal that Dungeness crab?”

  I held up the elegantly wrapped baby gift. “Yes, but I got it back and I’m giving it to you.”

  “Bullshit. Come on, Dwight, let’s talk to Clive.”

  “And Fred,” I called after the two men as they disappeared down the corridor to the cell area.

  “Talk about crabs,” Doe muttered.

  “Do Milo and Dwight bicker a lot?” I asked.

  Doe sighed. “No, not really. But Dwight’s been in a bad mood lately. So has the sheriff.” She made a sharp gesture. “There I go again, bad-mouthing my colleagues. Please tell me to shut up.”

  “Forget it,” I said, moving to the end of the counter. “I’ve got my own staff problems these days. Not,” I added quickly, “that it can’t happen anywhere. If one person gets in a bad mood, it rubs off on others.” I took a few steps toward the hallway. “I haven’t heard anything out of Clive or Fred since I got here. Did Clive pass out from listening to Fred’s sad stories?”

  Doe shook her head. “Fred’s in the men’s restroom, installing new faucets. The old ones wore out. He’s really handy.”

  “You should put him on the payroll,” I said.

  “We can’t afford …” Doe put a hand to the earpiece she’d been wearing. “Got it,” she said, scribbling some notes before hurrying to the far end of the counter. “Dwight!” she cried, “two-car collision at Grotto where the campground road joins Highway 2, no injuries, but traffic’s backing up.”

  Dwight, who always moved slowly, ambled out from the hallway. “Damned idiots. It’d serve ’em right if they ended up in the river.” He was still muttering as he made his exit.

  The sheriff emerged, headed behind the counter, and propped up the plastic-encased cue against the wall. “Clive hasn’t a clue. Too wasted that night. Fred says they all look alike to him, and he never plays pool anyway. Where the hell is Canby?” He scowled at Doe. “You said he’d be here by three. It’s almost three-fifteen.”

  “He was busy,” Doe replied. “He’s also shorthanded. Norene’s sick, so Julie has to cook and wait tables.”

  Milo reached into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt and took out a pack of cigarettes. “You’re still here,” he said, glancing in my direction.

  “I’d like to meet Clive.”

  He lighted a cigarette before responding. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I should know what the guy looks like.”

  “Go ahead,” Milo said, waving a hand in the direction of the cells.

 
I started for the hallway. “Why don’t you get a real visitors’ room?”

  The sheriff tapped ash onto the bare floor. “You know I don’t usually keep perps in here for more than a few days. Berentsen’s lawyer is supposed to post bail for him Monday.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “She is? How much?”

  “Ask the judge.” Milo turned around and went into his office.

  I assumed Fred was still in the men’s room. Only one of the four cells was occupied. The man sitting on his bed had his head down and looked as if he was about to fall asleep.

  “Clive?” I said.

  He gave a start. “Wh …?” Shaking himself, he rubbed his head and got to his feet.

  I introduced myself, shaking hands with Clive through the bars. He was around forty, average height and weight, thinning brown hair, and looking so pale that he might have been a lifer at the midway point of his prison stretch.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” I said, “but I’m sure I’ve seen you around town.”

  Clive nodded. “I recognize you. I like your editorials. Usually.” He smiled slightly. “Sorry I can’t offer anything to drink. Any news on the O’Toole kid?”

  “Not since yesterday,” I said. “This may sound odd for a journalist, but I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  Clive hung his head. “I should’ve made that run to Monroe. I could’ve driven the O’Tooles’ truck.”

  “Yours is …” I paused, trying to remember what someone had said about Clive’s vehicle.

  “It needs new brakes.” Clive’s face hardened. “It’s still at De Muth’s shop. Not that it matters now.”

  “Do you know Mike O’Toole?”

  Clive nodded. “He’s a good kid, basically. It’s just that … well, he’s a kid. He wanted to be a mechanic.”

  “Cal Vickers at the Texaco station can’t handle everything in town. Mickey Borg never works on cars and I’m told he even resents customers who don’t want to pump their own gas. And the dealerships are always more expensive. We could use a good mechanic around here,” I said without thinking.

  Clive looked stricken. “Don’t remind me.”