The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  She nodded when I finished. “I tried to call the O’Tooles a few minutes ago, but Betsy had just left. Tell me more about Julie Canby. I scarcely know her. What did she say about the tragedy?”

  “She was cooking when the mayhem started. Julie mentioned that she felt sorry for De Muth because he always seemed unhappy. No family, at least not close by. In fact, we don’t know much about him.”

  Vida drummed her short nails on the padded chair arm. “True. I’m trying to recall when he came to Alpine. The repair shop’s previous owner was Milt Weiss. He and his wife, Emaline, sold it to De Muth when they—foolishly, in my opinion—moved to Arizona. That would be about six years ago.”

  “We must’ve done a story on it,” I said. “Sky Service and Towing has always run a small ad in the paper.”

  “Yes. I believe Leo passed on the details about the new owner and Scott Chamoud wrote a short piece.” She paused again. I was certain that she was diving into her deep well of memory. “There wasn’t much to write about. Alvin De Muth was from east of the mountains. He preferred small towns.” Vida grimaced. “Scott said he was a man of few words.”

  I nodded. “So I’m told. Milo did a background check. If he’d found anything about Al, he might’ve mentioned it.”

  “He might not.” Vida grimaced. “Milo can be very unforthcoming.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “I should see if Milo wants to eat the other crab tonight. Marisa and I only demolished one between us. I froze the torte.” I stood up. “How was your evening with Buck?”

  She got out of the easy chair but didn’t look at me. “Fine.” I waited while she arranged some of the family photos on the mantel. Fondly, she fingered Roger’s picture and moved it closer to the front. “You’d think,” she said, finally coming toward me, “that Mike O’Toole’s youth and general good health would have seen him through this, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d hoped as much,” I said, “but they didn’t. He’s not the first young person around here to die in a vehicular accident.”

  “Still,” she added, glancing back at her grandson’s smarmy smile, “I get the shivers when I think of something like that happening to Roger. Young people shouldn’t die before their time.”

  “I know.”

  We walked to the front door. “It’s very different raising children these days,” she murmured when we got to the porch. “So many more temptations. Not that it’s ever easy, but I don’t recall sending our three girls out the door and constantly fretting over what might happen to them before they came home again. Or even,” she added, more softly, “if they’d come home at all.”

  I shot her a curious glance as she walked down the front steps with me. “Adam is several years younger than your daughters. I have to admit I worried quite a bit about what could happen when he was out of my sight. Being a single working mom and living in a big city made it even harder.”

  Vida stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Of course,” she remarked in a vague tone. “It feels like rain.” Her gaze moved south to Tonga Ridge, which was virtually obscured by gray clouds.

  “It’s not cold enough for frost, though,” I said. “I think I’ll call Milo to see if he’s free for dinner.”

  Vida nodded absently. “The park by Redmond has a windmill.”

  I glanced at her. “What’s that got to do with … anything?”

  “Milo’s future son-in-law is half Dutch,” Vida replied in her usual brisk voice. “That’s why Tanya and her fiancé are being married there. The nearest windmill is in Marymoor Park on Seattle’s Eastside.”

  We walked on to the curb. “Will everyone wear wooden shoes?”

  “Perhaps.” Vida shrugged. “They can’t do anything more unconventional than some of the marriage ceremonies I wrote up this summer. The Roberson-Corey wedding on horseback at the Evergreen State Fairgrounds was the worst. So disgusting having the bridesmaids and groomsmen carry those satin-trimmed shovels.”

  “And because Britney Roberson’s dad owns Platters in the Sky and takes out a weekly ad, we were forced to run pictures to prove it,” I murmured, opening the door on the driver’s side.

  As Vida waved me off, I decided to call Milo from my car. A whole crab and most of the garlic bread was left over, but Marisa and I had eaten most of the Caesar and potato salads. I dialed the sheriff’s cell in case he’d left the office.

  “Last call for crab,” I said. “Are you interested?”

  “Yeah. Six?”

  For some reason I thought the single-word query was Sex? It took me a second to realize I was mistaken. “That’s fine. See you.” I rang off. The Grocery Basket was closer to my house than Safeway, but I didn’t feel up to coping with the gloomy atmosphere pervading the O’Tooles’ store. I turned right on Sixth, followed Cedar to Alpine Way, and continued to Safe-way, which anchored the northwest corner of the mall. It was starting to drizzle when I pulled into the parking lot.

  The deli section was toward the front end. As I waited for the clerk to fill a medium-size carton with potato salad, I heard a commotion coming from farther down the aisle. Holly Gross had grabbed a little girl, who was kicking and yelling. A toddler in the cart’s kiddy seat was screaming his head off, and a third youngster was trying to climb into the sweet potato bin. I turned away, trying to ignore the unruly Gross tribe. Memories of Adam having a tantrum at a Fred Meyer store in Portland came back to me—a frightening and embarrassing occasion when he’d tried to swallow a miniature soldier I’d refused to buy for him. After much choking and turning my son upside down, the tiny GI had been dislodged. Luckily, Adam got over public displays of temper at an early age. I finally got it through his ornery little head that if he ever pulled any more stunts like that, I would never, ever buy him anything he didn’t need. I’d pointed out that there was a difference between needs and wants. On my way to the checkout stand, I realized I’d forgotten to take care of Adam’s most recent requests. Although they were needs, the outlay of money would shrink my meager savings. I’d go online, compare prices, and have the needs shipped directly to St. Mary’s Igloo.

  In the express line, I heard a familiar voice. “Are you dieting?”

  I turned to see Mitch Laskey, who had placed a brick of cheddar cheese, a pint of whipping cream, and a can of pumpkin on the conveyor belt. “I don’t need to do diets. Neither do you,” I added, gesturing at Mitch’s lanky form.

  He nodded. “Brenda tries every fad diet that comes along. I don’t know why. She’s tall, and an extra ten pounds looks good on her. I can’t eat the pumpkin pie she’s going to make all by myself.”

  I paid cash for my purchases and waited for Mitch. “I suppose,” he said after collecting his items from the courtesy clerk, “you’d like to know about our visit with Jica Weaver in Snohomish yesterday.”

  We stopped just short of the exit. “You found out something?”

  “Yes and no,” he said. “Jica assured us that Clive is a peaceful type and insisted that even provocation wouldn’t drive him to violence. She didn’t see the fight, and she dismissed Clive taking responsibility as some kind of noble or gallant gesture.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Mitch looked bemused. “It translated as protecting a lady’s honor.”

  The concept sounded unlikely. “Any lady in particular?” I asked.

  “No. Frankly, I thought she was kind of nuts, but Brenda didn’t agree. The word my wife used was fanciful.”

  I grappled with the distinction. “She means Jica is … delusional?”

  “Not exactly.” Mitch stepped aside for a young couple who’d just entered the store. “Brenda thinks Jica’s created an emotional haven, possibly to keep some very ugly experiences at bay.”

  “That could be,” I said. “She seems fragile in every way.”

  “Not a local?”

  “No.” I frowned. “I shouldn’t say that. I honestly don’t know.”

  “Brenda thinks Jica’s in love with Clive.” He shrugged. “Women are better at
gauging that sort of thing than men. Why else would Jica pay for his attorney?”

  I nodded. “I gathered she’s very fond of him.”

  “So it seems.” Mitch glanced outside where the rain was now pelting the parking lot. “By the way, I heard about the O’Toole kid. That’s damned rough.” He looked grim. “You know the family pretty well, I gather.”

  “Yes. I’ve already talked to Betsy and Mike’s brother, Ken.”

  “Nothing worse for parents.” Mitch paused, slowly shaking his head. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “I’d better go. Brenda won’t have time to make the pie for dessert if I’m not home before five.”

  After exiting, we walked in opposite directions to our cars. Puddles were already accumulating on the concrete and the sky had turned very dark, with the wind blowing down off the invisible mountains and through the river valley. I all but ran to my Honda. Behind the wheel, I brushed water off my face and turned on the engine and the headlights. I reversed cautiously out of the diagonal space, then crept along to turn off onto Park Street and Alpine Way. My windshield wipers did their highest-setting best to let me see at least ten feet in front of me.

  But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden crash of metal on metal that sent me forward so sharply that the seat belt seemed to squeeze the air from my lungs. I braked, but the Honda still skidded slightly before coming to a full stop. I sat for a moment to make sure I had all my faculties and that my appendages were in working order. I turned off the ignition and looked to see where the car had been hit. A battered red beater had backed into the rear door on the driver’s side. I could hear screams but couldn’t tell where they were coming from. I took off my jacket, put it on over my head, and got out of the car.

  Holly Gross was leaning into the beater, yelling at her children. Obviously, she had reversed out of her parking place too fast and hadn’t seen my car. To my further dismay, the rear fender had been damaged, jamming it into the tire on that side. I couldn’t drive my Honda home.

  Holly had finally managed to quiet her trio of kids. She whirled around to look at me. “Move your damned car, bitch!” she shouted. “I can’t get out of here.”

  Shock wore off quickly and anger took over. “I can’t,” I said, waving in the direction of my rear left tire. “Are you insured?”

  Holly stopped by the rear end of her beater. “Shit, you can get somebody to yank that piece of metal out of the tire. Where’s that tall, skinny guy I saw you yakking with?”

  “Gone,” I snapped.

  “So?” Her sharp chin jutted. “Get him back here. He works for you, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m calling the cops,” I said, starting back to the Honda to retrieve my purse.

  “Hey! No way!” Holly yelled. “I’ll get a guy from the store to do it.”

  I kept going. Holly followed me. Her flimsy cotton jacket was already soaked, her blond hair was dripping wet, and her eye makeup was streaming down her cheeks. As I fumbled for my cell, she leaned into the car through the open door.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said, her tone menacing.

  “Get the hell out of my face!” I shouted over the honking of a horn. “We’re both blocking traffic.”

  I’d found the cell and was dialing 911 when Holly grabbed my left wrist and gave it a painful twist. “That’s my kids honking!” Her eyes glittered with wrath. “Hang up!”

  I swung my right arm and hit her in the head with the cell phone. She let go, reeling slightly. The call went through as I heard Beth Rafferty’s calm voice on the other end.

  “Safeway parking lot car wreck and catfight,” I said quickly.

  “Emma?” Beth said, recognizing my voice. “Got it. Injuries?”

  “Not yet, but likely.” Holly was coming at me again, but I’d moved enough so I could swing a leg and catch her at the knees. She fell forward into my lap. Beth had ended the call. Holly didn’t get up. She was crying and blubbering. I shoved her off my lap. She sank to the ground with a dull thud.

  I was able to close the car door and lock myself in. Feeling a trace of pity, I watched Holly stagger to her feet. The horn-honking continued. I couldn’t be sure if it was her kids or an outraged shopper trying to get past our cars. As Holly finally stood up, I saw Dane Pearson, the Safeway manager, hurrying toward us with a couple of other employees and several customers. I rolled my window down halfway.

  “What the hell …?” Dane put an arm around the sobbing Holly before looking at me. “Ms. Lord?” he said, incredulous.

  “I called the cops,” I said. “Medics, too.”

  “Okay.” Dane passed Holly on to a slim young man who guided her back to the beater. “What happened?” the store manager asked, leaning down next to my car.

  “See for yourself.” I gestured behind me at the wreckage.

  Dane and the third employee, a middle-aged woman, inspected the damage. Meanwhile, Holly had gotten back into her car with the young man’s help. The gawking customers had sought cover from the downpour in their own vehicles or inside the store. I could hear sirens in the distance.

  Dane walked over to me. “Did Holly back into you?”

  “Yes.” I took a couple of deep breaths. “She must’ve been going too fast for these conditions. I was barely doing ten miles an hour when she crashed into me.”

  “Okay.” He moved to get in front of my Honda, where he waved and shouted to the patrol car that was pulling in. A moment later Dustin Fong headed my way. He spoke briefly to Dane before reaching my Honda. “Are you hurt?” the deputy asked, polite and calm as usual.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’m kind of shaky, though.”

  Dustin looked apologetic. “You’ll have to fill out an accident report. What happened?”

  I explained how Holly had backed out too fast and too blindly. “You should make sure her three kids are okay,” I added. “I think she lacks proper maternal instincts.”

  He turned to look around. “How many? Holly and two kids are headed this way.”

  “Oh, crap!” I cried. “Now what?”

  Dustin was up to the challenge. His sturdy six-foot frame blocked the Gross onslaught. Holly had stopped crying, but was shrieking invective over the deputy’s shoulder. Most of it, I gathered, was aimed at me. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was almost five. I decided to call Milo and ask him to pick me up. The Honda would have to be towed.

  “Slow down,” the sheriff ordered in that laconic tone I knew so well. “You’re a wreck but you’re safe in a park?”

  I kept an eye on the Gross gang as Dustin led them to his patrol car. “Hang on,” I said to Milo before leaning out the window. “Get the toddler, Dustin!” I yelled. “There’s one more kid still in the car.”

  Apparently Holly wasn’t counting heads, Dustin hadn’t remembered there were three kids, and Dane was dealing with more gawkers. The medics were just pulling in.

  “Okay,” I said into the phone as I slumped in my seat, “if you want to eat crab, you’ll have to collect the cook from Safe-way’s parking lot. Holly Gross backed into me and my car’s not drivable.”

  “Shit.” Milo groaned. “Some weekend. Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Have you called Cal Vickers to tow your car away?”

  “No. I’ll do that now.” I rolled up my window. “I also have to fill out an accident report.”

  “Skip that,” Milo said. “I’ll bring one with me. I should stop by the office anyway. Doe’s going off duty at five and I want to make sure that Bill Blatt is up to speed on everything.”

  “I’ll wait inside the store. Dustin’s got all of the Grosses rounded up and they’re getting into his … hold it, he’s coming this way. I’m hanging up.”

  “Ms. Lord,” he said as I rolled my window back down. “There’s room in the patrol car for you, too. Do you want to come with us?”

  I gaped at the deputy. “Are you kidding? The only way I’d ride with that bunch is if you gave me a weapon. Your boss is picking me up. He’s also bringing along
an accident report form.”

  Dustin looked as if he was trying not to smile. “That’s good. We’ll need your side of the story. Ms. Gross insists it was your fault.”

  “She would.” I shook my head. “Those poor kids. Are they okay?”

  “I think so.” Dustin looked uneasy. “They’ve got a ton of energy. But the medics will check them out. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’d better be,” I said, “or else your boss is going to go hungry. If I suddenly collapse, the sheriff can haul me off to the ER.”

  Del Amundson had gotten out of the medic van. Dustin excused himself to meet the medic in front of the patrol car, which, I noticed, was rocking a bit. I could only guess what mayhem the Gross clan would commit before Dustin finished with them.

  Dane had disappeared briefly, but I saw him coming over to my Honda. He was carrying four grocery bags, presumably containing Holly’s purchases. “I suppose this will be in the Advocate,” he said.

  I nodded. “We report all accidents. It’s not your fault, Dane.”

  His round, rain-spattered face looked bleak. “I know that, you know that, but Holly says she’s going to sue me for not providing decent lighting in the parking lot. Not to mention,” he went on, juggling the sacks, “it looks to me as if her kids shoplifted a bunch of candy. The bill was on top and I noticed that there weren’t any M&M’s or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. They’ve done it before.” He sighed. “Glad you’re all right, Ms. Lord. I guess I’ll write off the candy as a business expense.” Trying to avoid the ever-growing puddles, he headed for the patrol car, where the Gross children were getting out and being herded to the medic van.

  I dialed Cal Vickers’s number. The Texaco service station was by the mall, just a couple of minutes away from Safeway. His son, Chuck, answered and told me he’d come right over.

  The patrol car pulled out as soon as the medic van moved out of the way. Dane waved a weary arm at me as he walked by my car and headed back toward the store. The slim young employee returned. He was wearing a rain poncho and carrying a big flashlight. I guessed that he’d been sent to guide traffic around the parking lot’s blocked aisle.