The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  So was I, but I didn’t want to exacerbate Amy’s distress. “You could call Lori Cobb,” I said. “She might know where your mother went after she left the sheriff’s office. Lori should be home soon. She was just leaving at five when I spoke to her.”

  Amy thanked me and hung up. Kip was standing by the door. “Vida’s missing?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, “but her daughter can’t locate her and I’ve no idea where she is. Her cell’s batteries may have gone out. Amy’s calling Lori Cobb to find out when Vida left the sheriff’s office and if she said where she was heading from there. Let’s go. I’ll check in with Milo on our way. I’m already late.”

  As soon as we pulled out in Kip’s pickup, I dialed Milo’s cell. He didn’t answer, so I left a message saying I was on the way to get my car.

  At the first left turn, Kip braked to wait for oncoming traffic. “You’re meeting Dodge by the river? Is this late news or … ah …”

  I interrupted to spare him embarrassment. “A romantic rendezvous in a downpour? No. I haven’t a clue.”

  “Does he realize we’re up against deadline?” Kip asked, making the turn onto Fifth Street.

  “Probably not,” I said. “He never does. We got lucky when he arrested Clive Berentsen on a Tuesday night.”

  Approaching Railroad Avenue, we heard the train whistle and the clanging of bells. “Shoot,” Kip said as the guardrails on the semaphore went down three cars ahead of us. “We’re stuck. This westbound freight’s twenty minutes late. I usually hear it from the back shop about a quarter to five.”

  A small town’s routine, I thought. No need for clocks and calendars, just look and listen to the river’s flow, the snow line in the mountains, the leaves changing color, the rhythm of the rails. No need to hurry, never far to go. After so many years, I was beginning to feel that I was no longer a stranger in Alpine.

  “Hey,” Kip said, breaking into my idle musings, “would you mind calling the Burger Barn to put in a pickup order for me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s their number?”

  Kip grimaced. “I forget. Call the Venison Inn. I can remember that one. They’ll do take-out for me. Double bacon-and-cheese burger, fries, coleslaw, and a strawberry shake. Thanks.”

  The freight’s lead engine shone through the rain. To block out the rumble of the boxcars, I put my finger in the ear I wasn’t using for the phone. I gave Kip’s order to Sunny Rhodes. “It should be ready soon,” she said. “Tell him to come around to the back. He knows the pickup drill.”

  “Thanks. You’re putting in long hours,” I remarked.

  “That new waitress wasn’t just a no-show,” Sunny said, sounding not so sunny. “She quit. Good riddance, I told Oren. Liz was a lizard-breath, breathing bad attitude on the customers. Got to run. ’Bye.”

  The train clattered on to the west. Kip tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, as if to keep time with the rumbling of the rails. “Thanks, Emma,” he said after I turned off my cell. “The inn’s fries are better than the Burger Barn’s.”

  “Right,” I said in a vague voice. “Have you run into that new waitress, Liz?”

  “You mean the one Vida did the thing about in ‘Scene’?” Kip saw me nod. “A couple of times at the Burger Barn. She acted like she was pissed off. Or maybe it was just me.”

  “No,” I said as the last train car passed by. “She quit the Burger Barn and moved on to the Venison Inn. Now she’s quit there, too.”

  Kip eased his foot off the brake pedal as the semaphore arms went up. “Quit or got fired?”

  “Quit. Maybe I’ll call Sunny after the dinner rush is over.”

  “Why,” Kip asked as we crossed the tracks, “do you want to know?”

  “It seems odd,” I replied. “Liz moves here from Idaho, gets a job, leaves, and then does the same thing a couple of weeks later.”

  “Some kind of drifter, maybe.” Kip turned onto Railroad Avenue. “It could be she has relatives here. She wasn’t a bad waitress, she just had some real negative ’tude.”

  “Human interest,” I murmured.

  “Huh?”

  I shook my head. “I’m justifying my curiosity with reporter lingo. What makes somebody move like a vagabond? Rootless, restless, maybe even reckless?”

  Kip pulled up in front of Bert’s chop shop. “The Three R’s of drifters? Maybe you do have a story there.”

  “Doubtful,” I said, picking up my purse. “Liz isn’t the type to unload on a stranger who’ll put her in the spotlight. That’d be the last thing a drifter would want. Thanks, Kip.”

  “Do you want me to stick around in case your car’s not ready?”

  “No,” I said, opening the passenger door. “Bert would’ve phoned if it wasn’t fixed. Call me tonight when the paper’s locked up.”

  “Got it.”

  I put my jacket’s hood up over my head and squinted into the driving rain. Luckily, the area in front of Bert’s shop was paved. Getting mired in mud wasn’t uncommon in Alpine during the fall and winter. We had too little pavement and too much dirt. Living so close to nature has its drawbacks. Even concrete gets covered with dead leaves in October. There was no doormat, so I did a little dance to scrape off the cedar cone clusters and the maple seedpods from my shoes. My Honda was parked next to the building. I hoped that was a good sign.

  Norene Anderson jumped when I opened the door. “Ms. Lord!” she gasped. “You scared me. I thought you were … someone else.”

  “Sorry.” I smiled as I approached the desk. “Is my car ready?”

  “Uh … yes.” She moved away from a steel bookcase jammed with ledgers and manuals. “Let me see … the invoice must be someplace …” Her hands shook as she rearranged various items on the cluttered desk.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “You seem upset.”

  “Well …” Keeping her eyes on the desk, she raked her fingers through the auburn ringlets that straggled down to her eyes. “It’s been busy. I can’t …” Norene knocked over a ceramic pen and pencil holder. A few pens rolled off the desk onto the floor. “Oh, no!” She ducked under the desk. “Your invoice,” Norene said after awkwardly reappearing with two pens and a sheet of paper. “Bert’s no good at cleaning.” She brushed cobwebs, dust, a couple of feathers, several dried leaves, a gum wrapper, and what looked like cookie crumbs from her clothes. “You want to check this out before you sign off?”

  I scanned the invoice. It looked accurate to me. The total came to $515 plus some small change. I signed all three copies before handing my credit card to Norene. “Where’s Bert?” I inquired as she ran my Visa through the machine.

  “He’s … here somewhere,” she said. “Maybe at the yard.” Returning the credit card, she again avoided looking at me.

  “Kind of sloppy weather for him to be in the yard,” I remarked. “Did you pave it when the fence was put up?”

  “No.” She handed me the pink sheet marked CUSTOMER COPY. “We don’t need anything fancy there. Bert keeps the good stuff locked up out back.”

  “Thank him for me,” I said, noting that it was almost five-thirty. “I have to dash. I’m late for an appointment.”

  Norene nodded in a distracted manner.

  I stopped short of the door. “Oh!” I exclaimed, turning around. “I forgot my keys.”

  Norene gave another start. “Keys? Yes, yes. Let me get them. They’re on the board over here.” She went into the narrow hallway. I waited … and waited. Finally she came back with the keys in her hand and an anxious expression on her doughy face. “There you go. G’night.”

  Outside, I hurried around to my car, pausing to turn on the small flashlight that was attached to my keychain. I wanted to make sure the dent had been fixed properly. Visibility was poor and my light was feeble, but I couldn’t see any telltale sign of where Holly’s beater had hit my Honda. The new tire seemed fine, too. Bert had done a good job.

  I got behind the wheel, checking out the interior. It was clean. While I might have a
cluttered and haphazard office, I refrain from trashing my car. Maybe it’s because years ago in Portland some idiot had broken into my Chev. The only items in the car had been a six-pack of Pepsi, my ten-dollar sunglasses—and Adam’s cherished Speed Racer action figure. The thief had taken it all, and my five-year-old son had been devastated until I bought him a replacement. If a crook would smash a window to steal less than thirty dollars of loot, any removable items could be a temptation.

  Satisfied that everything was in order, I buckled my seat belt and was about to turn the ignition key when I glanced at the rearview mirror. Something or somebody was moving thirty or so yards away by the end of the building. I hesitated, trying to see who or what was going on behind me. Through the heavy rain, the blurred shapes of two people looked as if they were grappling with each other. Or maybe it was horseplay. Natives on the west side of the Cascades rarely let a downpour interfere with their fun.

  But suddenly the pair didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves. They’d moved a few yards closer. One was a man, the other a woman. He was dragging her by the arm, struggling to a parked car at the edge of Bert’s property. I hadn’t yet turned on my headlights, but a car passing on Railroad Avenue gave just enough illumination that I recognized Bert and Norene. Apparently they had come outside through a rear entrance. Norene had either been mistaken or had lied when she told me her husband was across the street in the wrecking yard.

  I rolled my window down a scant inch, trying to hear what they were saying. Their sparse, disjointed words sounded like protests from Norene and growls from Bert. He was forcing her into the car’s passenger seat. After slamming the door, he scrambled around to the other side and got in. I watched as Bert started the engine, made a screeching U-turn on the slick pavement, and gunned the engine as soon as he reached the street. He was driving the blue Toyota I’d seen parked outside the chop shop on my previous visit.

  It took me a few moments to gather my wits. I was about to turn on the ignition when my cell phone rang. “Where the hell are you?” Milo demanded. “I’ve been sitting on my dead ass for twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in two,” I promised. “Exactly where are you? I can only see about six feet ahead of me in this deluge.”

  “I’ve been waiting by Mickey Borg’s minimart. We had a little chat. I’m done here. Meet me in the parking lot at Gus Swanson’s Toyota dealership.” The sheriff clicked off.

  The car lot was a block and a half away on Railroad Avenue, but the parking area and main entrance faced Front Street. I took a right on Seventh and a left on Front. I pulled in as close as I could to the showroom’s double doors. Milo was only a couple of minutes away, so I stayed in the car. Through the plate glass windows I could see Gus with a female potential customer. He moved slowly around a silver Celica, apparently pointing out its merits. The woman, who had her back to me, was wearing a yellow rain slicker with the hood up. Gus was doing all the talking; his would-be buyer nodded a couple of times.

  The Grand Cherokee pulled in next to me. I rolled down the passenger window and called to Milo. “Why are we here?” I asked.

  “Unlock the damned door, okay?” he ordered, looking exasperated.

  “Okay.” I waited until he slid into the passenger seat and tried to get his long legs into a comfortable position.

  “Damned midsize sedans,” he grumbled. “Can’t you at least move the seat back for somebody who’s not a damned midget?”

  “Move it back yourself,” I retorted. “What’s with all this meet-me-by-the-river crap?”

  “Long story.” He took off his tall regulation hat and winced as he finally got settled into the seat. “I went to see Mickey Borg at the Gas ’n Go about his eyewitness account of your ruckus with Holly. He wasn’t in the Safeway parking lot that evening. He was at the Venison Inn, getting tanked with Gus Swanson.”

  I was surprised. “How’d you find that out?”

  Milo looked bemused as he nodded toward the showroom. “Didn’t you see her?”

  “‘Her’? What are you talking about?”

  “Look,” said the sheriff. “She’s turning this way.”

  As the woman studied the Celica, she slipped off the slicker’s hood. I gasped. “It’s Liz, the bitchy waitress!” Stunned, I watched Gus lead her into the cubicle that served as his office. “I don’t get it,” I admitted, turning back to Milo. “What does Liz have to do with any of this?”

  Milo looked downright smug. “Liz is De Muth’s widow.”

  “What?” I shrieked.

  The sheriff was obviously enjoying himself. “Her full name is Lorna Irene Zobrist De Muth. Liz is a nickname. She and Al separated several years ago, but never divorced. Liz came up here for one last try at reconciling. She stayed at the Alpine Falls Motel, and it didn’t take her long to figure out that De Muth wasn’t interested in getting back together. She was almost broke, so she worked as a waitress to pay her way back home.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “Liz is from Idaho.”

  Milo chuckled. “Idaho Falls, Colorado, thirty miles west of Denver. Anyway, when De Muth got killed, she was upset but realized she was still his legal wife and would inherit whatever money or property he owned. She couldn’t have kids, and that was one of their big hang-ups. De Muth wanted a family, so did she, but she refused to adopt.”

  “Maybe that’s why De Muth mentored those kids who wanted to be mechanics. They were his surrogate sons.” I tried to sort through this latest discovery. Milo rarely dug into people’s private lives unless they were involved in a criminal investigation. “How did you find out? Is Liz a witness or … what?” I avoided saying suspect. It didn’t seem possible.

  Milo’s self-satisfied air fled. “By chance. I had to check out cars this afternoon.” He stopped to light a cigarette. I rolled the windows down just enough to keep from getting asphyxiated. “I ended up here.”

  “Cars? What for?”

  “Never mind. Bottom line is Mickey can’t support Holly’s innocent-party status.” The sheriff flicked ash out through the open window instead of into the ashtray. “You’re off the hook. I wanted him to tell you in person that he lied. But things got complicated.”

  “No kidding,” I murmured. “Does it matter that we’re sitting here in a downpour watching the Widow De Muth buy a car? Do you care that my back is killing me? Would it interest you that Bert and Norene Anderson may be killing each other at this very moment? And how about Vida being missing in action?”

  The last query caught Milo’s attention. “Vida? What happened?”

  I explained, including, of course, Roger’s DUI. “She’s not answering her cell or home phones,” I said. “Naturally, her daughter Amy is worried. So am I. It’s not like her.”

  The sheriff tapped his fingers on his knee. “It wouldn’t be,” he muttered. “Unless … skip it for now. As soon as Gus closes this deal, we’re going to take a formal statement from him.”

  “Gus? Why? Didn’t you do that already?”

  “He lied.”

  “About what?”

  “The ICT brawl.” Milo inhaled, exhaled, and tapped more ash out the window. “He didn’t want to get any deeper than he already is with Delphine and his wife. The poor bastard’s between a rock and a hard place with those women. When it comes to his private life, Gus is one mixed-up dude.”

  And you’re not? I didn’t say it out loud, but it crossed my mind. I looked inside the showroom. Gus and Liz were still in the cubicle. “So we sit here for how long?”

  “As long as it takes.” The sheriff tossed his cigarette out the window, an unlawful act in SkyCo. At least there was no danger of starting a forest fire in the middle of a drenching rain.

  “Isn’t it too soon for Liz to have her inheritance? How’s she paying for the car?”

  Milo shrugged. “That’s up to her and Gus. If he figures she’s good for it down the line, something can be worked out.” He reached inside his jacket. “Want a Cert?”

  “Why not?” I said,
taking a mint from the roll. “I may starve to death at this rate. Aren’t you concerned about the Andersons? They were really going at it.”

  He shook his head. “Not unless they kill each other.”

  “What about Vida?”

  The sheriff sighed. “Sounds like Roger’s got himself into a real jam this time. I figure his grandma is trying to sort things out.”

  “How? Bribing you or one of your deputies?”

  Milo didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead where Gus and Liz were still wheeling and dealing in the office.

  “If,” I said after a long pause, “Vida’s giving aid and comfort to the grandson, why doesn’t Amy know where her mother is?”

  “Maybe Amy doesn’t know where Roger is,” Milo said and gestured toward the dealership. “Here they come. Let’s hope Liz doesn’t want to take Gus on a joyride.”

  I watched as the two people inside exchanged a few words and shook hands. Liz pulled the slicker’s hood over her head before going outside. Without so much as a glance in our direction, she walked briskly to a VW Beetle in the customer parking area.

  “Must’ve borrowed that,” Milo murmured. “I think it belongs to that jerk who runs the Alpine Falls Motel.” He reached for the door handle. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  “Hey!” I shouted. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not. This is business.”

  I hit the power lock button on the driver’s side. The sheriff yanked at the handle a couple of times, but knew he couldn’t open the door on his side. “Goddamnit, Emma, I’m not fooling around. Open this sucker before I blow my stack.”

  “Go ahead. I didn’t drive over here to sit around and watch puddles form in Mayor Baugh’s crumbling streets. This little excursion has made me even crankier than when I started out. Why can’t I be on hand when you take down Gus’s formal statement? It’s a public document and if I need to, I’ll put it in this week’s edition. Or, as usual, have you forgotten about our Tuesday deadline?”

  “You can’t come because …” Milo had started off shouting, but paused and lowered his voice to a rumble. “Because I’ve got something else to do in there.”