The Alpine Winter

by Mary Daheim

  “Makes sense,” I said. “One way or the other, he was putting customers in a better mood, at least temporarily.”

  “You could look at it like that. The law has a different view.”

  The first sips of my screwdriver had given me the courage to chip away at Mitch’s stone wall. “How’d he get out here in the first place?”

  “He’d enrolled at Wayne State, undeclared major. Troy’s grades were okay, but he had no focus. We finally told him to figure out what he wanted out of life.” Mitch frowned. “You’re smirking. Why?”

  “Adam campus-hopped. While he was at ASU in Tempe, he hung out with my brother at his Tuba City mission. Then out of the blue, he decided to become a priest. I was stunned. Sometimes I feel as if Adam is Ben’s son, not mine.” I made a face. “Sorry. I wasn’t going to dump on you. Please, go on.”

  It took a deep sip of stinger to get Mitch back on track. “Troy decided what he wanted was a girl named Libby. Smart, pretty, but kind of wild. Her parents yanked her out of Wayne State and sent her off to Gonzaga in Spokane. They were Jewish, but thought a Jesuit school might straighten her out.” He stopped as Gala came to take our orders.

  Mitch went for the meatballs with egg noodles. I requested a seafood salad. Gala nodded curtly and sidled away.

  “Troy followed Libby a couple of weeks after she took off for Gonzaga. He left during the night, hitchhiking across the country. We had no idea what’d happened to him until he called from a rest stop in Montana. We didn’t hear anything more until several weeks later. He’d been picking apples in Wenatchee. Libby had met someone else.”

  “Fast worker,” I remarked.

  Mitch looked pained. “I don’t think Libby ever cared that much for Troy. Brenda contacted her mother at some point. Mrs. Weinberg said Libby was happy in Spokane, looking forward to doing all kinds of new things that didn’t necessarily include hitting the books. Libby was a water-skier, but she wanted to try snow-skiing and horseback riding and be close to a year-round recreational area. The fact that Libby told Troy to get lost didn’t mean much to the Weinbergs.”

  “I suppose he was ashamed to come home?”

  “You got it. But like Libby, he liked the freedom, liked the West, liked the weather, liked picking those freaking apples.” His green eyes were a bit misty. “Brenda had a breakdown. Troy was her baby.”

  “The season’s short,” I noted. “Is that when he moved to Yakima?”

  “I’m not sure. We didn’t hear from him for six months. He was in Yakima, very upbeat.” Mitch grimaced. “I should’ve figured out why. Troy was using, too. He said he had a truck-driving job—if you can describe a Good Humor wagon that way.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “How long did his Good Humor gig last?”

  “Until a year ago around Labor Day, when he got arrested. Ironically, he was busted for a DUI.” Mitch’s face turned grim. “He hit a ten-year-old boy who’d run out into the street between parked cars. The boy survived, but was seriously injured. Legally, it was the kid’s fault, but the cops who showed up took one look at Troy and knew he was high.”

  “Is that how they found out he was dealing?”

  Mitch, who had taken another big swallow of his drink, nodded. “They found the stuff in the wagon. I came out to Yakima during the preliminary hearing and what turned out to be a plea bargain. The court-appointed defense attorney thought there was no probable cause for the cops to search the wagon, but it turned out Troy had been ticketed a couple of times earlier. Brenda was still in bad shape, so she stayed home. After Troy was sent to Monroe—that must’ve been late October—I went back to Royal Oak. Brenda was beating herself up because she hadn’t come with me. The next thing we knew, he’d escaped.”

  I was puzzled. “I thought you visited him after you moved here.”

  Mitch’s expression was ironic. “I’m talking about the first time he escaped, in the spring. They caught him two days later in a deserted shed near Sultan.”

  “Did you come here when you learned he’d escaped the first time?”

  “No.” He paused to sip from his drink. “By the time we were notified, a few hours later Troy was back in custody. Brenda felt we should be closer to him. I didn’t argue, if it would help her frame of mind. The Free Press was downsizing. Sooner or later, they’d offer a paper parachute and show me the door. It took a while to find a job not too far from the prison. I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw your opening last summer.”

  “The job was open because I was desperate after hiring the nitwit who replaced Scott Chamoud.” I smiled. “If I’d found someone more competent back then, I wouldn’t have hired you. I’m glad I did.”

  Mitch smiled. “You’re a nice person, Emma. Really. How have you adjusted to a small town?”

  “One day at a time?” I said lightly.

  He tipped his head to one side. “I know about Tom Cavanaugh. Even in Detroit, his death made news. I won’t ask anything personal.”

  “Time does heal,” I said a bit stiffly. “I’m fine. Is there any chance Troy would try to find Libby?”

  Mitch leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think he’s been in touch with her since he left Spokane. For all I know, she’s not there, either.”

  “Is there anyone else he made friends with before his arrest?”

  “Troy mentioned some guys at the prison. He pointed out one to Brenda and me, a black kid about his own age. Nice-looking, smart, according to Troy. He talked about an older guy, a big brother type. I never saw him.” He shrugged. “There was a guard he liked, too. I only saw him from the back—a big Samoan, the kind nobody sane would mess with. But Troy said if you behaved, he was a pussycat.”

  Our food arrived. Gala’s service seemed begrudging. As we began eating, the conversation shifted away from personal dilemmas. Evidently Mitch had unloaded everything he was willing to reveal. And I preferred sticking to neutral topics.

  We were back in the office by one-twenty. Kip was holding down the fort with Alison in the front office.

  “Ginny called,” he said. “She wants a trial run to test her sister-in-law’s day-care patience. Donna isn’t keen on taking all three kids.”

  “I don’t blame her,” I said. Donna Wickstrom also had an art gallery to run. I was about to add that Ginny should skip coming back at all when Alison answered a call for me.

  “It’s a Mrs. McKay,” she said. “Shall I tell her to call back?”

  It took a moment for the name to register. “No, I’ll talk to her in my office.” Hurrying into my cubbyhole, I picked up the receiver. “Hi,” I said, awkwardly sitting down. “Have you found another body?”

  “No,” Melody replied in a cheerful voice, given the subject matter. “Jim and I were curious about whether the remains have been identified. I called the sheriff’s office, but someone named Heppner was sort of curt.”

  “He can be, but he’s following orders. It takes time to get an ID.”

  “I should know better than to ask,” Melody said, still cheerful. “We had a similar problem when some idiot tried to steal Jim’s plane last June. Everything has to go through the FAA these days since 9/11.”

  “How,” I asked, “could anyone but a hijacker steal a plane?”

  “The same way cars are stolen,” Melody replied. “We keep the Cessna at Harvey Field in Snohomish. They’re very tight about security, but a young man with a pilot’s license talked his way in, saying he was doing a favor for a friend. Luckily, he couldn’t get the Cessna to taxi onto the field. Rupert—a skydiving instructor—saw the kid and realized he wasn’t anyone who’d ever been with us. Rupe got security and they dragged him out of the cockpit. Then they notified the FAA. The kid’s friend was never found. It took us two days to learn the details.”

  “Too bad it didn’t happen in SkyCo,” I said. “It would’ve made a good story.” I heard a raised voice in the front office, so I had to cut the call short. “Thanks, Melody, for an entertaining anecdote.”

  We rang off.
I hurried into the newsroom, where I found Alison, Kip, and Mitch being badgered by an agitated Roy Everson.

  “I need help,” he cried, thrashing his arms and stomping his feet like a maniacal rooster. “How do I get a lawyer real fast?”

  I spoke first, having been asked a similar question earlier in the day. “Why do you need one, Roy?”

  He batted at his USPO rain slicker. “The body on Sawyer might be Mama. It’s where she went berry-picking. I need a court order.”

  “Do you want the sheriff to hold the body here?” I inquired calmly.

  “I want to see it,” Roy stated. “Mullins fobbed me off, says it’s county property. I’m a federal employee, so I outrank him, right?”

  Mitch sidled up to Roy. “You’re a federal employee, but your request’s personal. Dewey says the corpse is male. Do you trust Doc?”

  Roy looked uncertain. Behind me, I heard Alison rustling papers and Kip tapping his foot. “Doc’s in on the conspiracy. Mama’s disappearance is a cover-up for bigger things, so the local powers unite. I know. I work for the post office!”

  “Why,” Mitch asked calmly, “would anyone do such a thing?”

  Roy threw up his hands. “Don’t ask me!” He grabbed Mitch by his raincoat. “Can you help? An exposé, like Watergate. You’re from D.C.”

  “No, I’m from D.T., as in Detroit,” Mitch said, gently freeing himself from Roy’s clutches.

  Roy backed off, rubbing his balding head. “I knew it had a ‘D’ in it,” he murmured. “I’ve seen the postmark.”

  “Hey,” Mitch said, “why don’t we go have coffee and talk this over?”

  Roy looked dubious. “Well … I don’t know … I should get back to …” He turned, staring at Alison. “Where’s Amanda?”

  Alison darted a glance at me. “Amanda Hanson?”

  “Yes,” Roy replied fretfully. “She can take over. I won’t be long.”

  Alison did her best imitation of a smile. “Of course.”

  Mitch looked at me. “I’ll take good care of Roy,” he said, taking the other man’s arm and ushering him out the door.

  “Whew!” Kip exclaimed. “Roy’s really gone postal!”

  “I don’t get it,” Alison said. “Is it Mama or the holiday rush?”

  “A combination?” I suggested. “Christmas does odd things to people.”

  “I guess,” Kip murmured. “What’s Mitch going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but he can’t do much harm.”

  As it turned out, I was mistaken.

  FIVE

  BACK IN MY CUBBYHOLE, I CALLED AMANDA HANSON AT THE POST office. “Are you busy?” I asked.

  “Not now,” Amanda replied. “The lunch hour was hectic with gift returns. Are you going to ask me to come back to work for you?”

  “Not yet, but I may. Ginny’s status is shaky. My priority is your boss, Roy. He was here a few minutes ago, acting strange.”

  “Ohh … the Mama bit?” she inquired, lowering her voice.

  “Yes. I hate to be blunt, but he seems to have gone off the deep end. Mitch had to hustle him out of here and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. It sounds as if you’re not surprised.”

  “I’m not,” Amanda said. “The last few days have been worse than usual because Roy hasn’t been himself. He’s fixated on Mama.”

  “Who’s in charge when Roy’s not around?”

  “Duane Swanson, the Toyota guy’s younger brother. He went to lunch a few minutes ago.” She paused. “It’s going on two. Roy was supposed to be back by now. When did you last see him?”

  “Five minutes ago? He left with Mitch.”

  “Roy went to run an errand just after one, saying he’d take lunch after Duane got back. I didn’t know he was coming to see you.”

  “He wasn’t. He went to the sheriff’s office about the body on Sawyer, but Mullins fobbed him off and Roy had a tizzy.”

  “Oh, damn!” Amanda exclaimed. “I should’ve guessed. Roy was talking about it all morning to anybody who would listen. Grace Grundle was so upset hearing about corpses that I had to get her some water. Got to go. There’s a lineup at the counter. Keep us posted, okay?”

  I told her I would. After hanging up, I realized the office was unusually quiet, especially for a Monday, when we always were scurrying around for the Tuesday deadline. At least the paper was almost ready to roll once Mitch finished his lead story on the unidentified body.

  I felt at loose ends. Just weeks ago, I’d have walked the block and a half to the sheriff’s office to find out what happened with Kent MacDuff or how Roy acted when he asked to see the corpse. Now I was self-conscious about facing the deputies. I didn’t want to see Jack smirk or Sam glare or Dwight try to decide whether I was the sheriff’s salvation or his ruination. Bill Blatt would let his aunt Vida’s perception prevail, and Dustin Fong wouldn’t pass judgment.

  “To hell with it,” I said aloud. I couldn’t just sit and brood. I put on my jacket and my professional air before heading out to Front Street.

  Milo and Sam were behind the counter, going over a map of Highway 2. They looked up when I came through the swinging door. Sam’s face turned to stone. Actually, he always looked like that. The sheriff registered only the faintest hint of surprise. “If,” he said, “you’re asking about the highway, it’s open. Does it matter?”

  “Only to people who want to drive on it,” I retorted. “I assume nobody called Kip while I was out?”

  Milo looked at Sam. Sam shrugged. “Drivers who want to use the highway will find out when they get there.”

  “It’s called a public service announcement,” I said. “Then that’s not news,” Sam said.

  I’d long ago stopped trying to convince law enforcement and anybody else in state, county, or city government what was news. “Skip it,” I said. “That’s not why I’m here. I want to ask about Roy Everson.”

  Milo looked again at Sam. “You’re on. I wasn’t here.” He turned his back on me and headed to his office.

  “Well?” I said when Sam seemed to have become a clam. “I know Roy’s off his rocker. Mitch has him in reporter’s custody.”

  Sam was startled, an unusual expression for the deputy. But any expression except dour was unusual for him. “What do you mean?”

  “He lost it in the Advocate front office. Roy thought he was still at the post office. Mitch hauled him away.”

  “Away where?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to find out if he acted peculiar when he called on you guys.”

  “I didn’t talk to him,” Sam said. “Mullins did.”

  “Where’s Jack?” I asked, hearing the phone ring.

  “Lunch,” Sam replied, glancing at the console that was usually manned by Lori. The ringing stopped. I could hear Milo’s voice in the background. “Even deputies have to eat. Mullins didn’t get back from Highway 2 until almost one o’clock.”

  “Okay. No news here.” I turned to go, but Milo yelled my name.

  “What?” I shouted back, seeing him with the phone still at his ear.

  The sheriff waved an impatient hand at me while speaking into the receiver before hanging up. A moment later, he’d grabbed his regulation jacket and hat before striding out of his office. “Your reporter took Roy to see Dr. Sung at the clinic,” he said, pushing through the counter’s half door. “Roy’s not a patient patient. He’s tearing up the waiting room.”

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “Is he okay?”

  “Who gives a damn? He threw Marje Blatt on her ass.” Milo was out the door, with me trying to catch up.

  “Hey!” I yelled as he went straight to the Cherokee. “You can’t go without me! What about Mitch?”

  “What about him?”

  I was by the passenger side’s locked door. “Let me in.”

  “Are you nuts, too? This is police business. Go away, Emma.”

  He ducked down to get into the driver’s seat. I had no choice but to step
back as he turned on the engine and reversed onto Front Street. I wanted to kill him. I decided to walk to the clinic on Pine, even if it was uphill with the wind and rain coming right at me from the south. Pulling my hood up more securely, I crossed Third, waiting for a handful of cars and trucks to go by. The sheriff had already passed me by. He hadn’t turned on the siren, so I assumed no one was dead. The chilling rain mixed with snow blew into my face. I cursed Milo with every step up the hill.

  The Cherokee was parked in the clinic’s loading zone. When I reached the main entrance, the blinds were shut and a Closed sign hung on the door. Momentarily thwarted, I swore under my breath. But I wasn’t running up the white flag. I got out my cell and dialed Mitch’s number. He answered on the third ring. “Are you all right?” I asked, hearing voices that included Milo’s in the background.

  “I think so,” he said. “I may not be back to the office until—”

  “Stop,” I interrupted. “Open the door and let me in. I’m standing in freezing rain.”

  Mitch didn’t speak for a moment. Instead, I heard Marje Blatt’s voice, unusually shrill. “I can’t,” my reporter finally said.

  Damn! Now Milo and I were even. This was my business, too. “Yes, you can. Go down the hall and turn right. There’s a private entrance. Open it for me.” I clicked off before Mitch could argue.

  When I got to the other part of the clinic, the door was still closed. As I wondered if Milo had strong-armed Mitch, the knob turned.

  “I think,” he said, moving aside to let me in, “I screwed up.”

  “How so?” I asked, pulling off my hood and wiping rain from my face.

  “I used a trick that often worked on reluctant interview subjects in Detroit. I told Roy I thought he had skin cancer on his neck and that he better have it checked ASAP. Instead of sitting with me and meekly waiting for the doctor—which usually gives me enough time to get answers from a witness—Roy jumped from the chair and attacked Marje Blatt. After she went down, he started smashing up the place. Dr. Sung came out and subdued him. That guy’s ripped, and he knows martial arts. After Sung got Roy on the floor, he had Marje give him a shot. Now he’s out like a light. I feel like a fool.”