The Alpine Decoy

by Mary Daheim

  “Right, right,” Milo said, with a trace of impatience. “Now what’s your big news, Vida? Emma and I left a couple of tall cold ones to haul our butts over here.”

  Vida pursed her lips. “Really, Milo, sometimes you’re very crude. I happen to know that Emma isn’t all that fond of beer.”

  It was true. I would have preferred a large turkey sandwich with a side of potato salad. But sometimes I have to make great sacrifices for my career in journalism. Trying not to smile, I watched Vida give Milo one last glare, then stalk over to the canopy’s edge and stand by a stone marker with raised brass letters.

  “Art Fremstad,” Vida said, now gazing somberly at Milo. “Your late deputy.”

  Milo reached for his hat, realized he wasn’t wearing one, and took off his sunglasses instead. “Poor Art.” He stared down at the grave. Deputy Fremstad had met a violent end six years ago. He had not yet turned thirty.

  Standing next to Vida, I said a silent prayer. And waited for Milo to speak. Or for Vida to make her point. The spring breeze caused Vida’s lightweight coat to flutter around her thighs. She held onto her hat with one hand, then pointed at the marker with the other.

  “Well? Don’t you see it?”

  Milo did. He bent down, peering at the headstone. I took a couple of steps to look over his shoulder. “What is it?” I asked, afraid that I could guess. “Blood?”

  Vida jerked her head in assent. “I should think so. You’ll need a scraping, Milo.”

  The sheriff bolted upright, his rear end banging into my hip in the process. “Of course I will! Damn it, Vida, you act as if I don’t know my own business! Sorry, Emma.” He gave me an apologetic look.

  But I had turned to Vida. “Hold it—are you saying you think Kelvin Greene was shot here at the cemetery? Why?”

  Vida shrugged. “I’m guessing, naturally. But the man must have been shot somewhere in the vicinity. He couldn’t run very far with a bullet in his head. Where else?” Vida swept a hand at our surroundings: All I could see was the cemetery, but beyond the far reaches of the laurel hedge on the south was the high school, the football field, the track, and the handsome older homes that included the Campbell residence. To the east, the Icicle Creek development lay on the other side of Highway 187. North, across Cedar Street, was a neighborhood of more modest houses. The cemetery was a good guess, but it wasn’t the only possibility. I said as much.

  “The track and the football field are right across the street from Marlow Whipp’s store. The shooting might have taken place there.”

  Vida shook her head. “No, no. Coach Ridley had his track team practicing until early evening, remember? I heard Carla mention it.” She turned to Milo. “I assume you’ve spoken to Coach. Did he or any of the athletes see anything unusual?”

  Milo didn’t meet Vida’s unblinking gaze. “They were just leaving when I got there. Bill and Dwight had shooed most of them away.” His voice was a bit of a mumble.

  “You really ought to ask Coach,” Vida declared, giving Milo another disapproving look. “Honestly, I feel you’re dragging your feet on this, Milo. If the rest of us can work on a weekend, why not you?”

  Vida’s reproach clearly stung. “Hell, I’ve worked more weekends than anybody else in Skykomish County! I can’t make miracles. We need the lab work before we can start coming to any conclusions. It isn’t as if this is Mayor Baugh or one of the county commissioners. The dead guy’s a stranger, maybe a drifter, certainly a small-time perp. Do you see anybody marching on my office to demand that we make an immediate arrest?”

  Vida’s expression turned very bland. “No.” Under her straw hat and behind her glasses, she looked faintly owlish. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. Nobody cares about Kelvin Greene. Including you.” With a swish of her coat, Vida stalked off from under the shade of the canopy and headed for her car.

  Chapter Five

  AN HOUR LATER, I caught up with Vida by accident. I was heading for Dutch Bamberg’s video store while she was coming out of the children’s shop across the street. Still attired in her funeral wear, Vida was now lugging a large bag emblazoned with crimson letters that read KIDS’ KORNER. It had taken two and a half years of living in Alpine before I realized that the capital letters weren’t just a random attempt at cuteness, but actually spelled out the first name of the proprietor, Ione Erdahl.

  “Roger’s birthday is week after next,” Vida announced, tapping the shopping bag. “I bought him clothes. He wants a chemistry set, but he’s still too young.”

  And dangerous, I reflected, as visions of Vida’s terrifying grandson exploded in my mind’s eye. At almost ten, Roger’s potential for mischief rivaled that of several Middle East dictators. I was still reeling from his St. Valentine’s Day escapade when he’d played Cupid and shot an arrow into Darla Puckett’s backside. Unfortunately, Mrs. Puckett was bending over my desk at the time, choosing a photograph of her late husband. Darla landed in my lap, Roger fled into Front Street, and traffic came to a screeching halt. A Blue Sky Dairy truck rear-ended Averill Fairbanks’s Chevy Caprice, and Durwood Parker drove onto the sidewalk, demolishing a city planter, a lamp standard, and the Venison Inn’s lunch-special sign. Vida blamed Darla for offering Roger such a tempting target.

  I preferred to keep Roger not only out of sight, but completely out of mind. “I was going to rent a movie for tonight,” I said, having no pride when it came to admitting to Vida that my Saturday evenings were dull indeed. “How about going out for dinner? Café de Flore, maybe?”

  Vida wrinkled her nose. French cuisine wasn’t her favorite. “Well … I suppose I could get something sensible,” she allowed, proving that as usual, she was a good sport.

  “My treat,” I said impulsively, and was immediately sorry. A full-course dinner for two at the French restaurant a few miles west of Alpine on Highway 2 could cost a bundle.

  “Nonsense,” Vida replied, rescuing me from my own generosity. “We’ll go dutch. Sevenish?”

  I nodded. “My car, if not my treat?”

  Vida agreed, then headed for her Buick, the shopping bag swinging at her side. I watched her pull out from the curb. With a sense of alarm, I noted that she was heading not for home, but toward the mall. The toy store was located there. It carried chemistry sets. With a shudder, I hurried to the sanctuary of my green Jag.

  I didn’t get far. Carla and Ginny were coming down Pine Street, apparently headed for Videos-to-Go. Despite the asset of youth, their Saturday nights weren’t much more exciting than my own. I sympathized. There was definitely a dearth of eligible men in Alpine.

  But when I started to commiserate, my two nubile, young employees proved me wrong.

  “We went out last night to the Icicle Creek Tavern,” Carla said, flipping her long black hair over one shoulder. She glanced at Ginny. “It was kind of fun, huh?”

  Ginny’s serious face turned even more thoughtful than usual. “I guess. You had fun, anyway. I told you, you should have had Libby go instead of me. Your new roommate could put up with anybody.”

  Carla giggled, always a jarring sound. I suppressed a smile, thinking that Ginny was right—Libby Boyd was putting up with Carla, after all. “Libby has a boyfriend,” Carla countered. “So what if Rick Erlandson’s hair is weird? I mean, bright orange isn’t his color. But he works at the bank, Ginny. He can’t be a complete dweeb.”

  “Maybe not.” Ginny gave me a persecuted look. “Carla always gets the real guys. I get what’s left.”

  Curious, I turned to Carla. “Who was it? Crazy Eights Neffel?”

  Carla giggled again, and I was sorry I’d asked. “No, no, no!” More giggles. I didn’t know if I could stand it. “Peyton Flake. He’s really pretty cool. For a doctor.”

  I all but reeled. Somehow, Peyton Flake’s eligibility had eluded me. Yes, I knew he was single. Yes, I realized he was in his early thirties. Certainly I was aware that he was well educated and that his potential for income was excellent. But I had seen him strictly in his profession
al capacity, as a physician. As for Carla … I was dumbfounded. She was pretty, more than pretty, really, and while I considered her dizzy, she was basically intelligent. At least she was a university graduate. Her social skills were adequate, and her interests were reasonably wide. But I had viewed her, too, as a vocation, not as a person. She was a journalist, and didn’t always live up to expectations. At least to mine. Now I was the one to giggle.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake! I had no idea I was watching romance blossom under my very nose!”

  Ginny sneered; Carla scoffed. “Not really,” Carla replied. “Not yet,” she added, a bit smugly. “But we did have fun.”

  Ginny didn’t seem so sure. “It was interesting. Especially the part about Cyndi Campbell.” She darted a sidelong look at Carla.

  “Oh!” Carla bounced on the sidewalk, drawing the attention of a couple of passersby. “That’s right! Guess what, Emma? Cyndi had been in the Icicle Creek Tavern that afternoon with a black dude. Everybody was talking about it. What do you want to bet it was the guy who got shot last night?”

  My happy face turned down. “Kelvin Greene? Wait—who told you this?”

  Carla started to answer, then turned again to Ginny. “Who was it? That Rafferty guy who tends bar? Or our waitress, Denise Petersen?”

  “Denise,” Ginny answered after careful consideration. “She was kind of thrilled about it. But she waited until Peyts went to the men’s room to mention it You know, because he has a black nurse for him. I guess she didn’t want to embarrass Peyts.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was more stunned by the news of Cyndi Campbell drinking beer with an African-American or by my staff’s nickname for Dr. Peyton Flake. Shock was coming upon shock. I felt like clinging to the nearby lamppost.

  “Now hold on here,” I admonished, sounding more like the boss than just another female engaging in girl talk. “When was Cyndi at the tavern with this person who may or may not have been Kelvin Greene?”

  “Kelvin Greene?” Carla gave me her most wide-eyed stare. “Is that his name? Gee—I don’t know. It was in the afternoon. Isn’t that what Denise said?”

  Ginny nodded. “They just talked. I mean, it wasn’t like a date.” My office manager seemed aghast at the mere thought, then tried to explain herself: “I mean there’s nothing wrong with Cyndi dating a black man. Lots of celebrities do it. I see them in People magazine all the time. They even intermarry.” Ginny’s fair skin was flushed.

  But romantic implications weren’t my primary concern. Milo seemed convinced that Kelvin Greene had come to Alpine because he knew Marilynn Lewis. But what if he had been acquainted with Cyndi Campbell instead? I had to admit it was a strange coincidence that both young women lived under the same roof.

  My staffers started off down the street, but Carla stopped before they reached the corner. “I got the baseball pictures,” she called over her shoulder. “We won, eight to five, but the Buckers’ mascot got stolen.”

  I visualized the high school mascot, a large, lumpy stuffed dummy named Swede in a plaid shirt and brown pants. Except for appearances at games and pep rallies, the ersatz sawmill bucker resided in the trophy case at the high school.

  “Sultan poor sports?” I inquired.

  “Probably,” Carla replied. “They must have taken it during the night because Coach Ridley said it was gone when they went to get it this morning.”

  “Great.” I could foresee a series of incidents between the two student bodies, with mascots, trophies, uniforms, and possibly even innocent freshmen being hauled up and down Highway 2 between Alpine and Sultan. The school year was ending, and with it, a certain madness always set in. I would have to run a small story, though I hated to encourage further mayhem. With any luck, Swede would be returned by deadline.

  I called Milo as soon as I got home, but he was out. I left a message on his machine, then spent the rest of the afternoon weeding my garden. Out with the dandelions, the thistles, the clover, the buttercups, the bindweed, the nightshade, even the common vetch, which blooms prettily enough in late May, but chokes everything else. By five-thirty, I had filled a huge plastic garbage bag and was feeling exceedingly virtuous. I even had the wounds to show for my efforts. Several scratches marred my arms, and I’d gashed a finger with a rose thorn. It was still bleeding, but I felt impervious to pain. I stood back to admire the fruit of my labor. The rhododendrons were at their peak, the azaleas were brilliant, the iris and poppies looked lush. Like most Pacific Northwest gardens, mine reveled in the spring. Summer would be more sparse, with sporadic bursts of roses, two weeks’ worth of gladioli, and, if I got lucky, enough dahlias to make a small splash.

  I was envisioning the months to come when a horn honked in my ear. I turned to see an official Forest Service pickup parked by my mailbox. The back was jammed with tools and brush. I wondered if there was room for my trash bag. The city charged extra for yard collection.

  Libby Boyd leaned out of the cab. “Hey—Ms. Lord! Are you ready to run an engagement story yet?”

  Brushing dirt off my hands, I approached the truck. Libby’s olive skin glowed with good health. Her strawberry blonde hair was cropped close to her head, with what I assumed to be natural curls dancing around her heart-shaped face. She had a sunny smile and sparkling blue eyes, the aura of a charming cherub. Libby’s radiant vitality made me feel like a slob. A dirty slob, given my grubby clothes and earth-ladened flesh.

  “Are you talking about Dr. Flake and Carla?” I asked, somewhat flabbergasted.

  Libby laughed, an infectious sound. “Aren’t they a pair? I’m kidding, of course. At least, I think I am. Hey, you’re bleeding! What happened?” She sobered, her white, even teeth coming down on her lower lip.

  I dismissed my injury, which I’d already forgotten. But Libby was insistent, rummaging in the glove compartment. “You could get an infection. I’ve got a first-aid kit in here. At least, I thought I did. That’s odd—it’s gone.”

  Libby’s concern touched me. I had visions of her trailing Carla around their apartment, making sure my dizzy reporter had brushed her teeth, turned off the stove, and wouldn’t leave without her keys. Carla needed someone like that in her life.

  My impression was bolstered by Libby’s next words: “You know, I worry about Carla. She’s man-starved. I’m afraid she’ll fall head over heels for the first guy who pays her any attention around here.”

  I, too, turned serious. Carla’s emotional state hadn’t troubled me in the least. I gave Libby Boyd a hard stare. “Peyton Flake’s a decent man,” I asserted, hoping to ease my conscience.

  “Oh, sure, he’s cool,” Libby replied, turning away to search for something on the passenger seat. “I don’t know Carla as well as you do, so I ought to keep my mouth shut. But she seems sort of vulnerable to me.” Libby reached out through the window to hand me a sheet of paper. An inch of pale skin around her left wrist indicated that she’d already acquired an early tan. Maybe she cheated, and it was induced by the electric beach. But that didn’t seem to fit Libby’s healthy image. “Here, this is the summer fact sheet for the campgrounds,” she explained. “I should have given it to Carla, but I forgot last night. You might as well have it because she’ll probably lose it if I give it to her over the weekend.”

  I glanced at the official U.S. Forest Service heading. “Thanks, Libby. And thanks for being concerned about Carla.”

  Libby lifted her shoulders, which were covered in the tan uniform of a park ranger. Obviously, she had drawn Saturday duty. “Carla’s okay. I’m not knocking Peyts. He’s probably good for her. Every couple needs balance. One partner is always stronger than the other. That’s what makes it work. Stability is the key to life.” She gave me a worldly smile.

  The pickup roared off down Fir Street, where it made a deft turn onto Third. I was moved by Libby Boyd’s compassion. If Peyton Flake was good for Carla, so was Libby. I wondered if Carla realized that she had been lucky in her choice of a roommate. I hoped she’d be as lucky in love.

/>   Milo had called while I was outside. After hauling the trash bag to the garbage can next to the carport, I applied a Band-Aid to my finger and opened a can of Pepsi. Then I phoned Milo back, telling him about Cyndi Campbell and her rendezvous with an African-American male at the Icicle Creek Tavern. The sheriff asked if I’d gotten a description.

  “I heard this secondhand,” I retorted in a vexed voice. “Go ask Denise Petersen. Better yet, talk to Cyndi Campbell.”

  Milo said he would, come Monday. It was his poker night. They were playing their monthly game in the back room at Harvey’s Hardware and Sporting Goods. Huffy and not sorry for it, I hung up.

  Vida and I drove down Stevens Pass among tall corridors of evergreens, bathed in the late day’s golden sunlight. Traffic was fairly heavy both ways, with weekend travelers going between the western and eastern halves of the state.

  The Café de Flore was also busy, and I was glad that I’d thought to call in a seven-fifteen reservation. We sat next to a window that overlooked Anthracite Creek. A Downy woodpecker hammered at the trunk of a tall cedar. Out by what I guessed was a storehouse, a gray squirrel rooted in the ground by a clump of blue speedwell. I ordered a vodka gimlet and tried to put aside all thoughts of murder and mayhem.

  Of course, with Vida as my companion, that was impossible. On the short drive to the restaurant, I’d told her about the sighting of Cyndi Campbell at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Vida’s interest far exceeded that of Milo. Now, stirring her Tom Collins with a swizzle stick, she made a face. “Honestly, Emma, Milo is being unusually impossible, even for a man.” Before I could respond, she swiveled in her chair, taking in the rest of the dining room. “I thought so,” she murmured. “At the long table, against the far wall—Wendy and Todd Wilson, with some of the high school faculty.”