by Mary Daheim
Across the aisle and down one booth, Jeannie Clay was being joined by Marje Blatt. Marje spotted her aunt and flew over to our table.
“Guess what!” she breathed, her small bosom rising under her crisp white uniform. “The sheriff just came to the clinic to talk to Marilynn Lewis about that murder Friday night! Is it true you found the body, Aunt Vida?”
“Certainly not,” sniffed Vida. “Emma and I covered the story, of course. That’s our job.”
Marje is in her midtwenties and possesses a wholesome prettiness. Spiritually, she is a petite version of her aunt. Marje is brisk, efficient, and seemingly without guile. She is also curious by nature.
“I wanted to stay to find out what was happening, but Dr. Flake thought we should leave for lunch.” She motioned at Jeannie, who was practically falling out of the booth in an attempt to overhear. “I don’t think Dr. Flake was very happy to see Milo Dodge come to the office while we still had patients.”
“Milo has to do his job, too,” Vida replied primly. “Maybe you can ask Dr. Flake—or Marilynn—what Milo wanted to know.” Her smile was benign; her eyes were like stilettos.
Marje started to turn away. “I’ll call you tonight. I have to tell you about my trip to Cabo San Lucas.”
“Yes, you do. I’ll wait to hear from you.” Vida gave a jerky nod of dismissal. I half-expected Marje to salute.
I, however, did not intend to wait for secondhand news. Feeling somewhat deceitful, I told Vida I had to go to Parker’s Pharmacy after lunch to get some Excedrin. And I did, but instead of returning to The Advocate, I continued along Front Street to the sheriff’s office. Milo was in, eating a double cheeseburger and wiping his nose.
“So,” I said, sitting down in his visitor’s chair and assuming my most knowing air, “what did Marilynn have to say?”
Milo curled his lip over his cheeseburger. “Damn. I’m glad I’m a law enforcement officer. If I were a crook, I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting away with anything in this town.”
“Oh?” I gave him an arch little smile. “Does that mean you’ve caught your killer?”
Milo’s glare would have daunted someone who hadn’t raised a son on her own. I may not understand men, but I know their limits. Under that indolent exterior, Milo Dodge has a temper. It’s not difficult to rouse, but easily extinguished.
“Stick your sarcasm in your ear, Emma,” Milo snapped. “If you’re so fired up for me to make an arrest, I could haul that nurse in right now. Who else in this town is likely to have plugged that guy? She doesn’t have an alibi, either.”
Inside, I froze. But I kept calm, seemingly casual. “Does Marilynn admit she knew Kelvin Greene?”
“Hell, no.” Milo took a swig of coffee from a heavy white mug. “But she’s lying. I’d bet on it.”
There was no point in arguing. Not just now. “She does have an alibi. She was apartment-hunting after work Friday.”
Milo made a gesture of dismissal with his free hand. “Dolph Terrill is her alibi. First of all, the old rummy says she came by on Thursday. Then he says it was Friday after lunch. Finally, maybe before dinner. He can’t remember his own name. In fact, when Dwight Gould questioned him, Dolph fell off the front porch.”
“Great.” I sighed. “What do you do next?”
Swallowing a pill, which I presumed was for his allergies, Milo flinched slightly. “Check with our liaison in Seattle. Get more information on Kelvin Greene. Find out why he came to Alpine.” His face relaxed a bit. “Say, Emma—did you hear a shot Friday night? You and Vida were at the Campbells’, right?”
I nodded. “Yes—and no,” I replied slowly, working my way through the memory of our arrival at the Campbell house. “We got there right around seven. I don’t remember hearing any shots. If there were, they could have come from the practice field. Coach Ridley had his kids going through their paces for the track meet that’s coming up. Starter guns.” I gave Milo a curious look. “Weird timing, huh?”
“Lucky timing, for the killer.” Milo’s expression was wry. “And yes, I did talk to Rip Ridley. He didn’t see anything or anybody unusual by the high school. Neither did his athletes. They’re worked up anyway, since Swede got snatched. There’s no sign that anybody broke into the high school, though. Damned odd.” Obviously baffled, Milo shook his head.
It seemed to me that the sheriff was showing more concern over Bucker Swede’s disappearance than Kelvin Greene’s murder. “But a black male was hanging out by the high school field that morning.” Trying to get Milo back on track, I told him about Carla’s report. “It was so early that it might mean Kelvin got to town the previous night. Have you found a car?”
Milo became smug. “Sam Heppner found it yesterday. A ’ninety-one Trans AM, parked up in the cul-de-sac at the end of Fifth Street by the Tolberg farm.”
I raised my eyebrows. My log house was located on Fir, between Fourth and Fifth. The forest began where my backyard ended. The cul-de-sac was a mere hundred yards from my home. It was also an equal distance to the high school track.
“That’s not a cheap car, right?” The only thing I knew about automobiles was that I’d always coveted a Jaguar. I’d bought mine used, four years ago. I intended to drive it until the wheels fell off.
“They don’t give them away,” Milo replied. “Greene’s the registered owner, so he didn’t steal it.” The sheriff looked disappointed.
“Has Marlow recovered from having a dying man drop in?” In my mean-minded way, I figured that most of Whipp’s customers were already dead.
Milo’s hazel eyes flickered over me and came to rest on his nasal spray. “So it seems. Though …” He shrugged, leaving the little word hanging.
I pounced. “Though what? Come on, Dodge, air your doubts.”
But Milo put his feet on his desk and his arms behind his head. “I don’t know, Emma. I don’t think he’d ever seen this character before in his life. Still, Marlow is acting strange. I suppose it’s the shock.”
“Maybe.” But I was certain Milo did indeed have doubts. If the sheriff did, so did I. It was Milo’s certainties that worried me. Especially when it came to Marilynn Lewis.
Chapter Seven
ED BRONSKY SEEMED to be trying. Usually, he was only trying my patience, but in this third week of May, my ad manager was actually putting forth some effort. In a fit of remorse after work on Friday, he had tried to apologize to Lloyd Campbell. Gunning the Bronsky family station wagon up First Hill Road in hot pursuit of Lloyd’s Alpine Appliance van, Ed hadn’t quite succeeded. The old station wagon stalled twice, and Lloyd was gone by the time Ed reached the van. But Ed had further proved his newfound diligence by talking Dutch Bamberg into four inches instead of his usual two, along with a discount coupon for midweek video rentals. He also came up with an original layout for Alpine Fine Fabrics, rather than relying on his tired clip-art file. And wonder of wonders, he found a new display advertiser, Skykomish Credit Counselors, which had previously been buried in the classified section.
I praised Ed to the skies. Diffidently, he brushed off my fulsome words. “I guess it was time I tried some new tricks. It took some doing with Dutch Bamberg—he’s stubborn as a mule. They don’t call him Dutch for nothing. But we can’t wait forever for Fred Meyer and Starbuck’s to get here and zap things up. Shirley and I had a real heart-to-heart talk over the weekend. She sort of stoked my engine.” Ed chuckled and leered, not a pretty combination, but given the circumstances, I kept smiling.
By late Monday, we seemed to have the paper under control. Still, I held off writing the homicide story in case there were any late-breaking developments. I checked in with Milo just before heading home, but he’d already left work. Deputy Sam Heppner informed me that Honoria Whitman was back from Seattle. The sheriff had gone a-wooing. And, I realized, I’d forgotten to show Milo the letter I’d received from the bigot. If I had time on Tuesday, I’d do it then. But the day before we go to press gets pretty hectic. The bigot could keep. Unfortunately, they al
ways do.
I stopped at the library to return a couple of overdue books and to find something new to read. The Alpine Library shares space with senior services, which, in turn, adjoins the civic center. All are housed in the old high school, a two-story red brick building that dates from the 1920s. The county library system’s budget has been cut, so recent releases are hard to come by. I put in three reserves and checked out a couple of older espionage novels I’d missed along the line.
Edna Mae Dalrymple was on duty. A nervous, efficient sprite of a woman, Edna Mae is the head librarian and one of my fellow bridge players. “Guess who came in to get a library card,” she whispered. Edna Mae always whispers, except at the card table where she is inclined to shriek and squeal as well as fidget and twitch. She also likes to answer her own questions. “The new nurse, that’s who. I’m so thrilled that she’s a reader.”
“Well, why not?” I asked boldly.
Edna Mae’s overbite gripped her lower lip as she frowned and gestured at the nonfiction stacks. I turned, seeing Jean Campbell absorbed in the house and garden section.
“Ms. Lewis has a tremendous responsibility on her shoulders,” Edna Mae confided. “Imagine, coming here on her own and bearing the brunt of an unintegrated town like Alpine! It’s very important for her to step right in, doing all the things Alpiners do. Church works, service clubs, library books, bridge—if she plays. I’d like to recruit her for our ‘Speak Up, Speak Out’ series. Last month we had Coach Ridley.”
The library speaker series had also had me, in my first six months as editor and publisher of The Advocate. Four people showed up, two of whom had been deaf as posts. A third, Toots Bergstrom, had eaten her lunch. Noisily. I couldn’t recommend Marilynn’s participation, but I was loath to say so to Edna Mae.
“Well … certainly,” I temporized. Maybe Marilynn could speak on geriatrics nursing.
I was about to leave when I saw Jean Campbell approach the desk with two large gardening books. She smiled a bit tensely when she saw me. 1 waited while Edna Mae checked out Jean’s selections.
“I’m trying some new perennials,” Jean said, as we walked together through the glass double doors. She displayed the books she’d chosen, both of which were devoted to Pacific Northwest gardens. “I’m tired of annuals. They’re just too much trouble. I had some lovely peonies about to bloom, but they got trampled. I suppose it was a dog. People should keep their pets tied up.”
Not owning any animals, I readily agreed. “By the way,” I went on before Jean could head for her Chevy, which was parked three spaces away from my Jag, “tell Marilynn there weren’t any new apartment ads in this week’s classifieds. And Carla doesn’t know of anybody who’s moving out of The Pines Village.”
“Oh.” Jean stared at her shoes, then gave me another tense smile. “Well. I’m sure Marilynn will find something soon. I told her she should strike a bargain with Dolph Terrill and offer to do some of the repairs if he’d lower the rent.”
“And?” My own smile was full of encouragement.
Jean’s forced cheer fled. “Marilynn said it was more work than she could handle. Cracks in the walls, plaster peeling, balky plumbing. Maybe Shane could help. She really should have a place of her own.”
“I suppose it is kind of crowded,” I allowed.
“Well … it’s not that so much as … I think she’d be happier on her own. She’s used to it. Though I believe she had a roommate in Seattle.” Jean moved about a bit awkwardly on the pavement. “And then there’ve been so many phone calls last night and today. We should have thought about giving her a separate line, but that’s such a bother if she’s not going to stay with us.”
“Phone calls?” I strove to look innocent. It’s not an easy guise for a prying journalist.
Jean’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know what it’s all about. I took half-a-dozen calls for her today—and, of course, she was at work. They were friends, I suppose.” Again, she seemed absorbed in her shoes.
“Not local calls?” In the distance, the courthouse clock chimed the half hour. Traffic on First Street was moving at a brisk pace—at least by Alpine standards.
Jean shook her head. “No. Marilynn hasn’t made many friends yet. She hasn’t had time, really.” Glancing at her watch, she flashed another unconvincing smile. “I’ve got to dash. I’m picking Marilynn up at the clinic.”
All the way home, I wondered about those phone calls. I hadn’t watched the news over the weekend. As a print journalist, I disdain TV newscasts except during the week when I figure I might pick up an item with a local tie-in. Maybe the Seattle stations had carried a story about Kelvin Greene’s murder. Perhaps it had appeared in the Monday morning edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. If so, had Marilynn’s rash of calls been triggered by Kelvin’s death? I hoped not.
My curiosity had to be put on hold. There was nothing about the murder on the early editions of the three Seattle newscasts. Nor was there anything in the Northwest section of the evening Times. I immersed myself in one of my espionage thrillers and tried to forget about Kelvin Greene and Marilynn Lewis.
Yet even in my own mind, their names were linked. That bothered me. What if Milo was right? Shortly before ten, I called Vida.
“Stupid bridal shower,” Vida fulminated. “I just got home. Darla Puckett’s granddaughter, all of seventeen, marrying a high school dropout from Gold Bar. The theme was a zip code. Now how am I going to write about that?”
I gaped at the receiver. “A zip code?”
“They served tapioca. With maraschino cherries, pronounced by the bride-to-be as marsh-o-lino. Where do these nincompoops come from?” Vida was, as she herself would put it, fit to be tied.
“A zip code?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes, and not even from around here. Nine-oh-two-something-or-other. Maybe that’s where they’re going to live. Wherever it is, it’ll be a hovel. They don’t have siccum.”
Enlightenment was dawning. “I think it’s a TV show,” I offered. “It’s called 90210. Very popular with teenagers.”
“So is unwanted pregnancy,” Vida snapped. “Why can’t they have a real theme, with a pansy arch, or play Reach for the Ring? Honestly!”
I waited for Vida’s pique to pass. Then I asked if she’d found out anything from Marje Blatt. For once, she didn’t know any more than I did about Milo’s call on Marilynn Lewis. Marje, however, had reported that Chaz Phipps from the ski lodge had seen an African American in the parking lot around four-thirty. Chaz had thought he was a guest checking in, but he never registered.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “Kelvin really did want directions from Cyndi to the lodge.”
Vida was still prickly. “For what? To pass time?” She was more interested in her nephew’s report. After concluding her conversation with Marje and before going to the bridal shower, Vida had talked to Bill Blatt.
“The information is sketchy,” Vida said, now simmered down. “Kelvin Greene was a small-time crook: three arrests, no convictions, all drug related. We knew that. He’s been living with a woman named Winola Prince, out in Rainier Valley. She moved in with him about a month ago. It appears she’s a decent woman, and is quite upset over Kelvin’s demise. Winola’s a licensed practical nurse. She works at Virginia Mason Hospital, which is where Marilynn Lewis worked before she came to Alpine.” Vida paused, and I could almost see her smirk. “Doesn’t that beat all?”
Milo Dodge’s visit to the Alpine Medical Clinic had not gone unnoticed. By midmorning on Tuesday, I had heard from Mayor Fuzzy Baugh, Henry Bardeen at the ski lodge, Francine Wells of Francine’s Fine Apparel, and Averill Fairbanks of UFO fame. Averill said he thought that black people had been brought to earth by space aliens about the same time that Mount Mazama blew up in Oregon to create Crater Lake. I told Averill he ought to check his theory out with NASA or the NAACP, whichever group’s phone number he could find first through Directory Assistance.
Everyone seemed agog at the possibility that a black man h
ad been shot by a black woman, right here in Alpine. And just about everyone did think it was possible, even likely. More sightings of Kelvin Greene had been reported, including at the mall, the courthouse, the Icicle Creek campground, and riding one of the Dithers Sisters’ Appaloosas down First Hill Road. Maybe, I’d suggested to the last caller, they’d also seen Zorro. I felt like tearing my hair. I actually gave it a yank when I got the second letter in the morning mail.
“Dear Publicher,” it read, “Rumors are flying. Where will they go? The mall? Downtown? Out into the naiberhoods? Once they get started, there’s no stopping them. They will take us all over, and make us there slaves. Yours truely, A Loyal Reader.”
I snatched up both letters and marched the two blocks to Milo’s office. He expressed mild interest.
“They’re not the same as the ones Marilynn Lewis got,” he said, without a second glance. “It looks like we’re dealing with yet another goofball.” He yawned, sneezed, and sat back in his faux-leather chair.
I should have inquired after Honoria Whitman, but in my perverse way, I refused to ask. Besides, I was angry, not only at the malicious letter writer, but at Milo.
“What’s going on with this Winola Prince?” I demanded. “Does she actually know Marilynn Lewis, or did they merely happen to work in the same hospital?”
Milo blinked at me, his face otherwise impassive. “Gosh, Emma, when are you going to stop treating me as if I were head of the gestapo? Don’t you have a newspaper to put out today?”
“I can’t put it out until I have all the facts in this Kelvin Greene story,” I answered in a waspish voice. “Now give, Dodge. You’re right, I’m up against a deadline. Have you talked to Marilynn about Winola?”
Milo made a fist, crooked his arm, and held out his wrist to display his Timex watch. “See this? It’s eight minutes to eleven. I’ve had a busy morning. I’ll get around to Nurse Lewis after lunch.”