The Alpine Decoy

by Mary Daheim

  Getting to his feet, Milo wandered over to gaze at my map of Skykomish, Snohomish, and Kittitas counties. It also included the northeast corner of King.

  “It’s over forty miles from here to Monroe,” Milo noted. “If Wesley Charles has any smarts, he’ll head back for Seattle and lose himself.”

  “This is weird,” I said. “Wesley Charles insists he didn’t kill Jerome Cole. We know he didn’t kill Kelvin Greene, because Charles was down at the Shelton correctional facility at the time of the murder. Milo, what do you make of all this?” I hated to ask, but I had to know.

  Milo turned around, his shoulders sagging. “You don’t want to hear it,” he said. “Oh, hell, nobody hates to disagree with a jury, but once in awhile a bad verdict comes down. Maybe this was one of those times. So we’ve got a common denominator in both homicide cases. Marilynn Lewis. Who else?”

  “Cyndi Campbell,” Vida snapped. “Really, Milo, you don’t believe her trumped-up story about giving directions? If you don’t question that young woman more closely, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

  Milo showed no enthusiasm for grilling Cyndi Campbell. “Face it, Vida, Cyndi probably got a big bang out of drinking beer with a black dude. I figure her for somebody who likes to give people a shock now and then, especially her folks. He asked how to get someplace, she said let’s talk it over. No big deal.”

  Vida leaned back in the chair, and made a strangled sound. Her green velvet toque fell off. “Milo! Try to convince me you’re not an idiot! Hurry! You’re almost out of time!”

  “Vida …” Milo threw up his hands. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to Cyndi. Look, you two, I’m not a total incompetent. We may not have interviewed Winola Prince, but we got some background on Kelvin Greene, other than his rap sheet.”

  Vida lifted her head. “And?”

  “He was a borderline kind of guy,” Milo said, leaning against the wall next to the map. “If he’d kept away from the drugs, he might have been all right. He used, he dealt. But he finished high school, got married, had various jobs. His wife left him about five years ago. Then he moved in with some woman and had a kid. The woman took off a couple of years ago. Grandma Greene has been raising the little boy, who’s about three and a half. Kelvin held his last job for almost a year before he got laid off in April. He was working in the stockroom at Fred Meyer up on Broadway. Winola Prince moved in with him just before Marilynn Lewis left town. Now how’s that for background?” Milo looked pleased with himself.

  I had been watching Vida as well as Milo. I waited for a reaction. It came more slowly than I expected, and on a lower key.

  “Well now.” Vida retrieved her hat and plopped it back on her head. “So what conclusions do you draw?”

  Under Vida’s close scrutiny, Milo didn’t turn a hair. “It’s too soon to draw any conclusions. Especially with this new information about Wesley Charles. We’re going to have to check that out with King County. In fact, I’d better get going.” He started for the door.

  “Milo.” Vida didn’t move in the chair.

  The sheriff paused, leaning against the doorjamb. “What?” A note of impatience rose in his voice.

  Vida let out a big sigh. I knew what she was going to say, and had to hide a smirk. “It may not mean a thing,” Vida began, now turning around to look up at Milo, “but Shane Campbell worked at that same Fred Meyer store when he lived in Seattle. It seems to me that you have a connection not only between Kelvin Greene and Marilynn Lewis, but between Kelvin and Shane—and thus, all of the Campbells, right down to Wendy and Todd Wilson. While you’re at it, Milo,” she continued, her voice rising, “you might also want to check on where the Wilsons get their money. We’re hearing some pretty strange rumors. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, you understand, but I also don’t want to see you make a public fool of yourself.” Vida turned back to face my desk, picked up a State Wildlife news release about endangered pigeons, and began to peruse the copy.

  Over Vida’s head, Milo gazed at me with a bemused expression. “Gee, Vida, thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Vida replied, still reading the release.

  Milo left. I waited until I was sure he’d exited the front office before I spoke. “If I’d said all that, he would have killed me,” I noted.

  “Age has its privileges,” said Vida, sliding the news release back onto my desk. “The truth is, Milo needs more help. He’s shorthanded, his budget is too small, and I suspect his technology isn’t as up-to-date as it should be. Instead of getting annoyed with us for interfering, he ought to be grateful. Deep down, I rather suspect he is.” Moving with her own peculiar brand of splayfooted dignity, Vida returned to the news office.

  I returned to opening the mail. There were a half-dozen letters decrying the recent violence in Alpine, all blaming it on big-city influences, and four of the six specifically mentioning the matter of race. None, fortunately, brought up Marilynn Lewis by name, though the implication was there in two of the missives.

  Then came my anonymous correspondent. I groaned as I unfolded the plain white piece of paper. “Dear Publicher,” it began again. “You are ignoring my complaints. These people have a languege all there own. They don’t even talk like the rest of us. Once they worm there way into this town, they will take over. Look at Seattle to see if what I say isn’t true. It all starts there, and it will creep out over the rest of the state like a playge. Yours, A Loyal—getting more upset—Reader.”

  Annoyed, I called Milo. He was busy, Jack Mullins informed me in his cheerful voice. “We had a homicide last week, remember?” he chided and chuckled.

  “Right, right,” I acknowledged. “Can you get fingerprints off of paper? I’m getting fed up with this anonymous letter writer.”

  “They’re usually pretty smudged,” Jack replied. “We tried to take a set from the hate mail that black nurse got. No dice. Did you know that crow had been shot with a .22?”

  I didn’t. “You mean somebody shot the bird purposely and then sent it to Marilynn Lewis?”

  “Maybe.” Jack’s voice conveyed a shrug. “Lots of people shoot crows. They’re pests. Whoever mailed the thing might have found it someplace.”

  Noting the indifference in the deputy’s voice, I decided to surrender, at least temporarily. If Milo and Company had struck out on discovering who had sent hate mail to Marilynn Lewis, I couldn’t expect any better results. I thanked Jack Mullins and hung up. It was, I realized, more important that the sheriff’s office devote its efforts to the homicide investigation.

  My staff—or part of it—was devoting itself to arranging interviews at the high school. Vida and Carla would join forces Friday morning.

  Meanwhile, Ed had some exciting news. “Starbuck’s has made an inquiry about that vacant space by the railroad station,” he announced. “You know, where Stuart’s Stereo was located before they moved to the mall.”

  At the corner of Front Street and Alpine Way, the site was perfect for a quick caffeine stop. Commuters heading out of town could breeze by on their way to Highway 2; those who stayed in town during the day wouldn’t have far to go no matter where they worked.

  Carla was elated. “Oh, too cool! Now I can get a double skinny extra tall or a one-twenty-five-degree extra foamy without having to explain it to those yokels at the Venison Inn! I can’t wait! Alpine may hit the big time yet!”

  Her reaction to the possible advent of Starbuck’s and all its glorious coffees reminded me of Marlow Whipp’s new espresso machine. I conveyed the message to Ed. His freshly found enthusiasm didn’t carry over to Marlow, however.

  “Well now, Emma, I’d be the last person to turn up my nose at a potential advertiser,” he said, resurrecting his more familiar mournful face, “but Marlow’s always been a washout. I tried to get him to advertise after he took over from his folks. Three, four times I asked him, but he always said no. Heck, I was in there as recently as last winter—I needed some breath mints—and Marlow was downright surly. He coul
dn’t wait to get me out of there, mints and all. I’ll admit, he was busy then—must have had ten, fifteen kids in there. It was crowded, I’ll say that for him.”

  I decided not to press Ed further. Still, if Marlow wanted to make a go of his espresso machine, he ought to have the opportunity to get the jump on Starbuck’s. The Spruce Street Grocery was sufficiently removed from the railroad station to nab potential customers on the east side of town. I’d bring the subject up again when we heard something more definite about Starbuck’s intentions.

  Around three o’clock, I was debating with myself over whether to write an anticensorship or a pro-L.I.D. editorial. Deciding that Alpine needed sidewalks above Cascade Street more than it needed obscene music, I started with the safety factor. I was fumbling around with funding when Marilynn Lewis called. Her voice was muffled, and she sounded agitated.

  “Ms…. Emma,” she said into the phone, “is it possible to talk to you after work? We can meet somewhere. Maybe one of those little cafés at the mall?”

  I suggested my house, which was infinitely more comfortable than the mall’s two hole-in-the-wall fast-food eateries, one of which featured ersatz Chinese and the other, semi-Tex-Mex. Marilynn paused briefly before saying she’d be over around six.

  It was only after I hung up that I realized she’d have to walk from the clinic. I called her back and suggested that I pick her up sometime after five. Shyly, she asked if I could make it five-thirty. I said I could. It was no problem to kill time at the office for thirty minutes.

  I had no reason to think that something besides time might get killed in that half hour.

  Chapter Ten

  IT HAD STARTED raining early in the afternoon, but the air was warm. After three years of summer drought, I didn’t complain. I never do when it rains. A typical native Pacific Northwesterner, I feel invigorated by damp weather. It’s the sun that depresses me. When the days of cloudless skies spin out and the heat beats down like a hammer and the grass goes brown and the evergreens droop and the earth turns to dust, my own roots crave water, too.

  So I didn’t curse the gray skies or the need to use my windshield wipers. Marilynn got into the Jag as if she were being chased by demons. She actually sighed as she settled into the bucket seat next to me.

  “What a day,” she murmured. “Dr. Flake had thirty-four patients. Doc Dewey saw twenty-six.”

  “Egad,” I said, doing some quick mathematical calisthenics, “that’s sixty people. Well over one percent of Alpine’s entire population.”

  “Babies and arthritis,” Marilynn replied. “Those are the major complaints around here. You can’t do much about either one.”

  Braking at the Third and Cedar intersection, I glanced at Marilynn. “And you? What’s your complaint? You sounded a bit frazzled when you called.”

  Marilynn’s perfect profile was on display as she leaned back against the leather upholstery. “Wait until we get to your place. Have you got any white wine, or am I being pushy?”

  I laughed. “White wine, bourbon, Scotch, beer, vodka, and maybe some gin shoved to the back of my so-called liquor cabinet. Oh, and rum, I think. I keep the Scotch for the sheriff and the beer for my son.”

  Marilynn turned to gaze at me inquiringly. “Where did you say your son was? Alaska?”

  I nodded as we crossed Tyee Street. “He’s at the university in Fairbanks. His father and I never married, but we keep in touch.” The newly acquired assets of my closet leapt before my eyes.

  Marilynn displayed polite interest. “It’s good for parents to get along, whether they’re married or not. My folks didn’t, and it was much better after my dad died.”

  “Did you have brothers or sister?” I inquired as we passed a couple of young fishermen who had apparently walked up from the river.

  Marilynn nodded. “Two younger brothers. They moved back to California with my mother when she remarried. One works for Kaiser. The other’s in college.”

  I turned onto Fir Street. We were less than a block from my house when we heard the sirens. I pulled over next to a vacant lot with a tipsy FOR SALE sign that had been there since before I’d moved to Alpine. In the rearview mirror, I could see the ambulance right behind us. The driver slowed as he passed my driveway, then turned into the cul-de-sac where Fifth Street dead-ended.

  “What’s up there?” Marilynn asked, as a couple of people came out on their front porches.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “It’s all forest. The woods begin in back of my house.” I was about to release the brake when I heard another siren. Sure enough, a sheriff’s car had pulled onto Fir. I stared into the window as it passed: Dwight Gould was behind the wheel, with Bill Blatt at his side. Milo must have gone off duty at five.

  Marilynn and I exchanged curious looks. This time I waited to make sure that the fire department wasn’t also racing up Fourth Street or coming along Fir. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t I waited for a van filled with Little Leaguers to pass, then pulled back out and crept up to my driveway. Once in the carport, I picked up the pace.

  “Marilynn,” I said, jumping from the Jag, “I’m going to let you in, and then I’m afraid I’d better check out the action around the corner. I’m sorry to be such a bum hostess, but I’ll point you to the white wine. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Over the top of the car, Marilynn gazed at me through the rain. “Hey—I’ll come, too. I’m a nurse, remember.” She pulled her tan all-weather jacket aside to reveal her white uniform. “It looks to me as if there’s been an accident, right?”

  Fueled with professional zeal, we marched through the wet grass, past the older single-story home that stood next to my log house, beyond the skeleton of construction that had been abandoned by its private builder, and around the corner lot that was overgrown with blackberry bushes, huge ferns, and Oregon grape. We turned at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

  The rain wasn’t coming down very hard at present, but earlier in the afternoon, it had been heavy enough to fill the potholes in the dirt road that led about fifty yards into the forest. Five vehicles jammed the dead end: the sheriff’s car, the ambulance, a Forest Service truck, a white compact I didn’t recognize, and a beater that might have been abandoned in the cul-de-sac a long time ago. We had almost reached the little knot of people when I heard another vehicle pulling up behind us. I turned to see Milo Dodge come to a stop in his Cherokee Chief. He was still in uniform.

  “Emma! What are you doing here?” He acknowledged Marilynn with a brief nod.

  “I live here, remember?” I waited for him to catch up. “We working girls are merely doing our duty. What’s going on?”

  Milo had loped out ahead. “We got another shooting,” he called over his shoulder. “Stay back, I hear the guy’s dead.”

  I obeyed; so did Marilynn. We were within twenty feet of the group which I realized included not only the two deputies and the ambulance attendants, but Libby Boyd, three boys about eleven years old, and a man in a bright plaid shirt who looked vaguely familiar. After only a few words from Milo, Libby, the boys, and the man were dispersed in our direction. I glommed on to Libby.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  Libby put her hands to her head and twisted her upper torso, as if expelling demons. “Jesus, I don’t know. It’s another black man.” She stared straight at Marilynn Lewis. “What’s going on around here?”

  Stiffening, Marilynn grabbed my arm, as if for support. “How would I know?” she retorted. I didn’t like the hint of hysteria in her voice.

  Libby hung her head. “Sorry. I found the poor bastard. That is, those kids found him, but they didn’t realize he was dead.” She gestured jerkily at the young boys who were standing with the man I barely recognized.

  “Who’s he?” I inquired in a low voice.

  Libby brushed raindrops off her forehead. “Him? His name’s Vancich. He was driving along Fir Street, and I waved him down to call for help. He stuck around because he knows one of the kids.”

  The m
an’s identity clicked in. Verb Vancich was married to Monica, St. Mildred’s CCD teacher. Monica was a faithful attendee of Sunday mass, but Verb was what was known among Catholics as a C&Eer. He came to church on an irregular basis, showing up usually for Christmas and Easter, and very little in between.

  Wrestling with my handbag, I found a notebook and a pen. “The sheriff said he was shot. Is that true?” I asked.

  Libby closed her eyes and gulped. “It sure is. Shot in the head. Just like that other one, over at the grocery store.”

  I felt the pressure of Marilynn’s fingers on my arm. A quick glance told me she was as distressed as Libby Boyd. “You’d better come home with me, too,” I murmured at Libby. “You could use a drink.”

  Libby nodded, a distracted gesture of assent. I patted Marilynn’s hand, pried her loose, and doggedly marched over to Milo.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound as coldhearted as journalists are portrayed in fiction where they don’t ever really look at dead people and feel like throwing up, “let’s have the facts, Dodge.”

  Milo had just returned from viewing the corpse. “He was shot in the head at close range. I’m guessing he’s been dead for no more than an hour, maybe less. I wouldn’t say that much, if I didn’t know you can’t print this until next week.” He paused, waiting for Bill Blatt.

  Vida’s nephew was flushed with excitement or possibly repulsed by the sight of a dead man. Bill was young enough that it was hard to tell.

  “All those ferns are pretty well trampled, Sheriff,” said Bill. “Do you think that shows the signs of a struggle?”

  “No,” Milo answered bluntly. “It just shows the poor devil thrashed around for a while before he died. Have you combed the area?”

  Bill nodded. “Nothing, so far. Well,” he amended, “footprints. The kids’, I’d guess, and Libby’s. It’s pretty hard to tell, with all the rain.”

  “Right.” Milo sounded disgusted. “And all I wanted to do was go home and have a beer and watch the NBA playoffs.” He voiced the latter complaint in a low voice as Bill Blatt trudged back to the victim.