The Alpine Decoy

by Mary Daheim

  “Why,” I asked, “do you think Wesley Charles insisted he was innocent?”

  “I don’t know.” Marilynn straightened her shoulders, then sprinkled bread crumbs into the melted butter in the frying pan. “His fingerprints were on the figurine. He admitted he’d been in the apartment. But he said Jerome was already dead when he got there. He thought maybe he’d picked up the carving in the excitement of finding the body.”

  I was removing the chicken breasts from under the broiler. “The evidence sounds a little flimsy. Who called the police?”

  Deftly, Marilynn transferred the asparagus from the steamer into the skillet. “Another neighbor had already called—maybe before Winola and I left. They lived below us and had heard Jerome and me fighting. But the police didn’t get there right away. They came along just after Wesley killed Jerome.” Making a brave attempt to keep her face impassive, Marilynn dished up the asparagus concoction in a serving bowl. “If only they’d arrived five minutes earlier … Jerome might still be alive.”

  “So,” I noted, “would Wesley Charles.”

  Marilynn’s dark eyes met mine. Her long-lashed lids drooped. “Yes. Yes,” she repeated, almost in a whisper, “he would.” Slowly, she opened her eyes and again stared at me. “Isn’t it strange? I’ve never thought much about Wesley Charles. He was sort of like a … cipher. And now he’s dead.”

  “We can’t be sure—yet,” I reminded Marilynn.

  Grimly, she sat down at the table. “I’m sure. It makes sense.”

  Surprised, I spilled rice on the oilskin cloth. “Why do you say that?”

  Marilynn’s face had grown very earnest. “Why would someone kill Wesley Charles? He always seemed so harmless. But what if he told the truth and he didn’t kill Jerome? Then there would be a reason to get rid of Wesley.”

  Annoyed with myself for not having come to the same conclusion, I immediately started to punch holes in it. “First of all, we’re not absolutely sure that it was Wesley Charles in the cul-de-sac. Second, if it was, some loose cannon might have heard about the APB and shot Wesley in the hopes of getting a reward. Third, it would mean that Jerome’s real killer is right here in Alpine. That hardly seems likely to me.”

  Marilynn didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her shrewd expression told me everything I needed to know. And, I realized, with a sinking sensation, more than I wanted to hear.

  The Fifth Street cul-de-sac had become the biggest attraction in Alpine, at least for the rest of the evening. Hearing a steady stream of cars and pedestrians pass by on the usually quiet street in front of my house, I realized that I had a job to do. I called Carla, relayed my skimpy information, and asked her to take a picture. She’s a better photographer than I am, and I’d left my camera at the office.

  Carla, of course, had heard about the shooting from Libby Boyd. Expressing horror, shock, and excitement in a series of squeaks and squeals, my reporter said she’d be over in ten minutes. It was still light, and although the body had been removed, Carla would be able to get a shot of the murder site and the milling curiosity seekers. People love to see their picture in the paper, even when they’re being ghoulish voyeurs.

  Marilynn and I had spent the rest of our dinner talking about the three murders that had touched her life, and now mine. The conversation was mostly speculative. She insisted she knew nothing more than she had already told me—or Milo Dodge. Around eight-thirty, I offered to drive her home. It was still raining, but the Campbells live only six blocks away. I half expected Marilynn to say she’d walk. She didn’t. In fact, she asked if I would go in with her.

  “There’ll be questions,” she explained with apprehension. “I don’t blame the Campbells for asking, but it’s awkward.”

  Marilynn was right. Jean and Lloyd met us at the door; Cyndi came downstairs as soon as we got inside. Shane, we were told, was out for the evening. I presumed that Wendy and Todd Wilson were at their home in the Icicle Creek development.

  “You’re just the person we want to see,” Lloyd Campbell said to me in a jovial manner that seemed forced. “Everybody’s saying that the murder happened right by your house.”

  After being ushered into the comfortable living room, I explained how Marilynn and I had arrived at the cul-de-sac shortly after the victim had been discovered. I didn’t use Wesley Charles’s name, but mentioned that the sheriff thought the dead man might be a convict who had escaped that morning from a prison bus outside of Monroe.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had prisoners hiding out around here,” Lloyd said with a dour expression. “Let’s hope the state settles on a site in Snohomish County for that new work-release facility. I sure wouldn’t want to see it built here.”

  Earlier in the month, I’d run an article about the proposed sixty-bed facility that was supposed to be constructed at Paine Field outside of Everett. Protests had been lodged, however, and it was possible that the state would choose another site. Skykomish County would be a logical alternative, but local residents wouldn’t like it. Given the events of the past week, they’d probably march on the capitol in Olympia.

  Jean Campbell was perched on the edge of a green-and-white-striped armchair. “Is it true,” she asked in a hushed voice, “that this man was black, too?” Jean avoided looking at Marilynn.

  Cyndi Campbell, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the dormant fireplace, jumped to her feet. “Mother! What difference does it make if he was black, blue, or purple? The poor guy got shot, probably by some nervous old fart living up in the woods. Aren’t there a couple of hermits around Carroll Creek?”

  If local lore could be believed, there were several recluses who lived in old shacks not only near Carroll Creek, but Burl Creek, Icicle Creek, Deception Creek, Surprise Creek, and various isolated areas in between. Indeed, I had seen a couple of them in town over the years, elderly men with long hair and bushy beards, coming down the mountainside to stock up for the winter. Vida referred to one of them as Al Pine, the only name he’d ever given out to whoever had been bold enough to ask. But I didn’t think any of the hermits lived so close to civilization.

  Lloyd Campbell wasn’t moved by his daughter’s assertion. “It’s damned queer, if you ask me,” he said in a worried voice. “I turned the radio on at eight to get the news from Everett. They said this fellow was a murderer, so I suppose he got what was coming to him. But who would have shot him? Do you suppose one of the deputies did it, and he hasn’t owned up to it yet? That stuff gets tricky these days. Look at that Rodney King deal in Los Angeles.”

  Cyndi was dancing around the hearth, darting her father caustic looks. “Forget Rodney King,” she persisted. “This has got to be some kind of accident. Maybe that other one was, too. People panic. They see a strange …” Her eyes lighted on Marilynn’s quizzical face. “… a stranger, I mean, and go nuts. This town is gun happy. They ought to ban handguns everywhere.”

  Lloyd grunted. “Not mine, they won’t. I keep one of them under the counter at the store and another in my desk. If some guy comes in to hold us up, I’m prepared to defend myself. Hell’s bells, I insist Shane keeps that SIG-Sauer in the truck. Todd carries a gun on the job, too. What if he’s working on the PUD lines ’way up Tonga Ridge, and a bear comes after him?”

  Unimpressed, Jean Campbell curled her lip. “That’s crazy, Lloyd. I’ve always said so. You’re all lucky you don’t get yourselves shot. And don’t think that after all these years I’m not still nervous about sleeping with that awful pistol under the mattress!”

  Lloyd chuckled. “It doesn’t keep you awake, Jeannie. You snore like the Burlington-Northern, climbing up through the Cascade Tunnel.”

  Jean was aghast. “Lloyd! I don’t snore! I’ve never snored! But you,” she raged on, pointing at her husband, “sound like a donkey engine!”

  Lloyd’s laughter had become full-blown now, and it broke the tension in the room. Jean’s irritation was genuine, yet its cause was a refreshing change from murder
and racial innuendo. I decided it was time to leave them laughing. Marilynn offered to see me to the door.

  “Thanks for having me over,” she said with her charming, slightly diffident smile. “I didn’t like the murder much, but dinner was good.”

  I studied her as she stood next to a small cherrywood credenza in the entry hall. Still wearing her white uniform, she looked very young and all too vulnerable. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Marilynn nodded. “I’d like to think I’ve buried the past, but it’s caught up with me. I suppose it always does. Unfinished business, I guess. I just wish I knew what it was all about.”

  I made a droll face. “Don’t we all?” An idea popped into my head. I didn’t much like it, but I couldn’t keep it to myself. “Marilynn, do you think you need protection?”

  Her dark eyes grew wide. “Me? What for?”

  If Marilynn Lewis had leveled with me and knew only as much as she’d related thus far, she was in no danger. But if she had kept something back, even a small fact she didn’t realize might be important, then her life could be at risk. I tried to say as much without frightening her.

  But Marilynn assured me there was no reason to worry. “I wasn’t even asked to testify at Wesley’s trial. I gave a deposition about Jerome, but that was all. If Wesley Charles didn’t kill Jerome, I haven’t any more idea who did it than you do.”

  There was nothing else I could say. I moved uneasily on the threshold, wishing I could free my troubled mind. Marilynn read my thoughts and put out a hand. “Hey—stop fussing.” She glanced into the living room where the Campbells were still arguing. “If anything happens, I can take care of myself. I’ve got a gun, too.” She gave me a rueful little smile.

  My mouth fell open. “You do?” I whispered back. “Why?”

  “Why?” Marilynn’s expression turned ironic. “A lot of the hospital staffers carry guns. I even took lessons and practiced at the range. How would you like to get off work at midnight and go through a deserted parking lot on Pill Hill?”

  Pill Hill certainly isn’t the safest spot in Seattle. Marilynn was right: A woman alone—or a man, for that matter—stood at risk anytime of the day or night. It had never occurred to me, however, that Marilynn would carry a handgun. It was beginning to sound as if everyone connected to the Campbell house was armed, if not necessarily dangerous.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it,” I finally said. “I trust you don’t carry it to the clinic here.”

  “No,” Marilynn replied firmly. I half-expected her to turn defensive, but instead, an impish gleam danced in her eyes. “I don’t have to. Dr. Flake has a Desert Eagle.”

  I knew all about Peyton Flake’s Desert Eagle. He and my brother, Ben, had done a little male bonding with guns the previous December. I flinched at the memory. Shaking my head, I started to say goodbye, then noticed that Marilynn was eyeing a stack of mail on the credenza. Her mood suddenly changed as she picked up what looked like a dozen or more envelopes.

  “This is mine,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “Bills?” I suggested, knowing better.

  “I don’t think so.” Her face had taken on a haggard look.

  “Don’t read them,” I urged, holding out my hand. “I’ll give them to Milo in the morning.”

  But Marilynn was made of sterner stuff. “I’ll do it myself. Good night, Emma.”

  I bit my lip, and walked out into the spring rain. This was only my second visit to the Campbell residence, but I was beginning to think that it was not a good luck house.

  At least not for Marilynn Lewis.

  Chapter Eleven

  I WAS OVERCOME with guilt, good old-fashioned pre-Vatican II Catholic guilt. This was Ascension Thursday, a holy day of obligation, and I’d flat-out forgotten to attend Mass. Or communion service, if a visiting priest didn’t show up, and we got stuck with one of our eucharistic ministers stumbling around on the altar. Maybe I hadn’t really missed much, but I felt penitent. I called my brother in Tuba City and confessed my sin.

  “Stick it in your ear, Sluggly,” said Ben, using his childhood nickname for me. “It was an honest mistake. Did you really want to hear Ed Bronsky read the gloomiest readings in the New Testament?”

  “Ed’s not a euke,” I retorted. “At least now I know why he was late for work—he went to church. Ed probably wondered where the hell I was. Damn. Besides,” I added, “Ed’s improved. He’s actually exhibiting a positive attitude.”

  “Wow,” Ben exclaimed. “Talk about a miracle! Maybe you should build a shrine in back of the newspaper office. Off the top of my head, I can’t remember who’s the patron saint of advertising revenue.”

  I hadn’t talked to Ben in three weeks. As always, it was wonderful to hear his crackling voice and feel the warmth flow over the phone line. He regaled me with his latest adventures on the Navajo reservation, and I, in turn, told him about our recent murders. Ben shed his flippant attitude.

  “This is not good,” he said. “What’s Milo up to?”

  I tried to explain the sheriff’s conduct of the investigation. I tried to rationalize his small-town racial prejudices. I tried to excuse his lack of progress on the grounds of the case’s complexity and the county’s lack of resources. I tried to keep the entire conversation on an analytical, objective plane.

  “Milo kissed me.”

  Ben’s laughter exploded in my ear. “Milo what? Why? When? Where? How?”

  “Oh, shut up, Stench,” I retorted, resorting to my own nickname for Ben. “It was all very silly. Milo’s under some heavy pressure, and he’d been sort of rude to me earlier, and I think he was just trying to show me that I was a woman and he was a man.”

  Ben was still laughing. “What about birth certificates? You know, the box where they check M or F?”

  “Stop it, you jerk.” I was growing testy. “I’m sure Milo feels like an idiot. Which he should. I haven’t had the nerve to call him, and I ought to, because I need to know the facts about this last murder. He hasn’t called me, either. I’m sure he’s embarrassed. Now let’s talk about something else, like why St Mildred’s parishioners are a bunch of bigots.”

  At the other end, Ben paused. “No surprise there, Sluggly. Christianity embraces everybody. Christians don’t always do the same. It’s okay to love your brother—or sister—as long as they’re the same color as you are. Want to hear some tales from the reservation? And I’m talking about both sides of the coin. Don’t ever think that white people are the only ones who can work up a hatred for the other guys.”

  “I know that,” I said, bristling at Ben’s accusation of naïveté. “Racists come in all colors. I expect better of Catholics, that’s all. I mean, lowercase the word and it means universal, right?”

  “Right. Wrong.” Ben sighed. “It’s a great theory. It might even work someday. The key—and don’t quote me, especially not around Tuba City—is love. Don’t laugh, you cynic. I mean romantic love, as well as the spiritual kind. Intermarriage. A hundred years from now, I wouldn’t be surprised if racism was passé. Look around you—but not in Alpine. Not yet.”

  “You paint an optimistic picture,” I mused. “What are you puffing down there in Tuba City? Is it strong enough to let you take Adam on for a few weeks this summer?”

  Ben chuckled. “Adam’s okay, Emma. You deserve to pat yourself on the back.”

  My brother was right. Being a single parent is rough, but Adam and I survived. There had been big sacrifices for both of us. It was harder on me because I knew what I was giving up. Never having had a father, Adam didn’t know what he’d missed. Or so I’d always rationalized.

  The chat with Ben lifted my spirits. I cleaned up the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, put in a load of laundry, and postponed calling Milo until morning. Shortly before ten, Vida called me. She had spent the evening at her Cat Club, a dozen or so women in her age group who’d started out sewing for the needy, moved on to playing cards, and now used their monthly gathering to stuff their faces
and wag their jaws. Or so Vida claimed.

  “This is too much,” Vida exclaimed after I’d filled in the details she hadn’t yet heard. “Dot Parker said Charlene Vickers told her that Irene Baugh thinks a gang has moved into Alpine. She wants Fuzzy to issue a proclamation or some fool thing. Irene swears she’s seen at least six African-American men loitering around the mall.”

  “Has she?”

  “Of course not! Irene sees black men the way Averill Fairbanks sees UFOs. But I don’t like the sense of panic she generates. Dot Parker believed every word of it. So did my idiot sister-in-law, Lila Blatt.”

  I mentioned the letters Marilynn had received, adding that I assumed they contained more hate messages and that I felt partly responsible. “It’s Thursday—those lamebrains probably read yesterday’s story in The Advocate about Kelvin Greene and dashed off some more ugly stuff to Marilynn.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Vida admonished. “The news was all over town days before the paper came out. But Marilynn’s theory is intriguing. About Wesley Charles, I mean. It doesn’t speak well for Alpine, does it?”

  “We’ve had murderers here before,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, yes, I know that.” Vida sounded exasperated. “It’s the kind of murder. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s a racist. Neo-Nazis, or something. But I suppose it’s not.”

  I was making a wry face into the phone. “Would you like that better than homicide with a motive?”

  “No,” Vida retorted. “I’d like it even less. But it might be easier to solve.”