The Alpine Decoy

by Mary Daheim

  “A coward?” I was taken aback. “Does a coward then go out and shoot two more people?”

  Vida considered. “No, you’re right. Whoever killed Jerome Cole did it in cold blood. And then did the same to Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles. It’s Wesley’s murder that bothers me most. The man was in chains. How did he get off the bus and make his escape?”

  “I gather the prisoners were taken off the bus, to check for injuries,” I said, trying to recall precisely what Milo had told me. “There were only a few—ten, at most. There are two armed guards and the driver who travel on those buses. Wesley slipped away in the confusion over the school children and the other vehicles.”

  Still thoughtful, Vida wagged her head from side to side. “Slipped away to where? I know that highway like I know the back of my hand. He would have had to walk along the shoulder, straight into town or on to the Stevens Pass junction.”

  “He could have gone over the guardrail,” I argued. “Through the trees, and out across the street.”

  Vida gave me a caustic look. “In full daylight, in a well-populated area, within view of the Twin Rivers guard tower? Really, Emma, I expect better from you.”

  “Well, he went somewhere,” I retorted, on the defensive.

  “Yes, he did,” Vida allowed, again very serious. “But did he go there alone? Was there an accomplice, say, in a car? Was this whole thing preplanned to get at Wesley Charles?” Behind her glasses, Vida blinked twice in rapid succession.

  I caught my breath. “My God!” I whispered. “It would have to be an elaborate—and very daring—plan!”

  “Everything about these murders is daring,” Vida declared. Showing an uncharacteristic sign of anxiety, she ran her tongue lightly over her lips. “I believe we’re facing an extremely ruthless killer, Emma.”

  Impressed by Vida’s alarm, I grew subdued. “Maybe we should leave this up to Milo.”

  Vida was gnawing on her thumb. “No. We can’t do that.”

  “Vida …”

  “It’s not that Milo is stupid. He’s not. At least he isn’t any more stupid than most men,” Vida amended. “Milo has got an idea in his head. Regardless of what he says, he sees this as a racial situation. That is, somehow it’s confined to one race. Marilynn’s alibi for Wesley’s murder notwithstanding, if Milo were forced to make an arrest, he’d haul her in. He’s got no imagination. Most of all, he doesn’t have the means.”

  As much as I didn’t like to think it, Vida might be right. There was also the nagging doubt I’d experienced at dinner the previous night: I was Marilynn’s alibi for Wesley Charles’s murder. But when I told Marilynn I’d pick her up at five o’clock Thursday evening, she had asked me to wait until five-thirty. I’d assumed she had unfinished business at the clinic. But what if she had had other, more deadly, unfinished business, such as Wesley Charles? I suppressed a little shiver, and didn’t mention my misgivings to Vida.

  Later, I realized my mistake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CARLA AND LIBBY stopped by shortly after I returned from Vida’s house. Carla was agog, full of her evening with Peyton Flake in Seattle. They had gone to Palisades, the glitzy restaurant at Smith Cove overlooking Elliott Bay and downtown. They had eaten wonderful food, drunk marvelous drinks, and capped the evening with a jazz session in Pioneer Square. Ginny and Rick had had fun, too.

  Libby Boyd listened to her roommate’s giddy recital with an indulgent attitude. “They must have had a good time,” she finally said when allowed to get a word in edgewise. “It was almost three A.M. before she got home.”

  “We practically closed down Jazz Alley,” Carla exclaimed, getting her second wind. “Peyts knows all about jazz. He chose the wines, too. He even wore a tie!”

  “Did Rick wear his orange hair?” I inquired.

  “Oh, sure, but it doesn’t matter in Seattle. It’s okay to be weird there.” Removing her sunglasses, Carla turned sober. “I wish I were back in the city. Alpine is so dull.”

  Despite the growing body count, I had to agree with Carla. I, too, missed the city. Before moving from Portland to Alpine, I had consoled myself with the fact that Seattle was less than two hours away. I could drive in anytime for the opera, the theatre, and sporting events. But I rarely did. I stayed in my rut, spending my weekends working around the house and getting caught up with the rest of my life.

  “You want some excitement?” I asked on a sudden whim.

  Carla looked dubious; Libby was wary. “Like what?” asked Carla.

  We were out in the backyard where I’d been wiping down the lawn furniture I’d hauled out of the carport. Swiftly, I brushed off a couple of the chairs. “Here, sit down, let me make a proposition to one or both of you.”

  My brainstorm would serve two purposes: One, it might prove or disprove Vida’s theory about the Wilsons and Marlow Whipp. Two, it would perk up Carla’s life, and maybe Libby’s, too. Though why Carla should need a diversion when romance had finally come to her, I couldn’t guess. It was, however, in character for my flighty staff reporter. Her attention span was notoriously short.

  “Wait a minute,” said Carla, after I had related my plan. “You want one or both of us to go to Marlow’s store and hint that we want to buy drugs? Why us?”

  “You’re young, you’re not locals,” I explained. “Frankly, it would be better if Libby did this. Marlow knows who you are, Carla. He might be suspicious. Have you ever been in Marlow’s store, Libby?”

  Libby shook her head. “I’ve driven by it, though. It looks like a dump.”

  I studied Libby in her casual clothes. She was wearing cutoffs, a striped tank top, and sandals. With her wholesome face, her curly fair hair, and no makeup, she could pass for considerably younger than what I guessed to be her twenty-five years. Marlow might not notice the tiny lines around her eyes.

  Libby shrugged. “I’ll do it. When?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was after three o’clock. “Now is as good a time as later. There shouldn’t be any students hanging around because it’s a Saturday. In fact, I don’t know why Marlow bothers to stay open on weekends.”

  Carla was pouting. “Hey, I thought this was supposed to be exciting for me! What do I get to do, drive the getaway car?”

  Momentarily stumped, I sat with my mouth open. “No,” I finally responded, talking fast. “You can go in a few minutes later and ask about the espresso machine. Make sure he really has a steamer. Tell him Ed would like to talk to him about an ad.”

  “That sounds like work.” Carla was whining. “Why can’t I search the premises or something while Libby distracts Marlow?”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. “If you do, don’t go in together,” I cautioned.

  Now full of enthusiasm, Carla sprung to her feet. “Let’s go, Libby. We’ll be like spies. Undercover stuff. Maybe you should use a foreign accent.”

  I shuddered, picturing Carla in false whiskers and Libby dressed like Mata Hari. “Report back to me,” I called after them. “I’ll give you a beer.”

  I was watching them drive away in Carla’s secondhand Honda when I heard the phone ring. Hurrying into the house, I caught the call just before it switched over to the answering machine.

  “Mom—the sun’s out!” Adam’s voice crackled over the line, making me smile. My son was beginning to sound like Ben. “I need shorts and tees and a whole bunch of stuff!”

  My smile faded. “Did the bears eat your old wardrobe?” I asked in my sarcastic mother’s tone.

  “No, but Rich Tallfirs sat on my boom box. The lid for the CD player broke off. Can you send me a new one?”

  “A new lid? Why not just get it fixed?”

  “No, a new boom box. This one sounds funny sometimes.”

  “They all sound funny to me. Maybe it’s what you’re playing on it.”

  “Don’t be so uncool, Mom. I’ve had this thing for almost two years.” Adam’s tone was aggrieved.

  “I’ve had the TV for six, the stereo for five, and my small,
modestly priced radio for twelve. Forget it, Adam, I’m broke. Just like your boom box. And don’t tell me there aren’t any stores in Fairbanks. You don’t need much, you’re leaving in less than two weeks.”

  “But that’s just it!” Adam cried, not so much on a crackle as a wail. “I’m headed for Tuba City, and it’s going to be a hundred and ten degrees in the shade! Do you want me to die of heatstroke? I need to pick up some stuff in San Francisco.”

  “Now hold on,” I persisted, thinking how many times my son and I had carried on similar arguments—and how few of them I had won. “You’re stopping in San Francisco on the way to Arizona?” Adam mumbled his assent. I wondered if he’d talked to Tom again. I wouldn’t ask. “Could it be that you want lots of money to spend at the tremendously cool shops in San Francisco as opposed to Fred Meyer in Fairbanks? Could it be that you have visions of parading around the Navajo reservation as Mr. Hip Dude?”

  Adam made some sort of noise that was possibly obscene. “Don’t be dumb, Mom. Sure, I’d rather look for stuff in San Fran. Who wouldn’t? But I don’t want to ask … him to pay for it. Do you?”

  Adam had hit me where it hurt. He knew of my fierce desire for independence. And I knew that despite the amicable meetings, despite Tom’s generosity with plane fares, despite Adam’s natural yearning for a father, my son—our son—still wouldn’t call the man who had given him life anything but sir—and him.

  “I’ll send a money order for two hundred dollars,” I stated firmly. “Not a penny more. Got it?”

  “Not yet,” Adam replied glibly. “When do I pick it up at the post office?”

  “What’s wrong with the regular mail? Did Rich Tallfirs sit on your postal box, too?”

  “He’s there now with my boom box, listening to the only FM station between here and Anchorage.” Having gotten some of his way, Adam was now inclined to become jocular. I asked him if he had scrapped his plan to stop off in Alpine on the way south. He wasn’t sure. It was a real mess dealing with the airlines. As of right now, he was booked on a flight from Fairbanks via Seattle to San Francisco. If he had a layover, the price would go way up. Maybe it’d be better if he waited until August to come to Alpine. That, he reminded me, had been his original plan.

  Naturally, I was disappointed. Was Adam choosing Tom over me? Or San Francisco over Alpine? I recalled Carla’s comment about small-town dullness and decided that maybe after the better part of a year in Fairbanks, Adam needed a good stiff dose of a big, bustling metropolis. He certainly wouldn’t get that in Tuba City. Our conversation continued on less controversial lines than money, clothes, boom boxes, and Tom Cavanaugh. By the time we hung up, I was feeling proud of my son, pleased with our ability to communicate, cheered by the bond he was forging with both Tom and Ben. I was also feeling poor, but at least I was used to that.

  I was making inroads on my oven when Carla and Libby returned. They came up the walk like a pair of conspirators, whispering and giggling. I let them in and offered cold beer before the interrogation began. Carla accepted, but Libby asked for bottled water, if I had any.

  I did, and brought out three glasses. I joined Carla in having a beer, which tasted surprisingly good after my exertions with the lawn furniture and the oven.

  “Well?” I asked, settling into my favorite armchair. “Did Marlow Whipp offer you a line of coke?”

  Carla giggled some more, that ear-rattling sound that always made me grit my teeth. “Vida is losing it! How in the world could she think some dud like old Marlow could be peddling crack? Tell her, Libby.”

  Libby sat forward on the sofa, shaking her head. “I was terribly coy. I went in and strolled around and didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally Marlow asked if I needed any help. I said, ‘Yeah. What did he have in mind?’ I sort of wiggled my eyebrows.” Libby demonstrated, while Carla giggled anew. “Marlow looked embarrassed. I think he thought I meant something sexual.”

  “Gack! Gack!” Opening her mouth wide, Carla made thrusting movements with her index finger. I was beginning to think my bright idea was pretty dim.

  Acknowledging Carla’s clowning with a smile, Libby resumed her account: “I decided I’d get more specific. I noted that Marlow carried beer and wine and cigarettes. That was great, I told him, but tame. Didn’t he have something a little stronger?”

  “How did he look when you said that?” I inquired, ignoring Carla who now had her finger in her mouth, pulling down her jaw, and making an idiot noise. I trusted that she was imitating Marlow Whipp. At least I hoped so. It was unsettling to think that she was merely being herself.

  Libby considered my question briefly, but carefully. “Puzzled, really. Then he said he did, but it wasn’t ready. I got sort of excited, figuring I was on the right track. But he pointed to that espresso machine and told me he still didn’t know how to operate it. Or the steamer that had just arrived yesterday.” Libby looked aggravated; Carla rolled her eyes.

  I was disappointed. “Was that it?” I asked.

  Libby gave a quick shake of her head. “I made one last try. I acted indignant, said I’d heard that he sold more than what was out front. I got out my wallet, showing him a fifty. He couldn’t tell it was the only money I had.”

  Carla was squirming around on the sofa next to Libby. “Now we get to the good part,” she murmured in an aside.

  “Marlow looked interested,” Libby continued. “At least I thought he did. He just stood there though, so I told him I wanted good stuff, nothing that was cut with cheap crap. Marlow seemed worried or maybe confused. He said it was all cut the same, in mint condition. What was I talking about? I said, ‘You tell me, and we’ll see if we can do business.’ Marlow said to give him a name. That threw me. Did he mean a contact or a password or a drug? I’ve heard drugs called all kinds of things, but I don’t pay much attention. It’s all poison as far as I’m concerned. I took a wild guess and said, ‘Grass.’ Marlow said he didn’t know that one. I believed him.” Libby tucked her feet under her bottom and sighed. “I blanked. I couldn’t think of anything but crack and pot. I had a feeling that if I asked for coke, he’d have offered me diet or regular.”

  The room fell silent, except for Carla’s twitching around on the sofa. The Burlington-Northern freight whistled as it passed slowly through town. The train rarely stopped in Alpine these days.

  “He’s either very cagey or else he’s not dealing drugs after all,” I finally concluded. “I wonder why he perked up when he saw the money? What did he mean about a name?”

  Libby had no idea. It struck her as an odd question, too. I turned to Carla. “Did you get a chance to do anything?”

  “Well, sure!” Carla bounced a couple of times for emphasis. “While Libby was inside, I went around back. There’s a storage room attached, but you can only get at it through the store. No windows, either. But he has a Dumpster between the store and the alley. I went through it as well as I could. I didn’t have much time, and I had to keep watching for Libby to leave.”

  “And?” Silly me, I was being hopeful.

  Carla’s enthusiasm finally dwindled. “I didn’t find much. Old cartons, pop cans, rotten produce, newspapers. What you’d expect, I guess.”

  I suppose I was expecting small plastic bags, hypodermic syringes, and roach clips. I said as much. Carla shook her head, the long black hair sailing around her shoulders.

  “Not a sign of that stuff. I told you everything I saw—mostly cartons and newspapers. I don’t think he sells many copies of The Times and P-I. Maybe everybody around here would rather read The Advocate.”

  If Carla thought to cheer me, she was wrong. Instead, I was discouraged that so few people read a daily newspaper. It wasn’t a good omen for weeklies.

  But something she had said did pique my interest. “Cartons? From what? Marlow can’t have tons of stuff shipped to the store because he doesn’t have much turnover.”

  Shoving the long hair off her face, Carla turned pensive. “Gee—I don’t know…. I didn’t pay muc
h attention. He’d mashed them down, to fit into the Dumpster. I don’t mean there were zillions, or anything—just quite a few. You know, a couple dozen or so.”

  That still seemed like too many for Marlow Whipp’s atrophied business. The Dumpster would be emptied every Tuesday. In five days, Marlow Whipp had received two dozen cartons of what? I couldn’t think of a single item in his store that would move that fast, except dairy products, pop, beer, and cigarettes. As far as I knew, only the cigarettes would be shipped in a cardboard box.

  I praised Carla and Libby for their covert operation. They finished their drinks, then decided it was time to leave.

  “No hot dates tonight?” I inquired at the door.

  Carla grew sorrowful. “Peyts is on emergency call the rest of the weekend.”

  I turned to Libby. “You’ve got the weekend off. Don’t tell me you and Carla are going to sit around and watch videos.”

  Libby grinned. “I’ve got four whole days off, in fact. No videos for me, at least not tonight.” She pointed to her watch. “Come on, Carla, it’s after five. You’re the one who wants to stop at the Grocery Basket on the way home.”

  “I have to eat,” Carla pouted, following Libby out to the car. “’Bye, Emma. See you Monday.”

  I went back into the house, determined to finish cleaning the blasted oven. I got only as far as the dining area when I heard the frantic rapping at the front door. It was Carla. She’d forgotten her sunglasses.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed as fervently as if she’d lost the family jewels. “I thought I might have dropped them in the Dumpster!” Whirling around, she headed for the door.

  “Carla!” I called after her. She stopped on the threshold. I beckoned her to come a step closer. “Who’s the guy? Libby’s guy, I mean.” Over Carla’s shoulder, I could see Libby sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda. There was no way she could hear us.

  “You don’t have to whisper,” Carla chided. “It’s not a secret. I thought you knew.” Carla put her sunglasses on, took them off, wiped the lenses with the tail of her cotton shirt, and replaced them on her nose. “She’s going with Shane Campbell. They’ve been dating for months.”