The Alpine Decoy

by Mary Daheim

  “Hey, sheriff!” Jack exclaimed between fits of mirth, “this guy’s not dead! He’s a dummy!”

  Milo, who had been about to sneeze, held a finger under his nose. “Huh?”

  Jack Mullins bent down and lifted the alleged body. It swung lightly from his arms. Tiffany pressed her face against Tim. Bracing myself, I stared. Now Bill Blatt was laughing, too.

  “Jack’s right, Sheriff! It’s Bucker Swede!”

  It was indeed. The plaid-shirted, brown-pantsed dummy seemed to cuddle up to Jack Mullins. The high school mascot had been found. I began to giggle, but Tiffany Eriks was infuriated.

  “A dummy? From the high school? Oh, shit! I remember that thing—but he never had a hat!”

  Tiffany was right. Bucker Swede was wearing a hat taped to his melonlike head. He looked like Smokey the Bear. To add to the absurdity, a tourniquet had been applied to one of his bulging upper arms. The comical effect only made the rest of us laugh the louder. Until, of course, we realized that there was nothing funny about it.

  It was natural that Milo Dodge wouldn’t believe me. He didn’t operate on guesswork; he didn’t believe in half-assed theories. Beside, it was Sunday. He had to finish nailing down those shingles.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll ask a few questions,” he promised. “Let’s thank our lucky stars it wasn’t another stiff. I’d be up for recall if we had any more murders around her. I need evidence, not ideas out of left field.”

  I knew that Vida wouldn’t be so obtuse. But Vida wasn’t home. I had forgotten that she planned to drive up to Bellingham for the day to visit her daughter, Meg, and her family. Indeed, she had warned me that she might stay over, and be a bit late arriving at work Monday morning.

  Stymied by my lack of an accomplice, I called Carla. Libby Boyd informed me that her roommate was sunning herself by the pool.

  “She envies my tan,” Libby laughed. “Little does she know I got it from a salon in Seattle. The original one, I mean. Carla’s dark by nature. Why doesn’t she skip the bad rays and be herself? Now that I can be outdoors, I wouldn’t dream of roasting my body on purpose.”

  “If you’re not doing anything, why don’t you drop by?” I asked. “Sundays in Alpine can be dull.”

  But Libby had to catch up on her laundry, her checking account, her paperwork. She rang off, and I sat with my chin on my chest, wondering what to do next. Shortly before five, I drove over to the high school.

  It was a whim, and probably a silly one. But I had to see it through. The Buckers’ trophy case was inside the main doors that faced First Hill Road, an offshoot of Highway 187. The highway itself curved eastward around the bottom of First Hill and continued to the ranger station and the Icicle Creek campground. First Hill Road climbed up the mountainside, past the Tolberg farm and the Dithers sisters’ horse ranch. About a mile out of town, it turned into a dirt logging road, then ended somewhere on the face of Mount Sawyer.

  Eight stone steps led up to the broad walk. A wider, longer staircase ended under a portico. There were three sets of double doors, and I knew they’d be locked. On a late Sunday afternoon, the high school was deserted, except for a few kids horsing around on the field. They were a block away, however, in back of the school building.

  Across the street, several of Alpine’s larger, older homes on First Hill could be seen through the trees. They were shielded, however, by the tall evergreens. And I was shielded from the nearby residents’ prying eyes.

  Secrecy wasn’t my primary concern. At least not my secrecy. Still, to prove my theory correct, it was important to know that any activity in front of the high school usually would not be noticed. The First Hill residents demanded their privacy. They had ensured it by keeping the original stands of fir, hemlock, and cedar as a bulwark against the rest of Alpine.

  The shrubbery that flanked the front of the school building consisted of rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and Japanese yews. I searched carefully on each side of the main staircase. Gum wrappers, pop cans, paper cups, lunch bags, cellophane. While the grounds were clean, the shrubbery cried for a litter crew. I wished I’d brought a bag so that I could collect the junk and throw it away.

  But junk was all I did find. Discouraged, I stood at the head of the steps that led to the street. At each side of the walk was a circular bed where someone with more imagination than taste had planted pampas grass. The stuff looked out of place in Alpine, and I was amazed that it would grow at such an altitude. But grow it did, each clump almost as tall as I was.

  Delving into the thick green foliage, I found something. It was a U.S. Forest Service first-aid kit, wide open and almost empty. More burrowing unearthed some compresses and antiseptic. I had found what I was looking for, though in the beginning I wasn’t sure what it would be. Buoyed by my discovery and armed with the kit, I went to the hospital.

  As I’d hoped, Peyton Flake was there, having just finished setting an arm broken in a fall off Mount Baldy.

  “Rock climbers,” Flake groused. “City types, trying to pretend they’re outdoor fanatics. Shit.” He glared at me through his wire-rim glasses. “Why don’t they take lessons? One foray up a rockery in their backyard and they think they’re frigging experts.”

  Dr. Flake was holding forth in the all-purpose office that served whoever was on call at the hospital. As usual, he wore jeans and a beat-up shirt under his white coat. His long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his six-foot-four frame looked as if it could use a good meal.

  “Okay, Ms. Emma Lord, what’s up? Am I on trial for seducing your star reporter?” His blue eyes twinkled, though his jaw was set. Peyton Flake was no man to mess with, and he knew I knew it.

  I laughed, though without humor. “Carla can take care of herself. At least as far as you’re concerned.” I hesitated, waiting for his reaction. There wasn’t any. That came as no surprise. “Who do you think has been sending your nurse ugly messages?”

  Flake snorted. “Everybody. It’s this town. They don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. Ignorant bigots, most of them. Hey, I came from Ellensburg. I know small towns. Oh, they have a college over there, they like to think they’re broad-minded. But I didn’t know jack-shit until I got to Seattle and the UDUB. I thought a crib was something you put a baby in.” He chortled at his own naïveté.

  I laughed, too, though I wasn’t feeling very merry. “Dr. Flake, I’ve got a favor to ask.” I asked it. Flake looked puzzled at first, then turned serious.

  “You aren’t kidding around, are you?”

  “No,” I replied, equally somber. “I’m scared.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Flake said, fingering the stethoscope that hung from his neck. “Christ, I’m on call until tomorrow morning.”

  I stood up. “You’ll think of something. You have to.”

  Peyton Flake gave me an odd half smile. “Yeah. I guess I will. I took an oath to save lives.”

  “Then save one,” I urged him. “For your own sake, if nobody else’s.”

  I left him with a worried look on his face. It wasn’t half as troubled as my mind.

  It was almost dark when I pulled the Jaguar up at The Pines Village Apartments. I had no plan. I was taking a terrible chance. All that was going for me was sheer opportunism. But fear was the motivator.

  The apartment house was five staggered stories, with the pool on the roof. Carla had told me it could be covered in winter. The balconies sported a variety of greenery, from evergreens in planters to window boxes with bright geraniums. Chimney pots indicated the existence of fireplaces, and gave the building a European air.

  C. Steinmetz and L. Boyd lived on the third floor. It was Libby who answered when I punched in number 307. She cheerfully directed me to wait for the door to buzz, then come inside and take the elevator.

  The carpet, a serviceable but handsome mauve, still smelled new. The elevator was tiny and quiet. No children, I guessed; no pets. On my way in, I had noticed a sign indicating that there were some vacancies. No one bedro
oms, I mused—or nothing for the likes of Marilynn Lewis? Maybe the owners were violating the Federal Fair Housing Act.

  Libby offered me something to drink. I accepted, though blackberry-flavored water isn’t my idea of a shot in the spine. And that was what I needed. I’d come to ask Libby some difficult questions.

  “Carla took off on a run,” Libby said, after we’d sat down in the living room. A fresh breeze blew in through the sliding glass doors that led to the small balcony. The fireplace had glass doors, too, and looked as if it had never been used. The decor was eclectic, a mélange of Carla Steinmetz and Libby Boyd. A navy blue sectional sofa, a glass-topped coffee table on brass legs, a big lamp with a floral ceramic base—these objects belonged to Libby, I guessed. The refinished Victorian rocker, the mohair armchair that held a Raggedy Ann doll, the old-fashioned three-way floor lamp all smacked of Carla.

  “Where’d she go?” I inquired, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Libby shook her head. “She didn’t say. Often, she doesn’t. She got a phone call after she came down from the pool and raced off. I think it’s better to keep tabs. I mean, you never know what might happen. It’s a good thing to let somebody know where you are, just in case.”

  I agreed. “That’s the way I was raised. Maybe Carla wasn’t.

  “I wasn’t,” Libby said, sitting cross-legged on the navy sofa. “My parents believed in being free. What they really meant was they didn’t want to be bothered. That’s why I’m the opposite, I guess.”

  Fumbling around for an opening, I found one in Libby’s remark about her parents. “You don’t have family close by, do you, Libby?”

  Libby fingered a carved crane on the end table next to the sofa. “No. My mother’s dead. I don’t know where my father is. I had a brother, but he ran away when he was fifteen. I was twelve. I wished he’d taken me with him.” She sounded wistful.

  “I gathered you didn’t have anybody around here,” I said, aware that I was treading on painful ground. “That’s why I’m barging in. You’ve been fussing over Carla. Now I’m fussing over you.”

  Libby didn’t look keen about the idea. “That’s nice, but don’t. I’m not used to it.”

  I gave a short nod of assent. “Then I’ll have my say and take off. It’s about Shane—how well do you know him, Libby?”

  Relief flooded Libby’s tanned face. “Well enough. We’ve been seeing each other for a year. Shane’s great. Oh, he’ll never set the world on fire, but he’s basically a good guy. If that’s what’s bothering you, forget it.”

  “It’s Shane’s feelings I’m worried about,” I said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth. “I’m wondering if he knows his own mind. And heart.”

  Now Libby looked perturbed. “What are you getting at?”

  “I think,” I said boldly, “that he’s infatuated with Marilynn Lewis.”

  Libby threw back her head and laughed. “That’s crazy! Shane hardly knows Marilynn!” Giving into her amusement, she laughed herself into silence. “Really, Ms. Lord, the only reason Marilynn is living at the Campbells is because Shane’s so good-hearted. Soft, like mush. It was all so casual—she was in the Fred Meyer store one day, and they got to talking, and she mentioned moving to Alpine, and—well, one thing led to another. Shane put his foot in it. He does things like that.”

  I wanted to believe Libby, but I wasn’t convinced. I had seen the smitten look on Shane’s face when Marilynn entered the dining room at the Campbell house. I had watched the flush grow on his cheeks when I mentioned Marilynn’s name. Most of all, I detected latent animosity between Libby and Marilynn. As far as I could tell, Libby was no racist. Any hostility she felt for Marilynn grew out of a more primal fear—one woman’s jealousy of another over a man.

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Let me ask one more question and then I’ll be out of here. Do you remember the night Jerome Cole was killed and Marilynn and her roommate came over to Shane’s apartment in Seattle?”

  Libby tilted her head, eyes on the ceiling. “I remember that it happened. But no, I wasn’t at Shane’s that night. He told me about it later.”

  “How did he tell you?” I kept my voice even.

  Perplexed, Libby gazed at me. “How? I don’t know what you mean. I guess he said the two nurses had run away from their apartment, and then he heard that Marilynn’s boyfriend got killed.” She shrugged. “It was too bad, but from what I could tell, the guy was headed for some kind of big trouble. I think a neighbor took him out.”

  I was perched on the edge of the navy blue armchair that matched the sofa. “Are you sure?”

  Libby shifted on the cushions. “That’s what happened. The guy was sent to prison.”

  I gave a sad shake of my head. “I don’t think so. That guy was Wesley Charles, the man you and those kids found near my house. He didn’t kill Jerome Cole.” I took a deep breath. “I hate to say it, but I believe Jerome Cole was bludgeoned to death by Shane Campbell.”

  Libby Boyd’s face was horror-stricken. Afraid, too, I thought, and I didn’t blame her. “That’s awful!” she finally gasped. “Shane wouldn’t—couldn’t—do such a thing! And why would he?”

  “Because he was nuts about Marilynn,” I replied doggedly. “He was trying to protect her. Jerome Cole was a violent drug addict. He made a habit of beating up on Marilynn.”

  Libby still looked afraid, but her expression also conveyed defiance. “No. No, I don’t believe Shane felt that way about Marilynn. Oh, he liked her. But there was nothing romantic there.” Her eyes grew desperate. “God, Ms. Lord, don’t you think I’d know it?”

  I did, and Libby’s obtuseness baffled me. It takes either a very stupid or a totally self-absorbed woman not to sense when her man is straying. Unqualified trust is as rare as it is naïve. Libby didn’t seem to fit into any of those categories. I began to wonder if I might be wrong about Shane Campbell.

  The phone rang. Libby answered it in an abrupt voice, then switched to her more natural tone: Her half of the conversation was mostly monosyllables. When she hung up, she gave me a smug smile.

  “That was Shane. He wants to catch the late showing of Jurassic Park at the Whistling Marmot Theatre. I’d better change if he’s coming here for a drink first.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s after seven. The last show starts at nine-forty.”

  It seemed to me that Libby and Shane would have more than enough time for a drink. Or for whatever else they planned as a short feature before the movie. Which, I realized, was none of my business. Obviously, Libby was politely telling me I’d worn out my welcome.

  Maybe I’d spent too much time around Vida. Perhaps I’d appointed myself Libby’s guardian angel. Possibly I was acting like a pigheaded fool. But I had to make one last stab at keeping Libby away from Shane, at least until Milo Dodge had had time to do some serious police work.

  “Libby—what would it take for you to break this date?”

  Libby’s expression was scornful. “Why should I? Ms. Lord, how many times do I have to tell you …”

  Waving my hands, I interrupted. “Stop calling me Ms. Lord! And stop and think for a minute, period. I’m certain Shane went to meet Kelvin Greene at the cemetery. He left his van parked up on First Hill Road by the Tolberg farm. I was at the Campbells’ that night for dinner. Shane was late getting home, and I don’t think he brought the van with him. He must have walked down First Hill Road to the cemetery so his van wouldn’t be seen, and after he shot Kelvin Greene, Shane ran home, right through his mother’s flower garden. It’s only half a block.” I steeled myself for the next question: “Libby—did you meet Shane at the cemetery and help him get rid of the gun?”

  Libby looked stunned as well as angry. “Of course not! That’s a terrible thing to say! You’re way out of line!”

  I was. Libby’s vehemence jarred me. “Okay, okay,” I soothed. “But you’ve got to be realistic. There’s a murderer loose in Alpine. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Shane didn’t kill Jerome Cole. But somebody d
id, and somebody—maybe the same person—killed Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles within the last week.” Briefly, I considered tipping my hand and revealing why I was certain that the recent murders had been committed by someone in the Campbell ménage. I bit my tongue. Libby’s rigid face told me that nothing I could say would convince her. Indeed, for a fleeting moment, she actually looked as if she’d like to slug me. I couldn’t blame her. Not only had I condemned her for collusion, I’d accused the man she loved of murder. Worse yet, I’d baldly stated that he was infatuated with another woman. Libby Boyd had every right to throw me out of the apartment.

  Apparently Libby saw the uncertainty on my face and put out a hand. “Hey—Ms. Lord, forget it. You’re taking your job too seriously. Remember, I’m a city girl. I’m used to looking out for myself. Given the way I was brought up, in a sense I’ve always been on my own. I’ve been going with Shane for a year. He’s never done a single thing to upset me, let alone scare me. If anything, he’s too laid-back. Now go home and stop worrying.”

  I didn’t have any choice. I smiled at Libby as I left, but inside, I felt grim. By the time I got to the lobby, Shane was coming up the walkway. On a whim, I jumped back into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

  I waited about five minutes, then walked down the fire stairs to three. Libby and Carla lived in the second unit from the end of the hall. Feeling silly, I knocked on the neighboring door. There was no answer. I tried the door; it was unlocked.

  The apartment was vacant. Judging from the pristine condition of the carpet and the walls, it had never been occupied. It was a two-bedroom unit, identical to Carla and Libby’s. Carefully, I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and stepped out. I could hear Shane and Libby, if barely.

  “It’s up to you,” Shane was saying.

  Libby’s response was muffled. I suspected she might be in the bedroom, changing.