by Mary Daheim
Milo nodded in a vague way. “And Libby had parked her truck in front of the high school, across from the Tolberg farm. She didn’t count on the kids who were hanging out around the practice field swiping the Bucker mascot, using her first-aid kit, and putting a tourniquet on the thing. Oh, and her forest ranger’s hat.”
“Ridiculous,” Vida sniffed. “To think they blamed it on Sultan! Is there no end to rivalry on Stevens Pass?”
Milo shot Vida a nettled glance. “Keep to the murders. I’m already confused.” He applied his inhaler, and expelled a deep breath. “So when did Libby find the damned Bucker?”
I made a self-deprecating gesture. “That was part of my problem. I thought it was Shane who had parked his van by the high school, until I remembered that Ed had seen it farther up on First Hill Road. It couldn’t be in two places at once. Libby wouldn’t have been observed by the people who live on First Hill—those houses are too secluded. She left her truck in front of the school, then walked across the street to the cemetery. While she was gone, the kids decided to play a prank. Let’s face it, some Alpiners look at the Forest Service as a tool of the federal government. They don’t like their stand on the spotted owl. The kids were getting back at the enemy. They put the dummy in the back of the truck, which was full of brush and tools and all sorts of stuff. I suspect Libby didn’t even notice—until she hid Wesley Charles in there.”
Vida pursed her lips. “It was very stupid of us not to think about that Forest Service truck being involved in the accident at Monroe.” She gave Milo a reproachful look. “Working for the government, Libby must have had no trouble finding out when Wesley Charles would be transported from Shelton. Somehow she caused that tie-up, then liberated Wesley Charles while everyone’s attention was focused on the school bus. Where did she take him?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Probably a back road where she happened upon the stolen car. She had tools in the truck, including a saw. She cut through Wesley’s shackles and let him drive up to Alpine on his own. Maybe she fed him some story about knowing that he was wrongly imprisoned and that she knew who really killed Jerome Cole. Wesley Charles sounds like a credulous soul, and he certainly didn’t want to serve time for something he didn’t do. I’ll bet she had a map, directing him to the cul-de-sac. She met him there later in the day and shot him, then waited until he was discovered by those kids. It wasn’t any coincidence that she was in the vicinity when they found the body. No doubt she was lurking in the woods, just biding her time.”
“And getting rid of Bucker Swede.” Vida sighed. “She went way too far. She didn’t need to kill either of those poor men. Such a waste.”
Milo was yawning widely. “I don’t get the part about that watch. Where does that come in?”
My voice was growing tired; I was getting tired of hearing it. “After the murder I noticed that Libby had a tan line on her arm. Then Vida and I found the broken wristwatch in the grave. I also realized that the next time I saw Libby, she was wearing a watch. A new one, or a spare, I suppose. But I didn’t put the whole picture together until later.”
Vida gave a shake of her head that set the graying curls dancing. “Libby planned things so carefully. She would have been very good at organizing Presbyterian bazaars. It’s such a shame she was homicidal.”
Milo grunted. “She was hell-bent on saving Shane’s reputation—along with his money and her future. People like that are out of kilter. They don’t think the way we do.”
Vida concurred. “Terrible. Just terrible. Shane would never have gone to prison. He still won’t.”
Milo didn’t look so sure. “He withheld evidence. He impeded justice. I don’t think Shane will get off scot-free.”
I slapped my hand on Vida’s kitchen table. “There you go! More ethnic clichés! Stop it, Dodge! Hasn’t this whole sorry mess taught you anything?”
Clumsily, Milo got to his feet. “Yeah, it sure has. I’ve got to break up with Honoria. At least until she changes perfumes. I’m allergic to that stuff she wears. My sinuses cleared up when we didn’t see each other. Come on, Emma, I’ll take you home to my place.”
Half out of my chair, I froze. “Your place? What are you talking about?”
Milo gave me an innocent look. “Huh? Your car. You left the Jag at my place. Don’t you want to collect it tonight?”
“Oh!” I flushed. “Sure, let’s go.”
Behind us, Vida snickered.
Monday was frantic at The Advocate. I took the tricky murder investigation story upon myself. It was noon before I finished the main article and the sidebars. By then, Libby Boyd’s corpse had been retrieved from Alpine Creek and sent to the morgue. Doc Dewey ruled the death accidental. No one claimed the body until Carla came forward and said she’d see to the burial. I told her I’d help. Vida chimed in, and so did Ed and Ginny. Somehow it didn’t seem right that Libby, who had been abandoned in life, should be alone in death.
It was almost two P.M. before I got to the mail. To my disgust, there was yet another letter from my anonymous nemesis. “Dear Publicher,” it read. “I hear more rumores about the invazion. They are going to bewich us and make us slaves. From dawn to dark, we’ll carry those ugly paper cups and drink, drink, drink. BEWARE!!! The end is near, and its name is LATTE.”
I laughed. Uncontrollably. This was no wild-eyed bigot, fearing interracial marriage, demonic drugs, and gangland warfare. This was a man with an espresso machine he couldn’t master and a dread of competition from Starbuck’s.
This, I realized, was Marlow Whipp.
The WNPA program didn’t start until eleven A.M. on Thursday, June 17. But since Wednesday was my off day, I decided to make the two-hour trip that afternoon. The past month had been hectic, not only with too many murders, but the burgeoning battle between the pro– and anti–explicit lyrics factions. There was rage at the school board, anxiety over the unveiling of the federal plan for the forests, arguments about the L.I.D. proposal, rumors that the Seattle Police Department had brought Shane Campbell in for questioning, disappointment that Fred Meyer had chucked its Alpine outlet for a new store between Fremont and Ballard in the Big City, a great debate over Ginny Burmeister’s brainstorm for a summer solstice celebration, and rampant buzzing about whether or not Mayor Fuzzy Baugh had taken to wearing a girdle.
Thus, I was well pleased to escape from Alpine for a few days. Adam had flown directly from Fairbanks to San Francisco. I would not see him until August. From Tuba City, he had called to announce his safe arrival and to inform me that he and Tom Cavanaugh had spent two days going to see a Giants game at the Stick, visiting the wine country in the Napa Valley, and taking a tour of Alcatraz. Considering that I’d had my fill of criminals recently, the last item seemed like an odd choice. But at least it would make for the opening gambit in a conversation with Tom when, and if, I saw him at Lake Chelan.
So that Wednesday, after waving the paper off to the printer in Monroe, I spent an hour making sure I wasn’t leaving any loose ends. The school special had come out the previous week, and we were now setting our sights on the Fourth of July edition. Vida and Carla had plenty on their plates, while Ed continued to bustle about town in search of advertising revenue. I had a right to feel good about my professional life. My personal world, however, was a mess.
But Marilynn Lewis was putting her house in order. She showed up in my office just as I was about to leave for Chelan.
“I’m on a break,” she said, then laughed. “I don’t get breaks, except for lunch. Dr. Flake’s in surgery and Doc Dewey is delivering a baby.” She settled into one of my visitors’ chairs. “I haven’t had time to thank you properly for everything you did. I’ve been so busy getting moved in with Carla and worrying about Shane and trying to keep out of the hassle over those dumb recordings…. It’s funny how easily you get caught up in small-town life.”
“Funny,” I echoed. “Right, it’s hilarious.” I grinned at Marilynn. “Hey, I didn’t do much, except put my foot in it.”
But Marilynn disagreed. “You wrote that editorial about bigotry. That was a brave thing to do in this town. I appreciate it, and I imagine there are some broad-minded people around here who were glad to see it, too.”
My modesty was unfeigned. “What I wrote won’t change a thing. Only time will do that.” I gave Marilynn a quirky little smile. “And newcomers, like you. Maybe it won’t be long before the locals look at you and see a nurse instead of an African-American. Then, if you stick around long enough, they’ll get to know you for who you are, not what you are. For now, I’m glad that you and Carla are going to be roommates. Try not to let her drive you crazy.”
Marilynn gave a short, sharp snake of her head. “After Winola, Carla will be a snap.” She shot me a rueful look. “I shouldn’t criticize Winola. She’s a decent person, but frankly, as long as I was seeing Jerome, I had a hard time finding a roommate who’d put up with all the turmoil I went through. Winola didn’t mind—she came from a rough background.”
I inclined my head. “Plus, she was seeing a drug dealer. Winola couldn’t afford to gripe.”
Marilynn expelled a long sigh. “True. Poor Winola. She deserves better.”
“So do you,” I asserted. “What are you going to do about Shane once his lawyer gets through plea-bargaining him down to community service, which will probably include playing gin rummy with Crazy Eights Neffel for the next six months?”
Marilynn’s beautiful face turned thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think Shane has a crush, really. I mean, for him I was different. Exotic, maybe?” She laughed. “He’s nice, but he’s not what I’m looking for. The best thing I could do for Shane Campbell is introduce him to one of the Chinese or Samoan nurses I worked with in Seattle. He’s spent too much time with those tall, blonde Swedish and Norwegian girls.”
Aghast, I stared at Marilynn. “Oh! Not you, too!”
Marilynn’s black eyes grew wide. “Me what?” Suddenly she burst into laughter. “Oh, no! I’m a racist!”
I was also laughing. “Yes, you are. We all are, I guess. As I said, it’s because we see with our eyes, not our minds.”
Still making merry noises, Marilynn nodded, then shook her head. “Well … no. It’s because we see what we want to see.”
I had grown serious. “We see what’s there. What do you see when you look at me?”
Marilynn sobered, too. She tilted her head to one side and studied me carefully. “I see a white woman who runs a weekly newspaper. I see a mother. I see a person who lives alone and thinks she likes it. I see …” Again, a smile played at her lips. “I see someone who deserves better. Don’t we all?”
Campbell’s Lodge at Lake Chelan was in a lovely setting, with every possible facility to make a conference run smoothly. Situated right on the lake, there were also swimming pools, an excellent restaurant, and private patios. The owners, I discovered, were not related to Lloyd and Jean Campbell, unless you were willing to dig back into the clan for several centuries. I certainly wasn’t. They were entitled to wear the same tartan, but other than that, I was trying to put ethnic clichés aside.
I was also trying to figure out when Tom Cavanaugh would arrive. According to one of the WNPA hosts, he was scheduled to check in that evening. He was also expected to attend a private dinner that had been arranged exclusively for the officials and guest speakers. As far as I was concerned, Tom was off-limits until Thursday when he made his appearance at the midmorning session.
I ate in the restaurant with four of my fellow weekly publishers. We were a buoyant group, filled with the trials and tribulations of the newspaper profession. Anecdotes unraveled; rounds of drinks turned us maudlin; night fell over Lake Chelan.
I tottered out of the restaurant shortly after ten o’clock, feeling more unsteady from my brown mock-crocodile platform shoes than the four bourbons I’d consumed. Despite the air conditioning, I had perspired in my new taupe short-sleeved sweater; the elegant striped slit skirt was badly wrinkled. I was tired. I was disappointed. I was over forty and all alone.
And there, in the lobby with its soft lighting and bountiful potted plants, stood Tom Cavanaugh. He was shaking hands with one of the WNPA luminaries. His light blue chambray shirt was casual, as were his dark gray linen slacks. The profile was noble, the blue eyes keen, the brown hair going gray lent him an air of distinction. He had never been lean, but I’d settle for trim. Indeed, I’d settle for anything, as long as it was Tom. Damn.
I thought I had a good chance of getting to the elevator unnoticed. But, of course, I tripped over the blasted platform shoes and fell into the umbrella plant. Tom and the luminary turned to see what had caused the commotion. So did one of the resort workers, a fresh-scrubbed youth who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
“Ma’am!” he exclaimed, worry and liability written all over his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied through gritted teeth. “I’m not used to wearing shoes. I live in Alpine.”
The youth helped me to my feet. “We have a doctor on call,” he said, sounding solicitous. “Would you …?”
“I would not,” I stated firmly, making sure that the ankle I’d injured six months ago wouldn’t give way under pressure. Or maybe I was waiting to see if I wouldn’t give way under pressure. “It’s fine. I’m going to my room.”
The young man had obviously been well schooled in resort insurance procedures. “Maybe you’d like to come into the office and sit …”
I was growing testy. “I would like,” I declared firmly, “to go to bed.”
Backing off, the youth still wore an uncertain expression. “Uh … if you think …”
I don’t know where the WNPA luminary went; I never saw him leave the lobby. But behind the resort employee stood Tom Cavanaugh, giving me his wide, off-center grin.
“It’s all right,” he said, touching the young man’s sleeve. “The lady is tougher than she looks. I’ll see to her.”
Like a zombie, I limped off into the elevator with Tom. We were alone inside the small car. “Hello there,” he said. “What’s new?”
My brain was operating on low. “We’re getting a new pastor,” I blurted.
“Really.” Tom sounded vaguely curious. “What’s he like?”
The car stopped at three, which Tom had punched and which happened to be my floor. “I don’t know. He’s Irish, from California. Father Dennis Kelly.”
Tom laughed, one of my all-time favorite sounds. “Dennis Kelly? From the seminary? I know him. He’s pulled vacation duty at our parish in San Francisco. Nice guy—but he’s not Irish.”
We were out in the quiet corridor. “I mean, Irish extraction,” I said, wondering what was going to happen next.
Tom shook his head, a touch of mischief added to his grin. “Not that, either. Dennis Kelly’s ancestors may have known an Irishman. But Den’s black.”
My jaw dropped. And then I laughed. And laughed and laughed. I think Tom wondered if I was hysterical. He put a hand on my shoulder, and his blue eyes showed concern. I started shaking my head.
“No … I’m not losing it. But all those crazy Catholics in Alpine think …” I laughed some more.
Tom’s grip deepened. I swore I could feel it all the way to the pit of my stomach. “Tell me about it later. Where did you say you were going?”
I looked up. It was quite a distance. Tom is tall, and he always makes me feel like a midget. Or at least like a fragile, delicate woman. “Where? Oh!” I put a hand to my cheek. “To my room. It’s just down the hall. And … to bed.” Abruptly, I lowered my eyes.
Tom’s hand moved to my waist. He steered me along the carpeted hallway. “That’s right. I’m your guide. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never make it on your own.”
“I will,” I protested. Suddenly, I stopped, almost causing us to crash into each other. I gazed up at him, obstinacy written all over my face. “I have. For over twenty years.”
Tom bit his lower lip, cocked his head, and leaned down to rest h
is chin in my gamine haircut. “So you have. But not tonight.”
We stood very still, almost but not quite pressing against each other. “No,” I breathed, “not tonight.”
Coming to bookstores everywhere in
March 1995 …
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
by Mary Daheim
Published in paperback by Ballantine Books. Read on for the exciting opening pages of
THE ALPINE ESCAPE …
Chapter One
I HAD BEEN warned. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. My beautiful secondhand Jaguar would develop mechanical problems. Apparently, it finally had. It wouldn’t start. To me, that’s a mechanical problem.
I’d parked the Jag at the end of a long row of cars in the lot reserved for the Three Crabs Restaurant & Lounge on Dungeness Spit. On an overcast July day, the Strait of Juan de Fuca looked gray and dull, as if it were bored with its endless passage between the Olympic Peninsula and Vancouver Island.
I, however, was not bored, but agitated. And confused.
My car wasn’t my only problem. With great reluctance, I’d abandoned by duties as editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate in an attempt to reassess my life. Maybe it’s naive to think that forty-two years of eluding reality can be rectified in three days, but I had to start somewhere. The Olympic Peninsula seemed like a good place for soul-searching.
Now my priority was a tow truck. I marched back inside the restaurant, found the pay phone, and scanned the local directory. The towing service in Sequim would be out in an hour. Where did I want to go?
That was a good question. I had no idea who could handle Jaguar XJ6 repairs on the Olympic Peninsula. Just off Highway 101, I wasn’t exactly stranded in the middle of nowhere. The town of Sequim was a bustling place, chockful of dissatisfied and retired Californians who had found an authentic Sunbelt in the Pacific Northwest. A few miles to the west lay Port Angeles, with a population of 18,000. Surely one or two of these people owned a Jaguar. Surely someone could do the repairs.