The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  I leaned on the mahogany counter. “How soon before I can talk to Milo?”

  Dustin shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Eriks claims he’s innocent.”

  “I suppose he would,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m trying to figure out the motive.”

  “Who knows?” Dustin looked as skeptical as I’d ever seen him. “One thing I’ve learned in law enforcement is that people can be unpredictable. Sometimes they just go off their heads for no reason, especially when drugs or alcohol are involved.”

  “Yes.” I, too, had encountered murderers who didn’t fit the popular profile of jealous lovers, blackmail victims, or just plain crooks. Some were people I’d known for years, with reputations above reproach. But they’d snapped. And neither substance abuse nor addictions had influenced their homicidal actions.

  “Does Toni Andreas know?” I asked.

  Dustin looked surprised. “No. I mean, I doubt it. There was no reason to call her in on a Sunday. Besides, she hasn’t been feeling very good lately.” He frowned slightly. “Why do you ask?”

  I hedged. “She seemed very upset about Tim’s death. I thought she might want to know that an arrest had been made.”

  Dustin looked beyond me to the entrance. “She’ll know soon enough,” he murmured. “Hello, Mr. Fleetwood.”

  Spencer Fleetwood had brought along some of his remote equipment. He flashed me a big smile—of triumph, I assumed—and nodded at Dustin. “Rey Fernandez just heard the news on the police scanner. It only seems fitting that we should break the story, since Tim worked for KSKY.”

  That was true enough. “Didn’t you threaten to fire him at one point?” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  Spence chuckled. “Station owners always threaten to fire their people. Sometimes they actually do it. But even if Tim did screw up a while back, he made the mistake newsworthy. We got more listener response to his apology than to any other program—except for Vida’s, of course.”

  I recalled the incident only too well. Tim had gotten himself involved in a murder investigation and although he was innocent, he’d managed to tamper with evidence—and lie about it. It had been cowardly, but he’d never been charged with a crime. He’d been scared, and insisted he was protecting Tiffany’s sensibilities.

  “You’re right,” I said softly. “Tim was never what you’d call heroic.”

  Spence shot me a quizzical look, but said nothing. He started to set up his equipment, a process Dustin seemed to find fascinating. I remained leaning against the counter, my stomach growling again, and wishing I’d brought the rest of my breakfast with me.

  “You don’t seem to need much except a microphone and headphones,” Dustin remarked to Spence.

  “Technology,” Spence replied. “This is radio, not TV. Rey’s at the other end in the studio.” He pinned the tiny mike to his safari shirt. “Rey? I’m all set. Five, four, three . . .”

  Dustin and I looked at each other.

  “This is Spencer Fleetwood, broadcasting live with breaking news over KSKY-AM, the voice of Skykomish County,” Spence began, his usually mellow voice charged with just the right amount of urgency. “We’re here at the sheriff’s headquarters in Alpine, where a suspect has been arrested in the homicide death of Tim Rafferty. Wayne Eriks of Alpine was taken into custody this morning by Sheriff Milo Dodge and Deputy Bill Blatt. Eriks, fifty-four, and a longtime employee of SkyCo PUD, is the victim’s father-in-law.”

  Spence always sounded so damned professional. He could have worked for any number of major-market radio stations, even television, since he was also good-looking in a somewhat hawklike manner. But for reasons of his own, he preferred Alpine. He also liked being his own boss. I understood that part very well.

  Spence was motioning to Dustin. “We’re here live and direct with Deputy Dustin Fong. What can you tell us about this startling development in the Rafferty case, Deputy Fong?”

  Although he had leaned across the counter to face Spence, Dustin looked startled. “I’m afraid,” he said carefully, “that I can’t say much at this point. Sheriff Dodge is interrogating the suspect right now.”

  “Has Eriks made a statement?” Spence inquired.

  “Not a formal statement, no, sir.”

  “In other words,” Spence went on, “Eriks hasn’t confessed to the crime?”

  “No, sir. He insists he’s innocent.”

  “Has he contacted an attorney or asked for legal counsel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Spence knew the drill as well as I did, but that didn’t stop him from asking questions. “Can you tell us where Eriks was arrested this morning?”

  “I believe Mr. Eriks was at home.”

  “When will the sheriff release any information about the evidence that led to the arrest?”

  “I don’t know.” Dustin was looking very serious, as if he could imagine SkyCo residents leaning into their radios to catch every word, every nuance. “Usually, evidence isn’t revealed until the trial or at least a formal hearing.”

  “Thank you, Deputy.” Spence flashed Dustin a big smile. “We’re staying right here at the sheriff’s office, awaiting further developments. Stay tuned for our next update. Meanwhile, here’s a word from one of our friendly Alpine merchants, Barton’s Bootery.”

  Spence clicked off the mike. “Thanks again,” he said to Dustin. “I understand the constraints of your job. Of course, I have to do mine, too.”

  “I know.” Dustin looked relieved.

  Spence turned to me. “I see you got here first.”

  The implication was obvious. I didn’t say a word.

  “Vida?” he asked.

  I just stood there, looking innocent.

  At that moment, Milo loped into the outer office. He was wearing his civilian clothes—tan pants and a blue summer shirt. “The media,” he muttered. “Both of it.” He shot a dark look at Spence. “Don’t even think about turning on that mike. It’s not already on, is it?”

  Spence held up his hands in a guiltless gesture. “I’ve already finished my preliminary broadcast, Sheriff. I was waiting for you.”

  “Hunh.” Milo glanced at Dustin.

  “I couldn’t tell Mr. Fleetwood anything but what we already announced over the scanner,” Dustin said.

  “Good.” Milo went over to the coffeemaker next to the door of his private office. “Shit, didn’t anybody make coffee?”

  “Sorry,” Dustin apologized. “I didn’t think of it.”

  I couldn’t resist. The sheriff’s coffee was too vile for me to keep my mouth shut. “Just pump out some sewer bilge and throw in a little dirt. You won’t know the difference.”

  Milo scowled at me before turning back to Dustin. “Go over to the Burger Barn and get us some coffee, okay?”

  Dustin moved quickly. Maybe he was glad to get out of the line of fire.

  “Well?” I said after the deputy was gone. “Can you tell us anything?”

  “Hell, no.” Milo pulled out a pack of cigarettes, his usual Marlboro Lights. Spence followed suit, with his exotic gold-filtered black brand. “We won’t be able to say anything until the arraignment tomorrow,” the sheriff said after his first puff.

  “Is Eriks still protesting his innocence?” Spence asked.

  “Right.” Milo looked cynical. “They often do, you know. Sometimes the bastards even believe it.”

  “But you don’t?” Spence persisted.

  “No comment.”

  The main door opened. I expected to see Dustin returning with coffee, but it was Doc Dewey instead. He greeted Spence and me before speaking to Milo. “Sorry, Sheriff,” Doc apologized, beads of sweat dampening his balding head. “Babies don’t wait, and Dr. Sung had an emergency surgery this morning.”

  “It’s not an emergency,” Milo said, “but the county doesn’t want to be liable. Come on, let’s go back so you can tend to the patient.”

  Without so much as a backward glance for Spence and me, Milo led the way out of the reception area. />
  Spence looked as puzzled as I felt. “What did they do, beat up on Eriks?” he asked.

  “Not likely,” I said. “You know Milo and his merry men well enough to realize they don’t strong-arm anybody. Maybe it’s not Wayne. Cookie might have collapsed.”

  “Cookie?” Spence frowned. “Eriks’s wife is here?”

  I nodded. “She came with him. Maybe Wayne put up a fuss. Maybe he had some kind of accident.” I gazed at the empty corridor that led to the interrogation and holding areas as well as the jail cells. “Damn. This is more frustrating than I expected. Stalling, yes. Doc Dewey showing up, no. It’d make more sense if Tiffany was here, but she’s at home.”

  Briefly, Spence looked blank. “Oh.” He fingered his beaklike nose. “That’s right, she’s pregnant.” He was quiet for a moment. “Car chase? Wayne, eluding arrest and hitting one of his own PUD poles?”

  “That would have been on the scanner.”

  “True.” Spence studied the area around the reception desk. “Let’s check the log. It’s public property.”

  The log showed only three items for Sunday so far. The first had occurred at 2:17 A.M.; the second at 3:40 A.M. Both were traffic violations—one for speeding, the other for running an arterial stop sign on Alpine Way. The third and last entry, written in Dustin’s perfect penmanship, was the arrest of Wayne Eriks on suspicion of homicide and arson.

  “I wondered if they’d charged him with the fire,” Spence said. “I can mention that in my next bulletin.”

  “But nothing logged about resisting arrest,” I noted.

  Dustin returned with a half-dozen cups of coffee in a cardboard container. “Anybody?” he inquired.

  Spence declined, but I accepted, adding a packet of raw sugar to my cup. The deputy headed toward the interrogation room.

  Spence watched Dustin disappear down the corridor. “How can we lure Mrs. Eriks out here?”

  “Yell ‘fire’?” I said facetiously.

  Spence’s expression was ironic. “You newspaper types really are callous.”

  Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. I stirred my coffee and sipped slowly. When Dustin returned, Spence leaned on the counter. “Is there any way we could talk to Cookie Eriks?” he asked the deputy.

  Dustin considered the request. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, sir.”

  Dustin was probably right. But that didn’t mean it was impossible to see Cookie. “Is Doe here?” I asked.

  Dustin shook his head. “She had the night shift. Sheriff Dodge didn’t think it’d be right to ask her to pull extra weekend duty.”

  “You mean,” I said, looking as severe as I could manage, given my liking for Dustin, “that poor Cookie is all alone while her husband’s being interrogated? Or is there another deputy with her?”

  “Emma . . .” Spence began in a warning voice.

  But I kept talking. “Cookie’s not charged with anything. She’s got a pregnant daughter at home, she already lost a son years ago, her husband’s been accused of killing her son-in-law. If nobody else is available, I’m going to sit with her. We’ll go into the women’s restroom where it’s private.”

  I heard Spence swear under his breath. I’d trumped him. Dustin uttered only the most feeble of protests as I circumvented him and headed down the corridor.

  I found Cookie Eriks sitting in the small room reserved for inmates’ visitors. She had her head down and appeared to be asleep, but jumped when I came through the door.

  “Oh! Emma! What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know as much as you do,” I said, sitting down on the hard wooden chair next to her. “Can I get you something?”

  Cookie shook her head. “Dustin Fong brought some coffee a few minutes ago, but I didn’t want it.”

  I gazed around the stark room. Prisoners were seldom kept very long in the local jail. There were only a half-dozen cells, and the usual occupants were drunks or drug addicts who needed time to sober up. More serious criminals were shipped off to Everett or the correctional facility in Monroe. Thus, the visiting room was rarely used. Under close surveillance, visitors were allowed to talk face-to-face with the inmates. The room contained six chairs, a table, a magazine rack attached to the wall, and—just to make sure everybody knew where they were—a map of Skykomish County covered in heavy plastic wrap. There were no windows, only one-way glass on the outer corridor. The room smelled stale and felt oppressively stuffy. The women’s room had to be an improvement.

  I made the suggestion to go there, but Cookie rejected the idea. “I’m not budging until I find out what’s going on with Wayne.”

  “I understand,” I said, searching for tactful words. “So why do you think Dodge arrested him?”

  Cookie twisted her fingers together. The plain gold wedding band looked dull under the fluorescent ceiling lights. “I’m not sure. Dodge showed up this morning. He’d been at the house yesterday, but . . . Wayne wasn’t home.” She paused, not looking me in the eye. “I tried to tell him—the sheriff—that Wayne was in the shower and that Tiffany was still asleep. Dodge insisted on coming in. Well, he is a neighbor, and I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, before I could let Wayne know the sheriff was in the house, he—Wayne—oh, dear, I’m so rattled!” She stopped and shoved a lank strand of hair off her forehead. “Wayne came upstairs from the bathroom in his underwear. That’s when Dodge saw the burns on his—Wayne’s—arms.”

  “Burns?” I suddenly recalled that every time I’d seen Wayne in the past week he’d been wearing a long-sleeved shirt despite the hot weather. “How did he get burned?”

  “On the job.” Cookie’s jaw jutted, though she still avoided my gaze. “Live wires. It happens sometimes.”

  My brain did some mental gymnastics. Cookie could be telling the truth—or merely relaying the version Wayne had given her. But if her husband had gotten those burns when he started the fire to cover the murder, he might not have wanted to seek medical help. Perhaps the blisters had festered. That would explain Doc Dewey’s presence at the sheriff’s office. Milo was duty-bound to make sure that any suspect requiring medical treatment got it at county expense.

  “I assume,” I said casually, “that Wayne had reported his on-the-job accident to the PUD.”

  Cookie sighed. “He gets banged up every now and then. His work’s dangerous. He started out as a logger, you know. I thought he’d be much safer when he started with the PUD. But things happen. And Wayne is too macho to tell the bosses about every little scrape or bruise. He doesn’t want anybody to think he’s a whiner.”

  “Well,” I said, not entirely convinced, “I certainly can’t imagine why Wayne would want to harm Tim. I understand they had dinner together about a week ago.”

  “They did.” Cookie darted a glance at me, but didn’t elaborate.

  “So they must have gotten along,” I remarked. “There doesn’t seem to be any motive. It doesn’t make sense.”

  As I’d hoped, the provocative comment evoked a reaction. “What evidence? Dodge didn’t search our house. He just called Bill Blatt and told him to come on over. The next thing I knew, Wayne was being hauled off to jail. I followed them in my car.” She began to twist her fingers again. “I don’t know what to do. Thank goodness Mrs. Runkel happened to come by. I hated leaving Tiffany alone.” Finally, she met my gaze head-on. “Should I call a lawyer?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Cookie,” I admitted. “Sometimes that isn’t a good idea. I mean, if Wayne can get this cleared up with the sheriff, he may not need one. Milo’s fair.”

  “He’s wrong,” Cookie declared. “Why are men so aggravating?”

  The rhetorical question didn’t quite seem to jibe. “You mean the sheriff or men in general?”

  “I don’t know what I mean.” Cookie’s jaw jutted again. “I just want to get Wayne out of here and go home.”

  The door opened and Bill Blatt appeared. For the first time, I noticed that his boyish face had begun to age. Or maybe the strain of the weeklong
investigation had gotten to him.

  He nodded at me before speaking to Cookie. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold your husband overnight. We can’t formally charge him on a Sunday because the courthouse is closed. I’m sorry. Can I do anything for you?”

  “Can I see Wayne?”

  Bill nodded. “Of course.” He gave me an apologetic look. “You’ll have to wait out front, Ms. Lord.”

  “Sure.” I attempted to give Cookie a reassuring smile, but she’d already turned away from me.

  Spence was still at the reception desk, chatting with Dustin. Mr. Radio interrupted himself when he saw me.

  “That was a dirty trick,” he asserted, though he didn’t really seem angry.

  “Girl talk,” I replied. “I assume you and Dustin here have been doing the male bonding thing.”

  Dustin looked embarrassed, but Spence shrugged. “Deputy Fong doesn’t exactly run off at the mouth.” He winked at the younger man. “We were discussing international politics.”

  That may have been true. “Have you done another bulletin?”

  “Not yet.” Spence stood up and stretched. He was definitely a cool customer in more ways than one. There were no sweat stains on his shirt, despite the fact that it felt very warm in the sheriff’s front office. “I thought I’d interview you, now that you’ve spent time with the suspect’s wife.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I snapped.

  “Chicken.” Spence made a clucking sound.

  “Okay. Why not?”

  He flashed me his big smile. “You’re a good sport.” Spence turned on the mike while I moved closer. “Rey? What’s airing?” He waited a moment. “Okay, as soon as the Pentecostal reverend winds down, break in. I’ll stay on until you give me a countdown.”

  Spence’s dark eyes danced as he waited. “You can pour it on, Emma,” he said in a low voice. “Real sob-sister stuff. This is your chance to shine.”

  I smiled.

  Spence cupped his ear. “Got it,” he said to Rey, and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “This is Spencer Fleetwood,” he began after a few beats. Briefly, he continued with his standard self-aggrandizing introduction. “I’m here live and direct with Emma Lord, editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate. Emma has just had a heart-to-heart talk with Cookie Eriks, wife of Wayne Eriks, who, as we announced earlier, has been arrested in the homicide and arson case involving the death of Tim Rafferty. Emma,” he continued, making sure I was close to the mike, “what was Cookie’s reaction to this latest turn of tragic events?”