Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  “No,” I retorted. “You don’t.”

  “Well, you do.” Milo reached over and brushed at my jawline. “It’s a potato chip. No,” he contradicted himself on closer examination of the offending particle, “it’s a piece of Frito.”

  I held my head. I never eat Fritos, but I must have gotten some residue on my hands during the ride with Leo Walsh. My present ad manager is tidier than his predecessor, but he’s not exactly fussy, either.

  Dismissing all notions of sexual tension between Milo and me, I pressed the sheriff about Honoria’s recital of her tragic married life. “Is that it as far as Honoria and Trevor and Mitch are concerned?”

  Milo frowned. “Mitch? Who’s Mitch?”

  I explained, recounting what Ida Smith had told Vida and me about Honoria’s late and unlamented husband.

  Milo was still frowning. “Honoria never said much about the guy, except that he was a skunk. They were together for seven, eight years. She was only nineteen when they got married, and at first, he—Mitch, is it?—seemed like an okay guy. But he was just a year older, and didn’t like having to come home from work on time or paying bills or any of those other things that are part of real life. He drank and smoked pot and eventually started doing coke. When he couldn’t afford the coke, he’d get mean and beat the crap out of Honoria. She put up with it for four or five years and then announced she was leaving him. That’s when he threw her down the stairs.” Milo grimaced. “She should have walked out a lot sooner, but the reason she married him in the first place was because she was fed up with her mother’s parade of husbands.”

  Recalling Ida Smith’s account, I could understand Honoria’s feelings. “Still,” I noted, “there must have been some close family ties in the Whitman family. Trevor—unfortunately for him—rushed to his sister’s defense.”

  “I know.” Once again, Milo was staring at the windshield, which was now covered with thick snow. “This is all sort of ironic. Now Trevor’s wife has been murdered. It has to make you wonder, doesn’t it?” The sheriff slowly turned to look at me, his wide mouth twisted. “If Honoria ever finds out who killed Kay, will she return the favor?”

  Chapter Nine

  THE SOFT, SHIFTING curtain of lights behind the bar at King Olav’s evokes the Aurora Borealis. Walls of rough granite, with mysterious recesses, and a graceful waterfall splashing into a small pool bring to mind the deep fjords of Norway. After a few drinks, it’s been said that the brooding gods of Norse mythology can be glimpsed among the shadows. I wouldn’t know: the scariest sight I’ve seen in the ski lodge bar was Ed Bronsky in a tux.

  Milo and I sat at a small pine table, he cradling his Scotch, me fondling my bourbon. At six-thirty on a Thursday evening, the handful of other customers were mostly skiers. No one appeared to care that the uniformed sheriff of Skykomish County seemed intent on getting wasted.

  To be fair, we were both sipping our first drinks. But Milo’s mood was dark, and while he isn’t a heavy drinker, I could tell that he had no intention of stopping until one of the other customers began to look like Odin.

  I spent the first five minutes trying to convince Milo that Honoria wasn’t homicidal, and that even if she were, her physical condition was limiting. The sheriff, however, alluded to firearms, poison, and homemade explosives. His former ladylove was clever, as well as determined. If she felt obligated to avenge her sister-in-law’s death, she’d find a way. Honoria was like that. Milo took a deep drink from his highball glass.

  “You know,” I said, leaning back in my chair and wishing there was an easy way to slip off my boots, “you’re missing the point. It isn’t up to Honoria to figure out who killed Kay—that’s your job. And when you finish doing it, and bring the perp to justice, that will be that. How’s it going?”

  My inadvertent attempt to catch Milo off guard actually worked. He started to shrug, then dug inside his regulation jacket and pulled out a package of cigarettes, which he shoved under my nose. I shook my head. Milo lighted up.

  “The autopsy didn’t tell us much,” he said. “But Vida told you about that.”

  “No, she didn’t.” My pique returned. “Vida was too caught up in her dinner plans for Buck Bardeen.”

  Milo ignored my irritation. “Well, there wasn’t much for her to pass on. Kay’s throat was slit with something very sharp and fairly wide, which doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure. We can rule out a surgical scalpel, a butcher knife, or anything that Stella and her crew might have had lying around, like scissors or a razor. The ME’s guess is a hunting knife.”

  I didn’t want to think about the gruesome details that had prompted the medical examiner’s opinion. “Hunting knives are pretty common in Alpine,” I noted. Not only did a large number of locals hunt, but there were even more who fished. Most of them owned a knife.

  “We checked with Harvey Adcock,” Milo went on, puffing at his cigarette and referring to the owner of the local hardware-and-sporting-goods store. “Routine, but you never know. He’s sold a couple of knives in the last ten days, but he didn’t know either of the men who bought them. He figured one of the guys was going for coyote or bobcat because he brought a new hunting license. Not much else is in season around here, except raccoons. The other one bought a steelhead card. He already had a valid fishing license.”

  “So Harvey can identify them?” I asked.

  “Neither was a local,” Milo replied, signaling for another round. “That’s why he didn’t recognize them. But Dwight Gould had Harvey check with Olympia. The hunter was some guy from Seattle, name of Brantley. The steelheader was from Edmonds. Funny name—Pope or Popp or Poop.” Milo chuckled.

  Without even thinking, I grabbed Milo’s cigarette pack. “Popp? Toby Popp?” My mouth was agape; the cigarette clung to my lower lip.

  Milo reached over and clicked his lighter. “Yeah, that’s it. Goofy name. According to Harvey, kind of a goofy guy, too.”

  “When was that?” I suddenly remembered that if I was going to smoke, I should try to look more like Bacall and less like Bogart. I removed the cigarette from my lips and attempted to hold it gracefully between my fingers.

  “When?” Milo frowned at me. “I’m not sure Dwight said. Saturday, maybe. No—it was Monday morning. I remember now, because Harvey told Dwight that the knife sales were over a week apart. The Seattle hunter had come in Saturday before last. Harvey is closed on Sundays, so it had to be Monday.” The sheriff regarded me with growing curiosity. “You know this Poop?”

  “It’s Popp, Toby Popp, and he’s a billionaire software king. Retired,” I added somewhat crossly. “He’s building a big house near Index.”

  “Never heard of him,” Milo remarked, seemingly indifferent to the very rich and semifamous. “Hey, want to look at a menu? I’m hungry. They’ll feed us in here.”

  It occurred to me that I was starving. It also occurred to me that Milo and I should both counteract our alcoholic intake with food. As the sheriff requested menus I tried to figure out if there was any connection between Toby Popp and Kay Whitman: California. The Monterey Peninsula. Stanford University. Silicon Valley.

  “Milo …” I was having trouble putting my thoughts into a logical order that would make an impression on the sheriff. “Maybe you should do a little digging on Toby Popp. He and Honoria and Kay and Trevor all come from the same general area.”

  Milo’s expression was uncomprehending. “So? If you’re talking Northern California, that’s probably about a zillion people. Hey, here’s our drinks.” He handed over his empty glass as if it were a sacrificial offering.

  I decided that maybe this wasn’t the time or place to badger Milo about Toby Popp. Even when he was concentrating on the job, his view tended to be unimaginative. Maybe I was crazy anyway. I sipped my second bourbon and studied the specials. The crab cakes sounded good. Milo went for the pot roast à la Ingrid. We stuffed ourselves and spoke of sports. The Sonics were an illusion, waiting for the play-offs to dash our hopes. The Sea-hawks were a e
yesore, and we’d abandoned all hope entering the preseason. If the baseball strike ever ended, maybe the Mariners could provide some excitement.

  By eight o’clock, we were full—and sober. Milo drove me back to Cal’s and waited until he made sure my Jag would start. It did. I gave him a thumbs-up signal and went home.

  My gloomy mood at the end of the workday seemed to have lifted. Retrieving my car had helped improve my spirits. Or maybe it was the crab cakes.

  It didn’t occur to me that it might have been Milo.

  * * *

  When Vida arrived at work the next morning, she was humming. I assumed that her cheerful mien was caused by the dinner date with Buck. But I was wrong.

  “Buck didn’t come after all,” she said, adjusting the beaded backrest on her chair. “He came down with that twenty-four-hour flu. Or, I should say, he hopes it’s the bug that lasts just a day. There’s also that lingering flu going around where you think you’re better, and a few days later, you’re ill again.”

  “I hope you didn’t cook the pork chops,” I said, somewhat evilly. I’m not a morning person, and my perverse nature tends to surface before nine-thirty.

  “No,” Vida replied blithely. “Buck called just as I got in the house, so I froze them. Perhaps he’ll be able to come Saturday.”

  Carla was making coffee, a duty that usually falls on Ginny. Leo was attending the monthly Kiwanis Club breakfast. When Carla went out into the front office, I sat down in Vida’s visitor’s chair.

  “Okay, so tell me why you’re so happy with the world,” I said, keeping one eye on the burbling coffeemaker.

  Vida evinced surprise. “Happy? I’m merely holding positive thoughts. I do sometimes, you know.” Her gaze held a hint of reproach.

  Wanting to get to the point, I ignored the remark. “You haven’t told me what you learned yesterday afternoon. Give, Vida. I would have called you last night, but I thought Buck was there.”

  “Well, he wasn’t.” Briefly, Vida’s sparkle faded. “However, I didn’t waste the evening.” Calmly, she picked up the phone messages that she’d given only a cursory glance the previous day. “I invited Jane Marshall over to help me write a birthday poem for my daughter, Amy. She’s a leap-year baby, you know.”

  I did, in a vague sort of way, except that I could never remember whether the February 29 child had been Amy, Beth, or Meg. There was no Jo. As far as I was concerned, Amy’s main claim to fame—or infamy—was that she had given birth to Roger the Terrible.

  “So you pumped Laurie’s mother,” I said, grinning at Vida’s inventiveness. “What came of it?”

  “First things first,” Vida declared, apparently sorting the messages in order of their priority. “You’ll recall that I also visited the sheriff yesterday afternoon.”

  I pretended that I hadn’t dined with Milo. But, as usual, Vida knew all: “Marje Blatt and her friend, Jeannie Clay, went night skiing.” Marje was Vida’s niece, and the medical clinic’s receptionist; Jeannie was Dr. Starr’s dental assistant. I stopped grinning and waited for Vida to reveal my latest adventure with the sheriff. “It wasn’t a good night for skiing—too wet. Marje and Jeannie decided to eat dinner in the ski lodge’s coffee shop. They glimpsed you going into the bar with Milo, so I assume you’re caught up on his report from the ME in Everett.”

  I nodded faintly. Vida continued: “Will Stuart is such a bore. You were right, he was no help at all. In fact, the killer could have walked right past the medical supply’s front door and he wouldn’t have noticed because he hadn’t fetched his new glasses from the optician’s. I made a brief stop there, too, but it was hopeless—they have all those displays of eyeglasses that completely block their view of the street. Then I went to Stella’s.” Vida fluffed her gray curls, which didn’t look quite so tidy this morning. “I quizzed Laurie in a general sort of way about the murder—‘Wasn’t-it-awful-weren’t-you-terrified-can-you-imagine such-a-blah-blah.’ Then, somehow, I got her off on being shocked or startled by less lethal happenings. I must confess, I fibbed a bit, about a thank-you letter I received—except that I didn’t, though I should have, if my grandchildren had any manners—with a death’s-head on the envelope. A prank, of course, I told Laurie—and really, not one in which my grandchildren would indulge—but it put me off, all the same. Or so I claimed.”

  Vida paused to sip from a mug of hot water. “Now, you would expect that anyone who had seen something upsetting in the mail as recently as that very morning would chime right in with their personal experience. But,” she went on, gazing at me over the rim of her glasses, “Laurie said nothing. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  Vida’s attitude indicated that I should also be flabbergasted. Instead, I tried to rationalize why Laurie might keep the incident to herself. “Maybe it was a spider,” I suggested.

  “Nonsense,” Vida scoffed. “It’s the wrong season, except for the smaller kind. Those big ones come inside during the late summer and early fall. You never see them the rest of the year.”

  I admitted that I was stumped. Vida, however, wasn’t ready to give up. “Laurie definitely saw something in the mail delivery that disturbed her. It’s her reaction to my inquiry that raises some very intriguing questions. Stella doesn’t know anything about it, because I asked her on my way out.”

  “Point-blank?” Vida could be direct as well as oblique. She handled each person and situation in what she considered the most efficacious manner.

  “More or less,” Vida answered. “I asked Stella—and this was a reasonable query—if the salon had received any hate mail or letters. She said not yet, though there had been a few anonymous hang-ups. Youngsters, I imagine, making mischief.”

  Laurie had not revealed anything else of interest during the hair appointment. Vida had no opportunity to speak with Becca. The skin-care specialist was completely booked, no doubt by curiosity-seekers.

  The phone company held more promise. The local office deals solely with switching equipment and repair. While Vida doesn’t have any relatives who work there, she can rely on Bill Blatt to ferret out information.

  “I told Billy to have the phone company turn over Honoria’s records from the week prior to her family’s arrival. Milo had already asked for Stella’s records at the salon. They should be available late this afternoon. Billy is having them faxed.”

  I didn’t know what Milo or Vida expected to find in the phone messages, but the check was routine in a homicide. At last we had gotten down to Jane Marshall. As Vida squared her shoulders and adjusted her glasses, I sensed that the visit with Laurie’s mother had been the most interesting.

  “The poem we devised was rather clever, actually.” Vida propped her chin on her hand, gazing up at the ceiling as if Jane had written the words on the aging plasterboard. “ ‘Though born in ’fifty-six/The calendar plays its tricks/Which makes you only nine/You’re the child-woman of mine.’ ”

  I swallowed discreetly. “That’s very …”

  Vida put out a hand, her eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m not done. ‘Though birthdays mark mere years/Lives are passed in smiles and tears/Cherished is the leap-year baby/Ever young is our dear Amy.’ ” Vida’s smile was downright sappy, which certainly suited the poem. I supposed that I couldn’t expect anything better when it came to a celebration of Roger’s mother. Nor did I point out that baby didn’t quite rhyme with Amy.

  “Amy will love it,” I said, which was as close to the truth as I dared come.

  Vida nodded. “Of course she will. I’m very pleased, because usually Jane writes such drivel. Naturally, the collaboration created a mood of mutual confidences.” My House & Home editor wiggled her eyebrows. “Now you may think me lax in not having delved more deeply into the Marshalls’ background when they arrived in town seventeen years ago. But remember, I hadn’t been on the job that long. Marius Vandeventer had me covering every coffee klatch, wedding shower, and dinner party in Alpine. There was much more social life back then, because there were jobs, and people had
money to spend.”

  Briefly, Vida paused to reflect upon what I suspected she considered a happier era. “In any event, I hadn’t yet honed my interrogatory skills. Jane and Martin seemed like a pleasant addition to Alpine, and we were all relieved to see that someone was going to buy the equipment company after Axel Swensen retired. To my untrained eye, the Marshalls were a nice young couple with a pretty nine-year-old daughter and an infant son who’d moved here from Weaverville, California. I didn’t realize that Jane had been married before, and that Laurie was actually Martin’s stepchild. The boy, Josh, is Martin’s. He attends Princeton on scholarship.”

  Vida had paused for effect, and she got what she wanted: all sorts of whistles, buzzers, and alarms were going off inside my brain. “I know where Weaverville is,” I said. “It’s in the mountains, between Eureka and Redding. I wrote an article about other logging towns in the West for last year’s Loggeramma edition, and Weaverville was one of them. Still,” I added, losing steam, “it’s not very close to Carmel or Silicon Valley.”

  “No, it’s not,” Vida agreed, “but you’re on the right track. Jane went to Stanford, where she met her first husband. They both dropped out—she had a baby, and he got a job.”

  “In the fledgling computer industry?”

  Vida nodded. “The marriage was not a success. Jane’s first husband—Laurie’s father—spent all his time playing with computers. Really, it reminds me of how young men used to tinker with cars and neglect their families. There’s no excuse for any of them. After four years Jane filed for divorce, and moved to Weed, which is where she was from. It’s not far from Redding, which is close to Weaverville. That’s how she met Martin, who was not only looking for a wife, but a machinery shop to buy. And that’s how they came to Alpine.”

  I was silent for a few moments. Something was missing. “We are,” I said dryly, “talking about Toby Popp, aren’t we?”

  Vida yanked off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes. “Oooooh! I’d like to think so! But that silly Jane never actually mentioned her first husband’s name!” She stared at me over her clenched fists. “Don’t think I didn’t try everything short of torture!”