by Mary Daheim
Fuzzy’s conclusion might be off base, but his reasoning wasn’t. Despite his lamebrained ideas, he was no dope. “Well, everybody agrees it wasn’t gold or silver,” I conceded. “As far as the mine goes, I understood it had been closed for years. Isn’t it a safety hazard?”
“Definitely,” Fuzzy agreed, sagely nodding his head. “There’s a real danger of cave-ins. Plus, the springs can rise up and flood those shafts. That’s one of the reasons they quit working the mines in the first place.”
“You mean there was still ore?”
“Oh, maybe some. Not enough to risk lives over, though.” Fuzzy made the statement with some authority, as if he had personally been in charge of the closure some seventy-five years ago. He sat up straight, turning so that I could catch his profile, which was still a fine one. “Mark my words. It’s drugs. I intend to ask for a resolution at the city council meeting next Tuesday to open Mineshaft Number Three.”
I tipped my head to one side. It didn’t seem like a very helpful idea, but on the other hand, it couldn’t do any harm. As long as nobody wandered inside and got hurt. “Who owns those old mines, Fuzzy?”
“Nobody. That is,” he went on in his low, soft voice that still held just a hint of his native New Orleans even after twenty years, “the rights to the mines expired years ago. The Forest Service owns the land that Mineshafts One and Two are on, Number Four belongs to the railroad, Five is gone, and Three is on Neeny Doukas’s property.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Do you have to get Neeny to approve of opening the shaft?”
A flicker of uncertainty passed over Fuzzy’s crinkly face. “I hope not. But he’d do it, especially if it’ll help find out who killed his grandson.” Standing up, Fuzzy put out his hand. “I’m off, Emma. Nice as always visiting with you.” He gave me his best marketing-mayoral smile. “You’ll handle this with care, I’m sure.”
“From now on,” I replied with a smile of my own, “my middle name is Alleged.”
Briefly, Fuzzy looked puzzled; then he nodded and let go of my hand. “Yes, that’s right. Circumspection. That’s the ticket.” He started for the door, then turned back to face me. “In fact, it might be better to let matters sit for a time. There’s no point in riling everybody up, is there?”
I feigned innocence. “How do you mean?”
Taking a step back toward my desk, Fuzzy assumed his best good-ole-boy air. “Well, the way I see it, if you run just an obituary on Mark this coming week, that pretty well covers it. The funeral will be over by then, I imagine. If Milo’s arrested somebody, fine. If not, why upset folks?”
Neeny Doukas had Fuzzy Baugh, along with almost everybody else in town, tucked in his pocket. I wondered if Neeny, supposedly sick, had delegated his influence to Simon. I said as much to Fuzzy: “Have you been talking to Simon Doukas?”
Mild surprise registered on Fuzzy’s face. “I offered him my condolences, of course. And to that fine wife of his, Cecelia.” He gave a sad shake of his curly locks, reminding me of an aging cherub. “You realize how hard it is on the family, Emma.” His voice had grown rather faint. “I know you’ll want to spare them any further grief.”
I decided to play the game. “Certainly. I have no intention of rubbing salt in their wounds, Fuzzy. You know better than that. Good journalism isn’t cruel.”
The green eyes turned cold, like agates. Fuzzy filled the doorway, and for the first time since I’d met him, I was aware of the menace of the man, seventy years and all.
When he spoke again, his voice was still very soft. “You behave now. There’s no need to embarrass fine folks like the Doukases.” He gave another shake of his head. “We sure don’t want any more tragedies around Alpine, do we, Emma? I mean, you never know who could be next.”
Giving me the most empathetic of looks, Fuzzy Baugh made his exit.
I tried not to let Fuzzy’s thinly veiled threat bother me. Neither he nor Simon Doukas was the first in Alpine to attempt to scare me out of a story. There had been trouble with some of the loggers the previous winter. At least one irate taxpayer had promised to send me a bomb after I’d backed a school levy. And somebody had actually thrown a rock through the window of my office after I’d made the editorial comment that Alpine remained basically an unin-tegrated community because most of the residents weren’t hospitable to people of other races. Threats were also part of the job description.
But the intimidation I’d faced twice in one day over Mark Doukas’s murder unsettled me more than I liked to admit. It was no longer just a matter of Chris Ramirez’s involvement, but of preserving my right to publish. I did not, however, intend to perish in the process. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that the only way to secure the story was to find the killer.
I put in a call to Adam. Nobody answered, but I wasn’t surprised, since it was only one-thirty in Honolulu. I’d try again, after five, our time.
Meanwhile, Vida returned and reported on her visit to Neeny Doukas. She’d been gone for over two hours, and, given the sudden threatening atmosphere hanging over The Advocate, I’d begun to worry.
“Oooh—” she exclaimed impatiently, rubbing at her eyes, “you might know I was fine. I just nosed around a bit here and there after I left Neeny’s. Not that it did me much good. People ought to pay more attention to what other people are doing.”
“What about Neeny?” I asked, pulling a chair up to Vida’s desk. Ed had left for the day, and Carla had gone to a hospital board meeting.
Vida breathed on her glasses, wiped the lenses on her slip, and settled the tortoise-shell stems over her ears. “I got lucky. Phoebe was just leaving to get her hair dyed.”
“Neeny isn’t at death’s door, I gather.”
Vida snorted. “Of course not! Oh, he’s upset, I suppose he would be, he regarded Mark highly, which proves what an old fool he really is; but, except for gastritis, I don’t think there’s much wrong with him.” She wagged a finger at me. “He says otherwise, but I don’t believe him. He just wants to be babied.”
Given the fact that Neeny had just lost his favorite grandchild, I felt Vida was being a bit harsh, but I didn’t say so. “Had he seen Mark last night?” I inquired.
Vida took a sip from the hot water she always drank in the late afternoons. “No. He didn’t realize Mark had parked that Jeep or whatever it is in the drive. Neeny said he heard sirens by the mine some time between nine and nine-thirty. He thought it was a wreck on the highway. Sheriff Dodge didn’t tell him about Mark until this morning.”
I gave Vida a quizzical look. “How come?”
The wry expression on her face told me she also thought the delay was strange. “Milo called around ten-thirty and talked to that idiot, Phoebe. She said Neeny was resting—I’ll bet!—and shouldn’t be disturbed. The sheriff should wait and give Neeny the bad news in the morning, after he’d had a good night’s sleep. Ha!”
I reflected briefly on Vida’s words. “So Phoebe knew?”
Vida rolled her eyes. “Taking a lot on herself, isn’t she? Imagine Hazel Doukas making decisions like that for Neeny! Why, Hazel couldn’t even decide for herself whether to broil or bake her pork chops!”
Not having known the late Hazel, I couldn’t imagine much. But Vida’s remark gave me an idea. “Phoebe doesn’t live up there, does she?”
“She might as well,” Vida huffed. “You should see her house over on Pine Street—I’ll bet she hasn’t washed her curtains in four years. And the yard—it’s a mess. Nothing but a few ratty rose bushes and some poor bedraggled perennials. She spends most of her time up there at Neeny’s, holding his—whatever.” Vida’s expression showed rampant distaste.
Out on Front Street, a car horn honked and somebody yelled a greeting to a passerby. Darkness was settling in over Alpine, but the rain had stopped shortly after my return to the office. I examined my sad suede shoes and considered heading home. I was anxious to get hold of Adam.
“Did Neeny say anything about Chris?” I aske
d.
Vida cocked her head at me. “Now that’s odd. He didn’t! At first, I expected him to launch into one of his diatribes about how Chris must have killed that nitwit, Mark, but he never let out a peep. I have to admit, Neeny was a little subdued. He figures Mark was murdered by bikers.”
The theory was more plausible than Fuzzy Baugh’s. About every four years, sort of like the Olympics, a horde of rough-and-tumble bikers descended on Alpine. They raised hell up and down Front Street and usually tried to smash up the bar at Mugs Ahoy. But on their last foray, the previous spring, they had taken on a bunch of disgruntled loggers at the Icicle Creek Tavern at the edge of town. The leader of the bikers had made the mistake of imitating a spotted owl. The final score had ended up something like Loggers 48, Bikers 3. Still, it wasn’t impossible that they might have returned for revenge. But it was unlikely that they’d pick on Mark Doukas.
“I think it’s odd that Neeny didn’t mention Chris,” I said.
“So do I.” Vida raised her eyebrows above the rims of her glasses. “But what does it mean?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Did he say anything about our running the story?”
Vida batted a hand at the air. “Oh, of course! I told him to go soak his head. I won’t stand for that nonsense from Neeny Doukas or anybody else.” She gave me a quick, shrewd look. “Who else has been trying to scare you?”
I told her about Fuzzy Baugh. Vida hooted in derision. “That nincompoop! He should have stuck to selling rugs! In fact, I’ll bet he’s wearing one. That mop can’t be his real hair, and if it is, he ought to be ashamed of himself!”
In spite of my more serious concerns, I was amused. “What was his hair like when he was younger?”
Vida shrugged. “Fuzzy was never younger. Not by much. He came here only about twenty years ago and bought out my brother-in-law, Elmo, who owned the furniture store first. Elmo had to go away for a while, and the business had gone downhill. Fuzzy’s wife was a Pratt whose first husband lived in Baton Rouge.”
As ever, the intricate, inbred background of Alpine’s citizenry never ceased to amaze me. But Vida, who apparently felt she’d finished dispensing all usable information, had begun pounding away at her old upright. I stood up and went back into my office to collect my gear and call it a day.
I was driving down Front Street when I realized that for the first time in years, I didn’t much like heading home alone.
Chapter Eight
ADAM TOLD ME I was weird. “Chris wouldn’t hurt a bug,” he insisted after I’d explained the events of the last two days in Alpine. “Sure, he talked about having it out with old Neeny. It was his favorite subject after he’d had a couple of beers. But get violent? No way, Mom. You’re too weird to even think it.”
I assured Adam that I wasn’t the one who thought Chris might be implicated in Mark’s murder. Then, aware that I’d already used up over five minutes of long distance clock, I asked my son if he knew of any relatives or friends Chris had in Seattle. Adam didn’t. The only family Chris had ever mentioned was the Alpine contingent. Margaret hadn’t kept up with Hector’s relations. She’d started a new life in Hawaii, and all her real friends were still there.
I was coming to a dead end, but I had a sudden inspiration. “Adam, did Margaret have a boyfriend?”
“Huh?” He sounded shocked. Obviously, women in my peer group should not be allowed to date due to encroaching senility. “Gee, I don’t think so. She was like you—sort of, like, well, you know, antisocial.”
“I am not antisocial!” I bristled. “I’m choosy, damn it. Do you want a mother who’s a tramp?”
My son gave out with a little laugh that was part sneer, part embarrassment. “You could go out with some guy once in awhile, Mom. You haven’t done that since the Nutty Professor in Portland.”
“Never mind my love life,” I snapped. “How much money has Chris got with him?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know,” Adam finally answered. “He does okay. He got his mom’s insurance and some attorney dude over here has rented out the house for him. He worked, too, at the Hilton.”
No trust fund, I thought. Simon hadn’t mentioned one for Chris, but there was always a chance that Neeny had kept his own counsel. Apparently Margaret had been completely cut out of the family money.
“Oh,” Adam added as I mulled, “he has some plastic.”
It sounded as if Chris could get by for a while without having to send back to Honolulu for more money. For the dozenth time that day, I wondered if Chris had stayed in Seattle or headed south. “Okay, Adam, I can’t think of anything else to ask you. Is everything all right over there?”
“Sure,” Adam replied. “Deloria and I are going to a movie tonight.” I was about to pry when Adam continued: “Hey, what should I do with Chris’s mail?”
“Hang on to it, I guess. Unless he settles some place.” Like jail, I thought grimly.
“There isn’t much,” Adam noted, “except his Sports Illustrated, a couple of ads, and a letter.”
In the past few years, I’d come to regard the writing of personal letters as dead as the dodo. My curiosity was piqued. “Who from?” Maybe it had something to do with the rental house; if so, Adam should attend to it in Chris’s absence. It would help teach him responsibility, or so my unrealistic maternal mind-set ran.
“Let me see.” Adam rummaged in the background. I reached over to click on the TV. I usually watch the early evening news, not just to keep informed, but to check out any possible local tie-ins. “It’s postmarked Seattle,” Adam was saying as the image of a sinking ship appeared on the screen. “That’s weird,” he remarked. “There’s a printed return address from Alpine. Phoebe Pratt. Oh, I remember her. Isn’t she the old bat with all the clown makeup and the hairdo that looks like a pineapple?”
I took in a sharp breath. “Open it,” I commanded in my best breach-of-ethics tone.
“I can’t do that,” Adam protested. “It’s addressed to Chris. That’s snooping.”
“That’s my job. Come on, Adam,” I coaxed, “just this once. It could be important. To Chris.”
It was his turn to sigh. “Okay, hang on … It’s dated September twenty-third. Jeez, I don’t like this. … Why don’t I just stick it in another envelope and send it to you so you can give it to Chris?”
“Why don’t you just stick that idea in your ear? Phoebe is Neeny Doukas’s girlfriend, get it?” I stopped just long enough to let that fact sink in on Adam. “It’s very strange that she would write to Chris. Read me the blasted thing. Then you can mail it to me, okay?”
The stationery fluttered in my ear. I had visions of it being pale lavender and scented. I was probably wrong. No doubt it was typed on a word processor—but sometimes I cling to illusions.
“‘Dear Chris,’” Adam began. “‘This letter may come as a surprise to you. You probably don’t remember me, but I certainly remember you as a little boy. You were such a handsome lad and so well-behaved.’” Adam paused. “This is a bunch of bilge, Mom. It’ll make Chris puke.”
“Go on.” I gritted my teeth and gave only fleeting attention to the TV image of a North Seattle bank, the site, presumably, of an afternoon holdup.
“Where was I? Oh—‘I’m sorry your poor mother passed away last year. You must feel her loss sorely. I should have written sooner to offer my sympathy, but time goes by so fast, even in Alpine.’ What a crock!” exclaimed Adam. I could picture him shaking his head. Nevertheless, he went on reading: “‘I’ve been looking after your grandfather, and I hate to tell you this, but he’s failing. I know he would love to see you, so if you could come over to the Mainland on your next college vacation, do consider it. Meanwhile, I stand ready to help you any way I can. Though bridges may be burned—’ Get this, Mom. You’re gonna blow chunks. ‘—the way home remains. Be assured, you still have one friend in Alpine. Sincerely yours, Phoebe Pratt.’ Retch-making, huh?”
“Puzzle-making,” I murmured. On Channel 4, a
disabled Metro bus was blocking traffic on the freeway. I wished all the Doukases, plus Fuzzy Baugh, were trapped inside. “I think you had better send that to me. Overnight. I’ll pay for it.”
“It’s just a bunch of birdcrap. What’s it got to do with Mark Doukas getting whacked?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. But deep down I had a feeling there might be a connection.
For the next minute or so, I listened to Adam try to weasel out of a trip to the post office. He was short of ready cash—of course. He had to study for a test—maybe. He didn’t want to be late picking up Deloria—naturally. But eventually he gave in; the post office was only two blocks away. I figured he could throw the letter that far, which is how I assume the mail is often delivered anyway.
Still resisting the urge to ask more about Deloria, I poured myself a glass of English ale and sat back to catch the last fifteen minutes of news. Except for a feature on a couple in Kirkland who’d adopted a pair of aardvarks, the rest was weather and sports. Mark Doukas’s murder hadn’t made the Seattle television scene, and I didn’t know whether to be glad or sad.
I turned off the set and realized I hadn’t listened to my answering machine. I’d been too anxious to call Adam to notice the flashing red light. Luckily, there were only three calls: an old friend from Portland, Darlene Adcock asking if I could fill in for a sick bridge player Saturday night, and Sheriff Dodge. I dialed Milo first, hoping to catch him still at work.
He was. “The crowbar did it,” he declared. “I tried to call you at the office, but Vida said you’d just left.”
“Prints?” I asked, taking notes.
“Wiped clean except for some smudges we can’t use. The weapon belongs to Simon Doukas—he thinks.” Dodge sounded annoyed. “The flashlight was Mark’s.”
“What do you mean, Simon thinks it was his? Mark was trying to buy one from Harvey Adcock that afternoon.”
“Seen one crowbar, seen ’em all. Simon said he had at least one, maybe two, but he couldn’t find either of them,” Dodge explained. “It sounds as if Mark had been trying to pry open the mine.”