by Mary Daheim
“Did you know Simon had dropped him off?” The hazel eyes were not only cool, but remote, as if he didn’t want to make any personal contact.
“No. That is, I realized later that I’d heard a car pull up and then leave. But it might not have been them.” I thought back to the night before last, which now seemed so long ago. “The wind was really blowing. It’s a marvel I heard anything at all.”
He flipped through some papers and pulled out a single sheet. “Did you leave your house at any time during the evening?”
My eyes widened. “No. I had dinner at the Venison Inn. In fact, I ran into Eeeny Moroni there. He can verify what time I left. It was about seven, I think. Anyway, I came straight home and stayed put. I was beat.”
Deliberately, Milo shoved the paper toward me. “This is a lab report on the tire tracks in Neeny Doukas’s driveway.” He tapped at the page with his ballpoint pen. “One set belongs to your Jaguar.”
I debated the merits of candor. But half the town had no doubt seen Chris driving my car Wednesday afternoon. In any event, Mark wasn’t killed in Neeny’s driveway. Still, Mineshaft Number Three was too close to the Doukas house for comfort.
“It wasn’t me,” I asserted. Annoyance had surfaced in my voice. Milo Dodge had picked up the check at the Café de Flore the previous night. Now he was grilling me like a felon on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List. I felt like snatching up his roll of mints and sticking them in his nose. Carla had been right the first time: the sheriff was acting more like Mildo than Milo.
Milo seemed unmoved by my deteriorating temper. “I know it wasn’t you. I saw the Jag coming from the opposite direction when I went up to meet Mark at Mineshaft Number Three.” He fingered his chin while I absorbed that particular piece of information. “Could Chris have borrowed your car?”
There was no point in sheltering Chris over the issue. On the other hand, anybody could have figured out I kept that extra set of keys under the car. But somehow I didn’t think they had. The simplest answers are usually the right ones. “He’d borrowed it earlier. I suppose he didn’t think he had to ask again.”
“But did he?” persisted Dodge.
“I don’t know.” The baldness of my reply seemed to sink in. “If he did, was it to go see his grandfather?”
Milo Dodge hesitated, then inclined his head. “Yes. He saw Neeny. It wasn’t a successful reunion.”
I’d hoped for better but expected worse. “Did they have a row?”
Milo was unbending a bit, extracting a mint and popping it in his mouth. He did not, however, go so far as to offer me one. “According to Neeny, it was pretty one-sided. Chris gave him some lip, and then the old man lit into him. The kid left with his tail between his legs.”
“According to Neeny,” I quoted. Chris might have a different version. “When was that?”
“Around nine.” Milo had glanced at his notes again. “Neeny isn’t too accurate about time. The world turns on his schedule, not the other way around. It was before Phoebe made his cocoa, which usually transpires around nine-thirty.” Milo looked a bit wry. “We haven’t pressed Neeny much. He’s not feeling too well, you know. He refused to discuss Chris at all at first. I stopped by for a minute yesterday to offer my condolences, and he admitted Chris had been there. Maybe later we can get more details.”
“Like when Neeny isn’t rich?” I knew Milo Dodge wasn’t as likely as some to kowtow to the Doukases, but neither would he go out of his way to raise any hackles.
“Now Emma, the man’s grieving,” Milo admonished. “He was genuinely fond of Mark.”
I ignored the comment. “Have you checked on Phoebe and Neeny?”
Milo couldn’t restrain a little snort. “You were right about that, Emma. They were married by a J.P. in Vegas on August eighteen. Did Vida come up with that tidbit?”
I gave him a smug smile. “I can’t reveal my sources. How does Neeny’s will read?”
“How the hell do I know? That doesn’t have anything to do with Mark’s murder. Ask Simon.”
“I will,” I snapped, aware that my short chin was giving an imitation of jutting. “What if Neeny had a prenuptial agreement with Phoebe? What if she could only inherit if Mark and Jennifer and Simon died first? What if he figured out a way to circumvent the state community property laws?”
“Couldn’t do it.” Milo sat back, hands entwined behind his head. “Come on, Emma, can you see Phoebe Pratt whacking Mark Doukas over the head with a crowbar?”
“No. But I can see Phoebe Doukas doing it. As Neeny’s wife, she might have more to gain.” Indeed, Phoebe wasn’t exactly a lightweight. She and Vida were the same age, about the same height, and though Vida probably out-weighed Phoebe by a good twenty pounds, both women were solid citizens in more ways than one. I didn’t know Phoebe very well, but Vida did, and that was good enough for me.
If Milo’s more relaxed pose was designed to disarm me, this time it wasn’t going to work. I was ready for him when he asked about Chris. And I was honest. Up to a point.
“You drove all the way into Seattle this morning?” the sheriff queried after I’d given my brief recitation. “Where did he go?”
“California, I guess.” In truth, I couldn’t swear that Chris had headed for L.A. In his present state of agitation, he might have changed his mind and gone up to British Columbia or back East. He might even have gone home to Hawaii.
Milo mulled over the situation. “It’s no wonder he sounded scared. He ought to be. He might not have murdered Mark, but he hasn’t been square with us.”
“Oh, come on, Milo. He’s twenty years old. Are your kids rational human beings yet? What about your daughter who’s living with Gumby?”
“What?”
“Never mind. So what if Chris took my car and went to see Neeny? If anything, that gives him an alibi for Mark’s murder. It sounds as if he was with his grandfather around the time Mark must have been killed.”
Milo looked dour. “He could have done both. Chris was within spitting distance of the mineshaft when he was up at Neeny’s.”
“So was Neeny, if it comes to that. And Phoebe. No wonder Neeny hadn’t been served his cocoa. Phoebe was probably too busy smashing Mark’s skull to hear the tea kettle go off.” I felt a bit proud of myself. At least I was coming up with theories that weren’t any crazier than Milo’s.
“You’re too damned irreverent,” Milo muttered.
I gave a little laugh. “That’s part of the job description. I, like you, would have gone crazy a long time ago if I’d taken every godawful thing that came along too seriously.” I paused, watching Milo mutely accept my appraisal of the occupational hazards we both faced. “By the way, it wasn’t Chris and Mark who had words Wednesday night. It was Mark and Kent.”
This time, the sheriff registered genuine surprise. I explained my visit from Jennifer. “Kent lied so he wouldn’t invite suspicion. It may have been stupid—or maybe he has something to hide.”
“At least he’s got a motive,” Milo admitted. “With Mark out of the way, all of the money will eventually come to Jennifer. Which,” he noted with a twist of his long mouth, “gives her a reason to get rid of Mark, too.”
“True,” I conceded, though somehow the image of Jennifer slamming a crowbar over her brother’s head seemed more farfetched than most of our other wild ideas. “The only trouble with the money motive is that Neeny is still alive, and Simon is only about fifty. My guess is that Neeny’s will is made out so that Simon inherits everything. I suspect that’s why he set up those trust funds for Mark and Jennifer.”
Milo didn’t know about the trust funds. It occurred to me that from his point of view, the sheriff’s office dealt only in hard evidence, not supposition or even motives. He did allow that maybe a check into the disposition of the Doukas fortune might be helpful.
Having dropped his interrogator’s mask, Milo finally offered me a mint. This time, I accepted. The rigors of the past fifteen minutes had left my mouth dry. I was also hun
gry, since it was now well after noon. Before I could make my exit, Milo reached under the desk and hauled out a bundle of newspapers. “These belong to you?”
I stared at the papers, some fifty or so, tied with twine. “It’s this week’s Advocate, all right. Where did you get them?”
Milo didn’t look too happy. “About twenty feet from Mineshaft Number Three.” He waited for my reaction, but I didn’t have one, other than puzzlement. “We also found an odd set of footprints—right one deep, the left a bare impression.”
So Billy Blatt hadn’t told his aunt all.
Now I was forced to respond. “Gibb Frazier?” Obviously, this stack of papers made up the missing overage. The bundle must have fallen off Gibb’s truck. “Have you talked to him?”
Milo shook his head. “He’s on a moving job for somebody in Snohomish. He won’t be back in Alpine until Saturday night.”
Vaguely disturbed, I left the sheriff to ponder his growing collection of evidence. Gibb could have driven up to Icicle Creek any time after he’d delivered the rest of the newspapers. But why he’d gone there baffled me. For the moment, I had to put that problem aside. Lunch would have to wait. Next on my schedule was a visit to Neeny Doukas. On my way out of the sheriff’s office, I used the pay phone outside to call Vida and confirm the marriage between Phoebe and Neeny.
“Ooooh,” she wailed, “doesn’t that beat all! He finally made an honest woman out of the old tramp! Neeny’s a bigger fool than I thought!”
“I’m going up there now. Shall I take them a wedding present in your name?” I asked, shielding my ear from the rumble of a passing truckload of logs.
“By all means,” Vida replied. “The only trouble is, I don’t know where you can buy a pair of jackasses on short notice.”
Neither did I, so I arrived at the Doukas residence empty-handed. As I stood on the wide veranda with its ancient window boxes and rusty lawn swing, I was aware that I wouldn’t be the most welcome of guests. The door was opened by Frieda Wunderlich, squat, square and toadlike. She had thick lips and protruding eyes the color of ripe huckleberries. I always thought of her as covered with warts, but that was only a figment of my imagination.
“His Royal Highness is resting,” she announced with her usual lack of respect. “The Queen Bee went to Monroe.”
Now I wished I had brought something with me—a bouquet, a casserole, even a sympathy card. “I just wanted to let him know I was very sorry about his loss,” I said, getting a whiff of basil and oregano from the kitchen. “I spoke with him about Mark only a few hours before the tragedy.”
The words were my ticket over the threshold. Frieda stepped aside with a mock bow. “He’s in the living room, watching television. Make him turn down the sound.”
I’d been in the elder Doukas’s house on two or three previous occasions. The furnishings were massive and dark, remnants of the Victorian era. Heavy brown draperies shut out the autumn light, and the air was thick with the scent of hothouse flowers and those spices from a sunnier climate. The rooms were cluttered with too much furniture, too many paintings, classical sculptures, potted plants, and now, floral arrangements of sympathy.
Neeny Doukas sat in a big armchair that would have swallowed a smaller man. He was rugged of build, hairy of chest, with dark eyes and an olive complexion. His hair, which had once been black and wavy, was now streaked with white and receding from a forehead that was accented by slanting black eyebrows that matched a bristling mustache and full beard. Ensconced in the big gray mohair chair complete with antimacassars and with an afghan over his knees, Neeny Doukas looked for all the world like the King of Thrace.
“Emma.” His voice boomed out as he beckoned to me with one crooked finger. “You got that story?”
“What story?” I said stupidly.
“The one correcting your screw-up. You said you’d show it to me.” He waved in the direction of an occasional chair covered in faded red and black cut velvet.
Up close, Neeny looked haggard, older than when I’d seen him a week or two earlier. The flesh on his cheekbones sagged, the big hands trembled ever so slightly, the black eyes were a trifle cloudy. I sat. Next to Neeny was a tray with a half-eaten meal grown cold. A soap opera blared on TV.
“I haven’t done it yet,” I admitted, raising my voice in the hope that he’d take the hint and shut off the set. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to run it now that Mark’s … dead.”
Neeny reared back in the armchair, the afghan twitching on his knees. “Hell’s bells, I sure do! All the more reason.” Those extraordinary eyebrows drew together like a pair of black caterpillars. “You see what happened? Some greedy swine thought Mark had made a big strike and killed him over it! Pah!” He all but spat in the rest of his lunch.
The TV perils of a beautiful blonde and her handsome dark-haired lover were giving me a headache. I tried a different approach, this time lowering my voice so that Neeny couldn’t possibly hear me without a Miracle Ear. “You don’t really think that,” I murmured.
Neeny took the hint, using the remote control to turn the sound off but left the picture on. “What?” He didn’t wait for my response. “Hell, Emma, who else would wanna kill my grandson? Unless it was that no-good kid of Margaret’s.”
“Neeny, do you really think Chris Ramirez is a no-account?”
He snorted in disgust. “He’s Hector’s son, isn’t he? Hector ran out on my daughter and the kid. Blood tells, Emma.”
“Chris has your blood as well as Hector’s,” I pointed out. “Besides, half the town seems to think you bribed Hector to go away.”
Neeny Doukas all but leaped out of the chair. The afghan fell to the floor. “That’s a goddamned lie! Who told you that, old big-mouthed Vida? I wouldn’t have given Hector Ramirez a plugged nickel!”
His vehemence exploded Vida’s myth. Still, it had been a logical explanation. In general, people do not just disappear. Or if they do, there’s usually a reason. In the matter of Hector Ramirez, I hadn’t yet heard anything to convince me that he had cause to drop off the face of the earth.
“I’d hoped,” I said, still keeping calm, “that you and Chris might have hit it off.”
“Hell!” Neeny kicked at the afghan with his foot. I wondered if Hazel had made it for him. Phoebe didn’t strike me as the domestic type. “He came in here the other night all full of bullcrap about the rough time I gave Margaret. Damn! Margaret made her own bed. She wanted to wallow in it with Hector. See where it got her. Right outta the family, that’s where! She could have married ten other guys—lawyers, doctors, even a forestry professor from the university. They all were hot for Margaret. But oh, no, she had to run off with that greasy Mexican! It’s a wonder she didn’t go over to Hawaii and wind up with some Chinaman! Or a Jap!”
It was all I could do to keep from declaring my hope that Margaret had slept with every Oriental in the fiftieth state and had had the time of her life. But I’d been around prejudiced people enough to know that there was no changing them, especially when they were part of the older generation.
“Did Chris stay long?” I inquired innocently.
“Too long.” Neeny bent down to retrieve the afghan. He looked up, the black eyes sharper now. “I don’t wanna talk about it. You feeling around for an alibi for the kid?” His mouth twisted in the thick beard. “It won’t work, Emma. He was here about twenty minutes. He could have killed Mark before he came or right after. The damned mineshaft is right over there.” Neeny jerked his thumb toward one of the windows. “Imagine! My poor grandson died within shouting distance, and I didn’t even know it! Do you wonder I won’t discuss this Chris when he’s alive and Mark’s dead?” Neeny shook his head, and I actually felt sorry for him.
I said as much. Wordlessly, Neeny accepted my condolences. He didn’t look ill, so much as devastated. I asked how he felt.
“How would you expect? I’m getting to be an old man. What’s to look forward to at my age?”
I shrugged. “Lots of things
. You could travel more. Didn’t you enjoy your trip to Vegas with Phoebe?”
The black eyes narrowed, but before Neeny could respond, Phoebe Pratt Doukas glided into the room. As always, she was dressed expensively, if tastelessly. Today she sported bright green slacks and a matching blazer with enough gold chains to enhance a harem.
“Emma,” she said, her usually languorous voice tense. “How kind of you to call.” She moved across the room, full hips swaying, her upswept hair plastered to her head. Phoebe was what you might call handsome, if artificial. Her attention was fixed on Neeny. “Doukums, did you eat?”
Neeny waved at the tray. “Swill. That Kraut can’t cook Greek food. Fix me some soup. Chicken noodle.”
Phoebe planted a kiss on the top of Neeny’s head. “Of course, Doukums. Lots of crackers, too.” She swayed away, leaving a scent of jasmine in the air and a sense of unease in the room.
“Hey,” he shouted, “get me some cocoa, too, Big Bottom. Lots of sugar.”
Phoebe’s return from Monroe had thwarted my question about the trip to Las Vegas. In any event, I knew the answer. I decided it was time to leave Doukums and Big Bottom to their own devices.
It was Phoebe, however, who showed me to the door. She had put on a frilly apron that said RED HOT MOMMA and rattled her chains as she came down the hall from the kitchen. “I’ve a mind to take Doukums to Palm Springs for the winter,” she announced with less than her usual aplomb. “The change would do him soooo much good.”
“Phoebe, what did you think of Chris?”
Phoebe’s gray eyes with their layered blue lids widened. She fiddled with her chains and avoided my gaze. “Chris? I didn’t see him. I was upstairs watching TV.” An uncertain hand smoothed the lacquered hair as she lowered both her head and her voice. “He sounds like a saucy boy, I’m afraid.”
I couldn’t help but make a face. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Especially in this town.”
Phoebe had the grace to look a trifle sheepish. “Well, I did hear he was quite handsome. My niece, Chaz, met him at the Burger Barn. Of course, he can’t be as good-looking as Mark was.” There was a slight catch in her voice as she shook her elaborately coiffed head. “I’d like to meet Chris, though. It’s a shame he and Doukums didn’t get on.” She let out a nervous trill. “After all, Chris is family. I think it’s soooo important to keep everybody close.”