The Alpine Advocate

by Mary Daheim

  I had sat through the passing of two cars, one van, and a logging truck. Tom gave me a gentle nudge. “If this were San Francisco, you’d have been arrested for erecting an illegal barricade by now. You’d better concentrate on your driving, Emma.”

  I did, or at least tried to, but I was convinced I was right. Mark had gone to see Neeny; Phoebe had put him off; shortly afterward, she had left the house, supposedly to see Simon. Had Mark told her what he’d found at Mineshaft Number Three? It was possible.

  It had taken us ten minutes to get to the turnaround by the mineshaft. The wind of the previous night had dwindled to a mere breeze, and the clouds had blown away. For the end of September, it was quite warm. Tom and I gazed at the entrance to the mineshaft in silence.

  He was the first to speak. “Emma, nobody’s been in this thing.” He pointed to the moss-covered wooden doorway. “It looks as if somebody tried.” He pointed to a half-dozen recent tears in the smooth green moss. “But that’s as far as they got.”

  “Mark, maybe. With the crowbar.” I made a face. “I could be wrong about this whole thing.” My ears were pricked for the sound of any oncoming cars. We had skirted the cemetery but there had been no sign of Mark’s funeral cortege. I glanced at my watch; it was bang-up three o’clock. The Doukases and the other half of Alpine could be arriving in town any minute.

  My taupe flats pawed the ground like an anxious pony. “Somebody said—was it Gibb?—there was another entrance.”

  Tom walked up by the creek. I was pleased, if not exactly surprised, that he was being such a good sport about all this. Of course he was a journalist at heart and as curious as I was. Still, Alpine and its residents really had nothing to do with him.

  He was about ten feet away, pushing at some vine maples. “Nothing here that I can see.” He went around to the other side. I waited while he poked among some big boulders. “Say, Emma, these rocks have been moved recently.”

  I joined him. With a hefty heave, Tom displaced one of the boulders. We knelt down and peered into what must have been an offshoot of the main shaft. I let out a little shriek, and Tom swore under his breath.

  Grinning back at us was a skull.

  * * *

  It took us at least a full minute to regain our mental equilibrium. Tom looked at me, and I looked at him. Leaves rustled above us. A chipmunk chattered somewhere close by. A blue jay called to its mate. The creek tumbled down the hill, rushing to the river. The amber and bronze vine maples bent low to form arches over our heads. It was all so peaceful, so natural, with the autumn sun filtering its golden light through the trees.

  “Hell,” breathed Tom, shaking his head. “When’s the sheriff due back?”

  I didn’t feel like standing up just yet. “Any time,” I murmured. I made a shaky gesture at the hole in the ground. “Is it just a skull, or …” I left the rest of the sentence unspoken.

  Tom swiveled around and removed the other big boulder. He grimaced. “It’s a whole skeleton.” He put up his hand. “Don’t look, Emma.”

  “A skeleton shouldn’t scare me. After all, it’s almost Halloween.” My attempt at smiling failed.

  “Seen one skeleton, seen ’em all, I suppose.” Tom sat next to me and put an arm around my shoulders. “We’d better head back.”

  “Right.” But I still wasn’t ready to get on my feet. “How long has the … body been there, do you think?”

  “I haven’t any idea. It could even be some miner who got killed ’way back when.” His dark blue eyes scanned my face. “Do you remember hearing anything about an accident?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. It’s been—what? Seventy, eighty years ago.” I tensed as a car approached and slowed down. “Damn. Somebody’s coming.”

  We both stood up, Tom supporting me until I got my balance. A blue car had pulled in next to the Jag. I couldn’t see the make of it from where we were. A moment later, Vida trudged across the little clearing, her black felt gaucho hat tipped over one ear.

  “That knuckleheaded nephew of mine said you’d been calling about opening the mineshaft, so I figured you’d come up to—” She stopped as she took in the somber expressions on our faces. “Oh, Lord! What now?”

  We told her. A mere skeleton held no terrors for Vida. She marched over to the open ground and bent down, exposing an inch of white slip under her black suit skirt. Clutching her hat to her head, she turned to face us. “I need a closer look. Tommy, can you get this out of here or will it crumble?”

  Tommy, I thought. Had Vida adopted him? Tom didn’t seem to notice; he was shaking his head. “I don’t think I should try. What do you want to see?”

  Vida jabbed a finger at the open ground. “There’s a religious medal around the neck.” She screwed up her face in the effort of recollection. “What do you Catholics call those things?”

  I hazarded a guess. “Is it a St. Christopher Medal?”

  “No, not that.” Vida made more facial contortions. “Something marvelous.” Her face lighted up, and she snapped her fingers. “That’s it! A Miraculous Medal!”

  “That’s right,” agreed Tom. He touched his chest. “I wear one myself.”

  Vida was brushing dirt off her black patent leather shoes. She gave us a sidelong look. “Yes. So did Hector Ramirez.”

  Vida and Tom stayed at the mineshaft while I went to get Milo. As I came to the intersection of CR 187 and Eighth Street, I saw the long funeral cortege wending its way into the cemetery. Vida had said Milo had left after the church service because he’d learned that Gibb Frazier’s truck had been found at Reiter Ponds. Milo might have returned to Alpine by now.

  He had, in fact, arriving about two minutes ahead of me. “Emma, we found—” Milo stopped, noting my wild-eyed appearance. “What’s wrong? You seen a ghost?”

  “Yes.” I collapsed in the outer office’s nearest chair. Jack Mullins and Bill Blatt gaped at me from over the counter. In a garbled manner, I told them about the discovery Tom and I had made, along with the conclusions Vida had given.

  “Jeez.” Milo draped his big frame over a chair that was turned backward. He was wearing a rumpled gray suit, so outmoded that I suspected he had bought it for his wedding twenty-five years ago. “What makes Vida think it’s Hector?” Milo’s long face registered doubt.

  Tom and I had been equally skeptical, but Vida had offered convincing arguments. “First,” I recounted, “she remembered the medal Hector wore around his neck. Second, she swears she never discounted foul play. And third, she insists it couldn’t be anybody else.”

  Milo hung his arms over the back of the chair. “I’ll go along with reason number one, but I won’t buy the rest of it.” He paused as Jack Mullins passed out coffee in paper cups. “If Vida thought somebody killed Hector fourteen years ago, why didn’t she speak up then?”

  “She didn’t want to believe it,” I said, quoting her indirectly. “But the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Vida kept quiet—” I raised a hand to fend off Milo’s protest. “I know, I know, it doesn’t sound like Vida, but she felt Neeny Doukas had Sheriff Moroni in his pocket and wouldn’t press for an investigation.”

  Milo’s head jerked up. “She thinks Neeny killed Hector?”

  “She wouldn’t put it past him,” I allowed, trying to remember exactly how Vida had phrased it. “But mostly, she figured Neeny would say good riddance. He’d prefer that Hector not be found, dead or alive. If Hector had been killed, then he’d be some sort of martyr in Margaret’s eyes, and Neeny couldn’t go on saying what a rotter the guy was.” There was still a glimmer of doubt in Milo’s gaze. “Hey, you know these people better than I do. Vida’s perception of Neeny hits home with me.”

  Milo was rubbing at his long chin. Bill Blatt looked anxious, as if he didn’t know whether to side with his aunt or his boss. Jack Mullins put on another pot of coffee.

  “As for her third rationale,” I went on when none of the men made a comment, “Vida will allow for a vagrant or
an unknown prospector. But otherwise, she says nobody else has ever completely disappeared from Alpine.”

  Milo scoffed. “That’s a crock of bull. I can think of three people in the last five years who—”

  “So can Vida,” I interrupted, my spirits restored and my need for action acute. I stood up. “But two of them were husbands escaping from impossible wives and one was a teenaged girl who ran off with her boyfriend from Index. Come on, Milo, let’s get back there before the Doukases finish their graveside services.”

  Milo and his deputies led the way out to Icicle Creek. On the hillside in the cemetery, we could see at least a hundred people gathered under a green canopy. The line of parked cars reached almost back to the road.

  At the mineshaft, Vida was sitting on a fallen log, a camera in her hand. Tom stood at the edge of the creek, probably watching for trout. I watched Milo as he shambled over to view the remains. His deputies followed him, somberly removing their regulation hats.

  “I’ll be damned,” murmured Milo after an appropriate moment of silence. “It’s somebody, all right.”

  “Of course it’s somebody, you ninny,” said Vida in annoyance. She had scrambled up from the log, damp earth clinging to her black skirt. “It’s Hector Ramirez. Get Dr. Starr to dig out his dental charts.”

  Milo shot Vida a baleful look but didn’t argue. “You three head out of here. There’ll be all hell to pay when Neeny comes along and sees what’s happening.”

  Vida glanced at me. “Do you have everything? I got some pictures. I had a couple of shots left over from the funeral.”

  I winced a bit at the gruesome tone The Advocate would be taking this week. “I’d like some positive I.D. before we send the paper into Monroe tomorrow,” I told Milo.

  He glared at me. “I can’t promise that. What if Hector never went to the dentist?”

  Vida pointed her camera at the sheriff. “Here, Milo, I want a picture of you so we can write a cutline saying ‘Skykomish County sheriff Milo Dodge asserted today that Hector Ramirez never saw a dentist in his entire life.’ Lift your chin, Milo. You look like you ate a bug.”

  Milo looked like he’d prefer eating Vida. A couple of cars passing by on CR 187 alerted me to the probability that the graveside services were concluded. “We’re staying, Milo,” I declared. “I wouldn’t miss Neeny’s reaction for the world.” In my head, I was already rearranging the paper: Carla’s feature on Linda Grant would have to be put on hold; maybe my piece on experimental logging practices would have to wait, too.

  Milo gave me a fierce stare, then gestured impatiently at Jack Mullins. “Go get the van. We’ve got to move that skeleton out of here. See if you can bring Sam Heppner or Dwight Gould back with you. We could use some other deputies to help out.” He turned back to me, fists on hips. “This isn’t a tourist trap, Emma, it’s law enforcement work. I want you people gone.”

  I set my jaw. “We’re the press. We have a right to be here.”

  He jerked his hand at Tom. “He’s not the press. He’s a … tourist.”

  Tom strolled over to Milo, his engaging smile in place. “Actually, Sheriff, I’m the press, too. Would you like a list of my credentials?” He started to reach for his wallet.

  Milo threw up his hands. “Never mind.” Abruptly, he loped off to the open ground where the skeleton lay in blissful ignorance. At that moment, the Driggers Funeral Home car pulled up at the edge of the road. It was beginning to look like a parking lot out there.

  Neeny Doukas, assisted by Simon, came tramping across the clearing. In contrast to his impeccably tailored son, Neeny was wearing a baggy black suit with a crooked knit tie. His olive complexion had a tinge of gray. “What the hell is going on here? This is private property!”

  “It’s a crime scene, Neeny,” said Milo with commendable dignity. “We’ve found more remains.”

  “More?” Neeny’s dark eyes bulged; a vein throbbed on his forehead. “Whaddaya mean, more? My grandson didn’t come apart, did he? Whadda’d we bury? Pieces?”

  Eeeny Moroni’s white Cadillac and Phoebe’s red Lincoln had also pulled in. The limo was now disgorging Cecelia Doukas, Jennifer, and Kent MacDuff. Al Driggers tried to maintain his stately decorum as he came from the front seat to assist the women.

  “Here,” said Milo, taking Neeny by the arm that Simon released with reluctance, “we found a skeleton. You don’t have to look.”

  “Look, schmook,” said Neeny, waving Milo away. “Lemme go, you dinks.” He glanced back at Simon, making sure his son didn’t miss the point. “No skeleton’s gonna shake me up. I’ve had enough crap in the last few days.” He tramped past Milo and Vida. I stood between Tom and Simon, watching Neeny bend slightly at the waist. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw him flinch. But when he straightened up and turned back to face us, he appeared as formidable as ever.

  “What were you doing digging around here without my permission?” he demanded of the sheriff.

  With an air of deference, Milo Dodge indicated the strips of yellow and black crime scene tape that fluttered in the breeze. “We have a right to be here, Neeny. You want your grandson’s killer caught, don’t you?”

  “You think the killer buried hisself? Are you nuts, kid?” He gave a sudden shake of his head, then waved back at the skeleton. “Naw, I guess not. At least you found that.”

  I held my breath, waiting for Milo to reveal the truth. But whether he wanted to shield Tom and me or take credit for the discovery himself was unclear. In any event, he just stood there stoically, as the others approached the mineshaft. Simon tried to steer them away, especially the women.

  “A tramp, from the Depression,” soothed Simon, putting a protective arm around Cece. She was ashen and fragile, in simple, expensive black.

  Kent MacDuff marched straight to the open ground. He stopped abruptly, almost lost his balance, and took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said, his florid face suddenly pale, “at least we know that guy didn’t kill Mark. He was too skinny.”

  Kent’s attempt at bravado fell flat. Phoebe was clinging to Neeny; Jennifer had collapsed on the log abandoned by Vida; Al Driggers was looking for someone to comfort; and Eeeny Moroni was dancing around the mineshaft like a rooster gone berserk.

  “Goddamn it, Milo, this used to be a quiet little town! What the hell is happening now? I feel like moving to L-Freaking-A!” The ex-sheriff gave Milo an ugly look.

  I felt sorry for Milo. “Can it, Eeeny,” I said. “It’s not Milo’s fault that there’s a killer loose.”

  Vida chimed in. “It sure isn’t, you old noodle,” she said to Moroni. “In fact, that bunch of bones over there probably got killed while you were sheriff.”

  Moroni sneered at Vida who tipped her gaucho hat over one eye and sneered right back.

  I intervened again. “Listen, all this wrangling isn’t getting us anywhere. We’re hindering, not helping, Sheriff Dodge. Does anyone here have any idea who this might be?” I made a stabbing gesture in the direction of the skeleton.

  Judging from the shocked looks of my audience, most of them hadn’t considered the possibility that the skeleton had once been a real person who had walked and talked among them.

  “Oh, no!” gasped Phoebe.

  “Hell,” breathed Kent.

  “Indeed,” murmured Simon.

  “Screw off,” muttered Neeny.

  Jennifer began to cry softly. Al Driggers, finally discovering an object for his professional sympathy, went over to the log.

  To my surprise, Cece Doukas asked the first intelligent question of the impromptu gathering: “Are there any clothes or other objects that might be identifiable?” So stunned was everyone that she apparently mistook their blank faces for confusion. “I mean keys or jewelry or possibly credit cards. Even a hobo might carry something other than a little bag on a stick.”

  Again, I waited for Milo to make a revelation, this time about the Miraculous Medal. But Milo was proving remarkably reticent. “We’ll have any information available
after we’ve removed the remains.” He looked past the little group to the road. “Here come my deputies now. I’d appreciate it if you’d all move on out of here. I’d like to have the van come in as close as possible.” His voice was unusually formal.

  To my amazement, the Doukas clan began to disperse. Only Eeeny Moroni stayed put, looking sheepish. “Hey, Milo, amico, I apologize a thousand times.” He put a hand on Milo’s rumpled suit sleeve. “I’m what you call, you know, distraught. Mark’s funeral today, Gibb getting killed, now this … I spent my life chasing shoplifters and catching people breaking the speed limit. Maybe,” he confessed with an off-center grin, “I’m jealous. This is bad stuff—but it’s big stuff. And it’s your stuff, not mine.”

  Milo shrugged. “Forget it.” He glanced at Tom and Vida and me. “You coming or going?”

  “I’ll be at the office for quite a while. Will you let us know if you find anything else?” I inquired. “Like what Cece suggested?”

  Milo gave me a ghostly smile. “Sure. Thanks, Emma.”

  I stared at Milo. “Huh?” But he had already turned away, to where Jack Mullins and Bill Blatt were taking pictures of the skeleton. Then it dawned on me: Milo had appreciated my support in front of the others. Somehow, I was touched. And inexplicably pleased.

  * * *

  “Do all doctors get rich?”

  I held the phone out an inch from my ear; I wasn’t sure I’d heard my son correctly. “What did you say, Adam?”

  “I was thinking,” he said, sounding vaguely muffled, “that maybe I’d like to go into medicine. Save lives and like that. How long does it take?”

  “Many years and many dollars,” I replied, vexed. This was not the time for Adam to discuss his life’s goals with me. “Are you certain you mailed that material?”

  “Yeah, like I told you. I guess I had too much to do to get to the post office the other day before it closed. Plus I had to look for Chris’s denim jacket. It was under the bathroom sink. Then I found all those other letters and junk that belonged to Chris’s mom. So I put everything in a box and shipped it off to you. The guy at the post office said it should get to Alpine in five days.” Adam sounded as if he were talking to an imbecile.