The Alpine Advocate

by Mary Daheim

  I sighed. That meant tomorrow. If I were lucky. “Okay. Did it cost much?”

  “About four bucks. There wasn’t a lot, just letters and stuff. I kept the rest, it looked pretty useless.”

  I hadn’t any idea what Adam was talking about. “The rest of what?”

  A door banged across the Pacific, and I heard distant voices. Adam had company. “Papers, you know, like old bills and insurance policies and car registrations—stuff like that. Chris got the insurance, so he doesn’t need that, and I thought it would be kind of grim to send him his mom’s death certificate and all the hospital stuff.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “But don’t toss it out. He may want all that some day. Especially the death certificate. They cost money.”

  Apparently, Adam had turned away from the receiver to say something to his friends. When he gave his full attention back to me, it was as if I hadn’t spoken. “Like I was thinking—maybe not saving lives. I mean, if you can’t, then you must feel rotten when a patient dies, right? So being a baby doctor would be better. What’s a live birth?”

  I screwed up my face. “What do you think it is, dopey?” I was in my editorial office, wishing Milo would pass on any new information he might have gleaned from the remains at the mineshaft. It was after six o’clock, and Vida was out in the front office, typing like mad. Tom was there, too, answering the phones that were now bringing us renewed interest from the outside media.

  “Yeah, I know what live birth sounds like,” said Adam as masculine laughter erupted in the background. “But it can’t be what I think it is. See, I’m looking at Mrs. Ramirez’s records from when Chris took her to the hospital when she got so sick with the cancer. It says right here on this form: Live Births: None. So what does it mean?”

  I almost dropped the phone. “Say that again?”

  Adam’s sigh vibrated over the ocean cable. Then he repeated the information. “So if it means what it sounds like, did Mrs. Ramirez find Chris under a rock? Hey, Mom, you used to think you were really cool with your open-minded sex education. I think you missed something!”

  I stared at my computer screen, which seemed to look very fuzzy. “I think I did, too. Adam, what hospital was that?”

  “Huh? Oh, not that big one up on the hill. It’s the other one: Kuakini. Hey, the guys want to know if you think Chris is in L.A.”

  “I have no idea.” I wished I did, but there wasn’t time to speculate about Chris’s whereabouts just now. “Is there a doctor’s name on that form?”

  “I think so. … Yeah, here it is, Steven Furokawa. He’s Chris’s doctor, too. Nice guy.” Adam responded away from the receiver to a comment about girls and Malibu.

  I saw Vida shoot an inquiring glance through the open door, then plod back to her desk. “Have you got a number for Dr. Furokawa?”

  The noise inside Adam’s room was building. “What? Oh—a telephone number? No, but there’s a phone book here some place. …” At last, he came up with Steven Furokawa’s business and residential listings. “Hey, Mom, what’s this all about? I haven’t made up my mind yet. I just thought that being a doctor might be—you know, like fulfilling. You don’t have to start checking around for—”

  “Put a sock in it,” I said, then added on a gentler note: “I love you. Hang up.”

  He did, and I immediately dialed Steven Furokawa, M.D., at his Honolulu clinic. To my relief, he was in; to my amazement, his receptionist put me through. In my best professional voice, I identified myself. “I understand you treated the late Margaret Ramirez for cancer. Her nephew was murdered five days ago, and her husband’s body may have been dug up from an abandoned mineshaft this afternoon. Over the weekend, there was another homicide. Margaret’s son, Chris, is also a patient of yours. He’s wanted for questioning.” If all that didn’t impress Dr. Furokawa, I couldn’t think what would—except telling him there was five hundred pounds of TNT under his office chair. “Doctor, I don’t want you to breach patient confidentiality, but can you tell me this: did Margaret Ramirez ever bear a child?”

  Silence. Then a quick breath. “You said yourself she had a son, Ms. Lord.” His voice was dry, almost humorous.

  Obviously, I couldn’t cut corners. I explained about the admitting form from Kuakini, implying that I had it sitting right in front of me.

  More silence. Then Dr. Furokawa spoke in a brisker tone. “I don’t recall. I have a very busy practice. Mrs. Ramirez’s records aren’t available right now. Even if they were, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Doctor, this is extremely important. Three people have already died. The county sheriff can get an order to send Mrs. Ramirez’s records to Alpine. But that could take a couple of days, maybe more.” Doggedly, I kept speaking. This wasn’t the first time I’d had to pry material out of an unwilling source. “You must have treated Margaret for some time. Think. Had she borne a child?”

  Now the silence seemed to fill the thousands of miles between us, creeping along the ocean floor, washing over the coast, rising up into the mountains.

  “No.” Dr. Furokawa uttered the word with reluctance. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  It was enough.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “WE’VE GOT TO go into Seattle tomorrow,” declared Vida, ripping her account of Mark’s funeral out of the typewriter. “That’s where Margaret supposedly had Chris, you know. His birth would be registered at the King County Courthouse.”

  I was pacing the office. “It’s a long shot,” I said for the fourth time. “But Chris looks too much like a Doukas to be anybody else.”

  “I can go to Seattle,” volunteered Tom.

  He struck me as a bit subdued, and I wondered if he would like to have talked to Adam. But that would not be a good idea. My son didn’t know that his father was in Alpine. Indeed, my son knew only the barest facts about Tom Cavanaugh. I’d always felt it was better that way.

  “There are a couple of people I should see while I’m in the area anyway,” Tom went on. “You two have a paper to get out.”

  Vida and I exchanged glances. “True,” I said. Tom had gotten us a pizza and some salad. I sat down at Ed’s desk. “Okay, let’s nail this down.”

  Tom nodded. “Remember, though—even if you’re right, it may have nothing to do with these deaths.”

  I didn’t argue the point. Just because Margaret and Hector Ramirez were not Chris’s natural parents didn’t solve the murder investigation. But I still wanted to know who he really was. I doubted very much that Chris himself was aware of his parents’ identity. In this age of candor about such matters, I found that suspicious.

  Vida, who had been leafing through the 1971 volume of Advocates, clapped her hands. “Here! Chris’s birth announcement—‘August twenty-one, 1971, to Hector and Margaret Ramirez, formerly of Alpine, a boy, seven pounds, ten ounces, at Seattle.’”

  Tom jotted the information down in a small leather-bound notebook. “Do you know where Hector and Margaret lived while they were in Seattle?” The question was for Vida.

  She took off her hat and vigorously scratched her head. “Ooooh—not really, Tommy. A rental, out in the south end, I think. Neeny might know, or Simon and Cece. But even if they’d tell you, I doubt they’d have an address after all this time.”

  The phone rang. It was Milo, and his voice sounded strained. “Doc Dewey’s here. He says the bones are at least five and maybe fifty years old. But because the clothing was so decomposed—all that damp up there by the creek—it’s impossible for him to pinpoint without lab work.”

  “What about Dr. Starr?” I asked.

  “He’s got Jeannie Clay checking their records.” The sheriff spoke away from the phone, apparently to Doc Dewey Senior. “No papers, of course, but there was that medal, a belt buckle, a key chain, and a wedding ring. Kind of fancy, gold with a sort of scroll design.”

  “Are the bones the right size for Hector?” I was making notes of my own on Ed’s memo pad.

  “Doc says yes, as far as he can
tell.” Milo’s tone was grudging.

  I gave Vida and Tom a thumbs-up sign. “Can we quote you as saying this raises the possibility of the remains being those of Hector Ramirez?”

  A heavy sigh fell on my ear. “I guess. Hell, Emma, it could be Elvis.”

  “Or Elvis. Thank you, Sheriff Dodge.” I imagined Milo’s expression and tried not to laugh. “What about foul play?”

  “Doc can’t tell yet. No sign of a blow to the head. Poison, strangulation, stabbing would all be hard to figure at this point. A bullet might leave some mark on the bone, but there’s a lot of discoloration.” Milo paused again as Doc Dewey spoke to him. “We’re going to dig some more in that hole. If the victim was shot, the bullet may be in the ground. As the body decomposed, Doc says the shell would eventually work itself into the earth.”

  I grimaced at my pizza. “Right.” Hastily, I tried to think of any other questions I should put to Milo while I had him on the line. Then I remembered to ask about Gibb’s truck. That part of the investigation had gotten shunted aside in the wake of the discovery at the mineshaft.

  Milo couldn’t add much, however. “It was just sitting there at Reiter, where all the fishermen park. Gibb’s I.D. was on the floor. So were his keys. Lots of prints, mostly smudged, but we may find something yet.”

  After I’d hung up, Vida and Tom mulled over the information I’d relayed from Milo. “I wish,” said Vida, rubbing at her eyes, “I could remember what Margaret’s wedding ring looked like. It just might have been a gold band. I doubt that Hector could have afforded a diamond set.”

  Tom polished off his third slice of pizza. “How long were they away from Alpine?” Again, he addressed Vida as the font of all knowledge.

  Vida briskly stirred dressing into her salad. “A year, maybe. I know they missed one Christmas, because Cece told me she was glad they were gone so that she wouldn’t have to host what could be an awkward family gathering. But they were back by the next holidays, because Fuzzy Baugh wanted to borrow Chris to be Baby New Year for the Kiwanis festivities in Old Mill Park. Margaret wouldn’t hear of it, since we had three feet of snow on the ground.”

  Tom made more notes. I ate more pizza.

  Vida stared off into space, glasses in her lap. At last she spoke. “We’re assuming the bones belong to Hector,” she began, obviously having given her theory careful thought. “Then we must assume Hector was murdered.” She looked at both of us for confirmation. We nodded in unison. “Mark may have found the body when he was prospecting. That could be what set him off. But who did he tell? Not Kevin MacDuff. Could he have given his story to the murderer? Did he know he was talking to the murderer? And Gibb—did he find the body, too, or was he killed because he knew there was another way into the mine?”

  Tom was drinking a large Coke. “Could Gibb have killed Hector?”

  Vida shook her head and sprinkled a tiny packet of salt onto her salad. “I doubt it. No known motive. Unless he was in love with Margaret. He was a widower by then. That’s possible, though I don’t recall any rumors.”

  In my opinion, if Vida couldn’t remember them, they didn’t exist.

  She was still speaking: “Margaret was a beautiful girl. Half the men in Alpine were crazy about her. That’s why Neeny was so put out when she married an outsider like Hector. But even if Gibb had killed his so-called rival, why would he murder Mark? And who would kill Gibb?” She gave an emphatic shake of her head. “Let’s put that aside for now. We can rule out some of the others as Hector’s killer because of age.” Setting down her plastic fork, Vida began to eliminate suspects on her fingers. “Hector disappeared fourteen years ago. Cross off Kent and Jennifer. They were too young. And Chris, of course. Anybody under, say, thirty.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But I don’t get it. Milo says it’s virtually impossible to tell how Hector died. Why, after all this time, would the killer care if the body was found? If Mark and Gibb hadn’t been murdered, would we all jump to this conclusion about Hector? And even if we did, nothing seems to point to any specific person as his murderer.”

  Tom stood up, brushing crumbs from his tailored slacks. “Emma’s right. The trail is decidedly cold. Either the killer panicked or isn’t very bright. Unless we’re missing something.”

  The phone jarred us from our mutual absorption. I reached over my shoulder and fumbled at the receiver. “Advocate,” I croaked, still juggling.

  Jennifer Doukas MacDuff’s uncertain voice came on the line. “Ms. Lord, you said I could come see you if I had a problem. Did you mean it?”

  “Sure.” I finally had the receiver under control. “Yes,” I said, not wanting her to think I was being too breezy. “When do you want to talk?”

  Jennifer’s words were jerky. “Now. Alone. At your house. Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

  Vida and Tom were watching me. “In fifteen minutes,” I said.

  My first reaction was to shield Jennifer. But fragments of movies and books passed through my mind in which the hapless heroine falls into a trap and only the intrepid hero can show up in time to rescue her from the arch fiend. I didn’t want to set myself up for further damsel-in-distress scenarios. I broke faith with Jennifer and ratted, reasoning that I wasn’t betraying a source because she hadn’t really told me anything yet.

  “If I’m not back in half an hour, send for Milo,” I said, heading out the door over protests from Tom and Vida.

  It never occurred to me that Milo might like to be a hero, too.

  Jennifer was already waiting for me, hunched over the wheel of her compact car at the edge of my driveway. I kept my apprehension at bay as I let us into the dark house. It was after seven-thirty, and the sun had long ago disappeared behind the mountains.

  After I turned on the lights and went into the kitchen to get us each a can of soda, the house seemed as snug and safe as ever. Jennifer had flopped down on the sofa where she’d sat on her previous visit. She had changed from the plain black dress of the funeral into faded jeans and a floppy shirt.

  “This is a bother,” she began, twisting her hands and turning red-rimmed blue eyes in my direction. “But except for the sheriff, I don’t know who else to talk to.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  Jennifer sighed, untwisted her hands long enough to fling a strand of hair over her shoulder, and eyed the can of pop as if it were a bomb. “Phoebe is taking my grandfather away tomorrow. I don’t think that’s right.”

  “Where?” I asked, knowing I should have said why? But the picture of a docile Neeny Doukas, being carted off against his will by anyone, threw me off balance.

  “Palm Springs. In California,” Jennifer added, in case my sense of geography didn’t extend past the Columbia River. “She says all this has been too hard on him. He needs to get away, to be in the sunshine. But it scares me.” Her chin quivered.

  Now I asked the proper question. “Why?”

  Jennifer finally picked up the can of soda and took a sip. “I’m afraid he won’t come back. My dad is really mad. Even my mom thinks Phoebe shouldn’t take him away.”

  I leaned forward in my armchair, noting how the light from the table lamp emphasized the contours of Jennifer’s face and added character. “Have you talked to your grandfather about this?”

  The blonde hair swung to and fro. “No. There wasn’t a chance, with everybody arguing and yelling. I came straight from the house,” she explained, and I knew she meant Neeny’s, not her parents’ home. “After the guests were gone, Phoebe made her announcement to the rest of us. Then they all got to fighting. Kent and I left, and then I called you.”

  “How does Kent feel about this?”

  “He thinks Phoebe’s up to something. He doesn’t trust her an inch.” She ran her forefinger about that far on my coffee table to underscore her point. “I don’t, either.”

  I hesitated. But what I was about to say was a matter of public record. “Phoebe is your grandfather’s wife,” I said quietly.

 
; Jennifer stared at me blankly. Then her mouth opened and she started to speak, but no words came out. Her hands clutched at the pop can; her blue eyes grew enormous.

  “They eloped to Las Vegas awhile back. Remember the trip?” I smiled kindly.

  “The old tart!” Jennifer exploded, showing more animation than I’d ever seen her display. She thrashed about on the sofa, spilling soda and beating at the cushions. Dust flew; I winced. But Jennifer wasn’t about to notice my poor housekeeping. “I hate my family! They’re a mess! I wish I were somebody else!”

  “This is hard on everybody,” I pointed out. Maybe, I thought, it was time to change the subject. “How’s Kent’s shoulder?”

  Jennifer stopped flouncing around long enough to consider the question. “Better. He didn’t have to take one of those pills last night.”

  I tried to keep my manner casual. “I don’t suppose he saw Phoebe Wednesday night when he was downtown picking up that prescription?”

  “Phoebe?” She spoke the name with disdain. “He didn’t mention it.” Obviously, it hadn’t occurred to her that she was admitting her husband had left the house after all.

  “Or your father?”

  “No.” Jennifer ran her fingers through her hair in an agitated manner. “Oh!” Enlightenment seemed to dawn on her. “You know,” she said uneasily, “I forgot Kent went to Parker’s to pick up that medicine. So much else happened afterward.”

  It could have been true. “I heard your father was going to his office after he dropped Mark off at my house.”

  Jennifer dismissed the idea with a slight shake of her head. “I doubt it. Kent said he parked in Dad’s place. It’s reserved in front of the Clemans Building for him, you know.” Behind the veil of hair, her face contorted with distress. “Are you trying to tell me my dad went someplace else that night?”