The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  “That, and Aaron's problems with the band, which broke up just before the marriage did.” Paula paused while our fresh drinks were delivered. “There were also drugs, which Crystal didn't use. Oh, she smoked weed now and then, but had nothing to do with the hard stuff. Aaron didn't have a real job, though he sometimes worked as a waiter. Crystal supported him, which was pretty old with her. She'd already put one husband through college.”

  “Aaron sounds like an all-around loser,” I commented.

  “He was. Is, I guess. The last I heard of him, he took off for California to make it big in L.A. He didn't.” Paula gave me a wry look.

  “Do you know when he showed up here?” I asked.

  Paula's high, smooth forehead wrinkled. “A couple of weeks ago, maybe? When I talked to her on the phone, she mentioned that he was staying with her. She thought it would be just for a day or two, because he had plans to go across the pass to Spokane. His former drummer had gotten a gig over there, and Aaron intended to bunk with him for a while. I guess he got comfortable, though, because he was still hanging out with her as of last Wednesday.” Paula lowered her head. “That was when I arranged the meeting with the two of you. It was the last time I spoke with her.”

  Crystal Bird must have had some good qualities. Otherwise, Paula wouldn't have befriended her. Maybe the second drink was giving me the courage to ask.

  “What did you like about Crystal? What did I miss?”

  Again, Paula's gaze was level and unwavering. “She was brave. She had the courage of her convictions. I don't think I ever met anyone who was so honest and open about her feelings. I suppose,” she went on, growing thoughtful, “I admired her as much as I liked her.”

  “I see.” I supposed those were good enough reasons.

  Paula, however, knew what I was thinking. “I realize you and she had very little common ground. I'm not unsympathetic with the way she attacked you and some of the other people in Alpine. But you must admit, her causes were just.”

  “They were.” I couldn't argue against the women's shelter, day-care centers, or the environment. “But you don't have to support a cause by tearing down other people. As I told her the night I met her, personal attacks aren't good journalism. She was asking for trouble.”

  Paula laughed. “She always did. That was part of being Crystal.”

  I wasn't laughing. “She found it.”

  Immediately, Paula grew serious. “Yes,” she said in a hushed tone. “She did.”

  As I dealt with the exigencies of deadline the next morning, I tried to sort through what Paula had told me. There really wasn't much new. Certainly there had been nothing to point the way to Crystal's killer.

  Scott returned around nine-thirty from his morning run to the city and county offices. He looked harried as he spread out a pile of notes on my desk.

  “Dustin wasn't in, so I had to deal with Jack Mullins,” Scott complained. “Jack's full of it.”

  Jack Mullins sometimes lets his sense of humor get the better of him. “You'll get used to it,” I said. “What about Conley?”

  “Mullins insists they're only holding him on the forgery deal,” Scott replied, tinkering with the tape recorder he always used as a backup. “He can post bail, but so far he hasn't.”

  “He's broke,” I put in. “Did you talk to Conley?”

  “I tried.” Scott made a face. “He wouldn't even look at me. He's one surly dude.”

  “So what are we talking about? A dead end as far as Aaron Conley's concerned?”

  “You got it.” Scott looked at me with those limpid brown eyes. “Sorry. But I did find out something kind of strange.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “About the murder?”

  “No.” Scott tapped one of the notes on the desk. “Yesterday when I checked the log, I noticed that there was no name by one of the weekend DWIs. That struck me as odd, but we don't run those anyway, so I didn't pay any attention.”

  During Marius Vandeventer's reign, he had always run the DWIs and the DIPs, which stood for Drunk in Public. According to Vida, Marius felt that putting their names in the paper might deter them from repeating the performance. Naturally, Vida agreed with him, but I felt differently. Public humiliation wouldn't cure alcoholism, and was just one step above the stocks as a form of punishment.

  “But today you got curious about the anonymous sot,” I said with a smile of approval. It was one thing to not publish names; not knowing them was another matter. “Who was it?”

  Scott grinned. “Nat Cardenas, college president. He got picked up last Friday night for crossing the center line on Highway 2 just this side of Baring.”

  VIDA HAD COME into my office right after Scott made his startling announcement. Naturally, she was agog.

  “Astounding,” she murmured, rubbing her gloved hands together. “How many people do we now have in the vicinity of Baring Friday night?”

  I gave Vida a droll look. “Including me?”

  She shook her head, which was covered on this snowy Tuesday morning with a most inappropriate feathered toque. “You don't count. I mean Victor Dimitroff, Nat Cardenas, and—who?”

  “The killer?” I responded. “Or do you think one of them did it?”

  “It's certainly possible,” Vida said, assuming a defensive stance with her bust jutting like the prow of a Boston whaler.

  “I don't get it,” Scott put in. “Do people like Cardenas get special treatment from the sheriff?”

  “What?” Vida barked.

  Scott waved the sheet of notes in front of her. “Cardenas's name didn't appear in the log. But the other dozen or so who were picked up over the weekend got IDed.”

  Vida grimaced. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “I'm not sure that they ever list first offenders by name,” I said, feeling a need to come to Milo's defense. “Or maybe it was a courtesy. What's the point, really? We're the only ones who check the log, and we don't ever run the names.”

  “We should,” Vida muttered. “Marius Vandeventer did.”

  I ignored the remark, and addressed Scott. “Did you ask Jack about this?”

  Scott nodded. “He said it was a gentlemen's handshake.”

  “Oh.” That explained it. Milo had in fact gone easy on Nat Cardenas. He'd probably done the same over the years for Mayor Fuzzy Baugh, the county commissioners, and maybe a couple of clergymen. Since Carla had covered the log on her beat, she might never have noticed the omission of names.

  “Tricky,” Vida was saying as she tapped a foot. “How do we find out what Nat was doing near Baring without letting on that we know he was drunk?”

  “Isn't that up to the sheriff?” Scott asked.

  Vida didn't exactly scoff, but there was pity in her expression. “Our job is to investigate as well as report. Besides, Milo needs all the help he can get. Short-staffed, you see.”

  As Scott started for the news office, he looked skeptical. He's learning, I thought. At least about Vida.

  My House & Home editor sat down in the chair that Scott had just vacated. “I've heard no gossip about Nat Cardenas's drinking. Have you?”

  I shook my head. “Those things can be kept a deep, dark secret, though.”

  “My, yes,” Vida agreed. “Even in a town like Alpine. Take Arthur Trews, for example. So straitlaced, so proper. No one ever suspected him of drinking. But after he died and his children tore down the old chicken coop, they found dozens and dozens of empty whiskey bottles. His wife was shocked, poor thing. She knew he spent a great deal of time with the chickens, but she merely thought he was fond of them. It never occurred to her that the names he called each one were suggestive. MacNaughton. Seagram. The Old Crow. I forget the others, and naturally he didn't speak of them outside of the house. The odd thing was, those hens rarely laid any eggs.”

  I couldn't resist smiling. “In Nat's defense, it's not unusual for someone to drink too much once in a great while. Especially this time of year. As you know from your section, the party season i
s upon us, and has been since Halloween.”

  “Perhaps.” Vida was still looking troubled. “Do you think that person you know at the college could find out what Cardenas was up to Friday night?”

  “What person?” I knew very well that Vida was referring to Paula Rubens.

  “Your … friend. Paula.” Vida's lips puckered like a prune.

  I shook my head. “Dubious. Paula's a part-timer, and in any event, I don't think she and Nat are particularly close. He socializes some with the administrators, but not the faculty. Frankly, Justine Cardenas isn't much of a hostess. She's either shy or she doesn't want to bother herself.”

  “Not a very helpful sort of wife,” Vida murmured, then brightened. “We've only done one feature on Justine. Wouldn't it be nice to interview her about Christmas customs in other parts of the country where she and Nat have lived?”

  I started to dismiss the idea out of hand, then hesitated. “I suppose that's not the dumbest thing I've heard this week. You're assigning this to yourself, I gather?”

  Vida glared. “Dumb? Certainly not. It's a House & Home piece, isn't it?”

  “Yes, it is. But I don't know what you expect to find out from her about her husband's whereabouts Friday night and why he was trashed.”

  “We'll see,” Vida said, standing up.

  I didn't give voice to further doubts. If anybody could get anything out of Justine Cardenas, it would be Vida.

  I half expected to be summoned back to the sheriff's, but by noon, there was no word from Milo. I should have been relieved and left well enough alone, but on impulse, I dialed his number and asked if he wanted to meet me for lunch at the Heartbreak Hotel. Somewhat to my surprise, he did.

  The Heartbreak Hotel is a new Fifties-style diner that opened just in time for Halloween. Two brothers, John and Dan Bourgette, built the restaurant on the site of an old warehouse that had burned down the previous year. They suffered through a number of rather gruesome obstacles before they could lay the foundation, but had missed their completion date by only a month. So far, business seemed brisk, especially from college students and skiers.

  The restaurant is on Railroad Avenue, between the train tracks and the river. Appropriately enough, the gleaming steel building looks like a dining car. I maneuvered the Jag into a diagonal parking place between a battered pickup and a brand-new Taurus.

  Milo hadn't arrived yet, so I asked for a booth in the smoking section. I didn't intend to indulge my vice, but I knew the sheriff would. I also knew he'd order coffee. The heavy white mugs arrived just as Milo came through the door. The Heartbreak Hotel hadn't been open during our affair. It held no memories. But the name itself was a reminder of what had been between us.

  “Another wreck out on Highway 2,” Milo said, clumsily getting into the booth with its bright red vinyl upholstery. “Damned fools. Half the people in this state don't know how to drive in snow.”

  I agreed. “Anybody hurt?”

  Removing his hat, Milo nodded. “Three of them had to be taken to the hospital.” He paused, looking alert. “There they go now.”

  Above the jukebox's rendition of “Rock Around the Clock,” I heard the siren wail as the ambulance raced along Alpine Way, half a block from the diner. “Locals?”

  “No.” Milo picked up the menu. “Locals know how to handle these roads. I think they're from Everett or Muk-ilteo. You'll see it in the log.”

  I gave Milo a strained smile. “It's Tuesday. Scott'll have to check it this afternoon to make deadline.”

  The sheriff gave a lazy wave of one big hand. “Oh. I forgot.”

  He always did. To be fair, most people paid no attention to our deadline. Over the years, an untold number of readers had needed reminding that delivery of a news item on Wednesday morning couldn't possibly make it into The Advocate that same afternoon.

  “Tell me about Nat Cardenas,” I said, stirring an extra measure of sugar into my coffee.

  Milo grimaced. “That's a bitch. I don't like the guy, but I feel for him.”

  “You're a nice guy,” I remarked, and meant it. “You didn't have to leave his name off the log.”

  Milo scratched his head. “No. But local VIPs have some perks. They shouldn't, but they do. Marius Vande-venter wouldn't bend the rules for anybody, and gave holy hell to my predecessors if they tried to cover up. When Eeeny Moroni was sheriff, the two of them had a couple of real fistfights about it. Then Eeeny threatened to arrest Marius for assaulting an officer of the law, and Marius said he'd charge police brutality and go to the big-city papers and TV stations. It got pretty ugly, but Marius won. He had the Constitution behind him. Eeeny only had his badge.”

  “I understand Marius's position,” I said, “but I don't agree with it. The law punishes people, not the press. At least not when it comes to DWIs.”

  “The press does its own kind of damage,” Milo noted. “Anyway, even if you don't put Cardenas's name in the paper, the story'll leak out.”

  “Maybe not,” I replied. “Everybody's occupied with Crystal's murder.”

  Milo didn't respond directly; the waitress, whose name I'd forgotten but recognized from her tenure at the Burger Barn, had arrived to take our orders.

  “Who picked Cardenas up?” I inquired when we were alone again.

  “Dustin,” Milo replied absently as he lighted a cigarette. “Funny thing—Cardenas waived the test and admitted he'd been drinking. I suppose he didn't want anybody to know how much he'd had.”

  I, too, thought it a bit unusual, but people are unpredictable, and I didn't know Nat Cardenas well enough to speculate. “How long do you plan to hold Aaron Conley?” I asked, deciding I might as well change the subject while the sheriff was in a cooperative mood.

  Milo shrugged. “We charged him yesterday. But you already know that,” he said, waving away the cloud of smoke that lingered between us. “Unless he raises bail, he's stuck until the trial. That could be another couple of weeks.”

  “Which doesn't upset you in the least,” I noted.

  My remark didn't seem to cheer Milo. Instead, he ran an agitated hand through his graying sandy hair and shifted his weight in the booth's narrow confines.

  “This is some damned mess,” he muttered, accidentally hitting his coffee mug and splashing a couple of drops on the vinyl table. “Homicides are supposed to be easy,” Milo went on, swiping at the spilled coffee with his bare hand. “Two guys in a bar, one knifes the other, two dozen witnesses, even if most of them are hammered. Wife catches the old man in the sack with another woman, whips out a shotgun, and blows them both away, then cries all over herself, saying how she didn't mean to do it, and she still loves the SOB. That's the way it usually is. That's the way it should be.”

  The sheriff stopped his diatribe while the waitress delivered his cheeseburger and my hamburger dip. “But not this case, not some of the other ones I've gotten stuck with in the past few years.” Milo went on. “Life used to be simpler, especially in small towns.”

  “That's true,” I allowed. “Everything is more complicated. Even murder.”

  “It ought to be easier,” Milo asserted after he'd taken a big chunk out of his cheeseburger. “We've got all this technology going for us. DNA, for instance. But then some clever bastard uses poison. Wouldn't you know it'd take an old-fashioned murder to screw up new methods?”

  I offered Milo a genuine, if somewhat uncertain, smile. “Then you don't think I'm the clever bastard?”

  “Shit.” Milo permitted himself a half grin. “I can't see you going to all that trouble. You'd be more likely to pick up a fireplace poker and split somebody's head in two.”

  “And then cry all over myself?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Probably.”

  We grew silent for a few moments, each of us chewing away on our respective burgers. My gaze traveled to the counter and beyond to the murals of crew-cut and ponytailed teens doing the Bop. Small replicas of Fifties cars hung on wires from the ceiling: a turquoise Chevy convertible, a ma
roon Mercury with huge tail fins, a classic red T-bird. The jukebox was playing Elvis, “Love Me Tender.” I winced. It hadn't been the Fifties, but Tom had crooned the song to me over drinks at the Thirteen Coins across the street from The Seattle Times. It didn't matter that he couldn't carry a tune in a ten-gallon bucket.

  “The problem is,” Milo was saying without any apparent notice of my emotional state, “you'd better watch yourself.”

  “Huh?” I stared at him. “Watch what?”

  Milo's grin widened. “You're a target. Dueling editors. Women at war. One whacks the other. It's juicy stuff.”

  “That's funny?” I frowned at the sheriff. “What are you hearing that I'm not?”

  “Nothing.” The grin faded and the hazel eyes were unusually wide.

  “Liar.”

  “No, really, Emma.” He finished the last french fry and lighted another cigarette.

  “I don't believe you,” I said, bracing my hands against the table. “You're hearing rumors or innuendos or some damned thing. ‘Fess up, Dodge.”

  Milo sighed and flicked ash onto his empty plate. “Maybe a weird look or some half-assed comment. No big thing. I swear it.”

  “Great.” I put both elbows on the table and held my head. “Now I'll have to write an editorial proclaiming my innocence.”

  “That's not a good idea,” Milo cautioned.

  “Of course it isn't. I was kidding.”

  At least I hoped I was.

  * * *

  Scott had gotten the information about the latest vehicular accident, though he hadn't managed to finish the story until ten to five. Vida, meanwhile, had set up an appointment for Friday morning with Justine Cardenas.

  “She was unwilling at first,” Vida said as she wound a very long and very ugly orange-and-green scarf around her neck. “But I coaxed. So good for the college. So homey. So positive.”

  Kip MacDuff entered the news office before I could reply. “Ready?” he asked with the usual cheerful grin on his freckled face.

  I grinned back. “I think so.” Kip deserved the biggest bonus of all. He was my most underrated staff member, yet he had evolved from a carrier to a delivery-truck driver to running the entire back shop. Still in his early twenties, he had learned every aspect of the business, except for writing and selling ads. It had occurred to me that if he ever acquired a knack for either talent, he'd be a natural to take over The Advocate someday.