The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  Andy was definitely unhinged. His voice shook as he replied: “But we only have one car. Reba needs it. And it’s no trouble to walk.”

  “Work it out,” Milo responded, exhibiting impatience. “Look, if it makes you feel better, we’ll have somebody patrol your house for a few days. We’ll check with the auto-body shop to see if anybody has brought in a car with suspicious damage. And speaking of cars,” he added, picking up the plastic bag and shaking out the set of keys, “give these to Marv when you see him Monday. They belonged to Linda.”

  Timorously Andy took the keys in his bony fingers. “Shouldn’t you give them to Marv?”

  Milo shrugged. “You’ll probably see him before I do. I don’t think Marv is anxious to see me in the bank real soon,” he added cryptically.

  Andy didn’t seem to hear Milo. He was staring at the keys, and for the first time, he smiled, albeit grimly. “That’s weird,” he remarked. “Boy, people are sure strange.”

  “Oh?” Milo sounded bored.

  Andy was pointing to the keys. “See, Linda has all these marked with adhesive tape. She was so methodical. Her house key, her car keys, her key to the bank, even luggage keys. But she had a key to Howard’s house, because she needed it when she went over to drop things off for Alison. This is really kind of … funny.”

  Milo looked as if he weren’t amused, but I leaned closer to Andy. “Why is that?” I asked.

  Andy’s smile twitched along with the rest of his skinny frame. “I remember once when Linda’s key chain broke. She had to get a new one, which was easy because we were giving them away with new accounts. You got a clock radio if you deposited over five hundred dollars. Anyway, I was with her when she was putting the keys on the new chain. She said she always put Howard’s key as far away from her condo key as possible. It was symbolic, you see. But,” he continued, waggling the keys at Milo and me, “they’re right next to each other. Maybe she stopped hating him, huh?”

  * * *

  “You aren’t supposed to drink on duty.” My voice was stern as I spoke to Milo at the Venison Inn.

  “One beer will not make me drunk,” he replied in a surly tone. “After Andy Cederberg, I could use a stiff Scotch. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something.” Milo rose from the booth and went off in the direction of the bar.

  About the only time I ever drink beer is in the sheriff’s company. Thus, I stared into my schooner and tried to make sense of Andy’s visit to Milo Dodge. But my mind wasn’t on murder or attempted murder. Rather, I saw Sandra Cavanaugh flitting around North Beach with a handsome, brainless hunk half her age.

  I also saw Christie Johnston, but she was real, coming down the aisle with her husband, Troy. I smiled and waved.

  “Thursday at the funeral was the first time I saw you out of your UPS uniform,” I said to Troy. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Like Christie, Troy was not a native Alpiner. But wherever he went to high school, I was certain he’d played football. He was under six feet, but stocky, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. I’d seen him heft parcels that looked as if they could be handled only by a forklift.

  “Yeah,” he replied, looking ill at ease. “Most people don’t know me in my civvies. Christie and I haven’t been here long enough to make a big impression.”

  “Small towns are like that,” I said lightly. “You two are taking a trip, I hear. We should mention it in Vida’s ‘Scene Around Town.’”

  Christie seemed to be leaning on Troy, edging him toward the door. “Go ahead. It’d be as interesting as most of the stuff she writes about.”

  “Michigan, right?” I feigned fascination. “You have relatives there, Troy?”

  Troy looked surprised at my knowledge. “My brother. I grew up in Royal Oak, outside of Detroit.”

  Christie’s gaze narrowed. I could have sworn there was malice in her eyes. “You people sure snoop around a lot at the newspaper. I suppose you want to know the rest of our itinerary.”

  I played the stooge to the hilt. “That would be wonderful. Then, when you get back, Vida can do a story about your trip.”

  “In that case, you can wait.” Christie gave me a frosty smile. “Until we get back, that is. ’Bye.” She propelled Troy out of the restaurant.

  When Milo returned, I was still staring at the door that had closed behind the Johnstons. To my astonishment, he was carrying a pack of cigarettes.

  “Whatever are you doing?” I demanded, the Johnstons momentarily forgotten.

  Milo opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and produced a lighter I’d seen him use only on that rare occasion when he smoked a cigar. “I’m trying to kill myself. Any objections?”

  “This isn’t the smoking section,” I protested. “And you’re an idiot.”

  “You’re right on both counts,” Milo replied, puffing away. “But I’m the sheriff, remember? If they want to throw me out, they’ll have to get my deputies to do it. Where the hell’s the ashtray?”

  “Use your beer glass,” I snarled. “Here comes our lunch. What’s gotten into you? How long has it been since you quit?”

  Our waitress, who was yet another recent graduate of Alpine High School, gaped at Milo. Instead of reprimanding him, however, she deposited our food and raced off to fetch an ashtray.

  “I quit the day my divorce was final. Six years ago. Or is it seven? Who’s counting?” Milo thanked the waitress for the ashtray. She practically streaked away. “I’ve tried gum, mints, toothpicks, everything but chewing on utility cords. Oh, it wasn’t too bad until this damned Linda Lindahl case. But you should hear the phone calls and read the letters I’m getting. You’d think I’d killed Linda. I’ll tell you one thing, Emma, that woman’s a lot better liked dead than she ever was alive.”

  The point wasn’t arguable. “It’s her family, not Linda,” I remarked as the restaurant lights blinked. “The Petersens are the essential Alpiners, going back to Frank when he worked as treasurer at the mill.”

  “Right, right, right.” Milo waved away my comment with a swirl of smoke, then extinguished his cigarette and tackled his cheeseburger. “When the locals aren’t raving about my incompetence, they’re demanding we haul Bob Lambrecht back to town and string him up. Some of them are actually accusing me of shielding Bob because we went to high school together.”

  I was aghast. “That’s crazy! Bob couldn’t have killed Linda! He wasn’t even in Alpine!”

  “Hey, did I say any of this crap made sense?” Milo was derisive. “These jerks are jumping on Bob because he’s an outsider. Worse than an outsider, because he once was an insider. He defected, and went to the Big City. He couldn’t help it if he kept getting promoted.”

  Even Milo somehow managed to make Bob Lambrecht’s success sound like a character flaw. “You need a serious suspect,” I said, falling back on the obvious.

  “Jeez.” Milo looked at me as if my head had come to a point. “Big news from The Advocate’s editor in chief. What do I do? Arrest the Petersens and charge them with conspiracy? They’re as good an example of Alpine as you can find. Frank and Irmgaard were involved in every civic enterprise and charity that came along. Marv and Cathleen have kept up the tradition. Larry and JoAnne do their share, too. Linda wasn’t made in the same mold, and Denise was lucky she didn’t get kicked out of Camp Fire Girls. But by and large, the Petersens are a big noise around here.”

  “You left out Uncle Elmer. And the sister. Was she at the funeral?” I asked, dipping my deep-fried cod into a small dish of tarter sauce.

  Milo nodded. “DeAnne and her husband came up from Seattle. I talked to them for a few minutes. They’d just gotten back from New Zealand and were still in a state of shock.”

  “And Elmer?” I had glimpsed Elmer and Thelma at the services. Milo’s aunt had been appropriately, if untidily, dressed in black. Uncle Elmer’s attire had consisted of a denim jacket and rumpled brown trousers. He had kept his distance from the rest of the family, but given his lack of social skil
ls, that was hardly surprising.

  “What about Elmer?” Milo demanded through a mouthful of burger.

  The lights flickered again. I could hear the distant rumble of thunder. “He and your aunt aren’t exactly involved,” I noted.

  “They’re farmers.” Milo drank the last of his beer. “They used to be active in 4-H and the Grange when they were younger. At least Aunt Thelma did. Hell, they’re lucky these days to keep that place going at all.”

  Milo was probably right. Elmer Petersen must be close to seventy. I was searching for a tactful way to tell the sheriff that I knew about Linda’s dinner at the Dutch Cup when I remembered Christie and Troy Johnston.

  “Christie was downright surly,” I concluded. “They’re leaving tomorrow. Are you sure you shouldn’t talk to her first?”

  Milo ate two french fries at once and cocked his head at me. “Who says I didn’t?”

  Milo would say no more about Christie Johnston. I was anxious to go home, clean house, and reflect on my love life, but the sheriff insisted on making the most of his lunch hour by having a piece of pumpkin pie for dessert. As long as we were lingering, I asked him what he thought about Andy Cederberg’s remarks.

  Milo shrugged. “He scared himself. Somebody—let’s hope it wasn’t Durwood Parker or I’ll have to bust him again—lost it in the fog. But Linda was murdered, so now Andy sees a conspiracy or some damned thing.” Milo lighted another cigarette.

  “Vida was thinking along those same lines earlier,” I said. “You’re skeptical?”

  “You bet. Look, Emma, there’s some stuff going on with the bank that I can’t talk about. You’ve guessed as much. I don’t know all the details yet.” Milo coughed once, then frowned at his cigarette. “I guess I’m not used to this stuff after so long. Anyway, if this bank inquiry develops into anything, we’ll let you know so you can have your story. But don’t go along with Andy and Vida and all the other characters who are looking under the bed for boogeymen.” Milo coughed again.

  “What about Linda’s car keys?” I felt a bit like coughing, too. Milo was blowing smoke straight into my face.

  “What about them?”

  “Their placement on the ring. Milo,” I went on, lowering my voice and leaning closer, “how was the Lindahl house broken into? A window? A crowbar? An underground tunnel?”

  Behind the blue haze, Milo frowned. “Damned if I know. That’s Snohomish County’s responsibility. The City of Everett, actually. Why do you ask?”

  There were times when Milo seemed as dense as the cloud of smoke that enveloped him. Yet I knew that he wasn’t really dim, but methodical. And somewhat plodding. Thus, I often felt compelled to give him a boot. “What if somebody had a key to get in? What if it wasn’t a real burglar? You said nothing was taken. How did the Lindahls know there’d been a break-in?”

  “I didn’t see the report.” Milo evaded my gaze. His pie arrived, topped with ice cream. “Drugs, maybe. You’d be amazed at who’s got them. You’d be even more amazed at where the dopers think they can find the stuff.”

  I was dubious. “It’s too much of a coincidence that the Lindahls had a break-in the night before Linda was killed. Did you ever hear from the phone company about the call to Howard from Dick Johnson?”

  Milo was still resisting eye contact. “Monday, probably. We’re having them run a check on all the Petersens, too. That’s why it’s taking so long.”

  The sheriff’s reply partially appeased me. “That’s good work. I wish you’d take a look at that burglary complaint, though.”

  “Don’t bug me, Emma.” Milo forked up a hunk of pie. “How the hell could a break-in at the Lindahls have anything to do with Linda’s murder?”

  Involuntarily my hand touched my purse. A flash of lightning struck close enough that, for a fleeting moment, everything appeared as blue as Milo’s smoke. The roll of thunder followed, resonating somewhere off the face of Tonga Ridge. I patted my purse. The little map still reposed in a zippered side pocket. I should mention it to Milo.

  But what was the point? A hysterical adolescent whose mother had just been murdered had found it and jumped to conclusions. I was middle-aged and rational. Between my office and my home I had a dozen scraps of paper with notes and directions. They meant nothing, except that at some point in time, I’d needed to get someplace for some reason I’d already forgotten.

  Milo offered to pay for lunch. I let him. It was small compensation for putting up with his cigarettes. It certainly wasn’t sufficient to make up for the fact that I had a terrible urge to join him and puff my head off, too.

  The knock on my door was so timorous that I didn’t hear it over of the roar of the vacuum cleaner. It was only when I saw a face at my living-room window that I let out a squeak of surprise and turned off the vacuum.

  “Rick!” I exclaimed, opening the front door. “What can I do for you?”

  His manner was furtive as he slipped inside. “Hide me,” he breathed. “The sheriff’s on my trail.”

  It had been almost two hours since I’d parted from Milo Dodge at the Venison Inn. Glancing out into the street through the rain, I could see no sign of the sheriff’s official car or his Cherokee Chief. The thunder-and-lightning storm had passed, happily without causing one of our frequent power failures.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, winding up the vacuum cord and putting it in place.

  Rick nodded, raindrops falling from his short hair. “He came to my folks’ house just a few minutes ago. I saw him get out. I was coming back from the bowling alley. I kept going. You were the first person I could think of who’d let me in.”

  Rick and his parents lived two blocks away, on Tyee Street. It struck me as odd that there wouldn’t be neighbors who would give Rick shelter. I mentioned the fact, even as I offered Rick a seat on the sofa.

  “I wanted to get far enough away so Sheriff Dodge couldn’t see me,” he said, and for the first time, I realized that he looked not only wet and miserable, but scared, too. “He’d recognize my car.”

  “Oh.” I sat down in my most comfortable armchair, across from Rick. “Yes, he probably would. Why don’t you want to see him?”

  Rick Erlandson’s hands fumbled and twisted. “It’s dumb, really dumb. Maybe I shouldn’t be worried. But I think I made a mistake at the bank.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  Rick’s earnest young face turned very pink. “This is such a mess….” He scraped his fingers on the fabric of his faded blue jeans. “Everything’s been all screwed up at the bank since Linda got killed. Well, no, it really started before that. I should have noticed then.” He swallowed hard and gave me a helpless look.

  “Noticed what?” My voice sounded sharp.

  “Secrets.” Rick brushed at his short damp hair. “Mr. Petersen—Marv, I mean—and Linda were behind closed doors a lot. He looked worried, and she looked mad. Somewhere along in there—I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday—Linda asked me if I was cosigning everything. I told her I thought so, but how would I know unless I was asked?”

  Rick had me confused. “Cosigning what? Loans?”

  Rick shook his head. “Every time a teller handles a big transaction—like a CD or a tax-exempt bond or something—somebody else has to sign, too. Christie and Denise and I do it for each other all the time. But Linda showed me a request for money market funds that somebody had asked for by phone. It had been made back in September, after Alyssa Carlson quit to have her baby and before Denise came to work at the bank. Christie had signed it, but I hadn’t. Linda wanted to know why.”

  “Well?” Still bewildered, I tried to regain my patience.

  Rick looked stricken, as if I were the one accusing him of wrongdoing. “I wasn’t asked. Then Linda talked to Christie, and Christie just laughed and said she must have forgotten. We were short-handed, and it happened at a busy time. But the next day, Linda got on my case again. This time it was a payment for Mr. Walsh’s car, and it only had one signature.”

  I arched
my eyebrows. “Had Christie forgotten again?”

  Rick shook his head in a despondent fashion. “No. I’d signed it. But the funny thing is, I don’t remember. There’s been all this stuff going on with Denise and Ginny, and I’m all mixed up. Women sure can make a man feel weird. Ms. Lord, do you think I’m losing it?”

  Rick was a couple of years older than Adam, but I tried to think how I would answer my son. The hard part was imagining that Adam would ever own up to a personal flaw. Or harder yet, that Adam would ever have a real job.

  “We all make mistakes,” I said, resorting to a cliché. “Let’s back up. Why is the sheriff after you?”

  Rick’s eyes darted to the front window. Maybe he expected to see Milo standing there with his King Cobra Magnum at the ready. “Sheriff Dodge was at the bank yesterday afternoon. He spent a long time talking to both Mr. Petersens, which was really strange because you’d think they wouldn’t have come back after the funeral. Like I said, things haven’t been right at work for a couple of weeks, even before Linda got killed. Maybe they think I’ve been … skimming or something.”

  “You’re not.” My tone was emphatic, lest Rick think I suspected him of malfeasance.

  “Gosh, no!” He looked horrified. “That’s a crime!”

  “Yes, it is.” I was thinking hard, trying to put the pieces together. “Now, go over these procedures one more time—if you’re dealing with certain kinds of transactions, the bank requires two signatures, right?”

  Rick nodded. “It’s like—well, checks and balances, to make sure that nobody can authorize certain debits or credits on their own. Mr. Petersen—Marv—used to be so fussy about that sort of thing that when I came to work for the bank two years ago, nobody who worked there could get in or out of their own account without having another employee sign for them. But that got to be a hassle. Since it’s all practically family, he decided we could trust each other.”