The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  Milo was lighting a cigarette. He regarded me with frank appreciation, an infrequent reaction on his part. “If the chamber supports the bond issue, it might have a chance. Should I come, too?”

  I considered the idea. “No. You stay out of it. Besides, you’re too busy to spare the time.”

  “I am, for a fact. No day off tomorrow, none in sight.” Milo puffed and sighed. “So you got Rick Erlandson to open up. I couldn’t even find him yesterday. I had to settle for Denise Petersen, who couldn’t remember who she waited on Friday, let alone a month ago.”

  “What about Christie? Did you talk to her?” I had already confided my suspicions of Christie Johnston to Milo.

  The sheriff shook his head. “She and Troy took off around two o’clock yesterday afternoon, according to the neighbors. They had their luggage. The flight was a red-eye at one A.M. this morning.”

  Groaning, I leaned back in the chair. “Damn! Christie absconded; I’ll bet my life savings on it. If I have any left,” I added ruefully. Sitting up again, I eyed Milo with my most persuasive expression. “Can’t you tell me now—since I’ve done my homework—if you don’t suspect Christie of juggling the accounts?”

  Milo held up his hands. “I can’t say that officially. Because I don’t know. Bob Lambrecht called Friday to say that after a complete review of the Bank of Alpine’s books in Seattle, there was definitely evidence of serious discrepancies. That’s how he put it. Bob didn’t point any fingers; neither did Dan Ruggiero, or his local source, who may have been Linda. We were notified by the Bank of Washington because we’re the local law enforcement agency. Obviously we haven’t got a fraud division. All we can do is question the bank employees about possible irregularities. Then we call in the state bank examiners and, if necessary, the Feds. That may happen tomorrow. If it does, it’s up for grabs. You’ll meet your deadline and everybody will be happy except the entire population of Alpine.”

  I was so intent on Milo’s recital that I only half noticed that while he spoke, his eyes had periodically strayed behind me. When he concluded, I heard footsteps and swiveled in the direction of the door. Vida, grim-faced and dusted with snow, plopped down next to me in the other visitor’s chair.

  “We Presbyterians pray more and sing longer than you Catholics,” she said with only the most cursory of glances. “I just got out of church. Milo, I’m appalled. How could you let Christie get away?”

  “How could I stop her?” Milo, however, looked sheepish. “Besides, I didn’t think the Johnstons were leaving until today.”

  Vida wasn’t assuaged. Indeed, she was glaring at Milo’s cigarette. “Oh, good grief! You’re smoking! Why don’t you just shoot heroin into your veins and be done with it?”

  Milo chose not to defend himself. “This audit or whatever they call it at the state level will take a while. Christie may be back before it’s over.”

  Slowly I shook my head. “Christie’s not coming back. Milo, do you think she killed Linda?”

  Milo stubbed out his cigarette and sank back in his chair. “I honestly don’t know. She had a motive. But why did she wait?”

  At that point in time, it seemed the crucial question. But we couldn’t know how much Christie suspected. Assuming she was indeed the embezzler, Christie might not have realized until the fatal Friday that Linda had blown the whistle.

  Vida was wrinkling her nose. “Your office smells terrible,” she declared. “Worse than usual. I must go home. Cupcake is off his feed.”

  After two weekends with Roger, I didn’t blame Vida’s canary. I decided to leave, too. Our exit was well timed. Before we were out the door, Milo received a call about a two-car collision, due south of the Cascade railroad tunnel. Somehow, it was easy to forget that the sheriff had other demands on his time besides homicide and bank fraud.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully, except for the snow that began to cover the ground in the early afternoon. By six o’clock, we had three inches. I went out on the back porch to survey my little piece of wilderness. The land behind me is forest, second growth, but tall and sturdy. There was magic in the trees, with only the wind sighing down the mountainside and the pristine whiteness glistening in the November night.

  My spirits lifted, though I didn’t know why. Tom was still wrestling with his demons in San Francisco, Leo was probably drinking himself senseless, Milo was up to his badge in murder and mayhem, and Vida was at home, force-feeding birdseed to Cupcake. And somewhere, though maybe not in Alpine, a murderer was at large.

  Despite all that, I went back into my little log house and let it wrap its arms around me. For now, it was sufficient. I was old enough, maybe wise enough, to take my comforts as I found them.

  As long as they were of my own making.

  Ginny hummed as she made the coffee Monday morning. She couldn’t carry a tune, but I didn’t mind. I took her change of mood as a good sign. Maybe she and Rick had made up. Later, when the first crush of business was over, I’d tactfully pose a few questions.

  Carla, however, remained glum. But at least she wasn’t fashioning a noose. I inquired if the fresh snowfall had offered her any new photo opportunities.

  She nodded in a disinterested manner. “I tried shadows. Contrasts, you know. And some blurry effects at Old Mill Park with the snow almost obscuring the lens. I’ll drop the roll off at Buddy Bayard’s this afternoon when I pick up the other contact sheets.”

  There was no rush. We had photos Vida had taken of Linda’s funeral, both at the church and the cemetery. Carla had managed to catch Mike Brockelman’s parade of machinery through town on Saturday. If the bank story broke, we’d run pictures, either new or from stock. We had no problem filling this week’s front page. There were also several auto accidents, the possibility of a county bond issue, and Andy Cederberg’s official complaint about the errant driver.

  It was precisely ten o’clock when Ginny delivered the paychecks for my cosignature. I asked about her weekend. She blushed.

  “Rick came by. He was a mess. He’s afraid of getting fired.” Ginny’s smile was sly. “I hope he does. That’ll be the end of Denise.”

  It wasn’t quite the reaction I’d expected. Still, I was pleased that Ginny’s spirits were on the rise. “I haven’t forgotten your personals ad idea,” I assured her. “We’ll do some serious thinking after the holidays.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that we hadn’t yet trotted out our papier-mâché turkey and the plastic Pilgrims. We’d deep-sixed the witch and the black cat, but retained the plush pumpkin. I reached into my purse to get my keys so Ginny could unlock the storage cupboard.

  “Here,” I said, pointing to one of two small, thin, unadorned keys. “Or is that for the filing cabinet we never lock?”

  “I’ll try them both,” Ginny said, heading for what was once the back shop and is now used for storing everything from obsolete printing equipment to new computer supplies.

  “I should label my keys,” I murmured aloud, thinking of Linda Lindahl’s orderly methods. The thought also reminded me of the little map inside the zippered pocket. I’d forgotten about it in the chaos of the last two days. Maybe I wanted to push it out of my mind. But that was wrong. When Ginny returned with the decorations under her arm, I retrieved my keys, threw on my coat, and started for the sheriff’s office. An idea that had been festering in my brain erupted like an abscess.

  I got no farther than the corner when I saw Honoria Whitman pull into the disabled parking space by the bank. Cursing myself, I staggered across the street. The snowplows had already been on the job, but my mind had turned to slush. The map wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten: Honoria’s trip to Alpine was no longer necessary.

  “Honoria!” Trying to get traction on the six inches of snow that was piled up on the sidewalk, I leaned against the passenger window. Puzzled, Honoria used her power-lock switch to open the door. I was shivering as I slipped into the car.

  “The bank job’s off,” I said, trying not to let my teeth chatter.
“Milo’s about to call in the state auditor and maybe the Feds. You don’t have to go through the charade of opening a proxy account. I’m sorry, I should have called you yesterday after I talked to Milo in the morning.”

  Two pink swatches of color appeared on Honoria’s porcelain cheeks. “Milo told you about this yesterday morning? He didn’t mention the bank at all Saturday night. He talked about elk hunting.”

  I let my head fall back against the soft upholstered seat. “Damn! The conversation was strictly business, Honoria. I’d ferreted out some information Saturday from a bank employee. Milo wouldn’t tell me anything until yesterday either.”

  Honoria was staring through the windshield, which was becoming covered with snow. “Milo almost never talks shop with me. Only in the abstract.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was apologizing for Milo, as well as for myself.

  “Elk are too handsome to shoot.” The statement was curiously devoid of emotion. Maybe Honoria was thinking that the same couldn’t be said for Milo.

  Turning in the seat, I put a hand on Honoria’s arm. “I owe you for all this inconvenience. How about me treating you to dinner next week at Café de Flore?”

  The tiny lines at the corners of Honoria’s eyes deepened. “We’ll see. I may go down to Carmel for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh.” Feeling like a fool, I fumbled for words that would close the sudden chasm between us. But before I could say anything, Milo was pounding on my window. Honoria rolled it down, but made no effort to look in Milo’s direction.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Milo asked, speaking past me to Honoria. “Why didn’t you tell me you were driving up to Alpine today?”

  Honoria’s tone was as cold as the snow. “Because you didn’t need to know. I came and now I’m leaving.” She turned on the engine and the windshield wipers. “Excuse me, Emma, I’m heading back to Startup before the weather gets worse. Goodbye, Milo.”

  Practically falling out of the car, I was forced to let Milo steady me. Maybe Honoria didn’t see him put his arm around my waist. Maybe she wasn’t furious at both of us. Maybe she’d regain her usual equanimity by the time she got to Startup.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Milo demanded, his fists now on his hips. “Are the women plotting against me?”

  “We were,” I admitted in a wretched voice. “If you split an elephant ear with me at the Upper Crust, I’ll tell you about it.” Among other things, I couldn’t bear the thought of drinking another cup of Milo’s puny coffee.

  Milo glanced at the big clock that stood on the sidewalk in front of the bank. “Okay, I can spare you fifteen minutes. I was on my way to see you when I spotted Honoria’s car.”

  At one of the bakery’s four small round tables, I explained about our idea to turn Honoria into a mole. Milo’s reaction was disgust.

  “That’s only slightly less asinine than Ed Bronsky’s scheme. Don’t any of you think I can conduct an investigation on my own?” He stuffed a big chunk of crisp cinnamon-and-sugar-covered elephant ear into his mouth.

  My defense came out in a whine. “We know how shorthanded you are. We only wanted to help. It’s because we like you, Milo, despite your sometimes annoying ways.”

  The sheriff looked askance. “You all treat me like a dim-witted child. I hate it. Sure, we’ve got problems in this county. Now our fax machine’s screwed up. It has been, for a week, and we didn’t even know it. We’ll have to get somebody over from Everett to fix the damned thing. And I still don’t know why Honoria is so pissed off at me. She should have been mad at you.”

  “She was. She was mad at the world. I’ve already explained all that.” We were keeping our voices down, for the Upper Crust was doing a brisk business on this snowy November morning. Wanting to change the subject, I extracted the little map from my purse. “Alison Lindahl gave me this. What do you make of it?”

  Milo scrutinized the map, then reached for a cigarette. I pointed to the NO SMOKING sign. Milo grimaced. “Where did Alison get this?”

  “In the Lindahls’ magazine rack.” I waited for Milo’s response.

  It was fierce, though he tried to keep his voice lowered. “You got this—when? Almost a week ago? And you say you want to help? Bull!”

  I tried to look both penitent and innocent. “I wasn’t sure it meant anything. It could have been made a year ago.”

  Jabbing at the small piece of paper, Milo growled at me under his breath. “I’d like to kick your butt, Emma. Vida’s, too. You should have turned this over to me right away.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t sure….”

  “It pinpoints the murder site. It’s the first real piece of evidence we’ve had. Along with the phone records, we can start building a case against Howard Lindahl.”

  I gave a start. “Phone records? You got them?”

  Milo nodded abruptly. “First thing this morning. Howard Lindahl received no calls from Seattle during the first week of November. The only incoming long-distance numbers were from Sultan and Alpine, respectively. Both pay phones, by the way. But Howard had called Linda three times—Monday, Thursday, and Friday. Now do you see why this scrap of paper is so important?”

  I hung my head. “I’m afraid so. Somehow, I didn’t want the killer to be Howard. I don’t particularly like the guy, but it seems too cruel for Alison to lose both parents.”

  “It happens,” Milo replied shortly. “Here’s the way it Looks….” He paused, acknowledging the arrival of Itsa Bitsa Pizza owner Pete Patricelli and one of the Carlsons from the dairy. “Howard and Linda had a court date coming up next week. Linda had voluntarily given up custody at the time of the divorce. But she changed her mind. She wanted joint custody. Howard and Susan didn’t think it would be good for Alison. They’ve given her a stable home, the kid seems pretty well adjusted, and to suddenly chuck all that could cause some big problems. But Linda’s got nothing on her slate to show she shouldn’t have joint custody. She’d probably get it, especially since she’s the mother. Never mind her earlier indifference, the court system tends to work that way. Besides, she could always argue that she was undergoing trauma from the divorce and felt it was better not to uproot Alison and bring her to Alpine.” Milo stopped long enough to finish his share of the elephant ear. I waited for him to continue. “Howard, with Susan giving him a big push, makes up his mind not to let Linda get her way. He calls her to plead and beg and argue, but Linda is determined. She’s not withdrawing her request. So there’s only one thing he can do to stop her—and he does it. Howard comes over to Alpine Friday night when he’s supposed to be meeting this Dick Johnson and strangles Linda. He gets rid of a meddling ex-wife and, as a bonus, he gets control of the money she leaves Alison.” Milo dusted cinnamon and sugar off of his hands.

  My eyes roamed around the bakery, with its enticing aromas and gleaming white tiles. Milo’s theory made a certain amount of sense. But somehow it didn’t ring quite true.

  “How,” I finally inquired, barely above a whisper, “did Howard lure Linda out to the clearing off the Icicle Creek Road?”

  Milo had carefully pocketed the little map and was standing up. “He didn’t,” the sheriff answered in what was almost a mumble. “Linda wasn’t killed in the clearing. She was murdered at home, in her condo. Let’s go, Emma. I’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  VIDA NEVER LOOKED at her paycheck when Ginny placed it on her desk. My House & Home editor’s reaction to getting paid was always one of disdain. She would pick up the check as if it were a chore, and slip it inside her handbag. I often wondered if her attitude had arisen out of her need for employment after her husband’s untimely death and her pride in accepting what she might have seen as charity from Marius Vandeventer.

  Whatever it was, the habit endured. After Ginny went back to the front office, Vida snapped her bag shut and gave me a quizzical look.

  “So Honoria’s mad and Milo is gathering evidence against Howard,” Vida remarked, resting her chin on one hand. “Tell me
the rest of it. I’d like it all to make sense.”

  There was no one in the news office except Vida and me. Leo was at the Grocery Basket, finalizing the store’s pre-Thanksgiving double-truck ad. Carla was covering a small fire that had broken out in a warehouse between the railroad tracks and the river. Reportedly, there was little damage, but fires of any kind make news in a town like Alpine.

  Sitting down in Vida’s visitor’s chair, I dredged up the remainder of my conversation with the sheriff, which had taken place outside of the Upper Crust before we went our separate ways on Front Street.

  “The call to Howard on Thursday was made from a pay phone at the Red Apple Market in Sultan at seven-fifteen in the evening. It went into the Lindahls’ answering machine, but there was no message.”

  Vida nodded. “Of course. The Lindahls were out that night, at Alison’s school.”

  “On Friday, the call came through at seven thirty-six in the evening. Howard claims to have answered it, but nobody was there. The phone-company records show it was made from the pay phone at the Icicle Creek Gas ’n Go.”

  “Hmmmm.” Vida fingered her chin. “Maybe Howard did answer. But it could have been Susan or Alison.”

  “That’s true. Howard admitted calling Linda several times that week, including Friday. He told Milo he placed the last call just before six-thirty in the evening. The records bear him out—it was actually six thirty-four. Howard said Linda couldn’t talk—she had just gotten home from work and she’d call him back. Of course, she never did.”

  Vida was still looking very thoughtful. “It would take Howard less than an hour to get from his home in Everett to Alpine. Yes, it’s possible that he could have murdered Linda. But what’s this about Linda being murdered at her condo and not out in the clearing?”

  I gave a little shake of my head. “It’s sort of confusing. Milo finally got the analysis back from Snohomish County on the hollow log and Linda’s clothes and whatever else that they’d gathered up where you and Roger found the body. But Jack Mullins and Sam Heppner had also gone over Linda’s condo and, of course, her car. That evidence didn’t go off to Everett until last Tuesday. There wasn’t much there, either. But what was of interest was that there were fibers on Linda’s coat from her carpet, as if she’d been dragged across the floor. There was also the matter of her handbag. It was still inside the condo.”