The Alpine Yeoman

by Mary Daheim

  Milo frowned. “What? You sitting on my lap?”

  “No. Vida. I’m used to tossing ideas back and forth with her and … stop looking at me like that. She and I’ve come up with some loony stuff, but you know damned well we’ve also figured out a few things over the years. That happened because we colored outside the lines.”

  “Your office should look like a hallucinogenic nightmare by now.”

  “You know it’s true,” I said, just short of pouting.

  Milo sighed. “Yeah, you’ve saved my butt a few times. But you have to admit, you always came at it sideways.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Usually. Maybe. I guess.” He sighed again. “So you want to bring her into the loop?”

  “No. I don’t think she cares about this one. The victim’s not local.”

  “That didn’t stop her before.”

  “But Vida’s in a different place now. She’s mad at you, so she doesn’t want to help. More to the point, she really hasn’t been interested in the murder investigation. I thought she was worrying about Roger, but he’s got a job and she’s glowing all over the place about that. She even wants to put him on a float in the Summer Solstice Parade.”

  “Oh, God!” Milo held his head. “That’s worse than when Bronsky and his gang had the Mr. Pig farm float.”

  “Don’t say that out loud,” I cautioned. “He might do the same thing with his latest venture into idiocy and self-aggrandizement.”

  “Is it too soon for us to retire and move to … Index?”

  I took that as a rhetorical comment. “I guess I miss—excuse the word—speculating with her.”

  The phone rang. I picked it up. To my surprise, it was Vida. Maybe she really did have every house in Alpine wired for surveillance.

  “I just returned from church,” she said in an excited voice. “Amy and Ted told me that Roger and Ainsley have made up. Isn’t that heartwarming news? I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

  “Gosh, Vida, I didn’t know Roger and Ainsley had broken up,” I said, for Milo’s benefit. “Was it just a spat?”

  “Oh, certainly! Young love—so tender, so fragile, yet not easily discarded when it’s deep and true. I won’t keep you, but I knew you’d want to know. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that,” I said, hoping to convey at least a modicum of enthusiasm. “I’m happy that … you’re happy.” We rang off.

  “Christ,” Milo groaned. “So that’s where Ainsley was—with Roger. I feel like arresting Bob Sigurdson for ruining my Saturday afternoon.”

  “At least Bob and Caroline should be pleased that Roger has a job,” I said. “I translated ‘unmotivated’ as ‘lazy, worthless, feckless jerk.’ ”

  “Let’s see how long it lasts before Roger screws up. I hope he doesn’t trash the van the company gave him.”

  “It doesn’t belong to the company,” I said. “Ted and Amy bought it for him secondhand.”

  “It’s got a sign on it,” Milo said. “I figured it belonged to Party Animals.”

  “Vida’s been a little unclear about all of this. It seems to be sort of a freelance job.”

  “No kidding. Maybe I should check their business license to see if Roger hasn’t made up the whole thing just to get some new wheels.”

  “Roger doesn’t have that much imagination.”

  “You’re right about that. You want to drive over to Leavenworth for dinner tonight?”

  “Do you really want to do that? There’ll be weekend traffic going both ways.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Milo said, putting out his cigarette and standing up, coffee mug in hand. “All the time we went together, we talked about going there and we never did. Seeing that picture of you and Cavanaugh in Leavenworth made me jealous. Or maybe I just felt bad because I never followed through. Now let’s do it.”

  “I went to dinner there once with Fleetwood.”

  “Great. That makes me feel even worse. We’re going.”

  And Milo went—out to the kitchen. I remained on the sofa, smiling.

  TWENTY

  “SAUSAGE?” MILO SAID IN DISGUST AS WE STARTED THE DESCENT from the summit of Stevens Pass. “Is that what brat means? I like sausage for breakfast, but I’ll be damned if I’ll have it for dinner.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said, still perusing the AAA guidebook I’d brought along. “I’m not nuts about brats either. I’m trying to remember where I went with Tom. Or with Spence, for that matter. I think one of the places was the Café Mozart.”

  “I’d think you’d remember where you’d gone with Cavanaugh, at least,” Milo pointed out.

  “I was in kind of a daze. Don’t you remember that after Tom and I got back some cranks had vandalized my poor Jaguar? You had to come over and, frankly, you seemed pleased to tell me it might be totaled.”

  “I was jealous, damn it. That happened the day after I walked in on you and Cavanaugh. I didn’t even know he was in town. Find a place that you haven’t been to with him or Fleetwood. I can’t believe you came clear over here with that guy. Are you sure he didn’t grab your ass?”

  “Yes! We were discussing one of the murder investigations and didn’t want to be overheard in Alpine. It was all business and we were home before dark, you big jerk.”

  “He must’ve been banging Rosalie even then,” Milo said.

  “Maybe. She’d been his shrink, you know.”

  “He probably invented being nuts to get her in the sack.”

  “Spence has had his own hard times,” I said. “Long before he came to Alpine. The love of his life—back then, anyway—had drowned.”

  “He probably stuck her head in the bathtub,” my husband said.

  “Here—Andreas Keller. It sounds like hearty food.”

  “Good.” Milo slowed down as we followed the Wenatchee River, its riffles touched by gold from the setting sun. “I’ve never had much luck over here in the past few years. Not enough fish planted,” he said as we suddenly lost sight of the river at the edge of town. “Now, how do we find this place?”

  “It’s on their Front Street,” I said. “Turn right when we get to the main part. The restaurant’s in the eight hundred block.”

  As before, I was charmed by the Bavarian architecture. Like Alpine, Leavenworth had been a logging town and also a railroad hub but had lost both sources of income over the years. In order to keep the town alive, the residents had turned the place into a tourist attraction, with an almost year-long series of festivals, including Oktoberfest and a month-long Christmas celebration that ran special daily trains out of Seattle.

  We found Andreas Keller easily, its typical Bavarian exterior decorated with a brightly colored spring garland on the ironwork by the entrance. After we got out of the Yukon, Milo sniffed the air.

  “It smells different over here,” he declared. “Even the dirt’s a different color. Sometimes I forget just how foreign the other half of Washington is. People who don’t live around here or never traveled through the state haven’t a clue.”

  “Let’s keep them that way,” I said as we entered the restaurant. “Seattle and its suburbs are getting too big.”

  “Tell me about it,” Milo said as we got in line behind a half dozen other people. “I hate that drive down to Bellevue. One of these days I have to take those annulment forms to Mulehide. She’ll blow about six fuses.”

  “Maybe I should go with you. I’ve only met Tricia once.”

  He shook his head. “Not when I bring the stuff from the chancery office. But maybe you should get together with her first. Tanya’s birthday is coming next month. Maybe we can all go down and have dinner. We’ll eat out. Mulehide’s not a great cook. It’s been years since you’ve seen Michelle—damn, I mean Mike, since she changed her name after announcing that she’s gay. You’ll get to see her and Bran. Maybe you can meet his girlfriend Solange and Mike’s partner, Carolyn.” He winced only slightly, still not entirely comfortable that his younger daugh
ter was a lesbian.

  “I’d like that,” I said as we were beckoned to a cozy corner table. “I should get acquainted with my other stepchildren.”

  “I’ve only met Carolyn once,” he said after we’d been seated. “She seems nice. She’s a nurse at a children’s hospital in Portland.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that earlier.” I stopped talking. An accordion player was blasting away only a few feet from us.

  “Want to polka?” Milo said, leaning closer to be heard.

  “I can’t dance,” I said. “The klutz factor.”

  “Same here.”

  We studied the menu until the accordionist had moved on. Milo went for the pork chops. I chose the rotisserie chicken, even though it was supposed to be a half. Any leftovers could turn into something Milo might not like for Monday night’s dinner. We drank German beer and talked about our families in between intermittent serenades from what was now two accordionists. But the food was good, and just being together doing something out of our routine was a welcome change.

  “That,” I said as we walked back to the Yukon in the waning daylight, “is the first real date we’ve had in years.”

  “That sounds about right for you,” Milo declared. “You tend to do things backward. You have a kid and wait thirty years to get a husband, then you get married, but two months later you finally go on a date with him. Let’s walk a little. That German food’s heavy.”

  We’d passed another restaurant and a series of small shops when I felt something bothering my left heel. “Hold up,” I said. “I should never slip my shoes off in a public place. It’s a bad habit.” Sure enough, there was a pebble—or maybe a chickpea. I tossed it aside before putting my shoe back on. Milo was studying a bulletin board outside a camera shop that displayed pictures, apparently of Leavenworth’s visitors.

  “They have an ice race here every year,” he remarked. “On foot. How many ambulances do they have standing by?”

  “We could do that in Alpine,” I said.

  “No thanks. That’d mean extra duty for my … holy shit!” he exclaimed, peering more closely at one of the photos. “Unless I’m going blind, that’s Nel Dobles.”

  I leaned against Milo to study the picture. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ve never seen him.” The man my husband was pointing to was with two other men, all of them smiling and holding up beer steins. He looked pleasant, probably even handsome, with dark hair and well-defined features. Milo scanned the other photos more closely.

  “Here,” he said, sounding as close to excited as the sheriff gets when he shifts into work mode. “There’s Joe Fernandez. I’d bet on it, at least from his driver’s license picture. He didn’t look so good in person, being dead.”

  Joe was standing in front of München Haus Bavarian Grill, which we’d just passed. He was wearing a light blue shirt and jeans. His arm was around a pretty blonde who had her head on his shoulder.

  “The camera shop’s probably closed,” Milo said. “I want to talk to somebody in charge at that restaurant. Let’s go.”

  “Gee, I get to trot along on an investigation?” I panted, trying to keep up with my husband’s long stride.

  “I can’t ditch you,” he said over his shoulder. “You’d probably make friends with the town creep.”

  “Do they have one?”

  “Every place does,” Milo said as he led the way inside the restaurant. “We’ve got Crazy Eights Neffel for starters.” He stopped, apparently looking for someone in charge. “Stay put,” he murmured and approached the hostess. After a brief exchange, Milo gestured for me to follow him through the restaurant.

  I trudged along behind him, past the restrooms and through an unmarked door that opened as if by magic. The man who greeted us looked a little like a cheerful wizard, short and stout, with a bald head, a gray goatee, and twinkling blue eyes.

  “Hermann Obermeyer,” he said with a faint German accent, offering his hand to my husband and then to me. “Come in, Sheriff. And Mrs.… Dodge, is it?”

  The office was small and cluttered, not unlike my own. There was only one extra chair. Milo didn’t sit down, so I didn’t, either. Obermeyer did, however. Maybe the sheriff’s looming presence overwhelmed him.

  After Milo had described the two photographs, Obermeyer looked puzzled. “We have so many visitors. Perhaps I should go outside with you to make sure I know which ones you’re speaking of. Half of the people in them will be holding beer steins.” The blue eyes twinkled some more as he led us out of his office, retracing our steps to the sidewalk bulletin board. It was almost dark by now, but the restaurant manager—I assumed that was his title—had brought along a flashlight.

  “Oh, yes,” he said at once when Milo pointed to Dobles. “He has been here a few times. Not so much to attend our special events, but passing through. This picture was taken with two visitors from Yakima. Mr. Dobles is from central California, I believe.” Obermeyer frowned. “He is not, I hope, in some sort of trouble.”

  “No. He was in a serious car accident just outside of Alpine,” Milo replied, “but he’s recovering.” He pointed to Joe Fernandez. “What about this young man?”

  Obermeyer studied the picture for what seemed like a long time. “Yes, I recall seeing him, maybe last summer. A rather … lively sort of fellow. Was he involved in the same accident?”

  “No.”

  Typical Dodge, I thought, not going beyond the short answer that was bound to make the other person talk. I ought to know. He’d pulled that on me a couple of times, and I’d found it unsettling.

  “I don’t know his name,” Obermeyer said, scratching his bald head, “but he was what I’d call a party boy. Always the beer, always the pretty girl, always just this far from making a fool of himself.” He held up his thumb and index finger to demonstrate the narrow margin.

  “Did he get into fights?” Milo asked in his most laconic manner.

  “No. But once, at the beer garden, he came close. Somehow he made a joke, and everyone laughed. The hostility evaporated. He had a way with him. Is he in trouble over in Skykomish County?”

  “No.” Milo smiled and put out his hand. “This is routine. Thanks for your help.”

  “Of course, Sheriff,” Obermeyer said, wincing slightly as my husband crushed his fingers. “Do come back to one of our celebrations. Your charming lady would enjoy herself.” He sketched a bow for me.

  “We might do that,” Milo said, almost convincingly.

  “Free brats for you both at München Haus,” Obermeyer called as he headed back to the restaurant.

  “Nice guy,” Milo murmured as we walked in the other direction to the Yukon.

  “But not a lot of help,” I said.

  The sheriff didn’t say anything until we were buckling up inside the SUV. “I’m not so sure about that. We know that both Dobles and Joe have been in the area, though not necessarily at the same time. Dobles seems as if he likes to make an impression. Joe sounds like a goofball.”

  “Maybe he is. Was, I mean. You mentioned that Yakima isn’t sure which side of the law he was on.”

  “Right.” Milo paused, waiting to turn off Front Street to reach Highway 2. “But Obermeyer’s description tells me something. Nobody takes a goofball seriously. It’s a perfect cover. Now I’m damned sure he’s a Fed. That means we may have a motive for murder.”

  “But in Alpine?” I said as we began to head west toward Stevens Pass and the summit. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right. But I can’t figure out what other motive there would be. Joe came to Alpine for a reason. For all I know, he intended to see Sam, if, in fact, they’re related.”

  “You don’t think that Sam …” The thought was so awful that I couldn’t say it out loud.

  Milo, however, knew what I was thinking. “No. Sam’s reaction to recognizing Joe was what sent him off the rails. I doubt Sam knew Joe was in town. He’d probably arrived that night and met whoever killed him then. We’ve asked around. Nobody recalls se
eing anybody who looked like Joe. If he had dinner—and the ME’s report indicated he had, around eight that evening—it wasn’t in SkyCo. We checked Skykomish and even Sultan. No luck. He probably ate in Monroe, which meant he didn’t get to Alpine until later.”

  “You’ve got to talk to Sam,” I said. “When’s payday?”

  “It was Friday. If you’re thinking Sam needs money, forget it. He’s as tightfisted as Gould.”

  I was silent again for a few moments. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who your mystery woman caller is,” I finally said.

  “If anything about her becomes official, yes. Otherwise, it’s unofficial.”

  “Nothing that could be remotely connected to Sam or Joe?”

  “That’s right.”

  I was looking at Milo, and he suddenly frowned. “At least I hope it’s right,” he said in an uneasy voice.

  “Damnit, now you’ve made me curious. I think I’ll drug you to make you talk.”

  The sheriff didn’t speak until we were nearing the summit. “I’ve done some background on what my visitor told me. If I find out she’s not running off at the mouth, I’ll tell you because it’ll become official. Like you, I don’t deal in rumors.”

  “I didn’t recognize her,” I said. “Admittedly, I was spying on her through the Marsdens’ fence.”

  “Of course you were. I really thought you’d try to crawl in through a window and listen from the hall.”

  “I wish I had. But I’d probably have fallen over something and given myself away.”

  He glanced at me and grinned. “That sounds about right.”

  “She seemed nervous.”

  “She was.”

  “Thirtyish?”

  “About that.”

  “Pretty?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. That’s it. You’re done.”

  “Okay.”

  I did know when to give up—and shut up.

  Monday morning Vida showed up wearing a pith helmet. “Where,” I asked as Amanda stared, Leo gaped, and Mitch had to turn away to keep from laughing out loud, “did you get that thing?”