Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  “So?” Milo was unimpressed. “What's any of that got to do with irate home owners? If Scott gets whacked, I'll start another investigation.”

  There were times when I wanted to grab Milo by the ears and beat his head against a concrete wall. This was one of them. But I wasn't sure why. Before I could field a righteous argument, the sheriff's cellular phone rang. It was far less annoying than Ed Bronsky's.

  Leo and I exchanged expectant looks while Milo spoke into the phone. “Listen, Sam, I'm off … No, I'm not home … Yes, you're bugging me … Tell Henry to stop fussing, he's not a suspect … Hell, he's imagining … Okay, okay, I'll stop by his house on my way home. It's not far from here … Jeez, never mind where 'here' is, you jackass! Just do your job and stop driving me nuts!” Angrily, Milo clicked off.

  I started to say something, but Milo was contemplating his empty glass. “Damn, I could use a refill.” He stood up, all arms and legs and indignation. “But I won't. I've got to stop off at Bardeen's.”

  “How come?” I asked innocently.

  Milo waved a big hand. “Sam Heppner is losing his grip. Why can't he hold down the night shift on his own? It's some dumbassed thing about missing bills at the ski lodge. Henry Bardeen is paranoid, but I'd better humor him so he doesn't sue the county for false arrest or public embarrassment or—”

  “What kind of bills?” I queried, interrupting Milo's monologue.

  The sheriff was at the door. “How the hell do I know? That ditzy daughter of his probably lost them.”

  “Heather's not ditzy,” I murmured.

  But Milo was on his way. Thoughtfully, I watched him lope to his Cherokee Chief. “He's self-destructing,” I said, closing the door.

  Leo was also on his feet. “Dodge has no peripheral vision. Otherwise, he's okay. You two ever done it?”

  I also could possess a one-track mind. “What?” I turned a puzzled face to Leo.

  Leo was grinning. “Never mind, babe.” He leaned down and brushed my cheek with a quick kiss. “How about the Seahawks? You think they'll make the playoffs?”

  “Not this season,” I forced a smile. “Thanks, Leo. Dinner was great.”

  He was at the door, a hand on the knob. “Will the Seahawks ever make the playoffs? Will they ever score? Will Leo? Good night, Emma.”

  Leo was gone.

  I was alone.

  Oh, well.

  Shortly before eleven I risked a call to Vida. At ten years of age, Roger ought to be in bed. If not, he was probably engrossed in watching television.

  “One of the privileges of visiting Grams is getting to stay up past his regular bedtime,” Vida informed me when my second guess proved correct. “We had quite a raucous evening of it, especially after Roger let Cupcake out of his cage. He's so excitable.”

  I didn't bother to ask if the reference was to Roger or the canary. Instead I filled Vida in on my own evening, specifically the incidents that related to our current homicide. As usual, Vida sifted through the information, then pounced on what she considered the most intriguing:

  “Beverly Melville—you mentioned that she still seems upset. Now why is that?”

  “Because she doesn't want anyone to know that her husband and brother have been building collapsible houses in the L.A. area? That could explain why Scott was so anxious to move out of California.”

  Vida, however, didn't concur. “No. All sorts of buildings fell down during that earthquake. We don't know if Scott's design was the cause or if it was faulty construction or just plain bad luck. Nothing's reallyearthquake-proof. What we do know is that Skye Piersall seems to want to blacken Scott Melville's reputation. Perhaps Blake Fannucci's as well. Yet Leonard Hollenberg saw Skye and Beverly having an amicable conversation. Not that Leonard is the most observant man on earth, but we'll have to give him credit for possessing certain political antennae when it comes to people.”

  “I'd like to ask Beverly why she and Skye were huddled together last Monday morning,” I put in, sitting back in my chair and using the wastebasket as a footstool.

  “Then ask,” Vida said reasonably. “I wonder if I can't guess.”

  I evinced surprise. “What? Why?”

  “The common bond between them,” Vida replied calmly. “Stan Levine. Skye was in love with Stan. Stan was in partnership with Beverly's brother and working with Beverly's husband. If you're accurately retelling Leonard's account, it sounds like girl talk. That's almost always about men—or a man. Who else but Stan Levine?”

  Vida had a very good point. Maybe CATE wasn't Skye's primary motive for coming to Alpine. Maybe she had somehow managed to use her environmentalist's credentials as an excuse for confronting Stan. Maybe she had given him an ultimatum about their romance.

  “She could have been enlisting Beverly as an ally,” I said, knowing that women often do such things in the cause of love.

  “Very likely,” Vida agreed. “There was no one else she could ask. Not in Alpine.”

  “Blake?” I suggested.

  “I don't think so. Skye and Blake seem utterly at odds with each other.”

  That was the impression I'd gotten, too. But were the rest of us supposed to believe that animosity existed between Skye and Blake? I remembered my own clandestine romance of over twenty years ago. At The Seattle Times, Tom and I were very discreet, hiding our affair from our coworkers. Thus, I often criticized him roundly in front of others; he had probably done the same with me. It was possible that Skye was covering for something else, such as a romance with Blake Fannucci.

  But they were an even more unlikely couple than Skye and Stan. “What do you think happened to Blake?” I asked, dismissing furtive love affairs, past and present.

  Vida harrumphed. “Nothing, probably. Milo is jumping to conclusions. Blake's landlady or whatever she is sounds like a meddler. Really, Emma, I can't tolerate people who pry into other people's private lives.” I let the remark pass. Before I could say anything, there was a clatter in the background, followed by a gasp from Vida. “Excuse me, I must run. Roger has knocked over his TV tray.”

  He probably overloaded it, I thought, but did not say so. I hung up. Now I was truly alone, cut off from Vida by her spoiled-rotten grandson. I should have mentioned his so-called prank with the bucket of water. But I wouldn't give Roger the satisfaction of knowing he'd doused me, nor would I disturb Vida's weekend festivities. Besides, the murder was uppermost in my mind.

  Or so I told myself. In fact, I had to concentrate on Stan's death to keep other thoughts at bay. A glance from my kitchen window revealed stars and a half-moon. The same sky hung over San Francisco. But I mustn't dwell on that now. Resolutely, I marched back into the living room, grabbed^ notebook, and sat down on the sofa.

  There were links between Stan and Skye; Stan and Blake; Blake and Beverly; Beverly and Scott; Scott, Stan, and Blake. Leonard figured in there, too, with the last three names. So did Ed, if belatedly. Out on the fringe were Henry Bardeen, Cal Vickers, Rip Ridley, and the rest of Alpine.

  So what? I was getting nowhere. Almost everybody had an alibi, of sorts. Blake had been at the ski lodge. So, presumably, had Henry Bardeen. Scott was at home, waiting for the glazier. Beverly had driven into Seattle, as had Shirley Bronsky. Which meant that Ed was home alone …

  I gave myself a sharp shake. Ed had to be discarded as a suspect, if only because I couldn't see him exerting himself to hike up the hot springs trail. Leonard Hollenberg had done just that, and found Stan's body. At least that was what he claimed.

  Then there was Skye, whose alibi was the shakiest of all the serious suspects. She had met Beverly in Sultan for coffee, then gone up to the summit. Her car had broken down on the return trip, making her miss our ten-thirty appointment. Cal had towed the vehicle back to town around two o'clock, just before the helicopter had landed with Stan's body. Skye had arrived at The Advocate earlier, around one. How had she gotten back to town? Where had she been in the meantime? Why, as they used to say in old gangster movies, wouldn't she com
e clean?

  Clean. Cal Vickers had said that Skye was clean. He'd said it while towing her car down Alpine Way. At that point Skye had been back in town for at least an hour. He'd seen Skye somewhere else, maybe along the highway with her car. Had Cal given Skye a ride back to Alpine, then returned later to get her Honda? What was Cal doing along that stretch of road in the late morning or early noon hours?

  His job, I told myself. There was nothing suspicious about Cal Vickers being on Highway 2 at any time of the day or night. He was in the towing business. It took him all over Skykomish County.

  Then there was Coach Ridley. But he would have been at school, encouraging young boys to grow into their jockstraps and do other manly things … or would he, so close to year's end? Classes weren't on a regular schedule this week; the seniors had already been dismissed___

  My brain was getting fuzzy. Nothing made sense. That was good. I was too tired to think.

  That was even better.

  On Saturday morning, reality was scrubbing the kitchen floor, vacuuming the living room, and doing the laundry. I refused to fantasize about what might have been: strolling Fisherman's Wharf, riding a cable car, driving over to Sausalito.

  The washing had piled up during the week. The clothes I'd worn when Roger's bucket had dumped its contents were still damp. I cursed the little creep anew, though I couldn't help but grudgingly admire his ability to wreak havoc when he wasn't on the scene.

  Startling myself, I paused with my arms full of towels. In theory, Roger could claim innocence. He had been with his grandmother when the incident occurred. How could I prove he had put the bucket above the office door?

  What if … ? Slowly, I stuffed the towels into the washer, then added detergent and turned the dial. Was it possible that Stan had been set up? Could someone have arranged for the gun to off without a human finger pulling the trigger? Might the bullet have been intended for Blake as well as for Stan?

  Maybe I was crazy. Certainly Milo would scoff at mylatest fancy. As I sorted through the rest of the laundry, I tried to figure out how a murder in absentia could have been arranged. I hadn't gotten very far when I mindlessly checked the pockets of my old brown slacks. There was something in the right-hand side. Money? I extracted the folded paper, but it was only a note.

  Stan's note. Or notes, from his binder. I felt sad as I gazed at his slanting handwriting, with its detailed notations about the goldfinch. Stan's gesture had been small, but thoughtful and generous. I recalled his journal, with its optimism and enthusiasm. People say life is hard, which it is. But death is more cruel, at least when it comes violently and too soon.

  Leaving the second load on the floor by the washer, I went into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. It wasn't quite ten o'clock. Milo ought to be up and about. Maybe he'd had news of Blake Fannucci.

  I took Stan's note with me when I went into the living room to dial the sheriff's home number. The waste-basket by the desk yawned up at me. It was pointless to keep the note, yet I couldn't bear to throw it away. Not yet. I was punching in the call to Milo when I realized that I knew who had killed Stan Levine.

  I stopped dialing before I hit the last digit in Milo's number. If I wanted to make my theory stick with the sheriff, I needed more information. Milo despised theories, even when they were right.

  Again the phone rang at least a half-dozen times before Honoria answered. Her patience was definitely tested when I asked for Skye Piersall's phone number.

  “I can give you CATE's headquarters in California or the regional office in Seatde,” Honoria said peevishly, “but it's not my place to hand out her personal number. Nor do I understand why you want it. If this is regardingyour homicide coverage, why can't you wait until you hear something official from Milo?”

  I decided to be candid with Honoria. “Because I never will. Not along this line of inquiry. Your boyfriend doesn't believe in coloring outside of the lines.”

  To my relief, the statement evoked a snicker. “You're right—Milo isn't a font of imagination. But I still don't like having Skye pestered.”

  “I don't like doing it,” I admitted. “On the other hand, it's my job.”

  “Is it?” The irony in Honoria's husky voice has hard to miss. “Or are you doing Milo's job for him?”

  “Maybe. He's washed his hands of the case. Or haven't you noticed?”

  “I haven't noticed that” Honoria said, now verging on sarcasm. “If he's signed off, why did he go haring out from here last night when Sam Heppner called?”

  The last thing I wanted was to get mixed up in Honoria and Milo's romantic relationship. “It was Sam's call that made Milo throw in the towel,” I explained. “Look, Honoria, I can wait until Monday to call CATE, but in the meantime there's a killer on the loose. Skye may be able to tell me something that will help convince Milo that I know what I'm talking about.”

  With the greatest of reluctance and several cautions, Honoria finally surrendered Skye's number in San Mateo. I thanked her profusely, but my indebtedness rankled. The sheriff's light-o'-love was getting on my nerves.

  Then, to make me feel not only nosy but futile, Skye didn't answer. I reached her voice mail, which informed me in a professional tone that “the party you are calling is unavailable. Please leave your name and number….”

  I didn't. There was no guarantee that Skye would call me back. I'd try her again later. Putting on somethingless disreputable than my old sweats, I drove down to the sheriff's office. I didn't expect to find Milo there, but I wanted to take another look at Stan's journal.

  To my surprise, the sheriff was on the job. He didn't seem very pleased by my arrival. “Okay, okay, so maybe this Mrs. Simon jumped the gun. The Santa Monica cops didn't find any sign of a break-in. It looks to them as if Blake Fannucci left in a hurry. He probably wanted to get a head start on the weekend.”

  I began to speak, then stopped. I wasn't going to break my vow of silence until I'd nailed down some more facts. Milo, however, wasn't finished yet.

  “Then, just to drive me nuts, Henry Bardeen swears somebody waltzed off with the folder that contained Blake and Stan's bills. They also deleted the information from the computer. Now who would do that? And why?”

  Dustin Fong, who had been sitting at his own computer, gently cleared his throat. “Maybe it has something to do with Mr. Fannucci's alibi, sir. Aren't those receipts stamped with the time when the order is rung up?”

  Milo started to glare at his deputy, then began to nod. “Could be. Yeah, it might be somebody who didn't want Blake Fannucci proving where he was last Monday morning. But how did they do it?”

  Dustin's fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his dark eyes rested hopefully on his boss. “The easiest answer is that it was someone who works at the lodge. Like … ah … Mr. Bardeen. Or his daughter. But,” the young man added quickly, “I realize you have no reason to suspect either of them.”

  I waited patiently while Dustin resumed his work on the computer and Milo mentally chewed over his deputy's words. “It can't be Henry,” he breathed. “Or Heather.”

  My own doubts were surfacing. Almost diffidently, I asked Milo if I could see Stan's journal.

  Grumbling, he ordered Dustin to get the item from the evidence locker. “You've got something on your mind,” Milo said with a trace of reproach. “What is it now?”

  “Just wait.” I offered Milo what I hoped was a placating smile. “Tell me this—where's Stan's bird binder?”

  “Huh?” Milo scowled at me. “What are you talking about?”

  Briefly, I explained. Dustin handed me the journal. 'The binder should have been with this,” I said, flipping through the first three pages that contained the Alpine jottings. Grimly, I reread the short paragraphs. There, in the final entry, was the clincher. I set the journal down on the counter, then dug into my handbag.

  “Two things,” I said, handing Milo the piece of note-paper from Stan's binder. “Three, actually. Look at the handwriting. It slants and it's legible, b
ut it's not the same as these notes about the goldfinch. Secondly, there's the mention of the bluebird. And third, why wasn't Stan's binder found along with the journal?” I folded my arms, allowing Milo's brain to work its lead-footed wonders.

  “Bluebird, my butt!” Milo breathed. “We don't have bluebirds around here. We've got blue jays.”

  “Precisely,” I said, sounding as primly smug as Vida. “You didn't notice that before?”

  Milo stared again at the open pages. “No,” he muttered, then looked up sharply. “When did you see this? Dwight Gould swore that nobody went through Lev-ine's room at the lodge after the murder.”

  Not wanting to get Bill Blatt in trouble, I shook my head. “Never mind that. As for the bird notes, Stan hadthem at my house. He gave me that slip of paper. What do you make of it?”

  Dustin Fong was watching us out of the corner of his eye. A twitch along his jawline indicated his intense curiosity.

  “We'll have to get a handwriting expert on this,” Milo said at last. “But you may be right. The similarities are pretty superficial.” He handed the open journal and the notebook paper to his deputy. “You got an opinion, Dustman?”

  With deference to his superior, Dustin backed me up. I felt a rush of encouragement. “Show me those bits and pieces from the campfire at the springs,” I said to Milo.

  With a sigh, Milo trudged off to the evidence locker. “Is there anything else you need?” he called from around the corner. “I'm just a county peon, trying to do a job.”

  “One step at a time,” I said, controlling my mounting excitement.

  Milo brought out the plastic bag with its charred remnants. We went into his office, where he put on surgical gloves and sifted through the items. I stopped him when he picked up a half-dozen bolts.

  “Why so many?” I asked, sounding peremptory in my own ears.

  Milo scowled. “To keep the birdhouse in place. That thing was pretty big. It had to be, if Hollenberg expected to get spotted owls.”