Alpine Hero (13 page)

“So what I mean, Emma, is that you’re a pretty decent writer,” Ed rattled on. “You can make the county commissioners’ meetings sound sort of interesting, and some of your editorials aren’t bad, either. You could write my biography. I’d give you credit, of course. You know,
My Rise to Riches and Beyond
by Ed Bronsky and Emma Lord.” Even as he spoke, my name came out in much smaller type than his.

“Ed, I’m flattered, but—”

“I’ll tape everything, then you can transcribe it and make it into a—what do you call it?—a narration style?”

“Narrative,” I said in a weak voice.

“We can start this weekend,” Ed asserted as we turned off Spruce Street to climb the final block to Fir, where my log house was situated at the edge of town. “I’ll start tonight with my baby days. By Saturday, I should be up to third grade.”

While the Mercedes handled beautifully, even a 400 E is only as good as its driver. Ed was looking at me instead of at the road. Despite the studded tires, the car was skidding ever so slightly because Ed wasn’t following in the tracks laid down by other vehicles. We just missed hitting a Ford pickup parked by the high-school baseball field.

“Let me think about it,” I hedged, knowing I should have said no outright. But I was nervous, and didn’t want to upset my self-absorbed chauffeur.

“There’ll be some money in it for you,” Ed declared warmly. “Publishers pay big bucks up front, right?”

“They give advances, yes,” I agreed, regaining my nerve as we glided along Fir Street. My house would have been in sight if I could have seen through the thick snow. “It’s not the money, Ed. It’s that I’m not sure I’ll have the time. Right now we’ve got this murder story on our hands.”

Ed aimed for the driveway, missed, and almost hit my mailbox. He slid to a stop, and I started to get out of the car.

“Vida’s covering the murder,” Ed said, leaning in my direction. “Like I told you, it doesn’t help your reputation to associate yourself too much with these killings. People get the impression that you enjoy them.”

Having arrived on my own property in one piece, I had the luxury of losing patience. “That’s rot, Ed, and you
know it. Good grief, you’ve worked on newspapers. Even if Vida’s assigned to the investigation, I still have to oversee her coverage.” Now out of the car, I gave Ed what I hoped was a friendly smile. “Thanks for dinner and the lift. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“I’ll call Friday,” Ed promised. “Remember, this is the chance of a lifetime. You won’t ever get another offer like this one.”

Thank God
, I thought. I kept smiling until my back was turned and I was headed for the sanctuary of my snug log house. I certainly didn’t enjoy murder, but death warmed over held more charm than coauthoring Ed Bronsky’s biography. Presently, the only story that captured my imagination was Kay Whitman’s. Her life might not have been any more eventful than Ed’s, but her manner of dying had given her notoriety. Too often that was the case: an ordinary person, living out routine days, without special talent or burning ambition, holding down a job, paying bills, going to the dentist, taking an occasional trip. Then, for some terrible reason, or none at all, death hurls the unremarkable victims into the limelight. They don’t know, they don’t care, which is as well. Still among the living, the rest of us are left to pick over their bones, like vultures.

Ed Bronsky was silly. Kay Whitman was dead. In all probability, I couldn’t escape either of them.

V
IDA AND
L
EO
had both left messages on my answering machine. Figuring that the call to Leo wouldn’t take long, I dialed his number first.

“No big meetings tonight,” Leo remarked in a strained voice. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d run into an icy patch—or a hot stud.”

“I ran into Ed Bronsky,” I replied dryly. “He runs neither hot nor cold, but always at the mouth.”

Leo chuckled. “Ed probably wants to run for mayor. I’ll vote for him, if only because the job might keep him out of my hair.” His voice had relaxed. “I wanted to tell you that I called my old buddy Jake Spivak in Carmel. Unfortunately, he wasn’t home. His wife said he had to go up to San Francisco unexpectedly. Jake probably won’t be back for a couple of days. Shall I try him then?”

“Oh …” I had sunk onto the sofa and was kicking off my boots. “That’s up to you, Leo. Do you think he can help much?”

“He can dig up backgrounds,” Leo said. “Honoria’s from Carmel, and Pacific Grove’s within spitting distance. There’s always gossip. Maybe Jake knows somebody like Vida.”

I appreciated Leo’s willingness. “Sure, let him try. It probably won’t do any good as far as solving the murder
is concerned. Milo will be checking out the suspects, too.”

“Will he?” There was irony in Leo’s voice. “Face it, babe, your favorite sheriff is on the hot seat. How hard is he going to push this thing when it comes to his bed partner?”

“
Ex
-bed partner,” I said, a bit too sharply. “Don’t underestimate Milo. We’re talking about his job. He’ll do what he has to.”

“Sure.” Leo didn’t sound convinced. “But he won’t go for the gossip. He never does.”

That much was true. Milo dealt strictly in facts and evidence. But I didn’t defend the sheriff any further. I knew Leo wasn’t a great admirer of our local lawman, an attitude I chalked up to journalistic cynicism. In thirty years of newspapering, Leo had seen it all, and not liked much of it.

On the other hand, Vida was full of enthusiasm. “I dropped in on Stella,” she said before I could get in any more than “Hi.” “A courtesy call, in a sense, because she’s been through a great deal. Naturally, I got her to talk about Becca.”

“Naturally,” I murmured, carrying my gypsy phone to the cupboard where I kept my meager supply of liquor.

“Becca’s been legally divorced for over a year,” Vida continued. “Her husband’s name was Eric Forbes. I’m told he has a pleasing way with women, all charm on the outside. When Eric worked, which wasn’t often, he drove a truck for some firm in the south end of Seattle. He drank and beat her. An awful person, but apparently very good-looking. So was the unsuitable boy from Skykomish. Becca and Eric stayed together for three years, which means she married him about a year after she left Alpine. Now here’s the interesting part.” Vida took a
deep, audible breath. “He
stalks
her, mostly by phone. Doesn’t that beat all?”

“Ahhh—well, not these days. It happens.” I’d poured myself a small amount of bourbon and was adding ice. Quietly. I didn’t want Vida to know that I was imbibing an alcoholic beverage. My House & Home editor was Presbyterian to her toes, and didn’t approve of strong drink, except on rare occasions.

“Of course it does!” Vida suddenly sounded impatient. “But in this case, I mean the connection with Kay Whitman’s murder. What better way to get back at your ex-wife than to kill off one of her clients?”

I took a quick gulp of my drink. “Vida! That’s preposterous!” My House & Home editor wasn’t showing sense, one of her favorite attributes.

Vida harrumphed. “I didn’t say that’s what happened. I’m merely pointing out that it’s a possibility. Have you got a better idea?”

I didn’t. But at least I could tell her about Toby Popp. Vida dismissed the software magnate with a sniff. “So silly, all these Windows and Apples and Macs and DOS. Indeed, until five years ago, the only Doss I knew was a stool softener. Not that I use it, of course, but Darla Puckett—”

“Ed wants me to ghost-write his autobiography,” I interrupted.

“
What?
” Vida’s voice was a predictable squawk. “Don’t tell me! Ed’s an utter ninny! What on earth could you write about
him?
He hasn’t done a single thing in his life worth putting into a two-inch cutline! Oh, Emma, I hope you refused!”

“I tried to,” I replied meekly.

“Say no. Now.” She paused fractionally. “It’s just after eight. Shall we try Laurie again?”

“Laurie?” I blinked into my bourbon. “What for? We came a cropper there already.”

“We could invite her out to dessert. It’s imperative that we see her alone. It would be our way of apologizing for intruding on her family’s dinner hour.”

The idea of putting on my boots again and surrendering my bourbon wasn’t appealing. “It’s snowing like mad,” I pointed out. “Jane Marshall won’t let Laurie meet us. I’ve got a better idea.”

“You do?” Vida sounded surprised.

Accustomed to Vida’s lack of confidence in anyone but herself, I ignored her response. “I still have to get my hair cut. Stella’s appointment book must be crammed because of all the cancellations. I’ll ask for Laurie, and make it sound as if I’m doing Stella a favor by freeing her up.”

“Well …” Doubt surfaced in Vida’s voice. “I’m the one who should talk to Laurie. After all, I’m covering the story.”

“Do you need a hair appointment?” I knew Vida was better at prying.

“I could use a shampoo set,” Vida replied thoughtfully. “Ordinarily, I go on Saturday morning, but I could pretend that I have an important engagement tomorrow night.” She paused, then brightened. “Indeed, I might ask Buck to dinner. I haven’t yet cooked for him.”

I shuddered. Vida’s cooking was just one notch above Shirley Bronsky’s. Despite all the recipes and kitchen tips Vida had run over the years, her attempts at the stove were always doomed. I felt that serving Buck Bardeen a home-cooked meal was a bad idea. But I didn’t dare say so.

“Okay, you ask for Laurie and I’ll stick with Stella.” We cut the deal. Pumping Laurie was a dirty job, but nobody could do it better than Vida Runkel.

“Why,” Carla demanded, stamping one of her Doc Marten-clad feet, “does a retired billionaire in Index have to be a computer nerd? Why can’t he be a basketball player or a movie star?”

Under my overgrown bangs, I narrowed my eyes at Carla. “You wanted a tough assignment, you got it. Toby Popp hates the media. Go get ’em, Steinmetz.”

“Oh,
wow
!” Carla was sarcastic. “I can see it all now. Funny glasses, complexion problems, dresses like my father. Plus, he’ll talk about macros and the Internet and all that boring junk. The only thing he’ll have to eat is Ding Dongs. How do I find this dweeb?”

I drew Carla a map, advising her that Toby Popp might be on site. “I suspect he enjoys watching his mansion’s progress,” I said, checking my watch. It was eight twenty-five, and I’d conned Stella into taking me half an hour early, before her official opening at nine. “If he’s not around, the workmen should know where to find him. Call Nyquist Construction first. They’ll have an address.” I shouldn’t have to lead Carla by the hand. After almost five years of experience she should know how to track down a potential interviewee.

I left Carla looking confused while Vida hummed at her typewriter and Leo tried to talk Alpine Appliance into a four-color insert for next week. Out on Front Street, the fresh snow had been plowed, and some of the sidewalks were shoveled. Ours wasn’t among them, and wouldn’t be cleared, unless our next-door neighbors at Cascade Dry Cleaning had a charitable impulse. I trod carefully until I reached the corner. I’d walked to work, taking the treacherous downhill streets slowly. By sunrise, the clouds had lifted and the temperature had risen to almost forty. It would probably rain later in the day.

My route took me past the sheriff’s office. Milo’s
Cherokee Chief was parked in its usual slot. I’d drop in on him later. Maybe. I didn’t want to infringe on Vida’s territory.

Stella was alone when I arrived. She still seemed frazzled from her ordeal, though she was doing her best to keep up appearances. There was a fresh bouquet from Posies Unlimited, the valentine displays had been replaced by shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, and Stella looked as if she’d lightened her own hair color and changed the hue of her makeup.

“Vida’s right,” she declared, handing me a smock. “The ghouls are coming in droves. I’ve had eleven calls from people I never heard of around here, and six more from Snohomish County. People are really strange.”

I agreed. Then, hesitating only a split second, I marched back to the changing room. I had to put the shock of Monday’s discovery behind me. Kay Whitman’s blood and her lifeless body would always haunt me, but memories can be tamed. They must or life wouldn’t be bearable.

This time I made no mistake about which room to enter. But after I had put on the smock, I couldn’t resist a peek into the facial room.

The door was locked. I refrained from mentioning the fact to Stella because I didn’t want her to know I’d been snooping. Maybe the room was always locked before Becca arrived. Or maybe Stella and her crew were taking safety precautions too late.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had any brainstorms about the murder,” I remarked as Stella shampooed my hair.

“A dozen of them,” she answered. “Drug addicts. Vagrants from the train. A serial killer working his way across the state. One of those crazy hermits.” Stella gently massaged my temples. “I like the hermit idea best. Those old guys wander into town every six months, and
nobody pays any attention. I said as much to Jack Mullins. Do you know what he told me?”

“Uh-uh,” I replied, feeling more relaxed than I’d been in days.

“Jack says he figures there are at least a couple of murders every year in this county that nobody ever knows about. Men, mostly, oddballs who wander the woods and sleep under the trees or in caves or abandoned shacks, and eventually meet up with some other oddball, like the hermits. One of them kills the other, and does God-knows-what with the body. They’re never missed by anyone, because they have no family or friends. They simply disappear, and whoever kills them is never caught. Gruesome, huh?”

I’d heard a similar theory from Milo. The incidents weren’t peculiar to Skykomish County, but apparently occurred wherever there was enough open country to accommodate wandering weirdos.

“That would be a convenient solution,” I said as Stella rinsed the conditioner out of my hair.

Stella understood. “I know, it’s too easy. But it
is
possible.” Sitting up straight, I saw the anxiety in her face.

“The problem is that there’s no motive,” I said, following Stella to her workstation. “Thus, no suspects. The only people who knew Kay Whitman were her husband, her sister-in-law, and her mother-in-law. They all seemed to adore her.”