Alpine Hero (16 page)

It was no such thing, but it appeared that Mrs. Smith was ignorant of journalistic protocol. Still, she turned a puzzled face to Vida. “Well—Honoria never used her former husband’s name after … afterward. She had it legally changed, you see.”

Vida said nothing, but her hand remained in place.

“Oh, where’s the harm?” Mrs. Smith murmured as her cheeks grew pink. “He’s been dead for twelve years. It was Mitch Harmon. Mitchell Edward Harmon, to be exact. He was an airline mechanic. Do you need to know anything else about him?”

Of course Vida did, but even my House & Home editor has her limits. “That’s fine, Mrs. Smith. Thank you. Do have a safe journey.” Her hand finally slipped away, permitting Ida Smith to depart into the sunless afternoon.

“Well!” Vida shot me an ominous glance, then stalked back to her desk. “Now, what was that all about?”

“She feels guilty,” I suggested. “Mrs. Smith wants us to think fondly of Honoria and Trevor. Now that Kay’s been murdered, all those matrimonial escapades have come back to haunt her.”

Vida arched her eyebrows. “The sins of the mother? Perhaps. Or is Mrs. Smith afraid that in the course of the investigation, we’ll learn things that will harm her children’s reputations?”

Replacing Leo’s chair, I shrugged. “We know—” I caught myself. “We
think
we know that Trevor killed Mitch Harmon. Maybe Mrs. Smith doesn’t realize that Honoria has admitted that much.”

Vida was peering through the small window above her desk. “There’s Honoria’s car. They’re leaving. Now, why didn’t Honoria call on us as well as on Milo?”

Edging next to Vida, I watched the Nissan go down Front Street, heading for Alpine Way. “Honoria is coming back. She said so.”

The right-turn signal flashed, and the specially rigged car headed for the bridge and the road that led to Highway 2. My eyes scanned the heart of the business district, taking in the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, Harvey’s Hardware, the Bank of Alpine, Parker’s Pharmacy, the Venison Inn, and, of course, the Clemans Building. Beyond those anchors of Alpine commerce, I could see the hospital, the medical and dental clinics, St. Mildred’s Church, and a patchwork of houses, mostly small, some
with tin roofs, others painted garish colors to defy the omnipresent leaden clouds.

The Whitmans were heading toward a different setting. I imagined palm and cypress trees, the roar of the ocean, the warm sun casting shadows on Spanish-mission architecture. If I’d ever been through Pacific Grove—and maybe I had, on some long-ago trip down the coast—I didn’t recall the town. But it was home to Ida Whitman, and to Trevor as well. No doubt they would find some comfort there.

“Why Startup?” I asked, the thought seemingly born out of nowhere.

Vida, however, wasn’t taken aback. “You mean Honoria? Yes, I’ve wondered about that. It seems an unusual choice. Milo might know,” she added grudgingly.

“There are several arts-and-crafts enclaves in this state,” I pointed out. “LaConner comes to mind. Port Townsend, the San Juan Islands, Stanwood, Seattle itself.”

“Honoria didn’t want to live in a big city.” Vida had resettled her beret and was putting on her brown tweed coat. “She never said as much, but I’m sure it’s true. The rustic life appealed to her.”

So it seemed. But I still found Honoria’s choice odd, since Startup is so small that it doesn’t always appear on maps and isn’t known for anything except its natural tranquillity.

“Where are you going?” I inquired as Vida started for the door.

She didn’t break stride. “The sheriff’s. Alpine Medical Supply. Stella’s. The phone company.” Vida was out of the office before I could ask any more questions.

Carla returned five minutes later, looking smug. “I got pictures,” she announced, patting her camera. “The
workmen didn’t catch me until I’d shot almost a whole roll.”

“Terrific,” I said with enthusiasm. “What about Toby Popp? Was he there?”

Carla shook her head, the long black hair brushing her shoulders. “I didn’t see him, and I would have known—I checked the library for mug shots in the Seattle papers. He’s not as geeky as I thought he’d be.”

“Good work, Carla.” I felt it necessary to praise my reporter’s initiative. “Did the workmen chase you away?”

“Sure,” Carla replied cheerfully. “But they were sort of funny about it. I don’t think they expected
me.
”

Suddenly I felt old and ugly. Carla’s implication was that the construction crew expected Vida or me to return, not a nubile twenty-five-year-old girl with raven hair. But at least Carla had her story and pictures. I quizzed her about Toby Popp’s current residence, the price tag of the new house, and if there was a completion date set.

“He lives in a condo in Edmonds,” Carla replied, still looking pleased with herself. “He used to live east of Lake Washington, near Issaquah, but he sold that place when he retired and moved north of Seattle so that he could be closer to Index. His estimated worth is right around one billion. I couldn’t get an exact figure out of Nyquist Construction on the new house, so I sort of guessed high and low, and when they stopped saying anything, I figured it must be about three million. The property itself came pretty cheap. The house is supposed to be finished by the end of the year. They started in late January, which is when Nyquist estimated they wouldn’t get much more snow at that level.”

Located only about five hundred feet above sea level, Index’s climate wasn’t as cold as Alpine’s. Still, the
January date was chancy. Even Seattle could get snow in March.

“Did you dig out any personal background?” I inquired as Leo returned from the advertising wars.

Carla wrinkled her nose. “Toby never talks to the media. According to the newspaper articles, on a scale of one to ten, his social skills are about zero. The only time he’s ever seen in public is at baseball games. He was married once, way back before he dropped out of Stanford. It didn’t last long, and if he’s had any girlfriends since, nobody knows about them. Maybe he’s gay.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “He sounds more like a lone wolf, though.”

“He is.” Leo had chimed in as he removed layouts from his big fake-leather briefcase. “I remember him from when I was working for a paper in Santa Clara. He was a rising software star, except they didn’t call it that then.”

“Did he avoid the media in those days?” I asked, admiring Leo’s handiwork on a mock-up for Francine’s Fine Apparel.

Leo shrugged. “All I remember is that he was supposed to be some kind of future-shock genius. Guys like that don’t buy ads to self-promote.”

Back in my office, I worked on my timberlands-sale editorial. Usually, I try to assign myself a couple of news stories for each issue. Ed’s remark about the proposed bridge over the Sky by the golf course goaded me into checking progress on the project. It had been rumored, discussed, and postponed for a couple of years. I also decided to look into the latest developments, assuming there were any, of the new community college.

The phone calls for both stories involved state agencies in Olympia. As usual, I was routed from one office to another. An hour and twenty minutes later I had
collected material that would fill a maximum of ten inches—if I did a bit of padding. The bridge project was mired; the two-year-college site was being debated in the legislature. Our state representative, Bob Gunderson, a retired car salesman living in a mobile home by the fish hatchery where he allegedly paid a dollar a year rent, thought the best location would be west of Cass Pond, or maybe east of the ski lodge, or across Highway 2 north of the Overholt farm. In other words, he hadn’t the foggiest notion where the campus should be built. Or maybe he didn’t want to give
The Advocate
any news. During his last campaign swing through Alpine in October, Carla had described him as “a big, hearty man, wearing a brown shortcake.” She’d meant sport coat. I had proofed the story, and my only excuse for not catching the mistake was that Adam had called to tell me his dorm was on fire. It wasn’t, but the distraction had flawed my usually accurate eye.

Vida returned just before five. Her hair looked tidy, but otherwise unremarkable. “I must rush,” she declared, hurriedly sorting through her phone messages. “Buck’s coming at seven, so I’ll have to grocery-shop on my way home. Pork chops sound nice, don’t you think?”

As a concept, pork chops sounded fine. What Vida would do to them was another matter. “Did you learn anything new about the murder case?” I asked, avoiding the subject of dinner.

“Scads,” Vida replied. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, Emma.”

Vida left, practically running out the door before I could voice my objections. I was annoyed. Had our roles been reversed, she would have pinned me to the wall until I coughed up the latest information.

It was one minute after five, and the long distance rates were down. I called Adam in Tempe, but there was no
answer. Carla had already left, planning to drop off the day’s film at Buddy Bayard’s. Leo had been in the front office, checking through the accumulation of classified ads. He was still there when I started for home.

“You get your car back?” he asked, looking up from a note Carla had made.

I nodded. “It was the battery.” Relief had washed over me when Cal called just before lunch to say I’d be out a mere hundred bucks.

“I was going to offer you a lift home,” Leo said. “You need a ride to Cal’s?”

I’d planned to walk the seven blocks to the Texaco station on Alpine Way, but it was raining and I was tired. Downhearted, too, still not restored to my buoyant mood of Monday. As Leo and I drove along Front Street in his secondhand Toyota, I considered inviting him to dinner. But before I could issue the invitation, he voiced his intention of meeting Delphine Corson at Posies Unlimited. Delphine was Alpine’s resident florist, and Leo’s local squeeze. They were going out for drinks. Or something. I didn’t pry.

Leo griped about the driving conditions. It had gotten colder in the last hour as evening settled in over the mountains. The rain had turned to sleet, and the black ice that remained was hard to see in the winter twilight.

“I’ll never get used to this freaking weather,” Leo complained, easing the Toyota into Cal’s. “It’s not the gloom that bothers me so much as the sudden changes.”

I commiserated briefly, then thanked Leo and got out of the car. Cal waved at me from the garage area, where he was working on a minivan.

“Hang on just a sec,” he called. “I’m all alone tonight, and I promised Jake O’Toole he’d get this baby back by six.”

Most of Cal disappeared under the hood of the Grocery Basket owner’s van. I wandered over to the office door, seeking shelter beneath the canopy that covered the gas pumps. A boy in his late teens was filling the tank of his rusted-out truck. He finished just as Cal came out of the garage.

“Go ahead,” I said to Cal, nodding at the boy who was counting money from his wallet. “I’ll wait.” After all, I was in no hurry. I had nowhere to go except home, and no one was waiting for me there. The damp chill in the air made me shiver. If I ducked out from under the canopy, I could also get wet as well as cold. Obviously, I was feeling sorry for myself on this Thursday evening in February.

While Cal and his customer conducted their business inside, I spotted my Jag across the tarmac, between a Ford Taurus and Cal’s tow truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of headlights as a car careened around the corner from Cedar Street, skidded, and crashed into a Jeep Wrangler on Alpine Way. The crunch of metal and the shattering of glass made me cringe. Two other vehicles stopped short, and a third swerved to avoid the collision but kept going. Cal and his customer came running out of the office.

“Jeez!” Cal cried. “What happened?”

I didn’t reply. I was too anxious to see if the drivers were all right. To my relief, a young man got out of the Jeep and a woman in a very short skirt emerged from the sedan. They immediately began screaming at each other.

After Front Street, Alpine Way is the busiest thoroughfare in town. Both byways are regularly plowed during the winter, but the side streets aren’t cleared as often. Compact snow and ice become a hazard, especially when they’re interspersed with bare spots. After sunset the black ice is practically invisible. Despite the
sleet and the cold and the encroaching darkness, the accident was drawing a crowd. At least three people had hurried out from Itsa Bitsa Pizza next door to Cal’s, and across the street a man and a woman were gawking on the corner by Mountain View Gardens, the local nursery.

Although I didn’t have my camera with me, I got out my notepad so I could take down names and damages. Approaching with caution, I recognized both drivers: the young man with the buzz cut was Tim Rafferty, part-time college student and some-time bartender at the Icicle Creek Tavern; the woman in the short skirt, knee-high boots, and fuzzy red jacket was Amanda Hanson, who worked at the post office.

“It’s not my fault I skidded on that stupid black ice!” Amanda was screaming. “You had time to get out of the way, you idiot!”

“That’s an arterial,” Tim shouted back, gesturing at the intersection of Alpine Way and Cedar. “I had the right-of-way! You damned well better be insured all the way up to your … butt!” Despite his anger, he couldn’t resist a glance at Amanda’s exposed thighs. Idly, I wondered why she wasn’t shivering from the cold.

“I wouldn’t even be here,” Amanda railed, “if I didn’t have to wait on stupid customers who come into the post office at four fifty-nine! Why don’t those morons realize that if they don’t want a package they can just write ‘Refused’ on it and hand it back to their carrier? Look at my car!” she raged on, jabbing a finger at her Subaru Legacy. “The front end’s a mess, and all because of that dopey woman who thinks she’s a poet!” She began to cry.

“Hey,” Tim Rafferty yelled, “I just came off my shift, too! How would you like to put up with a bunch of half-tanked losers who spend all their time bitching about the spotted owl instead of trying to find another job? You sell
food stamps at the post office—why don’t you tell those dumb bastards they can’t use them to buy beer?”