Alpine Hero (27 page)

Becca didn’t seem to mind Janet’s frank speech. She giggled again. “No, we went to the Lumberjack. At first, we were just going to talk everything out in private, but then—hey,” Becca interrupted herself, apparently catching
on to the amplified echo in Janet’s voice, “is somebody listening in?”

“You bet,” Janet replied. “Emma Lord’s here, and if I had my way, I’d call in Stella and Milo and Fuzzy Baugh and everybody else in Alpine! Goddamn it, Becca, we honest-to-God thought you were cut up in pieces and lying in somebody’s bait box! Why in hell didn’t you tell Stella where you’d gone?”

Becca’s tone turned defensive. “I tried to. I called Stella twice from the motel, but the line was busy. Then I got … well,
involved.
Back off, Janet—it’s none of your business. Have you and your husband ever broken up and then tried to get back together?”

For once, Janet seemed nonplussed. So was I. The idea of the bloodless Al Driggers erupting with any kind of emotion apparently stupefied us both.

Or so I thought. Janet, however, worked out of a different manual. “You don’t reason with men, Becca,” she said after a pause to marshal her forces. “You haul out the black lace goodies and
perform
, for chrissakes! Keep ’em loose, keep ’em hungry, keep ’em happy! Power? It’s not fists or guns or politics—it’s
sex.
Remember that, Becca. Where do you want to stay in Cabo? I’m recommending the Finisterra.”

Reeling in my chair, I scarcely heard the rest of the conversation. Indeed, before Janet finished, I left Sky Travel, motioning that I would return. Less than a minute later I was in the sheriff’s office. Jack Mullins was on duty, looking sleepy and less than his usual jocular self.

I gave him my big news. Jack’s incredulity faded swiftly as he contacted Milo, who apparently was at home. After delivering the bare bones about Becca, Jack winced as Milo exploded in his ear. I could hear the sheriff’s irate voice from where I was standing.

“You didn’t need a phone,” I remarked in a weak attempt at humor after Jack hung up. “What’s Milo going to do, arrest Becca for deceiving an entire county?”

Jack’s sleepy demeanor had disappeared. “I think he’s going to personally check on the nonmissing Ms. Wolfe and her ex. It could be phony, some kind of setup.”

It didn’t seem to me that Jack believed what he was saying. And while it wouldn’t do to take chances, I suspected that Milo’s real intention was to confront Becca over her gross negligence. Maybe he’d haul Stella and the Wolfes along for good measure. I couldn’t really blame the sheriff. Becca’s behavior had been inexcusable.

I stated as much, but Jack merely shook his head in a bemused manner. “You’d be surprised,” he said with an air of apology, “at how many women will take a man back, no matter how he’s treated them. The hardest part of our job is convincing wives and girlfriends to file charges. Sometimes it gets downright dangerous when we get called in to break up a domestic brawl. We turn into the bad guys, while the couple shows a united front.”

I was aware of the problem, though I’d never understood why women, in particular, defended abusive men. Loyalty should have no part in it, and love was not enough.

But then who was I to criticize? Abuse comes in many forms, along with broken promises. How long had I put up with Tom hurting me? Maybe I was an even bigger sap than Becca.

Returning to Sky Travel, I got down to business with Janet Driggers. We decided that my best route to Tuba City was via Phoenix, where I could rent a car and pick up Adam in Tempe. We’d have to drive over two hundred
miles to Tuba City, but we could spell each other. Maybe I’d rediscover my son along the way.

Having completed my travel arrangements, the rest of Saturday loomed empty before me. Briefly, I considered driving into Seattle. I got as far as the bridge over the Skykomish River when I decided that I was starting out too late to accomplish much in the city and also cover a hundred-and-sixty-mile round trip.

But having gotten as far as the edge of town, I kept going. When I reached Highway 2, I automatically turned west. The Cascade Mountains divide the state of Washington into two very different halves. The eastern part is mostly rolling prairies, farmland, the coulees of the Columbia River, the wheatlands of the Palouse. It is drier in the summer, hotter, with a hint of the Great Plains. In winter, the weather turns cold and snow frequently covers the vast landscape under the broad, brumal sky. For at least half the year it is brown and gold, and would be arid, save for the great dams that provide enough irrigation to feed the masses and make a few farmers rich. The region is almost as foreign to me as the Dakotas or the Missouri River Valley. I am much more at home in western Washington, with its rain, its forest, its more temperate climate, and its rush-hour traffic jams.

Thus, I drove in the direction that was familiar, down the wet highway with its twists and turns and weeping waterfalls that splashed across the rocky face of the mountains. Somewhere around the Skykomish Ranger Station, I realized where I was going, at least in a vague sort of way: Paula Rubens lived in Gold Bar. The town was sufficiently tiny that she shouldn’t be hard to find. When I pulled into Gold Bar Gas, I made the proper inquiries. Paula lived on the road to Wallace Falls State Park. I couldn’t miss her place, according to the man
with the jet-black goatee—she had stained-glass windows all over her house, her barn, and even her privy.

The
privy
turned out to be a separate building that was Paula’s studio and hot tub. She laughed when I offered the service-station attendant’s description.

“There
was
a privy on the site when I bought the place,” Paula said, ushering me into what had apparently once been a farmhouse. She was a big, cheerful redheaded woman of fifty wearing a caftan that could have covered a small room. “That was eight years ago. I modernized. Hell, I could afford to, at the price I paid for this dump.”

Paula’s
dump
was virtually one big room with airy stained-glass windows from floor to ceiling. She had removed the walls, save for a few structurally required beams. The result was an open space that somehow still managed to be cozy.

“Drink?” Paula offered, the black-and-white-striped caftan swaying around her ample form as she moved across the uncarpeted terra-cotta-tiled floor. “It’s almost noon, and I’m not against a good hit before lunch.”

Not wanting to be ungracious, I said a small shot of bourbon with water sounded fine. Paula’s bar was what looked like a very ancient armoire in the Spanish style. Or maybe it was Portuguese. My hostess poured herself an ample dose of gin and a slightly less hefty measure of bourbon for me.

“So you’re the Alpine editor person,” she said with an infectious grin. “I read your paper. It’s pretty well done for a small-town weekly. But then I was raised on
The Washington Post.
My father was a minor-league spook.”

Silently cursing myself for not knowing of Paula Rubens’s presence along the Stevens Pass corridor, I made a mental note to send Carla out on an interview.
The stained-glass artist sounded like an interesting feature story.

But for now, I had to limit myself to questions concerning Honoria Whitman. Acknowledging that Paula was a no-nonsense type, I went straight to the point.

“Naturally, we’re covering Kay Whitman’s murder in Alpine. I gather you’re friendly with her sister-in-law, Honoria. How did you react to the news of Kay’s death?”

Paula chuckled richly. “Hey, Emma, this sounds like one of those TV encounters! You know, ‘What was your reaction when the nuclear bomb fell on you?’ Shoot, I didn’t even hear about the murder until Honoria asked me to take her cat. Come to think of it, she never brought the animal over here.”

As if on cue, a pair of Siamese sauntered out from behind the cushion-covered couch. To my surprise, Paula Rubens addressed the cats in French.

“My little conceit.” She laughed as the cats climbed up on the couch beside her. “I named them Rheims and Rouen after two of my favorite cathedrals. The stained-glass windows, you know.”

Acknowledging the remarks with a nod and a smile, I grew serious. “Honoria’s cat—Dodger—had an accident. He’s dead, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, shoot!” Paula Rubens couldn’t have looked any more distressed if I’d told her that the cathedrals in Rheims and Rouen had fallen down. “What was it—a car?” She picked up both Siamese and plopped them on her lap.

“No,” I replied, trying to walk a fine line between candor and discretion. “Somebody strangled him.”

Paula held her own pets close, though neither seemed pleased at the display of protectiveness. “Oh, good God!
What’s wrong with people? Do you blame me for keeping these two indoors most of the time?”

“Is that because there’ve been other cats killed?” I asked.

Paula nodded with vigor. “At least two have been shot in the past couple of years, and once in a while some animal gets them. Last fall I heard that a black bear was coming right up to some of the houses around here and mauling both cats and dogs. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere other than in the country—cities are a canker—but let’s face it, there are dangers here, too.” My hostess’s broad face still looked disturbed.

I could read nothing other than genuine anguish in Paula’s demeanor. There had been far less dismay in her attitude toward Kay’s murder than Dodger’s demise. I sensed that Paula was as open as she seemed, incapable of dissembling. If she hadn’t known Kay Whitman, she wouldn’t pretend to a grief she didn’t feel. The cat was another matter.

“Dodger was strangled and mailed to somebody in Alpine.” I didn’t wait for the shock to settle in on Paula. “It could have been some ghoulish teenager—or not. In covering this type of story, we have to investigate on our own. Obviously, what I’m looking for is a connection between Kay’s killer and this cat business. Have you any idea who might have done such a thing to Dodger?”

Rheims and Rouen had managed to squirm out of Paula’s grasp. Their almost identical creamy-beige bodies paraded into the kitchen. Disappearing behind a birch counter that divided the two rooms, the animals probably went in search of lunch.

Paula rose to freshen her drink, which seemed like a daring thing to do at eleven-forty on a Saturday morning.
She tipped her head in my direction, with a questioning look, but I covered my glass and smiled a no-thank-you.

“There are kids around here who are ornery enough to do that sort of thing,” she finally said, resettling herself on the couch. “No,” she corrected herself, “not the part about mailing the poor animal. That takes time—and money. The kids I’m thinking of are the kind who torture animals and then let the owners find them stuffed in their mailboxes. How did Honoria feel about what happened to Dodger? She was very fond of him.”

I explained how Honoria had left before learning Dodger’s fate. “She was appalled when the sheriff told her last night on the phone. She thought he’d simply run away. I suppose that’s why you didn’t hear from her again before she headed to California.” My tone had grown speculative; I waited for Paula to comment. When she didn’t, I pressed a bit. “I never really knew Honoria that well. Were you good friends?”

“Casual friends,” Paula answered after thinking the question through. “She wasn’t what I’d call the chummy sort. We’d go to some showings together, dinner once in a while, maybe a movie in Monroe. But there’d be long periods where I wouldn’t hear from her. If I’d called last, I’d wait. The phone rings at both ends, that’s always been my motto. I don’t think I’d heard from Honoria since the holidays, not until she called me about taking Dodger, and then, as a sort of afterthought, she mentioned that her sister-in-law had been killed.”

Finishing my drink, I considered Paula’s words. “You mean it was a throwaway line?”

“Yes.” Paula’s smile was cynical. “You got it. It was like, ‘Would you mind keeping Dodger for a week or so while I attend my sister-in-law’s funeral? She was murdered the other day, you know.’ Which I didn’t, and I let out a yelp, but Honoria just went on, cool as the
proverbial cucumber, about how Dodger should have a mix of dry and wet food, and not to give him liver. Strange, huh?”

“Was it? For Honoria, I mean. She doesn’t exactly boil over with emotion.”

“Oh, that’s true enough.” Paula gave a little shake of her head, the burnished tangle of curls dancing on her wide shoulders. “Besides, Honoria is always up-front about her feelings. When you can pry anything out of her, I mean. Let’s face it, she never liked her sister-in-law much. In fact, I was surprised when she told me they’d been visiting. I thought Trevor and Kay had split up years ago.”

The Siamese cats returned to the living room, preened a bit, and slipped behind the couch. Against the far wall, a very old grandfather clock, stripped of its original finish, chimed the quarter hour.

“They split up?” I echoed, not trying to hide my surprise.

Paula nodded, another vigorous gesture. “Eight, ten years ago. It was while Trevor was in the slammer.” With a grimace, Paula stopped speaking, then put a finger to her lips. “Damn, am I telling tales about Trevor out of school?”

“No, no,” I assured Paula. “I know that Trevor went to prison for killing Honoria’s first husband. But I thought Kay had waited faithfully for him.”

Setting her empty glass on a side table made from a shiny cedar burl, Paula sighed. “One evening about two years ago I made dinner for Honoria. Afterward we drank some brandy. She’s not much for the hard stuff, but that night she’d just had a very successful showing in Bellevue, and I guess she wanted to celebrate. Or unwind. Putting shows together, working with galleries, suffering through critics, dealing with customers—it
drains you. Anyway, she had about three brandies, and opened up more than usual. She got off on Kay, and how she’d dumped poor Trevor almost as soon as he was sent to prison. Loyalty is one of Honoria’s great virtues. She felt that Kay had betrayed Trevor, and maybe she did. Anyway, Honoria didn’t think much of her sister-in-law. But if Trevor and Kay reconciled after all these years, Honoria might have forgiven her. Trevor obviously did.”