Alpine Hero (31 page)

I recalled seeing Milo’s Cherokee Chief parked on Front Street Monday night. I’d assumed he was in the office. Fleetingly, it occurred to me that we assume a great many things, some of which are not true. The thought lodged just long enough to disturb me for reasons that were elusive.

“So Honoria never saw the body,” I noted. “But when you talked to her here, in Alpine, and later that evening, did she act as if it were Kay?”

“She did.” Milo was now looking faintly distracted, as if he were trying to keep up with my comments while also sorting through something else. “Let’s look at what we know,” he said after a pause. “Honoria was entertaining her mother, brother, and—she said—sister-in-law for the better part of a week. I know that, because I called her last Friday night to ask if she’d like to go out for a drink. We hadn’t seen each other for a month or so.” Milo grimaced at the admission, though he’d already confided in me about the estrangement. Maybe he was still feeling the pain of parting.

“Anyway,” the sheriff continued, extinguishing his cigarette and putting his arms behind his head, “Honoria said she had company from California. Her family, is the way she put it. But I pressed her on that—one of the things that always griped me about Honoria was that she was so damned private. That was when she said it
was her mother, her brother, and his wife. I didn’t talk to her again until she and Trevor showed up here Monday afternoon.”

“Maybe the woman was Trevor’s wife,” I suggested.

“Maybe. But if he had remarried, why didn’t it show up on the computer?”

“Because they got married somewhere other than California? You were the one who thought of that.” Something else was niggling at me. This time I snatched the thought out of the air and brought it home. “Honoria didn’t invite you to drive down to meet her relatives?”

“No.” Milo wore a small, wry smile. “Right, I thought that was kind of odd at the time. On the other hand, we haven’t been exactly cozy the last few months. But it crossed my mind that maybe she was ashamed of me. Now I wonder if she was ashamed of her family.”

“Or afraid.”

“Could be.” Grimly Milo picked up the phone. “I’m going to call this Kay Whitman back. You shouldn’t be here, but you are.”

I wondered if our romp on the floor had changed Milo’s attitude. It looked as if he’d finally have to yank off the kid gloves and challenge Honoria. I wasn’t sure how men’s minds worked, or if they worked at all when it came to the intricacies of male-female emotions, yet I sensed that Milo was somehow pushing Honoria and me around on his personal chessboard. If we hadn’t traded places, we’d at least assumed different roles.

But no one except a machine answered at Kay Whitman’s home. “She must have gone out,” Milo said, sounding irked. “Or else she’s tired of people calling her and asking if she’s really dead. Damn.”

The sheriff couldn’t stall any longer. After searching through the piles of paper on his desk, he found what
he was looking for: though he didn’t say so out loud, I knew it was Trevor Whitman’s number in Pacific Grove.

Again, there was no response, not even a recording. Milo looked both disappointed and relieved. “I don’t have Mrs. Smith’s number,” he admitted. “I wonder if we could get it through Directory Assistance?”

“Smith?” I wasn’t sure how many people lived in Pacific Grove, but I thought it was at least four times the size of Alpine. “You might try under Ida. The last husband’s name was … drat, I forget. Vida would know, but she wasn’t home when I tried to call her earlier.”

“Nobody’s home,” Milo remarked gloomily. “So much for the idea that the whole world’s sitting around on Saturday night, getting off on their computers.”

Milo, however, wasn’t giving up. He dialed the 408 area code and asked for Pacific Grove, then requested Smith, Ida. There was no listing. Identifying himself as the sheriff of Skykomish County, spelling S-K-Y-K-O-M-I-S-H twice, and adding in a tone of growing impatience that it was in Washington, Washington
State
, not D.C., he insisted that the operator read him the first names of all the Smiths in Pacific Grove. Milo repeated each one, glancing at me in the hope that one of the names or initials would trigger my memory. We were into the
C
’s when I remembered that Husband Number Four had been called Chad. There was no listing under that name, but there was a C. H. Smith. Milo wrote down the number and thanked the operator.

Ida Smith answered on the second ring. Milo put her on the speakerphone.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said, after identifying himself, “we’ve had some disturbing news. Or maybe it’s good
news. It seems your daughter-in-law is alive. Kay Whitman called us tonight from Sacramento.”

A hollow silence ensued. Milo waited. I held my breath.

Nervous laughter finally erupted at the other end. “I’m sorry, is this some kind of joke? Who is this?”

“I told you, it’s Sheriff Dodge, in Alpine. When did you and your daughter get in from Grants Pass?” The question was intended to give Milo credibility, but I had the feeling he really cared.

“Around six.” Mrs. Smith was hesitant. “We haven’t quite unpacked. Oh, dear—what was that you said about … Kay?”

“A woman named Kay Whitman telephoned our office an hour ago,” Milo reiterated, sounding calmer than he looked. “She insists she’s your son’s former wife. Can you explain that?”

There was another silence of sorts, though a muffling, shuffling noise echoed from the speakerphone. Milo and I exchanged frowns. It sounded as if Mrs. Smith had put her hand over the mouthpiece and was conferring with someone, possibly Honoria.

“No, I certainly can’t,” Mrs. Smith declared in an indignant tone. “There must be some mistake. Really, this is too much after all we’ve …”

Dustin Fong poked his head in the door, wearing the apologetic air that I was beginning to find habitual. “Sir,” he whispered, “we just got a call from that Whitman woman. She’s at the Sacramento airport, waiting to board a Seattle flight. She’ll be in Alpine tomorrow.” The deputy withdrew and closed the door.

“Okay, Mrs. Smith,” Milo said in mock defeat. “If you say so. We’ll find out when the impostor gets into town. We understand she’s on her way. Is Honoria around, by any chance?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

“How about Trevor?”

“No. I’m alone.” There was another pause. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to unpack.” Again the nervous laugh vibrated through the speakerphone. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”

The sheriff rang off. “She’s not a good liar, either. At least not when she’s caught off guard.”

I acknowledged the remark with a nod, but my mind was following a different track. “It’s obvious now why the Whitmans didn’t call Cassandra, the other sister—if it wasn’t Kay who was killed, why would Cassandra care?”

Milo, however, didn’t agree. “The victim was still a sister-in-law, or a live-in. She was being treated as family. Why else bring her along on this trip? Cassandra would want to know if the woman got killed.”

“But they didn’t tell her.” I moved uneasily in the chair. The office smelled like stale smoke, scorched coffee, and gun oil. “Do you know Cassandra’s last name?”

Regretfully, Milo shook his head. “Honoria never mentioned it, and I didn’t think to ask. It didn’t seem important.”

“Maybe Mrs. Smith would tell you.”

“I’m not calling her again. Not now. It looks as if I’m going to have to get Monterey County involved. How else can we ever identify the body?” The sheriff emitted a heavy sigh.

All kinds of crazy ideas were dancing through my brain. How obsessed was Mrs. Smith with appearances and the family image? Had she and Trevor picked up some hitchhiker and had her pose as the devoted wife of an ex-con? Or did Trevor meet somebody in an Oregon bar and bring her along for the ride? More likely, had he
asked his current girlfriend to join Mom in visiting sis? That was the simplest explanation. But it didn’t tell us why she’d gotten herself killed.

“Facts,” Milo said, bringing me out of my reverie. “We’ve got to stick to facts. I wish we had some. We’re plugged up until this Kay Whitman gets here. Then we’ll have to wait until Monday to get any records out of Monterey County. Still, I can get their people going on missing persons. That’ll help.”

The sheriff got out of his chair and headed for the outer office. I joined him, watching as he gave orders to Dwight Gould to call Salinas, the county seat.

“I can contact the local papers Monday,” I offered. “Mitch Harmon’s murder should have been covered all over the area.”

“Good,” Milo responded, leaning an elbow on the counter. “That might be faster than having the court transcripts dug out.”

“The towel,” I said, from out of nowhere. “That’s a
fact
. Have you any idea where it came from and how it got into Stella’s washer?”

“The killer put it there,” Milo answered reasonably. “It could have come from anywhere. Like your bathroom.”

“Not
my
bathroom.” I didn’t want to go over the white vs. colored-towel issue again. “What are you going to do now?” The question came out in an uncertain voice, which surprised me. I thought I was sticking to business, but realized that pleasure was still lurking somewhere in the back of my mind.

Milo, however, didn’t seem to notice that I sounded strange. “Wait to hear from Salinas. Call Sea-Tac and check to make sure Kay Whitman is actually on a flight from Sacramento. Take another look at alibis.”

I regarded Milo with surprise. “Including Toby Popp’s?”

“Maybe.” The sheriff seemed disgruntled.

“And?” I prodded.

“Oh …” Milo grimaced. “Whatever comes to mind.”

“You can’t avoid it, you know.” My glance bounced off Milo and fell on my shoes.

“What’s that?”

“Honoria. You’re going to have to talk to her tonight. And Trevor.” I gave the sheriff a lame little smile.

Milo hitched up his belt. “I know.” He uttered another big sigh. “You sticking around?”

I’d considered it, but I had plans of my own. “No. I’ve got to get hold of Vida, for one thing. It
is
her story.”

“Okay.” Milo turned to Dwight, who had just hung up the phone. “You talk to Salinas?”

I left the sheriff’s office. As I’d said, I had plans of my own. Besides, Milo didn’t seem to want dessert. Of any kind.

The bananas wouldn’t keep. But I would.

To my relief, Vida was home. It was going on nine when I arrived, and she’d just gotten in the door. Buck was still ailing, so she’d had dinner with Amy, her husband, Ted—and Roger. The adorable little fellow had made a spaceship out of his ravioli. Unfortunately, he’d used his father’s chair for a launching pad. Before Vida could fully launch herself on her grandson’s antics, I interrupted with my latest bulletins. Kay Whitman’s resurrection so startled my House & Home editor that she let out a loud squawk.

“Impossible! And she’s coming
here
? Oh, good grief!” Vida all but staggered around her tidy living room before collapsing in her late husband’s favorite chair. “This is incredible! Are you absolutely certain? Did you get this secondhand from Milo?”

“Now don’t get mad,” I said, seeing Vida’s hackles rise as the shock wore off. “I tried to call but you weren’t
home. That’s why I’m here now, to bring you up to speed, and to ask you to go with me to see Stella.”

Vida glanced at her watch. “At nine o’clock? Well, maybe. This is all very peculiar. Honestly, Emma, I do wish you’d tried to phone me at Amy’s.”

I’d done that once, a year or so ago, and had gotten Roger, who’d used every orifice of his wretched little body to make disgusting noises in my ear. Nor had he let me speak with his grandmother, who, he insisted, was dead. I didn’t bother to defend myself further with Vida.

Stella and Richie Magruder lived in a big old house on First Hill, across from the high school. It was a comfortable place, set among second-stand Douglas firs, a home that had raised children, and reflected Stella’s down-to-earth personality.

Stella, however, greeted Vida and me as if we’d come from Mars. “What’s wrong now?” she demanded, ushering us into the long hallway with its lily-patterned wallpaper.

“Nothing,” Vida soothed. “That is, nothing that should distress you. Oh—do I smell pecan pie?”

“No. It’s nail-polish remover.” Stella wasn’t taken in by Vida’s comment. “Come on into the living room anyway. Richie’s out playing poker with the boys, so I was experimenting with a new line of polish. It’s expensive and the colors are too glitzy. I’m going to pass. How about a drink?” She flashed a hand that had three gaudily painted nails, all in different shades.

Judging from the empty highball glass on the end table, Stella’d already had a drink. Or two. Yet the salon owner was clear-eyed, and crisp of speech. Somehow, Vida and I ended up with apple juice.

“If you’ve come to commiserate about Becca’s stupid stunt, don’t bother,” Stella said, sitting back down on the
couch. “If she’s serious about getting back together with this Eric creep, she’ll probably quit before I can fire her. It looks like Becca is the type who learns the hard way.”

Don’t we all
, I thought. But Stella was right. It was pointless to harp on Becca’s apparent lack of judgment. The hour was late, and there were other, more pressing matters at hand. Since Milo hadn’t sworn me to secrecy, I told Stella about the woman who said she was the real Kay Whitman. Stella’s reaction wasn’t as marked as Vida’s.

“So who got whacked in my salon?” Stella inquired with a vexed expression.

“That’s what we want to know,” Vida put in. “When the woman came in, did she give her name?”

Stella ran a hand through her gilded locks. “God, I’m not sure. Why does Monday seem like six months ago? I suppose she said, ‘I’m Ms. Whitman, I’ve got a facial appointment.’ That’s the usual drill.”

“What did she look like?” The question was mine, and I felt foolish. I’d seen her, but recalled only a body, smeared with green cream, bloodied and yet bloodless.

Stella tipped her head to one side. “Average height, decent figure, early forties, light brown hair with red highlights, probably not natural, slacks and sweater under a barn jacket. Kind of plain, but she wasn’t wearing makeup. Almost nobody does, when they come for a facial. I doubt I’d recognize her if I ever saw her again. Not that I will, of course.”