The Alpine Advocate (22 page)

Milo shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

Still belligerent, Kent wheeled away. Jennifer had been watching from over the top of her menu. Her blue eyes looked terrified.

“Dink,” muttered Milo, taking a big swig of Scotch. “Why didn’t somebody whack
him?”

Before I could make a suitable rejoinder, Milo’s beeper went off. He excused himself and went to the pay phone outside the rest rooms. I drank root beer and tried to avoid watching Kent and Jennifer MacDuff argue. Why weren’t they with Simon and Cece? This must be a terrible night for the bereaved parents, with their son’s funeral only hours away. Maybe the other Doukases had gathered at Neeny’s. I hoped so. Even the most aggravating of families should cling together in a crisis.

Milo returned, looking downright dismal.

“What’s wrong?” I asked brightly. “Did Durwood Parker mow down a herd of sheep?”

The sheriff didn’t sit, but drained his Scotch in a gulp. “No.” He drew a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the table, avoiding my stare. “Gibb Frazier’s dead.

Somebody shot him. I’ve got to go, Emma. Sorry.”

*   *   *

After arguing all the way back to Milo’s car, he finally relented and let me come with him. Out on the highway, he explained what had happened.

“Billy and Jack didn’t find him. They were staying in our jurisdiction, this side of the Snohomish-Skykomish County line. But down by Gold Bar, some gun freaks stumbled across Gibb this morning in a gravel pit where they practice shooting. He didn’t have any I.D., but somebody at the morgue in Everett recognized him.”

I was still suffering from a mild case of shock. “I don’t get it. Why would anybody kill Gibb?” My teeth were chattering, and my feet beat a tattoo on the floor of Milo’s Cherokee Chief. It was his own car, and he’d had to put his temporary flashing lights on top of it before we left town.

Milo didn’t have any answers, either. We covered the next fifteen miles in silence, whisking past the Sunday drivers heading for home. Outside of Gold Bar, Milo slowed down. “Over there, across the river—that’s Reiter Ponds, a big fishing hole. Back off the road is the gravel pit.”

It was dark; I couldn’t see a thing. I knew about Reiter, though. Half of Alpine always seemed to be asking if there was any action there.

Milo accelerated. “The Snohomish County Medical Examiner said Gibb had been dead for at least twelve hours when they found him this morning around eleven.”

“Poor Gibb.” I held my head and tried to regain my composure. “Did he have any relatives? He never mentioned them.”

“His wife died of leukemia almost twenty years ago. There was a boy about my age. He got married and moved to California—or was it the other way around? I forget.” Milo was sailing past Startup, Sultan, the turnoff to Monroe. “Gibb and his son were never close, not even after Ruth died. There was a sister, too, but she moved to Portland a long time ago. I think Gibb went to see her when the spirit moved him, but she never came back to Alpine.”

A lot of people seemed to leave and never come back. Was nothing left for them in their old hometown? Or, having moved on and maybe up, did they want to keep their roots well buried? I didn’t know. But one thing I was sure of: I wished Chris Ramirez hadn’t come back. And that Gibb Frazier’s return to Alpine didn’t have to be in a body bag.

The Snohomish County Coroner’s office is fairly new but suitably drab, with metal and vinyl chairs, steel gray filing cabinets, and a framed front page of the Everett
Daily Herald’s
account of the 1916 I.W.W. massacre. The deputy coroner was anything but drab, however. A squat, rosy-cheeked cherub of a man, Neal Doke looked like he should be wearing a monk’s robe instead of a white lab coat. Even his brown hair was balding like a tonsure.

Introductions were made, condolences were given, chairs were offered. Doke asked if we’d like to see the body. Milo said yes; I said no. I waited alone with a cup of weak coffee and the grisly reminder of what had happened to the radical Wobblies who tried to land in the Everett harbor seventy-five years ago.

Milo returned looking grim. He laid a hand on my shoulder, maybe for support as much as comfort. “It’s Gibb, all right. Damn. I’m sorry, Emma.”

“Me, too.” I hate tears, and though I mourned Gibb, the loss didn’t devastate me. More to the point, I was stunned and angered. Two deaths in less than a week were grounds for outrage.

Neal Doke was at his desk, leafing through papers. Jack Mullins and Billy Blatt had joined us. “Okay,” said Doke, sounding too perky for the occasion. “Healthy white male, age fifty-eight, left leg amputated above the knee, small scars on forehead, both arms, left thigh, abdomen, etc. Time of death, approximately between five and eight
P.M.
, Saturday, September twenty-eighth. Shot in chest, bullet passing through body, missing ribs. Probably from a distance of twenty feet, but that’s guesswork.” He looked up
from his paperwork. “I did an autopsy on a giraffe once. Hell of a thing.”

None of us commented, though it was clear from Neal Doke’s expectant face that he had hopes of being asked. “I take it you didn’t find the bullet?” Milo inquired, stony-faced.

Doke waved a pudgy hand. “Hell, no. That gravel pit is full of bullets, from all the gun people practicing. Oh, our deputies will come up with it eventually, but it’ll take time.”

As a journalist, I felt obliged to say something. Anything. “How will you know it’s the bullet that killed Gibb?”

Doke was unwrapping a package of Ding Dongs. “It’ll have blood on it. My guess is that the gun was a thirty-eight.” He bit into one of the Ding Dongs. “Just a guess, mind you,” he said with his mouth full. “You folks ever get any poison victims? I had one last year, woman from Mukilteo did her husband in with bleach. He must have been a real idiot.” Doke shook his head and kept chewing.

We left as soon as Milo had called Al Driggers and asked him to drive the funeral hearse over to Everett. Billy Blatt and Jack Mullins finished filling out some forms, then took off in their sheriff’s car. Milo and I stood outside of the county building and noticed that Everett didn’t smell as bad as usual. Over the years, the paper mills have given the city an unfortunate reputation.

“You hungry?” Milo asked, zipping his down vest over his plaid shirt.

“I never was,” I said. “I’m sure not now.”

He gazed up at the dark sky that had grown partially overcast. “I feel like a jerk.”

I looked up at him, the graying blond hair falling over his forehead, the long face glum, the hazel eyes shadowy. “Why?”

He kicked at a candy bar wrapper on the sidewalk. “Hell, this is my first real homicide.
Two
of them, goddamn it, and I’m getting nowhere fast. I’ve got an election
coming up next year. The citizens of Alpine will burn my butt if I don’t find the killer.”

Casually, I linked my arm through his. “Oh, come on, Milo, it’s only been four days since Mark was murdered. The poor guy isn’t even buried yet. Let’s go have a cup of coffee.”

Traffic was heavy on Wall Street for a Sunday night. Milo scowled at the cars, as if he disapproved of so much coming and going. He gave a tug and pulled me along the sidewalk. “Come on, Emma, let’s go home.”

We did, driving in virtual silence along the black ribbon of highway. He didn’t use the flashing lights on the way back but managed to exceed the speed limit most of the time.

“What happened to Gibb’s I.D.?” I finally asked, somewhere east of Index.

“Damned if I know.” Milo passed a big truck with British Columbia plates. “Maybe whoever killed him didn’t want his identity known right away.”

“Where’s his truck?” I braced myself as Milo passed an R.V. from California.

“We’ll find it,” said Milo. “That’s hard to hide.”

I kept quiet for a while, trying to figure out any connection between Mark Doukas and Gibb Frazier. It was possible that the two men weren’t killed by the same person. The weapons had been different. Yet I didn’t really believe we had two murderers on the loose. I was about to spring a theory on Milo when he spoke:

“Who’s the guy, Emma?”

I blinked. “What guy?”

“The big city type staying up at the lodge.” Milo kept his eyes on the road.

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “He’s a newspaper investor. He also gives advice.” I felt the color rising in my face and was glad Milo wasn’t watching me.

“You need advice?” Milo’s voice was a little too casual.

“Of course I do. This is a tricky business. Marius Vandeventer was sort of old-fashioned. And Ed Bronsky
isn’t exactly a ball of advertising fire. I can use some help in terms of increasing revenues, expanding circulation, new marketing approaches. …” And making an ass of myself by babbling like an idiot, I thought. “It’s very complicated.” After that I lapsed into silence.

So did Milo, at least for the next five minutes. When he spoke again, he glanced over at me. “He’s a good-looking guy.”

“He’s been very successful.” I’d had time to regain my poise. My voice sounded natural. “The newspaper broker I bought
The Advocate
through recommended calling in a consultant.” It wasn’t exactly the strict truth, but it was close. “Listen, Milo,” I went on, changing the subject as he swung out from behind a timorous driver in an old Honda, “you’ve got to open up that mineshaft. Why not do it tomorrow during the funeral when Neeny’s not there?”

He shot another look in my direction. “I won’t be there either. I’m going to the funeral, remember?”

“Oh. I forgot.” I had. The conversation about Tom Cavanaugh had rattled me. I cringed as Milo took the Alpine turnoff too sharply. “Couldn’t your deputies do it?”

“Maybe.” Milo finally slowed to forty miles per hour. The road into town was deserted, dark, and unfriendly on this moonless night. “Why are you so set on opening that mine?”

I tried to state my case logically. “Mark’s death occurred shortly after he showed interest in the mine. Gibb went there, too. That’s how your men found the extra copies of
The Advocate
. Maybe Gibb made the same discovery that Mark did. At the very least, there’s something strange about Mineshaft Number Three.”

Milo didn’t respond until we turned onto Front Street. “I’ll sleep on it. You could be right. I’m sure as hell not getting anywhere otherwise.”

Just as he was pulling into an empty parking space two cars down from my Jag, I remembered to tell him about
Mark’s deliberate maiming of Gibb. With Gibb dead, the revelation couldn’t matter now. Milo was shocked.

“So Gibb had a motive,” he mused, awestruck.

“Of sorts. But it’s ten years old.”

Milo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t suppose Gibb killed Mark, then somebody—like Simon—took out Gibb for revenge.” He sounded faintly hopeful.

“It’s not impossible,” I said, but secretly I felt that it was unlikely. Still, I was trying to bolster Milo’s spirits.

He was silent for a few moments, then threw open the door. “Hey—let me check your car. For the dent.” He looked a trifle condescending.

It was still windy, but there was no sign of rain. Milo had gotten out a flashlight and was examining the Jag’s damaged fender. “Kind of odd. I wonder what they hit it with? It doesn’t look like a baseball bat or a tool. The dent’s too big.”

I was about to ask if he wanted me to reiterate my car damage theory when a big white Cadillac careened down Front Street, braked with a screech, and almost ran into a mailbox. Eeeny Moroni stepped out, leaving his car parked halfway up the curb.

“What the hell’s going on, Milo?” Eeeny moved toward us with his quick, fluid step. He nodded vaguely at me. “Emma,
cara mia,”
he said without his usual fervor. “I just saw Billy and Jack at the Burger Barn. They said Gibb was dead.”

“That’s right.” Milo was suitably grave. “Shot. He was found down by Reiter.”

Eeeny had pulled out a big red and white handkerchief and used it to mop his face. “Holy Mother of God! What did Gibb ever do except shoot his mouth off now and then?” He gazed quizzically at me. “You heard from Chris again?”

“No.” I shifted my shoulder bag to the other arm. “I thought you didn’t think Chris was guilty.”

Eeeny gestured with his hands. “I never said that. I only
warned Milo here that he didn’t have much to use against Chris. Making wrongful arrests isn’t a good habit for sheriffs to get into.” He paced a bit, rubbing the back of his head. “Damn it, this is getting ugly. In all the years I was sheriff, I never had anything like this happen.” He gazed at Milo, dark eyes sympathetic. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. This thing with Gibb has got me down.”

“And me.” Milo sighed, leaning against a lamp post and looking as if he’d like to disappear inside his orange down vest. “Emma thinks we should open the mineshaft. Do you agree, Eeeny?”

The ex-sheriff made an expressive gesture with his hands. “I think Neeny would sue us. He’s dead-set against it, you know.”

“We can get a warrant,” said Milo with a touch of truculence. “Neeny doesn’t own this damned town.”

Eeeny wriggled his heavy eyebrows. “He used to. And he still has a pretty big chunk. What’s the point, Milo? You don’t really expect to find a six-inch vein of gold.”

Milo sighed. “No.” He glanced at me and looked away a bit too quickly. “I guess it was just a whim.”

“It isn’t a whim,” I declared, getting a bit pugnacious. “As I explained to Milo, both Mark and Gibb were up at that mineshaft not long before they were killed. It’s the one thing they have in common. So maybe there’s something about it that …”

Eeeny was giving me a withering look. “Emma,
mio cor, dolce
Emma, you sound as pigheaded as Vida. That mineshaft has been closed off for fifty years. What could it be that would cause murder?” He turned to Milo. “Look for rational answers, concrete evidence, real motives. You need facts, not fancies. Hey, Milo, do your homework. You’ve got an election coming up next year.”

“Don’t remind me,” Milo muttered, once again the picture of gloom.

Eeeny danced over to Milo and took him by the arm.
“Come on,
amico
, let’s go to Mugs Ahoy and have a beer. Emma?”