The Alpine Advocate (23 page)

I shook my head. “Thanks, Eeeny, but no, I quit drinking after a rowdy evening of bridge. Besides, I’m beat. You two go cry in your beer without me.”

Eeeny shrugged and Milo uttered no protest. The past and present sheriffs moved off down the street while I got into my Jaguar to head for home. I wondered if Vida had heard the news about Gibb. I wanted very much to call her, but I was afraid Tom Cavanaugh would think I was checking up on him.

By the time I pulled into my carport, I realized I was being ridiculous. What Tom thought shouldn’t make any difference. I was involved in a double homicide investigation. I strode into the house and dialed Vida’s number. Nobody answered. I put the phone down with an uneasy feeling, triggered by various fears. It was after ten o’clock. I decided to wait and call Vida again in half an hour.

But it was six in the morning when I woke up on the sofa with the phone off the hook and a can of Pepsi spilled on the rug. I hadn’t been lying when I told Eeeny Moroni that I was beat. Murder, it seemed, was an exhausting business.

B
Y THE TIME
I put on the coffee, took a bath, got dressed, and ate some toast, it was almost seven. If Vida had to be in Seattle for the funeral at ten, she was probably up. To my relief, she answered on the first ring. I’d made up my mind not to ask any questions about her dinner guest. Not that I was jealous of Vida—she was older than Tom and not exactly my idea of a femme fatale. Besides, it was none of my business.

“Where the hell were you at ten o’clock last night?” I blurted.

There was a pause. Inwardly, I groaned at my lack of self-control. Then Vida’s voice caromed off my ear. “At the Burger Barn, trying to get Billy to make sense about poor Gibb. Where were
you
at eleven?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Vida made a noise of exasperation. “Sorry, Vida,” I apologized. “I’m kind of strung out. I fell asleep on the sofa and somehow knocked the receiver off.”

I expected her to commiserate, but she was already off on another tangent. “I’ve already written up Gibb’s obit. I’ll drop it off on the way to Seattle. I called his sister last night, but she works and can’t come up from Portland until the weekend. Al Driggers will have to wait till Saturday to hold the funeral.”

It seemed that Vida had matters well in hand. I knew she was in a rush, so I told her I’d talk to her when she got back.

It was a busy morning at
The Advocate
, with the usual
Monday prepublication pressures and the added burden of at least thirty phone calls inquiring about Gibb Frazier. There could have been more, but it seemed that half the town had headed out for Mark Doukas’s funeral in Seattle.

By two
P.M
., I had my share of the day’s work in hand. I’d left some extra space for any late-breaking news on the homicides and reserved a small box on page three for an account of Mark’s services. Vida could whip that out when she returned. I was just making some final corrections on a feature Carla had written about Linda Grant’s personal fitness program when Tom Cavanaugh strolled in, looking resplendent in jogging togs.

Tom didn’t sit down, saying he had to get back to the lodge because he’d asked for a lot of information to be faxed there. “I’ll get back to you after I get a chance to go over it. I’d like to meet with Ed, too.” He moved a step closer to my desk. “How are you doing? I couldn’t believe the news when Vida got the call about Gibb last night.”

“It’s getting pretty grim around here,” I admitted. “People are scared.”

“It’s not a random killer,” Tom said. “Gibb Frazier must have been deliberately lured to that gravel pit. Vida’s nephew said there was no I.D. on him.”

“I agree.” I tapped a half page of hard copy. “I wrote a short editorial to that effect this morning, urging Alpiners not to panic. At least four callers today insisted we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. That’s nonsense. I think.” Frankly, I wasn’t sure which was worse—some sociopath indiscriminately knocking off the population, or a cold-blooded murderer with a motive. “How was dinner?” I couldn’t resist the question.

Tom grinned. “Gruesome. Chicken and dumplings. The chicken was almost done and I could have used the dumplings in a softball game. Slow pitch. But Vida’s a font of information. She ought to be your ad manager instead of Ed.”

“Anybody ought to be instead of Ed,” I moaned, glancing out into the news office to make sure he wasn’t
around. “Say, will you do me a favor?” Tom inclined his head, a mannerism I remembered as tacit assent. “I was just going to call Bill Blatt and ask him to get a warrant to open the mineshaft at Icicle Creek. If Vida isn’t back by three, will you go up there with me?”

Tom glanced at his watch. “Okay. Shall I pick you up?”

Since the back road to Icicle Creek went past the ski lodge, and I also wanted to check the mail at my house, I told Tom I’d drive. As soon as he left, I called the sheriff’s office. Bill Blatt hemmed and hawed, insisting that in Milo’s absence, he didn’t have the authority to issue a warrant. I figured he was hedging because he was scared of Neeny Doukas. But if we were going to have a look at that mineshaft, we’d better do it before Neeny got back to Alpine.

“To hell with Billy and the stupid warrant,” I said, hurrying past Carla to the door.

Carla looked up from her portable makeup mirror where she was plucking her eyebrows. “What?”

“Never mind.” I banged out of the office. Carla was almost as oblivious to the two murders as she was to everything else that qualified as news in Alpine. She’d also spelled the high school P.E. teacher’s name as Linda
Grunt
. Some day I was going to ask to see Carla’s diploma from the University of Washington.

There was nothing from Adam in my mailbox. I would have to call him after five, when the rates were down. In the present atmosphere of murder, I began to worry about him, too. He might be thousands of miles away, but I felt as if the danger in Alpine could somehow span the Pacific Ocean and menace my son. It was a silly notion, but it wouldn’t go away.

The ski lodge was a classic structure, four stories of pine logs on the exterior, knotty pine interior, stone fire-places, and snug little rooms with bright plaid curtains. The renovations that were being completed included plumbing and electrical updates, conversion of the base
ment pool room into a conference center, and expanded kitchen facilities. Perhaps there was still hope for a new restaurant after all.

I had purposely gotten to the lodge half an hour early because I wanted to talk to Heather Bardeen. As luck would have it, Monday was her day off. Disappointed, I went to the pay phone in the lobby to call Kip, the middle MacDuff, and ask if he would fill in for Gibb and use his pickup to take the paper into Monroe. Before I could find a quarter, Phoebe Pratt Doukas came through the main entrance with her niece, Chaz. I was startled. Did her return mean that Neeny was back, too? I greeted Phoebe with more warmth than I actually felt.

“I couldn’t bear any more grief,” said Phoebe in a broken voice. She was dressed in black crepe with lots of pearls and dangerously high heels. “I couldn’t even go up to the casket. I’d rather remember Mark the way I last saw him, with those dark eyes looking out at me from under that baseball cap.” Briefly, Phoebe turned away, lower lip quivering.

For all that my memories of Mark weren’t so fond, I certainly mourned his untimely death and didn’t have to feign sympathy. “He was too young,” I said. “Violent death is always a waste.” So were my words of comfort, I decided, but Phoebe seemed to drink them in like rare wine.

“Isn’t that the truth?” She had turned back to me, tugging at her black kidskin gloves. “I was so glad to head back to Alpine. Seattle is too big. Neeny rode in Al Driggers’s limo, but I took my own car.” The statement seemed straightforward, but I wondered if there hadn’t been a scene with Simon. Whether or not he now knew his father had married Phoebe, Simon Doukas would not have been keen on letting her join the family in what Vida termed Al’s
Mourningmobile
.

“It was a wonderful service, but
soooo
long,” Phoebe was saying as Chaz, apparently on break from her job at the desk, went back to work. “Greek, you know. Then
there was a reception at the church, but the real wake will be at the house after they go to the cemetery.”

I calculated. The funeral had probably been over between eleven and noon; the reception wouldn’t go on for more than an hour unless the ouzo flowed like motor oil. If the mourners actually formed a cortege, they could hardly break the speed limit going up Stevens Pass. I figured I was safe at the mineshaft until almost four
P.M
.

“How is the family?” I inquired politely.

Phoebe’s eyes got very round, and she tugged at her rope of pearls. “Poor dears! Doukums is such a strong old bear, but inside, his heart is breaking. I try to treat him like a china doll.” The image she had conjured up was of a bearded Kewpie, watching daytime television. “Cece is ever so brave, and Simon is like a rock! Of course,” she went on, lowering her voice and leaning down since her normal height and abnormal shoes gave her at least a six-inch advantage over me, “Cece must be gulping tranquilizers. And Simon never is one to show much emotion, is he?”

“That all depends,” I replied, thinking of his tears upon seeing Chris and his anger upon meeting with me. No doubt he’d have apoplexy Wednesday when the paper came out. But my real concern wasn’t centered on the grieving Doukases. I didn’t have a lot of time to spare, and I wanted to steer the conversation to another topic. “You must make good time in that Town Car,” I remarked, trying to sound casually congenial. “I had my Jag dented over the weekend. Have you gotten that blue paint off yet? Or will you have to have the whole car redone?”

Caught off guard, Phoebe teetered a bit on her high heels. “I really haven’t had time to tend to it.” She tucked a few stray curls under the wisp of black veiling atop her head. “There’s been so many other things going on.”

I gave a sympathetic nod. “How true. Edna Mae Dalrymple said it was so bizarre how that bucket of paint blew over just as you drove down Front Street Wednesday night.” I gave her my blandest gaze and hoped Edna Mae
would forgive me for misquoting her. She sure wasn’t likely to forgive me for bidding five diamonds.

Phoebe doesn’t have the quickest mind I’ve ever encountered, but the implication of my words eventually took hold. “Oh—well … that’s right, I made a quick trip downtown the other night.” I noticed she didn’t refer to Wednesday as the night of the murder. Phoebe was virtually whispering now: “I wanted to see Simon about a legal matter, and Cece said on the phone that after he dropped his nephew off, he was stopping by the Clemans Building to pick up some papers. But he wasn’t there.”

“Gibb was, though,” I said with feigned innocence.

Phoebe’s carefully etched eyebrows lifted. “Gibb? Oh! Yes, poor Gibb! Isn’t this all so
awful?
My, yes, it was the last time I saw him alive. He honked at me and told me the
naughtiest
story! I was
soooo
embarrassed, I couldn’t laugh. But I had to giggle a bit on my way home.” She gave me a meaningful look. Was it a question or a confirmation? I couldn’t be sure. If
home
meant Neeny’s house, maybe Phoebe was ready to acknowledge that they were man and wife. Was she just fishing? Or verifying that she’d gone nowhere else that night?

Tom was coming down the wide stairway, dressed in sweater and slacks.

I had one more comment for Phoebe in my arsenal: “It’s too bad Chris never got that letter you sent to him in Hawaii. When he gets settled, do you want it forwarded?”

Phoebe pulled at a pearl earring. “Oh!” She was clearly marshaling her thoughts. “No, no, it was only my belated condolences on Margaret’s passing. Though,” she went on, looking over my shoulder to give Tom an inquisitive stare, “when you get an address for the boy, let me know.” For a brief instant, her face sagged, and she gripped my wrist. “Emma, does the sheriff really think Chris killed Mark?”

Startled by the sudden shift in her emotions, my reply tumbled out mindlessly. “The sheriff doesn’t know anything.” Immediately I felt a pang of remorse. Milo Dodge
had enough problems without my picturing him as an imbecile.

Her composure restored, Phoebe gave Tom a coquettish smile and teetered off. I didn’t waste any time but hurried Tom along to the parking lot. On the way to Icicle Creek, I told him about my conversation with Phoebe.

“Let me get this straight,” said Tom as we drove past the high school football field. “Phoebe claimed earlier she hadn’t left the Doukas house. Now she admits she did, but says she went to meet with Simon at his office. He wasn’t there, right?”

“Which means Simon was out, Cece was alone, Phoebe was tooling around in the Town Car, joshing with Gibb, and since she was Neeny’s alibi, that goes out the window, too.” Why had Mark gone back to Mineshaft Number Three after dark? Why had he called both Milo Dodge and Eeeny Moroni? “Hey! Phoebe said something odd—about how she’d like to remember Mark the way she saw him last, wearing a baseball cap. But the only time I know of that he ever wore a baseball cap was when he borrowed Chris’s—the night of the murder.”

Tom gave me an indulgent look. “You may be reaching a bit on this one. Are you saying that Phoebe saw Mark just before he was killed?”

I braked for the blinker light at the three-way stop below First Hill. “That’s right. Mark must have come to the house. There wouldn’t have been time for him to go anywhere else after he left his parents’ place. I doubt he would have come to see Phoebe, but why didn’t Neeny see him? Or did she prevent Mark from talking to his grandfather? I honestly don’t think Neeny saw Mark that night. Neeny has a passel of unpleasant traits, but he’s not a liar.”

I had sat through the passing of two cars, one van, and a logging truck. Tom gave me a gentle nudge. “If this were San Francisco, you’d have been arrested for erecting an illegal barricade by now. You’d better concentrate on your driving, Emma.”