The Alpine Advocate (29 page)

Vida was the first to speak. “You’re a fool, Phoebe Pratt.” She dropped her voice a notch. “But maybe you mean well.” In a flurry of tweed, she whirled around and stomped out of the living room.

I hesitated just long enough to give Phoebe a faint smile. Then I followed Vida out of the house, past the red Lincoln Town Car, and through the overgrown garden with its drooping dahlias and the moss-covered gnome that winked goodbye.

K
IP
M
AC
D
UFF HAD AGREED
to take the paper into Monroe in the morning. We were running thirty-two tight pages, at roughly a sixty-forty ad-to-editorial ratio. It wasn’t a bad proportion, but seventy-thirty would have been a lot better. Still, this was one week when we needed the news space. Unfortunately.

I’d finished calling the printer in Monroe to request an extra two hundred papers when I realized it was almost five o’clock. Carla and Ginny had just left. Ed was on the phone, and Vida was opening the box from Adam.

“Maybe we should go through these old letters,” she suggested.

I didn’t have much enthusiasm for the enterprise. “Go ahead. Just give me Chris’s jacket.” I looked at my watch again. “Damn it, Tom and Chris should be here by now.”

Ed had hung up and was hauling himself into his plaid polyester sports coat. “Wouldn’t you know it? Barton’s Bootery is having a pre-Halloween sale. They want a half-page ad next week with pictures of
real
shoes. That means I can’t use clip art!” He shot a forlorn look at the dogeared volume of ready-to-print drawings that were his standby. Mentally, I thanked my lucky stars and lack of budget that I hadn’t yet taken the plunge for the clip art computer program that would have made Ed’s life easier while eliminating all advertising creativity.

The telephone spared me having to soothe Ed. To my relief, it was Tom, calling from the ski lodge. Yes, he had brought Chris back. They were going to get a quick bite in
the coffee shop, then Chris would stop by the office or my house, whichever was more convenient. I said I intended to head for home in about fifteen minutes.

I did, leaving Vida to mull over Margaret’s correspondence and Ed to wander away in a burdened state. As I drove up the hill that led to my home on Fir Street, the autumn sun was beginning to dip over Stevens Pass and a few clouds were scattered above the mountains. It was a perfect fall evening, cold enough to bronze the trees, but not to freeze the flowers. Yet I felt as if Alpine had been touched by a killing frost. I was glad that Chris was back in Alpine, but I realized that his presence might put him in danger. Surely he couldn’t know about his real parents or that Phoebe had named him as her heir. But how would Milo Dodge react? I wanted to avoid the sheriff and to keep Chris away from him, too. It was impossible, of course. There was no place to hide in Alpine.

I had changed into slacks and a sweater when Chris came to the front door. Tom’s rental car was parked in the drive. Now attired in a San Francisco Giants cap and an Oakland A’s sweatshirt from the 1989 World Series, Chris somehow looked older, almost weary. On impulse, I hugged him.

“I was sure you were lost somewhere in Disneyland,” I said, stepping aside to usher him in. “Where’s your chauffeur?”

Chris strolled across the living room to stand by the fire I’d touched off as soon as I got home. “He had to make some long distance calls, so he let me borrow his car.” He paused, giving me a wry smile. “I did ask.”

I smiled back. My brain was whirling. Should I tell Chris about his real parents? But that wasn’t up to me, it was Phoebe’s responsibility. Yet I knew she and Neeny were probably already on the road to the airport.

The phone rang and I started to answer it, then stopped. It might be Milo, inquiring after Chris. No doubt he’d been sighted by the locals. I decided to let the machine take the call. Whoever it was would assume I was out to
dinner. The thought triggered some nagging idea, but it fluttered away before I could grasp it.

“Mrs. Lord,” Chris began, pacing the length of the hearth in long, uncertain strides, “is that really my father you and Mr. Cavanaugh found in the mineshaft?”

I hedged a bit as far as the definition of
father
was concerned. “Dr. Starr’s dental records confirm that the remains belonged to Hector Ramirez.” I sounded very formal.

Chris nodded once. “Okay.” He stopped to finger the fireplace tools. “This is so crazy. …” His face crumpled, and for a moment, I thought he was going to cry. “You see,” he said with a gulp, “I’ve been trying to remember things. I wrote that note, telling you how coming back to Alpine was such a bummer.” He turned away, staring blindly at the mantel. “Could we drive up to the mineshaft?”

“Sure.” I went to the front closet to get a jacket, then remembered to give Chris the one Adam had sent from Honolulu. I didn’t know if we were making a pilgrimage to Icicle Creek or taking an exercise in memory. I thought it best not to ask.

The denim jacket brought a genuine smile to Chris’s face. “Hey—that was nice of Adam to send this. He’s a cool dude.” Chris gave a little chuckle as we went out the door. “It’s weird, but that Mr. Cavanaugh reminds me of Adam somehow. He’s pretty cool, too.”

“I like being around cool people,” I remarked, unable to look Chris in the eye. Five minutes later we were turning off CR 187 at Icicle Creek. There was only one light burning in Neeny Doukas’s house on First Hill as we drove by. The newlyweds were probably halfway to Monroe. It was getting dark, with only the sound of the creek breaking the evening silence.

Chris and I walked wordlessly up to Mineshaft Number Three. I’d brought along a flashlight. We could see the crime scene tape, now extended up the hill to the second entrance. Chris followed my lead, then stood staring down
at the hole in the ground where Hector Ramirez’s remains had been found. The excavation was much deeper than when I’d seen it the previous afternoon. I wondered if Milo and his deputies had uncovered any more evidence, such as a bullet.

“He was shot,” Chris said, startling me with the baldness of his statement.

“How do you know?” I asked in a breathless voice.

Chris was staring at the deep hole that had been Hector Ramirez’s grave. He was silent for so long that I wondered if he were praying. “I was there.
Here,”
he added, making a sharp gesture.

“You saw Hector get shot?” I was so surprised that I almost stumbled over a root.

With his profile outlined by my flashlight, Chris stared straight ahead. “I remember it. For so long, I couldn’t. But I do now.” He sucked in his breath and bit his lip. “It was real grim. I never told my mom.”

The flashlight wavered in my hand. “Did you tell anyone?” I asked, the horror of Chris’s revelation sinking in.

Slowly, Chris shook his head. “I couldn’t. And then …” He turned to face me, his features lost in the shadows. “I didn’t remember anymore. Not until I came back to Alpine.”

Frantically, I tried to think of words that might console Chris. It didn’t matter that he really wasn’t Hector’s son—the slain man had been the only father Chris had known, just as Margaret had been his only mother. Feeling helpless, I watched Chris button up his denim jacket, then shove his hands in his pockets. He didn’t weep. No doubt he’d shed all his tears a long time ago.

Except for the tumbling creek and the wind in the trees, it was too quiet. I wanted to get away from Mineshaft Number Three, to head into town with warm lights glowing from behind homely little windows. Tentatively, I put my hand on Chris’s arm.

“Let’s go back to the house,” I said gently. “We can talk about it there. If you want to.”

Chris looked down at me with sad dark eyes. “I have to, don’t I?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “You mean for your own sake? Or to tell the sheriff?”

“Both.” He set his jaw, lifted his chin, and for the first time, I could see not just Mark, but Neeny, and Simon, too. We were still standing by the mineshaft, with the darkness enfolding us. My flashlight made a small circle of pale gold light on the forest floor. Chris was staring off into the trees again, shaking his head. “That’s the part that mixed me up at the time. I thought my dad deserved to get shot. So I made myself not remember.”

I tugged at his arm. “What are you talking about? What was he doing?”

Chris’s gaze returned to rest on my anxious face. “He wasn’t doing anything, except maybe talking or arguing. We lived on Eighth Avenue, before it turns off onto that road out there.” He gestured with his free hand. “It was a little house by the golf course, but it’s been torn down for a new development. That’s why I couldn’t find it the night I went driving around. We’d just finished dinner and somebody called my dad.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked, and that nagging little idea fretted at my brain. Dinner. Phone calls. Icicle Creek. But I couldn’t get distracted.

“My dad didn’t say who phoned. He went out, and I thought he was walking up to Neeny’s, so I followed him. It was getting dark—I think it was spring, I know it was warm—but he came this way instead of going up my grandfather’s driveway. I saw somebody else by the mineshaft, so I hid in the brush by the creek.” At last, he freed his arm from my grasp and passed a hand over his dark hair. “The creek made a lot of noise, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then there was a shot, and my dad fell on the ground. I yelled and ran off.” He paused, worrying his lower lip. “I don’t know where I ran. I don’t remember anything until my mother took me to Hawaii.”

I was incredulous. “You don’t remember the search for your father?”

“Not really. Maybe I thought he was still alive. Or maybe it was better if nobody knew he was dead.” He gave me a pitiful look. “Like I said, I thought he deserved it. A kid’s mind operates in black and white, I guess. There are good guys, and there are bad guys.”

Somehow, in my shock at learning that Chris had seen Hector murdered, it didn’t quite dawn on me that he would also know who had fired the fatal shot. Chris had been so young. The killer might have been a stranger, or someone who no longer lived in Alpine. Whoever it was would look far different to a young man of twenty than to a child of six.

“Who?” I asked, though I believed I knew. Unbidden, the nagging little fragment had clicked into place.

The car that had approached so quietly had not used lights. Its arrival was heralded by a soft thud, as if a bumper had made contact with a tree. As my Jag had done, I thought dully. Chris heard the noise, too, followed by the click of the car’s door. Then a big flashlight switched on, momentarily blinding us.

I saw the white Cadillac’s outline before I saw its owner’s face. Steeling myself, I attempted a smile. “Hi, Eeeny, are we having a party?”

“Emma,
cara,”
came the ex-sheriff’s voice. His heartiness rang false. “Sure, why not? You, too, Chris? You like to party?”

I heard the catch in Chris’s throat. Instinctively, I moved a couple of inches closer to him, as if I could shield him from his father’s killer. From Mark’s. And Gibb’s. But Chris had been shielded too long, especially by himself. I saw the gun, a standard .38 service model, in Eeeny’s hand.

“That’s good,” said Eeeny, his voice like olive oil. “You stand together. I can see you just fine, this close.” He raised the gun, pointing it at me. “You tried to stop him from running away. He shot you. Then he saw there was
nowhere to run because I come along. So he shoots himself.” Eeeny shook his head. “Sad. Very sad.”

Next to me, I felt Chris tense. Would he, could he spring at Eeeny? But the ex-sheriff was still quick on his feet. I tried to think of words that would buy us time. “Milo will figure it out, Eeeny. You made one very bad mistake.”

“Like what,
cara?”
He didn’t sound as if he believed me.

“You said Mark called you Wednesday night before eight o’clock. He couldn’t have. You were at the Venison Inn, remember?” My mouth was dry; the words sounded unnatural.

He gave a little grunt of a laugh. “No. And neither will Milo, when you’re not around to remind him.” Eeeny peered through his glasses down the end of the barrel. “He’s a nice kid, but not so smart. He’ll get his speeders and his shoplifters, though. Some day his pension.” In the artificial light, his smile was grotesque. “No pension for you two, though.” His finger squeezed the trigger, and I let out a shrill cry.

The voice that boomed through the night startled the birds from the trees and the animals from their lairs: “Drop that gun—you’re covered from all sides! Now!” A great rustling followed, with twigs snapping and branches crackling. Eeeny Moroni hesitated just long enough for me to throw my flashlight at him while Chris leaped at the hand that held the .38. I missed Eeeny but hit his glasses. They fell to the ground, even as he and Chris struggled. Chris had youth on his side, but Eeeny was strong as a bull. Frantically, I looked around for the source of all the commotion. Surely Milo and his deputies were just inches away from rescuing us. But the figure emerging through the trees was alone, carrying a megaphone—and a gun. It was Vida, and for once, she was hatless.

“I said drop it!” she yelled, jabbing her weapon into Eeeny’s thick neck. Chris jumped back; Eeeny cursed but complied.

“You old bitch!” he screamed at Vida, trying to writhe away from her.

“Oh, shut up, Eeeny!” Vida jammed the gun even deeper against Moroni’s flesh. “I suppose you don’t think I’d shoot you. Well, you’re wrong. I think you’re the most horrid man I ever met.”

Dimly, I heard sirens. Chris was flexing his fingers, apparently injured while wrestling with Eeeny. I turned to him and asked the inevitable question: “Was it Sheriff Moroni who shot your father?”

“Yeah.” He was breathing hard, staring at Eeeny with loathing. “That’s what mixed me up. I thought my dad must be a criminal. Sheriffs are supposed to be the good guys, right?”

I gave Eeeny a disgusted look. “Right. But not this one”.

Milo Dodge, Bill Blatt, and all the other deputies poured out of two sheriff’s cars, guns at the ready. Eeeny seemed to shrivel with every step taken by his former comrades. I half expected him to turn into Rigoletto and announce that he was accursed.