The Alpine Pursuit (11 page)

“You’re being foolish,” Vida admonished.

It seemed as if we’d reversed roles. Vida was now the one urging caution. But that was good. I’d taken over the news gathering, which was my responsibility.

Getting Adam’s skis out of his closet was no easy task. In the past few years his visits had been depressingly infrequent, and the result was that I used his former space for storage. I had to move at least six boxes, a broken lamp, and the vacuum cleaner before I could reach the skis. After much exertion, I managed to free not only the skis but also the poles. It was only then that I realized I needed boots. Adam had taken his with him, and they wouldn’t have fit me anyway. Stumped, I stood in the middle of his room and wondered what to do next.

I was still mulling when I heard the helicopter in the distance. Whoever was lost had not been found. Frustrated, I looked through the window. The copter was out of sight. Maybe the search had been called off. I went back to the living room and dialed the sheriff’s office.

Jack answered again. “You’re a pesky little devil,” he said, sounding more like his usual jovial self. “Okay, just because we belong to the same church and we’re going to nap through Mass later this morning, I’ll let you in on a secret. The copter has landed in that cul-de-sac down the street from your little log cabin.”

“Really?” No wonder it had disappeared so fast. “Why?”

“Ah . . . that’s where I stop being helpful. Why don’t you trot down there and see for yourself?”

“Why don’t I? Or,” I added, “are you trying to tell me you don’t know why the copter’s in Ms. Lord’s neighborhood?”

“You choose. Bundle up, Emma. It’s cold outside.”

I bundled. That was the easy part. I got out my flashlight and turned it on. It didn’t work. The thing required four D batteries, and I only had two in the drawer. Cursing myself, I ventured out into what was now sleet. The snow had gotten so soft that I sank with every step and was soaked through to my midsection by the time I got off my own property. It might be above freezing, but Jack was right—it was definitely cold outside. At least there wasn’t much wind, but it certainly was dark. No lamps glowed from behind windows, and streetlights are a luxury afforded only to the blocks in or near the downtown area. But after going—slowly, arduously—about twenty feet along Fir, I could literally see a light in the clearing. In another ten feet I could hear voices.

Finally, I saw the copter, sitting like a big bug on ground that had obviously been cleared for its landing. Nearby I saw Milo, Sam Heppner, Bill Blatt, and a grim-faced man I didn’t recognize who was probably a state patrol helicopter pilot.

Milo spotted me but kept talking to the other men. Grateful to be on firm soil, I hurried toward the foursome.

“Hi,” I said, tugging at Milo’s sleeve. “What’s up?”

Milo looked down on me with a pained expression. “What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“I’m a journalist, remember? We don’t keep regular hours.”

“Who does?” Milo responded with a weary sigh.

“So why are we here?” I kept my tone light.

Milo glanced at the copter, then at the disgruntled pilot, and finally looked back at me. “We knew there was a state patrol copter in the vicinity, looking for stranded cars. We asked for help searching for the guy who was driving the car that went into the river.”

I was flummoxed. “Why are you searching aboveground?”

The sheriff’s expression indicated he thought I was a moron. “Because the guy didn’t go into the river, the car did.”

“Can you explain that?” I inquired.

“Sure. He either jumped out of the car before it hit the river or let it roll.”

“How do you know this, since you haven’t found him?” I gestured at the copter. “Or is this just another one of those crazy law enforcement larks?”

“Don’t aggravate me,” Milo warned, with a scowl on his long face. “It turns out this jerk showed up at Mugs Ahoy, bragging about how he dumped his car in the river and wasn’t that just the funniest thing anybody ever did? Abe Loomis, the owner, called us because he knew we had divers brought in. I sent Sam and Bill over there, and as soon as they walked in the son of a bitch jumped off the bar stool and ran out the back way. My guys lost track of him about three blocks away. I didn’t like the sound of it, so I asked if the state patrol copter could fly over as long as they were in the area. We’ve got enough on our plate as it is.” Milo’s voice had turned defensive, and he shot a quick glance at the pilot, who still looked out of sorts. “The only problem,” the sheriff went on, speaking closer to my ear, “is that this prick is pissed off for sending him on what he calls a wild-goose chase. Screw him. He knows we don’t have much in the way of resources here.”

I was still puzzled. “What do you want to arrest the driver for? Escaping from death?”

Milo remained peeved. “The car’s registered to a woman in Seattle. We can’t locate her. She’s not in the book. And any time a guy takes one look at a couple of cops and runs off, we get suspicious.”

“Oh. Of course.” I’d assumed the car belonged to the missing man. It was stupid of me. I’ve told myself a hundred times never to assume anything. “But you’ve called off the search?”

Milo nodded. “Visibility is next to zero. We thought we might be able to sight him in town and even in the forest where the trees aren’t so thick. But we’ve gone all over the immediate area with no luck. Maybe he found some shelter or he’s hiding in the woods. Either way, we can’t do much now. So the pilot’s right.” Milo looked glum. “We wasted his time.”

“And yours,” I pointed out. “I take it you were in the copter, too?”

Milo nodded again. “It’s my job.”

I held out my hands, which were encased in big leather gloves. “It’s my job, too. Being here, I mean.”

“I know.” Awkwardly he patted me on the shoulder.

“Have you got an APB on the guy?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Milo replied. “Early to mid-twenties, short dark beard, full head of curly dark hair, average height and build, wearing a heavy brown jacket and jeans. We tried to get it on KSKY, but nobody answered.”

“That’s not surprising,” I said, squinting at Milo through the sleet. “Spence uses canned music and commercials Saturday nights. The only one there is the engineer. Maybe he was in the can.”

“Swell.” Milo paused. “You want a ride home on the snowplow?”

I wasn’t proud. It was a hard, chilling rain and I was shivering. “Sure. Who’s driving?”

“Me. Hold on.” He went back to confer with his deputies and the pilot. I assumed Milo was making some sort of apology, since handshakes were given all around. A moment later, the pilot was getting back into the copter. The sheriff and his men backed away. The copter lights went on and the rotors started to turn. The whirlybird slowly lifted off the ground, creating a wicked breeze. Now I could see the snowplow parked on the opposite edge of the clearing.

Milo waited until the copter’s noise began to fade a bit. “I think we can all get aboard,” he shouted. “Come on, let’s go!”

As I approached, Sam and Dwight made deferential gestures toward me by touching their wool watch caps. Sizing up the plow, Milo looked apologetic.

“I guess you’re going to have to sit on my lap, Emma. There’s not as much room as I thought.”

“I could walk,” I offered, brushing at the sleet that was obscuring my vision. “It’s not even a block to my house.”

Milo shook his head. “Walking in this stuff is pretty damned rugged. You’re already soaked.”

“So are you,” I noted. “Hey, it’s three in the morning. What else have I got to do? Give me a ride and I’ll make us a strong, hot drink.”

Milo brightened. “Sounds good. We’re off-duty. How about it, guys?”

“Sure,” Sam said.

“Thanks, Ms. Lord,” Bill replied.

And off we went. It was a bumpy ride. I felt stuffed, rather than seated, in Milo’s lap. He kept bumping my face with his forearms, making me feel like I’d had a rough day at the dentist’s.

But we arrived at the front porch in one piece. Having driven straight through the front yard, Milo promised to plow my driveway on the way out. I immediately started a new fire, then went into the bedroom to change clothes. Five minutes later, I had the teakettle on. Fortunately, I still had some buttered rum mix left over from the holidays.

“Hits the spot,” Milo announced after the first big swig. His deputies echoed his sentiments.

The fire had caught and was burning brightly. The scene seemed ironically cheerful. I hated to break the spell by bringing up the subject of murder. But I did it anyway.

“Any luck finding out if Hans was shot by accident?” I asked.

Milo frowned. “Not yet. We still haven’t talked to everybody. As usual, the witness who talks the most is the one who doesn’t really have much to say.”

“Who?” I inquired.

Milo made a face at Bill Blatt. “Bill’s cousin Roger. He’s eating all this up. Roger wants to play detective.”

That came as no surprise. “I should have guessed,” I said.

Bill, however, defended the family honor. “Hey, don’t knock the kid too much. Unlike a lot of teenagers, Roger notices things.”

I supposed it figured, being Vida’s grandson. Maybe Roger had inherited Grams’s heightened sense of curiosity.

Milo didn’t look impressed. “Maybe he does, but saying that he saw a bushy-haired stranger backstage during the play sounds like his imagination got the better of him.”

I hated to give Roger the benefit of a doubt. But for once, I had to. The description of Roger’s stranger sounded eerily like the man who was missing from the car that had taken a dive into the Skykomish River.

SEVEN

Milo didn’t agree with my reaction. “When I talked to Roger earlier in the evening, we didn’t have a description of the guy. We didn’t even know if he was still alive. And ‘bushy-haired stranger’ is about as big a cliché as there is.”

I wasn’t convinced. I figured Bill Blatt wasn’t, either, but he wouldn’t contradict his boss in front of an outsider. “Exactly what did Roger say about the stranger?” I asked.

Milo sighed before holding out his empty mug. “How about a refill before we visit Fantasy Island?”

“Okay.” I looked to Bill and Sam, but they declined.

I decided I might as well join Milo in a second round. I wasn’t sure I could get back to sleep, and what was worse, I was starting to get hungry.

“So tell me Roger’s story,” I said after sitting back down on the sofa next to Sam.

Milo scratched his head. “I took a formal statement. Roger was wandering around backstage during the second act. Hanging out, he said, mainly with Rey Fernandez and the other college students who were doing the technical stuff. Rey was showing him a field template for the stage lighting. When Rey finished, Roger happened to look toward the rear exit. He says he saw somebody he didn’t recognize, but he didn’t think much of it at the time because the students who worked as techs during rehearsals weren’t always the same ones. Later, before Roger made his entrance again in the last act, he saw the same guy, just kind of looking around. Then Roger went onstage. He says he didn’t see the guy again but had to wonder what he was doing there. Roger thinks he’s probably our suspect.” Milo made a face.

“Well,” I blurted, “he could be. Aren’t you going to take Roger seriously?”

“Nobody else saw the guy,” Milo responded, reaching into his pocket. “Dammit!” he swore. “My cigarettes are wet.” The sheriff gave me a look of appeal.

I got up. “Okay, so I’ve got a pack stashed in the kitchen—just to prove I don’t need them anymore. Hold on.”

If there was one big impediment to my stop-smoking campaign, it was Milo. I returned with the pack—from which I’d removed a couple of cigarettes in weak moments—and handed it over. But not before I took one for myself.

“Damn you,” I said. “Why can’t you corrupt your deputies and make them smoke, too?”

Milo chuckled. “Jack and Dwight smoke. Unfortunately, they’re not here.”

“I quit,” Sam said, “six years ago last month. I haven’t had a cigarette since that New Year’s Day at eleven-oh-eight in the evening.” He winced as he concluded the sentence. Probably he still longed for a cigarette, but I admired his self-discipline and said as much.

Milo was chuckling again. “I know of a guy up in Whatcom County who died a while back because he stopped smoking. He got so mean that his wife finally blew him away with his hunting rifle.”

The mood in the living room had shifted, becoming anecdotal and unrelated to our current crimes. After another half hour, Milo said it was time to go. The trio left at a few minutes after four. I went into the kitchen and made scrambled eggs and toast. By four-thirty, I was back in bed. To my surprise, I fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until the alarm went off at nine.

My body wanted to stay in bed; my soul told me to move my rear end and get ready for Mass. Wisely I listened to my soul. I could always nap during Dennis Kelly’s well-constructed but often soporific homily. Father Den is very bright, and if he hadn’t possessed a religious vocation he could have been an engineer or an architect. Every phrase is perfectly shaped; every word is in the right place. He says it takes him the entire week to prepare for each Sunday sermon. But he’s not a speaker; he’s a thinker. Despite this, he’s a wonderful priest and a surprisingly good conversationalist.

To my great relief, the streets had been plowed and the snow was still melting. There was plenty of slush and rivulets of water. I hadn’t checked the thermometer before I left, but the temperature had to be well above freezing. There was no snow in the rain, just a steady gray downpour, as I drove the four blocks to St. Mildred’s.

Jack Mullins was seated across the aisle from me. We nodded at each other. Jack looked as tired as I felt. His wife, Nina, appeared as perky as she always does.

Father Den, however, veered from the norm. He had, he declared, put aside the homily he’d intended to give and spoke instead of the recent tragedy at the theater. While I wondered if some of the parishioners might have the feeling that our priest was going to deliver the usual knee-jerk rant against guns, I knew better. Dennis Kelly’s father had been a career military man. He’d taught his son to respect weapons, rather than fear them. God didn’t put guns in people’s hands. It was evil intent—or rank stupidity—that wreaked havoc.

So Father Den spoke of the randomness of death and how God doesn’t choose whether you live or die. Human beings have free will, and they possess flaws. What men and women do isn’t dictated by the Creator. And no one knows when the last hour will come. The young think they are immortal. The not-so-young believe they still have time to change their lives. People suffer from many faults, perhaps the greatest of which is self-delusion and a denial of our mortality.

We all stayed awake.

∗ ∗ ∗

The most dreaded part of the Sunday ritual always came after Mass, when I inevitably encountered Ed and Shirley Bronsky and their brood.

“Hey, hey!” Ed called, coming toward me in his cashmere overcoat with the mink collar. “You want an eyewitness interview for the paper?”

I did, but not necessarily from Ed.

“I could write it up myself,” he volunteered before I could respond. “You know—’in his own words.’ Readers love that stuff. And I could use it in the second volume of my autobiography,
Mr. Ed Gets Wed
.”

I succeeded in keeping a straight face. Ed’s sequel supposedly was based on his family life, so that he could share his philosophy for becoming a successful husband and father. I thought that
Mr. Ed Gets Fed
would be more appropriate, but I never said so. To be fair, Ed and Shirley seemed as happy as if they had good sense—to quote Vida—and their five children had turned out well enough. So far.

And, in fact, Ed’s idea for the newspaper article wasn’t all that bad. At least I wouldn’t have to write it—merely edit it, as I had been coerced into doing with the original
Mr. Ed
manuscript. I dreaded the day that Ed would ask me to “just look over” the second installment.

Shirley, who was wearing enough Norwegian fox to cover a colony of vixens, chimed in. “Ed’s so clever. Not to mention observant. Milo came by Casa de Bronska yesterday while we were having high tea.”

I still kept a straight face. High tea at the Bronskys’ pseudo-villa consisted of double cheeseburgers and fries from McDonald’s instead of small sandwiches and light pastry. Maybe Saturday had been an exception. I couldn’t envision any of the Bronskys tramping six blocks through the snow to the Golden Arches on Front Street.

“What did you observe?” I asked Ed, recalling that he hadn’t mentioned anything to me when we were leaving the theater Friday night.

Ed assumed a thoughtful expression. “It’s deep,” he said. “Not just what I saw, but what I sensed.” He paused for what I presumed was dramatic effect. “Nuances. Feelings. Glances. Things unsaid.”

“Such as?” I tried to avoid looking exasperated.

“You’ll read about it in my article. I’m going to go home and work on it now. We got a new computer last week, so it may take me a day or two,” he explained. “Getting used to the latest bells and whistles. It’s top-of-the-line, beyond state-of-the-art.”

Ed was beyond belief, but he hadn’t lost his touch for clichés. His advertising copy had reflected his lack of creativity. A shipment of shoes at Barton’s Bootery was always “fit for you!”; Platters in the Sky’s latest CDs and tapes were “music to your ears!”; at Alpine Intimates you could “build a firm foundation.” Fortunately for our revenue, advertisers and readers seemed to like his work, a fact that had made me shake my head.

Ed and Shirley bounded off to join their family in the MR PIG Range Rover. Since the kids had grown up—and out—they all couldn’t fit into the Mercedes sedan. I headed for my humble Honda, nodding at Dick and Mary Jane Bourgette, who were pulling out of the parking lot in their SUV.

Since the streets were drivable, I decided to go to the office and see if it was still in one piece. As I came down Fourth, I realized that I hadn’t reckoned with the laws of gravity. Front Street, like most of Alpine’s commercial section, was at the bottom of the river valley. The melting snow had gone downhill from the south side of Tonga Ridge and dumped almost a foot of water and slush into the main artery. The town’s sewer system couldn’t handle all of the excess. Except for a couple of trucks, there was no traffic on Front. I reversed at the intersection and parked on the steep side of Fourth, next to the Alpine Building.

Fortunately, I was wearing knee-high boots. I waded across Front Street to the
Advocate
. Feeling anxious, I unlocked the front door and went inside. The reception area looked fine, everything in its proper place, as Ginny Erlandson had left it Friday afternoon.

The newsroom and the back shop were also unharmed. So far, so good. I’d saved my office for last, fearing the worst.

My fears were justified. An inch of water covered most of the floor, almost but not quite reaching the newsroom door. The floors are uneven, as most are in the earthquake-prone Northwest. Everything that I’d left on my desk and file cabinets was soaked. Another half-dozen large leaks had developed in the roof, and melting snow dripped everywhere. I managed to find three buckets and a basin, but they weren’t enough. Harvey’s Hardware was closed—like most Alpine businesses whose owners adhered to the policy that “if you can’t make it in six, you won’t make it in seven.”

I called Kip MacDuff and told him about the situation. There was the hint of reprimand in my voice, and Kip heard it. “Gosh, Emma,” he said. “I should have gotten around to fixing those leaks sooner. You say we got more?”

I assured him we did. Kip promised to come right down and bring more buckets. I suggested that he also bring a bunch of towels or heavy rags. Maybe we could wipe up most of the standing water.

While I waited for Kip, I wielded the office mop and used what rags I could find along with an entire package of paper towels. When he arrived twenty minutes later, I’d made considerable headway. Luckily, the damage that had been done wasn’t serious. Nothing on my desk or the other surfaces was irreplaceable.

Kip brought some pieces of plywood along with the buckets and towels. “For now, I’ll have to close the leaks from inside,” he informed me. “It won’t look pretty, but it should work. I’ll get the roof materials from Harvey’s tomorrow.” He smiled sheepishly, looking much younger than his twenty-six years. “I really feel bad about this. I guess being a married man has distracted me.”

I smiled back. “It’s not the worst thing that could happen. I’ll get out of your way. I think I’ll walk over to the river. It should be running high.”

“It is,” Kip replied. “They’re talking about flooding.” His ruddy face turned somber. “We may be in for it here at the paper. We were lucky before when the Sky went over its banks. The water never got past Railroad Avenue on this side.”

I remembered all too well. I went out through the back shop and saw that there definitely was cause for alarm. Across Railroad Avenue and the train tracks a dozen people were lugging sandbags where the river would crest. The water was roiling gray, already carrying brush and branches as it swept through town. Hearing the whistle of a freight train, I hurried to the other side of the tracks. Milo was there, talking to Wes Amundson, one of the park rangers and a cousin of Medic Del.

Between the roar of the river and the rumble of the approaching freight, I merely waved. The Burlington–Northern Santa Fe always slows to a crawl when it comes through Alpine. But on this rainy Sunday with the threat of flooding, the train inched its way past the warehouses, the water tower, and the other buildings along Railroad Avenue.

It was a long freight, a doubleheader with maybe sixty cars, heading east. I didn’t speak until the caboose was well down the line.

“How bad is it?” I asked Milo and Wes.

Wes frowned. “Bad enough. They’re predicting the Sky will go over its banks here around four o’clock this afternoon. We may get a break if it stops raining or at least lets up. The state meteorologist’s office says that could happen.” He looked skyward. “See? The clouds are beginning to lift a little.”

Frankly, I couldn’t tell. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The work crew, which seemed to consist mostly of college-age kids, had halted their efforts. Boots Overholt, who had been the prop man at the fateful play, came toward us.

“We’ve run out of sandbags,” he announced. “What do we do now?”

Wes informed the young man that there were more on the way, coming from Monroe. “They’re sending what they can spare,” the ranger said. “The river’s rising down there, too.”

The Sky flows westward along Highway 2 until it joins the Snoqualmie where they both go into the Snohomish River and finally to Puget Sound near Everett. Most of the corridor from the summit of Stevens Pass was endangered.

Milo slapped Wes on the back. “Good luck. Let me know if we can help.” The sheriff turned to me. “You had breakfast yet?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “If you call coffee and toast breakfast.”

Nudging at my elbow, Milo pointed the way to the rear of the Venison Inn. “I’ve had coffee, but that’s it. I didn’t get up until an hour or so ago. I heard the river was rising, so I came to check it out.”

Explaining our minor flood at the office, I told Milo I’d meet him at the restaurant in a few minutes. I found Kip standing on my desk and nailing the last of the plywood to the ceiling. When he’d finished, we cleared up the last of the mess before I called Scott. He didn’t pick up, which figured, so I dialed Tamara’s number. Scott answered the phone. I told him he should come down to the river and take some photos.

“They’re getting more sandbags,” I told him, “so right now nothing much is going on. The Sky’s supposed to go over its banks around four. We’ll need pictures of that, too.”