Alpine Gamble (31 page)

There were links between Stan and Skye; Stan and Blake; Blake and Beverly; Beverly and Scott; Scott, Stan, and Blake. Leonard figured in there, too, with the last three names. So did Ed, if belatedly. Out on the fringe were Henry Bardeen, Cal Vickers, Rip Ridley, and the rest of Alpine.

So what? I was getting nowhere. Almost everybody had an alibi, of sorts. Blake had been at the ski lodge. So, presumably, had Henry Bardeen. Scott was at home, waiting for the glazier. Beverly had driven into Seattle, as had Shirley Bronsky. Which meant that Ed was home alone …

I gave myself a sharp shake. Ed had to be discarded as a suspect, if only because I couldn't see him exerting himself to hike up the hot springs trail. Leonard Hollenberg had done just that, and found Stan's body. At least that was what he claimed.

Then there was Skye, whose alibi was the shakiest of all the serious suspects. She had met Beverly in Sultan for coffee, then gone up to the summit. Her car had broken down on the return trip, making her miss our ten-thirty appointment. Cal had towed the vehicle back to town around two o'clock, just before the helicopter had landed with Stan's body. Skye had arrived at
The Advocate
earlier, around one. How had she gotten back to town? Where had she been in the meantime? Why, as they used to say in old gangster movies, wouldn't she come clean?

Clean.
Cal Vickers had said that Skye was clean. He'd said it while towing her car down Alpine Way. At that point Skye had been back in town for at least an hour. He'd seen Skye somewhere else, maybe along the highway with her car. Had Cal given Skye a ride back to Alpine, then returned later to get her Honda? What was Cal doing along that stretch of road in the late morning or early noon hours?

His job
, I told myself. There was nothing suspicious about Cal Vickers being on Highway 2 at any time of the day or night. He was in the towing business. It took him all over Skykomish County.

Then there was Coach Ridley. But he would have been at school, encouraging young boys to grow into their jockstraps and do other manly things … or would he, so close to year's end? Classes weren't on a regular schedule this week; the seniors had already been dismissed___

My brain was getting fuzzy. Nothing made sense. That was good. I was too tired to think.

That was even better.

On Saturday morning, reality was scrubbing the kitchen floor, vacuuming the living room, and doing the laundry. I refused to fantasize about what might have been: strolling Fisherman's Wharf, riding a cable car, driving over to Sausalito.

The washing had piled up during the week. The clothes I'd worn when Roger's bucket had dumped its contents were still damp. I cursed the little creep anew, though I couldn't help but grudgingly admire his ability to wreak havoc when he wasn't on the scene.

Startling myself, I paused with my arms full of towels. In theory, Roger could claim innocence. He had been with his grandmother when the incident occurred. How could I prove he had put the bucket above the office door?

What if … ? Slowly, I stuffed the towels into the washer, then added detergent and turned the dial. Was it possible that Stan had been set up? Could someone have arranged for the gun to off without a human finger pulling the trigger? Might the bullet have been intended for Blake as well as for Stan?

Maybe I was crazy. Certainly Milo would scoff at my
latest fancy. As I sorted through the rest of the laundry, I tried to figure out how a murder in absentia could have been arranged. I hadn't gotten very far when I mindlessly checked the pockets of my old brown slacks. There was something in the right-hand side. Money? I extracted the folded paper, but it was only a note.

Stan's note. Or notes, from his binder. I felt sad as I gazed at his slanting handwriting, with its detailed notations about the goldfinch. Stan's gesture had been small, but thoughtful and generous. I recalled his journal, with its optimism and enthusiasm. People say life is hard, which it is. But death is more cruel, at least when it comes violently and too soon.

Leaving the second load on the floor by the washer, I went into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. It wasn't quite ten o'clock. Milo ought to be up and about. Maybe he'd had news of Blake Fannucci.

I took Stan's note with me when I went into the living room to dial the sheriff's home number. The waste-basket by the desk yawned up at me. It was pointless to keep the note, yet I couldn't bear to throw it away. Not yet. I was punching in the call to Milo when I realized that I knew who had killed Stan Levine.

I stopped dialing before I hit the last digit in Milo's number. If I wanted to make my theory stick with the sheriff, I needed more information. Milo despised theories, even when they were right.

Again the phone rang at least a half-dozen times before Honoria answered. Her patience was definitely tested when I asked for Skye Piersall's phone number.

“I can give you CATE's headquarters in California or the regional office in Seatde,” Honoria said peevishly, “but it's not my place to hand out her personal number. Nor do I understand why you want it. If this is regarding
your homicide coverage, why can't you wait until you hear something official from Milo?”

I decided to be candid with Honoria. “Because I never will. Not along this line of inquiry. Your boyfriend doesn't believe in coloring outside of the lines.”

To my relief, the statement evoked a snicker. “You're right—Milo isn't a font of imagination. But I still don't like having Skye pestered.”

“I don't like doing it,” I admitted. “On the other hand, it's my job.”

“Is it?” The irony in Honoria's husky voice has hard to miss. “Or are you doing Milo's job for him?”

“Maybe. He's washed his hands of the case. Or haven't you noticed?”

“I haven't noticed
that”
Honoria said, now verging on sarcasm. “If he's signed off, why did he go haring out from here last night when Sam Heppner called?”

The last thing I wanted was to get mixed up in Honoria and Milo's romantic relationship. “It was Sam's call that made Milo throw in the towel,” I explained. “Look, Honoria, I can wait until Monday to call CATE, but in the meantime there's a killer on the loose. Skye may be able to tell me something that will help convince Milo that I know what I'm talking about.”

With the greatest of reluctance and several cautions, Honoria finally surrendered Skye's number in San Mateo. I thanked her profusely, but my indebtedness rankled. The sheriff's light-o'-love was getting on my nerves.

Then, to make me feel not only nosy but futile, Skye didn't answer. I reached her voice mail, which informed me in a professional tone that “the party you are calling is unavailable. Please leave your name and number….”

I didn't. There was no guarantee that Skye would call me back. I'd try her again later. Putting on something
less disreputable than my old sweats, I drove down to the sheriff's office. I didn't expect to find Milo there, but I wanted to take another look at Stan's journal.

To my surprise, the sheriff was on the job. He didn't seem very pleased by my arrival. “Okay, okay, so maybe this Mrs. Simon jumped the gun. The Santa Monica cops didn't find any sign of a break-in. It looks to them as if Blake Fannucci left in a hurry. He probably wanted to get a head start on the weekend.”

I began to speak, then stopped. I wasn't going to break my vow of silence until I'd nailed down some more facts. Milo, however, wasn't finished yet.

“Then, just to drive me nuts, Henry Bardeen swears somebody waltzed off with the folder that contained Blake and Stan's bills. They also deleted the information from the computer. Now who would do that? And why?”

Dustin Fong, who had been sitting at his own computer, gently cleared his throat. “Maybe it has something to do with Mr. Fannucci's alibi, sir. Aren't those receipts stamped with the time when the order is rung up?”

Milo started to glare at his deputy, then began to nod. “Could be. Yeah, it might be somebody who didn't want Blake Fannucci proving where he was last Monday morning. But how did they do it?”

Dustin's fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his dark eyes rested hopefully on his boss. “The easiest answer is that it was someone who works at the lodge. Like … ah … Mr. Bardeen. Or his daughter. But,” the young man added quickly, “I realize you have no reason to suspect either of them.”

I waited patiently while Dustin resumed his work on the computer and Milo mentally chewed over his deputy's words. “It can't be Henry,” he breathed. “Or Heather.”

My own doubts were surfacing. Almost diffidently, I asked Milo if I could see Stan's journal.

Grumbling, he ordered Dustin to get the item from the evidence locker. “You've got something on your mind,” Milo said with a trace of reproach. “What is it now?”

“Just wait.” I offered Milo what I hoped was a placating smile. “Tell me this—where's Stan's bird binder?”

“Huh?” Milo scowled at me. “What are you talking about?”

Briefly, I explained. Dustin handed me the journal. 'The binder should have been with this,” I said, flipping through the first three pages that contained the Alpine jottings. Grimly, I reread the short paragraphs. There, in the final entry, was the clincher. I set the journal down on the counter, then dug into my handbag.

“Two things,” I said, handing Milo the piece of note-paper from Stan's binder. “Three, actually. Look at the handwriting. It slants and it's legible, but it's not the same as these notes about the goldfinch. Secondly, there's the mention of the bluebird. And third, why wasn't Stan's binder found along with the journal?” I folded my arms, allowing Milo's brain to work its lead-footed wonders.

“Bluebird, my butt!” Milo breathed. “We don't have bluebirds around here. We've got blue jays.”

“Precisely,” I said, sounding as primly smug as Vida. “You didn't notice that before?”

Milo stared again at the open pages. “No,” he muttered, then looked up sharply. “When did you see this? Dwight Gould swore that nobody went through Lev-ine's room at the lodge after the murder.”

Not wanting to get Bill Blatt in trouble, I shook my head. “Never mind that. As for the bird notes, Stan had
them at my house. He gave me that slip of paper. What do you make of it?”

Dustin Fong was watching us out of the corner of his eye. A twitch along his jawline indicated his intense curiosity.

“We'll have to get a handwriting expert on this,” Milo said at last. “But you may be right. The similarities are pretty superficial.” He handed the open journal and the notebook paper to his deputy. “You got an opinion, Dustman?”

With deference to his superior, Dustin backed me up. I felt a rush of encouragement. “Show me those bits and pieces from the campfire at the springs,” I said to Milo.

With a sigh, Milo trudged off to the evidence locker. “Is there anything else you need?” he called from around the corner. “I'm just a county peon, trying to do a job.”

“One step at a time,” I said, controlling my mounting excitement.

Milo brought out the plastic bag with its charred remnants. We went into his office, where he put on surgical gloves and sifted through the items. I stopped him when he picked up a half-dozen bolts.

“Why so many?” I asked, sounding peremptory in my own ears.

Milo scowled. “To keep the birdhouse in place. That thing was pretty big. It had to be, if Hollenberg expected to get spotted owls.”

I let the explanation pass, speaking only when the sheriff sorted through what he'd earlier identified as pull tabs from the beer cans.

“Look at those,” I urged, leaning on the edge of Milo's desk. “They aren't from aluminum cans. They're too thick. Those are from Stan's binder. Somebody
wanted it destroyed so that we wouldn't have a sample of his handwriting.”

Milo swore under his breath. It seemed that he was beginning to see the light. “Then those bills at the ski lodge—they were stolen for the same reason?”

No longer on such firm ground, I grimaced. “Maybe. In a way.”

“Well?” Milo drummed his latex-covered fingers on the desk.

My smile was now pretty thin. “We'd better go up to the hot springs.”

But Milo wasn't about to take even the mildest of orders. “Oh, no! I'm not wasting two hours climbing Spark Plug! The only way I go back is in a copter, and I'm not requesting one from Chelan County again.”

In all honesty, I couldn't blame Milo. “Okay,” I said, sinking into one of the sheriff's visitor's chairs. “Then let me tell you how I think Stan Levine was shot when nobody else was there.”

THE
ITEMS
FROM the campfire had been replaced in the evidence bag. Milo had removed his surgical gloves and discarded them in the wastebasket. We both had mugs of dreadful coffee and lighted cigarettes. Obviously, the sheriff had settled in for the long haul.

“The problem is,” I began apologetically, “that I don't know much about firearms.”

Milo grunted.

“But I think I know how the murder was committed so that the killer could have an almost perfect alibi.”

Milo arched his eyebrows.

“It was the birdhouse. It was big enough to accommodate spotted owls. A handgun would fit inside. The trigger was cocked and attached to something so that when Stan went up to look inside—which would have been at about eye level for him—he tripped a wire or a cord so that it fired. That's why he was shot through the eye.” I paused, flinching at the thought. Milo simply stared at me. “I don't know exactly what caused the gun to go off, but that's why the birdhouse had to be burned along with Stan's binder and the phony party stuff that was supposed to be left by teenagers. The birdhouse would have shown traces of gunpowder or whatever. As for the gun itself, it could be anywhere along the mountainside. If a piece of cord or string was tied to the trigger, it was probably burned in the fire.”

Milo blew out a big cloud of smoke. I stopped talking, waiting for some kind of response. When it came, the sheriff's manner was matter-of-fact:

“That's pretty damned complicated. How could the killer know Stan would be the one looking in the bird-house?”

“Who else? Stan loved birds. Leonard put the house up, but he's too short to see inside. It was just a matter of time until Stan took a peek.” Again I stopped. My earnestness must have showed. Milo took a deep breath.