Alpine Gamble (33 page)

“That you heard if from a birdbrain?” The flippancy didn't sit well with the sheriff. “Okay,” I went on, somewhat irked. 'Tell them whatever you want. The evidence is all circumstantial and the killer is dead. Just close the case so that everybody in Alpine can stop suspecting everybody else.”

Milo's hazel eyes threw me a challenge. “And how can I do that without going to the local press?”

I was dumbfounded, not so much by Milo but by my own obtuseness. In the past two hours since I'd unraveled the mystery of Stan's death, I hadn't consciously thought of the solution as a hot story for
The Advocate.
Where was my nose for news? What had happened to my priorities? Why had I bothered, if not to break out the big black headlines?

There was Stan, of course, an intelligent, decent man whose idealism had contributed to his murder. There was Truth and there was Justice and there was plain old-fashioned curiosity. But most of all there was Milo, who had pigheadedly refused to veer off the beaten path. Or trail, in this case. I hadn't wanted to see him self-destruct.

“I forget,” I said. “When's your birthday?”

Once again Milo was regarding me as if I were a candidate for the loony bin. “March first. You bought me a couple of drinks, remember?”

I did. “Three. We all but reeled out of the Venison Inn. Okay,” I sighed, “it's too late for your birthday. Consider this a Father's Day present. It's coming up a week from tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?”

I took a deep breath. “This is a gift. I don't want credit for this. It would be inappropriate. For one thing, I'm doing some guessing and making quite a few surmises. You can use what evidence there is—the burned stuff from the fire, the personal and corporate bank accounts, the forged journal, Skye's statements, Beverly's testimony. If Blake had lived and gone on trial, he'd probably have been convicted. The only thing you don't have is the gun.”

“Shit!” Milo had sprung to his feet, knocking over a small lamp in the process. He made a grab for it, missed, and left it lying on the floor. “I'll bet I know where that sucker is! Come on, Emma, we're going up to the hot springs!”

“But I thought you said—”

It was useless to argue. Milo was at his hall closet, putting on hiking boots. I was wearing sandals. There was no way I could manage that rugged trail in such flimsy footgear.

“You'll have to go without me,” I said as Milo
straightened up. I wiggled a foot at him. “Look, Pa, no shoes.”

“We'll swing by your place so you can change,” Milo said, opening the front door.

I opened my mouth to agree, then shook my head. “No, Milo.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “This is your case. You grab the glory. I'll write about it. When you find the gun, I'll be down in the parking lot with my camera. We'll put you all over page one.”

Milo looked as if he was going to argue, but he didn't. Instead he put his hands over mine and leaned down to kiss me. It started as a friendly gesture, then grew into something else. Startled, I let the kiss deepen and was vaguely aware that Milo now had his arms around me. When we finally pulled apart, perhaps by mutual consent or a need to breathe, he chuckled and I giggled.

“Crazy, huh, Emma?” he said, his voice a little thick.

“Really crazy.” I suppressed what felt like a hiccup. We exchanged sheepish looks. “We've been under a strain,” I said in a lame voice.

“Murder can do that to you.” Milo rummaged in his pocket for his car keys. “Maybe I'll have time to fix your doorbell later today.”

“That'd be great.” We began walking out to the street. “Do you want to come for dinner?”

Milo grimaced. “I can't. I'm taking Honoria to some artsy-craftsy party in Snohomish. Can I have a rain check?” Suddenly, he sounded boyishly eager.

“Sure. Tomorrow would be fine. My weekend's wide open.” We were almost to the Melvilles' house, where we'd left our cars. I could feel the unaccustomed awkwardness between us, yet it wasn't entirely unpleasant. “In fact, wait and fix the doorbell then.”

“Okay.” Milo had reached his Cherokee Chief. “You
had other plans, originally.” His tone only hinted at a question.

I let out a long sigh. “I sure did. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Maybe.”

Milo nodded, then gave me his lopsided grin. “See you in the parking lot.” He started to duck inside the vehicle, then bobbed up like a cork. “Hey—pick up Vida on your way. If you don't, she'll be … what's the word she uses?—
wild.”

I made a face. “Vida's got Roger.”

“So? If it hadn't been for that miserable little brat, you might never have figured out who killed Stan Levine. Then I'd still be wandering around in a fog, and the rest of Alpine would go on being at each other's throats.”

I didn't say anything. I just stood there by my car and smiled. Milo climbed into his Cherokee Chief and drove off. I got into the Jag, but waited to start the engine. The Melville house looked deceptively quiet, with the noonday sun glinting off its new picture window. Inside, Beverly and Scott were probably agonizing over the dark side of Blake Fannucci. There wasn't much I could do about their personal tragedy. They were young and strong; they'd struggle to put the horror behind them. Someday they might even feel as if they belonged in Alpine.

I did, most of the time. Passing the tree-lined golf course, I saw the stands of evergreens, marching up the mountainside. There was still snow on Baldy's twin ridges, though the patches had shrunk since the previous Saturday. As I drove out of the Icicle Creek development, San Francisco seemed far away and not quite real. The City, as Bay Area residents called it, has always struck me as a magical place—part chic sophistication, part unbridled hedonism, part cultural mecca. And always hostage to its history—the missionaries, the
Barbary Coast, the earthquake, the fire, the phoenix rising from the steep hills.

Alpine had hills, and there the similarity ended. I hadn't been able to spend the weekend with Tom. My opportunity to console him had been wiped out by Sandra's capriciousness. Or Tom's cowardice. Was his bondage a personality flaw? Had Sandra long ago bought and paid for him? Maybe I'd never figure it out. Anger with Tom, delayed and unfamiliar, was setting in, along with a sense of revolt. Maybe I was being unfair, even irrational. Tom's dilemma was mine as well—as long as I allowed it to affect me. But of one thing I was certain—I might not have helped him through his most recent crisis. Instead I'd been there for Milo.

The thought didn't make me sad. Not at all.

To my delight, Milo had found the murder weapon where his brainstorm had directed him. It was under the plastic lining in one of the hot springs pools. So was the small vise that had been used to hold the gun. In a typical show of respect for nature, the sheriff and his men hadn't wanted to disturb the mineral waters by making a search.

“We considered draining the pools at one point,” Milo had explained while I fiddled with my camera in the parking lot later that afternoon. “But that meant stopping the incoming flow. It didn't seem right”

No doubt Blake had guessed how the local law enforcement people would react. Or maybe he just got lucky. Given time, the sulfurous waters would have corroded the gun, making identification impossible. But six days had done no real harm. With the help of his California colleagues, Milo was hoping to trace the murder weapon back to Blake. As the sheriff all but swaggered off to his Cherokee Chief, I shot my final frame of film.
It wouldn't be usable in the paper, but I wanted it as a keepsake.

Strangely, I didn't mind eating dinner alone at home that night. I'd finished my domestic chores while Milo was hiking up and down die hot springs trail. After I returned from my photo shoot, I considered calling Leonard Hollenberg. And Ed Bronsky. Their reactions to the death of Blake Fannucci—and thus of VineFan—would be included in our homicide coverage. It appeared that the ambitious spa project was also dead.

But Milo hadn't made any official pronouncements about the case. Knowing him, he'd take his time, mulling over the evidence, filling out reports, checking and rechecking with his fellow law enforcement officials in California. That was good. The longer Milo waited, the better were my chances for an honest-to-God exclusive. I didn't want credit for solving the murder, but I sure as hell hoped to get the jump on the rest of the media. That would be ample reward.

Which, as it turned out, was the very first word I heard out of my son when he called around nine that night. “Reward: one lost GPA. Please return immediately to owner. Gee, Mom, I think I'm going to bomb my finals. Why do professors have to give these dumb essay tests?”

I didn't bother to ask Adam why he hadn't studied harder. I skipped explaining the rationale behind essays. I ignored the need to point out to the younger generation that the written word still had merit.

“Have you talked to your uncle this week?” I asked instead. “How's the war?”

“He's got things calmed down. Uncle Ben is cool. He held a barbecue and everybody came and made up. Sort of. I wish I'd been there. Mom, these Native Americans need help. They're really great people, with serious feelings about nature and all that stuff. I think I'd like
to be a social worker and help them. It's not fair what the white man did, barging onto their land and taking everything away. Think about it—how would you like it if some Martians came down to Earth and stole everything?'

Californians weren't Martians, but some Pacific Northwesterners considered them just as foreign. As long as there was a frontier, the adventurous would explore it. Exploit it, too. That was human nature, under any guise. Greed, ambition, opportunity—the bold and the desperate clambered all over the pages of America's history books.

“The Native Americans are getting their revenge with all these new casinos,” I pointed out. “What better way to fleece the rest of the folks while letting them think they're having a wonderful time?”

“That's not the point,” Adam said, sounding unusually serious. Obviously, he thought his mother was being frivolous. “We can't give back what we never had a right to take in the first place. You know, like their dignity and their culture. That's why I want to work with them—like Uncle Ben does—and help break the cycle of poverty and alcoholism and being torn between two worlds. You wouldn't believe how deep these people are, both the Navajo and the Hopi. Then you go way back, to the Anasazi, and you see how they built their civilization in a time and a place that would have ruined other ethnic groups. Can you imagine the French or the Germans carving entire cities from the sides of cliffs?”

There are occasions when a parent shouldn't argue, even for the sake of argument. I sensed that this was one of them. Consciously or otherwise, Ben was exerting a heady influence over his nephew. The greatest lack in Adam's life until recently had been the absence
of a father figure. I'd keep my mouth shut and wait to see what my brother had wrought.

Adam's enthusiasm didn't wane until someone arrived at his dorm, presumably to join forces in an assault on the upcoming exams. I verified the Phoenix flight's estimated arrival time at Sea-Tac, wished my son luck on the tests, and bade him good night.

The phone rang again before I got more than three feet away. I was half expecting it to be Vida, who must have been liberated from Roger by now.

But it was Ginny Burmeister, with bubbles in her voice. “Oh, Emma! I tried to call a couple of times earlier but you weren't home and I didn't want to leave a message. Not this kind of message, anyway. Don't faint—but Rick and I are engaged!”

Clearly, Ginny was more surprised that I was. But I wouldn't spoil her announcement. “That's terrific,” I enthused. “When's the wedding?”

“February,” she replied promptly. “We're not sure which day yet because we haven't talked to Pastor Nielsen at the Lutheran church. We'll do that next week. I can't wait to show you the ring! It's absolutely goigeous!”

“Have you told Vida?” I asked.

“Yes, I talked to her this afternoon. She was utterly dumbfounded!” Ginny chortled. “Isn't it fun to put something over on her? I mean, she
always
knows
everything”

So she did. So she had. But Ginny didn't need to know about the anxious speculation that had been going 'round the office. As for me, I'd forgotten about her romantic evening with Rick on
The River Queen.

After hanging up with Ginny, I dialed Vida's number. She hadn't answered when I'd called to ask her along to the hot springs parking lot. I assumed she and Roger were off on their merry rounds of pleasure. Milo was
right—Vida would never forgive me if I didn't fill her in on what had happened in the murder investigation. But Vida wasn't home. I guessed that she had dropped Roger off at his parents' house and stayed on for a visit. I'd keep trying to reach her every ten minutes or so. I couldn't let her find out about Blake Fannucci from Bill Blatt or some other source.

Just before midnight I became uneasy. Vida didn't go to bed early, but on the other hand, she was no night owl. I thought of calling her daughter, then changed my mind. Amy and Ted Hibbert had put in a long drive from Spokane. They were probably in bed and asleep.

Of course, Vida might be calling on some of her other numerous kinfolk. Perhaps she was seeking moral support for her Sunday meeting with Mr. Ree. That was dubious, however: Vida didn't need emotional props. She was always the one to nurture. Vida had broad shoulders in more ways than one.

At precisely midnight I put on my clothes and drove over to Vida's tidy little bungalow on Tyee Street. The house was dark, except for a light on the back porch. The detached garage was open and empty. Vida was out somewhere, having a good time. I was not her keeper, only her boss. And friend.

I stood by my car, chewing my lower lip. A murderer was no longer loose in Alpine. At least not one that we knew of. Still, it didn't seem right for Vida to stay out so late the night before the big meeting with her would-be suitor. Knowing Vida, she'd want to get her “beauty sleep.”

A car was coming along Tyee, but it was going too fast for a sudden stop. I glimpsed a quartet of teenagers, probably returning from year-end revels.