The Alpine Advocate (12 page)

I was driving down Front Street when I realized that for the first time in years, I didn’t much like heading home alone.

A
DAM TOLD ME
I was weird. “Chris wouldn’t hurt a bug,” he insisted after I’d explained the events of the last two days in Alpine. “Sure, he talked about having it out with old Neeny. It was his favorite subject after he’d had a couple of beers. But get violent? No way, Mom. You’re too weird to even think it.”

I assured Adam that I wasn’t the one who thought Chris might be implicated in Mark’s murder. Then, aware that I’d already used up over five minutes of long distance clock, I asked my son if he knew of any relatives or friends Chris had in Seattle. Adam didn’t. The only family Chris had ever mentioned was the Alpine contingent. Margaret hadn’t kept up with Hector’s relations. She’d started a new life in Hawaii, and all her real friends were still there.

I was coming to a dead end, but I had a sudden inspiration. “Adam, did Margaret have a boyfriend?”

“Huh?” He sounded shocked. Obviously, women in my peer group should not be allowed to date due to encroaching senility. “Gee, I don’t think so. She was like you—sort of, like, well, you know, antisocial.”

“I am not antisocial!” I bristled. “I’m choosy, damn it. Do you want a mother who’s a tramp?”

My son gave out with a little laugh that was part sneer, part embarrassment. “You could go out with some guy once in awhile, Mom. You haven’t done that since the Nutty Professor in Portland.”

“Never mind my love life,” I snapped. “How much money has Chris got with him?”

There was a pause. “I don’t know,” Adam finally answered. “He does okay. He got his mom’s insurance and some attorney dude over here has rented out the house for him. He worked, too, at the Hilton.”

No trust fund, I thought. Simon hadn’t mentioned one for Chris, but there was always a chance that Neeny had kept his own counsel. Apparently Margaret had been completely cut out of the family money.

“Oh,” Adam added as I mulled, “he has some plastic.”

It sounded as if Chris could get by for a while without having to send back to Honolulu for more money. For the dozenth time that day, I wondered if Chris had stayed in Seattle or headed south. “Okay, Adam, I can’t think of anything else to ask you. Is everything all right over there?”

“Sure,” Adam replied. “Deloria and I are going to a movie tonight.” I was about to pry when Adam continued: “Hey, what should I do with Chris’s mail?”

“Hang on to it, I guess. Unless he settles some place.” Like jail, I thought grimly.

“There isn’t much,” Adam noted, “except his
Sports Illustrated
, a couple of ads, and a letter.”

In the past few years, I’d come to regard the writing of personal letters as dead as the dodo. My curiosity was piqued. “Who from?” Maybe it had something to do with the rental house; if so, Adam should attend to it in Chris’s absence. It would help teach him responsibility, or so my unrealistic maternal mind-set ran.

“Let me see.” Adam rummaged in the background. I reached over to click on the TV. I usually watch the early evening news, not just to keep informed, but to check out any possible local tie-ins. “It’s postmarked Seattle,” Adam was saying as the image of a sinking ship appeared on the screen. “That’s weird,” he remarked. “There’s a printed return address from Alpine. Phoebe Pratt. Oh, I remember
her. Isn’t she the old bat with all the clown makeup and the hairdo that looks like a pineapple?”

I took in a sharp breath. “Open it,” I commanded in my best breach-of-ethics tone.

“I can’t do that,” Adam protested. “It’s addressed to Chris. That’s
snooping.”

“That’s my job. Come on, Adam,” I coaxed, “just this once. It could be important. To Chris.”

It was his turn to sigh. “Okay, hang on … It’s dated September twenty-third. Jeez, I don’t like this. … Why don’t I just stick it in another envelope and send it to you so you can give it to Chris?”

“Why don’t you just stick that idea in your ear? Phoebe is Neeny Doukas’s girlfriend, get it?” I stopped just long enough to let that fact sink in on Adam. “It’s very strange that she would write to Chris. Read me the blasted thing. Then you can mail it to me, okay?”

The stationery fluttered in my ear. I had visions of it being pale lavender and scented. I was probably wrong. No doubt it was typed on a word processor—but sometimes I cling to illusions.

“‘Dear Chris,’” Adam began. “‘This letter may come as a surprise to you. You probably don’t remember me, but I certainly remember you as a little boy. You were such a handsome lad and so well-behaved.’” Adam paused. “This is a bunch of bilge, Mom. It’ll make Chris puke.”

“Go on.” I gritted my teeth and gave only fleeting attention to the TV image of a North Seattle bank, the site, presumably, of an afternoon holdup.

“Where was I? Oh—‘I’m sorry your poor mother passed away last year. You must feel her loss sorely. I should have written sooner to offer my sympathy, but time goes by so fast, even in Alpine.’ What a crock!” exclaimed Adam. I could picture him shaking his head. Nevertheless, he went on reading: “‘I’ve been looking after your grandfather, and I hate to tell you this, but he’s failing. I know he would love to see you, so if you could come over to the Mainland on your next college vacation,
do consider it. Meanwhile, I stand ready to help you any way I can. Though bridges may be burned—’ Get this, Mom. You’re gonna blow chunks. ‘—the way home remains. Be assured, you still have one friend in Alpine. Sincerely yours, Phoebe Pratt.’ Retch-making, huh?”

“Puzzle-making,” I murmured. On Channel 4, a disabled Metro bus was blocking traffic on the freeway. I wished all the Doukases, plus Fuzzy Baugh, were trapped inside. “I think you had better send that to me. Overnight. I’ll pay for it.”

“It’s just a bunch of birdcrap. What’s it got to do with Mark Doukas getting whacked?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. But deep down I had a feeling there might be a connection.

For the next minute or so, I listened to Adam try to weasel out of a trip to the post office. He was short of ready cash—of course. He had to study for a test—maybe. He didn’t want to be late picking up Deloria—naturally. But eventually he gave in; the post office was only two blocks away. I figured he could throw the letter that far, which is how I assume the mail is often delivered anyway.

Still resisting the urge to ask more about Deloria, I poured myself a glass of English ale and sat back to catch the last fifteen minutes of news. Except for a feature on a couple in Kirkland who’d adopted a pair of aardvarks, the rest was weather and sports. Mark Doukas’s murder hadn’t made the Seattle television scene, and I didn’t know whether to be glad or sad.

I turned off the set and realized I hadn’t listened to my answering machine. I’d been too anxious to call Adam to notice the flashing red light. Luckily, there were only three calls: an old friend from Portland, Darlene Adcock asking if I could fill in for a sick bridge player Saturday night, and Sheriff Dodge. I dialed Milo first, hoping to catch him still at work.

He was. “The crowbar did it,” he declared. “I tried to call you at the office, but Vida said you’d just left.”

“Prints?” I asked, taking notes.

“Wiped clean except for some smudges we can’t use. The weapon belongs to Simon Doukas—he thinks.” Dodge sounded annoyed. “The flashlight was Mark’s.”

“What do you mean, Simon
thinks
it was his? Mark was trying to buy one from Harvey Adcock that afternoon.”

“Seen one crowbar, seen ’em all. Simon said he had at least one, maybe two, but he couldn’t find either of them,” Dodge explained. “It sounds as if Mark had been trying to pry open the mine.”

“Mayor Baugh wants to open it,” I said in a casual voice.

“Jeez! That’s great, we’ll end up with fifty men trying to rescue some poor little kid who wandered in by mistake.” Dodge’s annoyance was turning into anger. “Why can’t people leave well enough alone?” His tone changed quickly. “Have you heard from Chris again?”

“No. Are you looking for him?” I didn’t sound quite so casual this time.

Dodge sighed. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to. By the way, did you know the story made the five o’clock news on the Everett radio stations?”

I gave a little gasp. Apparently, the Seattle media hadn’t had the time—or the inclination—to pick up on the item yet. “No. Well, it’s out in the open anyway.”

“Simon’s pitching a fit,” Dodge said, not without a hint of pleasure. “Hey, you want to go get some dinner? How about that French place down the highway?”

In the past few months, Milo Dodge and I had shared a half-dozen meals, usually accidental luncheon encounters. This was the first time he’d issued a formal invitation. Rankled by my son’s gibes, I accepted. Besides, what better way to ferret out more information than over boeuf Bourguignon and a glass of Beaujolais?

I was changing into a white crepe blouse and a black pleated skirt when Vida called.

“Can you swing a crowbar?” she demanded.

I allowed that I thought I could.

“So can anybody who’s not feeble,” she retorted. “So
where does that leave us? Did you hear about the Everett stations?” She was gleeful. “Let that moron Simon put that up his nose. As for Fuzzy, it’ll make his hair fall off.”

While trying to button my blouse and juggle the receiver, I told Vida about Phoebe’s letter to Chris. She was flabbergasted.

“Well, if that doesn’t beat all!” A teakettle whistled in the background and Vida’s canary, Cupcake, competed with the sound. “Why would she do such a thing?”

“Sucking up, my son would say,” I suggested, marveling that he hadn’t. “How does Phoebe get along with the rest of the Doukases?”

“Like cat and dog,” said Vida. “Except for Cece. Cece Doukas gets along with everybody, which is a sure sign that there’s something wrong with her. Simon’s never approved of his father carrying on with Phoebe, but he doesn’t dare speak up, the little weasel, and Kent’s been downright insulting. Jennifer sticks up her nose, and Mark—well, Mark considered Phoebe a world-class leech. Which she is, but I hate to admit to agreeing with Mark, even if he is dead.”

I slipped into my sling-back black pumps. “You don’t suppose Phoebe is angling to marry Neeny, do you?”

Vida scoffed. “After all these years? You know the old saying about the cow and the free milk—Phoebe’s been a regular dairy farm for Neeny Doukas.” She huffed a bit, then suddenly changed her tune. “Emma, people are
very
strange. Do you suppose that’s why Phoebe dragged Neeny to Las Vegas?”

I’d forgotten about the trip the previous month. “Gee, it could be. At least it’s something we could check out. Or Milo could. I’m going to dinner with him. I’ll mention it.”

“You’re
what?”
Vida’s voice exploded into my ear.

I cringed. I hadn’t wanted to confess my date with the sheriff, but I knew that by tomorrow morning, it would be all over town. “We’re going to discuss the case.” It wasn’t a lie: Given the circumstances, of course we’d talk about Mark’s murder.

Vida huffed and puffed some more. “Ooooh—just be careful, Emma.”

“Hey, I’m safe. I’ll be with a law enforcement person.”

Vida’s tone turned dour. “Don’t let him finagle any more out of you than you get from him. In
any
way,” she added darkly.

“Don’t worry, I’m a big girl,” I insisted. But I sounded more confident than I felt. I had the feeling that Vida knew it.

The Café de Flore was run by a Frenchman who had married a Californian. Together, they had fled north with dreams of opening a restaurant that featured prime examples of cuisine from Paris, Brittany, and Normandy, with a dash of Beverly Hills.

The decor was as simple as it was predictable: one wall covered with wine racks, gleaming copper pots suspended from the ceiling, and bunches of dried wildflowers. The tables and chairs were an odd-lot collection that looked as if the owners had bought up kitchen donations to St. Vincent de Paul. But the food was excellent, and though the menu was small, the wine list was long. I chose the beef I’d envisioned, while Milo let me recommend the pork chops baked with apples. We didn’t mention Mark until our entrées arrived.

“How did the radio people in Everett get the story?” I inquired after he’d raised the subject by remarking that murder investigations were exhausting.

“The usual way,” he answered. Milo’s shambling frame was decked out in what I guessed he considered semiformal attire—a brown corduroy sports coat, tan shirt, dark brown slacks. No tie. “They check our blotter over the phone every morning,” Milo explained. “Then we got a couple of calls, so one of the deputies doled out the bare facts. We didn’t know about the crowbar for sure at that time.” He gave me a wry grin. “You’ll be glad to hear they didn’t mention Mark finding gold.”

I was relieved. It’s embarrassing to find yourself a
laughingstock among your peer group. “Are you still after Chris?” I asked bluntly.

Milo, who was trying to figure out the identity of his vegetable, gave a shrug. “We certainly need to question him, yes. I’m putting out an APB tomorrow if he hasn’t shown up by tonight. I would have done it earlier, but Eeeny talked me out of it.”

Inwardly, I thanked the former sheriff. “He doesn’t think Chris is … involved?”

“He doesn’t think we have any evidence.” Milo surrendered and ate the unknown vegetable. My guess was that it was turnip; I had tiny brussels sprouts. “I think Eeeny’s overly cautious.”

Judging from that remark, I gathered that Milo Dodge did indeed have some sort of evidence. My appetite flagged. I approached the matter obliquely. “Have you figured out where Chris went last night?”

Milo nodded once. “Oh, yeah. We know quite a bit about that.” He pushed aside the single candle that flickered between us. “Don’t you?” His gaze was very level.

“I sure don’t.” I bristled a bit. “He was like a clam when he got back to my house. Where was he?”

Chewing on his pork chop, Milo shot me a disapproving glance. “I can’t tell you that, Emma. Hell,” he chuckled, “you won’t even tell me what I’m eating. What’s a
pomme?”