The Alpine Advocate (8 page)

Milo leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the desk. His cowboy boots, which had recently been resoled, reached almost halfway across the littered surface. “You don’t publish again until next Wednesday. What’s the rush?”

“The outside media, for one thing,” I replied. “The Seattle and Everett papers will be interested. So will the TV and radio stations. You said it—the Doukas family is rich enough and venerable enough to make news outside of Alpine.”

Dodge looked pained. “I don’t want a bunch of reporters nosing around town.”

I gave him a flinty smile. “Then give me the story. I can be the media contact and save them all a trip.”

Dodge cracked the mint with his teeth and swung his feet back onto the floor. He picked up a sheaf of papers and scanned them rapidly. “I got a call last night from Mark Doukas asking me to meet him up at Mineshaft Number Three at nine o’clock. I didn’t take the call personally, because I was at an all-day meeting and a dinner
in Monroe. I got to the mine right on the dot, and Eeeny Moroni was already there. It seems that Mark had called him, too.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and adjusting the expansion band of his watch. The hazel eyes were shadowy, and it dawned on me that unlike his counterparts in Portland’s Multnomah County, dead bodies weren’t a common occurrence for Milo. Especially bodies he was used to seeing on Front Street or in the bar at the Venison Inn.

“Eeeny was having a fit,” Dodge continued in a quiet voice. “He’d found Mark with his head bashed in. He was lying near the old mineshaft. He was still warm. I doubt if he’d been dead for more than a few minutes.”

I cringed a bit and allowed for an appropriate moment of silence. Dodge was now fidgeting with a small figure of a spotted owl around whose neck hung a sign:
EAT ME—I’M YOURS
. Logging humor often eludes me; any kind of humor was hard to come by at the moment. The significance of Dodge’s words struck me: “His head was bashed in? How?”

Milo’s gaze shifted to the opposite wall that was covered with maps of the county. “We aren’t sure yet.”

“But he was … uh, clobbered, right?”

“Right.” Dodge stood up; he seemed to loom over me. “Emma, I’ve got to see Doc Dewey. I’ll give you more later, okay? Meanwhile, you help us locate Chris. Deal?” He extended his hand.

I kept mine in my lap. I also remained seated. “Not until I know why you want to speak to him.”

The pained expression returned. Milo Dodge knew I could be stubborn. On at least two occasions, he had compared me to his ex-wife, Tricia, whose nickname was Old Mulehide. In a perverse way, I was flattered. Generally, however, we got along, engaging in the symbiotic relationship that is inherent between the press and law enforcement. “You can keep your mouth shut,” Milo conceded, more to himself than to me.

“It’s part of the job description.”

He nodded. “Right.” He sighed, leaning one hand against the wall next to the steelhead’s snout. “Chris Ramirez was going around town yesterday trying to buy a gun. He couldn’t, of course, having just arrived in this state. But he didn’t ask about a hunting license. So what should we make of that, Emma?”

“Not much,” I answered. “Mark wasn’t shot, was he?”

He eyed me with a smirk. “And if Chris wanted to whack somebody, he didn’t have a gun. Mark and Chris had a big argument at dinner last night, according to Kent MacDuff.” Suddenly, Dodge swung around the desk and stood next to my chair. He was definitely looming now. “Why did you keep asking me if I meant it was Neeny who’d gotten killed?”

The sheriff had caught me off-guard. Fleetingly, I wondered if this was a ploy he reserved for interrogation. “Because he’s old,” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed more than one beat. I stared up at him with my best brown-eyed look of innocence. “I thought there might have been a mistake. Maybe Neeny had simply had a heart attack and somebody had jumped to conclusions.”

Dodge cocked his head to one side. “Not bad,” he remarked with a wry smile.

“Well?” I stood up rather awkwardly. “Are you absolutely certain Mark didn’t fall?”

The wry expression intensified. “Oh, yes, we’re sure of that.”

“I still think you’re nuts trying to direct suspicion at Chris. He didn’t even know Mark.”

Dodge ignored the comment. “What time did Chris get home last night?”

Damn
, I thought. I was in the dark about so much when it came to Chris Ramirez. To make matters worse, I wasn’t entirely certain why I was so eager to defend him. Except that he was Adam’s friend, and a mother hates to admit her kid has lousy judgment when it comes to people. “Midnight,” I answered weakly.

Dodge nodded. “He left Simon and Cece’s a little before
eight-thirty. I don’t suppose he told you where he was for the rest of the evening?”

“I didn’t ask.”

For a long moment, Dodge was silent. At last, he loped toward the door and opened it. “Get him back here, Emma. Otherwise, I’ll have to send out an APB.”

I hoisted my handbag over my shoulder. “Then do it PDQ. I don’t expect to see him again. He’s going to California.”

The hazel eyes bore down on me. “Like hell he is,” Dodge said.

I brushed past him. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

“That’s fine,” the sheriff said to my back. “But don’t call me dumb. I’m not.”

I didn’t reply. I already knew that.

I took Vida with me to the murder site. Carla had begged to come along, but this was a tricky story, dealing with the most powerful family in the county. Vida might have the tact of a bull elephant, but she knew the cast of characters, and they knew her. In a small town, that was crucial.

It was a mile from
The Advocate
to Mineshaft Number Three, just off the county road that wound up through the foothills to the ranger station and Icicle Creek Camp Ground. The wind had blown itself out against the mountains, and the rain was coming down in a straight, steady drizzle. In the older residential section of frame houses on the edge of downtown, smoke spiraled out of chimneys and many of the lights were on. Russet leaves drifted into gardens that still sported dahlias, roses, chrysanmemums, and marigolds. Yet the splashes of color in the gray morning seemed more brave than bright.

I followed the curve of the road past a tract of newer homes, mostly split level, almost all with some sort of recreational vehicle parked in the driveway or the two-car garage. These Apliners were outdoor people who spent their leisure time fishing and hunting, hiking and camping. I, too, have been known to do a little stream fishing. Unfortunately,
since arriving in Alpine, all I’ve had to show for it are two small rainbow trout and an extremely ugly bull-head. Even this far from the urban center, I’m told the halcyon days of trout fishing are over.

At the edge of town, on the sidehill, the cemetery crept up into the evergreens. I glanced that way, thinking of the new grave that soon would be dug, no doubt near the final resting place of Hazel Doukas, Neeny’s wife.

“Did Mark have any enemies?” I asked Vida, who would know if anyone did.

She was sewing a button on the cuff of her blouse, no easy task considering the ruts and curves in the road. “Dozens. He was a twerp.”

Up ahead on the jutting bluff known as First Hill, I saw Neeny Doukas’s big house, all gray stone and dark stucco, with a massive front porch. It stood on a full acre and was reached by a switchback driveway that wound above Icicle Creek and the woods around Mineshaft Number Three.

“I mean,
real
enemies,” I said, slowing for the left-hand turn to the mine.

“Oh.” Vida bit the thread. “Well, no. He’s gotten into oodles of fights, usually when he’s been drinking. But they don’t count. He’s never worked much, so he hasn’t put a crimp in anybody’s career. There have been a slew of girls, but most of them have dumped him, instead of the other way around. He had a bona-fide feud going with Josh Adcock, Harvey and Darlene’s oldest boy, but Josh has a Fulbright to Cal Tech, so he’s not around. Their quarrel had something to do with a high school football game. Mark fumbled one of Josh’s handoffs in the league championship.”

Alpine’s grudges still amazed me. Mark Doukas and Josh Adcock had graduated from high school at least eight years earlier. Forgiving and forgetting weren’t small-town virtues.

The mine was only about twenty feet from the main road, just off the turn into Neeny’s long driveway. I pulled over when I saw two sheriff’s cars and a van barring the
way. A half-dozen men were scrutinizing an area roped off by yellow and black crime scene tape.

“In other words,” I said to Vida as I turned off the engine, “you don’t have a favorite suspect.”

Vida shrugged. “Not off the top of my head.”

“Gibb didn’t like him,” I noted, recalling the venom our driver had exhibited the previous day. “How come?”

For once, Vida didn’t have a ready answer. “Oh—lack of respect, maybe. Gibb needs respect, especially since he lost that leg.” She took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, always a sure sign that she was either agitated or lost in rumination. “There was something about a hermit’s cache years ago. You know the sort of thing around this part of the country—abandoned shacks or cabins in the woods where recluses hole up.”

I did. Often, they would bury their belongings, especially money. In the modern era, Sunday prospectors would trot out their Geiger counters and go in search of buried treasure. Once in a great while, somebody got lucky and actually found some.

“Anyway, there was a story around town about—oh, ten years ago, I guess—that Mark and Gibb got into a fight over some valuable coins one of them had dug up. Mark was just a teenager then, but he was always pigheaded. Then again, so is Gibb. I think they split the loot down the middle.” She replaced her eyeglasses and stared out the car window. “I suppose Gibb has never forgiven Mark. But he wouldn’t have waited this long to kill him.”

I had to agree. “So who do you think murdered Mark?”

“Well.” Vida buttoned up her serviceable brown wool tweed coat. “I’d say Chris Ramirez is as good a pick as anyone.”

There was no arguing with Vida. There never was. “Are you getting out?” I asked.

Always game, Vida unwound herself from the front seat. We tramped across the muddy, leaf-strewn ground, careful to avoid branches that had blown down in last night’s wind. My green shoes were a mess.

Bill Blatt, who had recently graduated from a two-year college in criminal justice and wasn’t much older than Adam, broke away from the others to meet us.

“Hi, Aunt Vida, Mrs. Lord!” His round, freckled face beamed out from under his regulation cap. Bill was one of Vida’s numerous nieces and nephews, an engaging young man with ash blond hair and deep-set blue eyes. “Isn’t this something?” He stopped grinning, but the excitement remained in his voice. This was his first murder investigation, and he was clearly thrilled.

“It’s wicked,” Vida declared. “What are you boys doing, Billy?”

Bill Blatt glanced at the others who were crawling around on the sloping wet earth. We were surrounded by trees, with Icicle Creek tumbling downhill amid thick ferns and cattails. The road into the mine was no more than a dirt track that ended in a turnaround by a post marking the trailhead into Surprise Lake. “We’re systematically going over the scene,” Bill said, now very serious. “You’d be amazed at the stuff we’re finding.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Vida replied. “Human beings are pigs.” Her sensible shoes squelched in the mud as she pulled her hat down to her eyebrows. This morning she wore a black derby with a swatch of net. It was impossible to tell if she had it on frontward, backward, or sideways. “The point is, what have you found that’s pertinent to Mark’s murder?”

“Now, Aunt Vida,” Bill began, looking nervous. “You know I can’t divulge—”

“Rubbish!” Vida snapped her fingers. “I’m your own flesh and blood. Who used to take care of you when your crazy parents were gallivanting off to Reno every three months?”

Bill’s heavy lids blinked over his blue eyes. “Well, it’s not much anyway. Just a bunch of junk, like paper and gum wrappers and cigarette butts and a plastic fork.” He gazed off in the direction of the creek, avoiding his aunt’s keen stare.

“That’s it?” Vida was incredulous.

Her nephew shuffled a bit. “Yes, ma’am. Except for the flashlight and the crowbar.” Bill Blatt swallowed hard.

“Ah.” Vida turned smug. “The crowbar was the weapon? Or was it the flashlight?”

“We aren’t sure yet.” Bill Blatt was virtually mumbling, his fresh, fair face downcast.

Discreetly, I had taken out my notebook but refrained from transcribing Bill’s comments. I didn’t want to intimidate him, though it was clear that he found his aunt more daunting than a sea of Camcorders. As for Vida, she never took notes. Her memory was extraordinary.

“Where did Eeeny Moroni find Mark?” I asked in my gentlest manner.

Bill perked up. “Over there.” He pointed toward the mineshaft that had been sealed off very recently, no doubt to prevent curiosity seekers from getting inside and causing a cave-in. As far as I knew, the mine had been closed for decades, but apparently Milo Dodge was taking no chances. “We took a ton of pictures,” Bill said, following my eye. “It’s hard to draw an outline in the rain.”

I nodded. “Hard to get footprints, too, I suppose.”

“We got some,” Bill said dubiously. “But you’re right. Even though we made it here pretty fast, between the rain and Eeeny stomping around and carrying on, the ground’s pretty chewed up. Same for tire tracks.” He gestured back to the road, visible between the trees. “If the killer drove, he—or she—could have parked like you did, on the verge. That’s all gravel.”

Casually, I jotted down a few key words. “Where did Mark leave his car?”

“It was his Jeep,” Bill replied. “He’d parked it in Neeny’s drive halfway up. Mrs. Wunderlich found it when she came to work this morning.”

I wondered how Neeny was taking his grandson’s death. But that wasn’t a question for Bill Blatt. I stuck to the basics. “What about dogs? Any scents?”

Bill swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his crisply pressed tan shirt. “We did that already.”