Authors: Mary Daheim
“No big deal, babe,” he replied, taking back the layouts. “Driggers can pay for the ad with the money he
makes just standing around looking like a stiff himself at Linda’s funeral. I hear the Petersens are going all out for the poor broad.”
I tried not to wince at Leo’s crassness. But before I could think of a proper rejoinder, Leo continued: “Speaking of money, that bank deal isn’t working out so great. I took my Toyota into the dealership at lunch-time to check out a problem with the tape deck and they told me they hadn’t gotten my payment this month. Do you think I should ask Larry Petersen about it? I hate to bother him right now.”
I was glad I hadn’t winced. Basically, Leo has a good heart. His cynicism is caused by many things, including the typical newspaperman’s—and woman’s—need to put up barriers between the job and the heart.
But I couldn’t answer his question. “Well … you could wait until after the funeral. If Alpine Toyota isn’t getting nasty, of course.”
Leo lighted a cigarette. “I told them about this proxy deal. They thought maybe Linda getting murdered had screwed things up. If the payment doesn’t come through in a day or so, maybe their bookkeeper will call the bank.”
“What about your rent?” I asked, sniffing wistfully at Leo’s smoke.
Leo shrugged. “My landlord was last seen trying to teach his cocker spaniel how to play a guitar. Dolph Terrill’s a real rummy. That was one of my problems with those overdrafts. The old asshole sat on my checks forever. That’s what threw my accounting out of whack.”
I nodded. Dolph Terrill only needed enough money to keep himself in booze. I was about to say as much when the phone rang.
It was Milo, and he sounded slightly more cheerful. “Okay, Lois Lane, here’s something for your stop-the-presses. We—we being those dumbbells from the Skykomish County sheriff’s office—did a check on Linda’s car. The dirt in the tires showed a match with the new verge off Highway 187. She had her car up there, all right. You can print that.”
I squeezed the receiver as if it could divulge more information. “Linda drove to the murder site?”
“Somebody did,” Milo replied. “The only thing we know for sure is that she didn’t drive back.”
Oren Rhodes, the bartender at the Venison Inn, personally served Milo and me. Like everyone else in town, he was full of questions about Linda’s murder. As usual, Milo fended them off with vague, noncommittal answers.
“Well?” Milo said to me after Oren had gone back behind the bar. “You got enough to perk up your front page?”
“The dirt bit helps,” I admitted. That Linda’s car had been driven to the murder site opened up much speculation. But in terms of actual news value, it only qualified for paragraph three. “At least it’s fresh information.”
Sipping his Scotch, Milo seemed satisfied. “I saw Howard Lindahl this afternoon.”
I had forgotten that Milo was calling on Linda’s ex-husband. I didn’t know whether to kick Milo—or myself. “Now,
that’s
news,” I exclaimed, choking on my bourbon. I sputtered briefly, then gave Milo my sternest look. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Milo was unmoved. “What’s to say? He’s shocked, he’s sorry, he’s upset for their daughter. I didn’t get
much out of him to help either of us. His alibi’s a little shaky, but you can’t print that.”
I had to agree. “What’s shaky about it?”
Milo pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and began to munch. “For one thing, we still don’t have a real handle on the time of death, and won’t, until we hear from the M.E. Even then, I don’t expect to come within more than two-three hours of the exact time. But if we assume—take in that word, Emma; it’s like your ‘alleged’—if we assume that Linda was killed sometime after seven
P.M
. on Friday and before sunup Saturday, then we’ve got alibi problems with every suspect. The killer could have gone to bed with whoever, and sneaked out during the night. That’s one scenario.”
“Great.” Discouraged, I took a slow pull on my bourbon.
“As for Howie Lindahl, he says he had an appointment with some guy at the cabinet shop around eight. The guy never showed.” Milo’s hazel eyes waited for my reaction.
“Who was the guy?” I asked.
“His name was Dick Johnson, from Seattle.” Again Milo eyed me expectantly.
I knew, along with everybody else raised in the Puget Sound basin, that Johnson was the most common name in the area. Not Smith, not Jones, not Brown—the Scandinavian influence was so great that the listings for Johnson, and its various spellings, took up eight pages in the Seattle phone directory. Forty listings could qualify as Dick Johnson.
“Do you believe Howie?” I asked.
Obviously Milo had considered the problem. “I kind of lean that way. For one thing, his wife took the call. Or says she did.”
We both knew that one spouse will lie for the sake of the other. That might be especially true with the murder investigation of an ex-wife.
“If the call was long distance from Seattle, can’t the phone company trace it?” I asked.
Milo squinted at his Scotch. “We’re working on it,” he said vaguely, nodding at a couple of millworkers who apparently were still employed. “Howie and Susan—that’s the new wife—seem like decent folks. I didn’t see the kid. She was in school. Howie and Susan thought it would be best for her to stay in the routine. She’s at a real bad age for this to happen.”
There’s never a good age to lose a parent, as I well knew. Both of mine had been killed in an automobile accident when I was twenty. I doubted that I would have been more bereft if I’d been twelve or even forty-two.
“Besides,” Milo continued, definitely in one of his more loquacious moods, “this is their second brush with the law in a week. They’re beginning to feel jinxed.”
“Really? What else happened to them?” I smiled at Big Mike Brockelman and his five-man crew as they headed for the bar.
Milo was frowning at Big Mike’s broad back, which was covered with a plaid work shirt and wide black suspenders. “Huh? Oh, the Lindahls had a break-in last Thursday night while they were at an open house for Alison’s school. Nothing was taken, but it upset the hell out of the family. It always does; I can vouch for that.” Milo was still observing Big Mike.
“That’s natural,” I said, then leaned across the tiny table to hiss in his ear: “What’s with you? Are you keeping Brockelman and his men under surveillance?”
Milo turned back to me with a sheepish grin. “I was
wondering how I’d look in suspenders. They’re kind of in these days, aren’t they?”
If Milo thought suspenders would improve his chances with Honoria Whitman, he was wrong. “Leave the suspenders to bankers like Marv Petersen. And big burly guys like Mike. You look just fine the way you are, Milo. Stop fussing.”
My compliment made no dent on Milo. He was frowning as he finished his Scotch. “Oh,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping a notch, “I forgot to tell you about the Lumberjack Motel register. Nothing for print, right?”
“Probably not.” I was giving up on Milo as a source of hot new information. But he’d paid for our first drinks, so I felt obligated to string him along and pick up the tab for a second round.
Catching Oren Rhodes’s eye, I waited to ask Milo about the motel until after the bartender had brought our reorders. “So who’s sleeping with whom?” I inquired as Oren returned to his bantering with the highway crew.
“Business wasn’t booming at the Lumberjack last week,” Milo said, lowering his voice. “Not the Tall Timber Inn or the ski lodge, either. We checked all of them, at least for Friday night. As far as your sighting of Linda on Monday is concerned, there were six registrations at the Lumberjack. An older couple traveling from Montana, a salesman for some countertop outfit in Seattle, a detail man who calls on Parker’s Pharmacy and the medical clinic regularly, a pair of honeymooners from Yakima, a kid from Wenatchee Junior College whose car wouldn’t start after he pulled off to eat at the Burger Barn, and Big Mike Brockelman.” Milo’s eyes slid in the direction of the bar.
I felt a rush of excitement. “Have you talked to Mike?”
Milo shook his head. “It’s kind of tricky.”
“Why?” My excitement was replaced by exasperation.
“For one thing, Brockelman’s been out working on the highway yesterday and today. They’ve got a deadline to meet, especially if we get more snow. I’ll admit, he’s the most likely of the motel guests to have been banging Linda Lindahl, but we can’t rule out the countertop guy or even the college kid. Doc Dewey and Marje Blatt swear the pharmaceutical rep is a real straight arrow.”
I recalled the eager young man I’d seen lunching with Scooter Hutchins the previous Monday. Mr. Countertop, probably. He looked like the type that Linda Lindahl would have eaten alive. Mentally I crossed him off my list of possible lovers. I was inclined to do the same with the college student from Wenatchee JC.
Then, as if to prove that a second bourbon hadn’t dulled my wits, I remembered my phone call to Mike Brockelman. “Mike was at home in Monroe when I talked to him Monday. Why would he drive up to Alpine in the evening
unless
he had a tryst with Linda?”
Milo gave a shrug. “To get an early start the next day? He had to catch up because they couldn’t work Monday.”
It seemed to me that Milo was going too far in rationalizing Mike Brockelman’s behavior. “Can it, Milo. Mike’s your man. And don’t look at me like that. I know that just because he was sleeping with Linda doesn’t mean he killed her. What about Friday’s motel guests?”
“A washout.” Milo gnawed on his toothpick. “Mostly couples, either visiting friends and family here, or older
folks who were afraid of the weather and decided to pull off the pass for the night. The only two singles were both at the ski lodge. They’re a couple of California developers cruising the area for exploitation purposes. Those guys are too busy putting together deals to take time out for murder.”
There was a grain of truth in Milo’s statement. Traditionally, Pacific Northwesterners have despised Californians who move north to make a fast buck. But recently I’ve sensed that not everybody wants to yank the welcome mat from under outsiders who can help our sagging economy. Thus, I offered no criticism of the men from California.
“In other words,” I said, getting back to the more pressing matter of murder, “there were no strangers that you know of romping through Alpine last Friday night.”
Milo nodded and discarded his toothpick. “But strangers who kill don’t necessarily check into motels and hotels. We can’t eliminate the possibility of an outsider, or someone from down the pass.”
I had to agree. I wanted to, in fact, since it suggested that Linda might not have been killed by an Alpiner. But several facets of the case nagged at me. “How do you explain the dirt on her tires? Are you saying she drove to the clearing off 187, but the killer returned the car and parked it in her condo garage?”
“Somebody did, and it probably wasn’t Linda.” Milo pulled out another toothpick and began to make marks with it on his cocktail napkin. “First of all, it
could
have been Linda. Let’s say she met somebody—maybe her killer, maybe not—out at the clearing. Or she was heading for Aunt Thelma and Uncle Elmer’s, changed her mind about seeing them, drove on up the road, and turned around on the verge to come home. She parked
the car in the garage, and left with her killer.” Milo leaned far back in his chair; I worried that he might tip over.
“That all makes sense—I think. I suppose you checked the car keys for fingerprints?”
“Sure. We got zip. They’re all smudged.”
I remembered Linda’s gloves. Just about everybody in Alpine wears gloves this time of year, except me. “Where were the keys?”
“On an end table, next to the sofa. Sam Heppner found them when he and Dwight Gould went to the condo.” Milo crumpled up the cocktail napkin, then let it fall onto the tabletop.
Mulling over motives, I asked an obvious question. “Did Linda have any money?”
Milo wrinkled his long nose. “Not big bucks. After the divorce, Linda and Howard sold their property in Everett. They split the profits, which were just enough for each of them to use as down payments on Howie’s house and Linda’s condo. Marv had given her some good advice about investments, but they were mostly long-term. I don’t suppose her estate is worth more than a hundred grand, including life insurance.”
“Did she have a will?”
Milo nodded. “A simple one, drawn up after the split. Everything goes to the daughter. It’s in trust, until she’s eighteen.”
In other words, Howard Lindahl would have control of Linda’s money. A vague sense of unease settled over me. “What about those alibis?” I asked.
“What about those suspects?” Milo sounded wry. “Sure, I’ll talk to Big Mike, maybe this evening, if he sticks around. We’ve questioned Linda’s family and her coworkers. Howie and Susan Lindahl. That’s it. If
they’re suspects, then everybody has some kind of alibi for Friday evening. Howie was home or waiting for Dick Johnson. Larry and JoAnne were giving a card party. Marv and Cathleen entertained those two new attorneys in the Doukas firm. The Cederbergs were home—together, with their kids. Rick Erlandson went to the movies with Denise Petersen. Christie Johnston and her husband rented a video. Uncle Elmer and Aunt Thelma went to bed with the chickens.”
Literally, I assumed. “You don’t seriously consider Uncle Elmer and Aunt Thelma, do you, Milo?”
Milo’s face drooped. “I have to consider everybody.”
Milo was right. Unfortunately, at this point, everybody in Alpine was a suspect.
Vida didn’t think much of Milo’s investigation so far. She particularly didn’t like the idea of her fellow Alpiners being under suspicion.
“Is Milo a bigger fool than I thought?” she demanded over the phone. “Does he seriously think Marv and Cathleen would kill their own daughter? Or Thelma and Elmer? Or … ooooh!” I could practically hear Vida rub her eyes. “It’s got to be an outsider. Big Mike Brockelman is from Monroe. He qualifies. I’d like to see that motel register for myself. What if Mike and Linda signed in as man and wife?”
“They’d have been recognized,” I pointed out. “Mike stayed there Monday night. His picture has been in
The Advocate”.