The Alpine Nemesis (26 page)

“Did Peggy know about those lockers in the basement?” I asked.

“She knew they were there, and she thought it was very peculiar,” Vida said, scooping up the dregs of her Roquefort dressing with a large piece of lettuce. “The three girls were warned never, never to go near those lockers.”

“How long were the lockers in the basement?” I inquired. “How old were the girls when they first noticed them?”

“Peggy said they'd only been there for the last two or three years,” Vida replied, dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin. “She had no idea what might be in them, unless it was drugs.”

The time had come to tell Vida about the weapons cache. I didn't want to break faith with Milo, but it wasn't fair not to confide in her. In fact, I was rather surprised that she hadn't wrested the truth from her nephew Bill Blatt.

Except that she had. “Heavens!” Vida exclaimed, with a windmill wave of her hand. “Billy told me about those rocket launchers or whatever you call them last night. I took him out for ice cream.”

Aghast, I leaned back in the visitor's chair. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because,” Vida said in a reasonable tone, “Billy insisted I keep it to myself until Milo made an official announcement.”

Shaking my head, I smiled at Vida. “I should have known. But did Bill tell you where the weapons came from?”

“No,” Vida replied, looking irked. “To be honest, I don't think he knew. Indeed, I got the impression that Milo either didn't know or wasn't letting on.”

“Going back to Peggy O'Neill,” I said, “if she didn't have any other ideas about what her father was involved in, did her stepmother or her sisters make some suggestions?”

“Not Kathleen, though I spoke with her before I interviewed Peggy. Lona was another matter.” Vida let out a big sigh. “Lona O'Neill is a bundle of contrasting emotions. The foolish woman must still be in love with
Stubby. How else can you explain her reluctance to divorce him or her apparent grief at the wake?”

“People are very complicated,” I remarked, then added, “as you well know, Vida.”

“So true.” She paused to finish her tuna melt. “Again, Lona insisted she had no idea what was in those lockers in the basement of the house they shared together before the breakup. She thought it might be liquor.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Liquor?”

“Contraband, from Ireland,” Vida said. “Apparently, Stubby and the rest of the O'Neill males often received parcels and mail from the old country. Cousins, she thought, who'd send Irish whiskey and those fishermen's sweaters and other items that the O'Neills could sell for a profit. They'd receive them as gifts, and thus wouldn't have to pay duty. Lona herself got a very nice cardigan out of it a year or so ago.”

I gazed at Vida. “Do you believe Lona?”

“I believe she got the cardigan sweater. I've seen her wear it.”

I looked askance at Vida. “Maybe so, but do you really believe Lona?”

Vida scowled. “It's hard to tell. I spoke to her on the phone last night, so I couldn't see her face or watch her eyes. She's a bit naive, if you ask me. Stubby was a villain one minute, a good husband the next. So typical of women who love the wrong man, always defending him, yet unable to hide the truth.”

“We know those lockers at Lona and Stubby's house and the chests up at the O'Neill place weren't full of sweaters,” I pointed out. “That's not to say that they couldn't have been selling black market items, though I never heard of such a thing. Did you?”

Vida shook her head. “Not Irish items. Cuban cigars, French perfumes not available in this country—that sort
of thing. I believe people smuggle snakeskin shoes and handbags into California.”

“I'm talking about Alpine,” I said with a slight smile. “The point is, Vida, if anyone happened to be selling hot stuff around this town, you'd know about it.”

“Well… perhaps,” Vida admitted. “The real issue is that none of the O'Neill women seemed to know about the weapons.”

Ginny Erlandson poked her head around the corner. “When's Leo due back?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I'm not sure. No later than two, two-thirty. He still has to finish laying out the ads. Why?”

Ginny made a face, then stepped into the newsroom and closed the door. “Dan Peebles is here. It seems Al Driggers wants to pull his standing ad this week.”

Vida choked on her hot water. “That's absurd!” she sputtered. “Driggers Funeral Home has advertised in the
Advocate
ever since it was founded seventy years ago! “What's wrong with Al? Has he lost his tiny little mind?”

Ginny looked at me and gestured toward the front office. “Do you want to speak to Dan?”

“I guess.” The Driggers ad was two inches deep by two columns wide. It always ran on the church page, and had been changed only in the subtlest of ways since I took over the paper. As a standing advertiser, Al got a special discount.

Dan Peebles was down-at-the-mouth when he slunk through the door. “Mr. Driggers wants you to know this isn't anything personal,” Dan said, stopping in front of Vida's desk, with his pale blue eyes sliding between the two of us. “It's sort of a political thing.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Maybe that's not the right word,” Dan replied, clearing his throat. “But Mr. Driggers feels that with all the rumors about getting sued by those Conley people, it might be best if he laid low for a week or two.”

“Ridiculous,” Vida declared. “It makes no sense.”

“Vida's right,” I said. “No suit has been filed, so no story about it will appear in the paper. Al and his father and grandfather before him have always run a fine business. He has no reason to be embarrassed. Look,” I went on, giving the young man a friendly smile, “I'll call Janet Driggers. We're friends. Let's see if we can work this out.”

“If it's the revenue you're worried about—” Dan began.

“No,” I interrupted. “It's not that. Removing the ad will cause more talk than leaving it in where our subscribers are used to seeing it every week. I'll call Janet right now.” I got up from Vida's visitor's chair and started toward my cubbyhole. “Is she at the funeral home or the travel agency?” I asked over my shoulder.

“The funeral home,” Dan replied.

Janet picked up the phone on the first ring. “Driggers Domicile of Doom,” she answered.

“Janet—what's wrong?” I asked, alarmed at the unusually somber tone in her voice.

But Janet laughed. “We have caller I.D.,” she said. “I knew it was you. We got this gadget on an experimental basis.”

Phone upgrades were slow in coming to the hinterlands, such as Alpine. “Then you're not about to seal yourself in a casket?” I inquired.

“Not quite,” Janet replied, sounding serious but not morose. “But things could be better. I take it that Dan showed up at your office?”

“He's here now,” I replied. “I'm trying to talk him out of canceling the standing ad.” I explained my reasoning to Janet, who understood.

“I agree,” she said, “but it's Al's idea. He's dying of embarrassment—excuse the expression. Let me see if I can whip some sense into him. Meanwhile, keep the ad.

I'll take responsibility.” She paused, then dropped her voice. “Could you meet me for a drink after work? The ski lodge?”

“Why, yes,” I replied. “Five-fifteen, five-thirty?”

“Sounds good,” Janet said. “As long as nobody croaks between now and then. See you.”

I passed the message along to Dan Peebles, who appeared relieved. “Mr. Driggers is really upset,” Dan said, backpedaling toward the door. “Nothing like this has ever happened in the four years I've been an undertaker. Mr. Driggers and I can't understand it. Have you heard anything more from the sheriff or out of New York?”

“No,” I answered. “I don't expect to hear from New York at all. What should I be hearing from the sheriff?”

Dan paused in the doorway. “Well … you know, if somebody found the body. At Sea-Tac, maybe.”

I shook my head. “I don't think that's going to happen.”

“Gosh.” Dan looked dismayed. Without another word, he left.

“Why did you say that?” Vida asked.

“Because,” I responded slowly, “I've never heard of such a thing, and I've been in the news business in this area for almost thirty years. Catastrophes like that leak out, even if good taste and advertising threats manage to keep them from becoming public. I'm even dubious about the possibility of losing a corpse in New York.”

“Anything's possible in a big city like that,” Vida declared.

“Maybe,” I said. “By the way, did you tell me everything you learned from the O'Neill women? What about the wife who got away?”

“Nancy? Or Dana?”

“Dana, Rusty's long-gone wife,” I said. “I got the impression Nancy was long gone.”

“Apparently,” Vida replied. “I'm still trying to track
down Dana. She's living with someone, which makes it difficult because the phone isn't listed in her name. Lona really doesn't keep in touch with her, at least since she— Lona—moved to Everett. And I still want to speak with Meara. I'm very curious about the father of her child.”

“So am I,” I agreed, “even though it probably has nothing to do with rocket launchers.”

“Why is it a secret?” Vida demanded. “Meara said the poor fellow was dead.”

“Protecting his reputation?” I suggested. “Or maybe she didn't mean literally. He's dead to her and the baby, as in married or living in Sri Lanka.”

Vida sighed. “Possibly. But sixteen-year-old girls can be very difficult. Occasionally, even I have trouble talking to them.”

That was quite an admission for Vida, and I said so. But there was more to come. She wouldn't have the story on the O'Neill women ready for this week's issue. It was unlikely that she'd be able to speak with Meara before our five o'clock deadline.

I assured Vida there was no rush. We had plenty to fill the paper this week, since we'd written some of the features in advance and we were heavy with photographs.

But there was still one glaring hole. Not having heard from Milo, I headed down Front Street to his office shortly after three o'clock. His Grand Cherokee was parked out front, but Sam Heppner informed me that the sheriff wasn't in.

“Dodge didn't get back from the accident site until almost noon, and then he got a call from Everett,” Sam explained. “He just got back about ten minutes ago and went down to the Venison Inn for some lunch.”

I returned the way I'd come, past the Sears catalog store, Parker's Pharmacy, the hobby shop, the
Advocate,
on by the dry cleaner's, and finally to the Venison Inn. Milo was nowhere to be seen in the restaurant itself, so I
peeked in the bar. Sure enough, he was seated at a small round table, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.

“Aren't you on duty?” I asked, pulling up a chair without being invited.

“Yeah,” Milo replied, barely looking at me. “So what?”

“You don't usually drink on the job,” I said as Oren Rhodes, the bartender, gave me a high sign. “Pepsi,” I called back to Oren, who nodded.

“It's been a bad day,” Milo said. “That wreck out on the highway was a nasty one. The semi hit the Deception Falls bridge, jackknifed, and smashed into two other cars, totaling them both. Then a car coming the other way hit the semi and got rear-ended. The truck driver died; so did a passenger in one of the cars the semi hit. There were at least two real serious injuries, including a ten-year-old boy. Damn, why don't people use seat belts? It's the law in this state.”

“Nobody local?” I asked as Oren brought me my Pepsi along with Milo's bacon burger and fries.

“No,” the sheriff replied with a nod to Oren. “The semi was headed for Wenatchee and the rest of the victims were from out of the area. Scott picked up the story.”

“Good,” I said, though there was nothing good about it in human terms. “What took you to Everett?”

Milo's long face twisted in disgust. “Goddamn those O'Neills,” he muttered, and angrily stubbed out his cigarette.

“What have they got to do with Everett?” I asked, surprised by Milo's reaction.

It took the sheriff a moment to answer as he composed himself and picked up his bacon burger. “You wanted to know about that arms cache, right?”

“That's why I'm here,” I replied in neutral tones.

“Okay.” Aggressively, he took a big bite of the burger and chewed much faster than usual. “I've been waiting
to find out where those weapons, especially the rocket launchers, came from. They're not exactly the kind of thing you can order from a catalog. Remember the break-ins over at the naval station in Everett a while back?”

“Vaguely. We didn't use the story because it didn't have a local angle.”

Milo's gaze was hard. “Well, it does now. Those rocket launchers were stolen from the navy, apparently by the O'Neills. The weapons in the two old chests we took out of the house on Second Hill were handguns and high-powered rifles. They've been traced to several arms dealers in King, Pierce, and Snohomish Counties.”

“Legal arms dealers?” I asked.

Milo nodded. “Several of the handguns were purchased at gun shows. The others were bought privately. So the question is, what the hell did the O'Neills want with all that firepower?”

“To sell for a profit?” I offered.

“Maybe.” Milo oversalted his french fries and swore under his breath. “But sell to who? That's the trouble with this mess—the O'Neills are dead, and we'll never know.”

I had to agree with the sheriff.

But this time we were both wrong.