The Alpine Pursuit (14 page)

I shook my head. “Those aren’t motives for murder. Granted, Rip has an explosive temper and Jim is sufficiently methodical to figure out a scheme to kill somebody. What I’m wondering is if—assuming we’re dealing with a homicide—Hans was the intended victim.”

Amy let out a little gasp. I sensed that her mother didn’t let her in on the sleuthing Vida and I had occasionally done to seek truth and justice for our readers.

Vida sipped her tea before responding. “I see what you mean. Such a rumpus in that scene. Everyone moving around the stage. Except Ed, of course.”

“The bullet could have been meant for Rip or Jim or even Rey Fernandez as well as for Hans,” I pointed out.

“How gruesome!” Amy exclaimed. “Excuse me, Emma, I should ask if Ted or Roger need anything while they’re watching the game.”

I got up and Amy got out.

“She’s squeamish,” Vida declared when Amy had left the kitchen. “She was always the most impressionable of our girls. Not to mention that the thought of Roger being in danger must disturb her. It certainly upsets me.”

I was confused. “Danger? From who? We’re not sure if there
is
a killer. Do you really believe Roger saw a bushy-haired stranger?”

Vida shifted uneasily on the seat cushion. “I can’t make up my mind. Either Roger invented this person to draw attention away from Rip and Jim, or he actually saw someone who didn’t belong. After all, the sheriff is searching for a stranger, bushy-haired or not.”

I frowned. “The APB describes the driver of the car as having a full head of curly hair.”

“Oh?” Vida sat up straight, giving me an owlish look from behind her big orange-rimmed glasses. “Well, now! I didn’t hear the APB.”

I was relating everything I’d done and heard since I’d last spoken to Vida when Amy returned, looking timorous.

“Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner, Emma?” she asked. “We’re eating around five. On Sundays, we always eat earlier.”

The kitchen clock, which was shaped like a coffeepot, informed me that it was a few minutes after three. Knowing that after my late breakfast but no lunch, I’d start getting hungry around four and having nothing better to do, I acquiesced. Thus far, Roger had proved bearable. It was about time. He was graduating from high school in June. Assuming he could forge his name on a diploma.

Vida was looking displeased.

“Unless,” I added hastily to Amy, “you don’t have enough for a guest.”

“Oh, no,” she assured me. “I have plenty. I bought a big roast on sale at the Grocery Basket. It’s just a matter of adding more beans and potatoes and carrots.”

“Of course you’re welcome to stay, Emma,” Vida put in. “But I am surprised that you didn’t update me until now. I feel like an outsider.”

“I told you,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance. For a Sunday, it’s been a busy day.”

Vida turned to Amy, who was removing the roast from the refrigerator. “Do you need help?”

“Oh, no, Mother,” Amy replied a trifle too hastily. “I can manage just fine.”

“Then,” Vida declared, getting up, “Emma and I are going out for a while. We’ll be back well before five.”

Dutifully I followed Vida to the front door. Roger had reappeared in the living room, watching the Sonics with Ted. A glimpse at the score informed me that Seattle was down by fifteen. Roger ignored us, but Ted looked up.

“You leaving?” he asked us.

“Only for a bit,” Vida replied.

We got into my car, which was blocking Vida’s Buick in the driveway. The rain was still coming down, though not as hard. Puddles of melting snow were everywhere. If the temperature dropped to freezing during the night, we could be in for big trouble in the morning.

“Where are we wading?” I inquired of Vida after reversing cautiously down the sloping drive.

“The river,” Vida replied. “Go down by the old mill site and Ptarmigan Tract.”

I obeyed. It was a short drive, covering only about three blocks. We got out of the car by Alpine Auto Supply, just west of the bridge, which had been closed off. Ptarmigan Tract was on the north side of the river, some fifty feet from where we stood. The river was running high and fast, reaching the sandbags that lined its banks. Some thirty residents were milling around, looking worried.

Vida hailed Rip and Dixie Ridley, who lived in the development.

“So terrifying!” Vida shouted above the roar of the current. “Have you taken precautions?”

Rip cupped his ear. “Huh?”

Vida moved closer and repeated the question.

“What can we do?” Dixie responded, her round pink face plainly showing her distress. “We sent the kids to some friends who live higher up, on Cascade Street.”

“This has been one hell of a weekend,” Rip said angrily. He glanced at Vida. “Excuse the language. But I can’t remember a worse time, except when the Buckers bottomed out three years ago by losing twenty-one games in a row.”

“Very unfortunate,” Vida murmured, though I doubted that Rip and Dixie heard her over the rushing river. She raised her voice. “Were you and Hans close?”

Rip looked startled. “Berenger? I hardly knew the guy. I don’t think I’d exchanged more than ten words with him until we started doing the play. He wasn’t what I’d call friendly. Why do you ask?”

Vida attempted to look apologetic. “I was merely trying to gauge the depth of your grief.”

“Oh.” Rip wore a sheepish expression. “It’s a hell of a thing, him getting shot. Sure, I feel bad about it. But to be honest, I’m sorrier about Vince.”

“Vince?” Vida echoed. “Who is Vince?”

“My hunting dog,” Rip answered as Dixie patted his wide shoulder. “I named him for Vince Lombardi because, like the coach, he’s always a winner, especially when it comes to lowland waterfowl.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, feeling, as I often do, like Vida’s dim-witted sidekick.

Rip shook his head. “He got attacked by a cougar the other day. He’ll be okay, but he may not ever be able to hunt. His left hind leg got pretty torn up. I’m going to have to get another dog before hunting season starts this year.”

The current was propelling more brush and debris over the banks. Rusty tin cans, a fishing boot, rags that may have once been clothing, a chunk of tire tread, a tennis ball—all decorated the sandbags. The river itself was inching closer to flood stage. Volunteers and gawkers alike began moving farther away. But they didn’t leave. I had seen a rushing river rise so fast that it swept up everything in its path—trees, buildings, people. I wondered if we should all take to the high ground.

Wes Amundson and Dustin Fong were talking to each other at the other end of the auto supply building. Another man, who had just gotten out of a truck marked
U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS
, had joined them. I assumed they were assessing the potential danger.

Vida, however, seemed to be ignoring Nature’s wrath. “Why,” she demanded of Rip, “are you certain that Hans was killed accidentally?”

Rip shrugged. “Because if somebody wanted to kill him, why take that kind of chance? It’d be too damned complicated. Why not shoot him some dark night on campus?”

The coach had a point. It would be less risky to hide in the heavily forested college grounds. Berenger was an administrator. He probably worked long hours.

“Was Nat Cardenas aiming at Hans?” I asked, realizing that while the wind was still strong, the rain had turned into a mere drizzle. Maybe Alpine would be spared. For now.

“Yes,” Rip said. “That was one of the messages in the play. Destiny had a pretty big agenda. In Hans’s case, his shooting was to show how innocent people get hurt—even killed—when they try to be peacemakers. Or some damned thing.”

Vida was wagging a finger at Rip. “Do you swear like that in front of your high school students?”

“Swear?” Rip looked genuinely puzzled. “When did I swear?”

“Ooooh!” Vida swept off her glasses and began to rub her eyes, a sure sign of ultimate frustration. “Really, you don’t even realize what a poor example you’re setting for young people!”

“Jeez, Vida,” Rip said in a peevish voice. “Do you honestly think kids these days don’t know every swearword in the book by the time they’re eight years old? A
damn
or a
hell
once in a while is pretty tame stuff.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” Vida shot back. She wiped the rain from her glasses and put them back on. “Swearing is swearing. You can’t expect youngsters to discriminate between the bad words and the very bad words. When Roger stays with me, I don’t allow him to watch TV shows with foul language. To my knowledge, Amy and Ted don’t swear, and heaven knows I don’t. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard my grandson say a certain four-letter word in public Friday night.”

Rip turned away. I knew he was trying to suppress his mirth. Dixie, however, smiled kindly at Vida. “It was in the script. He had to say it. After the performance was over—well, maybe he was still in his part. Sometimes, after rehearsals, Rip was still playing a surly logger when he came home. That’s acting, Vida dear. It’s all make-believe.”

Dixie was right, up to a point.

But Hans Berenger wasn’t pretending to be dead.

NINE

We didn’t get much more information out of Rip Ridley. Apparently tired of Vida’s reprimands, he walked off to talk to Wes, Dustin, and the man from the Army Engineers truck, who had been joined by another colleague.

Though the river was still threatening to go over its banks, the rain was diminishing by the minute. Dixie had been greeted by one of her neighbors, a woman I recognized only by sight. Vida would know, of course, but I didn’t ask. Instead, we started back to my Honda.

We’d barely taken a couple of steps when I spotted Scott Chamoud farther upriver by the bridge. He had his camera and was talking to Jack Mullins. Vida and I took a detour to check in with Scott.

“Got anything?” I asked Scott after we’d greeted the two men.

Scott nodded. “They just closed Highway 2 east of Skykomish. Deception Creek went over the road at the falls. Jack and Bill had to rescue a couple of cross-country skiers. I went with them.” He tapped his camera. “I got it all right here, including a really great shot of the water bursting up against the bridge over the creek.”

“Skiers?” Vida was aghast. “In this kind of weather?”

“They started out Friday afternoon,” Jack put in. Since I’d seen him at Mass he’d changed from his civvies into his regulation all-weather gear. “They got lost during the snowstorm but had some camping stuff with them. They finally found the creek this morning and were following it down to the highway when it flooded. We took them to the hospital. They’re pretty weak and beat-up.”

Deception Creek was a mile or so from Alpine. “What about the other streams?” I inquired. “Burl and Icicle especially. They go right through town.”

“They’re high,” Jack replied, “but not quite at flood stage. We’ve asked residents to be prepared for the worst.” His expression was ironic. “Dodge’s house is only thirty feet from Icicle. I told him he should have bought a boat when Warren Wells tried to sell him one last spring.”

Vida surveyed the river’s churning gray mass. The water hadn’t yet flowed over the steel grids that formed the driving lanes, but the onrushing current had flung all sorts of debris that blocked passage.

“The rain’s letting up,” she finally said. “The worst of it may be over.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jack said in an uncharacteristically earnest voice. “But it’s still February. Chances are, we’ll get more snow before the end of the month. It wouldn’t be unusual to have a couple of big storms in March, either.”

I turned to Scott. “Follow up on those skiers. If all their fingers and toes don’t fall off from frostbite, it could make for a feel-good story. We could use one around here.”

“Will do,” Scott said, flashing me his killer grin. He looked beyond me. “Here comes Mr. Radio.”

“Here goes Ms. Newspaper,” I said, not in the mood to talk to Spencer Fleetwood.

Vida and I headed back to the Honda.

“We must talk to Rita Patricelli,” Vida declared as our boots squelched and squeaked in the slush. “I suspect she knew Hans better than anyone else.” Vida glanced at her watch. “We have time to drop by. Dinner won’t be ready for an hour.”

Unlike me, Vida didn’t mind appearing unannounced. But I still had qualms. “Are you sure? Rita was pretty upset.”

“All the more reason,” Vida retorted as we got into the car. “We can console her. Besides, I must learn who’s making the funeral arrangements. We don’t know if Hans will be buried before the paper comes out. Tsk, tsk.”

After her mother’s death a few years earlier, Rita had moved into the family home on Tyee Street, about three blocks from Vida. The Patricellis had raised a large family, and the last time I’d been inside, Polly Patricelli had still been alive. The house had been dark and musty, a rabbit warren of a place filled with worn furniture and enough religious artwork to fill a dozen rectories.

We were met at the door by her brother, Pete, who, like Rita, had put on some weight in recent years. Maybe they’d eaten too many of Pete’s large deluxe pies from his Itsa Bitsa Pizza Parlor.

Vida inquired after Rita.

Pete frowned. “She’s in bed. She had to have a sedative to calm her down the other night. I don’t know when I’ve seen her so upset.”

“Goodness,” Vida said softly as she edged across the threshold. “Have you been staying with her the past two days?”

“Off and on,” Pete replied, stepping back as the relentless tide that was Vida made it as far as the living room entrance. “I slept over Friday. Our daughter, Marina, stayed with her last night.”

“You poor man!” Vida cried, linking her arm through Pete’s and leading him to the sofa. “I had no idea Rita was so disturbed! Were she and Hans engaged?”

“Ah . . .” Pete had no choice except to sit down next to Vida, who had all but pulled him onto the sofa. “Well . . . not exactly. But they were . . . uh . . . seeing each other.”

I sank down into a soft leather armchair. I barely recognized the living room. The heavy drapes were gone, along with the worn carpets, the religious paintings, and the old furniture. The only thing that seemed the same was the fireplace, though the statues of saints had been replaced by a glass deer with two fawns and an artificial flower arrangement. Rita hadn’t shown much flair in redecorating, but at least the house didn’t look like a mausoleum.

“What’s going on?” The voice came from the second doorway off the hall where Rita stood looking disheveled and surly.

Pete seemed embarrassed. “We have company. Mrs. Runkel and Ms. Lord dropped by to see how you’re feeling.”

Clutching her pink bathrobe and wearing matching slippers, Rita looked as if she’d be more pleased to see a couple of armed assassins.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, standing in front of the fireplace. “I was suffering from shock, that’s all. I’m going to work tomorrow.”

“Now that’s spunk,” Vida declared. “I’ve always said you’re a strong person.”

As far as I knew, Vida had never said any such thing. She had a number of opinions of Rita, but none of them favorable.

“Really.” Rita didn’t look convinced. “As far as I’m concerned,” she went on, turning toward her brother, “you can go home. If I get hungry, I’ll fix some eggs.”

Pete started to rise from the sofa, maybe to prove that Vida hadn’t nailed him to the cushions. “You sure?”

Rita nodded once. “I appreciate your help, Pete. But I’m fine. I’ve just never seen somebody killed right in front of me before.”

Rita’s words evoked images of Tom dying in my arms. If she’d cared for Hans even a fraction of how much I’d loved Tom, I sympathized with her wholeheartedly. But Vida had the floor. I kept quiet.

With a commiserating look for Rita, Vida uttered a mournful sigh. “How true. How sad. And to think that over three hundred people were there to witness such a terrible thing.”

Rita took a step toward Vida. “Are you saying I’m the only wimp who was in the theater Friday night?”

Vida clucked her tongue. “You know I’m not. Some people are more sensitive than others. Obviously, you were more deeply affected by the tragedy. Your reaction is most admirable.”

Pete had gone out into the kitchen. Rita remained standing, arms folded and hands tucked inside the bathrobe’s sleeves. “Vida, I never know
what
you’re saying,” Rita asserted. “Sometimes I think you speak with—what’s the expression?—forked tongue?”

“Oh, Rita!” Vida’s expression was shocked. “Would I have come to call if I hadn’t been worried about you? And,” she added hastily, apparently remembering my mute presence, “Emma as well. Tell me, when are they holding poor Hans’s services?”

“They aren’t,” Rita snapped. “Hans wouldn’t have wanted a funeral. He wasn’t religious.”

“I see.” Vida seemed downcast. “So sad when there’s no service. Are you making the arrangements?”

Rita shook her head. “The college is handling it. As soon as . . . the body is released by the sheriff, there’ll be cremation in San Diego. That’s where his wife’s ashes are.”

“That’s so,” Vida remarked, though I doubted that she was aware of the aforementioned spouse. “How sad that they both died young. She wasn’t more than thirtysomething, was she?”

Rita scowled at Vida. “Julia was thirty-five. You knew about her?”

Vida nodded vaguely. “So tragic.”

“Accidents happen.” Rita’s tone was glib, but she lowered her gaze. “Anyway, that’s all I can tell you. Check with Cardenas for the details if you’re going to write up an obituary.”

“Of course,” Vida responded. “Hans was part of the community. He’d been here for some time.”

“Excuse me,” I said, all but raising my hand to be recognized. “What kind of accident was it? The one that killed Mrs. Berenger, I mean.”

Rita shook her head again. “I don’t know. Hans couldn’t talk about it. Julia was a topic to be avoided.”

“No children?” I inquired.

“No.” Rita’s lips grew tight.

“If you’re sure you’re all right,” Vida began as she stood up, “we’ll go. But if there’s anything we can do for—”

“There isn’t,” Rita broke in. “I’ll be fine.”

I pulled myself out of the deep leather chair. “By the way, did you notice anybody backstage Friday night who didn’t seem to belong?”

Rita hesitated. “Now that you mention it, there was some guy I hadn’t seen before,” she said. “Fairly young, dark. I didn’t pay much attention. I was already in my part.”

Vida had stopped in the doorway between the living room and the hall. “Did you tell the sheriff?”

“No. It didn’t seem important. I figured he was a college student. Frankly, I didn’t know most of the kids who were involved in the play.” She frowned. “What are you saying? This guy was an outsider? How come? You think a hit man showed up to kill Hans? That’s crazy.”

“Not exactly,” Vida said with a sharp glance for me, “but it would appear that only you and one other person took note of this man. Would you describe him as ‘bushy-haired’?”

Rita came close to cracking a smile. “He
had
hair,” she said. “It was dark. But
bushy
might be pushing it.”

“Did you notice what he was doing?” I asked. “Or recall exactly when you saw him?”

“Right before the play started,” Rita answered, “but I didn’t pay much attention. He was just hanging around, I think. As I mentioned, I was into my part as Angela the waitress.”

“Of course.” Vida gave Rita her Cheshire cat smile. “Most interesting. You take care of yourself, Rita.”

∗ ∗ ∗

“Well,” I remarked when we were back in the car, “Roger’s credibility may be improving.”

“Twaddle,” Vida retorted. “I never doubted him. Do you think he’d make something up?”

“You said yourself he might have misguidedly been trying to protect Jim or Rip.”

“That doesn’t seem to be the case, does it?” Vida was smug.

We’d reached Alpine Way before Vida spoke again. “Hans had a scar.”

“He did?”

Vida nodded. “On his forehead. I noticed it when he was hired and the college sent us a publicity photo. You couldn’t see it from the audience Friday. Stage makeup would hide it.”

It took me a minute to figure out what Vida was getting at. “Are you saying that Hans and his wife—Julia—were in an auto accident and he survived, but she didn’t? That maybe the accident was Hans’s fault and he felt guilty about her death?”

“Or merely surviving,” Vida replied as we turned off Alpine Way to enter The Pines. “Often, survivors have a terrible sense of guilt when they’re involved in a fatal tragedy. They can’t understand why they’re still alive and the other person—especially a loved one—is dead.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” I noted. “Hans may have fallen off his bike when he was ten. You don’t know how he got that scar.”

“Admittedly,” Vida said as we pulled into the Hibberts’ sloping driveway. “But it’s a thought.”

It was the kind of thought I would have easily dismissed. Except that it came from Vida.

∗ ∗ ∗

I must confess that I didn’t sparkle as a dinner guest. Vida was full of praise for Roger’s powers of observation; Amy chattered on about whether or not she should host the family Easter dinner, since the holiday fell early and who knew what the weather might be like in Alpine at the end of March? Ted, when he got a word in edgewise, commented on a study he was doing with the department of forestry for better harvesting of timber. Roger’s contribution consisted mostly of grunts and belches.

The rain had stopped by the time I went home at a little before seven. My log cabin looked dark and forlorn. But I could get the Honda into the carport, which meant I didn’t have to wade through the puddles and rivulets that had taken over my property.

I’d changed into my robe and was looking through the TV schedule when I heard someone at the door. A squint through the peephole showed Spencer Fleetwood standing on the porch.

“I’m not wearing my hostess gown,” I said as I let him in.

Spence shrugged. “No problem. Except that’s one ugly bathrobe.”

“Thanks,” I said with a grimace. He was right. I had two robes. The other one was lush crimson velvet that hung in sensuous folds from a mandarin collar. I hadn’t worn it since Tom died. The robe I was wearing had seen much service. The cuffs were frayed; the hem sagged in places; the once electric blue fabric had suffered a serious power outage. But if it was good enough to wear in front of Milo Dodge, it was more than good enough for Spencer Fleetwood.

“Have a seat,” I said, waving at the nearest easy chair. “Can I get you something to drink? A hot buttered rum, maybe?” I still had a dab of the mix left in the fridge.

“That sounds just right,” Spence replied, sitting down and maneuvering the chair closer to the fire I’d built as soon as I got home.

In the kitchen I took a shortcut, using the microwave instead of waiting for the teakettle to heat. Three minutes later, I was settled back on the sofa, mug in hand.

“Is the smoking lamp lit?” Spence asked, pulling out a pack of his expensive imported cigarettes.

“Oh . . . sure.” I reached into the end-table drawer to retrieve the ashtray I kept for Milo. And for me, in my weaker moments.

Spence proffered the gold-on-black cigarette box, but I declined. “How come you’re not at the station?” I asked.

“The river’s dropping,” he said, batting at the cigarette smoke to send it in the direction of the fireplace. “Rey Fernandez is in charge for this shift. It’s getting colder, so nobody expects any big problems until the morning commute programming. I’ll take over then.”