The Alpine Yeoman (12 page)

“Emma, darlin’.” Fuzzy greeted me in his Bayou baritone as he gingerly sat down in a visitor chair. “Your editorial has stirred my very soul. I had to come in person to congratulate you.”

“It was your idea,” I said. “All I did was run with it. Have you heard from any of the county commissioners?”

“Not yet,” Fuzzy replied. “Due to the consideration of your predecessor, the venerable Marius Vandeventer, I am always the first to get a copy of the
Advocate
.”

Somewhere along the way I’d forgotten about that courtesy. The mayor was mainly a figurehead, while the commissioners ruled supreme. “You might not like what you hear from Engebretsen, Hollenberg, and Blackwell,” I warned him.

He ran a hand through his thinning dyed red hair and chuckled. “I’m a product of Louisiana politics. I remain unafraid. How can they protest too much when I’m eliminating myself?” He chuckled some more.

“I’m prepared for some flak,” I said. “Not just from the commissioners, but readers, too. You know how people around here dislike change, even if in this case it’s intended to save them money.”

“Ah,” Fuzzy responded, with a sly look, “that’s where we have them by the short hairs. In the long run, they’ll come ’round. If not, I shall request a bond issue and perhaps a levy or two just to show them the alternatives. I’m anxious to hear what your stalwart husband will have to say about all this.”

Fuzzy didn’t know that I’d broken my word to him and blurted out the whole plan to Milo only hours after the mayor had confided in me. “He’ll back you,” I replied. “The sheriff knows what’s best for SkyCo.”

“I’m grateful for his support,” Fuzzy declared, taking his time to rise from the chair. At eighty, or close to it, he moved as slowly as a southern breeze. “The only fierce opposition I expect would be from Blackwell. But I must take the liberty of saying I would have the redoubtable sheriff on my side. I’m from Louisiana, but I don’t want to end up like Huey Long. I was only a lad when he was gunned down at the capitol in Baton Rouge, but I remember it well.”

“I don’t think Jack would shoot you,” I said, getting up to
walk the mayor out through the newsroom. “I’d worry more about him wanting to become the county manager. He does have business experience.”

For a split second, Fuzzy’s faded blue eyes seemed to snap. “He wouldn’t. He may operate a fine mill, but that’s very different from running a government. If my aging memory serves, your valiant mate gave him a sound whopping in his futile attempt to become sheriff when that position was an elected office.”

“True.” I glanced at Vida, who was on the phone, but her posture indicated that she wanted to hang up and pounce on the mayor. “Let me know what you hear from the voters.”

Fuzzy assured me he would, paused to make a courtly bow to Vida, and went on his way. It was another five minutes before she tromped into my office to interrogate me about the mayor’s visit.

“Hey,” I said, “don’t tell me you haven’t read Mitch’s front-page article or my editorial.”

She looked somewhat taken aback. “I saw the headline indicating Fuzzy had done something, but knowing him, I assumed it was self-serving. It often is.”

“Not this time. In fact,” I went on, hoping to placate Vida for whatever fault she was mentally accusing me of now, “you can be a huge help making Fuzzy’s plan work. I assume you’re still at the top of the Presbyterians’ telephone tree?”

“Well, of course! You’d think I’d abdicate that responsibility?”

“No,” I said with a straight face. “Someone has to spread the news down the line, and you
are
a journalist.”

“Well now. I must learn what this is all about.” I could almost hear a blare of trumpets as Vida marched off to her desk.

My phone rang a few minutes later. “Do I want you or Mitch?” the sheriff asked in a beleaguered voice.

“Gosh,” I said in a mock-injured tone, “I never thought you cared that much for my reporter. I’m jealous.”

“Cut the crap,” Milo barked. “I mean in terms of handling the ID on the body. It’s tricky.”

“You have an ID?”

“Yeah, in a way. Maybe you better get your cute little butt down here. I’ll let you figure out how to do this in the paper. You
are
the boss.”

“Don’t say that in front of Vida,” I said in almost a whisper. “Okay, I’ll be there ASAP.”

I walked casually through the newsroom, not wanting Vida to pick up even a faint scent of urgency. Nevertheless, when I turned to exit through the front office, I could feel her eyes boring into my back like laser beams. Once I hit the sidewalk, I moved faster. By the time I reached the sheriff’s headquarters, I was out of breath.

A frazzled-looking Lori gestured at Milo’s closed door. “Enter at your peril. He probably won’t try to take your head off.”

“If he did, the cook would quit.” I went through the swinging gate and didn’t bother to knock. Milo was on the phone, acknowledging my arrival with a raised hand. I closed the door and sat down.

“No,” he said, “I don’t need to mix it up with the Feds. That’s your call, not mine.” He grew silent, listening to whoever was at the other end of the line. “Okay. If that’s the way it is, you handle it.” He started to slam down the receiver, thought better of it, and carefully set it in the cradle. “Freaking red tape,” he muttered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’ll just watch smoke come out of your nose, mouth, and ears.”

“Fire and brimstone should be more like it,” Milo muttered.
“Okay.” He leaned back in his chair. “The deceased may or may not be José Carlos Fernandez of Wapato. He may, in fact, be an undercover agent for the Feds or he may be a crook. You and I are both in a bind.”

“You mean,” I said after absorbing Milo’s revelation, “that the Yakima sheriff’s office doesn’t know? Or that they won’t tell?”

“I don’t think they know.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and fingered his long chin. “Yakima’s a hell of a lot bigger county than SkyCo, but when it comes to a federal issue, a local sheriff doesn’t have much clout in D.C.”

“I guess not.” I paused, trying to wrap my head around the situation. “No word yet from the SnoCo ME?”

“No. I’ll call later this afternoon if I haven’t heard by then.”

“Can I use the victim’s alleged name online?”

Milo shrugged. “Why not? It’s what’s on his driver’s license. I’ll have to release it to Fleetwood, but without filling in the background. Same with Laskey. I’m only telling you because …” He grimaced. “Damnit, I guess I had to tell somebody. Why not my wife? You’ve liked calling me ‘baffled’ over the years. Now I am. So’s Yakima.”

I smiled. “I’ve never called you ‘baffled’ in print. But you know we can’t use it in the paper anyway. Does your Yakima contact believe the license may be phony?”

“We’re not supposed to know that.”

“Have you found a vehicle?”

Milo shook his head. “The only thing I know is that he didn’t walk here from Wapato. If he was ever there in the first place.” He took a last drag on his cigarette.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why does your vis-à-vis in Yakima think Fernandez could be a crook? I mean, why would anyone think he was a crook just because he isn’t some kind of federal agent?”

“I asked that question,” Milo replied. “It appears there
is
an agent by that name, but he’s not supposed to be anywhere near this state. He operates out of Southern California. If he’s undercover, I suspect they can’t find him. That’s not unusual. Those types go deep into their roles.”

“So we can ID him?”

“Sure.” Milo stood up and stretched. “It might bring somebody out of the woodwork. I doubt it, but it can’t do any harm.”

I got to my feet, too. “By the way, I’m playing bridge tonight.”

The sheriff didn’t look pleased. “How come? I thought you decided to bail from that bunch.”

“I resigned from Marisa Foxx’s poker group. I can’t afford playing with her fellow well-heeled attorneys. Besides, some of the games are too far out of town. Edna Mae Dalrymple caught me in a weak moment.”

“Would she yank your library card if you turned her down?”

I laughed. “No. Why don’t you round up a poker game with your own crew? You’ve only played once in the last few months.”

“I know. I’ve been too damned busy and Doc Dewey is as overworked as I am. Gerry and I are usually the ones who get the rest of them together.” He looked a bit chagrined. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. Now go away before I start messing with your face.”

I went—but not before advising him to call Mitch. If my reporter didn’t get the news directly, he might plunge into one of his moods. When it came to turf, Mitch was hypersensitive.

Half an hour later, he was also confused. “What was the big holdup releasing the dead guy’s name?” he asked from my office doorway.

“There are a lot of Fernandezes in Yakima County,” I hedged. “Their sheriff wanted to be sure they had the right one.”

Mitch looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true. I keep forgetting how much agriculture there is on the other side of the mountains. I shouldn’t—not after Troy got arrested in Yakima for drug dealing.” Shoulders slumping, he turned away and went back to his desk.

Except for fielding two dozen phone calls about Fuzzy’s proposal and my editorial—seven against, five for, and the rest confused—I spent the next two hours going through notes I’d made in February while researching some of the less savory aspects of local history. Admittedly, until then my knowledge had been limited to the town’s founding and its near demise before Rufus Runkel and Olav the Obese injected new life into Alpine. The retrospective had been triggered after Vida interviewed Clarence Munn, a former mill owner who was now confined to RestHaven with something akin to Alzheimer’s. While Clarence might not recall what he’d had for lunch or even what lunch was, his memory seemed quite keen when it came to the distant past. He cited various forms of corruption, some of which came as news even to Vida. Whether his recollections were worthy of publishing was dubious. Milo had suggested holding off at the time, but to save the long-ago dirt until we announced Fuzzy’s proposal. Still trying to get back into my House & Home editor’s good graces, I sought her opinion.

“I believe,” Vida said, adjusting her glasses, “that you decided to withhold Clarence’s revelations to show opponents what happens when government is in shoddy hands. That was probably wise.”

I nodded but wouldn’t let on that the advice had actually come from Milo. “I have no idea if we’ll need to resort to that,
but the phones aren’t ringing off the hook with unbridled endorsements.”

“No-o-o,” Vida said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t expect that to happen. People here tend to take their time making up their minds. Prudent, of course. Knee-jerk reactions are often later retracted.”

I heard my phone ringing but decided to ignore it in deference to Vida. “I suppose you’ll start rallying your Presbyterians tonight before you get on your telephone tree.”

“I certainly will. Perhaps the new minister, being young, will be of help. Pastor Purebeck tended to hold more conservative views. Except,” she added with a look of disgust, “when it came to Daisy McFee.”

Amanda called my name from the front office. “It’s the sheriff,” she said. “Are you or Mitch available?”

“He must be in the back shop,” I informed her. “I’ll take it in my office.” Despite Vida’s sour look, I excused myself to beat a hasty retreat.

“We just got the ME’s report,” Milo said. “Four stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. No sign of a struggle. Death occurred between two and six
A.M
. Vic was a healthy male and if his driver’s license is real as well as accurate, he was twenty-seven years old. What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken,” I said, though I hadn’t given it a thought.

“Chicken again? What ever happened to steak?”

“I’m in a rut, okay? Back up. This guy was stabbed in the chest and abdomen but he didn’t put up a fight?”

“Neal Doak doesn’t elaborate in his reports. If you want a story, ask Edna Mae Dalrymple to bring you a book at bridge club tonight.” Once again, the sheriff hung up on me.

I met Mitch coming out of the back shop and relayed the information to him. He turned around to have Kip put the news online. Finally reaching my desk, I noticed it was ten to
five. Not knowing if Tanya was coming to dinner, I called the sheriff office’s main number.

“Tanya didn’t come in today,” Lori said. “Dodge told us she had out-of-town company. You have her cell number, right?”

I did, though I had to look it up. I still wasn’t fully immersed in my role as stepmother. Tanya answered on the first ring. I inquired about her dinner plans.

“I’m in Bellevue, at Mom’s,” Tanya said. “With the weather getting warmer, I decided to drive down here to get some of my spring clothes. I’m spending the night so I can go shopping at Bellevue Square with Mom. Didn’t Dad tell you?”

“No,” I replied, deciding to make excuses for her father. “He’s been busy.” That much was true. “Enjoy your fashion frenzy. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure. I might stay over again to catch up with some of my friends here. I haven’t been in Bellevue for almost two months. I’m out of the loop, despite texting. You can’t get all the juicy details that way. I’ll let Dad or you know tomorrow.”

I wished her luck and rang off. Given her aversion to all things Bellevue, with its horrific memories, I viewed her visit as an encouraging sign. Maybe Tanya wasn’t going to make Alpine her permanent home. On the other hand, Bill Blatt wasn’t on Seattle’s Eastside. I wondered if Tanya wanted to perk up her wardrobe for his benefit.

I had time to make one last phone call. Not wanting to pester Tanya while she was out of town, I’d decided to go to the primary source, Deanna Johnson Engstrom. I found the number for David Engstrom in the SnoCo directory, but got a recording. She hadn’t mentioned having children. Maybe Deanna worked. I hesitated before leaving a message, then figured the
Advocate
’s number had shown up.

“Hi, Deanna,” I said, “this is Emma Dodge.” Damn, I’d
forgotten—my office phone came up as Emma Lord. But Deanna knew me as Emma Dodge. Maybe she could sort it out. “I was wondering if you’d found out anything from your sister Erin’s friends. We’re all concerned about her.” Double damn. She’d think the sheriff wasn’t doing his job. “My husband and his staff are involved in a murder investigation.” Great. Deanna might worry that he’d found Erin’s body. “If you can, could you call me back”—I hesitated, realizing I’d be gone most of the evening and Milo might be playing poker—“tomorrow at this number? Thanks.”