The Alpine Yeoman (27 page)

“The Vardis are looking at fridges, too,” Shane said. “Let me run this through for you.”

“Okay.” I staggered over to the counter. Did I have the nerve to see how much I’d spent? I steeled myself—and waited, feeling as if Doc Dewey were about to tell me if whatever condition I had was terminal.

“There you go,” Shane finally said, sliding the receipt across the counter. “You got some good deals.”

“Unh,” I uttered, my eyes widening at the total: just under
five grand, tax included. My signature looked like a chicken had made it. I felt like a chicken—plucked. But it was Milo’s money, though that didn’t make me feel any better.

After getting into my car, I headed for the sheriff’s headquarters, wondering if Milo had any idea of what appliances cost these days. I sure didn’t. Or hadn’t until buying what amounted to over a month of my salary as an impoverished editor and publisher.

To my surprise, Ron Bjornson was behind the curving counter. “I thought you quit,” I blurted out.

“I did,” Ron said with his off-center smile, “but the sheriff’s short of people, so he asked me to keep an eye on things while he’s working out back with some cars.” He shrugged. “I guess Fred Engelman’s taking on my chores.”

“Yes. Now that Fred and Janie have remarried, they can use the money. Mickey Borg took everything, including the TV.”

“That guy always was a prick,” Ron said, then winced. “Sorry, Ms. Lord, for the rough language, but I saw him checking out a new Corvette the other day at Nordby Brothers. I sure hope Janie and Fred don’t see him tooling around town in a hot new Vette.”

“That’d be aggravating,” I agreed. “I’d better find Milo.”

“Awrrr …” Ron laughed in embarrassment. “I forgot—you’re Mrs. Dodge now. That’s nice. I mean, good for you guys.”

“Thanks, Ron,” I said, smiling as I went around the counter and toward the rear exit. “Say hello to Maylene for me.”

If there was one thing I could say for Ron Bjornson, he didn’t hold a grudge. His arrest as a murder suspect had occurred a few months after I’d broken up with the sheriff. To say Milo and I were not on good terms would be putting it mildly. In fact, we were both emotional disasters. The sheriff had some evidence against Ron, but he’d acted precipitously to
show me up or just to show me. Neither of us had ever figured out that part. But when Ron threatened to sue the county for wrongful arrest, the sheriff offered a part-time job, which the Bjornsons desperately needed. Now that they both had full-time jobs at the college and their kids were grown, the family was in better financial shape.

I first noticed the ATV off to one side in the small impound area between the building and the railroad tracks. The Porsche wreckage briefly blocked my view of Milo and Dwight Gould. Moving closer, I saw that they were focused on a third vehicle, a midsized black Nissan sedan.

“Hi,” I said diffidently. “I’m not here to pester you, but …”

Milo, who had been kneeling to study the car’s right front tire, looked at me but didn’t stand up. “If you’ve flipped out over picking a damned stove, save it, okay?”

I ignored Dwight’s fierce glare. “I didn’t,” I declared, finding my spine. “I’ve got a witness to the Dobles accident.”

The sheriff got to his feet. “We had two witnesses. A westbound couple from Spokane stated that the Porsche was going too fast and went out of control.”

I felt smug. “How about a local?”

“Who?” Milo asked dubiously. “If it’s Crazy Eights …”

“It’s not,” I interrupted. “It’s Shane Campbell. You and your deputies apparently didn’t ask for his statement.” I glared back at Dwight just for the hell of it.

The sheriff turned away from me. “Finish up here, Gould. I’d better check this out. Ms. Lord isn’t always a reliable source.” He grabbed my rear as we went back inside. “Shane Campbell was on the scene? Goddamnit, nobody told me that. He wasn’t there when I showed up.”

“That’s because Sam Heppner told him to get out of the way. He was blocking traffic with his van.”

Ron acknowledged us with a nod as we went into Milo’s
office. “Okay,” my husband said, sitting in his chair while I parked myself across the desk. “I take it you were doing more than buying a fridge.”

“I wasn’t. I mean, I was buying a fridge, but Shane volunteered it. He happened to be right behind Dobles until another car cut him off. It appeared to be chasing down the Porsche.”

Milo offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. He lighted both for us and handed me mine. “Go on,” he urged—and scowled. “Why are you looking so sappy?”

“I’m not used to seeing you here in your civvies. It’s kind of … um …”

He waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. “Stick to business. What did Shane say he saw?”

I grew serious and related what Shane had said almost word for word, including the fact that Sam hadn’t asked him to fill out a report. “Granted,” I concluded, “he didn’t actually see the other car force the Porsche off the road, but he was fairly certain that’s what happened.”

Milo’s gaze was steady as he took a puff on his cigarette. “It probably did. That Nissan outside is the abandoned car I found on River Road yesterday. It’s got some front-end damage with red paint that matches the Porsche. It looks as if we might be talking attempted vehicular homicide.”

I
HAD A BARRAGE OF QUESTIONS FOR THE SHERIFF, BUT HE
silenced me by holding up his hand. “Before you ask, that’s not the local car that was reportedly stolen from Ptarmigan Tract. We still haven’t found that one. It belongs to Rocky and Sarah Swensen’s older son, who’s away at college.”

“Do I know them?”

Milo made a face. “Rocky works for Blackwell. You’d know him and Sarah if you saw them, but skip the irrelevant questions. There’s nothing in the Nissan to show who owned it or where it came from. It’s got Washington plates, which we’re running through the system, but my hunch is that it’s stolen. The only thing besides finding the real owner is that whoever drove it filled up the gas tank. If we can track down where the gas was purchased, that’d help.”

“Have you checked Cal’s and Gas ’N Go?”

“Ron did that just before you got here. No luck.” Milo leaned back in the chair. “Damn. This whole mess gets more screwed up as time goes on. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“Where was the abandoned car?” I asked.

“Almost to the end of River Road where it doubles back by the little bridge over Deception Creek. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t wanted to check out a fishing hole there to see if
what little snowpack we had changed the river’s course.” He took a last puff on his cigarette before putting it out in the Seahawks ashtray Tanya had given him to go with his coffee mug. “Why the hell didn’t Heppner ask for Shane’s statement? The jackass didn’t even tell me that an Alpine Appliance van had been at the scene. Maybe he really was coming down sick.”

“You thought he made that up?”

“Well …” Milo fingered his chin. “I wondered after he asked to go on leave the next day. I can’t remember Heppner ever calling in sick.”

“Maybe he was sick inside.”

My husband stared at me for a moment. “Yeah … that sounds more like it, given whatever the hell’s going on with him. Oh—did you actually buy any appliances, or did you just dither a lot?”

Grimacing, I took out the receipt and pushed it across the desk. “Here. Don’t pass out. I almost did.”

“Jesus! Five grand? What are they made of—solid gold?”

“Everything was on sale. I think.”

Milo expelled a big breath. “Inflation, I guess. I haven’t bought an appliance since … hell, I never bought an appliance. Mulehide did all that. She liked picking out stuff for the house.”

“I thought I’d have an aneurysm. I must’ve done all this in fifteen minutes. It’s a wonder I didn’t run over somebody coming here.”

The sheriff shrugged. “It’s fine. Your stuff is pretty old.”

“Some of it came with the cabin, and it was old then. The Bourgettes suggested that we could donate what we don’t want to Father Den for the women’s shelter.”

Milo nodded. “That’s a tax deduction. Go ahead.” He stood up. “Now just go. I’ve got work to do.”

“It’s nice again today, so maybe I’ll do some gardening,” I said as he walked me out of his office. “Since my little log cabin is turning into a stately country home, I feel as if I should hire a landscaper.”

“Do that. Mountain View Gardens is coming out next week to start on my place. I’ll cut a deal with them.”

“Milo …” I looked up at him in reproach.

“Hell, you just spent five grand on appliances. Do something fun.”

I couldn’t resist. “Maybe I’ll pay Francine Wells a call instead,” I said over my shoulder.

“There
are
limits,” Milo warned me in a stern voice.

I kept going.

Instead of heading for Francine’s Fine Apparel, I retraced my route to Nordby Brothers, at Sixth and Front. Only one of the siblings—Trout—was in the showroom extolling the marvels of a new Chevrolet Malibu to a young couple. I held back, waiting for the pair to fish or cut bait.

They did neither, the young man finally saying that they’d think about it before heading out the door.

“Emma.” Trout greeted me with a big, almost sincere smile. “Are you looking to replace that Honda?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I take it those two who just left were looky-loos.”

“From Everett,” Trout replied. “So many people come up here because they think we’ll be a lot cheaper. Sure, we can give them a good deal, but Skunk and I aren’t a charity.”

I laughed. “You’re also the only GM dealer for miles around. Would it kill you to take out a bigger ad?”

Trout grinned. “Hey, you doing Walsh’s job? He’s damned good at twisting arms.”

“No,” I said, growing serious. “I hear Mickey Borg’s back in town. Did he make you richer by buying that Corvette?”

“Wow,” Trout murmured, “news travels fast around here. Yeah, he drove it right off the lot. Can you believe he put down ten grand cash as the first payment?”

I tried to hide my surprise. “He did sell Gas ’N Go.”

“Right, but still … where’s he been since he left town? I asked him, but he shrugged and said, ‘Here, there and everywhere.’ Mickey couldn’t wait to get on the highway to air it out, as he put it.”

“So he left Alpine?”

“Who knows? I hadn’t seen him around here for two, three months at least. I asked him what he’d been up to, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. All the same, his money’s good with me.”

“As long as he’s not printing it himself,” I said.

Trout obliged me with a chuckle. “So what can I do for you, Emma? Isn’t it time you drove an American car? First a Jag, then a Lexus, and now a Honda. Dodge is a good citizen driving that Yukon. Isn’t it time you changed allegiance?”

“I’ll have to eventually, but we’re in the middle of a big remodel. I thought I’d stop in to make sure Leo was treating you and Skunk right.”

“Walsh is good people,” Trout assured me. “Now if I could just talk him out of that old Toyota. Jeez, that thing’s got almost a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it.”

“It still runs,” I said, seeing a trio of young men who looked like college students enter the showroom. “I’ll let you show these guys something they can’t possibly afford,” I murmured.

“At least they’re dreaming the American dream,” Trout said under his breath as he smoothed his tie and brushed back what was left of his graying brown hair. “Hey, there … looking for serious wheels or …”

I was getting into my trusty if aged Honda when I heard a horn honk. Not sure if it was meant for me, I looked across the street to see Mitch in his well-traveled Ford Taurus. As a longtime Detroit resident, he could hardly drive anything but an American car. Pulling a neat U-ie I wouldn’t have dared in the middle of Front Street, Mitch parked behind my Honda. I walked to his passenger side as he rolled down the window.

“Guess what?” he said, leaning in my direction. “I ran into Mrs. Ellison when I went to pick up Brenda’s meds at the hospital pharmacy. She’s a nurse there. I remembered that her daughter was one of the runaways, so I asked if she’d heard anything more from her lately. She said she had, just this morning, when Samantha sent her a money order for fifty dollars as an early Mother’s Day present. Apparently, the kid’s got a job in Centralia.”

“Centralia?” I echoed.

“Right.” Mitch frowned. “I’m not sure where that is.”

“About eighty, ninety miles south of Seattle,” I replied. “Just off I-5. That’s odd—Milo and I were talking about the town last night. Did Mrs. Ellison say where her daughter is working?”

“A hostess of some kind,” Mitch replied. “Restaurant work, I suppose. She’s too young to have a job in a bar. Anyway, her mom’s thrilled. It sounds like the money must be pretty good. Tips, maybe.”

“Maybe.” I felt uneasy. “I hope Samantha gets her GED.”

“At least the Ellisons know where she is,” Mitch said. “I’d better head home before Brenda starts to fuss.”

“Say hello to her for me,” I called, backing away from the Taurus.

Suddenly I wasn’t in the mood to visit Francine’s shop. Centralia seemed to be a theme for all sorts of things in the past few days. But I didn’t know why. And that bothered me—a lot.