Authors: Mary Daheim
Marlow Whipp was out on the sidewalk, talking earnestly with Milo and Deputy Bill Blatt, Vida’s nephew. Several neighbors were also there, exchanging apprehensive
remarks. At least a dozen perspiring teenagers carrying track shoes were craning for a better look. Vida was heading straight for Bill Blatt when the ambulance attendants and another deputy, Dwight Gould, emerged from the little grocery story with a stretcher. It was covered with black canvas. I suppressed a small groan.
Milo saw us, but kept talking to Bill Blatt and Marlow Whipp. Vida, however, was undaunted.
“Well?” she demanded, seizing her nephew by the collar of his regulation jacket. “What happened? Who’s that?” She gestured at the covered stretcher, which was now being wheeled past us to the ambulance.
It was Marlow who answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I never saw him before. I swear it.” Marlow Whipp was a small man, in his midfifties, with faded brown hair and protuberant blue eyes, which now appeared dazed. “He came into the store, tried to say something, and collapsed. Honest to God!”
Milo Dodge put a hand on Marlow’s shoulder. “It’s okay, relax. Go inside and sit down. But don’t touch anything.” Realizing the ambiguity of his words, Milo grabbed Marlow more firmly. “On second thought, Dwight’ll drive you down to the office. We’ll get a statement and make you some coffee.”
The ambulance doors were closed; Marlow Whipp was led away by Dwight Gould. With an apologetic look for his aunt, Bill Blatt followed his fellow deputy to the squad car. Milo Dodge pulled out a red bandanna handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Damned allergies,” he muttered, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “Doc Dewey says it’s the cottonwoods. I never used to have any problems.”
“Your system changes every seven years,” Vida responded, somewhat crossly. “Now what on earth’s going on, Milo? Was that person dead?”
The ambulance pulled away from the curb, but at legal speed. The siren didn’t go on; the lights didn’t flash. Vida’s question was answered. Several of the onlookers shook their heads. Most of the high school athletes began to drift away.
Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in the pocket of his
tan pants. “The deceased wasn’t a local,” he said in his laconic voice. “According to Marlow Whipp, he came into the grocery store just before closing, about five to seven. He tried to say something, and then collapsed.” Never a fast talker, Milo slowed to a snail’s pace. The little cluster of neighbors drew closer. “His name is Kelvin Greene, from Seattle. He was twenty-seven years old and lived somewhere out in the Rainier Valley area. It looks as if he was shot in the head.” Milo’s long face wore a disgusted look. “Marlow called us. Marlow swears he didn’t shoot him, though he keeps a gun under the counter. Kelvin died before the ambulance could get here. He was black. Any more questions, or can I get the hell out of here and do my job?”
V
IDA AND
I were torn. We both felt the professional urge to follow Milo to his office, but we had to consider our social obligations, too. We reasoned that since the paper wasn’t due out again until Wednesday and the sheriff would prefer that we make ourselves scarce until he had control of this latest tragedy, we might as well go back to the Campbells’ and eat dessert.
“When in doubt, eat cheesecake,” Vida asserted as we briskly walked away from Marlow Whipp’s little store. Though her words were flippant, her face was grim.
The rain was coming down quite hard by the time we reached our destination. Jean Campbell, looking worried, met us at the door. “What’s happening?” she asked as we shook off raindrops and stamped our feet on the welcome mat.
“There’s been a shooting,” Vida replied, heading for the dining room. She paused at the foot of the table by Jean’s vacant chair. Her gray eyes skimmed the other diners. Perhaps I imagined that her glance lingered just a trifle over-long on Marilynn Lewis. “It’s no one we know. We might as well enjoy that delicious cheesecake.”
We did, though naturally the others pressed us for details. As ever, Vida was regarded as the source of all knowledge. Only Marilynn, another outsider, fixed her curious gaze on me.
“I thought small towns were supposed to be quiet,” she murmured at me behind Cyndi’s back. “Does this kind of violence happen very often?”
Vida had honed her hearing on whispered comments during roll call at social clubs, on discreet remarks four rows away at high school band concerts, on breathless seduction
attempts at cocktail parties. Even across the table, her keen ears caught Marilynn’s words. Vida shot me a warning glance.
“Well,” I mumbled, “Alpine has its share of … problems. People are people, after all. Sometimes they go haywire.”
Marilynn’s beautiful face remained troubled. “But who was killed? I mean, if it’s no one we know, it’s still
somebody.”
Vida turned away from her tête-à-tête with Shane. “The sheriff will release the name of the victim in due course. Right now, he doesn’t know any details. That’s why Emma and I came back here.” She shrugged her wide shoulders. “There’s no real news yet.”
At the other end of the table, Lloyd Campbell was passing sugar and cream for coffee. “That’s the trouble—we push for growth to pump up the economy, but when newcomers move in, there’s often trouble. It seems to me we don’t know what we’re asking for.”
“Lloyd!” Jean’s voice was low and sharp. Her eyes darted in Marilynn’s direction.
Lloyd blanched. “Oh, good Godfrey, Jean, you know I don’t mean Marilynn here. Or Emma,” he added, smiling sheepishly at both of us. My inclusion, I felt, was a nice touch. Consciously or otherwise, it was as if Lloyd were making the point that strangers come in all hues. “I mean all the riffraff that drifts in and out of a town like Alpine. It always has. Look how the hoboes used to ride the rails through here in the Twenties and Thirties.”
“Goodness,” Jean laughed, her manner a bit stilted, “that was before
my
time! Speak for yourself, Lloyd.”
“I remember,” Vida declared. “I was a small child during the Depression, but I certainly recall how my father and some of the other men kept an eye out for any vacant buildings where the hoboes might move in and start a fire. We were always so afraid of fire—especially in the forest. There just wasn’t the means to fight a blaze in those days.”
The conversation eased forward along the lines of danger, progress, and rumors of a new bond issue to increase the size of Skykomish County’s emergency facilities. By the time we had finished dessert and moved back into the
living room, we were once again on safe ground. Wendy had resumed airing her complaints about teenage illiteracy; Lloyd expounded on the wonders of high-definition TV, which he insisted was just around the corner; Cyndi critiqued the romantic comedy playing at the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre; Todd asked Shane if he’d like to go fly-fishing on Sunday up at Surprise Lake; Jean and Vida discussed Pastor Purebeck’s stance on marital infidelity that, happily, did not include any hanky-panky on their minister’s part, but did display a surprisingly broad-minded attitude. At least for a Presbyterian. Or so it seemed to me. But then I had my own set of prejudices.
“I’m a Methodist,” Marilynn Lewis confided. “I haven’t been to church since I got here, but I understand the local minister is very respected. I’ve heard that from some of Dr. Flake and Dr. Dewey’s patients.”
I’d met the Reverend Minton Phelps on several occasions, and he seemed both respected and respectable. At least he hadn’t dropped his pants in public, which was more than could be said for the previous Pentecostal minister—who had done just that shortly before I arrived in Alpine. My perverse, puckish sense of humor dictated that I relate the incident to Marilynn, who laughed merrily at the anecdote, some of which I made up since I hadn’t been an eyewitness.
“Really, Ms. Lord,” she said, still giggling, “I think I’m going to like it here in Alpine. I’ve met several awfully nice people.” Abruptly, she sobered and lowered her dark eyes. “Of course, there are some jerks, too. But that’s true everywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” I, too, had turned serious. “You mustn’t mind them. In some ways, this town is kind of backward: Isolated. Ingrown. Some of the locals need educating. And call me Emma.”
Marilynn’s smile resurfaced, though it was a little lopsided. “You aren’t from here, either, I guess.”
“No.” Briefly, I recounted my history. Born and raised in Seattle, three years at the University of Washington, an internship at
The Times
, a journalism degree from the University of Oregon, eighteen years in Portland on
The Oregonian
. Parents killed in an auto accident, brother a priest in Arizona,
son a student in Alaska. I omitted the part about my married lover and my unmarried pregnancy.
Marilynn reciprocated. She had been born in Oakland, but her family had moved to Seattle just before she entered high school. Her father was dead; her mother had remarried and moved back to California. After graduating from the UDUB’s School of Nursing, she had gone to work at Virginia Mason Hospital. Four years later, she had decided she needed a change, both personally and professionally. I had the feeling she had omitted something, too.
“It’s an adjustment,” I said, referring to small-town life. “I still miss the city in many ways.”
Marilynn nodded. “I do, too. I think.” Her gaze traveled around the living room, taking in the Campbell family and Vida, who was regaling Wendy and Jean with an account of last year’s Memorial Day ceremonies wherein Crazy Eights Neffel had decorated the town’s World War I monument with balloon animals. Shane was at the window, peering into the rain. He struck me as edgy, especially when a solicitous Cyndi approached him from behind, and made him jump. “The first few weeks are the hardest, I suppose,” Marilynn remarked, her forehead creasing.
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “People in Alpine have to adjust, too,” I said, hoping my voice was compassionate. “They’re not used to minorities living here.”
Marilynn’s eyes narrowed for just an instant. “No. But they don’t have to be so mean. You heard about the crow? And the letters?”
Relieved that she had finally broached the subject, I nodded. “I get to hear just about everything in my line of work. Naturally, I’m appalled. But I can’t say I’m surprised. You have no idea who sent them?”
“No.” She stared down at the glass-topped coffee table. “I’ve met quite a few people already. You do, in a doctor’s office. But they seemed … okay. Oh, some of them looked shocked when they walked in and saw me the first couple of days.” Suddenly, she laughed. “I felt like wearing a sign that read, ‘Yes, I’m a person of color. No, you’re not.’ It’s kind of weird, being an object of curiosity. And fear.”
“Fear,” I echoed. “Yes, you’re right. It
is
fear. Irrational, but it’s there.”
Marilynn’s laughter faded. “It’s ridiculous,” she declared, sounding quite severe. “What on earth is there to be afraid of?”
“Nothing,” I replied. Naturally, I meant it. And, of course, I was wrong.
Vida and I left the Campbell house just before nine. As I expected, she insisted that we drive down to the sheriff’s office. Vida couldn’t contain her curiosity another minute. Neither could I.
The rain had stopped. It was dark now, with a scattering of stars above the mountain ridges that ringed the town. Milo Dodge, Bill Blatt, and Dwight Gould were on the job as expected. Doc Dewey had joined them, in his capacity as the Skykomish County coroner. The body, I assumed, had been taken to the morgue, which was located in the basement of Alpine Community Hospital.
“… Fio Rito, down in Kittitas County, outside of Ellensburg,” Doc Dewey was saying as he poured his apparently cold coffee onto an artificial fern. “I took my brother-in-law from Seattle there for opening day, and we did all right.”
Dwight Gould was shaking his head. “You got to go farther than that for any real fishing. I’m heading up north to British Columbia in August. We’ll camp out, and you’d better believe I’ll come back with so many trout you guys’ll …” Dwight stopped, his square face looking vaguely embarrassed. “Hi, Mrs. Runkel, Mrs. Lord. We’re just winding down.”
“Well, wind up,” Vida demanded. “What’s going on? Have you got any information about the victim, or are you four fools just trading fish stories?”
Milo, who had his feet up on his metal desk, reached for a computer printout. “Simmer down, Vida. We’re doing our job. This Kelvin guy was a doper, at least he’d been picked up for dealing. I figure he came here to corrupt the locals. Seattle’s getting too crowded.”
Vida made an impatient gesture with her hand. “The locals are already corrupt enough without having outsiders help them along. As long as you’ve got an Elks Club,
you’re going to have corruption. Now tell us the real reason he came to Alpine.”
Milo—and his deputies—looked blank. “Hell, Vida,” Milo replied, passing a weary hand over his high forehead, “how do we know? Maybe he was just passing through. We haven’t started our investigation. Doc here has to do an autopsy.”
Vida turned to Gerald Dewey, whose round face evinced ignorance—or was it innocence? I had the feeling that our law enforcement and medical officials weren’t exactly falling all over themselves to figure out who had killed Kelvin Greene. The assumption was disturbing.
“Well?” Vida had her fists on her hips. “What are you waiting for, Gerry? Did you freeze-dry the corpse so you could natter away with Milo and his merry band of lamebrained men?” She whirled around to fix her nephew with a withering stare. “This man was shot. What kind of bullet? What sort of gun? When? Where? Who? The press—and the public—needs to know.”
“Shit.” Milo removed his feet from the desk. He looked at Doc Dewey. “Do your stuff, Doc. Lois Lane here is about to make us crazy.”
Vida snorted. Doc Dewey headed for the exit. “Your father wouldn’t have been so negligent,” she called after him. “Doc Dewey Senior was an admirable man.”
Milo was now standing up. “It’s after nine,” he announced. “I’ll start my questioning in the morning.” With his jaw set, he gazed first at me, then at Vida. “Given the ethnic roots of the victim, we’ll begin with Marilynn Lewis.”