The Alpine Escape (28 page)

“Well …” Clearly, Vida was weakening.

I went for the jugular. “You can run some of those old photos and new ones, too.” I gritted my teeth as I shot my wad: “Think how much Roger will like having his picture in the paper!”

“Well!” Warmth was flooding into Vida’s voice. “Roger would get a kick out of it, certainly. I could have him pose with his pet spider.”

I shuddered but retained my encouraging tone. “There you go. Use as much space as you want. Four pages if necessary. We’ll key it into the middle of the special section.”

By now Vida was almost purring. “I must call Roger and tell him. Maybe I should run over to the mall and buy him that black leather jacket he’s been wanting. It’s been such a cool summer, his little arms might get chilled.”

A picture of Roger in a straitjacket flashed through my mind. Roger in leather was almost as frightening an apparition. Silver studs. A skull and crossbones stitched on the back. Tattoos all over his little arms. But to give the little devil his due, he was unwittingly helping me out of a hole. I told Vida I’d see her in a few hours and clicked off the phone.

“Mike’s going to ride to Dusty’s with us,” Jackie said. “I told him about the lesbians.”

“Oh.” I was somewhat jarred. My conversations with Ed and Vida had drawn me away from the Melcher mystery. Indeed, I felt as if I were already gone from Port Angeles and immersed once again in Alpine and
The Advocate
. “What do you think?” I inquired of Mike.

“Fascinating.” He picked up my suitcase, which Jackie had brought into the entry hall. Then he paused, watching me in a questioning manner.

“That’s it,” I said, realizing that he thought I had
more luggage. I wondered if he would have let me carry the suitcase had he not thought there was more. Mike Randall wouldn’t want to deprive me of my right to bear equal burdens.

We were in the Honda before Mike elaborated on his remark about the lesbians. “I think you have to define the term
crime of passion
,” he said from his place in the backseat. “Does it refer to the act or the cause? If it’s the act, then we must rule it out. It strikes me that this was a well-planned crime, nothing spontaneous or impulsive.” He tapped my shoulder lightly. “Do you agree?”

“I think so. But it’s like everything else about the case. We can’t really know for sure.”

“Yes, that’s true.” He leaned back. “Now if we’re talking about the cause, or motive, crime of passion means a crime
caused
by passion. Agreed?”

“Definitely,” Jackie responded.

“That’s right,” I allowed.

“Repression.” Mike spoke the word under his breath. “If Rose—or Lena—was a lesbian, one of them might resort to violence when spurned by the object of their desire. Somehow this theory makes more sense to me than the one about the men being homosexual. I don’t know why, but …” He leaned forward again, this time tapping Jackie. “Do you mind swinging by that statue of Lena? I looked up the Latin inscription.”

It was almost noon and I was getting antsy. My greatest fear was that Dusty’s would close down for lunch and I would have to wait another hour to retrieve my Jag. But Jackie dutifully turned toward the little park. I consoled myself with the reminder that it wasn’t much out of our way.

Mike got out of the car. Reluctantly, I joined him. The sun was almost directly overhead. Lena Stillman Melcher Rowley’s image wasn’t improved by daylight.

“ ‘Finis coronat opus
,’ ” Mike recited in a low voice.
“According to Bartlett’s
Familiar Quotations
at the college library, it means ‘The ending crowns the work.’ ” He glanced at me, his blue eyes ironic. “It can be used in a good or a bad sense.”

Momentarily, I was puzzled. “You mean … Oh, I see. Not the end justifying the means, but instead life’s closure being appropriate to whatever the person did along the way.” Despite the press of time, I grew thoughtful. A soft breeze was rustling the trees in the small park. In the past two days a bed of dwarf dahlias had burst into riotous bloom. A gray squirrel darted across the grass, glancing first at us, then up at Lena’s statue. It raced off into the shrubbery. I didn’t blame the little guy; Lena didn’t look like she wanted company. “Do you suppose Lena chose the inscription herself?” I asked after a long pause.

Mike gave a faint shake of his head. “I’ve no idea. How did she die?”

For the first time I realized that Tessie Roo and I had never looked up Lena’s obituary. She had lived into the Forties, as I recalled. Our natural assumption was that Lena’s death was quite ordinary, undoubtedly from old age.

“It probably isn’t pertinent,” Mike said, a hand at my elbow as he guided me back to the car.

Jackie was behind the wheel, looking bored. She didn’t show much interest when Mike translated the Latin inscription for her. “We stopped here for that? It would make a better epitaph for Olive Rowley than for Lena.”

There was truth as well as bite in Jackie’s opinion. Dying of syphilis was, alas, too fitting for a lifetime of promiscuity. But the Rowleys, the Melchers, and all the rest were erased from my mind when I saw my beloved green Jag parked at the curb in front of Dusty’s. I was so overjoyed that I could have kissed the hood. Or bonnet, as the manual called it.

The bill, however, brought me back down to earth. The price of a new fuel pump was two hundred and eighty-five dollars; labor came to a hundred and ninety. There were some other small items listed on the invoice that I felt no compunction to understand. Car mechanics are like doctors—if their tinkering keeps either me or my car alive, I don’t need to know the gruesome details. With tax the total was over six hundred dollars. I held my breath as Dusty waited for approval on my bank card.

Miraculously, the charge was given the green light. Accepting my car keys and thanking Dusty for impoverishing me, I looked around for Jackie. Mike motioned toward the small office. Jackie was inside talking on the phone.

“What’s she doing now?” I asked anxiously. It was a few minutes after noon. I pictured Leo Walsh, sitting despondently in the motel, waiting for the ride that never came.

Mike cleared his throat. “Jackie changed her mind about that inscription. She decided it was intriguing after all. She’s calling your friend Ms. Roo at the genealogy room of the museum.”

I rolled my eyes. But Jackie came out almost immediately. She was wearing a smug expression.

“So
that’s
what it means,” she declared. “Lena Rowley didn’t die of old age even if she was eighty-four. Lena got run over by a drunk driver.”

It was possible that someone had a black sense of humor. On the other hand, the words were appropriate for a woman of Lena’s accomplishments.
Finis coronat opus
. Either way it worked.

I had to pry Jackie loose. She clung to me as if I were her mother, though I couldn’t quite imagine Mavis
putting up with such sentimentality, even from her own daughter.

“The house will be so empty! What will I do? How will I grocery-shop? Where do I put the grapefruit?”

I hugged her, I patted her, I soothed her with words. “Thank Paul for me,” I said, finally managing to free myself. “I’m sorry I missed him this morning.” Giving Jackie a final kiss on the cheek, I reached for Mike’s hand. “I’ll send you the Fixer-Upper edition,” I promised. “Feel free to write back with any editorial comments.”

Mike gave me a broad smile. Obviously, he interpreted my offhand remark as an entrée to future intimacies. “A letter to the editor? I’d enjoy sending you one.” He was still holding my hand.

Before I could respond, Paul Melcher pulled up in his Wrangler. “I thought I might catch you here,” he said with his diffident grin. “It’s my lunch hour. I decided to come and see if you got your car. What all did they do?”

I handed Paul the invoice, which he read with great care. “They adjusted the fuel gauge,” he said. “Tightened nuts on the underside of the dash. Checked the electrical system. Hmmmm.”

“Well?” I turned toward Paul, hoping that the move would force Mike to let go of my hand again. He held fast, however. “Did I get screwed?”

Handing the invoice back to me, Paul shook his head. “Oh, no. Dusty has a good reputation. But it always pays to check things out. That way, when you go in for your regular tune-up, you can let the mechanics know what’s been done recently.”

The only thing I ever say to Cal Vickers when I pull into his Texaco station is “How’s Charlene?” Charlene is Mrs. Vickers and a member of the bridge club in which I often serve as a substitute. Asking about Charlene is much cheaper than complaining about peculiar
noises emanating from my car. Still, I expressed my appreciation to Paul for his concern. Mike finally surrendered my hand so that I could bid my host farewell.

But Paul wasn’t finished with his automotive advice. “Keep all your records in chronological order in the glove compartment. You might want to code them with colored index stickers so that you know what kind of work was done when. You’d be surprised how keeping track of the smallest details can save you money in the long run. You think you’ll remember everything that’s been done, but you don’t. It’s natural to forget things. Not all car mechanics are as honest as Dusty or the guys we go to at the Chevron station.”

I felt my eyes glaze over. But two phrases stuck:
keeping track of the smallest details
and
it’s natural to forget
. The seedling in my brain was trying to germinate once more.

Jackie, however, was definitely wilting. “I suppose we’ll have to let the police in and call the funeral home and have the remains hauled away. I think I’m going to miss her. But not as much as I’ll miss you, Emma.”

I finally made it to the door of my Jag. My thank-yous were effusive. Jackie begged me to come back soon, certainly after the baby arrived. Paul assured me of a warm welcome. Mike’s face was suffused with sensitive regard.

“If we discover the solution to the mystery before you write the story, we’ll let you know right away,” Mike promised. “But don’t feel pressured. You’ve got a lot of stress in your life already.”

Mike didn’t know the half of it. I got behind the wheel, took a deep breath, and switched on the ignition. The engine started immediately. My shoulders slumped in relief. The six-hundred-dollar outlay hadn’t been a trick after all.

“We learned some fascinating things,” I said, leaning
out the window. “It was a wonderful exercise in family research. I think we exhausted just about all the possibilities, as far-fetched as some of them might be. Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t find a solution.” I offered my trio of well-wishers a wan smile. “We might not have liked it.”

Jackie burst into tears. I blew her a kiss and pulled away from the curb.

There was one more stop before I could put Port Angeles and the Melcher mystery behind me. I had to get on with my life. Maybe I could think about it over the weekend. Except I’d be too busy getting the paper out. Odd, I thought, how events crowded in, how people caused distractions, how time seemed to drain away like water in a funnel. Of course, it wasn’t my fault that the Jag had broken down or that Carla had gotten sick or that Ed had quit his job. I’d had every intention of going to the ocean; I’d been committed to making some big decisions.

My plans hadn’t worked out. The ocean was still there, but now it was at my back. My problems were still in front of me.

Leo Walsh was waiting outside the motel, smoking and holding his sports coat over one arm. His luggage consisted of a large suitcase and a small briefcase. Like his clothes and his wallet, they were of good quality but worn.

Leo put out his cigarette in a concrete container next to the motel office. “You’re late,” he remarked, more amused than annoyed.

I opened the trunk so that he could load his belongings. “It’s a long story. Do you want to eat lunch on the way or wait until we get on the ferry?”

Leo professed indifference. Not wanting to lose any
more time, I opted to eat while we made the crossing. Moments later, we were on the highway heading east toward Sequim.

I searched for an opening conversational gambit. “I hear that Sequim is full of Californians, especially retirees. What drew you up this way?”

Leo emitted a chuckle that was more of a grunt. “I wasn’t exactly drawn. Port Angeles is as far north as you can go on Highway 101 without falling into the strait.”

“Oh,” I remarked casually. “You took the coastal route.”

“More or less.” Leo was shifting around in his seat, apparently trying to get comfortable. He wore a faded denim shirt and jeans with cowboy boots. The boots looked real, not like a pair from a Beverly Hills designer boutique. Leo didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood this afternoon.

“But you were heading for Seattle?” I prompted.

“No,” he answered.

I waited. Leo didn’t elaborate. “Shall I shut up?” I asked, irritation rising in my voice.

“No,” he repeated. I waited again. Leo turned to look at me, but I kept my eyes on the road. “The story of my life is sad and boring, as most people’s stories are,” he said in a flat tone. “Maybe yours is better, but I don’t want to hear it. I came up from California looking for a job. There were three or four openings along the way, including Port Angeles, but every damned one of them was filled by the time I hit town. Or so I was told. Now I’ll see what Edmonds has to offer.”

“Edmonds?” Briefly, I stared at Leo. His face was tired, not just from lack of sleep, but, I suspected, from lack of hope. “But we’re going to Seattle. I thought that’s where you were heading.”

“Seattle? You said you were going to Edmonds.” Leo was frowning, not at me but at the passing landscape.

I hadn’t realized that I’d neglected to mention my revised itinerary to Leo. “I changed my mind. It isn’t that much farther to get to Alpine from downtown Seattle than it is from Edmonds. It’ll be easier for you to get to wherever you’re going next. Edmonds is a suburb. You’d have to take the bus into Seattle.”

Leo didn’t respond. He sat with one knee propped against the dashboard, fingering his lower lip. As we drove past the tiny town of Gardiner, I decided that he really didn’t want to talk after all. But I was wrong. We were skirting Discovery Bay when he suddenly laughed. It was another strange, truncated sound.