The Alpine Nemesis (32 page)

Again? What had the kid been doing? Spinning himself in the clothes dryer? He couldn't possibly fit, unless it was industrial size.

I was halfway down the street when I saw the big old-fashioned clock that stood on the sidewalk outside the Bank of Alpine. It read fifteen minutes after nine. Milo was probably still questioning Lona O'Neill. Dare I interrupt? Probably not. I'd have to wait until he was finished. Luckily, the morning light rain had stopped, though the skies were still a gloomy gray.

Mayor Baugh was coming out of the bank. He spotted me before I could duck into Parker's Pharmacy.

“Just the little lady I wanted to see,” the mayor drawled, crossing Front Street against the light.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to exude patience. “I was just going to the drugstore.”

Fuzzy looked puzzled. “You were? But Parker's doesn't open until ten.”

I struck my head with the palm of my hand. “Of course! What was I thinking of? I got such an early start that it seems later in the day.”

The mayor uttered one of his false, hearty chuckles.

“That does happen sometimes, doesn't it? I wanted you to know that the toilets will be installed in time for the parade Saturday. You might want to get a picture of the men at work.”

That was a reasonable suggestion. “Sure. I'll send Scott over there in the next day or so. How long will it take?”

“Two days, that's all,” Fuzzy replied with pardonable pride. “But the really fine photo you can have for the next issue is the Potty Party Float.”

“Oh.” I tried to summon up enthusiasm. “Just what will that be?”

“Me,” Fuzzy said, all but bursting the buttons on his summer-weight jacket. “Irene will drive our Cadillac convertible and I'll be sitting on a toilet I'm going to borrow from Sky Plumbing. Naturally, I'll have a lot of reading material, including the
Advocate.
What do you think?”

Pants on or pants off? I couldn't tell the mayor what I thought, nor did I want to take the time to find out more. Still, I had to wonder what Irene Baugh made of her husband's latest bit of self-aggrandizement. They had married young, divorced after a few years, then remarried in middle age. Irene must be used to him. Amazingly, the voters were used to him, too. Maybe they enjoyed the comic relief he provided.

By the time I shook off Fuzzy, almost ten minutes had ticked off the bank clock. Toni Andreas was waiting for me behind the curving counter at the sheriff's office.

“He's conducting an interview,” Toni replied, “but he shouldn't be long.” She jumped as a sharp ring sounded. “911,” she whispered.

I pricked up my ears. Toni was frowning as she took the call. “But Ms. Grundle, your cat will probably come back. He always has.” She paused and rolled her eyes at me. “Why don't you check back later—say, this evening?

I'm sure Toozle will … Doozle? Oh. I'm sure Doozle will be hungry by then.”

“Honestly,” Toni sighed, hanging up. “Every time one of Ms. Grundle's cats disappears for more than an hour, she calls 911. It's really annoying. The cats always come back, usually the same day.”

“How come you're taking 911 calls this morning?” I inquired.

Toni acknowledged Dwight Gould's arrival from somewhere in the rear of the building. I, too, waved. “Because,” Toni explained, “Beth Rafferty had to go to the dentist. She broke a tooth Tuesday and Dr. Starr couldn't fit her in until tomorrow, but somebody canceled today so she was able to see him.”

The somebody was probably Amy Hibbert. “When is Beth due back?”

“Mmmm …” Toni glanced at the big round clock on the wall. “Any minute. I think she went in to the dentist a little after eight.”

I told Toni I'd like to talk with Beth. At the vile urn of coffee, Dwight turned around.

“We already did,” he said.

“You mean about her brother, Tim?” I asked.

Dwight nodded. “Beth insists that Tim's story didn't vary when he told her about what had happened up on Tonga Ridge. I guess she really reamed him for not calling her—that is, 911.”

“That's what he should have done, of course,” I said.

“You can trust Beth,” Dwight assured me as loud noises erupted from a distance. “Damn!” the deputy exploded, setting down his mug so hard that he spilled coffee on the counter. I half expected the dark liquid to eat away at the fine mahogany grain. “Those Hartquists are at it again! I thought I'd settled their hash. Excuse me.” Dwight hurried away to the jail area.

He'd barely disappeared when the door to Milo's office opened. The sheriff and Lona O'Neill appeared, still talking with each other.

“Don't let them pester you too much,” Milo said, giving Lona a pat on the shoulder. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Looking weary, Lona nodded at me and at Toni, then departed. “Hey, Emma, what's up?” the sheriff asked, no doubt surprised to see me again so soon.

“I've got some information,” I declared, stretching the truth only slightly. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” Milo replied. “Let me refill my coffee mug. You want some?”

“No, thanks.” I skirted the urn as if it might explode. “How'd the interview with Lona go?”

Milo eased himself into his big leather swivel chair. “Fine. I'm convinced she doesn't know anything about the arms thefts. I have a feeling naval security believes her, too, though they're damned tight-lipped when it comes to keeping me up to speed.”

Before telling Milo what Vida and I suspected, I decided to test the waters. “Are there any other leads?”

Milo lighted a cigarette and scowled. “If there are, the navy's not telling me about them. Not yet. Oh, sure,” he went on, exhaling, “they've promised to cooperate with SkyCo, but you know the military—a world of its own.”

Even though Milo wasn't going to like what I had to say, I couldn't withhold my theory any longer. “That's why I came to see you,” I said as the sheriff's phone rang.

Milo scowled some more, held up a hand, and lifted the receiver. “Dodge here. Can't this wait?” He listened to Toni, presumably, then let out a big sigh. “Okay, put her through.”

Trying to become invisible, I busied myself with the latest pamphlet on state hunting and fishing regulations. But of course I was tuned in to the sheriff's every word:

“I'm really busy today…. Tonight's no good, I'm
playing poker at Jack Mullins's house…. Hey, it'll be late, and it's a weeknight…. Because we can't get together on weekends, that's the department's busiest time.” Then there was a very long pause on Milo's part. Finally, his face darkening, he spoke again: “If that's the way you feel, so be it…. I'm sorry, too. Took, tomorrow night would be fine. Can't it wait that long?” Again, the sheriff didn't speak for almost a full minute, and when he did, his face had softened. “Okay…. I know, I feel the same. Bye.”

Ringing off, Milo looked almost as if he were blushing. “That was Tara. She's giving me one last chance.”

My heart sank, but not because I was jealous. As far as I was concerned, Tara's call couldn't have come at a worse moment. Milo had entrusted his feelings to me. I wouldn't, couldn't hurt him. “Do you want another chance?” I asked in a hollow voice.

Milo winced. “I don't know that I don't want it. I mean, I don't like acting hasty. She's certainly a fine woman. Tike I said, I could do worse.”

Maybe Milo really was in love. He swore he'd been in love with me. I thought he'd been in love with Jeannie Clay, although I knew it was a rebound romance, and short-lived at that. But until now, it had never occurred to me that he might actually love Tara Peebles.

I stood up. “I'd better leave you to your quandary,” I said.

“Hold on,” Milo said in surprise. “I thought you had something to tell me.”

I gave thim an uncertain smile. “It can wait. I just remembered I've got to send Scott over to Old Mill Park to take pictures of Fuzzy Baugh's toilets.”

Milo looked puzzled. “You sure?”

I said I was. Keeping some ugly doubts to myself, I left.

I arrived back at the office to find Grace Grundle shuffling around the newsroom in her carpet slippers. “Now
see here, Vida Blatt,” she was saying to my House and Home editor, “you've never had animals. You don't know the first thing about them.”

“Animals are a nuisance,” Vida declared, “and I do wish you'd try to remember that I've been Vida Runkel for going on fifty years.”

Leo Walsh appeared to be absorbed in a layout. I didn't much blame him. Scott was on the phone, so I scribbled a note about the toilet photos and tossed it on his desk. He gave me a nod while I skirted around Grace, heading for sanctuary in my cubbyhole.

“Just a moment, young woman,” Grace said, holding out an arm to detain me. “Would you please tell Mrs. Runkel here what a comfort cats can be.”

“I had cats very briefly,” I demurred. “I was sort of cat-sitting for a friend.”

“Cats are very sensitive,” Grace asserted, looking not at me but at Vida. “They're almost human. Indeed”— she sniffed—“they have more feelings than some humans I could name.”

“Oh, bother,” Vida muttered.

“Every time there's a death in Alpine, my cats become distraught for days,” Grace continued, ignoring Vida's comment. “Doozle in particular. Doozle hasn't been himself for at least a week, and when he's like that, he always runs off. What could you expect with so many deaths all at once?”

“Yes,” Vida admitted. “Oscar Nyquist, the O'Neill boys, and of course the discovery of the snowboarder's body. I don't recall such a week in Alpine.”

Grace nodded. “Terrible, just terrible. Especially Oscar. Such a fine man. But that doesn't help with Doozle. He's still gone.”

“But he always comes back,” Vida pointed out with more patience than I would have expected. “You said so
yourself. So why are you insisting that we print up circulars advertising his disappearance?”

“Because,” Grace retorted, stamping her carpet-slippered foot, “he's been gone longer than usual. What's worse is that I understand you used the item about Doozle getting sick from the awful stench, but nary a word about him running off. Now, when they read your column, everyone will think he's safe at home, when he isn't. I think you should print the circulars for free.”

Leo finally looked up. “Sorry, Ms. Grundle, no can do. But we'll give you a discount. How long has the cat been missing?”

“Since last night,” Grace replied. “Do you know how much Dr. Medved charges? I had to take Doozle in twice, and it cost over a hundred dollars. How can I afford to pay for circulars? Don't you have a civic duty to your subscribers?”

I stepped between Leo's desk and Grace. “Please, let's wait. Had Doozle recovered from the … awful stench?”

“Yes, of course,” Grace answered with a firm nod. “He only gets upset when Mr. Driggers runs the crematorium. The wind blows straight up the hill to my house. It's very noxious.”

I stared at Grace, whose small, dumpy figure exuded defiance. “What night was that?” I asked, my voice sharp.

Grace jumped a bit. “What? Let me think … Tuesday or Wednesday of last week. Tuesday, I think. Yes, I'm sure of it. The milkman comes on Wednesday, and I was afraid I'd run out of heavy cream for Doozle.”

I forced a kindly smile. “Yes, I can see why you've been worried. About Doozle, I mean. He sounds very sensitive. Excuse me, I think my phone's ringing.”

It wasn't, but I dashed into the office and closed the door, though not before I heard Grace demand, “Now what about my circulars?”

Just as I reached for the phone, it rang. Janet Driggers was on the other end, full of apologies.

“I feel so bad about standing you up at the ski lodge,” she said. “How about lunch? Al's supposed to be back from Seattle by then. He just called Dan Peebles at the mortuary to tell him.”

“I'll get back to you on that,” I hedged. “By the way, what impelled Al to go to Seattle in the first place?”

Janet's tone became conspiratorial. “I'll tell you at lunch. I'm buying, at the ski lodge, to make up for yesterday. Could you go at one so that I don't have to leave before Al gets back?”

I vacillated. But speaking with Janet should prove interesting. “Why not?” I said. Wednesday was always our lightest workday, though not necessarily this week. “But you don't have to treat. See you there.”

“Grace!” Vida exclaimed in the doorway as I hung up my phone. “Such a ninny when it comes to those cats.”

Along with Grace, Leo and Scott had left on their appointed rounds. Ginny was out front and Kip was somewhere in Skykomish County delivering the
Advocate.
I didn't need to ask Vida to close the door for privacy.

“Maybe,” I began as she sat down, “I am a bit muddled by love. Even though the wedding isn't until next spring, I keep having these fantasies of walking down the aisle at St. Mildred's and being on a honeymoon in the south of France and making dinner for Tom every night.”

“They aren't fantasies,” Vida asserted. “They're your future. But why should you make dinner every night? Indeed, why not work part-time and let Tommy help put out the paper? He certainly has the experience.”

I gave Vida an admiring glance. “That's a thought. He'll still have his newspaper empire to run, though.”

“Surely it must run mostly on its own,” Vida remarked. “That is, he doesn't have to be a hands-on publisher as you do.”

“True,” I allowed, then folded my hands on the desk and leaned forward. “But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions about the Brian Conley murder and the missing body, but what did you make of Grace's statement that her cat always reacted to a cremation at Driggers's Funeral Home?”

Vida's gray eyes glinted. “Yes. I caught that. I think it's nonsense. I've never noticed a stench from the crematorium. But it did make me wonder. Grace lives on Spruce Street, just three blocks up from the funeral parlor. She could see the smoke, if not smell the … well, you know what I mean.”

“Grace would imagine that Boozle or whatever the cat's name is was bothered by the smell,” I said, growing excited as well as nervous. “And much as I hate to admit it, I do believe that animals can sense things that mere mortals can't. Which makes me wonder if Brian's body never left Alpine.”

Vida sat up very straight. “Have you mentioned this to Milo?”