by Sue Henry
“Mrs. Thompson?” Jensen questioned.
“Yes, but everyone just calls me Helen.”
Jensen showed her his identification and badge. “Is your husband here, Mrs. Thompson?” he asked.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, the smile gone. “Bill doesn’t usually work on Sunday. He and Garth went down to the Alpine Inn for a beer. Should I call him? He could be here in five minutes.”
“Yes, please. We need to see you both.”
Her expression changed to anxiety as she asked, “What is it? Is it one of my kids? What?”
“Please, Mrs. Thompson. Call your husband.”
She stared at Jensen without moving, fear and confusion written on her face.
“Please…,” she began, then stopped. “Oh, God,” she said, now wringing her hands together as the paper towels fell to the floor at her feet unnoticed.
“Call your husband, Mrs. Thompson.”
Leaving the door wide open, she whirled and they watched her cross the room to a telephone on the wall by the kitchen, dial a number, and wait for someone to answer.
“Pete, this is Helen Thompson. I have to speak to my husband—right now, quick. Yes.” There was a short wait, then, “Bill, there are two state troopers at the door that want to see us both. I don’t know. They won’t tell me. Come on home—right now. I’d say so, yes.”
She hung up and turned back to face Jensen and Becker.
“Please,” she said, “come in and close the door. It’s cold. He’ll be right here.”
He was.
Pulling off the highway that had been recently plowed of snow, Thompson slid the motorcycle he was riding to a stop in the semiicy parking area in front of the house and came hurrying up the steps.
“What is it?” he asked brusquely, closing the door behind him. “Something wrong? One of my boys in some kind of trouble?”
Though Helen had sat down on the sofa and invited the two troopers to take chairs, they had remained standing. She stood up again as Bill Thompson turned away from them to address her. “Where’s Sally?”
“She went up to Julie’s. Said she’d be back for dinner.”
“Well, Carl’s working at the bar today. Garth was at the Alpine, so he’s on his way right behind me. Lee went into town to see if he could find Donny. So that leaves the two of them. Which one is it?” he demanded. “Lee or—Donny?”
The sound of another motorcycle engine, then boots on the porch, announced the arrival of Garth Thompson, who came hurriedly into the room with a frown on his face at the sight of the troopers.
“What’s up?” he asked, stripping off the leather gloves he was wearing. “Lee go off the road on his way to Palmer? Damn it! I told him to take the truck, not his bike. He just won’t listen to…” The sentence died as he took in the serious expression on the faces of the law enforcement officers. “Oh, shit,” he said. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Jensen once again took out his identification and showed it to the two waiting men, before proceeding to tell the three family members present about the death of their son and brother, Donny—a part of the job he had always hated.
“I regret to have to inform you,” he said slowly, formally, “that your son, Donny, was found dead near Knik Road the other side of Wasilla this morning. As near as we can tell, he was shot, or shot himself, sometime before it snowed Friday night.”
They stared at him in silent shock as he paused, as if they didn’t understand what he had just told them.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” Helen Thompson breathed softly, as the color drained completely from her already pale face and she swayed perilously on her feet.
Garth caught his mother before she fell and sat down with her on the sofa, an arm around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and began to sob.
Bill Thompson, all but expressionless, simply, slowly, turned away and walked like a man twice his age to stare out the window at the snowy yard between the house and his shop next door, though Becker doubted he was seeing any of it.
Though the afternoon was cloudy with the threat of more snow, it had not started to fall close to an hour later, as Jensen and Becker headed back toward Palmer.
Before leaving Sutton, they had stopped at the Alpine Inn, where Bill and Garth Thompson had been before heading home.
“This is a small town,” Becker had told Alex in suggesting the stop. “Everyone who lives here knows everybody else. They’re good folks for the most part and take care of each other. We might find out who Donny hung out with.
“Besides being a watering hole, the Alpine is a community center of sorts. Lot of things go on there—potluck dinners to music nights. It’s a local package store and restaurant as well. Some of the old miners are still around and the Alpine is full of memorabilia from those early days. During World War Two they supplied a lot of the coal that heated and supplied electricity in Anchorage.
“I come out here once in a while to see my hunting buddy Kyle.”
Half a dozen people were sitting at the near end of a bar long enough to seat at least twenty on the left side of the large room when the troopers walked in. The rest of the room was in shadows where the light from the two front windows didn’t penetrate. The bartender had just set up a pair of beers for two men farthest from the door and looked up with a smile.
“Hey, Phil. Haven’t seen you lately. I’d guess you’re here on business, considering how fast Bill and Garth Thompson went out the door a while ago. Something wrong at home?”
“’Fraid so,” Becker answered. “You got a couple of minutes?”
“Yeah, sure. Let me build another drink for Judy and I’ll be right there. Get you anything while I’m at it?”
“Killian’s?” Becker asked Alex, who nodded.
“Sure. We’re not in uniform on regular duty.”
They took two stools a few seats away from the line of drinkers already bellied up to the bar, and Alex leaned back to look at the collection of historic photographs of miners that were hung over the bar. Other pictures and antique bits of mining equipment decorated the walls around the room. “I see what you mean about the memorabilia.”
“Yeah. The old mine is out of sight up on the hill, along with most of the town. Some of the company houses built for the miners still have people living in them. There’s a preschool, a library, grocery, post office, airstrip, even a volunteer fire department and an ambulance service up there—just about everything they need—you just don’t see it from the highway. What isn’t here, they go to Palmer for.”
In a few minutes the bartender, Pete, was back with the lagers they had ordered. He set them up, leaned on the bar with both hands, and asked quietly, “What can I help with? What’s going on?”
Becker introduced Jensen, who shook hands and gave the tall, thin man a thoughtful look of assessment before he spoke. “How long have you been tending bar here, Pete?”
“Pretty close to twenty years, off and on—mostly on.”
“So you know most everyone in Sutton?”
The bartender grinned. “Everyone knows everyone in Sutton.”
“Probably not always as well as you do.”
“Well, that’s possibly true. But if I couldn’t keep my own counsel I wouldn’t keep customers or last long in a job like this.”
“Tell me what you know that I should know about Donny Thompson.”
Now the thoughtful look of assessment was directed at Jensen from the opposite side of the bar.
“Why would I forget to keep my own counsel and do that?”
Jensen’s next words were low and to the point, clearly meant to startle.
“Donny Thompson was shot dead, or shot himself, night before last in the woods off Knik Road out of Wasilla. I’d like to be able to figure out who might have had reason to kill him and why.”
Pete took his hands off the bar and stood up straight, mouth and eyes wide in surprise. He narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said
. “I knew something was wrong, from the way Bill reacted to that phone call. Helen isn’t the sort to holler for help unless she really needs it. She’s had a lot to do with raising those five kids, four of them boys and pretty wild at times with their motorcycle racing and such. But they’ve all turned out pretty much okay. So I knew something had happened, but I never figured it would be that bad. Jeez! Give me a minute, okay?”
He walked back to the group sitting at the bar and leaned across to speak to a woman who was part of it. She nodded, got up, and came around the bar to take his place behind it.
“Thanks, Sharon.”
“Not a problem. You ready for another, Bob?” she asked a heavyset man in overalls, who had pushed back his empty beer bottle.
“Let’s go to the far end of the bar,” Pete suggested to Jensen and Becker, when he came back. “I better sit down for this one, I think.”
Taking their lagers, they moved farther away from the group to the end of the bar, next to where it dropped off and became a counter behind which a glass-fronted cooler held an assortment of beers and other bottled drinks for sale. Pete pulled up a stool and sat facing them across the bar with a beer of his own.
“Now, what can I tell you that will help?”
“When was the last time you saw Donny Thompson?” Jensen asked.
“Friday. Midafternoon. He stopped in for a bottle of Beam before heading to Palmer.”
“He said that’s where he was going?”
“Yes. That’s where he usually went on Friday lately.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Jeff Malone. They only stayed long enough for one drink and to buy the bourbon.”
“Malone’s from Wasilla, right?” Becker asked.
Pete nodded. “I think so.”
“Did Donny hang out with anyone from out here?” Jensen questioned.
“Not to speak of. Just his brothers—mostly Lee. I know he goes to the Aces in Palmer because it’s where his brother Carl tends bar and a lot of bikers hang. They come in there from all over, even Anchorage, but mostly from the valley.”
“You know of any particular trouble Donny’s been involved in recently?”
“Nothing more serious than a DUI last spring that I’m sure you’re aware of. But it wouldn’t have surprised me if there was another in his future. I’ve had to cut him off on a pretty regular basis lately. He’s okay when his brother Lee’s riding with him, but tends to take off on his own.”
“Anything else you can think of that might be of help in finding out who shot him?”
There wasn’t.
The bartender was shaking his head and frowning as the two troopers left the Alpine, and Jensen knew that the news of Donny Thompson’s death would reach just about all of Sutton before the end of the day and the community would gather and close ranks in support of the family.
“Jessie said the Palmer-Wasilla area is less than six degrees of separation—that it’s more like two or three,” he commented as they pulled out of the parking lot, heading for Palmer. “I think in a place like Sutton it’s more like none.”
They made it to town just in time to catch Carl Thompson coming out the door of the Aces Wild in a hurry as they pulled up in front.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JESSIE AND TANK WERE WAITING AT THE DOOR WHEN ALEX PULLED into the yard early that evening, tired, frustrated, and slightly depressed after a day of learning little in terms of the death of Donny Thompson.
“You look tired,” she said, taking his coat and hat to hang on the hooks beside the door while he removed his boots. “It’s been a bad day, hasn’t it? And this was supposed to be your weekend off.”
He gave her a weary smile as he gathered her into his arms and rocked her close for a moment or two.
“Yeah, well, some days are like that and it wasn’t so good for you either. We didn’t find out much, but it wasn’t all that bad, except for going out to Sutton to tell the Thompsons about their son. That kind of visit’s always unpleasant.”
“I’m sure it was. Good thing you don’t have to do it often. Why don’t you get a beer, sit down, relax, and tell me about it, if you want to? There’s the rest of your stew for dinner and I’ll make biscuits in a bit.”
Alex nodded as he retrieved a Killian’s from the refrigerator.
“Actually, if you’re getting yourself one, I wouldn’t mind having a shot of that Jameson of yours. Might take a few of the kinks out of my mind as well as body.”
“Coming right up.”
As Jessie headed for the kitchen, Alex took his Killian’s to the living room, where he laid a piece of firewood into the cast-iron stove that was putting out comforting heat, lowered himself onto the big sofa, and put his feet up on the coffee table with a sigh of relief.
In five minutes they were both comfortably ensconced at opposite ends of the sofa, Jensen sipping his whiskey gratefully.
“A-a-ah! That’s the ticket. Now, before I tell you what I can of what transpired this afternoon, tell me what you’ve been up to. Did you take another team out or stay home?”
“I took another out. Wasn’t going to at first. After you left I thought I’d just stay in for the rest of the day, but that began to seem silly after a while, when all I could do was feel bad and wonder about what happened to Donny Thompson and why. So I did what I knew would make me feel better—hooked up another bunch of the mutts and we went down the road to John Singleton’s kennel. He and I spent over an hour talking about the races next spring. His daughter’s going to run the Iditarod again, as she did this year.
“But the big news is that, next year being the hundred-year anniversary of the All Alaska Sweepstakes, the race they ran from Nome to Candle in the early years, they’ve finally decided that they will run it again next March and it will have a cash prize of a hundred thousand dollars—winner take all.”
“You going to do it?”
“I don’t know. It’s going to be a tough one. You can’t have more than twelve dogs and can’t drop any of them—have to finish with the same ones you started with—even if they’re riding in the sled. I’ve had the Iditarod in mind, but I’m not even sure about that until I know my knee will take it.”
“Well, you’ve got time to think about it. Wait and see how your knee does now that you’re back out there on a sled.”
“That’s what I thought I should do. Now, what happened for you and Phil today?”
Alex frowned and considered for a moment what to tell Jessie about the little he had learned in the past few hours. He didn’t usually discuss his cases with anyone but law enforcement people, but this was a little different because she was peripherally involved.
“Jess,” he said finally, giving her a straight look of assessment, “I really don’t want you any more caught up in this one. You were pretty upset when you came down the hill after running over that guy in the trail. It seemed to hit you pretty hard, and should have. But I couldn’t take time to get a reading on your feelings or reactions—I had to focus on investigating. Then, while the three of us were up there, you disappeared and I was worried when I came down and found you gone without even leaving a message as to where you were headed.”
“I know,” Jessie said, when he paused. “I should have left a note, I guess. But I decided to go ahead with my plan to spend the day with the dogs, so I went as far as Goose Lake, where I ran into Lynn Ehlers and shared his lunch. By the time I came back I was feeling much better, Ray Calb was leaving, and you and Becker were about to head for town.”
“You’re sure you want to hear about it?”
“Yes. I’m okay with it, Alex—really. It’s not as if I’d never seen a dead person before. It was just so unexpected to actually run over him up there. I’m fine now. Truly. And it’s better to know about it than to wonder—you know? So tell me what you can. I don’t want to get in your way or be involved. You know I try to stay out of your cases and work.”
Alex remained thoughtful for another long minute. Then, fin
ishing the whisky in one gulp, he picked up the bottle of lager Jessie had brought him and took a sip to chase it down, and nodded.
“Okay,” he agreed. “On those usual terms, I’ll tell you what I’m comfortable with, and I have a couple of questions you may be able to answer for me.”
“Sure. If I can.”
“Well, as I said, we went out to Sutton to tell the family, which wasn’t pleasant for any of us. Then, at Becker’s suggestion, we stopped in at the Alpine Inn to talk with the bartender, who seems to have a pretty close finger on the pulse of what goes on in the community. Spent about half an hour there, then came back to Palmer.
“We got to the Aces Wild just in time to meet Carl Thompson, Donny’s older brother, who tends bar there. He’d had a call from his father to come home, but had to wait for a replacement before he could leave. Turns out Donny had been in there on Friday night and left sometime during the evening—about seven, Carl said—with a guy named Jeff Malone, who was also with him that afternoon in Sutton. He didn’t know where they went, but Donny was supposed to be home to work with his dad on Saturday and didn’t show. Of course, we know he was dead before it snowed Friday night, but his father didn’t and was not happy with his unexplained absence.
“That’s about all we got from Carl. Inside the Aces, we ran into Hank Peterson, who had stopped to see if Donny was there. Evidently Hank plays pool with him fairly often.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Jessie said with a smile. “Hank plays pool with just about anyone above learner’s level who’s willing. I think I may have heard Donny’s name from him, now that you mention it.”
“Well, he didn’t know where Donny had been on Friday night, except that Carl had told him that he had left the Aces with Malone. Do you know him?”
“Nope. But not many mushers hang out with the biker crowd. Totally different kind of transportation and attitude.”
“Carl didn’t tell the group in the bar why he had to leave in such a hurry—just that it was a family emergency. Hank asked if I knew anything about it, but I told him it was Carl’s business. They’d been telling earthquake stories.”
