The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  I chuckled, not because I was amused, but because after more than two long, awkward years, the sheriff and I seemed to have picked up the pieces of our friendship. After our breakup, his rebound romance with the much younger Jeannie Clay hadn't panned out. Milo had re-

  cently taken up with a widow, Tara Peebles, the mother of Al Driggers's new assistant. Tara was much closer to the sheriff's age, and a relative newcomer to Alpine. Milo hadn't seemed to resent Tom's visit. Maybe he figured we deserved each other—if we ever got to that point.

  “I heard your British inspector's horn,” I said, cradling the cordless phone against my shoulder while I loaded the dishwasher.

  “You did,” Milo replied. “Somebody up on Second Hill called to say there was a commotion at the O'Neill place.”

  My spirits rose a trifle. “Was there?”

  “Nope. Everything was quiet when I pulled up.”

  “Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “I thought I heard something that sounded like gunshots.”

  “Probably,” Milo said in his laconic manner. “The O'Neills are always taking potshots at birds and stray cats and whatever else wanders onto their property. They already put about twenty bullet holes in that new arterial stop sign by the Icicle Creek turnoff.”

  “Were they sober when you got there?”

  “Are they ever?” Milo snorted. “I didn't bother to knock. The last thing I need at the end of a workday is a false alarm and getting cussed out by those wild Irishmen.”

  The infamous O'Neills were a clan of freelance gyppo loggers, forced to find work outside of Alpine since the decline of the local timber industry. The father, Paddy, had died the previous winter, and his remains had been sent back to the old sod in County Armagh. His three sons, though into middle age, still considered themselves lusty lads and beer-loving brawlers. The O'Neills' ongoing feud with Cap Hartquist and his two “boys” had long been a source of amusement—and occasionally terror—for Alpine residents. Thirty years ago, more or less, Cap's pet goat had been run over by Paddy O'Neill, igniting the war between the two families. I suppose it was wishful thinking, but I'd hoped that Paddy's demise might signal a truce. As far as I knew, the Dove of Peace had yet to fly.

  “I don't suppose you could discover a crime between now and five o'clock tomorrow,” I said wistfully.

  “How come?” Milo asked with genuine puzzlement. Even after more than ten years of observing me as editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, the sheriff never seemed to understand my need for news.

  “Never mind.” I sighed, then had a small idea. “What about equipment? Anything new?”

  “Equipment?” Milo paused. “Hell, no, we're lucky to afford pencils with the county budget so tight.”

  “Programs? Why don't you come up with some new programs to fight crime?”

  “Like what?” Milo responded. “Starting a curfew now that school's out?”

  “That's good,” I enthused. “Are you really considering it?”

  “No,” he replied. “I just thought of it now. It's pretty dumb.”

  “Why? The kids are always at loose ends in the summer. With the college students around now, there aren't enough jobs for the teenagers.” I was gaining momentum. It wasn't the best idea I'd ever heard, but I rather liked Milo's brainstorm. “How much vandalism do you have to contend with between Memorial Day and Labor Day? How many drunken parties? How many drug busts up in the woods?”

  “Jesus,” Milo muttered. “You're serious.”

  “Why not? I've had worse ideas.”

  “When?”

  “Ohhh … never mind.” I lost patience and promptly dropped a glass on the kitchen floor. Luckily, it was plastic, and bounced harmlessly in the direction of the stove.

  Milo's recalcitrance and the newly hatched idea made me thoughtful. If I was out of big black headlines, I was also suffering from a paucity of ideas for the editorial page. I'd write an editorial for this week, suggesting a curfew. If nothing else, it would fill up space and annoy Milo.

  I used my laptop to type up the two-column, six-inch argument for a ten o'clock curfew. The older folks would like the idea; the younger set didn't read the paper. Or much else, I thought with deep, dark disapproval.

  “A curfew, huh?” Leo said the next morning when I told him about the editorial. “How's Dodge supposed to enforce that one?”

  “He can't,” Vida put in. “He doesn't have enough deputies. Of course, he might be able to get some volunteers. Concerned parents. Teachers. The clergy.”

  I gave a slight nod. It was possible. Volunteers weren't always hard to find in a small town. When you don't have your social calendar filled with opera, theatre, sporting events, and coming up with a name for Mayor Baugh's toilets, you have time to spare.

  Scott was showing me his story on the upcoming high school commencement when we first heard the sirens.

  “News?” I said, perking up a bit.

  “Car accident,” Leo said, barely intelligible with a pencil in his teeth.

  That was often the case when we heard multiple sirens. The sheriff, the medics, the fire department. Scott was tied up on the phone, so I rushed outside to take a peek.

  I couldn't see anything unusual, but the sirens were close by. I walked down to the corner and looked around the intersection of Fourth and Front. A half-dozen other people had stopped in their tracks, looking like bloodhounds on the scent.

  The sirens stopped. Harvey Adcock, of Harvey's Hardware, had just come out of the Venison Inn. “Emma,” he called, “where are they?”

  “Not far,” I shouted back. “Maybe Railroad Avenue or River Road.” I nodded to the north where the streets paralleled Front on one side and the Skykomish River on the other. “I don't see any smoke,” I added as Harvey strolled in my direction.

  “It must be a wreck,” Harvey said. “Maybe somebody drove into the Sky. Remember that guy from Sultan a couple of years ago? Of course, he was very drunk.”

  “It happened after dark,” I said, as Harvey and I wandered down Fourth toward Railroad Avenue. “Two in the morning, as I recall. He was darned lucky that some of the other tavern habitues drove by about then.” That was a story, even if it had happened on a Saturday night and we couldn't run it until Wednesday. But there had been no Spencer Fleetwood, no KSKY to scoop us then. The item took up an inch and a half in the Seattle Times and the Post-Intelligencer, but we got all the details, including the rescue by a trio of men who had been either brave enough or drunk enough to risk their own skins in the high, fast, icy waters of the Skykomish River.

  At the next intersection, Harvey waved an arm toward his right. “I think the sirens stopped down there.”

  “I agree,” I said, but our line of sight was blocked by some Burlington-Northern freight cars pulled off onto a siding.

  We crossed the street and then the railroad tracks. Sure enough, Milo's Grand Cherokee, an official sheriff's car, and the medics' van were pulled up two blocks away, outside of Alpine Meats.

  “It's not a fire,” Harvey said in his deliberate manner. “Even if we couldn't see any smoke, we'd have smelled meat burning. Maybe it's some electrical problem, though.

  I always worry about that at the hardware store. I really should update the wiring.” He chuckled wryly. “You'd think a hardware owner would have all those bases covered, wouldn't you?”

  I smiled, but my attention was on Alpine Meats. Harvey was right—nothing looked out of order. Upon closer inspection, the emergency vehicles were empty and no one was milling around outside except for a dozen curiosity seekers, including the Nordby brothers, who owned the local General Motors dealership. They exchanged greetings with Harvey while I proceeded up to the meat warehouse's entrance on River Road.

  Milo Dodge and Barney Amundson, the owner of Alpine Meats, came outside. Barney, who is a big bull of a man, looked blotchy in the face, as if he'd been crying. I couldn't see Milo's expression under the regulation Smokey the Bear hat, but his usual loping stride seemed
hobbled.

  Barney leaned against the sheriff's Grand Cherokee, took out a red-and-white handkerchief, and mopped his brow. Milo noticed me and lifted one long arm in greeting.

  “You heard?” he called across the twenty feet of parking lot that separated us.

  “Heard what?” I asked, moving swiftly to join him.

  The sheriff removed his hat and rubbed at his graying sandy hair. “Jesus,” he breathed. “It's the worst thing I ever saw.”

  “What?” I demanded, realizing that Milo was unusually pale. I heard another siren; it sounded like the ambulance.

  Milo gestured in the direction of the building with his elbow. “The O'Neills. Stubby, Rusty, and Dusty. They're all in there, dead.”

  “What?” The word was torn from my throat. Barney jumped, then started crying again. The medics, one of whom was Barney's cousin, Del, hovered over him, asking questions.

  Milo took me by the arm, though from his stricken expression I couldn't tell if he was comforting me or steadying himself. “They've all been shot. I don't know how the hell they ended up in the walk-in locker. Barney swears he doesn't know, either. He found them this morning. Jesus, it's the damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  “I'll get Scott over here,” I mumbled, grappling in my handbag for the cell phone. “Are the O'Neills still in there?” I couldn't take it in. It was a nightmare. The morning sun seemed to fade in and out; the sound of the nearby river was a roar in my ears. I leaned against Milo. “God,” I whispered. “God.”

  The ambulance had pulled in next to the medics' van. Milo went over to talk to the drivers while I composed myself and keyed Scott's number into the cell phone. The connection snapped, crackled, and popped, as it sometimes does with interference from the surrounding mountains and cross-state power lines. Scott, however, got the drift and said he'd be right over with his camera. I rang off just as two of Milo's deputies, Jack Mullins and Dwight Gould, came out of the warehouse.

  “Dustin's coming to take the official photos,” Milo said, referring to yet another deputy. “It doesn't look like they were killed in the warehouse,” he added, directing his comments to the ambulance men. “But we can't move the bodies until Dustin has finished up.” Maybe I should call in the state's homicide unit. This is one hell of a thing.”

  The medics had taken Barney's vital signs. After a few words with the sheriff, they got into their vehicle and slowly drove away. Apparently, Barney had rejected further medical attention. The O'Neills were beyond help. Their deaths were beyond belief. Like Milo, I'd never en-

  countered such a massacre, not even in my Big City days on The Oregonian in Portland.

  “The Hartquists?” I said to Milo.

  The sheriff put his hat back on. “They're my first choice as suspects. This has to be the ruckus up at the O'Neill place last night.” He turned to Dwight and Jack. “Get out to the Hartquist house. Take Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt along, even if you have to roust them out of bed,” Milo ordered, referring to his other deputies. “You're going to have to take it easy. If those damned Hartquists did this, they're probably not in a good mood.”

  “What about the rest of the O'Neills?” I asked. “Have you told the wives yet?”

  Milo shook his head. “I haven't had time. Anyway, I don't think there's anybody else up at their place on Second Hill. Both of the wives are long gone.”

  I'd heard that Rusty's wife had left him at least a year earlier, though she'd done that before and eventually had returned. Dusty had never married. “I didn't know Mrs. Stubby took off,” I said, never able to keep the O'Neill scions or their wives straight. “When was that?”

  “Lona left last summer with their daughter Meara when she went off to have her baby,” Milo replied, the recitation of facts steadying his nerves. “They never came back.”

  Not everybody sent Vida a copy of their travel itinerary. Especially not when a fifteen-year-old like Meara has gotten knocked up and isn't sure who to call Daddy.

  I'd taken my notebook out of my handbag and was making notes. “What time did Barney find the bodies?”

  “About half an hour after he opened up this morning,” Milo said. “Eight-thirty, let's say. He's pretty rattled.”

  I glanced at Barney; he was talking to Dustin Fong, who had just arrived. A moment later, Spencer Fleet-wood roared up in his blue BMW. I grimaced as he emerged from the car, dressed in his uniform of tailored slacks, cashmere sweater, glittering gold chain, and Gucci sunglasses. He always wore the sunglasses, even when the rain was coming down in buckets.

  “Damn!” I swore under my breath. “He's going to beat me on this story, too!”

  Milo gave me a wry look, then walked over to Dustin. I ignored Spencer as I headed into the warehouse. Inspecting dead bodies repulsed me, but not as much as facing off with my archrival. I was trying to figure out where the walk-in was when I sensed someone behind me. Giving a start, I whirled around. It was Scott Cha-moud, carrying his camera.

  “What's happening?” he asked, looking bewildered. “Did you say there were a bunch of dead O'Neills in a freezer?”

  “That's pretty much it,” I said, catching sight of a heavy-duty door open down the corridor that led from Barney's small office. “Three of them, stacked up like sides of beef.” I sounded crass, but it was the only way I could cope with the enormity of the crime.

  “Wow.” Scott breathed the word. “How did they get dead?”

  “Shot, according to the sheriff,” I responded, my steps heavy as I approached the open door.

  “Who shot them?”

  “I don't know,” I said, feeling a blast of cold air from the walk-in. “The Hartquists, maybe.”

  “Wow.”

  Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself to look inside. There actually were sides of beef—pork, too, and maybe lamb. Outside of the Grocery Basket's meat department, I wasn't used to identifying cuts of flesh. But I had no trouble recognizing the three O'Neills. They were lying on top of each other, their clothing stained with blood, their limbs at awkward angles.

  “I've seen them,” I said in a choked voice. “I'm through here.” God help me, I was afraid I was going to be sick.

  “You sure you want pictures?” Scott asked, his own voice none too steady.

  “Yes,” I replied thickly, propping myself up against the wall in the corridor. “Don't touch them, don't move anything. It's a crime scene. Dustin still has to take the official photos.”

  “Got it,” Scott called back.

  I took some deep breaths, then made sure my knees wouldn't buckle. Scott let out a strange, strangled cry.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Scott came out of the walk-in, his usual olive skin a sickly gray. “How many O'Neills?”

  “What?” It took a couple of seconds for the question to sink into my brain. “Oh—the three sons.”

  Scott put a hand to his head. “Then something's wrong. I counted eight feet.”

  “No! Count again!”

  “I don't need to,” Scott asserted. “You'd better tell the sheriff.”

  I forced myself to move. Scott had to be wrong. Like a zombie, I made my way out of the warehouse. The sunshine suddenly seemed so bright that I wished I was wearing Spencer's expensive shades.

  “Milo,” I called in a thin, wavering voice. “Milo?”

  The sheriff, along with Dustin Fong, was coming toward me. I stumbled forward and put both hands on Milo's chest. “Did you know—” I stopped, my throat constricted. He stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. “There's another body in there, under the pile.”

  Milo kept staring at me, then let out a string of obscenities. He moved away so fast that I almost pitched forward. After staggering a bit, I caught sight of something that brought me to my senses: Spencer Fleetwood was holding a microphone and interviewing Barney Amund-son. I got so mad that a wild idea hit me.

  “Scott!” I called to my reporter, who was taking some exterior shots. “Finish up, take the film to Buddy Bayard's studio, and
hurry back to the office.”

  “What about that other—” he began, but I waved a frantic arm for him to be quiet and go. Then I marched back into the warehouse. Milo and Dustin were standing by the corpses; both still looked upset.

  “Who's under there?” I demanded.

  “We're just going to see,” Milo said. “Dustin's taken all the pictures we need.”

  “Then get on with it,” I snapped.

  Slowly, Milo turned around to look at me. “What's the rush? The paper doesn't come out until tomorrow, right?”

  “Wrong,” I shot back. “This paper comes out immediately. I'm going to do a special edition. This is the biggest news to hit Alpine since I've been here, and I'm not going to let that jerk Spencer Fleetwood beat me by more than a few minutes.”

  “Hunh.” Milo looked bemused.

  “That's cool,” Dustin said, giving me his slightly diffident smile. “You mean, like the old movies, where the kid on the corner yells, ‘Extra, extra!’?”

  “Exactly,” I said, “though I don't think I'll ask Kip MacDuff to do that. Now come on, let's see Corpse Number Four.”

  Milo gave me a disapproving glance. “Hey, how did you get so bloodthirsty all of a sudden? I thought you were going to pass out on me a few minutes ago.”

  “Competition has that effect on me,” I replied, still struggling against nausea. “I've turned into a hard-hearted ghoul.”

  “Okay,” Milo said with a sigh. “We'll need a tarp or something for the bodies.”

  “Don't you have one?” I asked, fighting down bile.

  “Yeah,” Milo replied, looking toward the outer office, “but it's tacked up to the ceiling in my office. The damned roof leaked when we had that big rain last week. Ah— there's some heavy-duty plastic in the corner. Dustin?”

  The deputy fetched the large roll of plastic and a pair of shears. For all my bravado, I winced as I watched the sheriff and his deputy carefully remove Rusty, mercifully placing him facedown near haunches of pork. Stubby and Dusty were intertwined. Rigor had set in, which made the extrication doubly difficult. It appeared that all three brothers had been shot in the head and the chest.