The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  Milo's Grand Cherokee was nowhere in sight. In fact, the sheriff's department looked empty except for Toni Andreas, the receptionist. She was on the phone, and looking uncharacteristically agitated. I had to wait for her through three calls, all of them seemingly related to the warehouse bodies.

  “That's it,” Toni declared, yanking the headset from her ears. “I'm not answering any more phones for a while unless they're 911 calls. Beth Rafferty's on break.” Beth was the sister of Tim Rafferty, who tended bar and who occasionally used his people skills filling in at KSKY. Like most bartenders, he was better at listening than talking.

  “Where is everybody else?” I asked Toni.

  She rubbed at her forehead, as if to erase the tension. “Boss man is still at Alpine Meats,” she said. “So's Dus-tin Fong. But the rest of them are out at the Hartquist place. I guess those creeps won't come out of their crappy old house. Listen.”

  Toni turned up the volume on the link between her console and whichever deputy had the radio on at the other end. At first, I heard only static, but then Jack Mullins's nasal voice came through:

  “… riot gear on … Hell no, you know better than … Then get it out, Sam … Dodge is still at…”

  Another voice, probably Dwight Gould's, cut in over Jack's. Dwight was speaking through a bullhorn, demanding that the Hartquists come out before the police had to come in after them.

  I turned to Toni. “Have they issued an ultimatum before this?”

  Toni's pretty face had assumed its usual phlegmatic expression. “I think so. I've been on the phone so much that I haven't actually noticed.”

  I started for the door. “I'm going out there. If Scott Chamoud shows up, let him know where I am and tell him to bring his camera.”

  Toni's dark eyes widened. “Scott? Sure, I'll tell him … Is it true he's seeing that teacher at the college?”

  “I think so,” I hedged, not wanting to get caught up in the romantic rumor mill. “Bye, Toni. Thanks.”

  Front Street was still a gathering place for some of the locals, though I suspected that most of them had headed over to Alpine Meats. I nodded to various little groups as I hurried by, then got into my car, and headed out onto Alpine Way.

  Most of the emergency vehicles I had seen at the warehouse were now lining the dirt track that led from the Burl Creek Road to the Hartquist property. I was reminded of a similar scene over a year ago when the Hartquists had kidnapped Meara O'Neill and held her captive on the second floor of the old house. Even as Milo and his deputies tried to get the Hartquists to come out and bring Meara with them, the resourceful teenager set fire to the upstairs. Her father and one of her uncles had shown up. Rudy Hartquist accidentally shot Milo in the foot, and Meara managed to jump out of a window. It had been quite a night.

  The charred skeletons of two huge cedar trees stood like ugly sentries in front of the house. At least two of the windows had been replaced with cardboard, and the exterior paint was still scorched. I marveled that the old man and his two sons had stayed on. But then I guessed that the Hartquists didn't watch Martha Stewart on TV.

  I pulled up behind the medic van. I could see Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner getting something out of the trunk of their squad car. Jack Mullins, wearing riot gear, was positioned behind a Douglas fir. Dwight Gould's outline was barely visible toward the back of the house. He still held the bullhorn and was shielding himself with a stand of young vine maples. The scene was deceptively calm. The only sounds were the chattering of chipmunks and the breeze moving softly through the cottonwood trees.

  Cautiously, I edged around the fire truck and moved in Jack's direction. He saw me and made a scooting motion with the hand that didn't hold his Glock pistol.

  “Get back,” he ordered. “These goofballs may shoot at anything that moves.”

  “Have they shot at you yet?” I asked, retreating a few steps.

  “Nope,” Jack replied, keeping his eyes on the house. “But they may. They sure as hell aren't coming out.”

  “Are you sure they're in there?”

  Jack nodded. “They gave us a bunch of bullshit when we got here. They claim Cap is real sick. That's crap; yesterday afternoon Cap was cited for grabbing Betsy O'Toole's ass in the produce aisle at the Grocery Basket.”

  “Again?” I said.

  Jack's eyes never left the house. “Cap loves to prowl that aisle because you have to bend over to get the dried fruits and stuff. Still, you'd think he'd have more sense than to play grab-ass with the store owner's wife.”

  Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt appeared, also dressed in riot gear. Dwight was on the bullhorn.

  “This is your last warning,” he shouted. “I'm counting to ten. Come out with your hands up. If you don't, we're coming in with tear gas.”

  “Screw ‘em,” Jack growled after a full minute had passed. “Let's go!”

  Bill and Sam had their gas masks on and the canisters ready. They separated, with Bill headed for what was left of the front porch and Sam going around to the rear. I backed off, just in case the deputies aimed the tear gas in the wrong direction. After all, they hadn't had much experience with flushing out dangerous suspects.

  Bill disappeared inside; I assumed Sam had gone in the back door. Nothing happened for what seemed like at least a minute or two. Then, to my amazement, I saw two figures on the roof. They had a rope, which they flung out at a thirty-foot hemlock near the house. It took three tries, but they finally got it around the tree trunk. A third figure appeared; I recognized Cap Hartquist. In a matter of seconds, they were all on the rope, shinnying down the hemlock.

  Jack Mullins swore, a stream of obscenities I'd never heard him use before. “Loggers!” he yelled at the end. “Wouldn't you know it?”

  Dwight Gould had rushed over to the hemlock, his gun aimed up into the heavy branches. “They're not going far,” he shouted as Jack rushed to join him.

  As it turned out, the Hartquists went fast, if not far. They were burly, and the rope snapped just past the halfway point. Rudy Hartquist landed first, then Ozzie, and finally Cap—all three cursing and screaming.

  Jack and Dwight had the trio covered. The medics and firefighters moved cautiously toward the men on the ground just as Sam and Bill emerged from the house. As they removed their masks, both men looked bewildered until they saw the little crowd by the hemlock.

  “So that's how they got out,” Sam muttered in disgust.

  Jack was informing the Hartquists that they were wanted for questioning in the multiple slayings discovered that morning at Alpine Meats. The suspects said nothing. They were rolling around on the ground, checking their various body parts for damage.

  Scott Chamoud pulled up just then. “Quick,” I called to him. “Get some pictures.”

  Scott stared, shook his head in wonder, and advanced on the Hartquists. So did the medics. I hurriedly jotted down some notes. Until this moment, I'd been too mesmerized by the action to ply my trade.

  One of the medics announced that the trio should be checked out at the hospital before they were taken in to headquarters. Jack scowled and mumbled something to the effect that those “damned Scandahoovians are too damned tough to get hurt by falling out of a damned tree.”

  The medics, however, persisted. They volunteered to help the Hartquists, but the offer was rejected.

  “How many times do ya t'ink I fall outta one of dem t'ings?” Cap growled in his ragged old voice.

  Scott had finished one roll of film and was putting another into his camera. “This is pretty cool,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “You don't know what to expect around here, do you, Emma?”

  “That's right,” I said dryly. “This town is full of surprises.” Many of them bad, I thought.

  The deputies had patted down the Hartquists and were herding them into the two squad cars just as Milo drove up. “Okay,” he called to his men, “we've got probable cause. Haul them in while I look for weapons.”

  “You ain't got nutting,” Ca
p shouted as Bill Blatt shoved the old man into the backseat of the car. “You need a goddamned varrant!”

  “Like hell I do,” Milo retorted. “You're lucky we're not arresting you on the spot. You kill four people, you pay.”

  Cap twisted around in Bill's grasp. “Four? You can't count, you big galoot! If ve killed anybody, it vas self-defense, and it vas only t'ree of 'em.”

  Milo stared at Cap. I stared at Milo. Scott stared at me.

  “What does he mean by that?” Scott whispered.

  “It means,” I said slowly, “that what I suspected all along may be true. Somebody besides the Hartquists killed Brian Conley.”

  THE MILL WHISTLE went off at precisely noon, just as we arrived at the sheriff's office. There were five hours to go before our regular Tuesday deadline. After Scott had taken down the entries in the police log—including Cap Hartquist's citation for groping Betsy O'Toole—I sent him off with a list of other stories to cover. Including, of course, Mayor Baugh's toilets. Meanwhile, I would stay on top of the developing homicide investigation.

  Milo had shown up with the Hartquist arsenal, which consisted of a half-dozen handguns and almost twice as many rifles. The weapons had been hidden in various parts of the property—a fruit cupboard, an old icebox, the bathroom medicine cabinet, a fishing basket, a carton marked RAT TRAPS.Meanwhile, Dwight Gould had joined Dustin Fong up at the O'Neill place on Second Hill, collecting whatever evidence that could be found. No doubt there was a collection of guns there, too.

  I was trying to organize my notes when Vida tromped into the sheriff's reception area.

  “Well!” she exclaimed. “This has been quite a morning! Now tell me what I've missed. It's not quite fair that I've been relegated to the office for most of this.”

  Bill Blatt was standing behind the curving reception desk, filling out some forms. “Bill,” I said, “can you bring your aunt up to speed on what's happened? It would be better coming from you. You're official.”

  Bill's pink complexion darkened slightly. I knew he didn't want to be put on the spot, but better him than me. Kinship means so much to Vida, I thought, somewhat gleefully. Nor did I see why Bill should be let off the hook.

  While Vida sucked in all the details like a high-powered vacuum cleaner, I asked Jack Mullins how the interrogation was going.

  “They confessed,” Jack said with his mischievous grin. “But they swear it was self-defense. Given all the other hostilities between them and the O'Neills, they might be right.”

  “But doesn't it appear that the Hartquists went to the O'Neill place?” I pointed out. “Isn't that where the shots were heard last night?”

  “That doesn't mean that Cap and the boys went there to kill the O'Neills,” Jack answered, growing serious. “The O'Neills are as well armed as the Hartquists. Those crazy Irishmen might have fired first.”

  It was certainly a possibility, though the shootings had appeared to be virtual assassinations. I said as much, then added that I found Cap's denial of the Conley killing credible.

  “Me, too,” Jack agreed. “That poor guy has been dead for quite a while. But the Hartquists swear they didn't put Conley in the meat locker. In fact, they insist he wasn't there when they dumped off the O'Neills.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Last night,” Jack said. “Around eight.”

  “Why? I mean, why put them in the locker?”

  Jack shook his head. “They couldn't get hold of Al Driggers. Nobody was at the funeral home last night. The Hartquists didn't want the bodies to spoil. Don't try to make sense of it, Emma. They're all nuts.”

  But I had to make sense of it. It wasn't just my own curiosity about what makes human beings tick, but my ob-

  ligation to the public. I was attempting to find some kind of logic in what had happened when Vida plucked me by the sleeve of my cotton shirt.

  “The Conleys,” she said. “Have they been notified?”

  “Oh!” I'd forgotten about Brian's parents. “I don't think Milo's had time. Go ahead, I just spoke with Mrs. Conley yesterday, so it's not as if we're butting in. And let his girlfriend, Gina Whatever-her-name-is, know, too.”

  Already armed with the numbers, Vida commandeered a phone from her nephew just as Milo came out of the interrogation room. “Jeez,” he uttered with a shake of his head. “It's like interviewing monkeys at the zoo.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “They're sticking to their story,” Milo said, pouring himself a mug of what I've always considered the world's worst coffee. “The Hartquists swear they just happened to be driving by the O'Neill place last night when Stubby opened fire on them with a .22. They claim they kept going in their pickup, but had a flat about twenty yards down the road. They were afraid to stop to change the tire, so they went back to the O'Neill place, where Ozzie took out his gun and warned Stubby that if he shot at them again, they'd start shooting back. Stubby fired a second time, and the war was on.”

  “Do you believe them?” I inquired.

  “No,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette in front of the No Smoking sign on the wall. “If that many shots had been fired, everybody within half a mile would've been on the alert. How many shots did you hear?”

  I thought back to the previous evening. “Three,” I responded. “Maybe four. But not a fusillade.”

  “That's what I figured,” Milo said. “I didn't hear the shots at all, though I'm farther away. Besides, I went up there after the complaints about the noises came in, and I didn't see any sign of trouble. Everything was quiet.”

  “What about the wounds?” I asked. “Were the O'Neills shot with rifles?”

  “Rusty was,” Milo replied, “but at fairly close range. Stubby and Dusty were killed with handguns, also up close.”

  I was surprised. “So maybe the O'Neills weren't even armed?”

  “It's possible,” Milo said. “It seems they were caught off guard.”

  “But the Hartquists say otherwise,” I remarked. They would, of course. “What else did they say?”

  “Not much,” Milo responded with a sour look. “At least not much that makes sense. Cap claims they threw the bodies in the pickup, tossed a tarp over them, and drove around trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Why didn't they call Al Driggers?” I asked.

  Milo gulped more coffee before replying. “Who knows? They say they drove by the funeral home and didn't see anybody around. So they got the bright idea of taking the bodies to the meat locker. They broke in, dumped Stubby, Rusty, and Dusty into the walk-in, and took off. They meant to call Al this morning, but they forgot.” Milo rolled his eyes.

  “Gosh,” Scott said, “that's pretty incredible.”

  “You bet,” Milo said. “But then the Hartquists are a pretty incredible bunch of jackasses.”

  “So you've officially charged them with multiple homicide?” I asked.

  Milo nodded. “We had to charge all of them, since they insist they don't know who shot who. And now they want a lawyer.”

  ” Court-appointed?”

  “No. Somebody named Svensen from Snohomish,” Milo said. “He's some old coot Cap knows from way back when.”

  “What about Brian Conley?” I asked.

  Milo shrugged. “Doc figures he's been dead since March, about the time he was reported missing. I suppose he riled one of those mountain men up on the Ridge, and got himself stabbed to death. It happens.”

  Unfortunately, Milo was right. Mountain men, hermits, recluses—they sought refuge from civilization in the vast forests of the Cascades, living in shacks, huts, abandoned cabins, and whatever other shelter they could find. Intruders, even innocent passersby, were met with hostility and occasionally death. Milo's predecessor, Eeeny Moroni, had told of finding human skulls decorating the fireplace mantel of one such hermit. Perhaps Brian Con-ley had been foolish enough to say a simple hello to a man who didn't want to socialize.

  “You'll investigate, though,” I remarked.


  Milo stubbed his cigarette out in a metal ashtray. “Sure. But I don't expect to find out much, not after all this time.”

  I didn't blame the sheriff for his lack of enthusiasm. The trail was cold, in more ways than one.

  “Goodness,” said Vida, who had just gotten off the phone. “How very odd.”

  I turned in her direction. “What's that?”

  “The Conleys were stunned, then relieved,” she said, looking puzzled. “I reached the girlfriend at work. Gina—Gina Ancich. After becoming semihysterical, she told me that Brian had always wanted his body buried in Ireland. What is all this silliness with being buried abroad? First Oscar Nyquist, now this Brian Conley. Tut!”

  “Roots,” Toni Andreas put in. “People want to be connected with their past. One of my uncles was buried in the old country last year, one of those Greek isles. He'd retired to Arizona, but he missed the water and wanted to be buried by the sea.”

  Vida looked askance. “It's absurd. I can't imagine being buried anywhere but here. The Alpine Cemetery is such a lovely place, up on the hill, above the river, the mountains around it, looking out over the town.”

  Vida, no doubt, expected to be able to see the local goings-on even when she was six feet under. “Are the Conleys coming out?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Yes.” Vida adjusted her cartwheel straw hat with its pink and blue streamers. “They don't know exactly when. They have to make the travel arrangements. I gave them Father Kelly's number at the rectory in case they want to have a service here.”

  “They told me they did,” I noted.

  “They may have changed their minds,” Vida said, coming from behind the counter and into the reception area. “In fact, I got the impression that they planned to bury Brian in Penn Yan.” She frowned. “How odd. Perhaps they didn't know of their son's request.”

  That was the least of my worries. I still needed to sort through the details of the Hartquist arrests. After Vida went on her way, I asked Milo when the arraignment would be held.

  “As soon as that attorney from Snohomish gets up here,” the sheriff replied. “First, though, I'm going to have lunch. You want to come along, Emma?”