The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “Tomlinson,” Vida said in her stage whisper. “They live out by the fish hatchery. She's from Startup, he moved here from Tacoma to work for the park service. Or was it the forest service? Dear me, I forget.”

  The divorce was swiftly granted, the ferret was given to the wife. Or ex-wife, as she had become.

  The judge stared at Spence, who was still crooning into his microphone. “There will be no recordings or broadcasts from my courtroom, Mr. Fleetwood. Tune yourself off or I'll turn you out.”

  Spence offered the judge his most ingratiating smile. “Sorry, Your Honor, I was only setting the stage for my later newscast. You know, atmosphere, live and direct.”

  “I don't know,” Judge Marsha snapped. “The only thing around here that's live and direct is justice. Take a seat, Mr. Fleetwood, and make sure you've got your little black gadget turned off.”

  Still jaunty, Spence complied. I couldn't help but grin at Marsha Foster-Klein. She had made herself a candidate for my next new best friend.

  A side door opened, and sherrif's deputy Sam Heppner entered behind the three Hartquists and Sven Svensen. Sam nudged the senior Hartquist, apparently reminding him to remove his wrinkled snap-brim cap, which I gathered was his signature piece of apparel. The sons also doffed theirs. Cap Hartquist busily scratched at his rear end; his offspring followed suit.

  The voices in the courtroom grew hushed. Cap, though gnarled and slightly stooped with age, looked like his usual pugnacious self. There was a contemptuous expression on his weather-beaten face as his beady-eyed gaze swept over the gathering. Ozzie, the elder and the larger of the two brothers, swaggered behind their father, while Rudy attempted to joke with the dour Sam Heppner.

  “Showing off,” Vida murmured. “Typical.”

  Moving with the aid of a walker was Sven Svensen, whom I judged to be about Cap's age, but not in nearly as robust shape. Sven had once been a large man, or so his loose-fitting dark blue suit indicated, but he had apparently shriveled with age or illness, perhaps both. He wore an obvious toupee and there was a straw boater in the basket of his walker.

  “Good heavens,” Vida gasped, “Sven Svensen! I remember him from my youth. I thought he'd been dead for years. Do you think he'll live through the trial?”

  Sam Heppner, Rudy Hartquist, Judge Marsha, and the entire front row of spectators stared at Vida. Sven Svensen, however, did not. That was when I noticed his hearing aids.

  Rosemary Bourgette was already in the courtroom. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties from a large family who belonged to St. Mildred's parish. The judge ordered the group to approach the bench. As the formalities began, I saw Milo lope through the double doors at the back of the courtroom. He looked unusually grim.

  “How do your clients plead?” Judge Marsha demanded after the charge of second-degree homicide had been read for all three defendants.

  Sven appeared oblivious. The judge repeated her query. Sven leaned forward with one hand on his walker, the other cupping his right ear. “Eh?”

  With an impatient sigh, Judge Marsha again asked for the plea. Sven gazed at each of his clients in turn. Before he could speak, Cap's ragged voice rumbled through the courtroom:

  “Not guilty, goddamn it!”

  “Not guilty, goddamn it!” echoed his sons.

  “Watch your language in my courtroom,” Judge Marsha shot back, and pounded her gavel.

  “Veil, ve're not,” Cap retorted in a testy tone. “Ve vas shot at first, pygolly.”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Sven finally said as if he hadn't heard a word of the exchange.

  “Very well.” Judge Marsha seemed faintly relieved. “Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars apiece. The trial date will be scheduled for …” She paused to glance at what I assumed was her court calendar. “—Monday, June twenty-first.”

  Rosemary Bourgette lifted a hand. “I don't believe that these defendants should remain at large. There is the risk of flight, Your Honor. The accused are well-versed in the wilderness areas of the Pacific Northwest, including British Columbia.”

  “Flight?” Cap shouted. “I never been in no damned airplane! Vhere vould ve go? Ain't no place for us but Alpine.”

  “Mr. Hartquist,” Judge Marsha said in a firm voice, “I told you to watch your language. One more outburst of profanity and I'll cite you for contempt.” She turned to the bailiff. “Get these people out of here before I lose my judicial composure.”

  The three Hartquists were hustled out through the side door while the spectators began to chuckle and buzz. Judge Marsha announced the noon recess. Once again, Vida was besieged by at least a dozen people who apparently thought she knew more than the judge, the attorneys, or the accused.

  I slipped away and managed to catch Milo as he was crossing through the rotunda.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Is it safe to let the Hartquists out on bail?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Milo grumbled. “At least I wouldn't have to listen to them bitching and cussing in the county jail.”

  “Is there anything new you can tell me?” I inquired, hurrying to keep up with the sheriff's long, loping strides.

  Milo fended off a couple of people who had questions for him, then scowled at me as we reached the street. “What do you need to know now? You don't have a paper coming out until next week.”

  “What's wrong?” I asked. “You're not in a very good mood.”

  “That's not news,” Milo responded, jaywalking across Front Street.

  Someone in a blue Honda honked at the sheriff and me. A tourist, no doubt, who didn't know or care what Milo's uniform represented.

  “It's kind of news,” I said, remaining patient. “You've been in a good mood lately. Didn't Tara come back from the airport?”

  “I don't know,” Milo muttered. “I haven't had time to find out.”

  We crossed Second Street—legally—and headed down the half-block to the sheriff's office.

  “How about lunch?” I asked in my brightest voice.

  “I'll have Toni pick up something for me,” Milo said, his face now clouded with what I perceived as distress. “I've got work to do.”

  I started to speak, to prod Milo further, but I knew that in his present state of mind he wasn't going to tell me anything. Parting company with him at his office, I walked on to the Advocate.

  Now I felt as upset as Milo looked.

  But I didn't know why.

  THE REST OF Wednesday was relatively calm, except for the usual complaints about the weekly edition of the newspaper and a couple of nutcases insisting they'd seen Brian Conley alive and well over the Memorial Day weekend. Then there was Mayor Baugh, unable to comprehend why we hadn't run his public rest room story as a feature on page one. I let Vida field that one, but I got stuck with Ed Bronsky.

  “The Mr. Pig float isn't a Scene item,” he complained over the phone. “That's big stuff, with at least a twenty-four-point headline. How many other people in this town have ever had a TV series based on them?”

  Ed actually had a point, but I wasn't giving in. “You were only in the planning stage when I spoke with you,” I countered. “You hadn't talked to Scooter Hutchins yet. When it's firmed up, we'll do a full-blown story.”

  “It is firmed up,” Ed asserted. “I met with Scooter right after I saw you and Dodge at lunch.”

  “But you didn't let me know,” I argued. “Hey, Ed, I'm not a mind reader.”

  There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “So when's the summer solstice preview coming out?”

  “Next week,” I replied. “The solstice is the weekend of the twentieth.”

  “Right.” Ed hesitated again. “What's your front-page fix?”

  “The Solstice Queen candidates,” I said. “We do it every year.”

  “Stale,” Ed proclaimed. “Ever since we ditched Loggeramma—five, six years ago—it's been the same old thing. You need something new. How about my float?”

  Again,
Ed surprised me. He had a viable idea. I, too, had grown weary of the five overly made up princesses in their prom dresses and tiaras, grinning like they had wedges stuck between their cheeks. If nothing else, Ed and Company might provide some comic relief.

  “Will you be ready by Monday or Tuesday?” I inquired. “I'd prefer Monday, just in case.”

  “Sure,” Ed responded. “Why not? We've already got the float planned out. We'll start putting it together this afternoon.”

  “It's a deal,” I said, then added, “I noticed the other day that you're three months behind on your subscription payment. Are you thinking of canceling the Advocate?”

  “What?” Ed sounded taken aback. “No, of course not. I must have forgotten to write a check when I paid for my Wall Street Journal subscription.” His voice turned a trifle sly. “I was thinking—as a former staff member, how come I don't get a free subscription to the Advocate?”

  “Because that isn't our policy,” I said. “If it had been, we'd have done it when you quit five years ago.”

  “Oh.” Ed sounded disappointed. “Okay, I'll have the check for you when we do the photo shoot.”

  “Good. Remember, three months.” I rang off just as Ginny hurried into my office.

  “Line two,” she said, pointing at my phone. “It's that Mrs. Conley, calling from back east. She sounds upset.”

  I punched the red button on my phone. “Mrs. Conley? This is Emma Lord.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said in a distraught voice. “Maybe you can help me.”

  “With what?” I asked as Ginny exited my cubbyhole.

  “Well…” Mae Conley's voice was shaky. “The flight bringing Brian's body to New York and then on to Corning-Elmira was due in this morning around eleven. The coffin was to be picked up by our local funeral home and driven here to Penn Yan. But Mr. Barnes—the funeral director—went to the airport, and poor Brian wasn't on the connecting flight.”

  I frowned. “Did you check with JFK?”

  “Yes, we even checked with La Guardia,” Mrs. Con-ley replied, her voice gaining strength as she dealt with practical matters. “It was JFK where the flight from Seattle landed. The coffin was definitely on the plane. But they had no record of it being sent on to Elmira-Corning or Ithaca, the other nearest airport.”

  Surely the airline and the airport couldn't lose a coffin. On the other hand, they probably could. Brian seemed capable of getting lost both alive and dead.

  “I trust they'll keep looking,” I said.

  “Yes, they assured us they'd check it out,” Mrs. Con-ley responded. “But I thought perhaps you might have some information at your end.”

  “No,” I said, “I'm afraid not. Did you call the funeral home here?”

  “I did,” she said, “but they could tell me nothing other than that they were certain that Brian had been sent on the right flight. And of course the people at JFK said he'd arrived. I just thought that—” Her voice broke. “You've been so … helpful, and maybe … you might have heard … something at your end.”

  Alas, I couldn't help. As I hung up the phone, I envisioned the chaotic scene at a busy airport such as JFK in New York. It was probably a wonder that they didn't misplace jumbo jets, let alone a coffin. If he still hadn't been found by our next deadline, I'd turn the latest Brian Conley misfortune into a story.

  Around three, I called Tim Rafferty at his apartment in the Pines Villa. Tiffany answered in her little-girl voice.

  “Tim's on the computer right now,” she said. “I never interrupt him.”

  “Okay,” I replied, trying to sound agreeable. “What's the rest of his afternoon like? Would he be available, say, around four-thirty?”

  “I'll have to check,” Tiffany said in a tone so solemn I thought she might be referring to Bill Gates. “I'll call back as soon as I find out.”

  Twerps, I thought. Tim had spent most of his adult life tending bar; Tiffany had worked as a waitress. But now that Tim had started e-trading on the Net, neither of them had a full-time job anymore. Unless you counted Tim's stints at KSKY, which I didn't. As far as I was concerned, Tim playing broadcaster was just an extension of his duties behind the bar. Except that behind the mike, he got to do all the talking instead of most of the listening.

  Kip MacDuff came in with a question about the flyers we were printing for the summer solstice. He took one look at my annoyed expression and asked what was wrong.

  “Nothing, really,” I said, forcing a smile. “I was just wondering if I'm the real fool for not getting involved in stock trading on the Internet.”

  “Well,” Kip said slowly, perching on the edge of my desk, “some people really clean up that way. I'm kind of leery, though. You can also get burned real bad.”

  “Tim Rafferty seems to have a knack for it.”

  “Tim?” Kip laughed and shook his head. “The one thing Tim was really good at when we were in high school was math. Not that that has much to do with e-trading. I mean, you have to know how to invest. I think there's a lot of luck, too, though serious investors thoroughly research the companies. Somehow, I don't see Tim doing that.”

  “I don't either.”

  “Still …” Kip shuffled the poster mock-ups in his freckled hands. “I wouldn't mind having him show me the ropes. Just to get a feel for what it's like to trade on-line.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  Kip nodded. “A couple of times. He sort of put me off. I guess he doesn't want to give away any trade secrets.”

  I reached for the poster mock-ups, which were so detailed that they looked almost like the finished product. “Nice,” I commented. “As usual, Kip. Say, don't tell me you've got money to spare on investments, with what I pay you?”

  Kip's eyes scoured my cubbyhole's low, slanting roof. “Oh—I've got a little nest egg.”

  It was possible, given Kip's organizational skills and talent for cost cutting. I really didn't know what we'd have done without him while we made the transition from old-fashioned typesetting to computer. He had started out as one of our carriers, before I bought the Advocate. After he got his driver's license, he'd been put in charge of carting the paper down to Monroe to be run off on a press that published several weeklies and shoppers. He'd helped with our limited backshop work for several years, but when I made the move to computers, I discovered that he was an in-house gold mine. If I ever sold out, it would be to Kip. It was a good thing he had his little nest egg. He might need it one of these days, if I ever made up my mind about marrying Tom.

  Mayor Baugh stopped by with the details on his rest room project. He hoped to have the toilets installed at Old Mill Park by the nineteenth, in time for the solstice festival. He was still miffed that we hadn't made his momentous idea a page-one story.

  Right after he departed on a sea of umbrage, Janet Driggers called from the funeral home. “Here's a hot story for you: not only is Cammy Olson recovering from the chicken pox, but Al's feeling better. Maybe I can go back to work at Sky Travel tomorrow. Jeez, why do men have to suffer so when they get sick? You'd think Al had caught plague.”

  “It's either that or the wounded bear syndrome,” I said. “You know, where the guy goes off into a coat closet and doesn't come out until he's healed.”

  “Men.” The word sounded like it left a bad taste in Janet's mouth. “The only thing worse is women. Say, did you know that Gina Ancich, Brian Conley's girlfriend, is in town?”

  I was surprised. “What for?”

  “She came to the funeral home this morning with some friend of Conley's,” Janet said. “His name's Nolan Curry, and I guess he worked at the Irish consulate with Brian. But here's the kicker—would you believe Gina's a receptionist for an old-line Seattle funeral home? We've dealt with them a few times, but I don't think Al or I ever talked to Gina.”

  “So why did Gina come if the body's been shipped to NewYork?” Iasked.

  “They want to make a pilgrimage,” Janet said with what sounded like disgust. “They're not going back f
or the memorial in Penn Yan, so they wanted to do something here, where Brian died.”

  “You mean on Tonga Ridge?”

  “Wherever.” I could visualize Janet shrugging her shoulders. “I sent Gina and Nolan to the ranger station. “Wes Amundson can tell them where to find the spot. Frankly, I think they're being ghoulish.”

  It seemed an odd comment from a woman whose husband was in a rather ghoulish—if necessary—business. But Janet often blurted out whatever was in her head. At least she hadn't expressed a desire to get in the sack with Nolan Curry.

  “I'd like to interview them,” I said. “Will they check back with you?”

  “I doubt it,” Janet replied. “For all I know, they may have come and gone. It wouldn't take them more than a couple of hours to go up to Tonga Ridge and come back. Plus do whatever they were going to do when they got there. Like screw, maybe. Hey—isn't that what you figure Tim and Tiffany were doing under that ledge when they found Brian?”

  “Maybe,” I allowed. “It'd kill time.”

  “That's funny,” Janet said, and laughed.

  I didn't exactly agree. But I suppose in Janet and Al's business you had to be able to look Death in the eye and laugh.

  I checked with Wes Amundson at the ranger station. He said he hadn't seen Gina Ancich and Nolan Curry since they headed up Tonga Ridge a little after one o'clock.

  “They promised to come by on their way back,” Wes said, “but you know how people are.”

  “Is their car still in the parking lot?” I asked.

  “Wes didn't answer right away. I assumed that he hadn't bothered to check and had gone to the window. “Yeah, it's here. Maybe they're holding a service or something.”

  “That'd make sense,” I replied. “If you see them, would you please have them give me a call? Just in case they come down after five, I'll leave my home number, too.”

  By four twenty-five, I hadn't heard back from Wes or from Brian's mourners. And Tiffany still hadn't returned my call. I dialed the number again and got a busy signal. Genius that Tim was, he apparently hadn't figured out how to use an answering machine. Ten minutes later, I told my staff that I was leaving early. I didn't say why, because I knew that Vida would want to tag along. She didn't ask, because she was on the phone with Roger, who wanted to do something she didn't think he should do. Like placing land mines along Front Street, maybe.