The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  “Thanks,” she repeated, then smiled, and I realized for the first time that she was very pretty. Maybe I hadn't noticed before because Meara O'Neill hadn't had much to smile about lately. But the smile still didn't suggest a resemblance to Cornelius.

  While Meara fastened Cornelius into the infant seat, I put the diaper bag and purse up front. Then she got behind the wheel and wished me luck with my car.

  I'd forgotten about the ruse, and must have looked blank before I caught on. “Oh—yes, I'm sure it's nothing serious. Please don't worry about Roger. Even his grandmother will acknowledge eventually that he's doing some macho bragging.”

  Meara's face was grave. “Probably. But that's not what worries me.”

  “Oh?” I hadn't closed the door on the passenger side, so I leaned farther into the car. “What do you mean?”

  For a moment, Meara stared out through the windshield. “I told you that little creep has been following me—stalking, really—for ages. He knows who Cornelius's father was. I just hope he keeps his fat mouth shut.”

  I WASN'T SURE why, but I felt uneasy walking back to The Pines to collect my car. It was only seven o'clock and the sun hadn't yet begun to set. There was a scent of roses from a nearby garden as I crossed Second Street on that mild Tuesday evening, and chipmunks chattered in a cedar tree at the corner. But as the Burlington-Northern whistled on its passage through town, I was reminded of something less ordinary. I'd only heard the “dead whistle” twice since my arrival in Alpine, but the memory made me shiver. The whistle was sounded at the mill when someone died in the woods or in the mill itself. Fred En-gebretsen, father of four, had been killed when he fell from a sixty-foot fir on Windy Mountain; Duane Gris-wold, only nineteen, had fallen under the wheels of a logging truck near Martin Creek. Vida had once told me how the dead whistle had haunted her while she was growing up. She said you always feared that the whistle signaled the passing of a loved one. And because Alpine was so small, the victim was always someone you knew. Fatalities were more frequent when logging was king— and killer.

  Yet Alpine Way looked perfectly normal. Traffic was sparse, a middle-aged couple walked their dog, a young man on a bicycle cruised down the wide street's slope. When I arrived at the Hibberts', all seemed calm. Vida's car was still there, however, so I assumed the family was

  thrashing its way through Roger's crisis. I got into the Lexus and drove back home.

  The feeling of gloom remained. I tried to call Janet Driggers, but there was no answer except a recorded message. It wasn't until almost eight o'clock that I realized I hadn't eaten dinner. Something had spoiled my appetite. I was in the kitchen searching the freezer when Vida arrived at the back door, out of breath and out of temper.

  “What's gotten into you, Emma?” Vida raged as she stamped into the kitchen. “Has becoming engaged destroyed your sense of loyalty?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, calmly. “Shall I make tea?”

  “No.” Vida sat down hard on one of my kitchen chairs. “This isn't a social visit.”

  “Oh, great!” I exclaimed, dropping into one of the other chairs and holding my head. “What did I supposedly do this time?”

  Under the crinkled brim of her green taffeta cloche, Vida looked very stern. “You took sides. You chose Meara O'Neill.”

  “Oh, Vida.” I shook my head. “I did no such thing. I wanted to talk to the girl, just as you did. How was I to know there was some sort of ruckus going on at your daughter's?”

  “You might have guessed,” Vida retorted.

  “Come on, Vida,” I said, “you know damned well I had no idea what was going on. I saw your Buick when I drove through The Pines and thought I'd wait for you to find out what Meara had to say for herself and why she was at Amy and Ted's. It occurred to me that we could go to dinner and talk about it.”

  “Dinner!” Vida waved a hand in front of her face. “Who could possibly eat? And don't swear,” she added.

  “I'll swear I didn't know what was happening,” I de-

  clared. “Now I've heard Meara's side of the story. What about Roger's?”

  Under her summer coat, Vida's shoulders slumped. “It's most remarkable.”

  “I imagine.”

  Vida sighed. “Young people grow up so fast these days.”

  “What?”

  “One day they're tiny tots, the next, they're adults.” Vida shrugged. “You blink, and the years have flown by.”

  Vida was floating on that same pink cloud she ascended whenever she spoke of Tom and me. Now, apparently, she had put Roger—and maybe poor Meara—on a similar puff of romantic gauze.

  “Vida,” I said firmly, “do you actually believe that Roger got Meara pregnant?”

  “Young love, first love,” she murmured. “It seems so right when it's so wrong. My, my.”

  I almost thought a tear glistened in Vida's eye, but it was probably the light reflecting off the dishwasher's rinse button. “You sound like an idiot.”

  Vida scowled at me. “Mind your tongue, Emma.” She paused, and her expression softened. “We're quarreling. That's not right.”

  “Of course it's not,” I agreed. “Tell me why you believe Roger.”

  Vida was taken aback. “Why, I've always believed him. He's a very truthful boy. Oh, he's told the occasional fib as children do. But he's not a liar by any means.”

  I doubted that. “Why would Meara deny it, then?”

  “Notions,” Vida answered promptly. “Meara must have invented a romantic idea as to who fathered her baby. A mysterious older man, now dead. So tragic. And such a lovely fantasy.”

  In my opinion, Meara could have fantasized Quasimodo as the father of her baby, and he would have been more appealing than Roger. But though I refused to admit it out loud, Vida's rationale wasn't completely unbelievable.

  “Meara's Irish, you see,” Vida said as I sat there cogitating. “The Irish are so clever with words, they have such wonderfully sentimental music. Sadness and loss seem to be their motif.”

  But Roger? I wanted to say. There are limits. Instead, I offered Vida a sympathetic look. “Sadness and loss are a prominent cultural theme. It's natural, it's their history.”

  “Victims,” she said. “Perhaps they like being victims, like women who stay with abusive men. And vice versa. Those famines—they lived on an island. Didn't anyone have a fishing rod or a gill net?”

  Vida was off on a tangent, perhaps to divert me. “Do Amy and Ted believe Roger?” I asked.

  She snatched off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Ooooh … you never can be sure with them. They want not to believe him, of course. Legal and financial reasons. Responsibility.”

  “Meara doesn't want to marry Roger,” I declared, practically quivering at the very thought.

  “Not at present,” Vida replied, giving her eyes a final rub. “But down the road, who knows?”

  I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Vida,” I said, forcing her to look at me straight on, “I don't believe Roger. His parents don't believe him. Meara says he's lying. Why can't you, of all people, see the truth?”

  As soon as I'd spoken, I knew the answer. Because nobody else believes him. Someone must have faith in Roger or he will become a lost soul. “Never mind,” I blurted before Vida could open her mouth. I let go of her hand and gave it a quick, fond pat. “Al Driggers is missing.”

  “What?” Vida's gray eyes were huge as she put her glasses back on. “How can he be? I saw him this morning.”

  I explained Janet's anxiety, which Vida pooh-poohed. “Janet is a very emotional woman. She's overextended herself, trying to work at the funeral home and the travel agency. Ever since their two daughters moved away she's been at loose ends. What Janet needs is a hobby, not a job. Al makes a very nice income.”

  It was clear that, for once, Vida had no thought except for her own family problems. And I had no wish to hear her ramble on in defense of Roger.

  But there was one thing I had to say. “Me
ara says Roger knows the identity of her baby's father.”

  “I should think so,” Vida said primly, then wagged a finger in my direction. “Make no mistake, I don't hold with all this promiscuity. But as you of all people know, love can overcome good sense.”

  “I was twenty-one,” I said dryly. “Tom was twenty-eight.”

  Vida stood up. “Really, Emma, you're being very difficult.”

  “No, I'm not.” I stood up, too, my chair making an annoying scraping sound on the faux wood floor. “I'm trying to be objective about this. I'm a journalist, after all.”

  Vida started for the back door, but turned to speak over her shoulder. “So am I.”

  I didn't like parting on unpleasant terms with Vida, but she was being a mule. Halfway through eating a tuna fish sandwich and some sliced tomatoes, I had another visitor. Spencer Fleetwood arrived on my porch with a bouquet of small yellow orchids.

  “Peace offering,” he said, thrusting the flowers at me before removing his sunglasses. “May I come in?”

  “Okay,” I said, aware that I didn't sound very welcoming. “Why are you declaring peace?”

  Spence gestured toward one of my side chairs. “May I?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, both apprehensive and curious. I gazed at the orchids in my hand. The stems were encased in a glass tube filled with water. “Let me get a vase.” I picked up my half-eaten supper with my free hand and headed for the kitchen, then remembered my manners. “Can I bring you something?”

  “Only goodwill,” Spence replied in his rich radio voice.

  “Okay,” I said, returning to the living room and sitting on the sofa. “What's this all about?”

  Spence gave me his off-center grin. He had nice white teeth, almost as fine as Scott Chamoud's. He also had a slightly beaklike nose, a long, sharp chin, and shrewd brown eyes that seemed just a little too close together. As usual, he was wearing a cashmere sweater—baby blue— and tailored slacks.

  “You have a big advantage over me,” he said, the brown eyes glinting.

  “Such as?”

  “The sheriff.” Spence stretched out his long legs and settled back into the chair. Somehow, even on enemy turf he exuded an air that indicated he was in control.

  I was annoyed, but tried not to show it. “You mean because I've known him for ten years?”

  Spence nodded. “That, and the fact that you're a woman.”

  Now I didn't try to hide my annoyance. “Are you insinuating that I use my so-called feminine wiles to get information from Milo Dodge?”

  “No.” He paused for effect. I wondered if Spence had majored not in broadcasting but drama. “It's natural that a woman can get a man to open up. Conversational skills, let's say.”

  That was better than accusing me of sleeping with the sheriff. And though I had, it had never made Milo reveal any information he hadn't wanted me to know. Indeed, for some time after we broke up, he'd been uncooperative and recalcitrant.

  “If you knew Milo just half as well as I do,” I said, sounding stilted even to myself, “you'd know that he's very cautious, very deliberate. Milo goes by the book. What do you think I know that you don't?”

  Spence threw back his head and laughed. “Could I call you cunning?” he finally said, his brown eyes narrowing slightly.

  “I don't think I've ever been called cunning,” I replied. “Just about everything else, though.”

  Spence was now serious. “So have I. It comes with our jobs. Look,” he went on, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, “we both know we're operating in a limited market when it comes to advertising. As long as we stay in business, we'll fight and claw each other for every dollar we can get. But it's news I'm talking about, and there's where I have the advantage.”

  “Of course,” I allowed. “So what's your point?”

  “We're sitting on the biggest story to ever break in Alpine, right?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “We've had a few others since I've been here, and I'm sure there were some big ones before I arrived. This isn't the first multiple homicide I've covered.”

  Spence shook his head. “I'm not talking about the Hartquists knocking off the O'Neills. Not exactly. I'm talking about this weapons thing. Surely you've considered the implications?”

  “I'm considering the facts at the moment,” I replied with a lift of my chin. “In some ways, I'm like Milo. I don't speculate in public.”

  Spence gave me that off-center grin. “This isn't public. This is private. Or have you got the house bugged?”

  “Of course not,” I retorted, wondering if he was actually serious. “But you're a journalist, too. Whatever I say is—”

  “Off the record,” Spence interrupted. “Come on, Emma,” he prodded, using my Christian name for the first time that I could recall, “this story is bigger than both of us. Do you really think Dodge is going to figure it out?”

  “He often does,” I replied in defense of Milo. “He takes his time, but he usually gets there.”

  “With, I've heard, a great deal of help from you and Mrs. Runkel,” Spence asserted. “I haven't been in Alpine very long, but word gets out. You and that House and Home editor seem to go beyond the call of duty when it comes to crime.”

  “You can't help but get involved with major stories in a small town,” I said. “Look—you're doing it yourself.”

  “So I am.” Spence seemed amused. “Shall we consider the facts?”

  I knew he was trying to trick me, but I could play that game, too. “All right. Just the facts. It's your idea, you start.”

  Again, Spence leaned back in the chair. “The Brothers O'Neill are murdered in apparent gangland style by the Hartquist family.”

  I held up a hand. “Why gangland?”

  “They were all shot at close range,” Spence replied. “None of the Hartquists were wounded despite the fact that they claimed to have been shot at first. Wouldn't you say that the Hartquists must have come—probably by stealth—to the O'Neill house on Second Hill, barged in, and started shooting?”

  It occurred to me that when Scott and I went through the house, we hadn't noticed any bullet holes. Nor had Milo mentioned them.

  “No,” I said, aware that Spence's theory was a trap.

  “No?” he repeated. “So you're saying that the shooting must have occurred outside.”

  “That's a fact,” I said. “We were speaking only of facts. At least that's what the Hartquists implied at their arraignment.”

  Spence nodded slowly, the slightly hooked nose reminding me of a bird. A kinder person might have described his profile as eaglelike; I was thinking more of a vulture. But Spence was right. There should have been some trace of bullets in the O'Neill house if the trio had been shot indoors.

  “Let's conjecture for just a moment,” Spence said amiably. “The Hartquists arrive in their truck. They either fire a couple of shots into the air, or they call the O'Neills out. Maybe they say they just want to talk, consider a truce. In any event, the O'Neills come outside. They're probably armed, but not ready to start shooting.”

  Spence's deep voice had fallen into its on-air mode, arresting, intimate, confidential. I half expected him to recall an encounter of his own with the neighborhood bully some forty years earlier. I also expected that eventually he could lull me to sleep.

  “The Hartquists surprise them,” he continued. “I understand that the O'Neills' blood alcohol count was well above the legal limit.”

  Damn. Milo hadn't mentioned that, and I hadn't thought to ask. Neither, I assumed, had Scott Chamoud. I felt like a bungling amateur. Worse yet, I had to admire Spence's thoroughness.

  “The Hartquists get the O'Neills outside, maybe using some kind of ruse,” Spence recounted as if he could picture the sorry scene in his mind's eye. “Perhaps Cap and his boys are hiding in the shrubbery. That place on Second Hill isn't exactly a landscaper's delight. The O'Neills are confused, puzzled, and, as I mentioned, drunk. The Hartquists charge them and start shooting at close
range. The O'Neills fall, the Hartquists retrieve their victims' weapons, they load the dead men into their truck, and off they go to Alpine Meats. How am I doing?”

  Pretty damned good, I thought, and hoped I was hiding my annoyance. “It's plausible,” I conceded. “But why?”

  “Why kill them or why cart them off to the meat locker?”

  “Both.”

  Spence gave me a rueful look. “How else can a feud like that end except with annihilation? Hasn't it gone on for years, even across generations?”

  “That's true,” I said. “It all started with Paddy O'Neill accidentally running over Cap Hartquist's goat. Until then, they'd been close friends.”

  Spence gave a single nod. “Those things fester, especially in small towns. Macho stuff, family honor, the whole bit. Even in big cities relatives get into it over an inheritance, neighbors go after each other because a dog tore up the petunia bed. You can't isolate these incidents to only small towns.”

  “I know,” I said. “But in cities, the aggrieved usually start by calling their lawyers.”

  Spence waved a hand, flashing his expensive watch. “You know what I mean. The feud had to end this way. Maybe it'll be a lesson for the younger generation.”

  “Maybe.” As far as I knew, the Hartquist and O'Neill youths had never gone much further than exchanges of nasty words. Then I thought of Mickey O'Neill. He was the only male descendant on either side of the feuding families. That was just as well. “So far there's been no retaliation,” I added hopefully. “But why the warehouse?”

  Spence shrugged. “Some kind of statement? Dead meat? It's over? I'm not a mind reader. You seem like an intuitive sort of person. What do you think?”

  I suppose I should have been flattered. Instead, I became mulish. “I only know what the Hartquists said they did. I don't think any of them are into symbolism. They took the easy way out.”

  “Why not leave the bodies up on Second Hill? They were bound to be found,” Spence pointed out.

  “Maybe the Hartquists were almost as drunk as the O'Neills,” I said. “Maybe they panicked.” For all I knew, the crazy clan might have wanted to put their victims on a summer solstice float.