Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  I left Carla looking confused while Vida hummed at her typewriter and Leo tried to talk Alpine Appliance into a four-color insert for next week. Out on Front Street, the fresh snow had been plowed, and some of the sidewalks were shoveled. Ours wasn’t among them, and wouldn’t be cleared, unless our next-door neighbors at Cascade Dry Cleaning had a charitable impulse. I trod carefully until I reached the corner. I’d walked to work, taking the treacherous downhill streets slowly. By sunrise, the clouds had lifted and the temperature had risen to almost forty. It would probably rain later in the day.

  My route took me past the sheriff’s office. Milo’s Cherokee Chief was parked in its usual slot. I’d drop in on him later. Maybe. I didn’t want to infringe on Vida’s territory.

  Stella was alone when I arrived. She still seemed frazzled from her ordeal, though she was doing her best to keep up appearances. There was a fresh bouquet from Posies Unlimited, the valentine displays had been replaced by shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, and Stella looked as if she’d lightened her own hair color and changed the hue of her makeup.

  “Vida’s right,” she declared, handing me a smock. “The ghouls are coming in droves. I’ve had eleven calls from people I never heard of around here, and six more from Snohomish County. People are really strange.”

  I agreed. Then, hesitating only a split second, I marched back to the changing room. I had to put the shock of Monday’s discovery behind me. Kay Whitman’s blood and her lifeless body would always haunt me, but memories can be tamed. They must or life wouldn’t be bearable.

  This time I made no mistake about which room to enter. But after I had put on the smock, I couldn’t resist a peek into the facial room.

  The door was locked. I refrained from mentioning the fact to Stella because I didn’t want her to know I’d been snooping. Maybe the room was always locked before Becca arrived. Or maybe Stella and her crew were taking safety precautions too late.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had any brainstorms about the murder,” I remarked as Stella shampooed my hair.

  “A dozen of them,” she answered. “Drug addicts. Vagrants from the train. A serial killer working his way across the state. One of those crazy hermits.” Stella gently massaged my temples. “I like the hermit idea best. Those old guys wander into town every six months, and nobody pays any attention. I said as much to Jack Mullins. Do you know what he told me?”

  “Uh-uh,” I replied, feeling more relaxed than I’d been in days.

  “Jack says he figures there are at least a couple of murders every year in this county that nobody ever knows about. Men, mostly, oddballs who wander the woods and sleep under the trees or in caves or abandoned shacks, and eventually meet up with some other oddball, like the hermits. One of them kills the other, and does God-knows-what with the body. They’re never missed by anyone, because they have no family or friends. They simply disappear, and whoever kills them is never caught. Gruesome, huh?”

  I’d heard a similar theory from Milo. The incidents weren’t peculiar to Skykomish County, but apparently occurred wherever there was enough open country to accommodate wandering weirdos.

  “That would be a convenient solution,” I said as Stella rinsed the conditioner out of my hair.

  Stella understood. “I know, it’s too easy. But it is possible.” Sitting up straight, I saw the anxiety in her face.

  “The problem is that there’s no motive,” I said, following Stella to her workstation. “Thus, no suspects. The only people who knew Kay Whitman were her husband, her sister-in-law, and her mother-in-law. They all seemed to adore her.”

  In the mirror, I could see Stella frown. “Don’t I know it? Even if somebody made a mistake, and thought Kay was Honoria, who’d want to kill her? She’s an invalid who makes funny little jugs. What did she ever do to get her throat slit?”

  For one awful, fleeting moment a phrase flashed through my mind: spurned lover. That would be Milo. That would be incredible. Then there was jealous rival.That could be me. Had anyone considered the possibility? I felt a little sick. My head drooped, and Stella gave me a nudge.

  “Hey, Emma, sit up! I can’t do this if you’re going to stare at your knees.”

  “Sorry.” I offered Stella a ghostly smile.

  Intent on her task, she didn’t notice that I’d also gone pale. “What bothers me,” she said, snipping away, “is that people are talking. Oh, I haven’t heard anything firsthand, but I know this town. As long as the sheriff hasn’t fingered anybody, suspicion is bound to fall on the salon—Becca and Laurie and even me. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t have to, all the rumor mongers need is—”

  The phone interrupted Stella. With a sigh, she hurried to the front counter. Her practiced cheerful greeting died on her lips after the first two words.

  “She’s not here, and even if she were, I wouldn’t let you talk to her. If you call again, I’m putting a trap on this line.” Stella slammed the receiver down. Halfway back to her station, she stopped. “I’m going to do it anyway. I’m sick of that creep bothering Becca and the rest of us.” Wheeling around, Stella returned to the phone. “Who should I call, Emma? The phone-company business office?”

  “Dial the toll-free number, then ask for security,” I responded. “Bear in mind that if they do it, you have to agree to prosecute.”

  Stella removed her hand from the receiver. “Really? I’m not sure that’d be smart. This guy’s a real troublemaker.”

  I shrugged, feeling snippets of hair tickle my nose and cheeks. “Maybe they’ve changed the rules. But that’s what I found out ten years ago in Portland when Adam and I were getting a lot of crank calls. We decided it wasn’t worth it because we figured they were from some dippy thirteen-year-old girl whose parents were doing so much pot that they didn’t know if their kids were in the same state.” As I babbled on I noticed the lines deepen on Stella’s forehead. I remembered what Vida had told me about Becca’s ex-husband. “Who is it?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew.

  I was right. “His name’s Eric Forbes and he’s a walking time bomb. He damned near killed Becca once—in fact, he put her in the hospital, and that was when she finally left him.” Wearily, Stella returned to her post. “As soon as she got back to Alpine, he started sending letters, mostly having to do with legal stuff and property—not that they had any—but you know what I mean—who bought this dish, who paid for that table. Becca didn’t care if he got everything. She just wanted out. She wouldn’t write back. That’s when he started calling her here. She’s got an answering machine at home so she can screen her calls.”

  Vida’s outlandish theory suddenly made a little more sense. “Has this Eric ever been in Alpine?”

  “I don’t think so.” Stella flipped my hair this way and that, then began cutting again. “If he has, Becca doesn’t know about it. I’m sure she’d tell me if he showed up in town.”

  “What about her parents?” I inquired. “Have they heard from him?”

  Stella gave a rueful shake of her head. “Marlene Wolfe drinks. Oh, she’s sweet enough when she’s smashed, but completely wrapped up in herself and the bottle. Monty Wolfe sits around in his so-called workshop and reads dirty magazines. How do you think Becca got into trouble in the first place? Your thirteen-year-old in Portland isn’t the only one with parents who are permanently AWOL.”

  My mind veered in the opposite direction, to Laurie’s mother. Jane Marshall stood on guard over her daughter, the epitome of the protective parent. Had she always watched her child so closely? Or was Jane’s attitude newly acquired? I was about to pose that question when Laurie wandered into the salon.

  “Good morning, Laurie,” Stella said cheerfully. “You’ve got a full day. We had to squeeze in Nancy Dewey and Mrs. Runkel. Nancy’s going into Seattle with Doc for some bigwig medical dinner, and Mrs. R has a social engagement.” Stella winked at both Laurie and me in the mirror.

  “Mrs. Runkel has a date?” Laurie’s usually blank expression took on a hint
of life. “With a man?”

  Stella gazed at my reflection. “That’s what it sounds like. Am I wrong, Emma?”

  “No.” I was noncommittal.

  “Good for her,” Stella declared as she made a final pass at my bangs. “Vida spends too much time with other women. That’s bad. You lose perspective on life. If anything ever happens to Richie, I’ll be out square-dancing with every unattached man in Skykomish County. God wouldn’t have made two sexes if He hadn’t intended for them to mingle.” Wielding a hairbrush, Stella created a cascade of billowing chestnut waves that she sprayed into submission. “There! You won’t be able to manage that for yourself, so you’d better schedule a body perm in three weeks. Do it now, or I won’t see you again until May.”

  Sue Anne Daley entered the shop with a baby in a carrier. I knew her in-laws from church, so I smiled and waved before going back to change. Alone in front of the mirror, I turned my head this way and that. The new cut was reasonably attractive, but Stella was right: I had no talent for hairstyling beyond washing it and drying it with a towel. Stella’s handiwork would be lost in twenty-four hours.

  Back at the counter, Laurie was welcoming Molly Freeman, the high-school principal’s wife. Becca arrived at the same time that the mailman came in. The salon was suddenly a-bustle. I waited to pay my bill and make the next appointment.

  Becca whisked Molly away, leaving me with Laurie and the mailman. The post office was half a block from the Clemans Building, so the businesses at the west end of Front Street always received their mail before we did. Laurie handed the carrier what looked like three outgoing bills, gave him a vague smile, and then turned to me.

  “That’s thirty dollars, Ms. Lord. Do you need any hair products today? We have a special this week on frosted nail polish.” Laurie’s voice was mechanical; her head bobbed like a wobbly doll.

  “I’m okay,” I replied, opening my checkbook. “But I need another appointment. Three weeks from now, for a cut and a perm.” Now I, too, was reciting like a robot, parroting Stella’s instructions.

  The request seemed to flummox Laurie. I couldn’t blame her, since I never scheduled an appointment in advance, and was notorious for coming in at least two weeks late. Laurie dropped the mail, which she had been in the process of moving under the counter.

  “Three weeks?” she said, all but disappearing as she crouched to collect the scattered envelopes. “That would be early March—”

  Laurie screamed. I jumped, then leaned over the counter to see what had happened. She was kneeling, her stylish wheat-colored hair hiding her face. From the rear of the salon, Stella came at a run.

  “Good God! What is it now?” she gasped.

  But Laurie had regained her composure as quickly as she had lost it. “Nothing,” she said sharply, brushing the side bangs from her forehead and regarding Stella with eyes that were startlingly hard. “I thought I saw a spider. One of those big ones, about the size of a compact.”

  Stella looked both annoyed and puzzled. “It’s too cold for spiders,” she said in a vague voice. Then, with an unsteady hand on Laurie’s shoulder, she spoke more softly: “Don’t do that again, Laurie. I can’t stand any more shocks, and neither can our clients.” Stella’s buxom figure sashayed back to Sue Anne Daley, who wore an understandably terrified expression while the baby in the carrier started to cry. “We’re still suffering from nerves.” Stella laughed in a forced manner. “You know, Sue Anne, I’ve been flunking that you could use some auburn highlights.…”

  Laurie was again standing up, flushing under her carefully applied cosmetics. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lord. Spiders scare me, even the harmless ones.” She lowered her gaze, which had somehow struck me as unusually cunning. “How about Thursday, March ninth, at three?”

  Having added a six-dollar tip for Stella, I slid the check across the counter. “Make it the eighth, same time. Wednesdays are better for me to leave early.”

  Laurie consulted the appointment book again. “Three-thirty?”

  That was fine. I thanked Laurie, called out a farewell to Stella and Sue Anne, then left the salon. My hair looked better, but I felt worse.

  I decided to visit Alpine Medical Supply. Will Stuart couldn’t improve my state of mind, but maybe he’d be able to answer some questions.

  Janet Driggers accosted me before I’d gone six feet. She was on her way to work at Sky Travel, and her usually raucous spirits were not in evidence.

  “You know, Emma,” she began in a serious voice I hardly recognized, “murder is bad enough. But when the victim is from out of town, and Al doesn’t get the burial business, we can’t help but be pissed off. I did a slow burn yesterday when I read the story in The Advocate.”

  Janet sounded as if she had fallen in step with Ed Bronsky. It didn’t seem likely. The two almost always chose opposite sides of any issue at Chamber of Commerce meetings.

  “Kay Whitman’s place of residence is my fault?” I tried to inject humor into the remark.

  But Janet remained unamused. “Winter’s usually our best season—for funerals, that is. The old farts can’t take the cold. But this year there’s been a downturn in dying. It’s all these Scandinavians—they live to about a hundred, and they’ve got ice water in their veins anyway. No wonder I have to work part-time at the travel agency. Otherwise we’d be broke about now.”

  While Janet’s green eyes conveyed candor as well as annoyance, I didn’t quite believe her. Al Driggers had a monopoly on the undertaking business in Skykomish County. I figured that Janet worked because she enjoyed it, especially the occasional perks that allowed the Driggerses to take trips at a discount.

  The thought reminded me of Milo’s comment about Janet and the ski bum. “Say,” I said brightly, “I hear you missed seeing anything Monday because you were stuck with some stranded skier. Was he worth the sacrifice?” For once, I lowered myself to Janet’s level and leered.

  Janet rolled her eyes. “Lordy, no! He was homely as a pig’s butt. In fact, he looked like a pig, with little squinty eyes and a nose that could have passed for a snout. I wouldn’t have spent a nickel on après-screw togs for that guy. But he had money. So many ski bums do. He was the type who lands somewhere, discovers the snow isn’t quite what he expected, and wants to move on. They’re looking for the perfect powder, like a druggie searching for the ultimate fix. They’re incredibly spoiled and fixated. Screw ’em, I say. But not literally in his case.”

  “Do you remember his name?” I inquired, hoping to sound casual.

  Janet’s pretty face turned shrewd. She was hard to dupe, and I was inept at subterfuge. “Not offhand, but Milo already asked me. It was something like MacKay or MacKey or MacQuaid. His so-called address was in Utah.” She glanced beyond my shoulder. “Here comes Carrie Starr. She’s off to Europe next week. I wish I were married to a dentist like she is. There’s more money in teeth than there is in death. Not everybody takes their choppers with them. Bob Starr buys back the gold fillings.”

  Swiftly changing gears, Janet greeted Dr. Starr’s wife with a chipper smile. I continued on my way to Alpine Medical Supply, wondering if Milo had checked out the alleged ski bum. He probably had; I’d mention Mac Whoever to Vida.

  Will Stuart was over six feet tall, though his shoulders were slightly stooped under his professional light blue cotton jacket. He gazed at me from behind rimless bifocals and smiled benignly.

  “Ms. Lord,” he said in his soft, soothing voice, “I haven’t seen you in here since you returned those crutches a couple of years ago after you sprained your ankle. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t know if you can,” I said with a girlish laugh. “I’m helping Vida investigate the murder story.”

  Will Stuart chuckled, another soothing sound. “I can’t imagine Vida needing help when it comes to investigating.” He grew serious, resting one arm on an arch-support display. “That was a terrible thing. What’s this world coming to?”

  Will didn’t expect an answer. “I’m sure that the sh
eriff or his deputies have talked to you,” I said.

  “My, yes.” Will nodded his balding head. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. I didn’t hear or see anything unusual. No strangers, no one sneaking about. Everything was very ordinary.”

  “Except,” I noted, “you waited on the murder victim’s sister-in-law.”

  An elderly man entered the store, giving Will a faint nod. He began to browse along the middle aisle. I got the impression from the proprietor’s lack of salesmanship that the man’s visit wasn’t unusual. Maybe he perused therapeutic items the way women search through clothing racks. The old man disappeared into the far aisle next to the opposite wall.

  “Honoria Whitman is a lovely person,” Will said, lowering his voice. “She always comes here for her special needs. I believe Sheriff Dodge recommended me.”

  “Her wheelchair had a problem,” I remarked, my eyes roaming to various artificial limbs hanging from the near wall.

  Will sighed. “Those electric wheelchairs have to be sent out of state for servicing. They’re wonderful, but with more features, there are more things that can go wrong. A wheelchair is like any other appliance, you see.”

  I did, sort of. “You met Honoria’s brother, Trevor.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Will answered gravely. “He seemed like a very pleasant fellow. I feel extremely sorry for him. And for Ms. Whitman and the mother.” Will gave the elderly man a slight smile as he rounded the end of the aisle and began to study bedpans.

  “Neither of them seemed upset while they were in the store, I gather.” Taking Will’s hesitation for lack of comprehension, I clarified the comment: “Honoria and her brother, that is.”

  Will nodded. Apparently, he was deliberate by nature. “Well—Ms. Whitman wasn’t happy about her wheelchair, especially when she found out it would take three to four weeks to get it back. I’m sure that’s why she was so … touchy.”

  I frowned at the word. “ ‘Touchy’? As in, out of sorts?”

  Again, Will didn’t reply at once. “Annoyed would be more accurate, or perhaps impatient. We had to fill out a rather tedious service order, and I was a bit slow reading through it. I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to collect my new glasses from next door.” He removed what I assumed were the new spectacles and admired them at arm’s length. “They’re quite an improvement. I’ve never had bifocals before.”