by Mary Daheim
Briefly, I thought of my own situation. Adam and I had been on our own for over twenty years. Would I have killed for him? Maybe. Would he have killed for me? I was doubtful.
I was also tired. There was nothing more that Vida and I could do as far as The Advocate was concerned. Milo's questioning of Henry would be a week old by the time we published our next edition. Heaven only knew what might transpire in the murder investigation before deadline rolled around again.
The urgency of the case was beginning to bear down on me. As I prepared for bed, the first doubts about my proposed trip began to rise. I'd be gone only a little over forty-eight hours; surely Vida could cover any new developments.
But that wasn't Vida's job. She was my House * Home editor. This was a front page story, complete with screaming headlines. If I delegated my authority, it should be to Carla. The bald fact was that I didn't trust her to handle such tricky coverage. Carla had been right in accusing me of a lack of confidence.
But I couldn't back out on Tom now. It was possible, even probable, that he was looking forward to our weekend together with as much anticipation as I was. IfI asked Carla and Vida to keep on top of the story, difficulties might be avoided. Carla could save face, and Vida would relish being in on the chase.
Or so my foggy reasoning went. I couldn't cram anything more into my brain. When I fell asleep, I dreamed first of bridge club, meeting at the Top of the Mart in San Francisco. The Dithers sisters arrived on horseback, and Dixie Ridley came in a suit of armor. Janet Driggers was in rare form, tossing back shots of tequila and making lewd remarks about the TransAmerica Pyramid as a phallic symbol. Francine Wells kept changing from one designer outfit into another, and Edna Mae Dalrymple changed from Vivian Phipps to Charlene Vickers to Vida Runkel. I stayed the same, oddly passive, with my eye on the door. I was waiting for Tom. Janet kept pointing to the Transamerica Pyramid. I kept waiting for Tom.
Even in my dreams nothing ever changed.
In the morning, I went directly to the sheriff's office. Henry Bardeen had been sent home before midnight
“I felt like a creep,” Milo confessed, pressing his puny coffee on me. “I know I'm an evidence man, I have to be. But fingerprints or not, I can't see Henry shooting Stan Levine. And except for admitting that Chee-tos are his secret vice, he doesn't act like a guilty suspect.”
“What about the footprints?” I asked, trying not to blanch as I sipped from a mug bearing the Toronto Blue Jay logo. The team symbol gave me a little jolt, but I didn't know why. I certainly wasn't getting a jolt from Milo's weak brew. Maybe I was worried about the impending baseball strike.
The sheriff was studying some paperwork on his desk. “That's really strange,” he said. “It's anotherreason why I wonder about Henry. Have you ever seen him wear tennis shoes?”
I couldn't recall, but usually when I ran into the lodge manager, he was wearing a suit, a shirt, and a tie. I supposed he always wore dress shoes with them. “Henry's fairly formal, by Alpine standards,” I said.
“That he is,” Milo agreed. “Which is why these footprints are so damned odd. Not one of them is from a tennis shoe or a hiking boot or any kind of outdoor wear. That might point to Henry. But most of the impressions are irregular. It's as if somebody with a bad limp had left them. That's the only way I can explain it. And yet they're not from the same pairs—at least four different kinds of shoes left prints at the springs.”
I practically jumped out of my seat. “Milo—I've got a brainstorm!”
Milo leaned back in his own chair, regarding me with mild interest. “Yeah? What is it? A well-dressed centipede?”
“Don't be a wiseass.” I composed myself and became brisk. “You haven't found any kids yet who might have trashed the murder site, correct?” I saw him nod, if reluctantly. “Maybe it wasn't kids after all. Vida and I were tossing this idea around yesterday.” I ignored his open skepticism; I knew how little faith Milo put in what he considered female deductions. “Whoever went up to the site Monday night—maybe the murderer— was destroying evidence. Don't ask me what, I've no idea. But he—or she—took along some garbage and— now don't you dare laugh at me—extra shoes, to make it look like several people. This person knew that you, and everybody else, would conclude it was kids, raising hell at the end of the school year. Don't you see why this explains so much of what otherwise doesn't make sense?”
Milo put his head in both hands. “Jesus. Where do we keep the butterfly net?”
“Milo!” I was used to the sheriff's skepticism; I didn't expect anything better. I wished I'd brought Vida along for backup. “This isn't as goofy as it sounds. Have you heard about Boots?”
Milo deigned to favor me with a scowl. “Whose boots?”
“Boots the shoeshine kid at the ski lodge. Tony Patricelli. Did you read 'Scene' yesterday?”
“Hell, no. I haven't had time to look at The Advocate. I've been too busy working my butt off trying to solve a homicide case.” Tardily, Milo tried to cover up the sports section of The Seattle Post-Intelligencer that lay open on his desk.
I explained about the item and its inaccuracy. “The guests' shoes were returned dirtier than when they were left out in the corridor,” I said. “That's how Vivian Phipps put it, and she got the word straight from Chaz, who works at the lodge.” Even in my own ears the tale sounded like a typical Alpine rumor.
But Milo was now looking thoughtful. “That plastic thing—it could have been a handle from a laundry bag. You know—the kind they use in hotels for their customers. Honoria and I got one of those when we stayed at—” Milo broke off, his face changing color. The sheriff and I shared a reserve about discussing our love lives.
“You're right,” I said swiftly, wanting to save him embarrassment. “Whoever did this may have loaded garbage from the lodge and put it in the laundry bag. The beer cans, the wrappers, the condom boxes. Which explains why there were no condoms. It also tells us why the beers were better brands than what your average teenager guzzles.”
For a long moment Milo said nothing. I kept quiet,waiting for him to sort through the revelations. Vida had promised that the sheriff eventually would come to the same conclusion as we had. I'd just given him a huge nudge.
“It'd also explain Henry's fingerprints.” Milo was looking both relieved and puzzled. “Damn. Now do we conclude that whoever did this was staying or working at the lodge?”
“Not necessarily. Everybody in town knows the lodge's routine. But it might explain why Blake Fannucci thought he heard a prowler. It might also explain the raccoons.”
“What raccoons?' Milo was regarding me quizzically.
“Henry mentioned them,” I said, trying to remember the details of our phone conversation. “He thought a raccoon had tried to get into the lodge. It wouldn't be the first time—you know how they'll chew their way into houses. But he also said something about the garbage. I assumed he was speaking in general terms. But maybe he wasn't. It might have been a human, gathering red herrings and putting them in a laundry bag.”
Again Milo mulled. “Henry sure didn't put any of this together. I'll have to show him that piece of plastic handle. He ought to recognize it as one of theirs.” Milo rubbed his face with both hands. “God, I feel like a prize jackass! It's a wonder Henry doesn't sue us!”
“You mean you agree?” I spoke too brightly, which obviously irked the sheriff.
“It's a viable theory,” he said in a noncommittal tone. “But there are still a lot of unanswered questions. Why would anybody break into the lodge? They don't lock the main entrance at night. They've never had to. Maybe Fannucci did hear a raccoon. Or else the guy was so nervous he imagined the noise. Now we've got to find out who came to the lodge on Monday with an unauthorized garbage collection in mind. Not to mentionthose shoes—I wonder if any of the guests who complained are still around.” Suddenly, Milo burst into action. “Go away, Emma. I've got work to do.”
“Hold it—what about Skye Piersall? How did your visit to Startup
go?”
Milo waved a big hand in dismissal. “A washout. Skye's car broke down on her way back from the summit. She was checking the Stevens Pass ski area, to make sure there hadn't been any recent violations of their agreement with CATE. If she had anything going with Stan Levine, she's not admitting it. So long, Emma.” The sheriff was beginning to sound impatient.
I left, with mixed emotions. If we were right about the vandalism at the hot springs, the investigation was now headed in the proper direction. As Milo had pointed out, there were still a lot of puzzle pieces that didn't fit. But some of them were factual, and the sheriff's department would follow through. What didn't sit right was Milo's cavalier attitude toward Skye's alibi and her apparent denial of a romantic link with Stan Levine. Skye was Honoria's friend. I suspected that Milo had treated his lady love's house guest with kid gloves.
I had no such compunction. As soon as I reached the office, I dialed Honoria's number. She sounded vaguely bemused when I asked to talk to Skye.
I'm not really a morning person, and have been known to forsake tact before nine A.M. “IS it true that you and Stan Levine were lovers?”
To my dismay, Skye laughed in her rather pleasant manner. “What a question! Are you running a tabloid, Ms. Lord? What if we were? Do you think I came all the way to Alpine to shoot him?”
“I'm trying to fill in the background of the people involved in this investigation,” I said in what was definitely not my most charming voice. “We don't publisheverything we learn, you know. I'm trying to make connections.”
This time the laughter had an edge. “Don't make them with me. I'm just a hard-working environmentalist. If you want to know about Stan's love life, ask Blake. He knows everything, especially when it comes to people. Ask him about breaking up. Don't just ask about Stan and me. Ask Blake about Stan and Blake.”
“Blake's gone,” I said tersely.
“And so am I, as of this afternoon. I've imposed on Honoria too long. Goodbye, Ms. Lord. It's been … terrible.” There was a catch in Skye's voice as she hung up on me.
My mood wasn't improving. What was Skye implying? Or was she merely trying to divert me from her possible romance with Stan? Feeling confused, I ran my fingers through my shaggy hair. I needed real coffee, which Ginny was brewing in the office pot. She smiled shyly when I entered the newsroom.
“What did you think of the new personals?” she asked.
I'd only skimmed them to make sure they contained no prurient material. “We should double the space for next month,” I said. “They seem popular.”
Ginny stepped back as the coffee began to drip into the carafe. “Carla says she's going to answer three of them,”
“Carla?” I was aghast. “What about Dr. Flake? They've been going together off and on for the past year.”
Ginny gave me a pitying look. “Emma, you don't keep up. Carla and Peyts split three weeks ago.”
The last time the pair had called it quits, my reporter had threatened several forms of suicide. She hadn't been serious, but her doldrums had sunk the office into deep gloom.
“Then how come she isn't rending her garments and howling at the moon?” I inquired, readying my mug for the first full measure of coffee.
Over her shoulder, Ginny glanced at the door. Presumably, she was afraid Carla would burst in and overhear us. “It's a very tricky situation,” Ginny confided, keeping her voice down. “Peyts is dating Carta's roommate, Marilynn Lewis.”
“Wow!” I didn't know whether to be glad or sad. Marilynn was also Peyton Flake's nurse. She was a couple of years older than Carla, extremely bright, and very beautiful. I had always wondered why Dr. Flake seemed immune to her charms. I'd chalked it up to professionalism. The fact that Marilynn was African-American wouldn't deter the liberal-minded doctor, not even in Alpine. Peyton Flake didn't just march to a different drummer—his whole outlook on life was atonal.
“Carla really likes Marilynn,” Ginny continued. “She says it's easier to find a new boyfriend than a good roommate. Besides, I think Carla and Peyts had too many conflicts. Their personalities never really meshed.”
That was certainly true. Indeed, I had always marveled at Carta's attraction for Dr. Flake. She was pretty and fun, but under his flamboyant exterior, Peyton Flake was a serious man. Marilynn Lewis, who had traveled some very rough pieces of road, possessed much more substance than Carla.
“I wish Peyts and Marilynn well,” I remarked as Vida came into the office. I assumed she already knew about the romance. Marje Blatt would have reported it to her aunt as soon as she sniffed love in the air at the Alpine Medical Clinic.
But as I drank my coffee and got my brain into high gear, murder was uppermost in my mind. I summonedVida into my cubbyhole and relayed the latest from Milo and Skye Piersall.
Vida didn't look pleased at any of my news. “Henry must be wild,” she remarked, taking off her navy straw cartwheel hat. “I suppose Milo can't think of any way to keep Skye in the area?”
“Probably not.” I resisted the urge to light a cigarette. “Skye's an enigma. I can't see her shooting Stan, yet her alibi for Monday morning doesn't hold up very well. On the other hand, Honoria would have known if Skye had disappeared for a lengthy period of time Monday night. It appears she didn't, or Milo would have said so.”
Vida held the big hat in front of her like a shield. “Why the ski lodge?”
“What?”
Vida twirled the hat on one finger. “Garbage is everywhere. Why would anyone bother going to collect it at the lodge?”
“It wasn't just the garbage,” I countered. “It was the shoes. Where else would you get enough shoes to make it look like a crowd of vandals?”
“Why do that at all? The shoes, I mean?” Vida lost control; the hat flew onto my desk. “Drat,” Vida murmured, retrieving her headgear. “It rained most mornings in the past week or so. If not in town, certainly at the level of the murder site. That's why Milo couldn't get any footprints Monday after Stan's body was found. It just happened that we had no rain on Tuesday, not even in the mountains.”
I still didn't understand Vida. She saw my puzzlement and exuded a small sigh of impatience. “Perhaps it's a minute point. But I'm wondering if the murderer isn't an outsider. He or she wouldn't know our weather patterns.”
“You're hoping it's not a local,” I said. “So am I. Butif you're right, the field becomes very narrow. Skye Piersall. The Melvilles—though Scott and Beverly have been here several months.”
“They haven't lived through our typical June,” Vida argued, keeping the hat under control in her lap. “You left out Blake Fannucci.”
I stared at Vida. “He was in Milo's office when Leonard Hollenberg called in the news. He couldn't have gotten from the hot springs to the sheriff's office in the time it took for Leonard to hear the shot, find the body, and report the murder.”
“Couldn't he?” Vida's expression was inscrutable. “Think about it, Emma. How long had Blake been in Milo's office? Where was he between the coffee shop at the ski lodge and showing up at the sheriff's?”
Of course I didn't know. I—and no doubt Milo—had taken Blake's presence in town for granted. But I still didn't see how Blake could have returned to Alpine ahead of Leonard Hollenberg.
“Blake is much younger than Leonard,” Vida said carefully. “He and Stan have been up to the hot springs several times. Blake may have discovered a faster route down the mountainside. He could have parked a borrowed car elsewhere, which is why Leonard didn't see any vehicle other than the Range Rover. He might even have gone with Stan and walked back into town. I think Milo ought to contact Blake in Los Angeles and see if he actually does have an alibi for all of Monday morn-mg.
Vida's idea had shaken me. It might do the same to Milo. Certainly it would raise his hackles. “Why don't you talk to him?” I suggested. “He's busy right now, but if he won't see you, there's always your nephew, Bill.”
Vida got to her feet. “Milo will see me. If he's in.” She
settled the cartwheel back on her head and trompedout of the office in her splayfooted manner. For some reason I thought of the Crusaders, marching to free Jerusalem from the Infidel.
The thought was blown away by Leo Walsh and Ed Bronsky, who entered, arguing. They looked more like Abbott and Costello. Ed tried to barge his way into my office first, but Leo neatly outstepped him.
“You tell him, babe,” Leo said, gesturing in annoyance at Ed. “The Advocate doesn't do opinion polls, right?”
Emma Lord's Advocate didn't. But I knew from browsing through the bound volumes under Marius Vandeventer's regime that my predecessor had occasionally resorted to presidential election polls. If memory served, the results were often the exact opposite of how the rest of the country had voted.
“What kind of poll?” I asked with some trepidation.
Ed plopped down in the chair Vida had vacated. “I want a mandate. Len Hollenberg is waffling.”
“On what?” My gaze darted from Ed to Leo and back again.
Ed shot Leo a dirty look. “On local involvement in the hot springs project. On me, namely. Will Alpiners go for the deal if I put my money—and my name—into the resort? I'm thinking Bronsky's Baths. How do you like them apples?” Ed wiggled his eyebrows at me.
I tried not to look appalled. The name suggested some sleazy Turkish steam room, tucked between a tavern and a pawnshop. “What's wrong with Windy Mountain?” I asked, avoiding a direct answer to Ed's question.
“It's not Windy Mountain,” Ed asserted. “It's Spark Plug, which doesn't sing. Bronsky's Baths does. Either that, or Cal-Wash.”
Leo flicked his lighter. “It sounds like Car Wash.”
“It does not!” Ed pounded his fist. “It combines thetwo states—California and Washington—like the Cal-Neva in Reno. Nobody ever makes fun of that, and it's just a casino.”
