The Alpine Recluse Part 25

Without so much as a backward glance for Spence and me, Milo led the way out of the reception area.

Spence looked as puzzled as I felt. "What did they do, beat up on Eriks?" he asked.

"Not likely," I said. "You know Milo and his merry men well enough to realize they don't strong-arm anybody. Maybe it's not Wayne. Cookie might have collapsed."

"Cookie?" Spence frowned. "Eriks's wife is here?"

I nodded. "She came with him. Maybe Wayne put up a fuss. Maybe he had some kind of accident." I gazed at the empty corridor that led to the interrogation and holding areas as well as the jail cells. "d.a.m.n. This is more frustrating than I expected. Stalling, yes. Doc Dewey showing up, no. It'd make more sense if Tiffany was here, but she's at home."

Briefly, Spence looked blank. "Oh." He fingered his beaklike nose. "That's right, she's pregnant." He was quiet for a moment. "Car chase? Wayne, eluding arrest and hitting one of his own PUD poles?"

"That would have been on the scanner."

"True." Spence studied the area around the reception desk. "Let's check the log. It's public property."

The log showed only three items for Sunday so far. The first had occurred at 2:17 A.M.; the second at 3:40 A.M. Both were traffic violations-one for speeding, the other for running an arterial stop sign on Alpine Way. The third and last entry, written in Dustin's perfect penmanship, was the arrest of Wayne Eriks on suspicion of homicide and arson.

"I wondered if they'd charged him with the fire," Spence said. "I can mention that in my next bulletin."

"But nothing logged about resisting arrest," I noted.

Dustin returned with a half-dozen cups of coffee in a cardboard container. "Anybody?" he inquired.

Spence declined, but I accepted, adding a packet of raw sugar to my cup. The deputy headed toward the interrogation room.

Spence watched Dustin disappear down the corridor. "How can we lure Mrs. Eriks out here?"

"Yell 'fire'?" I said facetiously.

Spence's expression was ironic. "You newspaper types really are callous."

Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. I stirred my coffee and sipped slowly. When Dustin returned, Spence leaned on the counter. "Is there any way we could talk to Cookie Eriks?" he asked the deputy.

Dustin considered the request. "I don't think that's appropriate, sir."

Dustin was probably right. But that didn't mean it was impossible to see Cookie. "Is Doe here?" I asked.

Dustin shook his head. "She had the night shift. Sheriff Dodge didn't think it'd be right to ask her to pull extra weekend duty."

"You mean," I said, looking as severe as I could manage, given my liking for Dustin, "that poor Cookie is all alone while her husband's being interrogated? Or is there another deputy with her?"

"Emma . . ." Spence began in a warning voice.

But I kept talking. "Cookie's not charged with anything. She's got a pregnant daughter at home, she already lost a son years ago, her husband's been accused of killing her son-in-law. If n.o.body else is available, I'm going to sit with her. We'll go into the women's restroom where it's private."

I heard Spence swear under his breath. I'd trumped him. Dustin uttered only the most feeble of protests as I circ.u.mvented him and headed down the corridor.

I found Cookie Eriks sitting in the small room reserved for inmates' visitors. She had her head down and appeared to be asleep, but jumped when I came through the door.

"Oh! Emma! What's happening?"

"I don't know as much as you do," I said, sitting down on the hard wooden chair next to her. "Can I get you something?"

Cookie shook her head. "Dustin Fong brought some coffee a few minutes ago, but I didn't want it."

I gazed around the stark room. Prisoners were seldom kept very long in the local jail. There were only a half-dozen cells, and the usual occupants were drunks or drug addicts who needed time to sober up. More serious criminals were shipped off to Everett or the correctional facility in Monroe. Thus, the visiting room was rarely used. Under close surveillance, visitors were allowed to talk face-to-face with the inmates. The room contained six chairs, a table, a magazine rack attached to the wall, and-just to make sure everybody knew where they were-a map of Skykomish County covered in heavy plastic wrap. There were no windows, only one-way gla.s.s on the outer corridor. The room smelled stale and felt oppressively stuffy. The women's room had to be an improvement.

I made the suggestion to go there, but Cookie rejected the idea. "I'm not budging until I find out what's going on with Wayne."

"I understand," I said, searching for tactful words. "So why do you think Dodge arrested him?"

Cookie twisted her fingers together. The plain gold wedding band looked dull under the fluorescent ceiling lights. "I'm not sure. Dodge showed up this morning. He'd been at the house yesterday, but . . . Wayne wasn't home." She paused, not looking me in the eye. "I tried to tell him-the sheriff-that Wayne was in the shower and that Tiffany was still asleep. Dodge insisted on coming in. Well, he is a neighbor, and I didn't know what to do. Anyway, before I could let Wayne know the sheriff was in the house, he-Wayne-oh, dear, I'm so rattled!" She stopped and shoved a lank strand of hair off her forehead. "Wayne came upstairs from the bathroom in his underwear. That's when Dodge saw the burns on his-Wayne's-arms."

"Burns?" I suddenly recalled that every time I'd seen Wayne in the past week he'd been wearing a long-sleeved shirt despite the hot weather. "How did he get burned?"

"On the job." Cookie's jaw jutted, though she still avoided my gaze. "Live wires. It happens sometimes."

My brain did some mental gymnastics. Cookie could be telling the truth-or merely relaying the version Wayne had given her. But if her husband had gotten those burns when he started the fire to cover the murder, he might not have wanted to seek medical help. Perhaps the blisters had festered. That would explain Doc Dewey's presence at the sheriff's office. Milo was duty-bound to make sure that any suspect requiring medical treatment got it at county expense.

"I a.s.sume," I said casually, "that Wayne had reported his on-the-job accident to the PUD."

Cookie sighed. "He gets banged up every now and then. His work's dangerous. He started out as a logger, you know. I thought he'd be much safer when he started with the PUD. But things happen. And Wayne is too macho to tell the bosses about every little sc.r.a.pe or bruise. He doesn't want anybody to think he's a whiner."

"Well," I said, not entirely convinced, "I certainly can't imagine why Wayne would want to harm Tim. I understand they had dinner together about a week ago."

"They did." Cookie darted a glance at me, but didn't elaborate.

"So they must have gotten along," I remarked. "There doesn't seem to be any motive. It doesn't make sense."

As I'd hoped, the provocative comment evoked a reaction. "What evidence? Dodge didn't search our house. He just called Bill Blatt and told him to come on over. The next thing I knew, Wayne was being hauled off to jail. I followed them in my car." She began to twist her fingers again. "I don't know what to do. Thank goodness Mrs. Runkel happened to come by. I hated leaving Tiffany alone." Finally, she met my gaze head-on. "Should I call a lawyer?"

"I honestly don't know, Cookie," I admitted. "Sometimes that isn't a good idea. I mean, if Wayne can get this cleared up with the sheriff, he may not need one. Milo's fair."

"He's wrong," Cookie declared. "Why are men so aggravating?"

The rhetorical question didn't quite seem to jibe. "You mean the sheriff or men in general?"

"I don't know what I mean." Cookie's jaw jutted again. "I just want to get Wayne out of here and go home."

The door opened and Bill Blatt appeared. For the first time, I noticed that his boyish face had begun to age. Or maybe the strain of the weeklong investigation had gotten to him.

He nodded at me before speaking to Cookie. "I'm afraid we're going to have to hold your husband overnight. We can't formally charge him on a Sunday because the courthouse is closed. I'm sorry. Can I do anything for you?"

"Can I see Wayne?"

Bill nodded. "Of course." He gave me an apologetic look. "You'll have to wait out front, Ms. Lord."

"Sure." I attempted to give Cookie a rea.s.suring smile, but she'd already turned away from me.

Spence was still at the reception desk, chatting with Dustin. Mr. Radio interrupted himself when he saw me.

"That was a dirty trick," he a.s.serted, though he didn't really seem angry.

"Girl talk," I replied. "I a.s.sume you and Dustin here have been doing the male bonding thing."

Dustin looked embarra.s.sed, but Spence shrugged. "Deputy Fong doesn't exactly run off at the mouth." He winked at the younger man. "We were discussing international politics."

That may have been true. "Have you done another bulletin?"

"Not yet." Spence stood up and stretched. He was definitely a cool customer in more ways than one. There were no sweat stains on his shirt, despite the fact that it felt very warm in the sheriff's front office. "I thought I'd interview you, now that you've spent time with the suspect's wife."

"Don't you dare," I snapped.

"Chicken." Spence made a clucking sound.

"Okay. Why not?"

He flashed me his big smile. "You're a good sport." Spence turned on the mike while I moved closer. "Rey? What's airing?" He waited a moment. "Okay, as soon as the Pentecostal reverend winds down, break in. I'll stay on until you give me a countdown."

Spence's dark eyes danced as he waited. "You can pour it on, Emma," he said in a low voice. "Real sob-sister stuff. This is your chance to shine."

I smiled.

Spence cupped his ear. "Got it," he said to Rey, and gave me a thumbs-up sign. "This is Spencer Fleetwood," he began after a few beats. Briefly, he continued with his standard self-aggrandizing introduction. "I'm here live and direct with Emma Lord, editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate. Emma has just had a heart-to-heart talk with Cookie Eriks, wife of Wayne Eriks, who, as we announced earlier, has been arrested in the homicide and arson case involving the death of Tim Rafferty. Emma," he continued, making sure I was close to the mike, "what was Cookie's reaction to this latest turn of tragic events?"

"Thank you, Spence," I said. "Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to disclose what Cookie Eriks told me in our remarkable conversation. You can read all the details in the next edition of the Advocate. We'll have the entire story, along with comments from Sheriff Milo Dodge and other revealing aspects of this unfortunate crime."

I smiled even more broadly at Spence and backed away from the mike.

That was one of the rare instances when I'd seen Spence look flabbergasted. There was dead air for at least four seconds before he spoke to his audience again. "I appreciate your discretion, Emma. I understand that you-as is true with all of us in the media-must protect our sources. Stay tuned for more breaking news on KSKY-the only place you can get on-the-spot coverage in Skykomish County." Angrily, he switched off the microphone. "That was a really low blow."

I shrugged. "You didn't actually expect me to tell all, did you?"

Before Spence could respond, Evan Singer came out from the hallway on the other side of the reception area. "Is Dwight Gould the only deputy on patrol right now?" he asked Dustin.

Dustin nodded. "Bill's supposed to be out there, but he had to help out Dodge with the arrest. Why?"

"Because," Evan replied, "I just got a call from the nursing home. The old Rafferty lady has wandered off again. It may take more than one deputy to find her."

EIGHTEEN.

MY IMMEDIATE THOUGHTS went to Beth Rafferty. The last thing she needed was to have her mother roaming around Alpine in ninety-degree heat. There should be limits to what one person had to endure in the course of a week.

"What about Roger Hibbert's volunteer searchers?" Spence said to Dustin. "As far as I know, they haven't done much since that first foray."

"You're right," I put in. "Vida has been very quiet about Roger and his band of blunderers."

"I'll check with Dodge," Dustin said. He asked Evan if Jack had been contacted.

"Right away," Evan replied, his lanky frame restless as always. He'd been in Alpine for over ten years, and was not only a serious student of film, but an artist. He was also a bit of an eccentric and rarely showed off his drawings, which were usually rather morbid. Instead, he restricted his commercial efforts to more conventional art for local merchants. The rest of the time he ran the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre and filled in taking 911 calls. He was a loner whose nervous energy seemed to be expended in various pursuits. It suddenly dawned on me that I should have talked to Evan earlier.

"How long are you on duty today?" I asked him.

"Until six," he replied with a curious expression.

"Can we meet for coffee after you get off?"

He ruffled his unruly reddish hair. "How come?"

"I have some art questions for you."

"Sure. Fine. Starbucks okay?"

I said it was. Evan returned to his inner sanctum.

"I wonder," I said, "if Beth's been told about her mother."

"The nursing home would've called her," Dustin said. "They always notify family when one of the residents disappears. That is, if they have family or anyone who cares." There was a sad note in his voice.

I was torn. I wanted to wait for Milo, but I felt I should try to get in touch with Beth. If not yet friends, we'd formed a bond in the past week. I realized, however, that even after the sheriff had put Wayne Eriks in a cell, there'd be no further news. Spence could fill up the airways with words such as alleged, possible, awaiting developments, and promises of bulletins to come, but he'd have nothing hard-core-and neither would I. As for Cookie, she'd go home-where Vida waited like a duck hunter in a blind. That situation was covered.

I made my brief farewells and went out to the Honda, where I immediately called Beth on my cell.

She didn't answer. Maybe she was still at the hospital. I called the emergency room, but was informed that she'd been released. Perhaps she'd been summoned to the nursing home. I decided it was worth a try, and pulled out onto Front Street.

Margaret Peterson was behind the front desk. She recognized me at once and frowned. "Are you looking for Beth?" she asked.

"Is she here?"

Margaret nodded. "She's talking to some of the other residents, trying to figure out where Mrs. Rafferty may have gone. This isn't the first time, you know."

"Delia seems so feeble," I remarked. "How could she get far?"

"Where there's a will, there's a way." Margaret sighed. "You'd be amazed at how some of our residents find the strength to do what's impossible. Two weeks ago Dorothy Phipps moved a bookcase from one side of the room to the other. She's been in a wheelchair for five years, but she suddenly got the notion that the bookcase shouldn't be by the TV. It must have weighed fifty pounds, but she did it-and then she couldn't get out of the wheelchair to use the toilet."

"Malingering?"

"No." Margaret gave me a doleful look. "Oh, for some, maybe. But so many people who end up in the nursing facility-not the retirement residence," she added hastily as two well-dressed couples in their seventies came through the lobby and headed for the elevator. I guessed that they'd been to church and out for brunch. Margaret greeted them before she spoke to me again. "People like that. They keep active, they're in fairly good health, they have outside interests, but they don't want to be bothered keeping up a house. It's the other type that simply give up. Their families have given up on them, too. I've seen some sad cases of neglect and indifference."

"But not with Delia Rafferty," I said. "She has Alzheimer's. She can't live alone."