The Alpine Uproar Part 16

"We've got a bit of a mystery," Doe Jamison said.

"What is it?"

"Yesterday some college kids were horsing around where Burl Creek joins the Sky," Doe explained. "Guess what they found?"

I had no idea. "What?"

"A pool cue caught up in the underbrush. Dodge is on his way."

TWELVE.

AFTER Sh.e.l.lING OUT FIFTY-SIX BUCKS FOR THE NEWEST Erlandson, I drove to the sheriff's office. Doe was behind the counter, talking to Dwight Gould. The two deputies were looking at a plastic-encased pool cue propped up against Lori Cobb's desk. "We bagged and tagged it," Doe informed me. "Dodge should be here any minute."

"It looks like a pool cue to me," I said. "But is it from the ICT?"

Dwight looked sour, a not-uncommon expression for the longtime deputy. "Maybe."

"Spike Canby's going to take a look," Doe said. "He's not sure that any of his cues are missing." She made a face, indicating her disgust.

"When did the college students bring the cue in?" I asked.

Doe glanced at Dwight. "It was just before you stopped by to take your break. A half-hour ago?"

"Not that long," Dwight retorted. "I should be back out on patrol. Let me see if Dodge is here yet." He picked up his regulation hat and went out the door.

"Dwight's an a.s.shole sometimes," Doe said, and immediately apologized. "Sorry. I don't usually bad-mouth my co-workers."

I glanced again at the pool cue. "The kids found it yesterday but waited until now to bring it in?"

"They're kids," Doe said. "Eighteen, nineteen. There were four of them, two girls, two boys, and at least one of them knows how to read. They remembered something about a pool cue from the Advocate story."

"Gosh," I said in mock surprise, "I didn't think anybody under thirty read the newspaper anymore."

Milo loped through the door with Dwight bringing up the rear. "Don't ask," the sheriff said. "I'm never going back to Goblin Creek. I didn't even get a b.u.mp and I lost two leaders." He barged past me and went through the counter's swing door. "Let's see the d.a.m.ned thing."

"It's definitely a pool cue," Doe said dryly.

"Right." Milo studied the object for almost a full minute. "It looks beat up enough to belong to Canby. But then it would, if it had been traveling downstream in the river." He moved a few steps to look at a detailed county map on the wall. "It's what-a mile and a half from the ICT?" He paused, frowning. "No, closer to two."

Dwight gestured at the cue. "No prints, I'll bet. Probably no forensics hocus-pocus to help us out."

The sheriff glared at his deputy. "For chrissakes, we've got the guy locked up and a signed confession. Clive Berentsen, in the tavern, with the pool cue. You want to bring in Colonel Mustard?"

Dwight, who was actually a year older than his boss, wasn't backing down. "You haven't got the weapon. Didn't the ME in SnoCo say the pool cues he checked out weren't used to kill De Muth?"

Milo scowled at Dwight, creating an awkward moment-at least for me. Doe seemed unmoved. She was probably used to the men's bickering.

"Okay, smart-a.s.s," the sheriff finally said, "let's ask Berentsen if he recognizes this thing."

"You can ask Fred, too," I said.

Milo stared at me as if he hadn't noticed my presence earlier. "What are you doing here? Did somebody steal that Dungeness crab?"

I held up the elegantly wrapped baby gift. "Yes, but I got it back and I'm giving it to you."

"Bulls.h.i.t. Come on, Dwight, let's talk to Clive."

"And Fred," I called after the two men as they disappeared down the corridor to the cell area.

"Talk about crabs," Doe muttered.

"Do Milo and Dwight bicker a lot?" I asked.

Doe sighed. "No, not really. But Dwight's been in a bad mood lately. So has the sheriff." She made a sharp gesture. "There I go again, bad-mouthing my colleagues. Please tell me to shut up."

"Forget it," I said, moving to the end of the counter. "I've got my own staff problems these days. Not," I added quickly, "that it can't happen anywhere. If one person gets in a bad mood, it rubs off on others." I took a few steps toward the hallway. "I haven't heard anything out of Clive or Fred since I got here. Did Clive pa.s.s out from listening to Fred's sad stories?"

Doe shook her head. "Fred's in the men's restroom, installing new faucets. The old ones wore out. He's really handy."

"You should put him on the payroll," I said.

"We can't afford ..." Doe put a hand to the earpiece she'd been wearing. "Got it," she said, scribbling some notes before hurrying to the far end of the counter. "Dwight!" she cried, "two-car collision at Grotto where the campground road joins Highway 2, no injuries, but traffic's backing up."

Dwight, who always moved slowly, ambled out from the hallway. "d.a.m.ned idiots. It'd serve 'em right if they ended up in the river." He was still muttering as he made his exit.

The sheriff emerged, headed behind the counter, and propped up the plastic-encased cue against the wall. "Clive hasn't a clue. Too wasted that night. Fred says they all look alike to him, and he never plays pool anyway. Where the h.e.l.l is Canby?" He scowled at Doe. "You said he'd be here by three. It's almost three-fifteen."

"He was busy," Doe replied. "He's also shorthanded. Norene's sick, so Julie has to cook and wait tables."

Milo reached into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt and took out a pack of cigarettes. "You're still here," he said, glancing in my direction.

"I'd like to meet Clive."

He lighted a cigarette before responding. "Why?"

I shrugged. "I should know what the guy looks like."

"Go ahead," Milo said, waving a hand in the direction of the cells.

I started for the hallway. "Why don't you get a real visitors' room?"

The sheriff tapped ash onto the bare floor. "You know I don't usually keep perps in here for more than a few days. Berentsen's lawyer is supposed to post bail for him Monday."

I stopped in my tracks. "She is? How much?"

"Ask the judge." Milo turned around and went into his office.

I a.s.sumed Fred was still in the men's room. Only one of the four cells was occupied. The man sitting on his bed had his head down and looked as if he was about to fall asleep.

"Clive?" I said.

He gave a start. "Wh ...?" Shaking himself, he rubbed his head and got to his feet.

I introduced myself, shaking hands with Clive through the bars. He was around forty, average height and weight, thinning brown hair, and looking so pale that he might have been a lifer at the midway point of his prison stretch.

"I don't think we've met," I said, "but I'm sure I've seen you around town."

Clive nodded. "I recognize you. I like your editorials. Usually." He smiled slightly. "Sorry I can't offer anything to drink. Any news on the O'Toole kid?"

"Not since yesterday," I said. "This may sound odd for a journalist, but I'm almost afraid to ask."

Clive hung his head. "I should've made that run to Monroe. I could've driven the O'Tooles' truck."

"Yours is ..." I paused, trying to remember what someone had said about Clive's vehicle.

"It needs new brakes." Clive's face hardened. "It's still at De Muth's shop. Not that it matters now."

"Do you know Mike O'Toole?"

Clive nodded. "He's a good kid, basically. It's just that ... well, he's a kid. He wanted to be a mechanic."

"Cal Vickers at the Texaco station can't handle everything in town. Mickey Borg never works on cars and I'm told he even resents customers who don't want to pump their own gas. And the dealerships are always more expensive. We could use a good mechanic around here," I said without thinking.

Clive looked stricken. "Don't remind me."

I winced. "I didn't ... d.a.m.n, I put my foot in it."

Clive shrugged. "It's true, though. Al De Muth was tops, at least when it came to trucks."

"Look," I said, wanting to make amends, "I'm sure you didn't mean to ..." I stopped. When I was with The Oregonian in Portland, there had been several occasions when I'd interviewed people who had been responsible or blamed themselves for someone else's death. I hadn't known any of those guilt-ridden subjects, nor did I ever see them again. But Portland was a big city and Alpine was a small town. Even if I hadn't met Clive Berentsen, the situation felt personal. Maybe I'd grown softer or maybe I'd forgotten how to feel neutral. Whatever the reason, I had a need to comfort the dejected man on the other side of the bars.

To my surprise, Clive seemed to understand. "Hey-it happened. I'd had a few beers, I was drunk, Al was being an a.s.shole, he took a swing at me, and I swung my pool cue at him. It's that simple." His face crumpled. "Then he died."

A second or two, I thought, and one life ended as another was forever changed. I summoned up my nerve. "He swung first?"

Clive nodded. "He missed. I should've kept my mouth shut in the first place. I was out of line."

"What did you say to Al?"

Taking a deep breath, Clive rubbed at his temples. "Oh-it was about Holly Gross. After Jica went outside, I went up to the bar and sat down next to Al. I wanted to ask him when my truck would be fixed because I needed it Monday. Before he could answer, Holly tapped me on the shoulder and said if I needed company, she could give it to me. I told her to ... to go away. She did, but Al didn't like the way I talked to her and he acted all p.i.s.sed off. I don't know why, they aren't a couple, but then she offered to go with him. He told her some other time, maybe. I guess he didn't feel so good and he went over to the pool table."

Clive's pale blue eyes wandered around the confines of his cell. Realizing that he was getting to the hard part of his story, I merely nodded. "What happened next?"

"I still wanted to know about my truck," Clive went on. "I got off the bar stool to talk to Al. I guess he was still mad at me because he told me I could drive my truck over a cliff for all he cared. Then we got into it and that was ... that." He sank down on his bunk, holding his head.

"I suppose your attorney has talked to you about self-defense."

He nodded once. "What difference does it make?"

"To you-or to Al?"

"To either of us. Al's still dead and I killed him. End of story."

"I met Jica," I said. "She insists you'd never kill anyone, even in self-defense."

"Accidents happen." Clive looked up, his expression still disconsolate. "And Jica never bad-mouths other people."

"That may be, but she's convinced you're not a violent person. Jica must be very fond of you."

"I don't know why." Clive shook his head. "She's something, isn't she? Awesome lady."

A sound behind me caught my attention. I turned to see Fred Engelman rolling his sleeves down over his hairy arms. "Sorry, I've got to get in my cell."

I smiled at Fred. "The faucets work, I a.s.sume."

"Oh, sure." He shrugged. "It's not that hard a job. The water pressure isn't so good, though. Dodge should get that checked out. I'll remind him." He wagged a finger at Clive who was still sitting on his bunk, looking glum. "Say, buddy, that's no way to entertain a lady. I ought to know, having lost the best wife in the world because I drank too much. Turn your back on booze and turn your front to the folks."

Clive glanced in our direction. "Right, Fred." His tone was weary.

Fred gave a thumbs-up sign. "I mean it. You've got to stop beating on yourself and change your ways. Take it from one who knows." He nodded at both of us, ambled a few paces to the next cell, and closed the iron bars behind him.

"I should be going," I said rather vaguely. Fred might not mind spending the weekend in jail, but I was feeling claustrophobic.

Clive looked at me again. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Sure." I tried to smile. The usual cliches of parting company didn't fit, so I simply walked away.

When I got to the front, Doe was on the phone and Milo was talking to Spike Canby. "They all look alike to me," the tavern owner said, waving at the pool cue.

"You don't count the d.a.m.ned things?" the sheriff demanded.

"No. Why should I? They're not some fancy matched set. If one disappears, Julie picks up a replacement at a garage sale." Spike glanced at me but didn't say anything.

Milo set the cue against the wall. "This is going to Everett. You're done here." He turned his back on Spike.

"What the h.e.l.l difference does it make?" Spike shouted. "You got your man. That pool cue could've come from anywhere. It's not like we take inventory. You want me to count the b.a.l.l.s, too?"

"Count 'em if you got 'em," Milo muttered.

Spike opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He stomped away, pushing one of the swinging front doors so hard that it slammed against the inside wall. Doe put down the phone and turned to her boss. The usually stolid deputy looked stunned for a moment before she spoke. "Mike O'Toole died this afternoon at two-fifty-six."