The Alpine Uproar Part 22

He shook his head. "No real action. But I saw a deer." He puffed on his cigarette and exhaled. "I should've had a rifle instead of a rod."

I grimaced. "How can you do that? I couldn't."

The sheriff shrugged. "What's the difference between a fish and a deer? You'd eat both of them."

"Yes, but deer have such wonderful eyes. Fish are ... fishy-eyed."

"Cows have nice eyes," Milo pointed out.

"But I don't get up close to a cow very often." I stood up. "I have to go back to work. Let me know what Mickey says."

"Will do."

I hurried through the reception area. By the time I got outside, I was furious with myself-and with Milo. We were a pair of middle-aged gutless wonders. I started along Front Street, stalking as if I were hunting some kind of prey. A cow, maybe. I'd wrestle it to the ground. I'd turn it into ground round. I'd ...

I stopped at the intersection of Front and Fourth. The early fog had lifted. The morning air was fresh and crisp. A freight train whistled as it rumbled slowly through town. Instead of going back to the Advocate, I turned the corner and headed for Railroad Avenue. The BNSF Railway freight was long, maybe close to a hundred cars, and some of them were double-decker containers. I waited quietly, fascinated as always by the variety of old and new, multicolored, graffiti and tag art decor, contents that were concealed and open cars full of gravel, all heading east up through the eight-mile Cascade Tunnel. The sight was soothing, reminding me there was always a sense of mystery and discovery to what was around the bend or over the hill.

The last car pa.s.sed by. It wasn't a caboose or, as we sometimes called it, a crummy. Twenty-odd years ago, FREDs-flashing rear-end devices to detect hot boxes and other potential problems-had made the caboose obsolete. Somehow, freight trains didn't seem complete without their colorful punctuation marks at the end. Vida loved to tell about standing by the tracks when she was young. She'd wait with her chums for the caboose and shout, "Throw me a fusie!" Sometimes one of the train workers would comply, especially if it was close to the Fourth of July-or Independence Day, as Vida always called it.

I crossed the tracks and headed for Bert Anderson's auto repair and chop shop, figuring that as long as I was going to have to pay for the Honda's damage, I might as well get the project under way. I went by Alvin De Muth's truck stop and repair area, noting that someone had put a CLOSED sign on the front door. The used-car lot next door was quiet, with only a young couple strolling among the dozen or more vehicles. I walked faster, hoping that the activity would loosen up my back muscles. Beyond the Nissan dealership and the DMV office, I turned into Bert Anderson's shop, which was located in a refurbished building that had once been part of a shingle mill.

Bert's wife, Norene, was at the desk in the small front office. She looked up and smiled. "Hi, Ms. Lord. Sorry about your accident. Bert's over on the other side of the tracks in the wrecking yard. Should I let him know you're here? He can't see much from there since he put up that big fence."

"No," I said. "Just tell him I'll be paying for the repair. And the tire, of course. I'll put it on my Visa."

Norene made a note on a green pad. "Okey-dokey. I heard you had back troubles after the accident. How're you doing?"

"Much better," I said. "I walked here from the sheriff's office."

"Good for you." She smiled again and rubbed her upper arm. "Would you believe this bee sting still itches from over a week ago? I was lucky I could work at all after that happened. I took last Sat.u.r.day off to get my strength back."

"I heard you had a severe allergic reaction," I said. "Bees should go away by this time of year."

She nodded, her ma.s.s of auburn ringlets jiggling and bobbing from the top of her head to her sloping shoulders. "It wasn't as if I'd disturbed them. I went outside for a smoke. Somebody once told me cigarette smoke kept the bugs away, but that's not so. I had to give that nest a good whack after I got stung. I ran like the d.i.c.kens back to the tavern."

"Maybe the bee that got you was the last of the season," I said. "Is there anything else I need to do now, like see an estimate?"

She rubbed her arm again. "Did Bert give you a ballpark figure?"

"Yes."

"He'll stick to it," Norene promised. "That's how he keeps his customers." She peered out from under her curly bangs and pointed to the entrance behind me. "Here's Bert. Now I can go home and do laundry. I only come in to check the books once a week. Nice seeing you." She waited for her husband to enter the office, told him she was off, and left via the back way.

"Hiya," Bert greeted me. "You don't look too miserable." He chuckled. "So Holly's playing the fender bender for all it's worth."

"It's not worth anything to her," I retorted. "She may go to jail."

Bert rubbed his slightly bulbous nose. "Nah. She'll lose her license and have to wear one of those monitor things for a while, but they won't put her in a cell. h.e.l.l's bells, she's a mommy. They get special treatment. Especially her type of mommy." He winked. "Holly knows how to please little boys and big boys, too."

I didn't pretend to be amused, but I remained civil. It's never a good idea to displease someone who's going to make out an invoice that's payable upon receipt. "How soon will my car be ready?"

Bert gazed up at the ceiling. "Oh-I can do the actual repair this afternoon. Then it depends on when the tire gets here. With any luck, maybe around noon tomorrow."

"Any chance you've got a loaner?"

Bert shook his head. "Not really. Just about every car or truck here has a problem or is ready to be junked."

"If the tire isn't here until tomorrow, why can't I use my spare?"

Bert made a face. "I wouldn't advise it. It's kind of flimsy. You couldn't take it out on the highway. Even around town, we've got our share of b.u.mps and lumps and potholes. You'd think Mayor Baugh would get that stuff fixed. Fuzzy might as well have stayed in Louisiana. After all these years in Alpine, he still has that Big Easy mentality."

"It's funding," I said. "The voters turned down the last street project." An idea occurred to me. "Would any of your vehicles awaiting demolition have a tire that'd work on the Honda?"

Bert shifted his burly body from one foot to the other. "Oh ... I doubt it. You're not desperate to go someplace, are you?"

"I don't like being dependent on other people," I said. "I feel at a disadvantage in terms of my job. If I need to chase down breaking news, I can't call a cab because we don't have any around here."

"Emma." Bert put out a hand. I took a step backward, a.s.suming he was about to touch me with his greasy fingers. "Look," he went on, dropping his hand to his side, "I'll do my dangedest to get the car to you by lunchtime. But it's up to the Honda folks to send the tire. Forget about your spare or a used one. It'd take a search party to find anything usable around here."

"I can look," I said. "I saw a blue Toyota parked alongside the building. Who does it belong to?"

"Norene," Bert replied. "She just drove off in it."

"That's the only one you've got on the premises? What about the wrecking yard?"

"Forget it." Bert's smile seemed forced. "Hey, Emma-I mean, Ms. Lord-it's going to be okay. Relax. I'll call you as soon as they roll that tire in here tomorrow."

I felt as if Bert and I were having a war of wills. Maybe it was my fault. I was being unreasonable, no doubt as a result of the rotten weekend I'd just endured. I'd already jumped all over Bernie Shaw; now I was taking out my frustrations on Bert Anderson.

"You're right," I said, managing some sort of smile. "I'd better get back to the office. For all I know, there is breaking news. Thanks," I added, speaking over my shoulder as I walked past Bert and headed out the front door.

Crossing the railroad tracks, I walked along Seventh to Front. By the time I reached the corner at Sixth, I wasn't feeling so vigorous. My watch told me it was a quarter to eleven, time for more meds.

Amanda, who was on the phone, barely acknowledged my return. Kip, however, looked glad to see me. "I wondered where you were," he said. "n.o.body seemed to know."

I gazed around the otherwise empty newsroom. "You mean Amanda didn't know?"

"She just said you'd been gone for an hour or so."

"Maybe I didn't tell her," I admitted. "Maybe she was on the phone. I don't remember." There was no need to tell Kip that Holly's threat of a lawsuit had sent me rushing off to see the sheriff. "I just came back from Bert Anderson's shop. I may get my car back tomorrow."

"Bert's okay," Kip said. "He's a decent mechanic, but not in De Muth's cla.s.s. I don't know why Bert needs those Dobermans. All he's got behind that fence is a bunch of junk."

"Dobermans?" I frowned. "When did he get them?"

"He hasn't yet," Kip said. "He's getting them from a kennel in Minnesota. Chili heard about it from Cammy, Bert's daughter. Is that an item for Vida's 'Scene'?"

"Maybe when the guard dogs get here," I said. "Give her a note or send her an email. Her computer expertise is improving."

"Which," Kip said, gesturing toward the back shop, "is why I was looking for you. We haven't put any updates on the online version except for some cla.s.sified ads and a couple of promos Leo got in the mail. Is there something we can use before we actually go to press?"

I considered the question. "Not really. Nothing newsworthy has happened since Clive was charged. Mitch would let me know if Clive's attorney was going to ask for bail." I paused. "Do you know if we got a funeral notice for De Muth?"

Kip shook his head. "It'd come to Vida, but she hasn't given me anything."

"Okay." I started for my cubbyhole. "I'll see if the sheriff knows anything about that."

Jack Mullins took my call. "We don't have the stiff back yet," he said. "SnoCo won't have the tox screen completed until the end of this week. Hey, you want to claim the body?"

"Huh?"

"n.o.body else has, and it turns out De Muth was one of our own."

"What do you mean?"

"A Catholic," Jack replied. "Father Den told me yesterday after Ma.s.s that he knew De Muth. I told Father Den I'd never seen him in church. Have you?"

"No. I couldn't make it yesterday because of my back. If De Muth didn't attend Ma.s.s, how did Father Den know him?"

"He came to the rectory a couple of times," Jack replied. "You know Den-he's closemouthed, and not just when it comes to the confessional. He sort of blew me off by saying that De Muth had a troubled conscience. h.e.l.l, who doesn't?"

"My brother, Ben, would call that PriestSpeakeasy," I said. "It's designed to do what Father Den did-blow you off." It wouldn't do any good for Jack or me to probe further, so I took a conversational detour. "No De Muth relatives, ex-wives, kids, or close friends, I gather. What about those young guys that Alvin was mentoring as mechanics? Somebody told me he was rather close to a couple of them."

"As in pervert?"

"No, as in avuncular."

"Wow. That sounds worse than pervert." Jack clucked his tongue. "You writer types, with all your two-dollar words."

Jack was no dummy. He went on, "Okay, so I admit I never heard any weirdo stuff about De Muth. That kind of weirdo, anyway. In fact, it was always the opposite-he was a real loner."

"Do you know who he mentored?"

"Not offhand, but Mike ... oh, c.r.a.p! I keep forgetting the poor kid's dead. Maybe his brother, Ken, would know. I'll ask around," Jack said.

"Talk to Harvey Adc.o.c.k," I suggested. "He's seen De Muth come into the hardware store with a young man a few times."

"Sam Heppner already asked Harvey," Jack replied. "Harvey admitted he only a.s.sumed that De Muth and the kid were related. He didn't recognize the kid, but he thought there was a resemblance between the two of them. You know Sam-he's like Dodge, wanting facts, not guesswork. Sam insisted the only resemblance Harvey could offer was that De Muth and the younger guy were both dark-haired, about the same height, and had two arms and two legs."

"The son angle is probably a dead end," I said, "but the kid could be local. Let me know if you hear anything important."

"Are you thinking De Muth had a yen for younger guys?"

The question surprised me. "No. But there's a possibility."

"He wouldn't be a first," Jack said without his usual flippancy. "I doubt Norm Carlson would run one of those 'Have You Seen Him?' pictures on Blue Sky Dairy's milk cartons."

"Why not?" I said.

"Norm guards his wholesome image like Elsie the Borden Cow."

I didn't argue, but after we rang off, I considered running a description or even a sketch in the Advocate. "The Kid," as I was calling him, could be a crucial factor in the investigation.

Abruptly, I stopped thinking along those lines. There was no investigation. Alvin De Muth's death was an open-and-shut case. Clive Berentsen had confessed, a bunch of witnesses had been on the scene, and charges had been filed. End of story.

So why did I feel that we'd only read the preface?

SIXTEEN.

JUST BEFORE NOON, VIDA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE. "WHAT," she demanded, "is this scribbling about Doublemint Punchers?"

I was momentarily stumped. "Oh-Doberman pinschers," I said, pouring my cold coffee back into the urn. Waste not, want not. Emma, the Frugal Editor. "Kip's handwriting isn't very legible. He says Bert Anderson's getting a pair to guard his junkyard."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Vida tossed the note aside. "Who'd steal anything out of that place? Bert's canny. He salvages any usable parts."

"Maybe the yard is where he stores valuable bits and pieces he can use or sell."

"Perhaps," Vida allowed, "but those dogs can be quite vicious. And so noisy! My daughter Beth had a neighbor who owned a Doberman. She was scared to death to let the children play in the yard because she was sure the dog could leap the fence. Fortunately, the neighbors moved a few months later."

"A dog's behavior depends on how it was trained," I said, recalling an incident that had figured in a homicide several years ago.

Vida sniffed disdainfully. "If these Dobermans are supposed to guard Bert's junk, he'll train them to attack."

"They may be trained already," I said. "He's getting them from Minnesota."

"Minnesota," Vida murmured, sitting down. "I can't imagine living where the land is so flat. I don't care very much for eastern Washington, but at least it's got some parts that aren't like a pancake."

I didn't comment further. To my knowledge, Vida had never been out of the Pacific Northwest. She'd lived her entire life in Alpine and rarely strayed far from the I-5 corridor between the Canadian border and Oregon. A few years ago, we'd spent some time in Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast. Although Vida thought the town's seaside architecture had a certain charm, she'd gone on to say that life on the beach must get tiresome. "The tide comes in and the tide goes out," she'd told me. "So predictable, with exact times just like a bus schedule. I much prefer living in a place that's nestled in the mountains." Like Alpine, of course. Valhalla would have suffered by comparison with Vida's hometown. "Are you eating in?"

I confessed that I hadn't thought about it. "Are you?"

Vida made a face. "I planned to, but the celery and carrot sticks and the hard-boiled egg I brought to the office suddenly don't appeal to me. I certainly don't want to go off my diet, yet I feel the need for something a bit more hearty."

Vida's so-called diets were a joke among the rest of us. She had a large frame and she was tall. Ten, even twenty pounds either way were scarcely noticeable. "The Venison Inn?" I said.

She hesitated. "Yes, I believe they have some low-calorie items on their menu." She checked her watch. "It's ten to twelve. Shall we go?"

"Sure." I stood up as Vida went back to her desk to retrieve her purse and coat. Before I could get farther than the middle of the newsroom, Amanda entered.

"Here," she said, handing me a WHILE YOU WERE UNAVAILABLE note. She turned around and left.