The Alpine Uproar Part 27

Betsy half fell into the chair, glanced at the array of bottles behind the bar, and opted for a drink after all. "A screwdriver," she said. "I can pa.s.s that off as orange juice." She started to pick up a menu but let it fall from her hand and expelled a huge sigh. "Emma, I don't know what to do. Maybe I should talk to Father Den instead of you, but I'm too ashamed. What would your brother or your son say?"

"About what?" I asked, wondering if Betsy had cracked under the relentless stress of the past few days.

The faintest hint of a smile played at her mouth. "I forgot. You're not a mind reader." She looked past me toward the bar. "Oh, no-here comes Sunny Rhodes. Can you head her off? She'll talk me to death."

I got up and managed to meet the bartender's wife halfway. "Two screwdrivers," I said in a low voice. "Betsy's very upset, so don't let anybody pester her, okay? I can get the drinks when I see they're ready."

"Then come now," Sunny said. "It won't take Oren long. Poor Betsy. Poor family." She shook her head before beckoning to her husband and giving him our c.o.c.ktail order. "You never know with kids these days, do you? It's a wonder my hair hasn't turned white worrying over Davin all these years. Thank goodness he's out of his teens now."

"He's got his AA degree," I said as Oren Rhodes offered me a sympathetic smile. "That's great."

Sunny nodded. "Now if he could just get a decent job. At least he's stopped hanging out with Roger. That was always a dead-end trail." She gasped and her blue eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no! I shouldn't have said that. Please, please don't tell Vida."

I promised I wouldn't. "I'm not a big fan of Roger's, either. He hasn't done anything really stupid, has he?"

Sunny turned away to hand me our drinks. "No. No, of course not. He's just ... Roger. Let me know when you're ready to eat. We're shorthanded, so I'm filling in. Good help's hard to find."

"I'll second that," I muttered, thinking of Amanda.

By the time I sat down, Betsy had regained some of her composure. She raised her gla.s.s. "To Mike."

"To Mike." Our gla.s.ses clicked. "Have you slept recently?"

"Some," she replied after taking a big sip. "Jake's so restless. He keeps waking me up." She sipped again. "You've got a deadline. I don't want to keep you away from work too long."

"We're on schedule," I a.s.sured her. "So far."

Betsy's gaze roamed around the bar. The usual workmen in their flannel shirts, parkas, and hooded jackets lined the bar stools, knocking back enough beer to get through the rest of the day. I avoided eye contact with any of the customers. I didn't want to be accused of sn.o.bbery for not offering so much as a friendly smile. My gaze fixed on the wall behind Betsy where an old framed photograph showed a logger sitting in front of a donkey engine, the steam-powered hoist used to haul logs out of the woods. His shoulders slumped, his hands rested slackly between his knees, and his clothes were grimy. Maybe he was the donkey puncher, taking a blow while waiting for more timber headed down a steep hill to the yard, the mill, or the holding pond. I wondered what, other than an honest day's work, was on his mind. Life was said to be simpler a hundred years ago. I didn't believe it. It was only slower.

"Doc called me this morning at six-thirty," Betsy said, startling me out of my reverie. "He had a problem and asked if I could come to the clinic before their patients showed up. So I did." She hung her head, hands wrapped around her gla.s.s.

I waited.

Betsy looked up and cleared her throat. "I'm going to tell you what he told me and I'm going to do it as fast as I can because it upsets me so much." She took a deep breath. "The surgeon in Monroe told Doc they couldn't get the pain meds to kick in because Mike was so full of cocaine and speed and G.o.d-knows-what that there was no way to deal with his suffering or prevent cardiac arrest, so he died."

Betsy's face hardened. She took another drink from her gla.s.s and ran a finger under each eye, maybe to make sure she wasn't crying. There were no tears. Maybe she had none left.

I didn't know what to say. "Is that why Doc told the family not to consent to an autopsy?"

"Yes. He didn't want us to know." She shook her head. "But Doc's conscience bothered him. He got to thinking about the other kids in the family and their friends. He asked if any of our four had done drugs. I told him I thought they'd probably tried pot, but nothing else. You don't know, though, do you?"

"You don't want to know," I said. "That's stupid, but I felt that way about Adam, especially after he went away to college. To this day, I've never asked him what he tried or didn't try. He'd tell me, though. I suppose that's why I never asked." It was my turn to take a big drink.

"So what do I do now?" Betsy said, as much to herself as to me. "Ask Father Den's advice? Have Doc talk to the kids? I haven't even told Jake. I just want all of us to get through the funeral. I guess," she went on ruefully, "I had to talk to somebody and it turned out to be you. Maybe I thought that since you raised a child on your own and he became a priest, you had some special gift."

"Oh, G.o.d, no." I laughed in an odd sort of way. "I had nothing to do with it. I was stunned when Adam told me about his decision. In fact, I was upset. But one of my few virtues is that I know how to keep a confidence. You have to in the newspaper business. I think you're right when it comes to waiting until after the funeral to tell the others, including Jake. I gather he's been hit hard by this whole thing."

Betsy nodded. "He's always felt responsible for Buzzy, and that carries over to Buzzy and Laura's kids. Doc raised a good point, though. Somehow we've got to open up about Mike."

"Honesty is the best policy," I said, and immediately wished I could retrieve the cliche. "I mean ..."

Betsy held up a hand. "Stop. It's not that simple. What Doc means is that somebody around here is dealing. That's why we have to get the word out. Whoever it is should be charged not just with dealing or possession, but with murder."

NINETEEN.

BETSY REFUSED TO ORDER ANY FOOD, BUT I GOADED HER into sharing my shrimp Louie and some of the sourdough bread that went with it. She had to keep up her strength, and she couldn't get through the day on one screwdriver. I'd asked her if she intended to go to the sheriff before confiding in the rest of the family about Mike's apparent drug use.

"It wouldn't be right until we've all had time to recover from the shock," she'd told me. "Then we can discuss what to do. Maybe Doc should talk to Dodge. The sheriff likes facts, and Doc can get accurate information from the Monroe hospital. Besides, I think Doc's conscience would rest easier if he's involved in what I hope leads to nailing whoever's dealing that wretched stuff around here."

I agreed that was probably the best route to take. We parted just after one o'clock. To my surprise, Amanda was back on the job.

"Well?" she said as I arrived. "Am I fired?"

"No." I braced myself on the counter. "But I can't have scenes like the one with Patti. And don't bother to remind me she probably started it. You could've defused the confrontation by walking away and letting one of us know. We're all well versed in deflecting angry readers."

"I don't think Patti knows how to read," Amanda retorted.

"That's not the att.i.tude to take around here," I said. "We may be a small staff in a small town with a small newspaper, but we try to be professional. Personal relationships should be left outside the front door. I doubt you'd get away with that sort of thing at the post office."

"It's never happened there."

"Lucky postal workers," I murmured. Amanda bristled. "Hold on," I urged, trying to sound more sympathetic. "Even though I don't get it, I won't ask about your reaction to Ginny and her baby. Okay?"

Amanda's face tightened. "Fine."

"Good." I forced a smile and started into the newsroom.

"How old are you?"

I turned around. "Why do you ask?"

Amanda opened her mouth to speak, and then clamped it shut. She shook her head and focused on her monitor.

Vida was heading for the back shop, and Mitch was looking at photos on his screen. "Did you see these?" he asked when I stopped by his desk. "They're the ones I shot at the O'Toole kid's vigil. Leo took some, too. He's not that bad with a camera." Mitch moved the monitor so I could see the screen.

I leaned on his desk. "That's a good one of the younger set."

"I've got IDs for this bunch," Mitch said. "I didn't find out who some of the others were. I figure there were a couple hundred people at the park that night."

I recognized Davin Rhodes, Melissa and Erica O'Toole, Mike Corson, Carrie Amundson, and two of Ed and Shirley Bronsky's kids, Rick and Molly. "That's a good shot, nice angle. Their faces capture the sadness of the moment. You must've been kneeling."

"I took it lying on a picnic table bench." Mitch switched to a different shot. "This is the only decent one I got of the older O'Tooles, but it's almost too heart-tugging."

I agreed. "Laura looks ghastly and Buzzy's a blank, as if he doesn't know where he is or what he's doing. Jake's eyes are closed. Betsy seems detached. She's almost literally out of the frame."

"It's as if she's trying to disappear to avoid the anguish," Mitch said. "The O'Toole story was tough to write, especially the sidebar that goes with these," he went on, clicking through several more crowd shots. "I talked to both Jake and Betsy that night but not to the kid's parents. Somehow, I couldn't." His lean face was grim.

I nodded. "The worst of it is that they still had hope that night. If Mike had lived, the photos would be an answer to a prayer. But ..." I stopped and shook my head. "Maybe we shouldn't run them."

"Your call," Mitch said.

I thought for a long moment. "No. We have to. They show community and caring. The pictures capture one of those special moments when people put aside their own agendas for a common cause. You must've had to deal with lots of grieving families and friends in your time with the Detroit Free Press."

Mitch sighed. "Too many."

Leaning on the desk had become painful. I straightened up. "Are we missing something?"

Mitch hit a couple of keys, apparently sending one of the photos to Kip in the back shop. "Such as?"

"I don't know. I feel as if ... well, there's something about what's happened in the past week or two that's odd, even for Alpine." I caught Mitch's skeptical expression. "Trust me," I said. "It's not woman's intuition."

"Reporter's intuition?" Mitch suggested. "You have a sense of small-town vagaries. To me, coming from Detroit, Alpine seems like the calm after the storm."

"It's not the tavern brawl or the truck going off the highway or even the loss of two lives in a very short time," I said, feeling frustrated as I began pacing the newsroom. "Is there some elusive common thread?"

"Bad karma." Mitch pushed his chair away from his desk. "It happens. You're not expecting a third death, are you?"

"I'm not superst.i.tious," I said. "Oh, I know things often come in threes, but that's because people expect them to and start counting."

Mitch stood up to get a coffee refill. "An old Hollywood and s...o...b..z myth, usually about three celebrities croaking within a few days."

"Yes." I paused by Leo's desk, torn between loyalty to Betsy and professional responsibility. Mitch had written the news article about Mike's fatal accident, and he'd also done the accompanying story on the vigil. I'd never dream of going public, but as the primary reporter, Mitch had to understand the background to avoid getting blindsided if the news leaked out from another source. I was still pondering when Vida made her entrance. If I confided in Mitch and not in Vida, she'd never forgive me. I decided to keep my mouth shut for now.

Vida, however, sniffed in the way she had of alerting people that There Was Something She Needed to Know. "You," she said, confronting me, "look like the cat that ate the canary."

It struck me that Vida was the cat and although I wasn't a canary, I was definitely catnip. But I did my best to put her off. "I had lunch with Betsy. She's fraying around the edges. Take a look at Mitch's photos from the vigil for Mike."

Vida was sidetracked, but I knew it wouldn't take her long to return to the mainline. While she studied the pictures, I retreated to my cubbyhole. She didn't resume her quest until a few minutes after two.

"I hope you had more luck with Betsy than I did with Marje," she declared, settling into one of my visitors' chairs. "My niece insists she has no idea what's bothering Doc Dewey. Unfortunately, I believe her. Marje admitted that Betsy had an unscheduled appointment, though she didn't know why. Did Betsy tell you anything we should know?"

I shook my head. Technically, my denial wasn't a lie. Betsy didn't want Mike's drug habit made public. "She's worn out," I said, "from having the family lean on her. Did you see Mitch's vigil pictures?"

"Very effective," Vida responded. "I should've gone, but I ..." Uncharacteristically, her voice trailed off.

I a.s.sumed she didn't want to discuss Amy's need for maternal comfort. "I didn't see Roger with the younger set. Who did he go with?"

Vida's quick, sharp glance jarred me. "I'm not sure."

"Oh." I kept my tone casual. "I saw some of his buddies, like Davin Rhodes and a couple of other kids, but he wasn't with them."

"Young people change," Vida said, her gaze fixed not on me but on the topographic map of Skykomish County above my filing cabinet. "They have different interests, they grow apart." She suddenly stood up. "Goodness, I must prepare for my program tomorrow night. Dr. Medved is my guest so I plan to ask him about special problems with pets this time of year. As a veterinarian, he's probably heard some horrific Halloween tales about nasty children tormenting dogs and cats." She hustled out of my office. To my surprise, Vida hadn't pressed me further about my lunch with Betsy.

My phone rang; I picked it up on the second ring. "We need to talk," Milo said.

I was startled. "Isn't that a woman's line?"

"Don't be a wisea.s.s. Have you got a few minutes to spare?"

"It's deadline day," I reminded the sheriff, "but we're on schedule. So far. Unless, of course, you have breaking news."

"I'll break something if you don't give me a straight answer," he retorted. "Meet me by the river in back of the ICT."

"I don't have a car."

"It's not back yet?" Milo sounded irritated.

"Not until five. Is five-fifteen soon enough?"

He didn't answer immediately. "It'll have to be."

"Why can't you pick me up?"

"Because I can't." He hung up as raised voices erupted in the newsroom. Now what? I wondered, getting up and recognizing Leo's voice. He was coming toward me with a small, dark-haired woman right behind him. She was yapping away, apparently reproaching my ad manager. I didn't recognize her at first. Vida had half risen out of her chair; Mitch stood by his desk.

"Emma," Leo said, "you've met Janie Borg?"

I put out my hand. "It's been a long time," I said, smiling.

Janie took my hand and shook it in a tentative manner. I thought she looked relieved. "I'm upset," she said, glancing at Leo. "Sorry, Mr. Walsh. Seeing Amanda out front upset me even more."

"Forget it," Leo said with his crooked grin. "You girls have a heart-to-heart, okay?" He patted Janie's shoulder and winked at me before going to his desk. Mitch continued on his way to the back shop. Vida was scowling but reluctantly sat back down at her desk.

I closed my door. "Coffee or tea?" I asked before I sat down again.

"No. I'm fine." She offered me the hint of a smile. Up close I could see that there was some gray in her short black hair, but she still retained the gamine-like air I recalled from the few times I'd seen her.

"What made you think Leo wouldn't let you talk to me?" I inquired.

Janie's dark eyes looked misty. "Because of Mickey."

"Mickey?" I feigned ignorance. "What do you mean?"

"The lawsuit. The parking lot collision. Holly." She toyed with the silver chains of her necklace. "Mickey's such a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I shouldn't have married him. I was on the rebound. From Fred. Poor Fred."

"You're not happy?"

She shook her head. "I'm miserable. I want out."

"I understand you and Fred still have feelings for each other."