The Alpine Uproar Part 31

I watched as the two people inside exchanged a few words and shook hands. Liz pulled the slicker's hood over her head before going outside. Without so much as a glance in our direction, she walked briskly to a VW Beetle in the customer parking area.

"Must've borrowed that," Milo murmured. "I think it belongs to that jerk who runs the Alpine Falls Motel." He reached for the door handle. "Wait here. I won't be long."

"Hey!" I shouted. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not. This is business."

I hit the power lock b.u.t.ton on the driver's side. The sheriff yanked at the handle a couple of times, but knew he couldn't open the door on his side. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Emma, I'm not fooling around. Open this sucker before I blow my stack."

"Go ahead. I didn't drive over here to sit around and watch puddles form in Mayor Baugh's crumbling streets. This little excursion has made me even crankier than when I started out. Why can't I be on hand when you take down Gus's formal statement? It's a public doc.u.ment and if I need to, I'll put it in this week's edition. Or, as usual, have you forgotten about our Tuesday deadline?"

"You can't come because ..." Milo had started off shouting, but paused and lowered his voice to a rumble. "Because I've got something else to do in there."

"What? Take a whiz on that Celica?"

The sheriff leaned toward me, his hazel eyes narrowed in a glower that would intimidate the most hardened criminal. For a moment, I thought he was going to use strong-arm tactics to make me unlock the doors. I froze in place and held my breath.

"Screw it." He sighed wearily and sat up. "Go ahead. I don't give a rat's a.s.s anymore."

I hit the b.u.t.ton again. We got out of the car and without another word walked into Swanson Toyota.

"It's The Man," Gus Swanson said with a wide, if not genuine, grin. "And he's got a pretty girl with him. Is this the daughter who's getting married?" He laughed heartily at his own humor.

Milo looked down at me. "No. This is my mother. They let her out of the asylum for the evening. Let's do it, Gus. Have you finished the revised statement?"

Gus shot me a puzzled glance. No doubt he was wondering why the Advocate's editor was tagging along. "I thought," Gus said to Milo, "you had to witness it."

The sheriff shrugged. "I trust you. You stepped up to the plate and admitted the first statement wasn't the whole truth. I understand why you tried to keep a low profile. Pleasing a woman," he went on as if I weren't standing two feet away, "is tough enough, but having to put up with two of them is a real pain in the a.s.s. The big thing is you came forward. If you hadn't, and we found out later that you left out crucial information, you could be charged with obstruction of justice."

Gus nodded. "The statement's in my office. So's the other paperwork. It's all set. I'll sign mine, you sign yours." He led the way. I trailed the sheriff and wondered what the two men were talking about. Maybe the Demerol and methocarbamol had addled my wits. After we were seated, Gus turned to me. "Will this be in the paper?"

"That depends," I replied, pretending I knew what was happening.

Gus looked worried. "Does it have to?"

"I'll be the judge of that," I said. "That's why I'm here." I gave Milo a sideways glance. "We're up against deadline and the sheriff is always so considerate when it comes to the Advocate."

Gus picked up a pen and signed the form on his desk. "Is that okay?" he asked handing the statement to the sheriff.

Milo read what looked like a half-dozen lines of handwritten information. "Sounds good." He folded the sheet of paper and tucked it inside his jacket. "My turn," he said to Gus.

"Right." The car dealer handed a folder to Milo. "Everything's been worked out. This is one terrific car. Grace Grundle drove her Camry less than ten thousand miles in the past six years."

Milo warily eyed Gus. "Are you sure you got out all the cat hair and dander? Grace took those d.a.m.ned animals for a drive around town every Sunday. We're talking serious allergies here for one of the drivers."

"You bet. It's good to go," Gus a.s.sured the sheriff. "When will your daughter pick it up?"

"Probably over the weekend." Milo dashed off his name and handed the folder to Gus. "Tricia's bringing her up here, then they'll drive home separately."

"Sounds great," Gus said, the phony grin back in place. "You're a stand-up dad. I hope your little girl appreciates you."

"Right." Milo stood up. "Thanks again, Gus. See you." The sheriff loped out of the cubicle. I followed him outside.

"What was that all about?" I asked before we reached our cars.

"My wedding present to Tanya and Buster or whatever his name is," the sheriff replied. "They need a car, so I bought a secondhand one. It's cheaper up here than in the Seattle or Bellevue area. You want to get some dinner?"

"No," I said, brushing raindrops off my face. "I want to know how Gus amended his statement about the ICT brawl."

Milo didn't answer right away. He squinted through the rain and adjusted his hat. "Gus neglected to mention not what he saw but what he didn't see. He's absolutely certain that Clive swung the pool cue at De Muth but missed. Now what will I do if I arrested the wrong guy?"

I hesitated. "Find the right one?"

The sheriff grimaced. "How?" He shook his head, walked over to the Grand Cherokee, and left me standing in the rain.

TWENTY-ONE.

AT LEAST I HAD ENOUGH SENSE TO GET OUT OF THE RAIN. Worried, confused, angry, and in pain, I sat in the Honda pondering my options. Inside the dealership Gus Swanson was talking to one of his employees, Brant Hutchins, son of Scooter and Lois Dewey Hutchins as well as Doc Dewey's nephew. It was a typical example of Alpine's verdant family tree. As I watched them with cursory interest, it suddenly dawned on me that Brant had worked at Cal Vickers's gas station for a while as a mechanic.

Following my not-always-infallible instincts, I got out of the car and went back into the dealership. Gus looked at me with a smile.

"Don't tell me you want to trade in that Honda for a Toyota," he said. "It's a smart move, though."

"I know they're both good cars," I said, "but that's not why I came back." I turned to Brant. "May I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Brant looked surprised. He also didn't seem to know who I was. "Okay. But why? Is it about your car?"

"No." I smiled apologetically at Gus. "I've interrupted. Go ahead, finish whatever you're doing and I'll browse."

Gus had stopped smiling. Maybe after a long day on the floor the false cheer began to wear thin as seven o'clock closing time approached. "I think we're done here," he said. "This fine lad has agreed to try his hand as a salesman." Gus nudged the younger man. "Let's see if you can coax Ms. Lord into a Prius. She's a big booster with her outstanding environment editorials. Someone's pulling up. I'll handle it."

I followed Brant into the cubicle, letting him practice the make-yourself-comfortable ritual. He seemed uneasy about settling into Gus's chair, but managed eye contact with me. "How can I help you, Ms. Lord?" he asked after I'd turned down his offer of coffee or springwater.

I offered him a friendly smile. "I'm not here to buy a car, so relax. You started working for Gus as a mechanic, right?"

Brant nodded. "After I graduated from high school, I got some experience at Cal Vickers's gas station, but he doesn't take on complicated jobs. He recommended me to Gus. Then last summer, I screwed up my right arm in a river-rafting accident." His fair skin flushed slightly. "It was a dumb stunt, kind of ... well, showing off."

I recalled the brief story we'd run in the paper. "You recovered?"

"Mostly," Brant said ruefully. "But after Uncle Gerry operated, he told me my hard-wrenching days were over. If I went on working as a mechanic I'd seriously screw up my arm. That's why I'm training as a salesman." He made a face. "I love cars, but I'm not into the selling part. It's not me."

By chance, Brant had touched upon the topic I wanted to discuss. "Did you go through the college program or did someone teach you?"

"Al De Muth took me on." He paused, looking at his hands. I wondered if he wished they were smeared with grease. "He did it for free. Al was a really cool teacher. Honest, too." Brant glanced out into the showroom, probably checking to see if Gus was within hearing range. From where I sat, the owner was out of sight, probably cozying up to whomever had just come in. Brant lowered his voice anyway. "Al was always up-front with people. He'd tell them the truth, good or bad. That's one reason why I don't want to sell cars. It's like you have to ... not lie exactly, but always talk and act positive. It doesn't seem right to ... not exactly cheat people, but you aren't straightforward with them. Like Al would've said, in the long run honesty pays bigger dividends, not just for the customer but for yourself." Brant made a face. "Sorry to go on and on like this. Gus isn't a crook or anything even close, but it's a relief not to have to be giving you a lot of hoo-ha to make a sale."

"I understand," I said. "Al sounds as if he had integrity."

"Oh, for sure." Brant's tone was emphatic. "I was totally b.u.mmed when he got killed. It's weird. Clive isn't a mean kind of guy."

"Was Al feisty?"

Brant thought for a moment. "Not really. He had a temper, but you had to get to know him. He was kind of standoffish, but he liked teaching young guys like me. Mentoring, isn't that what they call it?"

I nodded. "Didn't Al mentor Mike O'Toole?"

"Yes." Brant's unlined, almost beardless face suddenly looked older. "Poor Mike! OmiG.o.d-what's to say about the bad stuff around here lately?" Again he paused, shaking his head. "Mike was two years behind me in high school. He was okay, though sometimes he p.i.s.sed people off. Dumb stuff, like getting other kids to jump off the high diving board at the pool or race mountain bikes on the ice. He'd do it first and then dare the other kids to try it. Talk about showing off-that was Mike. He wasn't a bad guy, he just made some bad choices. When you're young you've got to prove stuff to yourself. n.o.body can tell you what's good or bad. I ought to know." Brant looked at his hands again.

"Taking chances," I remarked. "Often you learn the hard way."

"Oh, man," Brant said, shaking his head, "that's the truth. Look at poor Mike. He won't have another chance to figure it all out."

"No," I said quietly, "he won't." I waited for Brant to speak, but he seemed to be lost in some kind of dream. Or nightmare. I changed the subject. "Getting back to Al, I wonder if being hard to know irked some people." Noting Brant's curious expression, I tried to clarify what I meant. "You're a native. You know how Alpiners take things more personally than big-city people. A newcomer who keeps to himself might cause hard feelings."

Brant still didn't seem to understand what I meant. "You mean they'd give him a bad time somehow?"

"Kind of. I'm thinking more about grudges and resentment."

"Wow," Brant said softly. "That's harsh. Like maybe there was a feud between him and Clive Berentsen?"

I shrugged. "No. In fact," I went on, lowering my voice, "your boss insists Clive never made contact with the pool cue."

Brant looked shocked. "Gus?" He stood up halfway out of the chair and searched the showroom again. "Gosh!" he exclaimed softly, sitting down again. "I thought he didn't see anything. He worked late that night so he stopped by the ICT to have a beer and get a sandwich."

The sanitized version, I thought. Maybe Gus really wanted to patch up things with his wife. Or was he trying to keep a low profile for Delphine's sake? "That's why Dodge came here," I explained. "Gus wanted to set the record straight."

Brant frowned. "I don't get it. Does that mean it was just an accident and not Clive's fault?"

I didn't respond immediately because I wasn't sure what it meant. "The only certainty is that Al died from a blow to the head," I finally said.

"Wow." Brant still seemed to be digesting my words. "This is all sort of ... what's the word they use nowadays? Surreal?"

I kept from cringing at the overworked and often inapt adjective. "Some might say so." With a smile, I stood up. "Thanks, Brant. I appreciate your time. If," I went on as he came around the side of the desk to join me, "you really don't want to be a salesman, but you know what makes a good mechanic, why don't you think about teaching?"

The young man stared at me. "Teaching? Wouldn't I have to go to college for years and years like Uncle Gerry did to be a doctor?"

"Not with vocational programs," I said. "Experience is key. You admired Al's teaching skills, so you know what makes a good teacher."

Brant was silent for a moment. "I never thought about it. It's always been working with cars or listening to my dad try to get me to work for him at the home interiors store, but that's salesman stuff, too."

"Young people should chart their own futures," I said. "My son went off in about ten different directions before he became a priest."

Brant seemed overwhelmed at the thought. "Awesome. I could never do that. But I'm not a Catholic."

I laughed. "I wasn't trying to convert you, just making a point. It often takes time to figure out the right niche."

He walked me to the door. Gus was at the far end of the showroom, pointing out the features of a new Toyota Tundra pickup to an older man I didn't recognize. I thanked Brant and made my exit into the still-heavy rain.

Inside my car, I took out my cell and dialed Amy Hibbert's number. She answered before the first ring stopped. "Yes?" she said, breathless.

"It's Emma," I said. "Did you track down your mother?"

"No." Amy sounded crestfallen. "I hoped she might be the caller."

"I'm sorry," I said, in apology for dashing Amy's hopes. "Have you called Buck Bardeen?"

There was a brief silence. "Should I?" she finally asked.

Given Amy's concern, her response seemed odd. "Why not?"

"Um ... I'm not sure if ... yes, maybe I will."

"Good," I responded. "Keep me posted, okay?"

Amy promised she would. Growing more concerned, I focused on mundane matters. I phoned Kip, telling him that Gus had changed his statement. "Read me how Mitch handled those statements in his follow-up story on De Muth," I said. "I don't want to screw this one up."

The reference to witnesses was, as I recalled, only a paragraph long. It didn't name the customers, except for Clive Berentsen and Alvin De Muth. I'd written the first of the news stories under deadline pressure the night that Clive was arrested. Spike and Julie Canby were mentioned as the tavern owners, noting that they'd been at the scene.

"Discretion is good," I told Kip. "If there's a trial, then we can quote witnesses. By the way, you haven't heard or seen Vida, have you?"

"No. Is she still AWOL?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Have you told the sheriff?" Kip's usual calm sounded shaken. "Officially, I mean."

"That's up to Amy," I said. "If it's a false alarm and we put it in the paper, Vida would be horribly embarra.s.sed. Amy may have talked to her cousin, Bill Blatt. Even if he's off-duty, it wouldn't stop him from trying to find his aunt."

Kip agreed. After we signed off, I sat behind the wheel, pondering my next move. It was after six o'clock, but I'd lost my appet.i.te. Realizing that I'd tensed up during the past few minutes and was almost due for another pain pill, I reached into my purse. Maybe I could cut back on the Demerol and take only a methocarbamol. Using the small flashlight on my key ring, I found the muscle relaxer pill, took it out of the compartment-and dropped it on the car floor. Swearing like a logger, I fumbled around the brake and gas pedals but couldn't see or feel the d.a.m.ned thing. I'd tracked in a few leaves on my shoes. The pill was under a couple of dead alder leaves. So were some feathers that must have also stuck to my shoes. I was about to follow the sheriff's bad example and toss the debris out the window when it dawned on me that the feathers looked unusual. Not a jay, a crow, a cedar waxwing, a sparrow, or a robin. These feathers were gray, white, and black.

Pigeons. We didn't see them often in Alpine. Leo joked it was because we have only one statue in town, the life-size bronze of mill owner and town founder Carl Clemans. I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a pigeon.

Except on Vida's hat.

I was overreacting. I'm no ornithologist, I told myself. Even if I was right about the feathers having adorned Vida's hat, I could have stepped on them at the office, on the sidewalk, or while Vida and I were both at the sheriff's headquarters.

But I hadn't been near Vida since midafternoon. I'd checked my car for cleanliness at Bert Anderson's shop. Nothing was out of place. Wouldn't I have spotted the debris if someone else had left it in the car? If the stuff had stuck to the soles of my shoes, I'd missed seeing it. That meant I'd tramped on the leaves and feathers in the past half-hour, either at Swanson Toyota-or Bert's body shop. The matter should've been trivial, even comical, if Vida hadn't dropped out of sight.

I thought back to the fracas I'd witnessed between the Andersons. Norene had been upset, scared, too, when I entered the shop. She'd said something about ... what? Expecting someone else instead of me? Who? Not Vida. I couldn't think of any reason for her to call on Bert. Maybe I was obsessing needlessly. Tracking dead leaves, faded petals, or anything else in Alpine's wet weather was common. But not knowing Vida's whereabouts was as unusual as it was alarming.

I was stumped. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I saw Gus and his customer yukking it up by a sleek black Toyota Avalon. Brant had disappeared. I still held the white pill in my hand, realizing I didn't have any water or soda to wash it down. I might as well go home. After putting the methocarbamol back in the pill box, I pulled out of the lot and drove onto Front Street. I'd gone only a block when I heard sirens and saw flashing red lights racing in my direction.