The Alpine Menace Part 1

THE ALPINE MENACE.

Mary Daheim.

THE LAST TIME I saw my cousin Ronnie, he was half of a sack race at a family picnic. He was a clumsy kid, and the leg that was tied to my brother, Ben, managed to trip them both, so that they finished dead last. I never imagined that the next time I saw Ronnie he'd be in the King County Jail on a homicide charge.

The Ronnie Mallett I remembered from the gathering at Seattle's Woodland Park was nine or ten, an undersized, unremarkable boy except for his cheerful disposition. I'd been entering my junior year at the University of Was.h.i.+ngton and felt the natural superiority that comes from age and the use of good grammar. Maybe that's the thing I remembered best about Ronnie: He said ain't a lot.

"I ain't guilty, Emma," Ronnie said now, his thin face wearing an earnest expression that didn't quite suit him. "Hey, why would I kill Carol? I was nuts about her."

Carol Stokes was his girlfriend, a thirty-four-year-old woman who had been found strangled in the living room of her one-bedroom apartment in Seattle's Greenwood district. Obviously, I was supposed to say something rea.s.suring, such as, "Of course you didn't, Ronnie."

But I couldn't and didn't. I hadn't seen my cousin in over twenty-five years. For all I knew, he could be a serial killer.

"I'm not sure I can be of much help," I said, subst.i.tuting candor for comfort. "I'm not exactly sure why you asked me to come down from Alpine to see you here."

Ronnie's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table that separated us. We weren't more than three feet away from each other, yet I felt the distance might as well have been the eighty-plus miles between Alpine and Seattle. The visitors' area was painted a pale blue, about the color of Ronnie's eyes, and just about as lifeless. My chair was hard and uncomfortable; so was Ronnie's, I supposed. The difference was that after I stood up, I could leave the building.

"Like I said," Ronnie explained, "a coupla months ago Carol told me you were some kind of detective. See, she was raised in Alpine, but moved out when she was just a kid."

The original message I'd received from Ronnie's court-appointed lawyer two days earlier had asked me to visit my cousin in jail because I was an investigator. I was puzzled, since my job as editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate didn't seem to qualify.

"I'm not a detective," I said firmly. "I do some investigative reporting for the weekly newspaper I own in Alpine."

"Carol said you caught a couple of killers," Ronnie said in an accusing tone.

"Not exactly." An editor, a publisher, a reporter in a small town can get caught up in a case when local law enforcement is hampered by size and budget. Certainly in the ten years since I'd bought the paper, I'd helped out with some homicide investigations. Digging for information was an occupational necessity. But I was no sleuth. "Carol must have misunderstood. My main job is to report the stories after they happen."

Ronnie's lean face fell. I knew he was in his mid-thirties, but he looked younger, if pinched and hollow-eyed. His dull blond hair fell over his high forehead, his upper lip disappeared when he smiled, and his eyebrows didn't quite match. Ronnie's overall appearance was that of a very old little boy.

I could see no family resemblance. Ronnie was fair, while I was dark-haired and dark-eyed. His narrow face with its ferretlike features was the flip side of my softer, more rounded contours. Maybe one of us had been a changeling.

"What'll I do?" Ronnie asked in a helpless voice.

"You've got a lawyer," I pointed out.

Ronnie shook his head. "He can't do me much good. Alvin's kinda young and real busy."

On the phone, Alvin Sternoff had sounded as if he was straight out of law school and maybe had finished in the bottom 10 percent of his cla.s.s. He hadn't offered much advice on how I could help Ronnie.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked my cousin, and immediately cursed the soft heart that matched my even softer brain.

Ronnie leaned back in the plastic chair and gave me his guileless smile. "Find out who really killed Carol," he said, "' cause I ain't guilty."

"Do you believe him?" Vida Runkel asked the following Monday morning as I stood in The Advocate's newsroom drinking coffee.

"I don't know," I said with a shake of my head. "The problem is, I don't know Ronnie. The last time I saw him, he was just a kid, and I don't think our families had gotten together more than four or five times before that. My parents thought that his parents were-as my mother put it- *party people.' I translated that as *too dumb to be hippies.' "

"My, my," Vida said, setting down her mug of hot water and adjusting the pinwheel straw hat that sat at a peculiar angle atop her unruly gray curls. "And you say his girlfriend-the victim-came from Alpine?"

The local angle intrigued Vida more than Ronnie or the murder. My House and Home editor is so thoroughly centered in the town of her birth that occasionally she has trouble accepting events that happen elsewhere as important or even real. Indeed, even World War II had been reduced in Vida's mind to how she had traipsed along with her father on his air-raid-warden duties and looked into the windows of those foolish enough to leave the lights on and their shades pulled up. Snooping into other people's homes was a habit that she had never outgrown.

"Yes. Carol Stokes. Don't tell me you know her?" I was aghast. Vida knew everybody in Alpine, going back to the generations before her birth some sixty-odd years ago.

She grimaced. "Honestly, I can't say that I do. Carol Stokes." She said the name as if it were an incantation. "She must have left town at an early age and married. Carol Stokes," she repeated. "Carol... Carol... Carol..." Obviously, Vida was reaching into the past, taking inventory of every Carol who had walked Alpine's steep streets on the face of Tonga Ridge. "Ah," she exclaimed at last, "Carol Nerstad! Now I remember!" Her broad face beamed in triumph.

"Nerstad?" The name was unfamiliar.

Vida nodded, the straw hat swaying dangerously. "Her parents died quite young, and Carol's brother, Charles, I think, is his name, moved to California. Burl, the father, was killed in the woods, and Marvela, the mother, had cancer. A shame, of course, though they were a bit odd."

I refrained from asking Vida how odd. In her critical mind, the word could have described a penchant for putting gravy on gingerbread or having a physical relations.h.i.+p with the family pet.

"Goodness," Vida mused, "that must have been almost twenty years ago. As I recall, Carol left town under a cloud, as we used to say."

My ad manager, Leo Walsh, turned away from his computer screen. "You mean she got knocked up?"

Vida scowled at Leo. "Mind your language. Yes, I believe she was pregnant. One of the Erickson boys. Or was it a Tolberg?" She stopped and stared at me through her red-framed gla.s.ses. "Carol Nerstad was murdered? Heavens, that's a page-one story! Why didn't you say so, Emma?"

My family problem had finally landed in Vida's lap. "Because I didn't know Carol was from here until I saw Ronnie when I was in Seattle over the weekend. Yes, it is a story for The Advocate, even though the actual murder happened a couple of weeks ago."

Vida was agog. "What about services? Where was Carol buried? Who handled the arrangements?" She slapped at her visitors' chair. "Do sit and stop prowling around like a cat on a griddle. Why didn't we get a notice from the funeral home in Seattle?"

With a sigh, I sat down next to Vida's desk. "I haven't any idea about the burial. You know perfectly well that we don't always get alerted when a former resident dies. If my cousin had anything to do with it, he probably didn't even mention where Carol was born. I'm not sure he knows where he was born."

"But you do," Vida said, looking as if she was about to pounce on me.

"Yes, he was born in Seattle." I stared at Vida. "So what?"

"Family. Kin. Ties. Really, Emma," she said in reproach, "except for your parents and your brother, Ben, you don't speak much about your relatives. Frankly, I've always found that odd."

Leo chuckled. "I find it a d.a.m.ned good thing. The trouble with you, d.u.c.h.ess," he went on, using the nickname Vida despised, "is you've got so many relatives and in-laws and s.h.i.+rttail relations that n.o.body can keep them straight."

"I can," Vida snapped. "One of the things that's wrong with this world is that families don't keep up with each other. They move here, there, and everywhere like a bunch of nomads. What are they looking for? Trouble, mostly. If Carol Nerstad had stayed in Alpine, she probably wouldn't have gotten herself murdered. Now," she continued, her voice quieting, "tell me what happened, Emma."

"I would if I could get a-"

"' Morning, all," said a deep voice from the doorway as Scott Chamoud arrived, late as usual. "What's up?"

"The d.u.c.h.ess's dander," Leo replied. "Thanks for joining us, Scotty. We're having a staff meeting."

My young reporter's limpid brown eyes grew wide. "We are? Did I forget?"

"No," I managed to get in, "you didn't. Leo's kidding. But," I added with a meaningful glance at my watch, "you're late. It's almost eight-thirty."

Scott waved a white paper bag he'd been hiding behind his back. "I know. It was my turn to stop at the Upper Crust Bakery. Anyone for fresh doughnuts and some cinnamon twists?"

It was hard to get mad at Scott. He was not only a good writer, but handsome as h.e.l.l. I didn't bother to remind him that he would have been late with or without the bakery stop.

"I'll take a twist," I said, holding out my hand. Vida, who is always dieting to no perceptible effect, staunchly shook her head. Leo snagged a couple of doughnuts before Scott sat down behind his desk.

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, then glancing at Scott. "I'm filling everyone in-I guess-on the recent murder in Seattle of a young woman who grew up in Alpine and *left under a cloud.' "

"Pregnant?" Scott asked.

I deferred to Vida, who nodded solemnly. "Anyway," I went on, "she happened to be living with a cousin of mine who I hadn't seen in years. Ronnie Mallett is kind of a loser, and a week ago Friday, the girlfriend-Carol Nerstad Stokes-was found strangled in the apartment they shared. Ronnie doesn't have an alibi, a neighbor overheard them quarreling earlier, and when he was picked up by the cops a few hours later, he looked as if he'd been in a fight. I get the impression that he was a smartmouth when he was interrogated, and not very helpful. Ronnie probably annoyed the detectives, which no doubt made the situation look bad for him. He swears he didn't do it, and he asked me to help him prove it. Or something like that."

"Drink," Vida intoned. "So often at the source."

"Or drugs," Leo said, lighting a cigarette in spite of Vida's usual dagger-eyed look. "Does this Ronnie do drugs?"

"I don't know," I replied. "He seems like the type who'd smoke weed. From what little I saw of him at the jail Sat.u.r.day, the verb do and Ronnie don't seem to have much in common."

"Did he do it?" Scott asked, with that dazzling grin.

"He says he didn't," I answered slowly. "Ronnie claims to have been in a neighborhood bar. Unfortunately, he can't recall which one."

"Drink," Vida repeated. "Didn't I say so?"

"How was the girlfriend strangled?" Leo asked, blowing smoke rings, though fortunately not in Vida's direction.

"With a drapery cord," I said after swallowing a bite of cinnamon twist. "Carol was found by her daughter, who called the police. They were still there when Ronnie staggered home. I guess the daughter has it in for him, at least according to Ronnie."

"A daughter," Vida echoed. "I wonder, now... Would she be the child that Carol was carrying when she left Alpine?"

I had no idea. Ronnie hadn't been good at details, and we hadn't been able to spend much time together.

"Why'd he call you," Leo asked, "when you just said you hadn't seen him in years?"

"Good question," I said as Ginny Erlandson, our office manager, came in to refill the coffeepot. "Somewhere along the line, Carol found out I was Ronnie's cousin. She must have had some fairly recent Alpine contact, because she told him-or so he claims-that I was some sort of super-sleuth. Ronnie remembered that, if not much else, and got his attorney to ask me to come see him."

"Lose the guy," Leo advised. "Why get involved with some long-lost cousin who's probably lying through his teeth?"

"Really, Leo," Vida said in disgust, "what a cra.s.s att.i.tude. He's kin. Naturally, Emma wants to help."

I blinked at Vida. "I do?"

"Of course," she a.s.serted, joining Ginny at the hot plate and pouring herself more hot water. "He's fighting for his life. How could you reject his plea?"

"I'm not a detective," I declared. "I don't really know the guy. I live in Alpine, not Seattle. Where would I find the time to investigate the case? Vida, you're nuts."

"Nonsense," Vida said calmly. "You'd feel guilty if you turned him down. If he's really innocent, and yet is convicted, you'll never forgive yourself. Besides," she added, her majestic bust thrust forward as she returned to her desk, "I'll help."

I didn't argue with Vida-then. We had a paper to put out. Our pub date is Wednesday, and this was the week before Easter, which meant the paper would double in size because of the extra advertising. That, in turn, meant that we had to have enough editorial copy to balance off the ads. Dutifully, I typed up the story on Carol's murder, relating the facts as I knew them. I left Ronnie's name out of it, referring to him only as Carol's boyfriend and the prime suspect. At least the six inches of copy would help fill the front page.

Not that I was ungrateful for the extra advertising revenue. Contrary to rumor, weekly newspapers aren't a cash cow, at least not The Advocate. This would be the first time in my ten-year career as editor and publisher that I'd face advertising compet.i.tion, a subject that inevitably came up whenever Leo and I talked.

"This Fleetwood guy is supposed to go on air June first," my ad manager announced when he came into my cubbyhole of an office around nine o'clock. "I drove by his shack on the fish hatchery road last night. It looks like they're getting ready to install the hardware. You still good for next Tuesday?"

I glanced at my wall calendar, a promo for Harvey's Hardware and Sporting Goods. Harvey Adc.o.c.k only used one color photo for the year, almost always a different view of Mount Baldy, looming over Alpine.

"As far as I know," I said. "I suppose I should have met this Spencer Fleetwood sooner."

Leo shrugged. "Why? You've covered the story. One feature interview's enough for a guy who's trying to steal our customer base."

"I don't see how he's going to survive," I remarked. "Heck, I don't see how we're going to survive. There are seven thousand people in this county, and I'm not sure we can support a newspaper and a radio station. How's he going to pay staff?"

"He isn't," Leo replied, lighting another cigarette. "KSKY will be on the air from five until midnight, at least for starters. He'll handle most of the work, maybe use some kids from the community college as interns, and then buy those canned music programs, with a generic host."

"The locals won't like it if they find out their favorite announcer is from Philadelphia," I noted.

Leo shook his head. "There are shows produced in Seattle and Tacoma. Spence, or whatever he calls himself, can get people who know a mountain from a molehill."

I grimaced. "You aren't making me feel better."

Leo's green eyes crinkled at the corners. He was from Southern California, in his mid-fifties, divorced with grown kids, had overcome a problem with the bottle, and found a home at The Advocate. In other words, he was a middle-aged cliche, another loser who'd cut his losses.

"I thought," Leo said, his expression droll, "being a journalist, you searched for truth. The truth is, Spencer Fleetwood is a pain in the a.s.s as far as we're concerned. h.e.l.l, he asked me if we wanted to exchange ads. You know, quid pro quo."

"Do we?"

"Sure, unless you want to start a blood feud."

"No. There're enough feuds in Alpine as it is," I said, watching Leo exhale and wondering how long I could stay off cigarettes this time. "Tuesday, noon, the ski lodge, right?"

Leo stood up. "Right."

So why did I feel it was wrong?

There were many things wrong with my life, though my car wasn't one of them. But that night, around five-thirty, as I walked out to the two-year-old champagne-colored Lexus parked at the curb, I suffered mixed emotions. The car was a semi-gift from my longtime lover and the father of my only son. Tom Cavanaugh had been in Alpine last December when a crank destroyed my darling Jaguar with a sledgehammer. Since Tom had been staying with me and his middle name is Guilt, he had offered to replace the Jag. I'd resisted. My finely honed independence wouldn't permit such a gift. I'd told Tom it made me feel like a kept woman. Tom had laughed and agreed to a loan arrangement, the terms of which I set down: I'd pay him fifty bucks a month until he married me. Considering how much even a used Lexus costs and Tom's ability to stall, I figured the car would be paid off about the time I was confined to a nursing home.

Thus I wasn't entirely happy with our little agreement. I resented Tom's easy extravagance and my not-so-easy acquiescence. On the other hand, the Jag had been wrecked just before Christmas, and I was broke. The meager insurance money had made me feel a little better, because I'd turned the check over to Tom. But while he guided his daughter through the first stages of single motherhood in San Francisco, I fumed in Alpine. Tom had been a widower for over a year, and we had no definite plans for the future.

The immediate future, however, was another matter and even more vexing. I eased the Lexus along the driveway to my little log house at the edge of the forest and just sat there. In the past few months I'd begun to dread going home. As I drummed my fingers on the pearl-gray steering wheel and watched a pair of crows flap their wings in one of the tall firs that stood behind my house, I found it ironic that I couldn't kill time by listening to the radio. Apparently, I was in some sort of dead zone. The signals from Everett and Seattle got through only on an irregular basis. I was as likely to pick up San Mateo or Spokane as to tune into a regional station. Because of the mountains, reception from out of town was unreliable for most Alpine residents. Which, I had to concede, made an ideal situation for Spencer Fleetwood and KSKY.

Finally, I got out of the car, gritted my teeth, and went into the house. As usual, the living room was strewn with toys, baby clothes, dirty plastic dishes, and tabloid newspapers. Two Siamese cats batted a dirty disposable diaper between them. Amber Ramsey and her baby, Danny, were nowhere to be seen, but I could hear the TV blaring in my son Adam's old room.

The cats, Rheims and Rouen, abandoned the diaper and rushed to rub up against my ankles. Then they each let out that eerie cry that is the breed's call to dinner, among other things. No doubt they hadn't been fed all day. Grimly, I marched into the kitchen-another mess- and opened a fresh can of Friskies Mariner's Catch.

"Poor babies," I murmured, giving each a pa.s.sing stroke before they got down to business at their dishes by the back door. I'd inherited the cats from a friend, and they were considerably cleaner than my so-called houseguest.

"Amber!" I shouted, going into the little hall that leads to the two bedrooms and the bath, "can you turn that thing down and come out here?"

The sound was lowered slightly, then Amber, carrying five-month-old Danny, wandered into the living room. "Hi," she said without much enthusiasm. "You okay?"

"No," I declared, waving a hand at the debris. "Amber, how many times have I asked you to pick up after yourself and the baby?" Nag, nag. "This place is a wreck." Nagging wasn't my style. "I really don't like coming home to more work after a day at the office." Double and triple nag. I was turning into a battle-ax.