The Alpine Uproar Part 15

"Fine," Marisa replied. "I'll help."

"You don't need to. This is an easy dinner." I led the way into the kitchen. "I bought the crab for the sheriff, but he had to cancel. His ex is in town to discuss their daughter's upcoming wedding."

"Milo's certainly not a deadbeat dad," Marisa remarked.

"No. He paid his dues until the kids were eighteen." I poured more wine into Marisa's almost empty gla.s.s. "Now he's supposed to dole out some big bucks for his half of the nuptials."

"That's fair, I suppose." Marisa gazed around the kitchen. "Let's hope the wedding is a onetime-only event. I could practically live on divorce money. Marriage is an endangered species." She watched me while I took one of the crabs out of the fridge. "Maybe it's just as well I've stayed single. My, but that's a big crab! I see the Grocery Basket has oysters on sale this weekend. I think I'll get some."

"It's tempting," I allowed, removing the potato and Caesar salads before closing the fridge. As usual, Marisa had steered the conversation away from her private life. And mine. Our friends.h.i.+p had grown in recent months, but we never discussed our love lives-or lack thereof.

Sh.e.l.lfish seemed to be a much safer topic-for both of us.

ELEVEN.

IT HAD BEEN A PLEASANT, LOW-KEY EVENING. MARISA WENT home shortly after nine-thirty. I slept until almost ten the next morning, not realizing that the week's events had tired me out. There was no further word from Rolf, but Adam had e-mailed me. He'd hoped to come to Alpine for Thanksgiving, but a young couple at one of his mission churches wanted to get married on the Sat.u.r.day after the holiday.

"I know you'll be p.i.s.sed," he wrote, "but the couple chose the twenty-seventh because it's the groom's parents' anniversary. I'm not allowed to be p.i.s.sed, given my priestly vocation, but if it were possible, I would be, too. Maybe I can make it for Christmas, but I'm not promising anything this year. Meanwhile, feel free to send presents and money."

Some things about my son never changed. I e-mailed him back that I was indeed p.i.s.sed and if he couldn't come for Christmas maybe I should go to St. Mary's Igloo and celebrate it with him. I'd never been to Alaska, but I'd toyed with the idea of making the journey. Apparently Adam was still online because he responded almost immediately.

"Don't. If you ever do come up here, make sure it's during the summer before the mosquitoes get to be the size of pterodactyls. I don't want to spend my time trying to keep you attached to a frozen rope or having a nervous breakdown when you see my modes of land, water, and air transportation during the winter. Meanwhile, send thermal underwear and heavy boots with serious traction. I could use a new pair of snow-shoes, too. Check out the MSR Denali Evo model. When you see the price, note that they're not as expensive as a car. Thanks, MOM."

The capital letters were deliberate. I'd told Adam long ago that they were short for "Made Of Money," which apparently was how he regarded his mother. I thought that once he was ordained, he might stop seeking my financial aid. That had never happened. Sometimes I felt as if I had taken the vow of poverty. Even though he had finally received a decent sum from his late father's estate, he'd insisted on putting the money into a fund to be used only for his paris.h.i.+oners. It was a n.o.ble concept, but my tenuous dream of my son's financial independence had disappeared into the long Alaskan nights.

A half-hour later, I went outside. The autumn weather had changed overnight, with almost clear skies, suns.h.i.+ne, and that brisk, crisp feeling that comes with nature's decay and yet is invigorating. I decided I'd do some more garden cleanup before the first snowfall.

My nice neighbors, Val and Viv Marsden, were already busy raking leaves and filling a composter. I greeted them from across the fence.

"If," Viv said, using the back of her hand to brush a bit of dirt from her forehead, "you want anything hauled away, the Peabody brothers are coming by around one. We're taking out that old holly bush. It's gotten out of control."

I gazed across the yard at the ma.s.sive holly. "It's never produced berries, has it?"

Viv shook her head. "No. We kept hoping, but maybe it needs a mate. Now it's getting so big that it obscures our view of the street."

Val had wandered over to join us. "Hey, what's going on around this town?" he asked, leaning what looked like a brand-new shovel against the split-rail fence. "Is another tavern brawl-excuse the expression-on tap for tonight?"

I laughed. "I hope not. We don't need any more bad news."

Viv nudged Val with her elbow and winked at me. "You see, Emma? Now you know why I've nagged Val about hanging out in taverns after work. We couldn't have raised our kids if he'd kept spending his paycheck from the state fisheries on beer."

We all chuckled. Val was allergic to alcohol and hadn't taken a drink since his freshman year at the University of Was.h.i.+ngton. "I could get in trouble at work just talking about taverns," he said, turning serious. "Like a moron, I asked Walt Hanson about what happened at the ICT. He gave me a dirty look and turned away so fast that he almost fell into one of the hatchery ponds."

"Touchy subject," I said. "His wife, Amanda, is filling in for Ginny Erlandson, who had her baby this week."

Viv smiled. "We heard. Another boy. Is Ginny disappointed?"

"She'll be fine," I said. "That reminds me, I should buy a gift."

"Ginny and Rick have a nice little family," Viv said. "I always wonder about couples who don't have children. Maybe Walt and Amanda would've been better off if they'd had kids."

Val shook his head. "Some people shouldn't be parents. Look at the Nelson bunch next to Emma. They weren't cut out to raise kids. The Hansons would have problems with or without adding children into the mix. I don't know how they've stayed together this long."

I asked the obvious. "They're in trouble?"

Val grimaced. "I don't think Amanda's been happy since they moved here. And that makes Walt grouchy. It's no picnic working with him. You never know what's going to set Walt off."

"I suppose," I said, "she blamed him for being transferred here."

Viv's expression was ironic. "Amanda blames Walt for everything, including the weather. Which," she went on, looking skyward, "is good today so we'd better get back to work." She punched Val in the upper arm. "Let's. .h.i.t the dirt, darlin'. The Peabodys will be along in a while."

I returned to my own patch. It was almost noon. Clipping, clearing, and cleanup filled the next hour. By the time the Peabodys pulled up in their battered truck, I had enough yard waste to fill a small dumpster. I decided to take the offer of adding my pile to the Marsdens'.

I'd never been able to tell Myron from Purvis. They weren't twins, but only about a year apart, and both were well over six feet tall and must have each weighed 250. They seemed to be balding at the same rate, their agate-blue eyes were identical, and neither spoke much. For a long time, I'd considered the brothers to be slow-witted, but Vida informed me that wasn't so. Their mother, Alva, had been a nonstop talker. Neither her husband nor her sons had ever been able to get a word in edgewise. "Alva Peabody," Vida insisted, "would talk to me until I withered. Imagine!"

I'd admitted being stupefied by such a garrulous woman. Now, as the Peabodys headed into my yard after they'd finished hacking down the holly and put the remains in their truck, I marveled that they were able to talk at all. "I appreciate your help," I told them. "Are you sure you have room for my stuff?"

One of them-I decided he was Myron-nodded. "It'll fit in."

Purvis-I was still guessing, of course-nodded, and began gathering up the leaves, branches, and other debris. It took two trips to the truck for the Peabodys to dispose of what would've taken me a half-hour of work if I'd done it myself.

I handed each of the brothers a twenty-dollar bill. "Thanks."

"Right," Myron said, showing a gap-toothed smile.

"Hey, you two must have had a weird adventure the other night at ICT," I said.

The brothers glanced at each other. Purvis spoke first. "You mean Clive and Al?"

"Yes."

"Real bad," Myron murmured.

"Fights happen," Purvis said, frowning at some fresh scratches on the back of his hand that had probably been caused by the holly.

Myron nodded. "Al should've backed off."

Purvis also nodded. "He was under the weather."

I felt confused. "I thought it was Mickey Borg who was ill."

"Him, too," Purvis said.

"Flu." Myron grimaced. "It's going around."

"Yes," I agreed. "It's that time of year. Did Al say he was sick?"

"He had a headache," Purvis replied. "He looked bad."

"Who started the fight?"

Again, the brothers looked at each other. Was the younger deferring to the elder? Or the other way around? Which one was the elder or the younger? Which one was Myron and which one was Purvis? Did it matter? They seemed to be one person in two bodies.

"Clive," Myron finally stated.

"Why?" I asked.

"That lady," Purvis said. "Clive's lady."

Myron nodded. "Al was rude to her."

Purvis also nodded. "She left."

I tried to digest this new bit of information. "Jica Weaver," I said under my breath. "I thought the fight was about Holly."

Both Peabodys shook their heads. "No," Myron said.

"Holly was going with us," Purvis added, his ruddy face darkening.

Taking a pocket watch out of his overalls, Myron squinted at the face. "Getting on to two. Got to go."

"Right," Purvis agreed.

They both nodded at me before going to their truck. I stood at the edge of my driveway, trying not to visualize the menage a trois of the Peabody brothers and Holly Gross. It was a difficult image to dismiss. So was their take on the ICT tragedy. Myron and Purvis had given statements. I wondered if they jibed with the account I'd just heard.

There was only one way to find out. I went inside and called the sheriff. He didn't answer his home phone, so I dialed the number for his cell. He didn't answer that, either. In fact, I got a message saying that the party I was trying to reach was out of range.

The sheriff was seldom incommunicado-unless he was fis.h.i.+ng. There are many dead zones around Alpine where rivers, streams, and lakes nestled in the rugged terrain. A riot could break out at the Alpine Mall, a gun-toting psycho might be on top of the old water tower, an arsonist could set fire to city hall, but if the fish were biting, Milo didn't much care. To make sure he was still alive, I rang his office.

Doe Jamison was on duty. "You're right," she said. "The boss went fis.h.i.+ng at Goblin Creek. After last night, he had to get away."

"It was that bad with the former Mrs. Dodge?"

Doe was admirably if annoyingly reticent about the sheriff and his personnel. "Let's say that he needed a break," she replied.

"I understand. Maybe you can help me. Have you got the Peabody brothers' statement handy?"

She paused. "I can find it. Why? Has something come up?"

"I'm on a fis.h.i.+ng expedition of my own."

"Okay. Hold on."

Five minutes pa.s.sed before I heard Doe's phlegmatic voice again. "Do you know which Peabody is which?" she asked.

"No. I'm not sure anybody does unless it'd be Vida."

"Their statements were taken by Sam Heppner," Doe said. "The brothers arrived a little after nine, sat at a table, and ordered beer and food. They're regulars, especially on weekends. An hour or so pa.s.sed. By the way, Sam has a notation that the Peabodys seem vague about time. They ordered a couple more beers and then one of them-Sam's got a question mark after Purvis's name-tried to use the men's room but Mickey Borg was in there and wouldn't come out. Purvis-a.s.suming it was Purvis, not Myron-went out the back way to take a leak. As he was going out, Al De Muth was coming in, cussing out somebody under his breath. Purvis thought he was b.i.t.c.hing about Mickey's long session in the can. The brothers then joined the Hansons and the Borgs at the pool table. Al and Clive were arguing, but the boys didn't pay much attention until the fight broke out. The Peabodys wanted to break it up but before they could act, Al suddenly went down."

"That's it?"

"That's what Sam put down," Doe said. "You know Heppner-he hates taking statements. The Peabodys don't like giving them."

"They're not talkers," I said, and explained that I'd spoken to them earlier. "I got an even more abbreviated version. The brothers didn't mention Holly going home with them?"

"No. I can check her statement. Just a sec."

I waited, standing by the front window as a red motor scooter rolled along on Fir Street. Mike Corson-Delphine's son and the Sat.u.r.day mailman-pulled up in his US Postal Service Jeep to stuff what looked like another bunch of junk into my box. A chipmunk raced across the front yard. Idly, I wondered if chipmunks, like dogs, bit mailmen.

"More of Sam's notes," Doe finally said. "No, there's nothing in them about the Peabody brothers. Holly went home on her own."

"That doesn't mean she couldn't have had them join her at the mobile home park," I pointed out. "How did she say the fight started?"

"She claims it was over her," Doe replied. "She also says she was pretty drunk. Let me check something ..."

Again, I waited. A forest service truck drove by. A couple of kids on bikes pedaled in the other direction. One of Mrs. Holmgren's cats wandered into my yard, sniffed around, and meandered off again.

"I'm looking at Janie Borg's statement," Doe said. "She mentions that Holly came on to Clive and he called her a tramp. Al came to Holly's defense. Before the fists started flying Al told Clive he wouldn't fix his truck because he was, and I quote, 'one bigmouthed b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' That, Janie stated, is when they started to go at it. Have you talked to Clive?"

"No," I admitted. "This story belongs to Mitch. He's a veteran reporter so I didn't want to interfere. Anyway, I hardly know Clive."

"You might want to stop by," Doe said. "Clive's getting bored with Fred's stories about his drinking days."

"Oh-that's right," I said. "Clive has Fred for company over the weekend. Is that cruel and unusual punishment?"

"I can tune him out," Doe replied, "but Clive's a fresh audience for Fred. He gets preachy, insisting Al would still be alive if not for Demon Rum. At least Fred didn't call liquor 'firewater.' I might've decked him."

I smiled to myself. Doe was part Native American, a stocky, stolid young woman whose dander wasn't easily raised. I had to a.s.sume Fred and Clive were probably driving her nuts on what should've been a fairly quiet Sat.u.r.day holding down the fort at the sheriff's office.

I hesitated, not wanting to trump Mitch. "I suppose I ought to know what Clive looks like. I don't recall meeting him." My watch told me it was almost two-thirty. "I have an errand to run and then I'll stop by. See you." I hung up and changed clothes before driving to kIds cOrNEr at the mall. The capital letters spelled the owner's first name, Ione. Her last name was Erdahl.

"Another Erlandson shopper?" Ione asked when I entered the store. "We've had several of them already."

"Okay. Don't let me duplicate what the others bought."

"Get onesies," Ione said. "You can't go wrong. Babies use up about three a day." She pointed to a display next to the counter. "This bunch just came in Friday. They've got matching pants and jackets."

"I'll go for a set in the brown shade." I tried not to flinch at the price tags. "I'll take a set in that raspberry color and a dark green one. I need a gift card. You'll do the wrap-"

My cell phone rang. "Sorry," I said to Ione. After fumbling around in my handbag, I found the cell on the third ring.