The Alpine Uproar Part 17

Milo leaned his head against the wall. "Jesus!"

I closed my eyes and crossed myself. We all seemed at a loss for words. The terrible silence was finally broken by the sheriff. "That really tears it," he said in a hoa.r.s.e voice before he slumped down into a chair at the counter.

I steeled myself and went to comfort Doe, who seemed frozen in place. "Who did you talk to?" I asked.

She didn't seem to hear me. I put a hand on her arm. "Doe?"

At last she responded. "Jake O'Toole." She cleared her throat. "He could hardly talk. All I know is ... what I said." She shuddered. "I didn't even know Mike."

I nodded. "I didn't, either, but it's a terrible shock when somebody so young dies."

Milo crushed his cigarette in an empty coffee mug and sat up straight. "I've seen him around. G.o.d, the poor family. The O'Tooles are good folks. Life's such a bunch of c.r.a.p."

"It can be," I said quietly. "Was Jake calling from the hospital?"

Doe shook her head. "I don't know."

"I'm going to stop by the store." Ordinary routine seemed to help me deal with tragedies. "If you hear anything more, let me know." I stared at Milo. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Right." He was gazing off into s.p.a.ce.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the Grocery Basket's parking lot. A young man was on a ladder, taking down the GET WELL, MIKE! message on the reader board. I watched him from the car. He looked vaguely familiar. I wondered if he was Mike's brother.

Getting out of the car, I went over to the reader board. "Kenny?" I ventured.

The young man looked down at me. "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry for all of you. Is there anything I can do?"

With his soft features and beardless face, Kenny looked younger than twenty-two. He also seemed puzzled. "No. Thanks, though."

I realized he didn't know who I was. "If you can think of anything-anything at all-call me at home or at work. I'm Emma Lord from the Advocate."

Kenny didn't move for a few moments before he replied. "I know. I've seen you at church." He looked at the letters in his hand. "You're a writer. You can tell me what to put up here. I don't know how to say ... what should be said."

"Your parents and your aunt and uncle will know," I told him.

He shook his head. "I have to do it now." He glanced at the reader board where only the last few letters of the original message remained in place. "I can't leave this blank."

"No," I agreed, "you can't." The sky had started to cloud over. Only tired phrases staggered through my mind. "Have you got plenty of letters in that box?" I asked, stalling for time.

Kenny O'Toole glanced at the cardboard carton in front of him. "I think so. I've got a bunch of numbers, too. For when they put up sale prices."

"Okay." I tried to think of something that didn't sound like utter pap. "How about this-'Too young, too soon.' Then the year of his birth and ... this year." Somehow, I couldn't say the year he died. "Then just 'Mike-RIP.'"

Kenny stared into the carton. "That's good. Thanks."

"Are you the only family member here?"

Kenny shook his head. "Aunt Betsy's inside."

I went into the store, which seemed eerily quiet. Small groups of shoppers-no more than three or four-stood together in the aisles or near the front end. Only two checkers were at the stands. For the first time, I noticed that the lighting seemed to make every face I saw look pallid.

I scanned each aisle, but didn't see Betsy anywhere, so I headed for the office. Just before I reached it, a slim middle-aged woman I recognized but whose name eluded me called out. "Ms. Lord?"

"Yes?"

She came toward me, her dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail. "I just heard about Mike," she said. "It's such a waste. He came into the tavern a few times. This has been a terrible week around here."

I realized I was talking to Julie Canby, Spike's wife and maker of onion rings. "It's tragic. How are you holding up, Julie?"

"Ohh ..." She frowned. Up close I noticed that her olive skin was virtually unlined. "I'm all right. I've weathered a few storms in my life. Spike's still trying to get himself together. Nothing's easy, is it?"

"No," I responded. "I just saw Spike. Some college kids found a pool cue in the Sky by Burl Creek. He didn't recognize it, though."

Julie shook her head. "He wouldn't. Spike's not one for details. He's all about being a good barkeep and treating the customers right."

"Of course. Is it true you realized De Muth was dead?"

"By the time I came out of the kitchen, everybody acted as if they were in shock. Poor Al. He never seemed happy. A broken heart, maybe." She sighed. "But he never talked about it to Spike. Most customers unload after a few beers. Not Al. He kept himself to himself, as they say. He didn't seem to have any family around here. Being lonely is tough. Looking down at him, I couldn't help but feel that he'd led a hard life. And yet I think he was basically a good man."

"It's a good thing you kept your wits about you," I said. "It sounds like n.o.body else did."

"I'm a nurse. I worked for a doctor in Snohomish for over twenty years until he retired. I changed careers when I married Spike. Frankly, I'm a better nurse than a cook."

"You did fine by me with your onion rings," I said.

Julie smiled. "Thanks. I heard you came in with Leo. Being in the kitchen means I almost never get to mingle with the customers."

"No girlfriend for De Muth, I a.s.sume?"

Julie shook her head. "He never brought a woman with him. Not," she added with a touch of bitterness, "that living with somebody can't mean you're still lonely."

I a.s.sumed Julie referred to her first marriage to the man in Maltby. "Take care of yourself," I said, inching toward the office door.

"You, too." She moved on, her step brisk.

I knocked twice. Betsy called out, telling me to come in.

"Emma!" she said in surprise, getting up from her chair. "I thought it was Kenny."

"He's finis.h.i.+ng the reader board," I said. "Oh, Betsy, I'm so sorry about Mike. How are Buzzy and Laura?"

"Numb." Betsy sat down again. Her eyes were red and she looked haggard. "As soon as I finish here, I'm going to join them and Jake at the rectory to talk to Father Den. After that, we'll go to Driggers Funeral Home. The faster we can make arrangements, the better."

I sat cautiously on a couple of soup cartons. The O'Toole office was as cramped as my own. "I'd hoped Mike was improving. What happened?"

Betsy took off her half-gla.s.ses and laid them on the desk. "Mike never got out of the ICU. For some reason, they couldn't control his pain no matter how many meds they gave him. He was in utter agony." She stopped, pressing her palms against her eyes. After sniffing a couple of times she put her hands in her lap and shook her head. "I couldn't stand watching him. None of us could. This afternoon he went into cardiac arrest. They tried to save him, but ..." She made a helpless gesture. "I'm trying not to blame the doctors. In hindsight, I wonder why they didn't send Mike into Seattle where there are more sophisticated facilities. They could've used one of those medevac copters."

I had no answer for Betsy. "Maybe," I said after a long pause, "it wouldn't have made any difference. His injuries must've been more serious than we first heard."

"They were, I guess." Betsy grimaced. "I can't even remember all of the bad things the doctors told us. I don't want to remember."

"I don't blame you." I slid off the soup cartons. "I'll let you get back to work so you can meet up with the rest of your family. Truly, if there's anything I can do, let me know. You were such a help to my brother when he was filling in while Father Den was on sabbatical."

Betsy nodded halfheartedly. "Easy to do. Ben's a great guy."

"I know." I went around the desk and put my hand on Betsy's arm. "Please tell the family I'm thinking of them. Praying, too."

"I will," she said, standing up again and hugging me. "Thanks. By the way," she went on, releasing me and checking her watch, "if you see Kenny, tell him we leave here at four-fifteen. We can meet up at my car."

After exiting the office, I stopped, wondering if I should pick up something quick and easy for dinner. It seemed strange to be in the Grocery Basket and not tossing items in a cart. But I couldn't act as if nothing had happened to the people who worked at the store. I began walking faster, trying to ignore the dozen or more customers I saw who were talking softly to one another or staring blankly ahead as they moved in solitude down the aisles.

When I got to the entrance, Kenny was about to enter the store, apparently having finished his sad task with the reader board. I waited for him to get inside before I delivered the message from his aunt.

He nodded but didn't speak.

"You shouldn't have to be doing this," I said quietly. "None of your family should. I've heard you're smart, so you've probably already figured out that life is often cruel and we're all mortal."

Kenny nodded again. He looked at me with soft brown eyes. "I remember when the man you were going to marry was killed. I was there, at the summer solstice parade. I didn't see what happened because we were all down the street by the post office. But I heard the gunshot. We thought it was a firecracker."

I tried to fend off the ghastly image when Tom fell dead at my feet. Five years had pa.s.sed, yet the memory still could send devastating chills down my spine. I did my best to curb my emotions. "That's what I mean," I said, my voice steady while shoving the horrific scene back into the darkest corner of my mind. "You and Mike must have been close."

"We were," Kenny replied. "Well ... the last couple of years it was different. I was going to college here and then to the U. He was into cars and trucks. I suppose we'd both changed." His tone turned wistful. "I guess that's part of growing up. We went in different directions."

"That's natural," I conceded and tried to smile. "You did a good job with the reader board. I know it was a hard thing to do."

Kenny's expression was wry. "Not as hard as saying goodbye."

"No," I agreed. "No, it isn't. Letting go is even harder."

"You can't change what's already happened," he murmured and turned to glance at the reader board's message. "I put that sign up, but I won't take it down. I want to make sure everybody remembers."

THIRTEEN.

WHEN I GOT BACK IN THE CAR, I CALLED GINNY. RICK ANSWERED. He told me that both mother and baby were asleep. I suggested dropping the present off and seeing the new addition at another time. "Do you have a name?" I asked.

"Brandon," Rick replied. "It goes with our older two, Brad and Brett. I suppose he'll end up being Bran. I told Ginny that Brandon Erlandson was kind of a mouthful, but she insisted. I gave in. If we'd had a girl, we planned to call her Brianna."

"Brandon's a nice name," I said. "I'll put the present on the porch."

After I rang off, I removed the small gift card and wrote a short message: "For Brandon-wis.h.i.+ng you and your family much happiness in the years to come."

As I tucked the card in with the present, I glanced again at the reader board. The irony of welcoming a new baby boy into the world and saying good-bye to a young man who had left us wasn't lost on me. The weather's mood was changing to gloomy. Gray clouds were settling in over Alpine, promising rain before evening. Feeling sad, I started the car and headed for the Erlandson house.

Their neat frame bungalow on Pine between Seventh and Eighth streets looked soothingly quiet. I left the present by the front door, got back into my Honda, and followed Seventh up to Tyee. Taking a right, I drove to Vida's house. Her Buick was in the driveway, so I a.s.sumed she was home.

"Well now!" she exclaimed as she ushered me into the living room. "I've been trying to call you. I should've dialed your cell phone."

"I take it you've heard about Mike?"

"Yes," she replied as I sat on the sofa and she stood by the hearth. "Marje Blatt called me. Doc had phoned her. He'd contacted the hospital in Monroe and was given the terrible news." She glanced at a framed photo of her loathsome grandson on the mantel. "Just think-Mike was only a year or so older than Roger." She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. "Shall I make tea?"

I declined the offer. Vida sat down in an easy chair while I told her about my visits to the sheriff's office and the Grocery Basket.

She nodded when I finished. "I tried to call the O'Tooles a few minutes ago, but Betsy had just left. Tell me more about Julie Canby. I scarcely know her. What did she say about the tragedy?"

"She was cooking when the mayhem started. Julie mentioned that she felt sorry for De Muth because he always seemed unhappy. No family, at least not close by. In fact, we don't know much about him."

Vida drummed her short nails on the padded chair arm. "True. I'm trying to recall when he came to Alpine. The repair shop's previous owner was Milt Weiss. He and his wife, Emaline, sold it to De Muth when they-foolishly, in my opinion-moved to Arizona. That would be about six years ago."

"We must've done a story on it," I said. "Sky Service and Towing has always run a small ad in the paper."

"Yes. I believe Leo pa.s.sed on the details about the new owner and Scott Chamoud wrote a short piece." She paused again. I was certain that she was diving into her deep well of memory. "There wasn't much to write about. Alvin De Muth was from east of the mountains. He preferred small towns." Vida grimaced. "Scott said he was a man of few words."

I nodded. "So I'm told. Milo did a background check. If he'd found anything about Al, he might've mentioned it."

"He might not." Vida grimaced. "Milo can be very unforthcoming."

"Maybe," I said, "I should see if Milo wants to eat the other crab tonight. Marisa and I only demolished one between us. I froze the torte." I stood up. "How was your evening with Buck?"

She got out of the easy chair but didn't look at me. "Fine." I waited while she arranged some of the family photos on the mantel. Fondly, she fingered Roger's picture and moved it closer to the front. "You'd think," she said, finally coming toward me, "that Mike O'Toole's youth and general good health would have seen him through this, wouldn't you?"

"I'd hoped as much," I said, "but they didn't. He's not the first young person around here to die in a vehicular accident."

"Still," she added, glancing back at her grandson's smarmy smile, "I get the s.h.i.+vers when I think of something like that happening to Roger. Young people shouldn't die before their time."

"I know."

We walked to the front door. "It's very different raising children these days," she murmured when we got to the porch. "So many more temptations. Not that it's ever easy, but I don't recall sending our three girls out the door and constantly fretting over what might happen to them before they came home again. Or even," she added, more softly, "if they'd come home at all."

I shot her a curious glance as she walked down the front steps with me. "Adam is several years younger than your daughters. I have to admit I worried quite a bit about what could happen when he was out of my sight. Being a single working mom and living in a big city made it even harder."

Vida stopped at the bottom of the steps. "Of course," she remarked in a vague tone. "It feels like rain." Her gaze moved south to Tonga Ridge, which was virtually obscured by gray clouds.

"It's not cold enough for frost, though," I said. "I think I'll call Milo to see if he's free for dinner."

Vida nodded absently. "The park by Redmond has a windmill."

I glanced at her. "What's that got to do with ... anything?"