The Alpine Uproar Part 26

The sheriff shoved the mug back in my direction. "Well?"

"Well what?" I snapped.

"Aren't you going to go into one of your usual long and drawn-out explanations of why you look like bird c.r.a.p?"

"Oh." I made a sour face. "So now I even look bad. It's not enough that I feel bad, right?"

Milo shook his head. "Don't pick a fight, Emma. I'm not in a very good mood, either. I'm d.a.m.ned sick of babysitting so-called prisoners. Why doesn't that hotshot attorney of Clive's get him out on bail? Why can't Fred just lock himself in the john over the weekends instead of bugging the h.e.l.l out of me and the rest of my staff? Why won't ..." He stopped as his cell rang. "What now?" he muttered, checking the phone's tiny screen. "Dodge," the sheriff said in a weary voice and glumly listened. "So? Give it back to Spike Canby. Hey, I don't give a d.a.m.n what he said. He can shove it up his a.s.s for all I care."

"What was that about?" I asked as Milo closed his cell phone.

"Just in case, we sent that pool cue those kids found to the lab in SnoCo. They didn't find zip. I knew they wouldn't. The d.a.m.ned thing had been in the water too long. I told Dwight to give it to Spike whether or not it belonged to him. He doesn't know his a.s.s from a hole in the ground anyway, and Julie Canby told Sam Heppner that they were short a pool cue. Spike can replace it with ..." The sheriff frowned. "Why would anybody take a pool cue?"

"I thought Spike told you they sometimes disappear."

"So he did." The sheriff was still looking thoughtful. "Maybe somebody dropped something into the river or the creek and used a pool cue to get it back. Clothes, maybe."

It wasn't like Milo to speculate. "You mean anywhere along the river? Or at the tavern?"

"How many people who live on the Sky or Burl Creek have a pool table? Even if they did, why take a cue outside?"

I was impressed. "Good point. So you think the one the kids found in the underbrush on the river is from the ICT?"

"Maybe." Milo shook his head. "h.e.l.l, even if that's right, what does it mean?"

We both sat in silence for a few moments. "I heard from Janet Driggers," I finally said. "De Muth was married. Did you know that?"

"No, not until Al Driggers told me." Milo sighed. "The final autopsy on the vic didn't show anything new or different."

"So I gathered from Janet." I resisted needling the sheriff about not giving me the information earlier. "Are you going to contact Mrs. De Muth?"

"Doe got a call from her last night. Nothing she could add except that they'd been separated for several years, but not divorced."

"That's odd," I remarked.

"Is it? Saves money on lawyers if you don't intend to get married again," the sheriff said. "I've known some people like that, including two or three couples here in Alpine who separated, but still lived in the same house. The Skylstads did that for years until Cap fell for one of the Gustavsons and Bessie wanted to marry a guy from Index. The Skylstads finally got a divorce but couldn't agree which one of them should move. They had a big house on First Hill and their kids had moved away so they divided the place and kept right on living there with their new spouses."

"That must've happened before my time." I watched Milo's face closely, half expecting him to make a reference to his own changed marital situation. As far as I could tell, there was no reaction.

"I was in high school back then." Milo took out his cigarettes. "The only one of that foursome who's still alive is Bessie, and she's in the nursing home with Alzheimer's. The poor old gal probably doesn't remember which husband was which-or if she ever had a husband." He lighted his cigarette and took a deep puff.

"I suppose," I said after I'd gotten my ashtray out of the drawer, "I'll have to talk to Marisa Foxx about Holly."

"She's sharp. If Mickey's lying, Marisa will nail him to the courtroom wall."

"Why would he lie?"

Milo snickered. "I can think of one reason. Can't you?"

"Holly's charms are worth a perjury charge? Get real."

The sheriff's hazel eyes locked on my face. "You don't know?"

I scowled at him. "Know what? I'm not up to playing games."

"Let's say it beats child support," Milo said in his laconic voice.

My jaw dropped. "You mean Holly's kids?"

"One of them, anyway." He took another puff and exhaled. "h.e.l.l, Emma, don't you listen to the grapevine? Hasn't Vida told you?"

"Apparently not." I leaned to one side, trying to see around Milo. Mitch was talking to Leo, but Vida wasn't at her desk. "Are you saying that the paternity of Holly's kids is common knowledge?"

"No. But Vida knows all, and sometimes she knows when to keep her mouth shut." The sheriff lowered his voice. "We got a domestic violence call back in ... March? April? Your ex-reporter, Scott Chamoud, got it off the log and put it in the paper, but as usual we withheld names and didn't give a specific address, just that the incident occurred at Spruce and Second streets."

"The trailer park," I said, vaguely recalling the item.

Milo nodded. "You got it. Anyway, Bill Blatt and Doe Jamison responded. The disturbance was between Holly and Mickey. She was pregnant with her third kid and demanding that Mickey pay her off. As so often happens with those domestic battles, they'd both calmed down by the time the deputies got there. Luckily, they didn't turn on Bill and Doe. That's why we hate to get involved in domestic brawls."

"I know. Jack Mullins got a broken arm once and Sam Heppner got hit in the head with a fireplace poker."

"Concussion," Milo recalled. "Sam spent three days in the hospital. I suppose you've already figured out that Vida squeezed the names and details out of her nephew Bill."

I was puzzled. "I don't recall her mentioning it. That's odd."

Milo chuckled. "She can keep some things under those weird hats of hers. Hey, what's Ginny doing up front?"

"Amanda needed some personal time," I replied, not wanting to go into the details. It was almost eleven-thirty. I still had to proof Vida's copy and go over Leo's ads.

"Cute baby," Milo said, taking a big sip of my coffee. "Brendan?"

"Brandon." I realized that the sheriff was making uncharacteristic chitchat. Stalling for time, maybe. "Hey, big guy," I said, "it's Tuesday. Do you remember what that means?"

Milo's innocent expression was also unlike him. "That tomorrow is Wednesday?"

I sighed. "You know d.a.m.ned well it's our deadline. And if you don't then you haven't paid much attention for the last fourteen years."

He shrugged, pushed back in the chair, and stood up. "I know when I'm not wanted. See you."

I watched him stop in the newsroom to talk to Mitch and Leo. The three of them seemed to be yukking it up. Ten minutes later, Vida reappeared and came into my office. "Have you read the Lofgren-Sanford engagement copy yet?" she asked.

"No. Why?"

"I must make a change. The would-be groom's first name is Ronald, not Donald." She grimaced. "That's the trouble with handwritten announcements these days. The younger generation has horrid penmans.h.i.+p. Imagine! Not teaching cursive or penmans.h.i.+p in the schools. What's to become of this country?"

"They can't tell time on a clock with hands," I said. "It's all digital."

Vida agreed. "Oh, yes! As for spelling, they don't use actual words. When I was at my daughter's house for dinner the other night, I happened to see Roger's cell phone. Goodness, do you realize what can be done with those devices? I knew that some of them could take pictures and play music, but Roger's is the latest model, and I can't even begin to recall all of its functions. I glanced at the screen and saw what is called a text message." She picked up one of my memo pads and wrote, 'u r : (me 2 c u 2' followed by what looked a backward C.

I shook my head. "What's that last thing you put down?"

"It's supposed to be a crescent moon," Vida replied. "As you know, I'm not an artist."

"I can make this out," I said a bit sheepishly. "It's shorthand for texting. Some of these symbols show up in e-mails. You must've seen them in the ones you get for the paper."

"Rarely," Vida snapped. "The people who send me e-mails are usually older and wiser."

That was probably true. "Okay, I think the message says 'You are sad. I am, too. See you tonight.' The moon-I think-means night, and it makes sense in context."

"Oh, heavens!" Vida scowled at the notepad. "I upbraided Roger for this sort of thing, but he laughed and insisted everybody does it. Maybe they do, in which case I should apologize to him. He's merely communicating in a more up-to-date manner. I seldom reproach him, and now I feel mortified."

"You shouldn't," I said. "Frankly, I find this sort of thing an abuse of the English language."

"Yes," Vida allowed, "that's why I was upset. He's been to college and I felt he should know better. Now I realize he's ahead of the curve when it comes to technology."

I couldn't look Vida in the eye. If her grandson took an AK-47 to the mall and shot down six innocent shoppers, she'd make excuses for him. I tossed the used page in the wastebasket. "Why was Roger sad?" I asked, hoping that it was because he'd been hired for a full-time job.

Vida looked embarra.s.sed. "I've no idea, because I didn't realize what the letters and numbers meant. Maybe it was the other person who was sad. One of his chums, no doubt. He left not long afterward, and I haven't seen him since. I must call and apologize." Her usually purposeful walk slowed as she exited my cubbyhole.

It didn't take long to go over Vida's weekly contribution to the Advocate. Her style was folksy and would never win any journalism awards. She wrote her features as if they were letters, not newspaper stories. That was fine with her readers, who apparently felt she was taking them into her confidence.

It wasn't quite noon, so I called Marisa, hoping to catch her before she went to lunch. She was eating in according to Judi Hinshaw, who transferred my call.

I kept my account of Holly's purported lawsuit short. "And no, I've no idea who Holly has hired to represent her."

"At this point," Marisa said, "I don't care if she's hired Clarence Darrow. If Mickey Borg is lying to the sheriff, his eyewitness story has to be exposed before we ever get inside a courtroom. If Holly formally charges you with a.s.sault, it's a criminal case."

"Oh for ..." I stopped. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Dodge should've," Marisa said. "Didn't he mention it?"

"No." Resentment welled up. Was Milo so wrapped up reconciling with Tricia that he didn't give a d.a.m.n what happened to me? Or wasn't he taking Holly seriously? "No," I repeated. "Except for the hiring of a lawyer, the sheriff didn't have much else to say. Although," I added lamely, "he thought that you could handle Mickey Borg on the witness stand."

"We don't want to get that far," Marisa said. "Talk to Dodge. I won't bill you for something that should go away."

"Okay." I remembered something Marisa had told me when she was at my house for dinner. "I hate taking up your time, but the other night you mentioned that awhile back Holly wanted to see you about doing pro bono work for her. Judi told her your services weren't free. Was Holly trying to get child support from her kids' deadbeat dads?"

"Yes. I never spoke to Holly, though."

"So how does she get by? I don't recall her ever working."

"That depends on your definition of work."

"Supporting three kids as a hooker in Alpine?"

"She lives in a trailer and she's probably on welfare. For all I know, she got another attorney to handle the child support issue. He or she may be the same one she claims to have taken on her lawsuit," Marisa said, speaking faster than usual.

I realized that Marisa was growing impatient. She wouldn't be lunching at her desk unless she was busy. "I'll let you go," I said, "but I heard Mickey Borg is supposed to be one of kids' father."

"That might explain why he'd lie for her," Marisa said.

"Thanks, Marisa," I said as Vida stomped into my cubbyhole. "I'll let you know what happens next." I hung up.

"I've rarely seen the likes of this!" Vida declared, waving a computer printout at me. "It's an e-mail from Janet Driggers about Alvin De Muth. He had a wife. Why didn't that ever come to light?"

"Probably because his wife-or widow, I should say-lives in Colorado," I replied. "Is there any mention of children? I forgot to ask."

Vida was still annoyed. "No. Mrs. De Muth is the only survivor." She scrutinized Janet's message. "She wants the body s.h.i.+pped to a funeral home in Denver. I'll write this up now. I'm eating in today."

As she left my office, Ginny came in. "Rick's taking the SUV to Bert Anderson's place. Is it okay if I leave now so I can pick him up?"

"Sure," I said, noting that it was twelve-fifteen. "Can I hitch a ride? My car's supposed to be ready, but I'll check with Bert to make sure."

"Okay," Ginny said. "I'll get Brandon ready to go."

Bert, however, had bad news. "Sorry, but I got sidetracked. One of Blue Sky Dairy's trucks had an electrical problem. Can't let the town go without milk. I'm finis.h.i.+ng that job now, so I'll get back to your Honda as soon as I grab a sandwich. Your car will be ready by five."

"I hope so," I said.

I went to the front office to tell Ginny I wouldn't be tagging along. She offered to fill in again if we had any more problems. I said thanks, hugged her a second time, touched Brandon's soft cheek, and watched mother and son exit. I got my jacket and purse, planning to run across the street to the Burger Barn. Before I could get to the door, Betsy O'Toole practically bowled me over as she tried to come inside.

"Emma!" she cried. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"Why?"

"We have to talk," Betsy said, her eyes red and her skin so pale that the freckles had all but disappeared. We were both on the threshold. I was leaning against the door to keep it open. If Betsy came in, we'd have no privacy from Vida. Fortunately, she couldn't see us from where she was sitting at her desk.

"Let's go to the Venison Inn," I said, taking Betsy's arm and moving away so the door could shut.

She tried to hold back. "But I can't let anyone see me like ..."

"You want Vida to see you?"

"Oh. I thought she'd be at lunch."

"Not today." I let go of Betsy's arm. "We can eat in the bar. It's never too full at lunchtime."

"I can't eat."

"You look like you could use a drink."

"I could, but I won't. What would our customers think if they saw me ..." She stopped just short of the restaurant's entrance, using the reflection on the door's plate gla.s.s for a mirror. "Oh, G.o.d, I look ghastly. I should've put a grocery bag over my head."

"Let's go to the bar," I said. "We won't have to wait to be seated."

Inside, I hustled Betsy down the row of booths, talking her ear off about something-or-other to give the impression we were wrapped up in our conversation and couldn't pause to exchange greetings. The Reverend Poole was sitting with an elderly woman, Scooter Hutchins studied flooring samples under the watchful eye of a well-dressed younger man, four members of the community college faculty including the dean of students were engrossed in the menus, and Stella Magruder's husband, Richie, was chatting with Harvey Adc.o.c.k. If any of them noticed our quick pa.s.sage down the aisle between the booths, they didn't try to detain us.

"Corner table," I murmured, nodding as far away from the bar activity as we could get. If Betsy changed her mind about a drink, I'd have one, too. My back still hurt but I hadn't taken a Demerol since breakfast.