Free The Alpine Advocate by Mary Daheim Page A

don’t call me dumb. I’m not.”
    I didn’t reply. I already knew that.
    I took Vida with me to the murder site. Carla had begged to come along, but this was a tricky story, dealing with the most powerful family in the county. Vida might have the tact of a bull elephant, but she knew the cast of characters, and they knew her. In a small town, that was crucial.
    It was a mile from
The Advocate
to Mineshaft Number Three, just off the county road that wound up through the foothills to the ranger station and Icicle Creek Camp Ground. The wind had blown itself out against the mountains, and the rain was coming down in a straight, steady drizzle. In the older residential section of frame houses on the edge of downtown, smoke spiraled out of chimneys and many of the lights were on. Russet leaves drifted into gardens that still sported dahlias, roses, chrysanmemums, and marigolds. Yet the splashes of color in the gray morning seemed more brave than bright.
    I followed the curve of the road past a tract of newer homes, mostly split level, almost all with some sort of recreational vehicle parked in the driveway or the two-car garage. These Apliners were outdoor people who spent their leisure time fishing and hunting, hiking and camping. I, too, have been known to do a little stream fishing. Unfortunately,since arriving in Alpine, all I’ve had to show for it are two small rainbow trout and an extremely ugly bull-head. Even this far from the urban center, I’m told the halcyon days of trout fishing are over.
    At the edge of town, on the sidehill, the cemetery crept up into the evergreens. I glanced that way, thinking of the new grave that soon would be dug, no doubt near the final resting place of Hazel Doukas, Neeny’s wife.
    “Did Mark have any enemies?” I asked Vida, who would know if anyone did.
    She was sewing a button on the cuff of her blouse, no easy task considering the ruts and curves in the road. “Dozens. He was a twerp.”
    Up ahead on the jutting bluff known as First Hill, I saw Neeny Doukas’s big house, all gray stone and dark stucco, with a massive front porch. It stood on a full acre and was reached by a switchback driveway that wound above Icicle Creek and the woods around Mineshaft Number Three.
    “I mean,
real
enemies,” I said, slowing for the left-hand turn to the mine.
    “Oh.” Vida bit the thread. “Well, no. He’s gotten into oodles of fights, usually when he’s been drinking. But they don’t count. He’s never worked much, so he hasn’t put a crimp in anybody’s career. There have been a slew of girls, but most of them have dumped him, instead of the other way around. He had a bona-fide feud going with Josh Adcock, Harvey and Darlene’s oldest boy, but Josh has a Fulbright to Cal Tech, so he’s not around. Their quarrel had something to do with a high school football game. Mark fumbled one of Josh’s handoffs in the league championship.”
    Alpine’s grudges still amazed me. Mark Doukas and Josh Adcock had graduated from high school at least eight years earlier. Forgiving and forgetting weren’t small-town virtues.
    The mine was only about twenty feet from the main road, just off the turn into Neeny’s long driveway. I pulled over when I saw two sheriff’s cars and a van barring theway. A half-dozen men were scrutinizing an area roped off by yellow and black crime scene tape.
    “In other words,” I said to Vida as I turned off the engine, “you don’t have a favorite suspect.”
    Vida shrugged. “Not off the top of my head.”
    “Gibb didn’t like him,” I noted, recalling the venom our driver had exhibited the previous day. “How come?”
    For once, Vida didn’t have a ready answer. “Oh—lack of respect, maybe. Gibb needs respect, especially since he lost that leg.” She took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, always a sure sign that she was either agitated or lost in rumination. “There was something about a hermit’s cache years ago. You know the sort of