Free The Alpine Journey by Mary Daheim

at age forty had turned to fat in Rett at sixty-plus. He was a huge, shambling man with lank gray hair and a face I could only describe as blubbery: big lips, bulbous nose, heavy eyelids, triple chins. He held up his pants with one hand and shook my hand with the other while a large black dog that looked as if it were part jackal lurked behind its master.
    “That's T-Bone,” Rett said, giving the dog's head a pat. “He and Brownie are my security system.”
    T-Bone barked on cue. “Brownie?” Vida echoed. “I don't recall seeing another dog.”
    Rett grinned, displaying uneven, stained teeth. “Brownie's not a dog. It's my Browning high-power pistol. Let's sit out here,” he said, clumsily unfolding two plastic-and-aluminum chairs that matched the one resting next to a pedestal ashtray and a wooden crate that held two cans of beer. “Indian summer, huh?” His tone was conversational, but abruptly changed. “Whaddaya want now, Vida?”
    “Iced tea would be nice,” Vida said with a sickly-sweet smile. Then she, too, switched gears. “Emma wanted to meet you. She's helping me sort out this mess with Audrey.”
    “Whaddaya mean, ‘this mess with Audrey’?” Rett belched none too gently as T-Bone circled our chairs before settling down at his owner's feet. “The sheriff's sorting things out just fine.”
    “Nonsense.” Vida sniffed. “He hasn't caught Audrey's killer.”
    “He won't.” Rett seemed complacent about the idea. “It was some sex nut, mark my words. He's long gone, probably to California.”
    “That's possible,” Vida admitted. “But aren't youcurious about your daughter's murder? What if it wasn't some… sex nut?”
    “Then it was some guy trying to get into her pants,” Rett responded. “For once, she told him to fuck off. Instead of fuck her. Get it? I made a joke.” He rumbled with laughter.
    “A very poor joke in shockingly bad taste,” Vida declared with an icy stare. “You're speaking of your daughter.”
    “I'm speaking the truth,” Rett retorted. “Audrey was easy, or so I hear. But then you missed the part about the abortions in San Francisco. They were legal and all, but they still cost me a couple of bucks. Being a flower child or whatever the hell they called themselves back then meant more birds 'n bees than I could count.”
    Vida appeared somewhat shaken by Rett's disclosure. “I didn't know about Audrey's youthful… promiscuity. I'm afraid I lost track of your side of the family after you and Rosalie divorced.”
    “Rosalie!” Rett grunted. “That hump—you been hangin' out with her?”
    “We called on her, yes,” Vida replied primly. “We also met Walt Dobrinz.”
    “I call him Walt Dough-Prick,” Rett said, the laughter again rumbling out of his big belly. “What Rosie ever saw in that little toad beats the crap out of me. Want a beer?”
    “I think not,” Vida said, answering for both of us. “And I wish you'd watch your language, Everett. Ernest never used such vile words in my presence.”
    “Ernest was a namby-pamby,” Rett declared. “How the hell did he ever get the nerve to go over them falls in a damned barrel anyway?”
    Vida was sitting up very straight, exuding dignity and self-control. “He didn't. The truck belonging to the brewery that sponsored the event ran over him first.”
    Rett's laughter could have been heard all the way to Seaside. “You're shittin' me! I never heard that part! Good God Almighty!” The flimsy aluminum chair rocked beneath his weight. T-Bone tensed, his pointy ears standing straight up.
    “You're vile,” Vida asserted in an angry voice. “Callous, too. No wonder you don't care about what happened to Audrey.”
    Rett Runkel looked mildly shocked. “Hey, who said I didn't care?” He picked up a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and attempted to relight it. “What I'm sayin' is that if the cops haven't collared the guy who killed Audrey by now, they won't. Not unless he's one of them serial killers