Part 14 (1/2)
”No one specific.”
”Have you any leads?”
”I'm not sure what you mean.”
Donna frowned. ”I mean-what I really mean is that it must be difficult to obtain evidence from a fire scene. Everything was destroyed, wasn't it?”
”Yes.”
”Has the volunteer search party turned up any information on the whereabouts of the so-called recluse known as Old Nick?”
”Not to my knowledge, although my deputies are still sifting through their reports.”
”Are the volunteers going out again tomorrow?”
”I believe at least some of them will. This is not an official search organization. SkyCo takes no responsibility for their actions.”
”Thank you.” Donna sat down.
I wondered if she had been deliberately trying to put Milo on the spot. Maybe, after all these years, she harbored resentment against him because Art had been killed while working for the sheriff.
High school coach Rip Ridley asked a different sort of question, something to do with hunting rifles and ammo. My mind drifted.
So did the Q&A session. Alfred Cobb struggled to his feet to ask why the turkey shoot had been canceled at the Overholt farm. Milo responded that it had ended when the Overholts stopped raising turkeys, which had been about thirty-five years ago. Alfred cupped his hand behind his ear, said, ”Eh?” and sat down on Ione Erdahl's lap. Ione let out a yelp. Edna Mae Dalrymple scurried up to the working microphone on the podium, thanked Milo, and announced that the meeting was over. Alfred didn't budge until Coach Ridley bodily picked him up and carried him to the exit.
Several people, mostly men, converged around the sheriff, asking more questions. I gave Milo a thumbs-up sign and started out of the stuffy, ill-ventilated room. By chance, I found myself next to Donna Wickstrom.
”How's the art gallery doing?” I inquired.
”It's a hobby, really,” Donna replied. ”It's something I always wanted to do. When Lloyd Campbell expanded his appliance store, the couple that owned the original gallery in that building moved it to Sultan. You should stop by to see my setup. I'm only open Friday nights and on the weekend.”
”I should,” I said as we walked down the hallway that led to a side entrance by the parking lot. ”Vida wrote about it when you opened a few years ago, but we might be able to do something new. Do you have any special exhibits?”
”Nothing in particular. Come fall, I plan to hold a holiday crafts fair. Very few people in town buy art for art's sake. Thank G.o.d for the summer tourists. Not to mention the skiers in the winter.”
”I'll stop in after work tomorrow night,” I promised. We'd reached the parking lot. A blessed breeze was blowing off from the mountains. ”What time do you open?”
”Five,” she replied. ”I insist that parents pick up their kids by four-thirty on Fridays. Except for Ginny's, of course. I bring her boys with me and she or Rick collect them at the gallery.”
”By the way,” I said as I reached my Honda, ”I was wondering if you had a theory about the Rafferty murder. You seem to be following it quite closely.”
Donna shrugged. ”Who wouldn't? It's a terrible thing. And I know what it must be like for Tiffany, losing your husband at so young an age.” For a moment, a shadow crossed Donna's pretty face. ”I feel for her. I wish I knew her better.”
”Don't we all?”
Donna's gaze flickered behind the long, curling lashes. ”Yes. I see what you mean. Tiffany is . . . well, not standoffish, but she and Tim always seemed so tight that they didn't have room for outsiders.”
”Did you know her at all?” I asked, ignoring Alfred Cobb, who was standing on the edge of the parking lot still demanding that the turkey shoot be resurrected, apparently with or without turkeys.
”No,” Donna replied. ”I'm a few years older than she is. I only know Tiffany by sight.”
”I thought maybe she'd contacted you about day care,” I said as one of Alfred's sons and Coach Ridley tried to haul the old coot to a big Chrysler parked in a spot marked for the handicapped.
Donna shook her head. ”Maybe Tiffany didn't plan to work after she had the baby. Besides, I don't run the only day care in Alpine.”
”No, of course not.” I paused. ”I take it you didn't know Tim very well, either?”
Donna shook her head again. ”He started high school after I graduated. Our paths didn't cross much. I always thought the Raffertys were Catholic, but I see that Tim's services are being held in the Lutheran church.”
”The Raffertys-at least the father, Liam-were Irish, but not Catholic,” I pointed out. I knew what Donna, born an Erlandson, meant. Going back a generation or two, Alpine's Irish and Italian Catholics hadn't always mixed well with the predominantly Scandinavian Protestants. ”I'm sure the Eriks family wanted Tim buried out of their own church. I don't know Beth Rafferty's religious convictions.”
”I do know Beth,” Donna said. ”She's a nice woman. I feel sorry for her, too. With her mother in such poor shape, Beth has no real family left. Except when the baby comes, of course.”
Alfred Cobb was being stuffed into the car in the handicapped spot. Unfortunately, he was put in the driver's seat. His son and Rip Ridley stepped aside. Alfred gunned the engine and shot straight over the curb and across the sidewalk. The Chrysler slammed into the library wall.
”Oh, my G.o.d!” Donna cried. ”Was that Mr. Cobb?”
”It wasn't Durwood,” I murmured.
Donna ran toward the car. Rip and Alfred's son were already there. So were a couple of other people who had barely escaped getting hit by the Chrysler. Fearing that medical help might be needed, I got out my cell phone and dialed 911. I recognized Evan Singer's voice on the line.
”The public library?” Evan echoed. ”I'll send an ambulance right away. Is that you, Emma?”
”Yes,” I replied, keeping my eye on the activity around the Chrysler and wis.h.i.+ng I'd brought a camera. ”I can't tell about injuries. Alfred only went about fifteen feet, but he went fast.”
”Okay. Is Dodge still there?”
I looked around the parking lot. Milo's Grand Cherokee was parked a few s.p.a.ces away from the side entrance. In fact, the sheriff was coming out of the building even as I answered Evan's question.
”Yes. I see him. I called you first because I thought Alfred should be treated before he was arrested.”
Whatever damage the crash had done to Alfred, it hadn't harmed his lungs. He was swearing his head off as Rip and the younger Cobb-whose name I suddenly recalled was Myron-disentangled him from the air bag.
”Air bag meets Windbag,” I muttered as Edna Mae Dalrymple twittered and twitched over to my side. ”I don't think Alfred's seriously injured.”
”But what about the library?” Edna Mae asked in her birdlike voice. ”I can't tell from here. I don't want to get too close in case there's blood. I can't take the sight of blood. Oh, dear! Alfred sounds very upset!”
”I'll check out the building,” I said, watching the sheriff approach the damaged car and the cussing Alfred.
The ambulance siren sounded nearby. I couldn't see into the Chrysler. Milo's big form blocked Alfred from sight, if not from sound. Close to the library's outer wall, I could see that the Chrysler's grille was badly mangled and a headlight was broken. The building's brick facade was intact, though undoubtedly marred. The flower bed that bordered the walkway apparently hadn't been crushed, because the front tires never got farther than the concrete.
”A scrub brush should take care of it,” I told Edna Mae as I rejoined her by the curb. ”The main thing is that no one seems to be badly hurt, including Alfred.” Indeed, Alfred was now demanding to know who had moved the G.o.dd.a.m.ned building.
”Thank heavens he's alive!” Edna Mae's small face was still stricken. ”I really must go back inside and sit down. This is so terrible! Oh-here comes the ambulance.”
”I'll go in with you,” I said. ”We need to give the EMTs some room to work.”