away.
Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in the pocket of histan pants. “The deceased wasn’t a local,” he said in his laconic voice. “According to Marlow Whipp, he came into the grocery store just before closing, about five to seven. He tried to say something, and then collapsed.” Never a fast talker, Milo slowed to a snail’s pace. The little cluster of neighbors drew closer. “His name is Kelvin Greene, from Seattle. He was twenty-seven years old and lived somewhere out in the Rainier Valley area. It looks as if he was shot in the head.” Milo’s long face wore a disgusted look. “Marlow called us. Marlow swears he didn’t shoot him, though he keeps a gun under the counter. Kelvin died before the ambulance could get here. He was black. Any more questions, or can I get the hell out of here and do my job?”
Cha p ter Four
V IDA AND I were torn. We both felt the professional urge to follow Milo to his office, but we had to consider our social obligations, too. We reasoned that since the paper wasn’t due out again until Wednesday and the sheriff would prefer that we make ourselves scarce until he had control of this latest tragedy, we might as well go back to the Campbells’ and eat dessert.
“When in doubt, eat cheesecake,” Vida asserted as we briskly walked away from Marlow Whipp’s little store. Though her words were flippant, her face was grim.
The rain was coming down quite hard by the time we reached our destination. Jean Campbell, looking worried, met us at the door. “What’s happening?” she asked as we shook off raindrops and stamped our feet on the welcome mat.
“There’s been a shooting,” Vida replied, heading for the dining room. She paused at the foot of the table by Jean’s vacant chair. Her gray eyes skimmed the other diners. Perhaps I imagined that her glance lingered just a trifle over-long on Marilynn Lewis. “It’s no one we know. We might as well enjoy that delicious cheesecake.”
We did, though naturally the others pressed us for details. As ever, Vida was regarded as the source of all knowledge. Only Marilynn, another outsider, fixed her curious gaze on me.
“I thought small towns were supposed to be quiet,” she murmured at me behind Cyndi’s back. “Does this kind of violence happen very often?”
Vida had honed her hearing on whispered comments during roll call at social clubs, on discreet remarks four rows away at high school band concerts, on breathless seductionattempts at cocktail parties. Even across the table, her keen ears caught Marilynn’s words. Vida shot me a warning glance.
“Well,” I mumbled, “Alpine has its share of … problems. People are people, after all. Sometimes they go haywire.”
Marilynn’s beautiful face remained troubled. “But who was killed? I mean, if it’s no one we know, it’s still
somebody.”
Vida turned away from her tête-à-tête with Shane. “The sheriff will release the name of the victim in due course. Right now, he doesn’t know any details. That’s why Emma and I came back here.” She shrugged her wide shoulders. “There’s no real news yet.”
At the other end of the table, Lloyd Campbell was passing sugar and cream for coffee. “That’s the trouble—we push for growth to pump up the economy, but when newcomers move in, there’s often trouble. It seems to me we don’t know what we’re asking for.”
“Lloyd!” Jean’s voice was low and sharp. Her eyes darted in Marilynn’s direction.
Lloyd blanched. “Oh, good Godfrey, Jean, you know I don’t mean Marilynn here. Or Emma,” he added, smiling sheepishly at both of us. My inclusion, I felt, was a nice touch. Consciously or otherwise, it was as if Lloyd were making the point that strangers come in all hues. “I mean all the riffraff that drifts in and out of a town like Alpine. It always has. Look how the hoboes used to ride the rails through here in the Twenties and Thirties.”
“Goodness,” Jean laughed, her manner a bit
Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in the pocket of histan pants. “The deceased wasn’t a local,” he said in his laconic voice. “According to Marlow Whipp, he came into the grocery store just before closing, about five to seven. He tried to say something, and then collapsed.” Never a fast talker, Milo slowed to a snail’s pace. The little cluster of neighbors drew closer. “His name is Kelvin Greene, from Seattle. He was twenty-seven years old and lived somewhere out in the Rainier Valley area. It looks as if he was shot in the head.” Milo’s long face wore a disgusted look. “Marlow called us. Marlow swears he didn’t shoot him, though he keeps a gun under the counter. Kelvin died before the ambulance could get here. He was black. Any more questions, or can I get the hell out of here and do my job?”
Cha p ter Four
V IDA AND I were torn. We both felt the professional urge to follow Milo to his office, but we had to consider our social obligations, too. We reasoned that since the paper wasn’t due out again until Wednesday and the sheriff would prefer that we make ourselves scarce until he had control of this latest tragedy, we might as well go back to the Campbells’ and eat dessert.
“When in doubt, eat cheesecake,” Vida asserted as we briskly walked away from Marlow Whipp’s little store. Though her words were flippant, her face was grim.
The rain was coming down quite hard by the time we reached our destination. Jean Campbell, looking worried, met us at the door. “What’s happening?” she asked as we shook off raindrops and stamped our feet on the welcome mat.
“There’s been a shooting,” Vida replied, heading for the dining room. She paused at the foot of the table by Jean’s vacant chair. Her gray eyes skimmed the other diners. Perhaps I imagined that her glance lingered just a trifle over-long on Marilynn Lewis. “It’s no one we know. We might as well enjoy that delicious cheesecake.”
We did, though naturally the others pressed us for details. As ever, Vida was regarded as the source of all knowledge. Only Marilynn, another outsider, fixed her curious gaze on me.
“I thought small towns were supposed to be quiet,” she murmured at me behind Cyndi’s back. “Does this kind of violence happen very often?”
Vida had honed her hearing on whispered comments during roll call at social clubs, on discreet remarks four rows away at high school band concerts, on breathless seductionattempts at cocktail parties. Even across the table, her keen ears caught Marilynn’s words. Vida shot me a warning glance.
“Well,” I mumbled, “Alpine has its share of … problems. People are people, after all. Sometimes they go haywire.”
Marilynn’s beautiful face remained troubled. “But who was killed? I mean, if it’s no one we know, it’s still
somebody.”
Vida turned away from her tête-à-tête with Shane. “The sheriff will release the name of the victim in due course. Right now, he doesn’t know any details. That’s why Emma and I came back here.” She shrugged her wide shoulders. “There’s no real news yet.”
At the other end of the table, Lloyd Campbell was passing sugar and cream for coffee. “That’s the trouble—we push for growth to pump up the economy, but when newcomers move in, there’s often trouble. It seems to me we don’t know what we’re asking for.”
“Lloyd!” Jean’s voice was low and sharp. Her eyes darted in Marilynn’s direction.
Lloyd blanched. “Oh, good Godfrey, Jean, you know I don’t mean Marilynn here. Or Emma,” he added, smiling sheepishly at both of us. My inclusion, I felt, was a nice touch. Consciously or otherwise, it was as if Lloyd were making the point that strangers come in all hues. “I mean all the riffraff that drifts in and out of a town like Alpine. It always has. Look how the hoboes used to ride the rails through here in the Twenties and Thirties.”
“Goodness,” Jean laughed, her manner a bit
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