The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  I looked again at the typewritten envelope with its canceled stamps and no return address. “Oh! Good God—this was mailed before Elmer died! It’s got to be a mistake—or a joke.”

  “A nasty joke—and a stupid mistake,” Vida said, retrieving the letter and the envelope from me. “I’m guessing that the son, Carter, wrote it and that he was rattled. From what I know of Polly, she’s probably gone all to pieces. I’ll call the house. Carter lives with his parents, you know.”

  I didn’t know. But I was aware that Carter Nystrom had returned to Alpine two years earlier after having finished dental school and getting his orthodontist’s degree at the University of Washington in Seattle. Our longtime dentist, Bob Starr, was glad to have a local orthodontist he could refer patients to instead of shipping them off to Monroe or even Everett. I knew all three of the Nystroms by sight but had never had any personal contact with the family. When Carter had returned to Alpine, Scott had interviewed him for a feature story. His office was in the Clemans Building on Front Street.

  Vida had dialed the Nystrom number, but it was busy. “Not unexpected,” she said, hanging up. “I think I’ll drive over there. They live just this side of the college.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I offered. “That is, I’ll follow you. I have to admit I’m curious about the obit, too, and I’ve scheduled an interview with May Hashimoto about a couple of new programs they want to introduce at Skykomish Community College.”

  Vida glanced at her watch. “What time?”

  “Eleven,” I replied. “It’s ten-ten, so I might as well tag along.”

  Vida gazed at me through her big glasses. “Why?”

  I grimaced. “Maybe I’m afraid Ed will come back. I’d rather not be here.”

  “Ed?” Leo had just hung up the phone. “What’s he up to now?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I said. “But I’ll tell you when I get back. In fact, want to have lunch with me at the Venison Inn? I’ll treat. I just decided it’s Ad Manager Appreciation Day.”

  Leo grinned in his off-center manner. “Sure, why not? See you there around noon?”

  “Right.” I scurried into my cubbyhole to grab my jacket and purse. Vida was fastening the black galoshes that she hadn’t bothered to take off. It had been raining all morning, steadily if not heavily.

  Before we could make our exit, Ethel Pike limped into the newsroom. “Burl Creek Thimble Club Christmas pictures,” she announced to Vida in her somewhat glum manner. “Got room?”

  Vida looked as if she were trying to be patient. “Perhaps. You should have brought them last week.”

  “I couldn’t,” Ethel said. “Me and Pike were out of town for Christmas. Pike’s sister invited us to Hoquiam for the holiday. I don’t know why: She can’t cook for sour owl’s sweat, and Pike and her always get into it over some crazy thing that happened when they were knee-high to a gopher. But where else would we go, with our kids and grandkids all the way down to Orlando?”

  Pike was her husband, Bickford, but he was known by his last name. Vida accepted the packet of photos. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I noticed you were limping. Not bunions, I hope. Such a nuisance.”

  Ethel glared at Vida. “Not bunions. Circulation, ’specially in this damp weather.”

  “Ah.” Vida nodded. She and I both knew that wasn’t the whole story. Ethel suffered from diabetes but was too proud to let on. Even some Burl Creek Thimble Club members didn’t know about her health problems.

  Vida was smiling stiffly at the other woman. “If you’ll excuse me, I was about to leave.”

  “So was I,” Ethel retorted. “Pike’s out and about on his errands, and I got to run him down so he can fix the electrical. The fuses all blew this morning. I won’t touch electrical. Too risky. Pike don’t even wear gloves when he does it.”

  “Very foolish,” Vida murmured.

  “’Course it is,” Ethel agreed. “He’ll blow himself up one of these days. Serve him right, the crazy old fool.” On that cheerless note, she stalked out of the newsroom.

  We waited a few moments until we were sure Ethel was gone. Vida’s Buick was parked two spaces down from my Honda. She carried a plaid umbrella; I simply put up the hood on my car coat. Like many Pacific Northwest natives—Vida notwithstanding—I didn’t own an umbrella. They were a nuisance, especially in Alpine, where winds blew through the Skykomish River valley and down the mountainside from Tonga Ridge.

  Skykomish Community College was a little over a mile from the newspaper office, nestled among tall cedar, fir, and hemlock trees. Between the college and the commercial area there were scattered homes, some old, some new, and some originally farmhouses or loggers’ shacks. An occasional gnome or St. Francis sculpture stood forlorn in the rain. Several residents’ idea of garden décor was an old tractor or a rusted pickup in the front yard. There were tree stumps and even a toilet that during the summer months served as a planter for perennials. But on a dark January morning, everything looked a little bleak.

  Ahead of me, Vida turned into a gravel driveway. A half-dozen mail and newspaper boxes stood slightly askew. I saw NYSTROM on one of them, a miniature red barn on top of a steel post. Pulling up behind the Buick, I studied the white one-story craftsman house set away from the road. It appeared well tended. The property probably once had been an orchard. A few bare fruit trees remained. Two of them sported large bird nests in their gnarled branches. A chain-link fence ran between the driveway and a newer, if faded blue house next door. There were fruit trees there, too. I suspected that the former orchard had been subdivided at one point.

  But what struck me most as I got out of my car was the absence of activity. A death in the family—especially in Alpine, where everyone knows everybody else—usually brought visitors offering condolences along with casseroles and salads and an occasional dessert. There were no cars except Vida’s and mine in the driveway or even alongside the road. The double garage’s doors were closed. It almost looked as if the Nystrom house was deserted.

  I said as much to Vida.

  “Very odd,” she agreed. “Odd, too, that I haven’t heard about Elmer’s passing. The Nystroms should be Lutheran with that Scandinavian surname, but they go to Trinity Episcopal.”

  I translated that to mean that Vida wouldn’t have heard the sad news at Sunday’s Presbyterian church service. But it also indicated that her grapevine somehow had withered. There’d be hell to pay for the slackers involved.

  A dried huckleberry wreath hung on the front door, appropriate not just for the Christmas season but for the entire winter as well. Vida punched the doorbell. I could hear a soft chime inside. We looked at each other expectantly.

  A few moments passed before the door was opened. “Vida?” said the stout little woman I recognized as Polly Nystrom. “What a nice surprise! Come in out of the rain.”

  As usual, I felt like the caboose on Vida’s train. But Polly collected herself as we entered a sunroom filled with bookcases. “You’re the newspaper lady,” she said to me. “I know you by sight.” She put out a pudgy hand. “I’m happy to finally meet you. Let’s go in the living room where we can be comfortable. I’ve just been putting the Christmas decorations away in the basement, and a cup of tea sounds good.”

  “Lovely,” Vida said, her gray eyes swiftly appraising the tastefully appointed room with its whitewashed brick fireplace, framed French Impressionist prints, Oriental carpeting, and Duncan Phyfe–style furniture.

  Vida sat down on a richly textured traditional sofa with coordinated throw pillows. I decided to join her. Polly smiled at us.

  “I won’t be a minute,” she promised. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Polly,” Vida said in a solemn voice, “before you do that, please tell us about Elmer. What happened?”

  Polly looked mystified. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  Vida whipped off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Ooooh! This is so…awkward!”
She stopped beating up her eyeballs and sighed. “It must be a prank. I received Elmer’s obituary in the mail this morning.”

  Polly’s blue eyes grew enormous. “No!” She stared at Vida. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Vida admitted. “But Emma and I felt we should call on you. Obviously, an explanation is needed. If you have one.”

  “Oh, dear.” Polly pressed her thick lips together. She was close to sixty, with short blond hair going gray, and probably had been a pretty girl, though her features had coarsened with age and weight. “I can’t imagine.” She twisted her hands as she stared into the carpet. “A prank. Who would do such a thing? Maybe Elmer knows. Shall I call him?”

  Vida shook her head. “No, no. Don’t bother him at work. He is at work?” she added.

  “Yes, certainly,” Polly replied, her composure returning. “He left at the usual time, right after he fed the chickens. We still keep chickens, you know. Would you care for some eggs? I’m watching my cholesterol and can’t eat them very often, so we always have some extras.”

  “How nice,” Vida replied. “Fresh eggs are such a treat.”

  “I’ll put that kettle on now.” Polly attempted a smile. “What a way to start the new year! Goodness, I hope it all isn’t going to be so…strange.” She bustled off through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost ten-thirty,” I said to Vida. “Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to be late for my appointment with May Hashimoto.”

  “Then let’s skip the tea,” Vida said, getting up. “Polly,” she called out, “don’t trouble yourself. Emma and I should be on our way. We both have work to do this morning.”

  Polly met Vida in the kitchen doorway. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Vida asserted. “Tomorrow is our deadline. I’m just so glad this turned out to be a farce.”

  Polly’s smile seemed genuine. “So am I! Elmer will be upset, of course. But Carter will make him laugh about it. Our son is so clever at always finding the funny side of things.”

  “Really.” Vida sounded skeptical.

  “My, yes,” Polly declared, bristling ever so slightly. “He has to be clever—and amusing—when he’s dealing with teenagers who don’t want braces, not even the new kind you hardly notice. They’re so self-conscious at that age.”

  “Expensive, too,” Vida said, never willing to give an inch. “Thank goodness my grandson, Roger, had his braces removed two years ago. His teeth are now perfect.”

  Roger’s teeth. I considered them briefly. They were good, if not perfect. There were few positive things I could say about the spoiled-rotten kid, but maybe I could allow that his teeth weren’t as bad as the rest of him.

  “I’m going now,” I said in case Vida and Polly had forgotten that I’d ever come.

  Polly stepped forward. “Goodbye, Emma. It was nice to meet you.”

  I wasn’t searching for sincerity, which was a good thing. The comment was perfunctory at best, even though Polly smiled politely.

  Vida also announced her departure, wheeling around on her heel and heading toward the front door.

  “Ninny,” she remarked after we reached the driveway. “No wonder I’ve never enjoyed Polly’s company. She constantly brags about Carter. So irksome.”

  I wouldn’t have dared point out that Vida bragged a great deal about Roger, and with far less cause. Carter Nystrom was ten years older and had completed a rigorous education. Roger was still dawdling his way through community college.

  Vida stopped just before reaching her Buick. “I wonder…” she murmured.

  “What?” I said, taking the car keys out of my purse.

  “Ohhh…” Vida made a face. “We didn’t get any eggs.”

  “So?”

  “I wanted to make an omelet for dinner tonight,” Vida said. “My mouth is set for one. I’d only need three eggs. You run along. I’m going to the henhouse.”

  “Vida,” I objected, “that’s stealing.”

  Vida glowered at me. “Nonsense! Polly offered them to us. It’d be wrong not to take them. She said they’d go to waste.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” I declared. “If Polly calls the sheriff, I want to be at your side when Milo Dodge comes to arrest you for egg burglary.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Vida gave me a reproachful look. “Very well. But you should take an egg or two for yourself. Do you know how to candle eggs?”

  “You hold them up to a light and make sure the center is clear.”

  “Correct,” Vida said, opening the wooden gate that led to the chicken coop behind the main house. “Or you can put them in a basin of cold water. If they sink, they’re fine.”

  I hadn’t known that, but I didn’t admit it. I was too busy trying to keep to the intermittent brick path that led to the henhouse. I noticed a fishpond tucked in one corner of the garden. The lily pad–dotted pool was shaded by an apple tree in front and several azaleas and rhododendrons around the far rim. We had to pass through another gated fence before we reached our goal.

  Chickens do know enough to stay out of the rain. But even though none of them were outside, their leavings were, causing an unpleasant smell and making it even more difficult to walk on the soggy ground.

  The door was shut, and that made Vida frown. “Odd,” she murmured. “Why does Elmer keep the henhouse closed up? Chickens should be free to roam.”

  “Maybe they have another way out,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Vida said, lifting the latch. “Oh, well. People don’t use good sense.”

  There were at least a couple of dozen hens pecking around on the ground or sitting on nests. Two roosters perched on a rafter that ran the width of the henhouse. The chickens were all a handsome red-brown color. Despite being city-bred, I was able to identify them as Rhode Island Reds. The hen closest to the door seemed distressed. She was flapping her wings and moving from one foot to the other.

  “Don’t bother the ones sitting on their nests,” Vida warned. “They may be broody, though this is not the time of year I would think they’d be hatching chicks.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, stepping carefully toward a vacant nest on my right. A couple of the other hens clucked nervously at us. One of the roosters moved back and forth on his perch as if he might be preparing to attack. I eyed him warily. “Sometimes hens sit on their nests and sort of pretend they’re hatching,” I remarked. “Like women who want to have a baby but can’t.”

  Vida was removing an egg from a nest just ahead of me. “Such a lovely light brown color. It may be nonsense, but I think the darker eggs have better flavor.”

  I collected two eggs and put them in a pocket inside my purse. Vida had confiscated her trio for the omelet. “I don’t think Elmer collected eggs this morning.”

  “Let’s go,” I said as the rooster flapped his wings. “I think that one is at the top of the pecking order.”

  Vida had stopped almost at the far end of the aisle between the two sets of nests. She gasped. “Oh, dear!”

  “What?” I asked, still keeping watch on the rooster.

  “Elmer.”

  “Elmer? What about him?”

  “He’s here.”

  “What?” I was right behind Vida, trying to look around her.

  “There.” She moved aside a few inches. “You can see his shoes.”

  I saw them—black work shoes with the toes pointing straight up. The rest of Elmer was hidden under haphazard piles of golden straw.

  “Holy Mother,” I whispered.

  “Call for help,” Vida snapped, bending down. “I’ll try to find his pulse. He may have had a stroke. Or a heart attack.”

  I rummaged in my purse for the cell phone. Of course I couldn’t find it right away, and of course I broke both eggs in the process. Finally I retrieved the damned phone and was about to dial 911 when Vida spoke again.

  “Tell them there’s no rush.” Vida paused, rubbing at her forehead. “I’m afr
aid that obituary was correct. I can’t find a pulse or a heartbeat. Elmer’s dead.”

  Chapter Two

  AS USUAL, BETH Rafferty maintained her composure when I called 911. “Help is on the way,” Beth said in her most professional dispatcher’s voice. Then, because she knew it was me, she added, “We’ve got the firefighters and medics tied up at the Tall Timber Motel with some guy who may have had a heart attack, so Dodge is coming in person.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said, and rang off.

  “I don’t suppose,” Vida said, tapping her cheek, “I should move any of this straw.” She shot me a knowing glance. “Just in case. This all seems very fishy to me.”

  I nodded. “We should tell Polly.”

  “No. Let Milo do that. It ought to be official. I’ll stay with Elmer. You go get the sheriff. Otherwise, he might not know where to meet us, men being so dense when it comes to finding anything.”

  I was used to Vida taking charge as if she were the boss and I the slightly dim-witted employee. Traipsing outside into the rain, I hoped Polly wouldn’t notice me—or our cars, which remained parked in the driveway. More than that, I hoped Elmer’s death had been a natural one. Murder was no stranger to Alpine. On the other hand, it’d give us a lead story. Journalists have to be realistic—and crass.

  The rain was dwindling to a drizzle. I stood by the mailboxes, waiting for Milo Dodge. No siren wailed in the distance. That was good. Milo knew there was no urgency, and he didn’t use the siren unless it was absolutely necessary. Unlike the other Skykomish County emergency personnel, the sheriff had bought an English-style ga-goo-ga siren that was unmistakable and drove me a little crazy. Still, it was one of the sheriff’s very few eccentricities. I could live with it.

  His red Grand Cherokee was easy to spot. I saw it coming down the road after a wait of less than five minutes. Out of the blue, I remembered to call May Hashimoto and tell her I’d be late and hurriedly dialed the college president’s number on my cell phone. Her secretary answered, and I relayed the message just as Milo pulled up on the verge by the mailboxes.

  “What the hell’s going on now?” he demanded as he unfolded his six-foot-five frame from the vehicle.