The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  “Elmer Nystrom’s dead—I think—in the chicken coop.”

  Milo made a face. “That sounds like a line out of a bad movie.”

  “It’s not very good for Elmer, either,” I retorted. “Come on, follow me. Vida’s in the coop.”

  “A good place for her,” Milo muttered. “Is she clucking her head off?”

  “No.” It seemed to me that the sheriff was unusually cranky, even for a Monday morning. “Polly Nystrom doesn’t know yet.”

  “Doesn’t know what? That her old man croaked?”

  “Right. We’re waiting for you to make it official.” I’d entered the chicken area and was walking carefully. “Mind the poop.”

  “Right, right. I’m a rural type, remember?”

  I could hardly forget. Our different backgrounds had been an obstacle in our off-and-on-again romance. Being friends was better than being lovers, but it wasn’t an easy relationship.

  The chickens fluttered and cackled as Milo and I entered the coop. Vida was leaning against a rail that supported the nests.

  “Well, now,” she said. “You made good time.”

  Milo grunted. “Where’s Elmer?”

  Vida pointed. “Is Doc Dewey coming?”

  “Doc’s busy,” Milo said, getting down on his knees. “He still hasn’t gotten around to making Sung his deputy coroner.”

  “Can’t you do that?” Vida asked. “You’re the sheriff.”

  “It’s a courtesy thing,” Milo replied. “I let Doc decide when it comes to medical-related stuff.” He paused. “Hunh.”

  “What?” I said.

  “There’s blood,” Milo answered. “It’s on the straw behind his head. Maybe I should wait for Doc or the medics.”

  “A hemorrhage?” Vida asked, trying to see around the sheriff.

  “No,” Milo said, still examining the body. “More like a blow to the back of his head. Oh, hell!”

  “Don’t curse,” Vida warned. “Are you talking about…foul play?”

  Milo didn’t look up. “Maybe.”

  Vida was incredulous. “Elmer Nystrom? Who on earth would murder Elmer? He’s one of the most harmless people I’ve ever met, even if he was a bit of a nincompoop.”

  Since most of Alpine’s population fell into the nincompoop category as far as Vida was concerned, that part of her comment didn’t matter. I wasn’t acquainted with Elmer, so I couldn’t make any judgments.

  “Shovel,” Milo murmured, standing up and looking around. “Two-by-four. Anyway, something heavy and blunt.”

  But none of us saw anything that might have served as a weapon. “You’re sure he didn’t hit his head?” I asked.

  Milo frowned. “On what?” He raised his hand to touch the rafter, which was a couple of inches above his regulation hat. “Elmer was six feet, maybe six-one. He’d have to have been wearing stilts. I don’t see anything else he could’ve banged into. The platform for the chickens? I doubt it. It’s plywood. The floorboards are a possibility, but they only run down the aisle and then stop. There’s no sign of blood on them. But I’m guessing—and you know I don’t like doing that—Elmer was dragged over here and then bled out. Look at the area between the nests.”

  Vida and I both stared at the raised wooden floor. It was no more than two or three feet wide, built on top of dirt. The well-worn boards were covered with pieces of straw and chicken droppings. But the last couple of yards between the nests were comparatively bare.

  “You figure someone conked Elmer and hauled him out of sight?” I asked.

  Milo shrugged. “Could be. In fact, we’d all better move away toward the door. There may be some other evidence. C’mon, let’s hit it.”

  Vida scowled at the sheriff but obeyed. I reached the door first and opened it. Fresh air seemed like a good idea.

  Polly was on her back porch, and that unsettled me. She looked upset. “Where’s Elmer?” she called in a shrill voice. “Sheriff?” She started down the half-dozen stairs with an uncertain gait. “What is it?”

  Milo met her halfway across the backyard. Vida followed him, though I kept my distance. The sheriff faced a heartbreaking announcement. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deliver bad news, but such situations weren’t easy for him to handle. There was nothing touchy-feely about Milo Dodge.

  Still, he did his best.

  “I’m afraid something’s happened to Elmer,” he said. “I’m sorry, Polly. He’s dead.”

  “Oh!” Throwing her apron over her face, Polly rocked back and forth. The sheriff steadied her. “I knew it!” she cried. “Trout’s been trying to call me all morning!”

  Trout Nordby was one of the two brothers who owned the GM dealership. The other sibling was known as Skunk. Even after over thirteen years in Alpine, I wasn’t sure of their real first names.

  Vida stepped forward. “Here. I’ll take her in the house,” she said to Milo. “I’ll make that cup of tea now, Polly. Please, let me help you get inside. It’s very wet out here.”

  Polly leaned on Vida, who half dragged her into the house.

  I looked at Milo. “Well?”

  “I’ll have to interrogate her after I find out what happened to Elmer,” he said.

  “So we stand here in the rain until Doc Dewey finishes whatever he’s doing?”

  “It’s not raining that hard,” Milo said, taking a pack of Marlboro Lights from the inside pocket of his regulation jacket. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “I’m still in my quitting phase.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “What’s this one? Number forty-five?”

  “Ha ha.” I gestured at the partial view of the house that sat just beyond the Nystrom residence. “Who lives there?”

  Milo lighted his cigarette and pondered the question. “It’s an Italian name—or Spanish. They moved in about…six years ago, maybe. Quiet people. Husband, wife, teenaged daughter. One of the deputies—Sam Heppner, I think—went out there last summer when a cougar came into their backyard. Other than that, no trouble.”

  I looked in the other direction. Through some cottonwood and fir trees I could make out part of a roof and a chimney. “Whoever lives on the other side couldn’t see anything going on at the Nystrom house. But this other family might. I wonder if they’re home.”

  “I’ll check.” Milo scowled at me. “Are you nagging?”

  “Not really. But I keep wondering when Spencer Fleetwood is going to show up so he can get the story on KSKY before I have it in the paper.”

  “Spence went to Hawaii,” Milo said. “Or Mexico. Did Vida’s pipeline spring a leak?”

  I grimaced. “No. I forgot she had a mention of Spence’s vacation last week in her ‘Scene’ column. Maybe his fill-in doesn’t pay as much attention to the police scanner as Spence does.”

  “Rey Fernandez is still working at the station,” Milo said. “He got his AA degree in December but agreed to stay on in Alpine until Fleetwood got back.” The sheriff used one hand to smoke and the other to dial his cell phone. “I’m checking to see how long Doc’s going to take before he gets here. I’ve got—Doc?” he spoke into the cell phone.

  I wandered over to the fishpond while the sheriff related the unfortunate news. I couldn’t see any fish, but maybe the Nystroms didn’t bother. Until the past couple of years, the temperature had always dipped below freezing during most of the winter. I’d heard stories, however, including one old-time classic about a fisherman who caught a big rainbow trout and tossed it into a water barrel to keep it alive until his wife was ready to cook it. That night an early frost covered Alpine, and the water in the barrel froze over until the spring thaw. Come early April, the fish was still alive and swimming around like crazy.

  “Doc’s on his way,” Milo said.

  I walked back toward him. “There’s something you should know,” I said.

  The sheriff’s sandy eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Like what?”

  “Like Elmer’s obituary came in the morning mail.”

/>   “Don’t bullshit me,” Milo retorted. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “It’s true,” I asserted. “In fact, I’ll bet Vida has it in her purse. Even I wouldn’t joke about something like that with the poor guy lying dead in the henhouse.”

  Milo swore for at least a quarter of a minute. “Who the hell sent it?” he finally asked.

  “We don’t know,” I replied. “That’s why we came out here to see Polly.”

  The sheriff swore some more. “Don’t let anything happen to that obituary,” he warned me. “It might be evidence. Come on, I think I heard Doc’s car.”

  We walked around the side of the house. Doc already had gotten out of his new Mitsubishi sedan. He’d once confided that he’d love to own a big, expensive automobile but thought it wouldn’t look good to his patients, who’d figure he was overcharging them.

  “How’s the patient?” Milo inquired as Doc started up the driveway.

  “Which one?” Doc responded.

  “The guy at the motel,” the sheriff said, opening the first gate for Doc.

  I was loitering behind the men, studying the faded blue house on the other side of the cyclone fence. Two large windows, probably in bedrooms, flanked a smaller window with frosted glass that looked like it was in the bathroom. As I passed by the second bedroom window, I saw movement behind the voile curtains. Someone was watching. Vida wasn’t the only curious person in Alpine, and the arrival of so many cars at the Nystrom house naturally would have aroused interest.

  Doc shook his head. “False alarm. All in his head—or his stomach. People on the road eat too much grease, sleep in strange beds, get their nerves frayed by traffic—and then wonder why they have chest pains. Which,” he continued as we headed for the henhouse, “are often abdominal pains and caused by digestive tract problems.” He paused at the second gate. “Not the case with Elmer, I take it.”

  “Afraid not,” Milo said, waiting for me. “This may require an autopsy.”

  “Well.” Doc Dewey sounded only mildly surprised. He had reached a time of life when nothing surprised him. As a physician, he’d had his share of failures and disappointments. When I had been at my nadir after Tom Cavanaugh’s death, he’d told me that he considered the greatest virtue to be hope, not charity. “Without hope,” he had said, “the rest is impossible.” Like his father before him, Doc practiced what he preached.

  Inside the henhouse, I stayed by the door, petting a chicken that seemed quite agitated by the proceedings. “If only,” I whispered to the distressed fowl, “you could talk, you’d be a good witness.”

  Doc didn’t take long to examine Elmer. “The ambulance will be along any minute,” he said, rising from his crouched position by the body. “After the motel call, they went to Starbucks for coffee.”

  I stepped forward. “Was it a blow to the head?” I asked.

  Doc tucked his glasses back into an inside pocket of his raincoat. “That’s my preliminary finding,” he said. “Poor Elmer. He was a decent fellow.”

  “Meek as milk,” the sheriff remarked. “Not a classic victim.”

  “I’m not ruling out an accident,” Doc cautioned, “though I don’t see exactly how. That’s your line of country, Sheriff.”

  “Freaky stuff happens,” Milo said, looking out through the open door. “Here come the ambulance guys. No siren. Not necessary.” He looked back at Doc. “You going to talk to Polly?”

  “I’d better,” Doc agreed. “She has high blood pressure. I’ll check her out. Poor woman. Has anybody called their son?”

  “Vida, probably,” I said as we trooped back through the rain. I stopped at the outer gate. “I should head for the college. I’m supposed to interview May Hashimoto, and I’m already twenty minutes late.”

  “Go for it,” Milo said.

  I did, noticing on my way out to the road that Vida’s Buick was still parked by the house. I was opening the Honda’s door when I heard someone call out. I looked at the Nystrom porch, but no one was there. Then I turned toward the neighboring house and saw a dark-haired woman wearing baggy gray sweats in the doorway.

  “What’s going on?” she asked in a carrying voice.

  I walked over to the cyclone fence that ended at the mailboxes. “I’m afraid Mr. Nystrom has passed away.”

  “No!” Her hands flew to her face. She was middle-aged, a rather large woman wearing glasses on a jeweled chain. “That’s awful! He was such a sweet man!”

  “Yes,” I said, realizing that the woman looked vaguely familiar. “Were you close friends?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not really. But I always talked to Mr. Nystrom when I saw him out in the yard.” She hesitated. “I suppose I should call on Mrs. Nystrom. Later.”

  “That would be very kind,” I said.

  “Of course.” She backed inside and closed the door.

  I looked down at the mailbox in front of me. The name was gracefully lettered in red: DELLA CROCE.

  I’d already heard it that morning. It was the same name as that of the troubled woman who had called my brother asking for counsel.

  The college president was shocked and sympathetic when I explained why I’d been almost half an hour late for our interview.

  “I don’t know the Nystrom family,” May Hashimoto said, “but I feel for them. I lost my own father when he was in his early sixties.”

  “My parents were both in their fifties,” I told her. “They were killed in a collision coming from my brother’s ordination.”

  “That’s even worse.” May shuddered. “On the other hand, I’ve known of couples who can’t live without each other, and the survivor dies not long after the husband or wife goes.” She shook her head. May’s hair was distinctive, with a natural white streak growing among the short ebony tresses. “I have trouble understanding that, since my one attempt at marriage ended abruptly in divorce.”

  “I’ve never been married at all,” I said, “but I lost my fiancé not long before our wedding.”

  “That was terrible,” May declared. “I wasn’t here yet when it happened, but I heard all about it. Violence. It plagues our times.”

  “It’s plagued most times,” I noted. “In other centuries we didn’t have CNN.”

  May smiled ironically. “You’re part of the media, Emma.”

  “I know.” I smiled, too. But the clock—stylized metal hands on pine paneling—was ticking away. I knew she wanted to go to lunch soon, and I’d promised to treat Leo, though I’d given him a quick call to say I’d be a little late. May and I got down to business, which didn’t take long. Unlike many educators, May didn’t use lengthy, sometimes incomprehensible discourse or speak in what I termed “Educationese.” She tended to be blessedly brisk.

  I arrived at the Venison Inn by twelve-fifteen. Leo was waiting in the bar, where he could smoke, a habit that wasn’t permitted in the main dining room except for the sheriff, who simply ignored the NO SMOKING sign and refused to arrest himself.

  “Well?” Leo said as I sat down at a small table for two. “What happened to poor old Elmer?”

  “Autopsy pending,” I said, catching my breath.

  Leo’s weathered face grew curious. “Oh? I wondered. Your tone of voice implied that something was off.”

  Mandy Gustavson, who was somehow related to Vida, came to take our order. Leo already had a mug of black coffee. I asked for a Pepsi and the rare beef dip with fries. “Go for the steak sandwich,” I urged Leo. “It’s my treat, remember?”

  Leo, however, ordered the same thing I’d requested. “Never get a steak sandwich on a Monday,” he said after Mandy had left us. “It’ll be something left over from the weekend and taste like a spare tire.”

  “Good advice,” I said, my eyes wandering around the dimly lighted bar with its deer, elk, and moose antler motif. Although the dining room had been remodeled awhile back, the serious drinkers preferred the original décor. Thus, the trophies from the long-dead animals had endured far longer than had many of the patrons wh
o’d decorated the bar stools.

  “Nice guy, Elmer,” Leo remarked, leaning back in his chair. “If I didn’t like my Toyota so much, I’d have bought a GM car just to get the good service Elmer always gave his customers. The Nordby brothers have been lucky to have him all these years.”

  I agreed. “I really didn’t know the family,” I admitted. “It’s amazing that despite the fact I’ve lived in Alpine for going on fourteen years, there are still some longtime residents I barely recognize.”

  Leo shrugged. “Some people don’t mix much. The Nystroms are like that. At least,” he went on, extinguishing his cigarette, “Elmer and his wife weren’t active in the community. He did his job and went home. She kept house. The son’s more outgoing, but he’s been pretty involved in getting his orthodontist practice up and running.”

  “Do you know Carter?” I asked after Mandy had delivered my Pepsi and the small salads that went with our entrées.

  “I’ve met him a couple of times,” Leo replied, sprinkling salt and pepper on his greens. “He bought a two-by-four-inch space with us when he first opened his practice. Then he took out a standing ad with the rest of the professionals on page five.” He gave me a slightly mocking look. “You do occasionally read the Advocate’s ads, don’t you?”

  I laughed. “Occasionally. But I trust you enough to not go over them with a fine-toothed comb.” That was the perfect opening to segue into Ed’s problem. “In fact, we’re having lunch because I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate your contribution to keeping the newspaper solvent. I know it’s not easy. The print media often seems like it’s in the death throes.”

  Leo munched on iceberg lettuce. “So,” he said after he’d swallowed, “just seeing Bronsky on the premises suddenly made you grateful for my existence.”

  “Yes.” I scoured the bar to make sure no one could overhear us. “Ed’s broke. He wants to come back to work. I use that term loosely.”

  Leo laughed out loud. “I wondered. I’ve heard the stories, too. Ed pilfering a DVD from Videos-to-Go. Ed giving a rubber check to Pete Patricelli for the family-size Super Lollapalooza pizza. Ed trying on a pair of shoes at Barton’s Bootery and walking out into the mall wearing them—without paying, of course. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been arrested.”