The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  I finished a few more minor tasks and drove to the hospital shortly after four-thirty. Milo was on the second floor, where Debbie Murchison, a young RN, was at the nurses’ station.

  “We’re about to serve dinner,” Debbie said with a big dimpled smile. “Turkey. Yum.”

  I wondered if the turkey was left over from Christmas. “Isn’t dinner a little early?”

  “Oh, no,” Debbie replied, still smiling. “We have to let our patients digest their food and take their meds and get settled in for the night shift.”

  “By the way,” I said, “when did Bree Kendall come to work in the emergency room?”

  “Monday.” Debbie couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “Isn’t she a doll?”

  I wanted to say that the last doll I’d seen that acted as ornery as Bree was a miniature of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz. Instead, I mused that she must have found her previous employment unsatisfactory. “I assume,” I said humbly, “that Bree wanted to be in a situation where she could do more for patients with serious problems.”

  Debbie’s smile faded. “You mean…but she’s not a nurse.”

  “I meant,” I explained as Elvis Sung came out of one of the patient rooms, “that she could assist with medical cases rather than cosmetic care. I assume that’s why she quit the receptionist’s job with Dr. Nystrom.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Debbie said. “Bree just wanted a change.”

  Dr. Sung greeted me with a friendly expression. “I’m guessing you’re here to see the sheriff.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “How is he?”

  Dr. Sung grimaced. He was a square-built, good-looking young man of mixed Korean and Hawaiian ancestry. “I understand you’ve known Sheriff Dodge a lot longer than I have. You can probably figure out how he is, being confined to bed rest for twenty-four hours.”

  “Mean as a bear in a bee’s nest, I suppose,” I said.

  “That’s not a medical definition, but it’ll do. Enter at your peril,” the doctor said, stepping aside. “Second room on your right.”

  Bravely, I walked across the threshold. Milo was sitting up in bed, watching an NBA game. His six-foot-five frame seemed to overflow the narrow hospital bed, and the covers were a tangled mess. He took one look at me and said, “Oh, God.” It wasn’t a prayer.

  I came closer, standing at the foot of the bed. “You don’t look too bad,” I said. “How do you feel, besides lonesome, ornery, and mean?”

  “Just like Waylon Jennings’s song,” Milo muttered. “I could use a dose of ol’ Waylon’s music about now. The Sonics are getting their asses kicked by the Spurs. That figures.”

  “Any news?”

  Milo turned the volume off on the TV set. “That’s a funny question coming from you, Emma. How would I know? Nobody tells me a damned thing. Maybe I should go AWOL. To hell with them. Give me a ride home.” He started to get out of bed.

  “Hey!” I gave him my fiercest look. “Don’t even think about it! Sung’s outside in the hall. He’ll call the”—I almost said “cops”—“somebody to make you stay here.”

  “Shit.” Milo retreated. “Sung was a college wrestler. I don’t want to tangle with him. My sidearm’s back at the office.”

  I sat down in the plastic molded visitor’s chair next to the bed. “In lieu of a professional medical opinion, what do you think is wrong with you?”

  “Food poisoning,” Milo replied. “I picked up one of those precooked chickens at the Grocery Basket last night. Except it wasn’t cooked all the way through. I should sue the O’Tooles.”

  “You mean salmonella,” I said, adding quickly, “which is a form of food poisoning. But chest pains?”

  “Indigestion,” Milo said. “You can get a gut ache even up high.”

  “Okay, Dr. Dodge. That’s as good an explanation as I’ve heard. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Sure. Close the door and crawl into bed with me.”

  “I must decline,” I replied in a mock prim voice that would have done Vida proud. “I have to meet my priestly brother for dinner.”

  “Dinner.” Milo made a face. “What kind of slop are they feeding the inmates here tonight?”

  “Turkey,” I said. “Cooked through and through. And over and over and over.”

  “Shit,” Milo said again. “Go away, Emma. I can’t stand looking at people who are free to come and go. I might as well be locked up in one of my own frigging jail cells.”

  “Okay,” I said, getting up. “You’re too crabby to be really sick. You aren’t even hooked up to any IVs.”

  “That’s because I yanked them out,” Milo retorted. “Beat it.”

  I did. But I was still worried about the sheriff. He hadn’t asked any questions about the Nystrom murder. That seemed very odd.

  Ben was ten minutes late arriving at the Bourgettes’ diner. I’d secured a booth for us and told Terri Bourgette, the hostess, to show my brother where to find me.

  “Rush-hour traffic,” Ben said blithely when he showed up at five-forty. “All those four cars and two trucks on Alpine Way.”

  “Very funny,” I shot back. “Why don’t you get a watch that works?”

  “It does work,” he said reasonably. “It just doesn’t keep time very well.”

  “I should’ve bought you a new one for Christmas.”

  “I wouldn’t wear it if you did,” he replied, picking up the menu. “What does Lucille Ball recommend tonight?”

  Ben referred to our booth’s décor with its still photographs of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in scenes from their fifties TV series I Love Lucy. “Terri mentioned the meatballs,” I said. “Personally, I’m going to have the crab club sandwich.” Suddenly I leaned forward. “Damn it, Ben, why do you have to leave? It’s so wonderful having you here in town. Why can’t you get posted closer to Alpine?”

  Ben didn’t look up from the menu. “I go where I’m sent. You know—the vow of obedience.”

  “Yes, yes.” I tried to look contrite. “But sometimes I’d like to have family around. I feel like an orphan with you and Adam so far away. It’s selfish, but I get lonesome.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Ben said, putting the menu aside. “I’m rootless these days, but you’ve lived in Alpine for…what? Thirteen years? You have a family of sorts. Vida and the rest of your staff. The sheriff. Your bridge-playing pals.”

  “It’s not the same. They’re not blood.”

  “No.” Ben gazed at a black-and-white picture of Lucy and Desi, who in turn were gazing at the baby who had been born to them during the height of their TV fame. They looked like a happy family. It turned out later that they weren’t. But they had put on a good enough act to fool most of America. “Happiness is an illusion,” Ben said.

  “You mean the superficial kind,” I responded.

  “I mean any kind.”

  I quibbled. “I wasn’t talking about being happy. I know the difference between unhappy and lonely. I know the difference when you or Adam is with me. I feel…more complete, like being whole, because I’m part of somebody else.”

  Ben shrugged. “Yes, I understand that. But you know as well as I do that families aren’t always happy, whether they’re together or apart. And in the end, we’re all alone. Except for God.”

  “Thanks for making me feel better,” I snapped. “Maybe I’ll order the strychnine sandwich and be done with it.”

  “Go ahead,” my brother said cheerfully. “It’s my treat, remember.”

  It was impossible for me to stay angry with Ben. He made me feel good even when he was trying to make me feel bad.

  We finished eating a little after six-thirty. Ben followed me to my house so we could listen to Vida’s program together.

  “You’re only doing this because I bitched about you leaving,” I said as we went inside.

  “True,” Ben said. “On the other hand, I’m not the one who’s running off to play bridge instead of watching mindless television with her dear sibling.”


  “I assumed you had things to do,” I said, turning on the kitchen light. “You usually do, even when you’re on vacation.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Ben replied as he opened the refrigerator, “I have a late date with Sherry at eight our time, eleven in Lansing.”

  “Who’s Sherry?” I asked. “And what are you looking for?”

  “Whatever it is, I’m not seeing it. I was in the mood for crab dip.”

  “I don’t keep that on hand. If you were still hungry, why didn’t you have dessert?”

  Ben closed the fridge. “I’d rather have crab dip.”

  “So who’s Sherry?”

  “She’s a seventy-six-year-old parishioner who’s still working to support her father, who’s a hundred and one. I talk to her every week after she gets home from her shift at the local convenience store. She’s been held up twice but ran off the would-be thieves with her .38 Smith & Wesson.”

  “Good Lord,” I said.

  “Family.” Ben smiled as we went into the living room. “Not always a bundle of fun.”

  “You’ve made your point.” I turned on the radio before sitting on the sofa. KSKY was playing its usual oldies-but-goodies show that preceded Vida’s program. The music was most appropriate.

  Ben was admiring my river painting. “Has this Laurentis done anything recently?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” I replied. “That is, Donna Wickstrom hasn’t shown a new work lately at her art gallery. I’ll ask her tonight. She joined the bridge club a few months ago.”

  Ben sat down in the easy chair just as Connie Francis finished singing and a station break was announced.

  “Now,” Spence’s recorded voice said, “stay tuned for KSKY’s weekly edition of Vida’s Cupboard, featuring all the news that’s not fit to print. Hot off the gossip griddle is The Alpine Advocate’s House & Home editor, our favorite friend and neighbor, Vida Runkel.”

  The sound of a cupboard door being opened came across the airwaves. A couple of months before, it had been followed by a crash and a clatter reminiscent of Fibber McGee’s closet on the old radio comedy show. Vida had pitched a fit and threatened to box Rey Fernandez’s ears for his practical joke. Later, she’d confided to me she was secretly pleased that anyone as young as the almost-thirty Rey would know about a radio program that had been popular during the thirties and forties.

  Vida’s slightly braying voice was always amplified over the microphone. She began with a roundup of holiday parties that she hadn’t had space for on her page. “Clancy and Debra Barton revived an old Irish custom on St. Stephen’s Day—the twenty-sixth of December—by forming a Wren Boys procession. They planned to go from door to door, begging money for the penniless wren they carried on a stick. The wren was made of papiermâché, and unfortunately blew away in the strong December wind before they got to the first home on the block. Darla Puckett’s golden retriever, Noodles, mistook the bogus bird for the real thing and swallowed part of it, resulting in an emergency trip to Dr. Jim Medved’s clinic. The money the Bartons intended to collect for the local food bank will go instead toward the Pucketts’ veterinarian bill. Very generous of the Bartons, I’m sure.”

  Ben looked up at the ceiling and groaned softly.

  Vida continued: “Two of our fine community college students who have Egyptian ancestry, brothers Anwar and Naguib Tabak, celebrated Christmas on Monday, January sixth, with traditional food and drink. They ate a form of shortbread called kaik—that’s spelled K-A-I-K—and drank a beverage known as shortbat. Some student pranksters apparently put a little extra something in the shortbat. Happily, the Tabak brothers were treated and released from Alpine Hospital early Tuesday morning.”

  “Roger, the prankster?” Ben said.

  I shrugged. It sounded like the kind of stunt Vida’s grandson would pull.

  Barely pausing for breath, Vida rattled off a number of other parties and open houses held over the New Year’s holiday. “Now we must pause for a word from one of our fine sponsors. But I’ll be back with a very timely and informative guest who has some fond memories of the late Elmer Nystrom.”

  Ben stared at me. “Who is it? Did Vida give you a heads-up?”

  “No.” I was annoyed. “She’d better not be scooping herself.”

  After the Itsa Bitsa Pizza and Parker’s Pharmacy commercials, Vida returned. “Originally, I’d planned to interview Charlene Vickers about what to do with those wilting poinsettias after Christmas, but Charlene has come down with flu. We hope she has a speedy recovery. We wish the same for Sheriff Milo Dodge, who was hospitalized this morning but has been upgraded to satisfactory condition and is resting comfortably.”

  “Ha!” I said. “Uncomfortably.”

  “Now,” Vida said, “I take great pleasure in bringing you one of Alpine’s fine young men, who is following in the footsteps of his father and his uncle, Bryce Nordby. Bryce, won’t you tell us how you came to know and admire the late Elmer Nystrom while working at the Nordby Brothers GM dealership?”

  “Ah,” I said. “Not quite scooping herself.”

  “I’ve always been crazy about cars,” Bryce replied, “so I decided to become a mechanic. I was going to go away to school to learn the trade, but Elmer told my dad, Trout, he could teach me everything I needed to know. So I stayed in Alpine and learned from Elmer, and now I’m a full-fledged mechanic.”

  “That’s a wonderful story,” Vida said in her most unctuous manner. “Staying in Alpine was so wise—and mature—of you. I’m sure Elmer was an excellent teacher. He seemed like a very kind, patient man.”

  “Right. Totally. But he wouldn’t let anybody cut corners or cheat on the job. He was real strict about that. Like, when I was learning to drive five, six years ago, he really got on me for going too fast up and down Front Street. Stuff like that. He was the same way with my brother, Brad, when he learned to drive a couple of years ago. You had to do it Elmer’s way because it was the right way.”

  I tried to picture the younger pair of Nordby brothers but couldn’t come up with any images. Of course I must have seen them around town, but I hadn’t made any connection with Trout and Skunk.

  “I’m sure,” Vida was saying, “that Elmer will be very hard to replace. I know you’re still quite young, but do you have any aspirations to become head of the parts department?”

  “Naw,” Bryce replied. “I like being a mechanic. That’d be more in Brad’s line, but he’s only eighteen and wants to become a billionaire.”

  Vida’s chuckle seemed forced. “Ha, ha. I’m sure most young people would like to do that. But money isn’t everything, you know. It’s very important to get satisfaction from your work. I’m sure Elmer taught you that.”

  “Oh, wow, yeah, totally. And I do. Guess I’m just a grease monkey at heart.”

  “And a very fine thing it is,” Vida declared, “with Americans so dependent on their vehicles these days. I wish every young person felt as you do about your job, Bryce.”

  “Me, too, but they don’t sometimes. I mean, like, I try to tell Brad—my brother—that, but he doesn’t listen. All he wants to know is how to make big money.”

  “Perhaps he will someday.” She paused. “Thank you, Bryce, for being my guest this evening. That’s all we have time for tonight, dear friends. I’m closing my cupboard until next week at this same time. Stay tuned to KSKY for more easy listening.”

  I turned off the radio. “That was a dud,” I remarked.

  “Vida’s heart was in the right place,” Ben said. “She wanted someone who knew Elmer, and Bryce definitely did. Besides, he’s from the younger generation. It speaks well for Elmer that he could communicate with a teenager.”

  Both Ben and I stood up. I glanced at my watch. “That’s odd. It’s only seven-twelve. Vida’s show didn’t run for the full fifteen minutes.”

  “Maybe your watch doesn’t work very well, either,” Ben said.

  I checked the digital clock on the VCR. “It just switched over to seven-t
hirteen. Vida cut at least a couple of minutes off of the program.”

  “Is it prerecorded?” Ben asked.

  “No. It’s live. Except I think there’s a five-second delay during the interview portion in case somebody says something libelous or obscene. There was an incident a few months ago when Vida had the Dithers sisters on and they talked—actually talked instead of neighing and whinnying like their horses. One of them—I forget which—started to explain about giving their sick stallion, Tubby, an enema. Vida had to pull the plug—so to speak—when it got too graphic.”

  Ben grinned. “Yes. I’m glad I missed that one.”

  “I’ll try to call Vida after she gets home,” I said, putting my jacket on again and grabbing my purse. “I can do it at bridge club when I’m dummy.”

  “In the interest of my eternal soul, I’ll skip the smart remark on that one,” Ben said as we went out the front door. He noticed that I wasn’t going to my car in the carport. “You want a lift?”

  “With you in your Deathmobile? No thanks. I’ll walk. Edna Mae lives only a block away.”

  We parted company. Ben shot out of the driveway in his Jeep and roared past me before I could get to Fir Street. I moved fairly fast along the unpaved verge. It was raining harder, heavy cold pelts that hinted at snow later in the night.

  Edna Mae greeted me at the door. “Come in, come in, it’s nasty out there,” she said, taking her usual birdlike steps to make way. “Dixie Ridley and Molly Freeman got here early to listen to Vida’s show with me. The others should be along any minute. Would you like some hot cocoa?”

  “Oh—no, thanks.” Edna Mae used water instead of milk for her low-fat cocoa despite the fact that she didn’t carry more than a hundred pounds on her five-foot frame. The other hostesses usually served wine, which always required the pulling of drapes to keep out prying eyes that might spot two of the high school faculty wives—Dixie and Molly—imbibing spirits. Janet Driggers, however, offered a wide range of adult beverages and ended her hospitality offerings with “Stroke him if you got him.” Edna Mae always pretended she didn’t understand the remark. Or, come to think of it, maybe she wasn’t pretending.