The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  “Greetings,” he said, standing behind Alicia’s chair. “Have you tried the punch? It’s pineapple and orange.”

  “It sounds lethal, Freddy,” Christy said. “Go away.”

  “Don’t,” Alicia said. “Sit. Stay. I’m dying of boredom.”

  Freddy pulled out a chair next to Christy. “I may have found a receptionist for you. He’s from Marysville and very efficient. His name is Geoff, with a G-E-O.”

  “Cute,” said Alicia.

  “Yuck,” said Christy.

  “I thought,” Freddy said with a bemused expression, “you two might get along better with a male than another female. Less competition.” He leered at both of them.

  “That’s not cute,” Alicia declared archly.

  Christy rested her chin on one hand and drummed the table with the other. “You’re not going away, are you, Freddy?”

  “Never. How could I?” For the first time, Freddy seemed to notice that I was an actual person and not part of the décor. “You should introduce me to your friend.”

  Alicia waved a hand as if to dismiss me. “She’s not a friend. She’s a reporter.”

  I’ve suffered mightily in the name of following a story, but this trio was getting on my nerves. Maybe Jessica Wesley was right, after all. Alicia and Christy were a nasty pair, and Freddy wasn’t much better.

  “I know all I need to know,” I asserted, standing up and accidentally hitting my shin on the chair. “I’m sorry for your loss—of good manners.” I stomped off toward the exit.

  I’d gotten to the parking lot when I saw Vida coming out of the church entrance. “Yoo-hoo!” she shouted. “Wait for me!”

  I stood in the soft rain and obeyed orders. “Those people are absolutely dreadful,” I said when Vida got within hearing range. “I wish I’d never come.”

  “Emma!” Vida scowled at me. “When people are behaving badly, that’s always when you learn the most.”

  “I didn’t learn anything I didn’t know or hadn’t heard about,” I grumbled. “Let’s go back to the office. We can talk there.”

  “What about lunch? It’s almost noon.” She slapped again at the poodles hanging from her hat. “I’m very disappointed in the reception itself. Nothing more than a tray of cookies? Only three kinds? So stingy! I can’t think how Edith Bartleby let Polly and Carter get away with that. Edith usually urges survivors to put on a more lavish spread.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” I said. “Maybe that’s why I’m so crabby. I’ll see you at the Venison Inn. I can’t bear to watch Ed slinging hamburgers again.”

  Trinity Church was on Second between Cascade and Tyee streets, which meant I might as well drive straight down to Front and park my car in front of the Advocate. But when I reached my destination, I saw that my usual spot had been taken by Ben’s beat-up Jeep.

  There was room for the Honda three spots down, by the dry cleaners. I pulled in just as Ben came out through the newspaper’s entrance.

  “Hey, Sluggly, want to go eat?” he shouted.

  “I already have a date,” I called to him. “It’s Vida. Join us?” I couldn’t ignore my brother, even for the sake of rehashing the funeral and reception.

  “Sure,” Ben said, walking toward me. “Where is she?”

  I scanned Front Street. Vida had been forced to park her Buick across Fourth by the hobby shop.

  “We’re going to the Venison Inn,” I said while we waited on the sidewalk. “I must warn you, I’m not in a charitable mood. I lost it at the Episcopal church.”

  “Not quite the place I’d have chosen,” Ben remarked. “They’re usually the soul of good manners and refined taste.”

  “Not this bunch,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t think some of them are Episcopalians.”

  Vida hailed my brother from half a block away. “Father Ben! How wonderful! You can cheer up your sister. She’s been through the mill, I gather.”

  “Poor thing,” Ben said dryly as we walked down the street. “Didn’t they feed you?”

  A snarl was my answer.

  We were early enough to get a booth near the back of the restaurant. Vida sat on the aisle, of course, the better to watch who was coming in and going out, especially from the bar. The first thing she did after sitting down was to yank off the hat with its dangling poodles. Obviously, she wanted no more impediments to her people watching.

  I’d gotten over my pique by the time I held a menu in my hands. “Okay,” I said, “I’m not mad anymore, just unsettled. I find Polly and Carter very odd.”

  “Of course,” Vida said. “They are.” She leaned out of the booth. “Scooter Hutchins is growing a beard. He looks ridiculous. Who’s that with him? A flooring salesman, perhaps. Or counter tiles.”

  Ben shot me an amused glance. “I assume Regis conducted a dignified ceremony?”

  “Oh, yes,” Vida replied. “Regis Bartleby is nothing if not dignified. But it wasn’t a large turnout—mostly employees from Nordby Brothers and a few longtime customers such as the Pucketts and the Parkers and the Bartons. None of them stayed for the reception, though.”

  “It’s a workday,” I pointed out. “At least that was my excuse for missing the actual service.”

  “Shame on you,” Ben said lightly.

  “But I think I met Carter’s CPA,” I said.

  “Whoopee!” Ben said softly, and whistled just a little bit.

  Vida, who was leaning again, swiveled around to look at me. “The man in the expensive suit?”

  “Yes. His name is Freddy, and he may be an ass.”

  Jessie Lott, who always walked as if her feet hurt—they probably did—came to our booth holding her order pad. “Ready?” She stared at my brother. “Father Lord! I haven’t had a chance to say hello. I went to Mass last Sunday in Monroe with my daughter. I spent Christmas there, too. She has a new baby.”

  “Congratulations,” Ben said. “How have you been, Jessie?”

  As usual, she looked a little glum. “Tired. I’d like to quit this job, but I won’t get full Social Security for another year.” She looked at Vida, taking in the black hat, the black swing coat, and the black-and-white-checkered dress. “You look like you went to Elmer Nystrom’s funeral. Too bad about him. He was always good to me when I took Harold’s old Blazer truck in for fixing.”

  Harold was Jessie’s late husband, who’d died shortly before I moved to Alpine. He’d worked for the PUD and had accidentally touched a live wire that electrocuted him at the age of forty-four. Vida told me that Jessie should have sued the county but refused because she insisted that her husband’s coworkers and supervisors had always treated him kindly. She didn’t want to cause them any trouble. Thus, she’d spent the last sixteen years waiting tables.

  “Yes,” Vida murmured, “everyone thinks Elmer was wonderful. I suppose he was. When my nephew couldn’t fix my Buicks, I dealt with him, and I can’t complain.” The admission was astonishing. For once, Vida had no criticism to offer. “I’ll have the chicken club with fries and a green salad, Roquefort dressing, and please don’t let them stint on it. Oh, and hot tea.” She checked to make sure there were plenty of real sugar packets in the holder on the table.

  “Same for me, Jessie,” Ben said. “But coffee, please.”

  I decided to make it easy. “Me, too,” I said.

  Jessie scribbled on her pad. “By the way, Father,” she said, lowering her voice and speaking to my brother, “is it still a mortal sin to commit suicide?”

  If Ben was startled by the question, he didn’t show it. “The Church has softened its stand on suicide in recent years. Catholics who kill themselves are now allowed to be buried in sanctified ground as well as to have a funeral Mass said for them.” His expression remained pleasant, inviting any confidence Jessie might want to offer.

  “What about non-Catholics?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Ben said.

  Jessie sighed. “Never mind. I didn’t go to Catholic school, so I only know what I lear
ned in my catechism classes.”

  Ben smiled. “The old Baltimore Catechism, right?” He saw Jessie nod. “That got tossed decades ago, Jessie. Do you know somebody who is considering suicide?”

  Jessie’s round face turned pink. “Oh, not really. It’s probably just talk. Excuse me. I’d better put your order in.” She hurried off on her tender feet.

  “Well, now!” Vida exclaimed. “Who do you suppose she meant?”

  Ben’s expression was no longer pleasant but somber. “I wish I knew. Maybe I should tell Kelly about it even if the person isn’t Catholic. His network with the rest of the local clergy is pretty good.”

  “I hope so,” Vida said. “It’s nonsense for people to say that when someone talks about committing suicide, that’s all it is—just talk, seeking attention. Usually the person is quite serious.”

  Ben agreed but felt there was no point speculating. “If you see Jessie at Mass on Sunday,” he said to me, “see if you can get her to open up.”

  “Jessie usually goes to five o’clock Mass on Saturdays,” I responded. “She often works the breakfast shift here on Sundays.”

  “Then change your routine,” Ben said. He wasn’t kidding. Caring about people was, after all, part of his vocation. “So tell me more about your terrible trials at Elmer’s reception.”

  In retrospect, there wasn’t much to tell. In fact, I sounded petty as I recounted my exchanges with the North Dakota women, Carter and Polly, and the two assistants.

  “Maybe my mood wasn’t very good,” I allowed.

  “Funerals will do that,” Ben remarked.

  “A poor turnout,” Vida remarked. “Not that many from the church itself. It makes me wonder. Did they stay away because they didn’t really like Elmer—or because they couldn’t stand Polly? You must recall what Maud Dodd said about Polly’s rumor mongering.”

  I conceded Vida’s point. “Carter seems innocuous enough.”

  “Perhaps.” Vida frowned. “One person I thought might have been there wasn’t.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Bree Kendall. I must confess, I’m very curious as to why she didn’t come, if only out of courtesy.”

  “She didn’t work for Elmer,” I pointed out. “She may not have even known him.”

  “That’s not the point,” Vida contended. “She followed Carter to Alpine and spent two years working for him. That’s what I mean by courtesy. I want to find out why she absented herself.” Vida shot a steely glance at both Ben and me. “And I will do that, perhaps this very afternoon.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WASN’T UNTIL we were walking back to the office that Ben announced he was leaving in an hour. “Kelly won’t be back until late tonight, but I’ve got any emergency covered by Sister Mary Joan and Sister Clare. If things really go awry, the pastor from St. Mary in the Valley in Monroe is backup.”

  “You tricked me,” I accused him. “I thought we could have dinner before you left.”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s why I came by to see if you were free for lunch. Follow through on that suicide thing, okay? It bothers me.”

  “Right.” I knew I sounded uninterested. My brain was wrapped around Ben’s precipitate departure and the loneliness I was already feeling.

  “Hug,” Ben said. “Prayers.”

  I threw my arms around him. Vida already had dashed into the office. My brother and I both prayed in silence. Then he kissed the top of my head and let me go. I fought back tears as he climbed into his battered Jeep, waved once, and pulled out onto Front Street. I stood on the sidewalk, watching until he turned the corner onto Alpine Way and disappeared from sight.

  Ginny was talking to someone who was buying a classified ad for a lost dog. Vida and Scott were both on the phone. Leo wasn’t in sight. I went into my cubbyhole and immediately e-mailed Adam.

  “Your uncle just left for East Lansing. I’m bereft. When are you going to get down here again? It seems like you’ve been gone for two years, not two weeks.”

  Mother’s guilt trip, I thought, and felt suitably guilty. But I sent the e-mail anyway and waited, just in case Adam was online. After almost five minutes, I gave up. He was probably doing good somewhere with his parishioners. There were times when I wished my son hadn’t become a priest. I could be surrounded by grandchildren and feeling needed. Instead, I was sitting in a room the size of a large cardboard box, feeling sorry for myself.

  The phone rang. Had Adam decided to brave making a call despite the frustrating radio relay from St. Mary’s Igloo?

  “Yes?” I said hopefully.

  “Gallstones.”

  “What?”

  “Gallstones,” Milo repeated. “You deaf?”

  “You’ve got gallstones?” I said.

  “Are you brain-dead and deaf?” the sheriff demanded. “Why would I say—”

  “Okay, okay, I understand.” I was so relieved that I laughed. “That’s not very scary.”

  “Hell, no,” Milo shot back, “but it’s not funny when I have those attacks. They’re damned miserable.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Try labor pains, I felt like saying. You men don’t know what misery really is.

  “The operation’s pretty simple,” the sheriff said.

  “Has your surgery been scheduled?”

  “No, and keep your mouth shut,” Milo ordered. “I don’t want this to get out just yet. First, I’d like to wrap up this Nystrom homicide.”

  His statement made me curious. “Are you getting close?”

  “No. Don’t bug me.” Milo sounded annoyed.

  “I only wondered because—”

  It was his turn to interrupt me. “You think I’m holding back?”

  “Not really,” I replied candidly. “But you can’t go around having these attacks and getting hauled off to the hospital. What if it takes weeks to find the killer?”

  “I have to be careful what I eat, that’s all.” The sheriff sounded slightly more reasonable. “That steak and the cheeseburger I had yesterday weren’t good for me, Doc says.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “Did Doe attend the funeral?”

  “Uh…she kind of looked in from the back.”

  “I gather she has an aversion to funerals,” I said, noticing that Ethel Pike had come into the newsroom to see Vida.

  “Doe’s half Native American,” the sheriff said. “She doesn’t think much of the way we other folks bury our dead. I’m not sure I don’t agree with her. Anyway, that’s her business, and as long as she does the job, she can think what she wants.”

  “Did she have any observations?”

  “Yeah. She thought her part of it was worthless, since Carter Nystrom canceled the trip to the cemetery. Doe left about halfway through the service. I don’t blame her—it was a waste of county time and money.”

  “That was Polly’s doing, not Carter’s,” I put in, but quickly amended my words. “That is, Carter felt his mother shouldn’t have to go through a wet morning on Cemetery Hill.”

  “Bullshit,” Milo said. “Everybody else does. What makes her so special?”

  “Carter, I think. Let me tell you a little story.” I lowered my voice so Ethel couldn’t overhear and related Anna Maria Della Croce’s account of her daughter’s unintentional eavesdropping.

  “Sick?” Milo said when I’d finished. “Or silly?”

  “Your call.”

  “I’ve got one,” the sheriff responded. “On my other line. Later.”

  Ethel was leaving just as I hung up. I went out into the newsroom.

  “A letter to the editor,” Vida said with a sneer, and handed me a single sheet of pale blue stationery decorated with a sketch of a thimble, a needle, and thread. “Ethel and Pike are upset with his care at the emergency room. They had to wait too long and insist it’s because they’re Medicare patients. Ethel says the doctors don’t care about older folks, only younger people who pay their own way.”

  I scanned the three typed paragraphs. “Last night? We
saw them there. What’s the rush with bronchitis?”

  Vida sighed. “Ethel insists they had to wait over an hour to be seen. Frankly, I don’t think that’s unreasonable with only two doctors in this county, and both of them are overworked as it is. Maybe you should write an editorial urging funding for a nurse practitioner, at the very least.”

  “I’ve written two or more in the last year,” I said. “I suppose another wouldn’t hurt. Certainly this thing with Milo might have been resolved sooner if the hospital had better testing equipment.”

  Vida stared at me. “What ‘thing’? Do you know something I don’t?”

  The indignation in Vida’s tone almost made me smile. “Yes. He just called. He has gallstones. But keep it to yourself.” I turned to Scott, who was finally hanging up the phone. “Hear that? No tattling about the sheriff’s delicate condition.”

  Scott nodded. “Got it.” He gestured at his phone. “That was the state safety council. They don’t give those type of awards. They suggested we use county funding.”

  “What county funding?” I shot back. “That’s the problem—SkyCo is short of cash. Nobody wants to pay for bond issues and levies around here. We’re lucky we can keep the public schools open.”

  Vida’s expression remained indignant. “Alpiners are historically thrifty. A Scandinavian majority, working in the timber industry, with the town barely surviving the first big mill closure just before the Great Depression. If it hadn’t been for my father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, the entire town would’ve been shut down.”

  I knew all about Rufus’s bright idea to open a ski lodge. Seventy-five years ago he and another local known as Olaf the Obese had sunk their small savings into the relatively new winter sport of skiing. Their endeavor had saved the town, though growth had been minimal until the Second World War. Then, a few short years before I moved to Alpine, the timber industry had been hit hard again, this time by environmental concerns. The creation of the state community college had helped the local economy, but we seemed to be in a holding pattern of just over seven thousand full-time residents throughout the mountainous wedge-shaped county. Our tax base was small not only because so few people lived in SkyCo but because we had so little industry within our boundaries.