The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  Newlyweds. But Scott had a point. I looked at Vida. “Do you recall any serious problems over the years with the Nordby brothers—or even before the younger generation took over from Mr. Jensen?”

  “No.”

  Vida’s face was stiff as steel. I’d made a terrible gaffe. Her husband, Ernest, had been involved in a fatal accident caused by faulty brakes. I felt like a fool.

  Leo sensed the sudden tension. “If,” he said, looking at me, “you don’t remember anything in the past thirteen, fourteen years you’ve been here, why would anybody wait that long to get back at Elmer? Besides, he didn’t actually do the work, right?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said, unable to watch Vida’s reaction. “But sometimes people misplace blame.”

  Scott shrugged. “Just an idea.”

  Still embarrassed, I retreated into my cubbyhole and immediately dialed Rolf’s number at the AP in Seattle. I got his voice messaging. Not wanting to leave some sort of gushing adolescent thank-you, I hung up, doubling the proof that my maturation level hadn’t gotten much past age seventeen.

  Yet Scott had come up with a possible motive. Cars were such an intrinsic part of American life. Boys—and girls, for that matter—eagerly looked forward to such milestones as learning how to drive, getting that first driver’s license, buying or receiving their first car. I’d spent part of my unexpected inheritance on a secondhand Jaguar; Ed’s first purchase when he became a millionaire was his-and-hers Mercedes sedans; Carter Nystrom had wanted to show off his success by driving a flashy yellow Corvette. A car wasn’t mere transportation for most Americans—it was a status symbol, a cherished possession, almost a living thing.

  But I couldn’t recall any recent incident involving a vehicle that wasn’t the fault of the owner or another driver. Reports of every collision, even fender benders, were published in the Advocate. In the last year we’d had two vehicular-related deaths in SkyCo: One had involved a recent high school graduate on a motorcycle; the other was caused by debris falling off an out-of-town truck on Highway 2 and crushing an elderly man who probably was following too closely in the first place. The truck driver, who lived in Spokane, had been cited and given a stiff fine, but he’d had no Alpine connection other than driving past the town a couple of times a year.

  Wanting to mend fences with Vida, I went back into the newsroom. “My dinner guest left town,” I informed her. “I’ve got some frozen sockeye salmon I was going to serve Ben. Would you like to join me? I don’t like to keep frozen fish too long.”

  Vida tapped the edge of her desk and thought for a minute. “That would be very nice. I’m sure you’re already missing your brother. I had no idea he was leaving right after lunch.”

  I smiled, grateful for what I assumed was her forgiveness for bringing up painful memories. “You can follow me home,” I said.

  “No, no,” Vida responded. “I must put Cupcake to bed. He gets fractious if I don’t cover him up as soon as it gets dark. Thank goodness the days will start getting longer now.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll serve around six or so,” I said, though I often wondered just how fractious her canary could get since he was kept in a cage. Maybe he spit seeds at her or warbled off-key.

  On my way back to my desk, I asked Scott to join me. “I’ve got a job for you,” I said. “Can you check through all the traffic and vehicle citations issued in the last year? Just in case. I think you raised a good point. Or do you recall anything from the police log off the top of your head?”

  Scott roamed the short distance between my file cabinet and the map of Skykomish County on the other wall. “Wow, a whole year’s worth of citations. That’s a lot.” He grinned at me. “Wish I’d been here when old Durwood Parker was getting arrested every other month for some seriously bad driving.”

  “Be glad you weren’t,” I said. “Durwood was lucky he never killed anyone—or himself. He came close, though, especially the time he drove right through the annual Loggerama picnic at Old Mill Park and ended up on the bandstand. Luckily, the band hadn’t been playing. Come to think of it, everybody was lucky when the band didn’t play. They were terrible.”

  “I’ll go over to the sheriff’s and look through the log,” Scott said, glancing at his watch. “It’s after three. I may be gone the rest of the day.”

  “That’s fine,” I told him. “It’s Friday. Go home early, say, around five to five.”

  With another grin for his not-so-witty boss, Scott left. It occurred to me that I didn’t know what Scott was looking for among the dozens of tickets the sheriff and his deputies handed out every year. The state patrol’s tickets also showed up on the local blotter if the stops had been made within the county. It also dawned on me that Scott, being younger and thus less experienced with the vagaries of human nature, might overlook something of interest. Maybe he could use some help.

  By the time I got to the sheriff’s office, Scott was sitting at the far end of the counter with the police binders in front of him. The only other person on hand was Lori Cobb.

  “Got a spare chair?” I asked her. “I’m going to join Scott.”

  “I can get you a folding one from the back,” she offered.

  “Thanks. How’s the sheriff this afternoon?”

  Lori shrugged. “Okay. He went on patrol this afternoon. He said he needed to get outdoors.”

  I understood. Walking over to Scott, I asked how far he’d gotten.

  “End of January,” he replied. “Why couldn’t we do this from our own files? We list all the traffic stops in the paper.”

  “Because,” I explained, “we don’t run all the little stuff. Broken taillights, unsecured loads, expired license tabs. You don’t usually take down those citations unless the offender has given the deputies a bad time or caused a serious problem.”

  “True enough,” Scott conceded. “What about chronic DUIs?”

  “This state’s laws are pretty tough,” I said. “Besides, we always run those. Let’s concentrate on some of the less flagrant violations. We should be looking for something to do with vehicle maintenance, a connection to auto repair or somehow to Elmer.”

  Lori brought me a chair and set it up. I took the binder for March, since Scott was about to start on February.

  “What,” Scott asked, “about citations for not having traction devices? There’s a half-dozen of those in January and early February.”

  “That’s not a big deal,” I said. “Most people around here know how to chain up, and Cal Vickers usually puts on snow tires for customers.”

  Scott nodded once and kept reading.

  During the third week of March, I found an unsecured load citation for Bickford Pike and his pickup. Ten days later Christina Milland was ticketed for a broken headlight. I made notes on both of them.

  Scott was already into April, so I moved to May. “Hey,” he said, “how about Nicholas Della Croce getting pulled over for having studded tires after the removal deadline before April first?”

  “He has himself to blame for that,” I replied, “but since he lives next door to the Nystroms, I’ll put him down.”

  “Same thing for Elmer Kemp a week later,” Scott said. “Those fines are over seventy dollars each. Wouldn’t you think people would remember to switch their tires on time?”

  “I’m not unsympathetic,” I responded. “Historically, we’ve had snow well into April in Alpine. But not, I admit, lately. Frankly, I hate to have Cal take my studded tires off at the end of March. With all the rain, the hills around here are still dangerous.”

  “But those studs are so hard on the roads and free-ways,” Scott pointed out. “Not to mention in the bigger cities, where all that traffic really chews up the streets.”

  “More broken headlights and taillights in May,” I noted. “Bebe Everson, Mike Corson, Walt Hanson.” I looked at Scott. “Do any of them have a connection to Elmer?”

  “The Eversons live out that way off the Burl Creek Road,” Scott said after a pause. “But n
ot that close to the Nystroms. Roy Everson runs the post office, and Mike Corson’s a carrier for the mail that goes outside Alpine’s boundaries. Walt Hanson drives a Toyota. He’d take his car to that dealership, not Nordby Brothers.”

  “I’ll put them down, just in case,” I said, closing the May binder. “You’re Mr. June, I’m Ms. July.”

  We finished our task just after four-thirty. We’d collected a grand total of thirty citations, none of them involving an injury or an accident. Only four people had more than one ticket. Bickford Pike, Bebe Everson, and Nick Della Croce had three apiece. The winner with five citations—all for faulty equipment—was the Alpine Chamber of Commerce manager, Rita Patricelli. Maybe she felt it was her duty to put money into the county coffers. The prickly Rita wasn’t one of my favorite Alpiners, but she drove some kind of Ford van. I couldn’t think of any link between her and Elmer except, of course, for chamber meetings.

  “Waste of time?” Scott asked as we left the sheriff’s office.

  “Probably.” I shrugged. “Go home. I’ll check your in-box and voice mail to see if you’ve missed anything important. If you haven’t, I won’t pester you. Enjoy the weekend.”

  When I returned to the office, Freddy Bellman was talking to Leo. Vida was on the phone. I nodded at Freddy and went into my office. If nothing else, all the vehicle research I’d been doing had given me an idea for an editorial. It was a subject I’d harped on ever since I’d been the Advocate’s editor and publisher: There was nothing to be done about Americans owning cars. It was a love affair that would never grow stale. But while the state searched desperately for ways to raise money, vehicle license tab fees had decreased, not increased. Granted, some families genuinely needed two cars, but three or more vehicles were superfluous. Still, if that was what drivers wanted, fine. Then let them pay for their excess by tripling or quadrupling the fees to help fund for highways and roads. Maybe some of that money could even trickle down to the counties and municipalities.

  I knew I didn’t have a prayer of getting through to the politicians. The idea made far too much sense. Some people would have to get rid of a vehicle or two or three because they wouldn’t be able to afford the annual fees for license tabs. Thus, there’d be fewer cars to guzzle gas, congestion would be eased, and insurance rates might go down. Crazy Emma, blowing her ideas into the wind.

  I’d gotten to the third paragraph when Freddy strode into my cubbyhole. “I’ve cut a deal with your Mr. Walsh,” he announced. “Two three-column by four-inch ads running in the next issues, placement in the professional services section for three months, and another, larger one-time-only ad in mid-March before the income tax deadline. Do you feel richer already?”

  “My middle name is Wealth,” I replied. “Thanks. Leo will do a good job for you.”

  “And I shall do the same for my new clients.” He sat down. “In fact, I’ve already acquired one.”

  “Who?” I asked idly.

  “A fellow named Ed Bronsky. I ran into him at that burger place across the street.”

  I tried not to gape at Freddy. “Ed wants you to be his accountant?”

  Freddy chuckled. “You think I’m foolish to take on some guy who’s slinging hamburgers at a greasy spoon? Self-employed pros like me know you have to start small and expand your base when you plunge into new territory. If I can help this poor sap out of his tax mess, he’ll spread the word and help me get new, more prosperous clients.” Freddy shrugged. “It’s a simple theory, like throwing a rock in the water and watching the circles move ever outward.”

  I decided not to say anything more about Ed, let alone divulge his background. “Sensible,” I remarked, and promptly changed the subject. “What time is your dinner reservation?”

  “Seven-thirty.” Freddy stretched and yawned. “Bree doesn’t get done at the hospital until six. She has to go home and change.”

  Judging from Freddy’s relaxed attitude, he’d decided that the Advocate office was his personal waiting room. I was about to remind him that we would shut down in another ten minutes, but instead I inquired if Bree had a sense of humor.

  “Interesting query,” Freddy responded. “Yes, sort of. Why do you ask?”

  “I think it’s important in relationships.”

  “It is.” He regarded me with curiosity. “Are you matchmaking?”

  “Never,” I said. “I was just wondering why she and Carter broke up. I don’t really know her, and I met Carter for the first time today at the funeral reception. That’s hardly an occasion to probe for somebody’s funny bone.”

  “Don’t bother yourself about Bree’s heartbreak,” Freddy cautioned. “She could be Venus reincarnated and it wouldn’t matter to Carter. I could have told her that before she ever followed him to Alpine. But I didn’t know her back then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He chuckled, a rather unpleasant sound. “You know what I mean.” He slapped his hand on my desk and stood up. “I should be going. I imagine it’s quitting time around here. Enjoy your weekend.” He strolled out of the office, whistling.

  Chapter Eighteen

  VIDA SHOWED UP at my house a few minutes before six. She’d gone home just before Freddy Bellman made his exit. Naturally, she wanted to know if he’d told me anything interesting.

  “I think so,” I said, melting butter to drip over the salmon steaks. “But I almost hate to repeat what he implied. Carter may be gay.”

  Vida considered the statement. “Well…that would hardly reflect on his ability as an orthodontist. Still, it’s not something that Carter might want known in a small town.” Vida grimaced. “I despise saying so, but some people harbor peculiar prejudices.”

  Vida’s broad-mindedness might surprise most people, but not me. I knew her too well. As a student of human nature, she considered any deviation from the norm as “interesting” and therefore worthy of endless speculation—and, of course, scathing criticism. In this case, however, she seemed unusually benign.

  “Still,” she went on, tracing the daisy pattern on my kitchen tablecloth with her finger, “it might explain Carter’s behavior toward his mother. An Oedipus complex of some sort.”

  “I don’t know much about Freud,” I admitted, “though I recall from Psych 100 in college that young boys who fixate on their mothers often show homosexual tendencies in later life. Or not,” I added lamely.

  Vida frowned, obviously thinking hard. “Really, I have so little faith in psychology and psychiatry and such. Common sense is much better as well as cheaper—yet rare. Still, such fixations exist and must be called something. Oedipus complex will do.”

  I was still trying to remember anything specific from my long-ago freshman course at the University of Washington. What I recalled most vividly was trying to stay awake during early morning lectures. “This may sound crazy, and excuse the expression,” I said, “but I think I read or heard in class that early on the overwhelming love in boys for their moms is accompanied by a death wish for their dads.”

  Vida nodded. “Yes, of course. That’s why the complex is named for Oedipus, who killed his father and married his mother. Honestly, even in Alpine that would be a scandal! It’s bad enough that I know at least two sets of first cousins who married each other. It’s no wonder their children are extremely odd! They’re also rather homely.”

  I wasn’t sure who Vida meant, nor did I want to find out. The salmon was under the broiler, and the potatoes and Brussels sprouts were boiling on the stove. Vida was drinking ice water; I sipped a Pepsi.

  “So,” she said after I’d told her about the search Scott and I had made at the sheriff’s office, “you aren’t much wiser.”

  “No,” I said, lifting the lid off the potatoes to see if they were done. “Maybe it is a random thing. The railroad tracks run fairly close to the Burl Creek Road along that stretch. The trains always slow down when they approach Alpine. A vagrant might have jumped off and spent the night in the henhouse. Elmer could have surprised whoever it was,
and the guy put up a fight. It happens.”

  “True.” Vida folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me again who received those citations.”

  I ran down the list from the notes I’d brought home with me. Vida, of course, needed no such visual reminders of who was who and who did what to whom. I’ve never known her to make notes of any kind. Her local lore was encyclopedic—and infallible.

  “Nick Della Croce,” she murmured after I was finished. “That’s the name that intrigues me most. Yet the offense of not removing his studded tires on time isn’t connected to Elmer, even if the Della Croces do live next door to the Nystroms.”

  “I’ve never met the man,” I said, “though I vaguely recall seeing him a couple of times at St. Mildred’s. Solid build, mustache, receding wavy dark hair going gray. And his wife is an orthodontist’s assistant who didn’t get a job with Carter.”

  Vida nodded. “No doubt Mr. Della Croce is very protective of his only child. Gloria might shrug off the strange relationship she’s overheard, but her father may not have done the same.” She unclasped her hands and clapped them together. “Ah! We must pay a call on the entire family after dinner.”

  “Vida…”

  “Don’t argue. Let’s see…our pretext…” She shoved a hairpin into her unruly gray curls. “Car trouble? No. Too obvious. A readership survey for the paper? No, no. Not in person. You mentioned your editorial for the next issue…Burl Creek Road needs to be resurfaced. Perhaps we could say we’re asking residents who live along there to—”

  “Vida!” I all but yelled at her. “How about the truth?” My House & Home editor was the soul of integrity, except when she resorted to subterfuge in the name of the job. Then she relished dreaming up plausible excuses for snooping. “We’re still working on the murder investigation story,” I said in a reasonable tone. “We haven’t yet talked to the father and the daughter. They could be witnesses.”

  Vida looked disappointed. “Well, now…I suppose that would do.”