The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  Some things never change. Adam remained careless about his material possessions. I couldn’t help it—the trait proved he was still a child in some ways and thus needed his mother. I was smiling as I went into his room and searched for the camera.

  I’d cleaned house after he’d left but hadn’t spotted the camera then. Having already checked under the bed, I knew it wasn’t there. The closet was another matter. I used it for storage and kept promising myself I’d sort through the items that neither Adam nor I had used in years. Of course I’d never gotten around to it. I keep a reasonably tidy house, but I tend to clutter, never embracing the old saw that cleanliness is next to godliness. If I had to spend time with a neat freak like Elmer, I’d go nuts.

  The camera wasn’t in the closet. But as I delved into the useless items I should’ve gotten rid of years before, an idea popped into my head. Had Elmer’s penchant for tidiness, method, and order driven someone to madness? And to murder?

  I continued the hunt. Finally, I managed to move the bureau a few inches out from the wall. Sure enough, the camera was on the floor. I immediately e-mailed Adam and told him I’d mail it to him on Monday.

  Finding the camera pushed the idea about Elmer to the back of my brain.

  But it would come back to haunt me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE SUN MADE a brave attempt to break through the clouds Saturday morning. After breakfast, I called Milo. He didn’t answer on either his home phone or his cell. Maybe he’d gone steelheading. I hoped he’d taken someone with him in case he had another gallbladder attack, but I guessed he was alone. Fishing isn’t a social event. It’s more like a spiritual experience with silence as its golden rule.

  I tried to phone Rolf next. No answer there, just his voice mail. Again, I didn’t leave a message. He’d often walk to the Pike Place Market on Saturday mornings and buy whatever delicacy appealed to his mood. I’d gone with him a couple of times, though I wasn’t keen on the walking part. The last time, in mid-October, I’d insisted we take the bus back to his Lower Queen Anne condo.

  I stood staring out my front window where the pale sunlight had turned Fir Street’s rainy pavement from shiny black to dull gray. Ben was cruising along I-90 in Montana by now. If he’d driven most of the night, he should be past Butte. I tried not to worry.

  But the only way I could do that was to worry about something else: Milo. On a whim, I called the sheriff’s office. It was officially closed on Saturdays, but someone would be on duty. Sam Heppner answered.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Dodge went fishing. He thought he’d head for the Tye just below where the Foss River comes in.”

  “He didn’t answer his cell,” I said. “I can’t help but fuss.”

  “The cell may not work up there,” Sam said. “Maybe he turned it off. Dodge wanted to get away from it all or some damned thing. Can’t say as I blame him. He’s had a crappy week.”

  I thanked Sam and hung up. As the crow flies, the sheriff was only about three miles from my house. The whim and the worry were still upon me. I put a cable-knit sweater over my cotton turtleneck, donned my car coat, and headed out into the morning.

  Driving down Alpine Way, I felt foolish. I needed a better excuse to interrupt Milo’s solitary steelhead adventure than my concern for his health. If I even hinted that I was fussing over him, he’d be angry. At Front Street and Alpine Way, I pulled into Starbucks. Even the sheriff wouldn’t turn down good coffee. Not that I believed he’d know the difference after the sludge he’d been used to drinking while Toni Andreas worked for him.

  The line was ten deep at the counter. While waiting my turn, I gazed around at the gathering seated at tables or in armchairs by the fireplace. At least two-thirds of the clientele were college-age students or under forty. I seemed to be the oldest person in the coffeehouse.

  Then I spotted Bree Kendall sitting by herself at a small table and reading a book.

  I couldn’t resist. I got out of line and went to her table, sitting down in the empty chair across from her. She looked up from her book and glared at me.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “An apology,” I said.

  Bree closed the book, which was the latest Margaret Atwood novel. “For what?”

  “I think you know.”

  Bree’s chilly gaze faltered. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  I was surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Carter asked me to do it.” She looked disgusted.

  “Why?”

  “Somebody he knew in Seattle had died recently.” Bree stopped. “Why do I have to explain this to you?”

  “Because if we hadn’t known better, we’d have run the obit on Elmer and looked like idiots.”

  She uttered a hollow laugh. “You did run it.”

  Bree had a point. “But Elmer was alive when it arrived in the mail. Are you saying Carter knew his father would be dead by the time the paper came out?”

  Bree looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

  I tried to gauge Bree’s mental state. Was she nuts? Was she lying? Was she vindictive? I couldn’t tell. “Did Carter give you a reason for writing up his father’s death notice?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smirked at me. “Carter could be so sincere. Or pretend to be. This friend of his who’d died a couple of weeks before Christmas had no surviving relatives in the area. Carter had gone to see him—his first name was Connor, but I don’t know his last name—a few days before the end. Carter had asked to be notified if—when—Connor died. The hospice people forgot to let him know, and Carter found out only because there was a very brief notice in the Seattle paper.”

  None of this was making much sense. “So?”

  “It upset Carter that Connor had died alone. There was nothing about his life in the obituary—only his death. Connor was a successful sculptor. Carter said—” Bree stopped, a glint of tears in her eyes. “Why,” she whispered, “couldn’t he have cared that way about me?”

  “Only Carter can tell you that,” I said. “So why did he have you write up the obit for his father?”

  Bree clenched her fist around the paper napkin she’d been using to hold her cup. “He had me write up both of his parents so they could be kept for future use. The one for Mrs. Nystrom was much longer, and he wanted to go over it before he gave it to me. He planned to write his own, too.” She snorted in contempt. “‘Be prepared’ was his motto. The way he talked about his mother and how wonderful she was—it made me want to puke. I’d have rather sent that one in, but I never got it, so I used that backbiter Alicia’s envelope with those stupid animal stamps. I tossed the notice for her uncle or grandfather or whoever the old coot was and mailed Elmer’s, just to piss him off as a farewell gesture. Oh, hell!” She scooped up her book, clutch purse, and car keys. “That’s where they can all go as far as I’m concerned,” she mumbled, kicking the chair out of her way and rushing for the door.

  Bree’s explanation about the obituary seemed credible. She was clearly an emotional mess. People do strange, even childish, things when they’re faced with rejection. Dinner with Freddy Bellman at Le Gourmand didn’t appear to have cheered up Bree. The accountant had an uphill struggle to win her affections. He thought she was worth it. I wasn’t so sure.

  Standing up from the table, I saw that the line had dwindled to only a couple of people. Five minutes later, I was out the door carrying two decaf lattes and a couple of bran muffins. I assumed my purchases wouldn’t set off another of Milo’s gallbladder attacks.

  I had to take the Burl Creek Road to get beyond Cass and Profitts ponds. I slowed as I passed the Della Croce and Nystrom properties. A truck was parked in the first driveway; a yellow Corvette was pulling out of the garage at the second house. Foiling common sense and good manners, I pulled over to block the ’Vette’s exit.

  The driver had stopped about ten yards from the road. He was probably used to people turning around in his wide, neatly
tended driveway. The sports car’s windows must have been tinted. I assumed Carter was at the wheel, but I couldn’t really see him. Turning off the engine, I got out of the Honda and approached his ostentatious new toy.

  He rolled down the window on the driver’s side. “Ms. Lord? Are you having car trouble?”

  “I’m having trouble,” I said, “but not with my car. I have to talk to you. Have you got a minute?”

  Carter frowned slightly. “I was going to grocery shop,” he said.

  “It won’t take long.”

  Reluctantly, he turned off the engine. “V8,” he murmured.

  “Very nice.”

  “Well?” He looked at me curiously.

  I would have preferred not standing next to the car. It wasn’t conducive to making me feel at ease. Of course Carter knew that.

  “I have an awkward question,” I said, and paused, waiting for a reaction. There wasn’t any. “What time did you leave for work Monday?”

  Carter looked slightly affronted. I didn’t blame him. “Just before seven-thirty. Why is that important to you?”

  “I’ve been asking several people in the vicinity,” I explained, “to find out if anyone noticed some unusual occurrence.”

  He seemed vaguely amused. “Journalist plays detective? To think I always believed that small-town newspapers were interested only in rescuing kittens from trees and baking cupcakes for the church bazaar.”

  “Odd,” I remarked. “I don’t recall your mother ever making cookies for the Episcopal church.”

  “She seldom bakes,” Carter replied. “She has a skin allergy to wheat flour. Working with it gives her a rash.”

  “A shame.” I waited despite the fact that I was getting a kink in my neck from looking down at Carter in his comfortable bucket seat. “Well?” I finally prompted.

  He frowned. “Well what?”

  “Monday morning. Anything unusual. My question.”

  “No. Nothing. Don’t you think that if I had seen anything, I would’ve informed the sheriff and his deputies? It was an ordinary morning.”

  Not, I thought, for your father.

  “You didn’t find it odd that your dad hadn’t left for work?”

  Carter shrugged. “He often left a few minutes after I did. My routine varies from day to day, depending on my bookings. Is that all?” He started the engine again.

  I felt stymied. Carter was very smooth. Bree had told me he had a knack for seeming sincere. I didn’t know what to make of him. “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Thank you as well,” he said, “for coming to the funeral reception. My father was well liked and well remembered,” Carter added, his features softening slightly.

  I frowned. Who was Carter describing? I wondered. Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman? Perhaps he was and didn’t realize it. Like Willy, Elmer Nystrom might have been chasing the American dream, becoming “well liked” only to end up murdered in a chicken coop.

  I started to turn away but saw Polly in the front doorway. “Is something wrong?” she called. “Is Carter all right?”

  “Yes,” I shouted. “He’s fine.”

  I turned away abruptly. A moment later, I pulled my Honda out of the drive, allowing Carter to reverse and head for town. Polly had gone inside, but she wasn’t the only one who’d been watching. I was about to drive away when I saw Gloria Della Croce running from her porch, waving frantically.

  It was my turn to roll down the car window. “Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I feel so dumb,” Gloria said after catching her breath. “I should’ve remembered about that Elvis album. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I assured her. “Your buddy reminded you. How’s Brianna doing, by the way?”

  Gloria pushed the long dark hair away from her face and sighed. “It’s tough. She doesn’t want to marry Brad. They’re both too young. But her folks are giving her kind of a bad time. That’s why she stays with us quite a bit. You’d think being a minister would make her dad more understanding.”

  “That’s not always the case,” I said. “Reverend Phelps probably thinks his daughter should practice what he preaches.”

  “Easy to say,” Gloria remarked, looking unusually wise for a girl of her age. “Dads with only daughters can be a pain. I ought to know.”

  “Overly protective?”

  Gloria nodded. “That’s the other thing. I wanted to tell you my dad isn’t always a complete butt. He came on pretty strong last night. I’ve gotten so I just tune him out.”

  “He only wants what’s best for you,” I said.

  “I know…but sometimes…” She hesitated. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Brianna spent the night. She was just waking up a few minutes ago. I don’t want her to think I ran off without her.”

  “She’s lucky to have you for a friend—like a big sister, I imagine.”

  Gloria uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “Maybe. I haven’t had much practice.” She ran back toward the house.

  I drove off down the road, leaving the occasional house, abandoned cabin, and dilapidated shed behind. I’d slowed down by Roy and Bebe Everson’s place. She had received a citation for broken head-or taillights, but that was no motive for murder. I’d also passed Ethel and Bickford Pike’s property. The pickup truck Pike used for hauling his junk wasn’t parked by the house. Maybe they’d gone into town to shop or to Everett to sell some of his loot. His ticket for an unsecured load loomed larger in my mind, though it hardly seemed like a reason to kill Elmer.

  I drove on. There was no snow at this level, not even as I craned my neck to look up at the face of Tonga Ridge. I thought about the two families I’d just encountered.

  Carter was something of an enigma to me. Or maybe I was trying to read something into him that wasn’t there. He was intelligent, was a professional man, had a mother fixation, and perhaps was gay. None of those things made him evil, just a little different. Certainly it didn’t convince me he’d commit patricide.

  Nick Della Croce was a very protective father but appeared only to have his daughter’s welfare at heart. I hardly thought he’d kill Elmer because Gloria had overheard the poor man’s wife and son making verbal love.

  The problem, I realized, was motive. What incited people to commit murder? Certainly, I thought as I watched for the turnoff to the gravel road that led to Milo’s fishing hole, I’d come across several killers in my career as a journalist. Greed, fear, revenge, jealousy, and just plain insanity had provoked those murderers. I also knew that the victim often revealed a great deal about the killer’s identity. Yet in kindly Elmer’s case, that didn’t seem to be true.

  I spotted the gravel road to the fork in the Foss and Tye rivers. Just beyond a slight bend, I saw Milo’s Grand Cherokee. I pulled up behind it and got out of my car.

  The air felt damp despite the sun’s flirtatious appearance. My boots sank slightly into the dirt path that led down to the river. Through the bare vine maples, I could see Milo about twenty yards downstream, standing like a statue with his back to me.

  There wasn’t much bank this time of year, and I had to be careful not to slip on the smooth rocks or trip over the tree branches that had blown down earlier in the winter. I didn’t shout at the sheriff. That would’ve broken the rules of fishing etiquette, the equivalent of mooning the guest of honor at a formal banquet.

  As I got within fifteen feet of Milo, I stopped. He had reeled in his line and was about to cast again. I didn’t want to get hit with a hook. He moved a few steps farther down the river and waded out until the water came to within a few inches of his boot tops. The current was moving more slowly here, not the kind of noisy torrent that signaled heavy rain or rapidly melting snow. I moved a little closer.

  The sheriff was tugging on his line. At first I thought he might have a fish on, but after the second or third pull, I realized he’d gotten snagged on the river bottom. As he struggled to free his line, he turned and saw me. I could tell he was scowling, so I didn’t say a word. At least another minute
passed before the sheriff swore out loud as the line broke and dangled over the rolling current.

  “Second leader I’ve lost today,” he called to me, wading toward the bank. “That’s the trouble with fishing here. Too much crap gets swept to the fork.”

  “How about a coffee break?” I asked, holding out the paper cups and the bag with the muffins.

  “How about telling me why you’re here?” Milo said, opening his tackle box.

  “I was bored,” I said, setting my Starbucks offering on a flat rock. “I needed to get out and listen to the river without the sound of cars and trucks and jerks who don’t like my editorials.”

  It was true. It was also a language that Milo understood. “I don’t know why you don’t do some fishing yourself,” the sheriff said, taking out a shiny green lure from his tackle box.

  “I don’t have the patience anymore,” I said. “At least not for winter steelheading. And frankly, the rivers around here don’t produce like they used to. Any luck so far?”

  He shook his head. “Not even a bump. The river’s off-color. I’ve lost three of these babies at five bucks a pop,” Milo complained, pointing to the lure. “I’m going to try one more shot and then pack it in.” He frowned as I took the muffins out of the paper bag. “They didn’t have bear claws?”

  “Gee,” I said, handing him a muffin, “you must enjoy getting hauled off to the hospital. Have you got a crush on one of those bulky nurses?”

  The sheriff sighed. “I’ll be glad to get this damned thing over with. Maybe I’ll schedule the surgery for early February.” He took the muffin and picked up the paper coffee cup. “We might have this Nystrom case wrapped up by then.”

  “You think?” I sipped my latte, which had grown lukewarm. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Milo shook his head. “Nope. But without any real leads, I figure it’s a random thing. Somebody stole eggs from the henhouse. Maybe a chicken, too. We’re probably dealing with a nut job of some kind.” He shot me a sidelong glance. “Anything new with you?”