by Mary Daheim
Such was my conclusion after putting the phone down. My disposition didn't improve when Milo called ten minutes later to cancel our outing to Leavenworth. With the help of park rangers, he and Dwight Gould had finally tracked down some of the teenagers who had been stealing cars in Skykomish and Snohomish counties. Because of the conflict in jurisdictions, Milo had a pile of paperwork. Jack Mullins was already on vacation and Sam Heppner was due to take off the week before Labor Day. The sheriff was shorthanded, and the three-day weekend always promised its share of highway accidents. Milo was apologetic, but immovable. I was understanding, but irked. I tried not to let it show.
Somehow, I muddled through the empty, overwarm, uneventful Saturday. My good intentions of cleaning house before Ben arrived were hampered by the humidity. Pushing a vacuum cleaner in eighty-eight-degree weather was daunting. So was washing windows, scrubbing the kitchen floor, and scouring the bathroom. My efforts were halfhearted at best; the day ended as it began, on a sour, muggy note.
So mired was I in oppressive heat and self-pity that I had forgotten about the vote to expand the school board. Veronica Wenzler-Greene stood in the vestibule handing out ballots after Sunday Mass. Despite my attendance at the Tuesday meeting, I hadn't really given the proposal much thought. Staring at the sheet with its simple, printed declaration and choice of Yes/No boxes to check, I decided that adding two members was probably a good idea. If there were only three on the board and one of them got hit by a logging truck, a deadlock could ensue. Recklessly I checked the Yes portion and handed my ballot to Veronica.
Slipping out of the church, I headed for the parking lot. The morning haze had lifted, and the sun seemed capable of melting the newly laid tarmac that a parish work party had put in a couple of weeks earlier. It occurred to me that the danger of forest fires must be rising. The indicator sign at Old Mill Park had registered HIGH on Friday. I suspected that it had now moved up to
EXTREME.
Maybe it was just as well that Milo and I hadn't gone to Leavenworth. On the other side of the pass where the pseudo-Bavarian town was located, the weather was always hotter and drier than in the western part of the state. It would be much better to visit in early October, when the leaves had turned color and temperatures had cooled.
To my surprise, Vida's big white Buick was pulled up next to my mailbox. She got out of the car when she saw me approach the drive.
“Pastor Purebeck is on vacation,” she announced, referring to the minister at the Presbyterian church. “The Bible-camp children put on a puppet show. Mercifully the curtain fell down on top of them and it ended early. Really, Emma, can you imagine a Cabbage Patch Kid as the Queen of Sheba?”
After letting us into the house, I offered lemonade.
Vida accepted, and I suggested that we sit in the backyard under the shade of the evergreen trees.
“But you won't be able to hear the phone,” she protested.
I regarded my House & Home editor with puzzlement. “I've got the cordless kind,” I reminded her. “But why should I want to listen for it?”
Behind the big glasses, Vida fixed me with her gimlet eye. She was wearing what she would call a “summer frock” of blue, green, yellow, and white floral cotton, and an enormous straw cartwheel hat with a wide silk ribbon. If it was a conscious attempt at a little-girl look, it failed. There is nothing little about Vida, and, at sixty-plus, far less of a girl. She is all woman, perhaps superwoman. Naturally I flinched a bit as she continued to stare at me.
“The vote,” she finally said. “Won't they call you?”
I sagged a bit in the lawn chair. “You mean the school-board issue? No, I didn't ask them to call, I can find out tomorrow.”
Vida's nostrils flared in disapproval. “Really, Emma! I can't believe what I'm hearing! Everyone in town is abuzz! Where have you been for the last few days?”
I was taken aback. “It's no big deal,” I said, waving away a couple of deerflies. “All they're doing is trying to add two more members. Look, this isn't the public schools. We're talking about a hundred and forty kids and their parents. Oh, we'll carry an article, but this isn't earthshaking news.”
Over the rim of her lemonade glass, Vida's expression was skeptical. “I'm hearing otherwise,” she murmured.
“Like what?”
Vida shrugged her wide shoulders. “It's not for me to say. I'm Presbyterian.”
“You're also on my staff,” I pointed out dryly. “Cough it up, Vida.”
Tipping her head to one side, she put a hand on her cartwheel hat. “Well … there's Greer Fairfax, for one thing. You must know her background.”
“No, I don't,” I admitted. “She doesn't belong to the parish. I only figured out who she was Tuesday night at the special meeting.”
Vida pursed her lips. “Before she married, she lived in a commune. In California.” The pause that followed was obviously for my dull-witted benefit. “She's very much involved in social issues and the environment. Her husband, Grant, works at a laboratory near Monroe.”
I felt vaguely bewildered. “Did you do an article on the Fairfaxes when they moved here? Did I miss it?”
“Carla did it, four years ago, right after you hired her.” Vida tried to appear nonjudgmental. “If I may say so, it didn't capture the real Fairfaxes. Carla concentrated on their dogs.”
“Oh.” I honestly didn't remember the story. Four years ago I was still learning names and family ties and all the internecine connections of a small town.
“The Fairfaxes had a registered AKC miniature border collie,” Vida continued. “I believe it got run over. Or a cougar ate it.”
“Oh.” I was still feeling rather lost. “That's too bad.”
“Greer is an activist,” Vida said. “You recall the chain incident at Icicle Creek.”
In the early spring an antilogging group had protested clear-cutting by chaining themselves to various trees near the Icicle Creek ranger station. One of the activists hadn't been able to undo his chains, which had resulted in a heated debate over whether or not to cut down the tree to which he was shackled. Greer had been dispatched to drive into town and get a chain saw. None was to be found. Apparently word of the fiasco had already reached the fuming loggers, who had made certain that no implements were available to free the protester. Luckily, by the time Greer returned with the bad news, somebody had figured out how to undo the chains without damaging the tree.
“Bill Daley seems sound,” Vida went on in her assessment of the three existing school-board members. As usual, she knew more about my fellow parishioners than I did. “But that's an illusion. Bill is a businessman, and inclined to follow the wind. The same might be said for Buddy Bayard.” The gray eyes peered at me. “So what is the point?”
“Of what?” I was definitely feeling drowsy, lulled by the heat and the stillness and the bees buzzing in the fuchsia bush.
A flicker of impatience crossed Vida's broad face. “Of adding members. If, as I've heard, the goal is to secularize the school, Greer would be for it. Buddy and Bill would be against. The younger faction needs to offset the, more conservative votes. But can they guarantee the election of like-minded candidates?”
“Not necessarily,” I allowed, watching an Alaskan robin hop between the branches of the nearest fir.
“Perhaps we're on the wrong track concerning goals. Maybe it's finances,” Vida speculated. “Or a personal matter, involving your pastor. It might be Polly Patri-celli's cracked vase.”
Vida had finally penetrated my lethargic state. “Polly's vase? What are you talking about?”
“Emma! Shame on you!” Vida clucked. “You must have heard. It's all over town. I thought of mentioning it in 'Scene,' but it struck me as possibly in poor taste. And Polly is old as well as unreliable.”
Appollonia Patricelli was the mother of Itsa Bitsa Pizza's Pete and eight other grown children. She was a gnarled little shrub of a woman, who had come from Italy as a young girl, but never quite put aside her old-countr
y ways.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to look properly contrite. “I haven't heard about Polly's vase. What about it?”
Vida emitted a short but deep sigh, then sat back in the lawn chair. “The vase is very old. It's fairly large and ceramic. Polly's parents brought it from their home in Assisi. A few months ago it developed a crack. Polly couldn't use it for flowers anymore because it leaked. But of course she couldn't bear to throw it out or even put it away. So she kept it on the mantel.” Vida stopped for a beat, eyeing me in an apparent attempt to make sure I was really in ignorance. When she realized that I definitely was, she continued.
“Early this month—I believe it was a Sunday—Polly came home and discovered that the crack had gotten larger and more detailed. It looked to her—or so she told my sister-in-law, Ella Hinshaw, who admittedly is very deaf—as if it were the face of Christ. A few days later— Friday, as I recall—Polly insisted that despite the fact she hadn't put water in the vase since Easter, the eyes had wept.” Vida took a deep breath. “Now what do you make of that?”
I was stumped. But if Polly's vase wasn't a miracle, it was enough to wake me up.
Chapter Four
SATURDAY NIGHTS WERE the worst when it came to couples beating up on each other in Alpine. But the last Sunday in August had set a record for domestic violence. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the economy. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the frustration of seeing another summer pass amid tall stands of untouchable timber.
Whatever the reasons, Milo had spent his weekend doing the part of his job that he hated most. Answering a call involving familial abuse often erupts into open season on law-enforcement officials. Domestic violence is tricky for journalists, too. The best way of handling reports is to list the type of official call, the address where the incident occurred, and the time and date. If readers are sufficiently curious, they can figure out who's thumping on whom. In a town the size of Alpine, most people already know.
“So that's why you didn't call last night,” I said after Milo had unloaded a few harrowing family episodes. “I almost phoned you.” It was late Monday morning, and I'd stopped by the sheriff's office on the pretext of checking the log.
Across the desk, Milo's hazel eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “You did?”
“I thought I heard a prowler.” It was only a small lie. Something—maybe a dog or a deer—had knocked over part of my woodpile in the carport.
“Oh.” Milo swung around in his chair and hauled his feet onto his desk. “I thought you might have wanted to see those pictures I got back from the ocean trip.”
In late July, Milo and I had taken off for five days. We had driven out to Grays Harbor and spent a couple of days on the ocean at Klaloch. On the way home, we had explored the Kitsap Peninsula, then ferried across Puget Sound to Seattle. One night in the Big City had been enough for Milo. There were too many cars, too many people, too much noise, and not enough trees. He didn't relax until we hit Highway 2 at Monroe.
“Are the pictures any good?” I inquired, knowing that Milo had tried out his Minolta camera's new zoom lens.
“Not bad,” Milo allowed. “I got some good sunset shots. Want me to bring them over tonight?”
“Sure. I'll make shish kebabs on the barbecue. It's too hot to cook inside.”
“Sounds good.” Despite his wounds, Milo looked pleased. “Can I bring something?”
I shook my head. Since the sheriff and I had officially become a couple, he was in the habit of offering liquor, steaks, or, upon one memorable occasion, a pink dogwood tree that had taken me three hours to plant.
“I'm well stocked,” I said. “You haven't been over for a week.”
“Nine days,” Milo said, surprising me with his accuracy. “It's been crazy around here. It'll get worse toward the end of the week, especially now that Sam's on vacation. Jack's back, but he's got a hell of a sunburn. He went to sleep for five hours at Lake Chelan. The shade moved, but he didn't.”
I was on my feet, edging out of Milo's office with its mounted steelhead, NRA posters, county maps, and piles of paperwork. “By the way,” I said, a hand at the doorknob, “wasn't that Burl Creek Road address in the log where Nunzio Lucci lives?”
Milo cocked his head to one side. “You mean the ruckus Saturday night? Yeah, that was Luce. No big deal, though. Their twins had a birthday party. Somebody tossed the cake through a window. Luce tried to do the same with the kids. Ron and Maylene Bjornson don't like noise, so they called in a complaint.”
As I recalled, the Bjornsons lived next door to the Luccis, though it was a relative term. The houses off the Burl Creek Road were scattered among the fields and woods. Either the Bjornsons had very sensitive hearing or the Luccis had been making more noise than just throwing cake through a window.
“How are the Luccis getting by?” I asked. “He's been out of work for almost two years.”
“Delia's still cooking at the high school,” Milo replied. “Luce picks up odd jobs, mostly driving trucks. Even if there were jobs open, I don't think he could go back to logging. He got hurt pretty bad in the woods about four or five years ago. Still, they seem to be doing okay. The twins got new bikes for their birthday and their TV is newer than mine.” The sheriff shrugged. “Of course my set doesn't have half a pizza plastered on the screen, but somebody's probably cleaned that up by now.”
Shaking my head at the vagaries of domestic life in Alpine, I returned to the office. Father Den had called in my absence, relaying the final tally on the school-board expansion vote. The measure had passed, ninety-six to seventy-nine.
“So who've announced as the candidates?” I inquired, eyeing the formal notice on my desk that all timber operations had ceased due to the high fire danger.
Father Den cleared his throat. “They have until Friday to submit their names. So far, we've got only two—Rita Haines and Derek Norman.”
I'd never heard of Derek Norman, but Rita had been a Patricelli before her marriage to a man named Haines. Since Rita seldom attended Mass, I knew her better from her job as the Chamber of Commerce secretary. Mr. Haines wasn't around, so I assumed they were divorced. There were children, but I knew virtually nothing about them. Rita had always struck me as mercurial in temperament.
“Who's Derek?” I asked.
“He works at the state fish hatchery,” Father Den responded. “His wife, Blythe, is a writer who does some tutoring. They have a second grader and a kindergartner. I think they moved to Alpine at the end of June.”
More newcomers, I thought. “Do they come to Mass?”
“Well…” Father Den's laugh was lame. “They're not Catholic. But they believe in private education. School-board members don't have to be Catholic. In some cases, they don't have to be parents, either.”
I jotted down a note for Vida or Carla to set up an interview. Obviously the Normans had slipped through the cracks. “So we'll vote at the weekend Masses? Do you expect anybody else to jump in or will these spots be uncontested?”
“You'd better ask Ronnie Wenzler-Greene about that,” Father Den said. “I try to keep out of the school side of the parish as much as I can. I've already got enough headaches.” Judging from the weary note in his voice, the pastor was having one now. I didn't want to add to his woes, but felt compelled to mention Polly Patricelli's cracked vase.
Father Den laughed. “Somebody brought it up the other day,” he said. “But Polly hasn't said anything. You know how rumors get started in this town.”
“You mean … Polly isn't taking it seriously?” If ever there was a candidate for a home miracle, Polly Patricelli struck me as at the top of the list. She was what I called an “old-fashioned” Catholic, with a houseful of sentimental religious paintings, plaster statues of saints, and blessed palms stuck everywhere except behind her ears. Or so Vida claimed.
But Father Den shrugged off the alleged portrait in the vase. “I've seen the Blessed Mother in a waffle, St. Therese in dry wall, and the Holy Spirit flying ou
t of a cigar humidor. Believe me, they weren't miracles, just optical illusions. I'll bet your brother has seen his share, too.”
It was true. One of Ben's most memorable “visions” had occurred during his Mississippi assignment when an otherwise sensible young woman had reported seeing the Holy Family in a plateful of chitlins.
On that note of skepticism, I rang off. I had to grab some lunch before my one-thirty appointment with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Carla and Ginny had already gone out to eat, Leo was nowhere in sight, and Vida was munching radishes and celery sticks.
“Well?” She looked up as I came into the news office.
I knew that she had been dying of curiosity about the school-board vote. “It passed,” I said simply. “Who are Derek and Blythe Norman?”
“What?” Vida all but shot out of her chair. “Norman? I've never heard of them! Where did you get such names?”
I recounted my conversation with Dennis Kelly. “They've been here since the end of June,” I said with a hint of reproach. “He works at the fish hatchery.”
“He can't,” Vida muttered, clearly in denial. “The state would have sent a news release.” Her eyes darted in the direction of Carla's vacant desk. “She threw it out. I've seen her discard news releases before this. Last week it was the Burl Creek Thimble Club's Fall Remnant Sale! It should have come to me in the first place. Do I have to start going through her wastebasket or will you speak to her?”
“I'll remind Carla,” I promised. “But if you have time, can you check out the Normans?”
Vida's entire body quivered. “Of course! It'll be in this week's edition, even if I have to pull the Wickstroms' trip to Salmon Arm. Honestly! Carla gets worse, instead of better.” Whipping off her glasses, Vida rubbed furiously at her eyes. “Emma, I really don't see how you put up with that young woman. Have you read her story on the community college?”
I gave my House & Home editor a blank stare. “I didn't know she was doing one. Is there some new development I missed?”
