by Mary Daheim
“Money, revenge, sex, fear,” he said with a nod. “There's not much else. But I'm betting on revenge. Trust me.”
I didn't, not completely, but I waved him off with a show of cooperation. As the red Mazda Miata headed down Alpine Way for the bridge over the Sky, it seemed to me that the money motive would be a hard one to track from this end. Undoubtedly' Ursula had an attorney in Seattle. On the other hand, she had consulted with Brendan Shaw about her insurance. Maybe I could do some nosing around after the holiday.
But I didn't need to wait that long to start working on the malpractice angle. Doc Dewey and his wife, Nancy, had taken off for part of the weekend, and I didn't want to disturb Peyton Rake, who was on call. Consequently, I phoned his nurse, Marilynn Lewis, who also happens to be Carla's roommate. Marilynn is originally from Seattle. She is Alpine's token African American—along with Father Den—and is rumored to be engaged to Dr. Flake, who is Caucasian by ancestry and a retro hippie by choice. My question about referrals to Wheaton Randall stumped Marilynn, and with good reason: “I've only been here a little over two years. Hasn't Dr. Randall been dead longer than that?”
Marilynn was correct. “But I thought you might have noticed the referral on somebody's chart,” I said. “Of course it could have been a patient of Doc Dewey's.”
“Some days I handle both,” she replied in her usual thoughtful manner. “I know I've seen Randall's name, but I can't remember where off the top of my head. Do you want me to check Tuesday if I have time? I can't promise much, because we'll be really busy after a three-day weekend.”
I started to say yes, but decided to press my luck. It was a long shot, but there was something in Murray's argument that was compelling. “If we could go into the office now, I'll treat you to dinner at Cafe Flore.”
Marilynn laughed. “Now that's an offer I can't refuse. You must have some hot leads on this story. How did you know I was dying of boredom this weekend?”
“Just a guess,” I said glibly.
Marilynn agreed to meet me at the clinic at four. I called Cafe Flore to make a reservation for six o'clock. Then I wondered if I should include Vida. I didn't believe her assertion that she was abandoning the story as a hopeless Catholic cause.
I was right. When I reached her at home five minutes later, she was annoyed. “If you wanted to check the medical records, why didn't you call me? You know perfectly well that my niece Marje Blatt is the clinic's receptionist. She could have searched the files and saved Marilynn the trouble.”
“Well,” I replied, “why not ask them both? It'll save time. Then you can treat Marje to dinner while I pick up the tab for Marilynn.”
Vida emitted a beleaguered sigh. “Because Buck and I are going to dinner in Marysville at The Village,” she responded. “And Marje has a date. Or so she told me at church. Really, I think your Catholic notions are contagious. We have some very queer ideas going 'round among some of our younger Presbyterians. Criticizing John Knox, indeed! Why, the man's a veritable saint! Or would be, if we had them.”
I decided not to rise to the bait. John Knox was the least of my religious problems. I started to tell her about Murray Felton, but decided against it. Vida would see Murray's intrusion as big-city meddling. Worse yet, she might be jealous of any cooperative ventures I shared with the TV reporter. If—when—she heard that Murray had been nosing around Alpine, I'd dismiss his involvement as trivial. It wouldn't do to anger Vida again. When describing my visit to Polly's house, I omitted mentioning that I hadn't gone alone.
“I must see that vase,” Vida murmured. “I have some spare time now….” Her voice trailed off.
“Maybe you'll be more receptive to the vision or whatever than I was,” I said with a trace of asperity. Polly's comment still rankled.
“I'll try to keep an open mind,” Vida promised, and rang off.
An hour later I was watching Marilynn unlock the clinic door and marveling at, as well as envying, her cool, classic beauty. Most of all I admired her courage. She'd traveled some rough roads in recent years, but had emerged stronger and wiser.
The first thing she did was to check both doctors' referral lists. “I don't expect to find Wheaton Randall,” she admitted, “because Marje tries to keep these current.”
“Does that mean that if you don't find him you'll have to check all the charts?” I asked, staying on the other side of the reception desk in order to give Marilynn professional privacy.
“Not exactly,” she replied, then shook her head. “No, he's not here. Let me look him up in one of the older King County medical listings. It'll help to see what kind of surgery he did.”
It turned out that Wheaton Randall was an orthopedic surgeon who had practiced out of a prestigious address on what is known in Seattle as Pill Hill. He had performed his surgeries at a reputable hospital in the same neighborhood, specializing in knee replacements.
“Let me think,” Marilynn said with a thoughtful expression. “Who's got new knees?” She started writing names down on a notepad. “Offhand, I can recall at least a dozen patients, but not all of them were referred to specialists.” She paused, then jotted a few more names. “Now I'll look at the charts and hope for the best. Frankly I don't know all the possibles. Does it matter?”
It did, but I decided not to say so. As it was, I had asked a big favor of Marilynn. While she searched through charts I opened a copy of Sports Illustrated and caught up on the pro football exhibition season. I was becoming depressed by the Seahawks' prospects when Marilynn leaned back over the counter.
“There were four referrals to Dr. Randall, one in 1989, one in 1990, and two in 1991,” she said. “I can't give you their names, but they're definitely locals.” Marilynn's beautiful face conveyed apology. “There may be more earlier, but I might not know the patients. Let's face it, they're often elderly, and they could be deceased.”
I was silent for a few moments. “Dr. Randall died in 1993,” I finally said. “Or thereabouts. Is it odd that no referrals were made after 1991?”
“Not necessarily,” Marilynn replied, “but it could indicate that our doctors lost confidence in Randall. Is that what you're thinking?”
I nodded. “There were a bunch of malpractice suits filed against him. They'd be a matter of public record. I suspect someone is already checking out that angle.” I thought of Murray Felton.
“Lawyers don't do anything for free. You have to have money to file a malpractice suit.” Marilynn's expression was enigmatic.
I knew she was trying to tell me something. Unfortunately I couldn't figure out what it was. If Marilynn was hinting at someone in Alpine who lacked financial resources, she could have meant half the population.
“Do you want me to keep looking?” she asked as I remained mute.
“No. Without names, it's hopeless.” Seeing Marilynn's face fall, I hastened to amend my statement. “I mean, knowing that there were more referrals wouldn't help. It's sufficient to find out that Alpine patients were sent to Wheaton Randall.”
Marilynn and I arrived early for our dinner reservation at Cafe Flore. Located a few miles out of town on Highway 2, the restaurant was popular with diners from as far away as Seattle. On this Labor Day weekend, we had to wait a few minutes for a table.
“Once in a while Peyton and I come here,” Marilynn said as her eyes roamed around the simple French country decor. “He doesn't like to dress up, but he enjoys good food. There aren't a lot of choices in Alpine.”
I started to ask Marilynn what it was like to date the boss. But I knew: I'd met Tom Cavanaugh while I was an intern at The Seattle Times, “You've been going together quite awhile,” I noted, a typically unsubtle female remark phrased to elicit the depth of a relationship.
As always, Marilynn was candid. “We're starting to think long-term. It's a huge decision.”
Neither Marilynn Lewis nor Peyton Flake would take it lightly. “Do you mean marriage or something less official?” I inquired over the top of the handwritten menu.
“Other what?” There are times when I'm quite dense.
Fine lines appeared in Marilynn's forehead. “The racial thing. It always comes back to that.”
“I wish we'd put all that behind us,” I said. “This is almost the twenty-first century.”
“Not in Alpine.” Sadly she shook her head. “I've already been a pioneer, I was the first African American to live permanently in Alpine. I don't know that I want to spend my life breaking ground.”
I was surprised. Marilynn's courage was one of the things I admired most about her. “You'd give Peyton Flake up because of a bunch of bigots?”
“I didn't say I'd give him up. But we don't have to stay in Alpine.”
“Oh.” A small wave of resentment washed over me, and I was ashamed of myself. I knew that Alpiners looked upon people who moved away as defectors. The departure was taken as a personal affront. Was I acquiring a small-town mentality? Or did I take offense because Marilynn and Dr. Flake were free to leave, and I was not? Even Milo was thinking about a move. Had Alpine become a life sentence for me?
“Peyton's not from the city originally,” Marilynn was saying as I mulled over my reaction. “There's so much he likes about living at the edge of the forest. But we could do that closer to Seattle, out in the 'burbs. I have to admit I miss the city.”
Marilynn had been raised in the Bay Area and had lived in Seattle for several years. I understood how she felt. Too well. That was my problem. “I'd hate to see you go,” I said. “Flake, too. He's a good doctor.”
Marilynn smiled again, but this time her expression conveyed a wistful quality. “I'd miss you and Carla and Doc Dewey and Marje Blatt and so many of our patients. I've grown fond of them all. Even,” she added, suddenly looking mysterious, “strange old ladies like Darla Puckett and Grace Grundle and that sourpuss county commissioner Alfred Cobb and rednecks like Nunzio Lucci.”
Occasionally I may be dense, but I'm not stupid. Again, Marilynn was trying to tell me something. In fact, she just had.
When I got home that evening, there was a message from Milo on my machine. His ex, Old Mulehide as he called the former Tricia Dodge, had telephoned to remind him after the fact that Saturday was their youngest daughter's birthday. To make amends, he had gone to Bellevue to take Michelle to dinner. He'd see me tomorrow. Probably.
Since Marilynn and I had gotten to Cafe Flore early, we had returned to Alpine shortly after seven. On a whim, I decided to drive out to the spot where Ursula's body had been found. Figuring that death must have occurred somewhere between six and eight, I wanted to see what the place looked like under approximately the same conditions that she'd drowned in the river.
Except, of course, that the conditions weren't the same. It was raining, a steady downpour that discouraged me from prowling the Sky. At seven-thirty on this Sunday night, it was considerably darker than it would have been Friday with the late-day sun shining. What little I could see in passing didn't provide any insights. I headed for home.
Just past Icicle Creek, I noticed that the gas gauge was hovering around the quarter mark. I have a fixation about running out of gas, tending to panic when the indicator is anywhere under half-full. Cal's Texaco might or might not be open, so I pulled in to Gas 'N Go.
The chinless young man who worked the register looked smarter than the usual specimens I'd seen at the combination gas station and convenience store. “You're … ?” I said with an encouraging smile.
“Craig,” the young man responded. He had a luxuriant brown mustache that would have served him better if he'd extended it to his short chin. “Craig Rasmussen. I know you. You're the newspaper lady.”
“That's right.” I kept smiling. “Emma Lord. I have a son about your age. Say, Craig,” I said on a sudden inspiration, “were you working here Friday night?”
Craig nodded. “I pull a weekend shift. I'm going to Everett Community College. I wish they'd hurry up and build the one here, so I wouldn't have to drive so far.”
Briefly I sympathized with the hundred-mile round-trip commute. “Who did you wait on in the early evening?”
The clever brown eyes registered understanding. “You mean the night they found that lady in the drink? Dang, there were a lot of people I didn't know—tourists, I guess. But there were some locals, too. Let me think— Norm Carlson, the dairy guy, Mr. Bamberg, from the video store, Tim Rafferty—he tends bar next door at the Icicle Creek Tavern, Mrs. O'Toole, from the grocery store, and …” He paused. “How far into the night do you want me to go?”
I congratulated Craig on his recall. “Eight o'clock?”
“That's it, then.” He held up his hands. “I'm not sure I got them in order, though.”
Vaguely I recalled Betsy O'Toole mentioning that she'd stopped at Gas 'N Go Friday evening. “What time was Mrs. O'Toole here?”
Craig thought. “Seven? Seven-thirty? No—it was earlier, maybe before seven. I remember because some guy came in at the same time and wanted to use the rest room. I had to give him the key. I thought he was a tourist because I didn't recognize him or the cool red Z3 he was driving, but Mrs. O'Toole did.”
“Did she call him by name?” I asked eagerly.
“No, but she acted as if it was somebody she knew.” Craig glanced outside as a rattletrap of a truck with boards instead of panels pulled up to the pumps. “He wasn't very tall, maybe five-nine, about the same age as Mrs. O'Toole, or a little older. I think he was losing his hair.”
The description fit any number of men in Alpine. Warren Wells was just one of them. But to was the only one I knew who owned a red BMW Z3. I paid cash for my gas and thanked Craig for his help.
“No problem,” he said, then clapped a hand to his head. “I forgot—the rich babe! She was here around six-thirty. Does that count?”
“It could,” I said, again sounding eager. Was it possible that Ursula O'Toole had stopped in at Icicle Creek Gas 'N Go?
It wasn't. Craig's description was of a much younger woman, and at first I assumed he was talking about a tourist. I suggested as much, but Craig shook his head.
“She knew her way around town,” he insisted. “She mentioned something about how nice it was to have a Starbucks here, and that she wondered if when they built the new bridge by here, they'd have to tear down this place and the tavern.”
“What made you think she was rich?” I inquired as the heavily bearded owner of the patchwork truck entered the store.
Obviously not one to jump to conclusions, Craig considered. “She was driving a new Chrysler LHS, and her clothes looked expensive. You know, like how women dress in the movies and on TV. She didn't look like she belonged in Alpine—if you know what I mean.”
The bearded man laughed richly. “I know,” he said. “Alpine broads look like two hundred pounds of dog meat.”
Craig flushed and I bristled. The man with the truck realized his gaffe. “You must be a visitor, sweetie. You look pretty nice.”
I didn't, but that was beside the point. “Thanks,” I muttered, then smiled at Craig. “I'll pass your information along to the sheriff.” Glaring at the bearded man, I departed.
Warren Wells and—who? Only one possibility came to mind: Alicia Lowell. Had Alicia and her father both been at Gas 'N Go within the same two-hour time span? Coincidences aren't rare in a small town like Alpine. But it also meant that Warren and Alicia had both been near the spot where Ursula had been found.
So had Betsy O'Toole. I drove back along Railroad Avenue in a pensive mood. Had Milo interviewed the residents along the Sky? Some of them were virtually his neighbors. Surely he or one of the deputies had talked to the inhabitants of the houses along that stretch between Icicle Creek and the dirt road. But had they learned anything of significance? If so, the sheriff hadn'
t told me. Irked, I headed home.
Ben had called, leaving an unfamiliar number. When I dialed it, Adam answered. Despite my annoyance with him, my voice was flooded with maternal warmth.
“Uncle Ben's not here right now,” Adam said, somehow sounding older and vaguely distant. “We're staying in a trailer, just outside of Tuba City. Uncle Ben's visiting somebody who's real sick.”
“How's he managing?” I inquired, trying to tone down the rush of affection. Maybe Adam had sensed it and felt overwhelmed.
“He's okay. He said Mass in the school hall. The people mobbed him afterward. It was pretty emotional. I served.”
From the time that Adam was ten until he reached about fifteen, I had encouraged him to sign up as an acolyte. My son had resisted, citing various reasons, including an allergy to the cigar smoke that clung to one of our assistant pastors in Portland. Naturally I was surprised to hear that he'd assisted his uncle by serving at Mass.
“When did you learn to do that?” I asked in a bemused voice.
“Uh … I don't know. A year or two ago. Uncle Ben taught me. Say, do you think it'd be okay if I didn't come to Alpine until Thanksgiving? Uncle Ben needs all the help he can get.”
If ever Adam had offered an excuse for not visiting his poor old mother, that was it. I stifled my disappointment and assured him that it would be fine. “But what about school? Aren't you due back in Tempe in a couple of weeks?”
The hesitation was fractional. “I'm not going back. Not this term, anyway. Uncle Ben's work is more important. As soon as we get funding, we'll start rebuilding the church. The goal is to have it completed by Christmas, maybe sooner.”
Not coming to Alpine was one thing; dropping out of school was another. “Ben will have lots of help,” I pointed out. “Come on, Adam, don't lose sight of your future. You've almost got your degree.”
“I can get my degree later,” he said doggedly. “This is more important. Don't fight me on this. It's too big.”
I felt frustrated, defeated. Then, reminding myself that time was often a mother's greatest ally, I tried to soften my tone.
