Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  “Have you seen Betsy OToole?” she asked in a furtive voice.

  “Betsy? No, not today, Francine. Why?” I arched my eyebrows at Vida, who looked as if she'd like to snatch the phone out of my hand.

  “She was in here five minutes ago and she's on her way to the—Emma, could you meet me for lunch? Or better yet, in private. Your office, maybe. Alicia can watch the shop.” Francine sounded desperate.

  “Sure. It's almost noon. Come on by.” My second line now glowed, and I picked it up before answering the obvious question on Vida's face.

  “We've counted the votes,” Veronica Wenzler-Greene said. “The new school-board members are Debra Barton and Derek Norman.”

  “Oh.” I scribbled the information down and passed it to Vida. “Was it close?”

  “Fairly. Debra was a clear-cut winner, but Derek beat out Rita by only eleven votes. Laura O'Toole trailed. Badly.” The principal seemed pleased by Laura's defeat.

  I took down the actual tally, thanked Ronnie, and started to say goodbye. “Hold it—this is odd. Even with everyone voting for two candidates, there are at least— what?—fifty more votes than the number of people who usually show up for the Saturday and Sunday Masses. Did the ballot box get stuffed?”

  “Not precisely,” Ronnie replied in a strained voice. “But you must realize that many of the parents either aren't Catholic, or if they are, they don't attend Mass regularly. They voted, however, by stopping in at the vestibule and picking up a ballot.”

  “I see. Thanks, Ronnie. Bye.” I gazed at Vida. “The pro-private school parents—as opposed to pro-parochial school—put Derek Norman on the board. Debra Barton was the top vote-getter, no doubt because of name familiarity with the family shoe store. Rita and Laura are out.”

  “Yes.” Vida was studying my scribbles. “You expect Debra to act more conservatively?”

  “Maybe. I don't know her very well. You do, though.” I made a rueful little face. “How do you think she'll perform?”

  “With a certain amount of integrity,” Vida answered promptly. “But she can be swayed by a stronger personality. Debra's not stupid. Not quite.”

  I grew silent for a moment. “So we've got Bill Daley, Buddy Bayard, Greer Fairfax, and these two newcomers. Bill and Buddy should be reliable. Greer and Derek are the opposition. Neither are Catholic. Debra's the swing vote.”

  “It could have been Ursula.” Vida sat back in the chair with her arms folded.

  “That's true. I'd almost forgotten. She wouldn't have been swayed by anything.” The thought bothered me. “Nobody gets drowned over a school-board election, right?”

  “Arthur Trewes was kidnapped in 1961 when he ran for president of Rotary Club,” Vida said blandly. “His foes hid him in the Overholt barn for two days. Arthur ended up getting very friendly with one of the pigs and made him an honorary Rotary member.”

  I'd grown accustomed to the vagaries of Alpine life. “Did Arthur win?” I asked without turning a hair.

  “Yes, by acclamation. The pig was voted in as secretary.” Having made her point and digested the school-board vote, Vida now backtracked to Francine. “What bee does she have in her bonnet now?”

  I shook my head. “I don't know, but she'll be here any minute. If you have time, go on a scouting expedition for Betsy O'Toole. That's who put the bee in Francine's bonnet.”

  “Well!” Vida was galvanized into action. “So I shall. But I haven't quite finished my wedding-and-anniversary copy. Carla should be back with the pictures from Buddy's by now.”

  Carla wasn't, but Francine came rushing into the office just as Vida left. “Can I close the door?” she asked breathlessly.

  No one was in the outer office at the moment, but I expected both Carla and Leo to return momentarily. “Go ahead,” I said. “Have a seat.”

  “Betsy's a snake,” Francine asserted, slumping into the chair Vida had vacated. “I've never liked her much. I can't remember when she ever looked at anything in my shop that wasn't on sale.”

  As Francine stopped to catch her breath I reflected that she hadn't come to see me about Betsy's spending habits. “So what's wrong?” I inquired, noting that Francine's carefully applied makeup didn't hide the circles under her eyes.

  Francine let out a ragged sigh. “Betsy came by to tell me that she was on her way to the sheriff's—to do her duty, you see.” The rose-hued mouth grimaced. “It seems—if you can believe Betsy—she saw Warren and Ursula drive past her house Friday night around six-thirty. They were headed east, which could mean they were going to the river.”

  I stared at Francine. “Do you believe her?”

  Francine put both hands to her smart blonde coiffure. “I don't know what to believe. Etetsy never liked Warren. She and his second wife were friends, you know. They took some classes at Everett Junior College together. Betsy thought Warren treated Alexis badly, but when Warren left me, I didn't see Betsy wringing her hands.” Bitterness had invaded Francine's voice.

  “Six-thirty,” I murmured. Later, maybe as much as an hour, Betsy had run into Warren at Icicle Creek Gas 'N Go. I wondered if Francine knew that. There was no point in keeping secrets, I decided, and told her about the encounter that Craig Rasmussen had reported.

  Francine's eyes widened. “Really? Oh, damn!” She put her head down on her arms.

  Bewildered, I offered a comforting hand. “What is it, Francine? I'm confused.”

  There was a long pause before Francine raised her head and spoke again. “Okay.” She sighed. “Emma, this is one of those sad old stories you won't believe. Warren and I were together Friday night after eight o'clock. Does that shock you?”

  “No.” I almost laughed. “I'd heard as much.”

  Francine's jaw dropped. “You did? From … oh, that damned pizza kid! I told Warren not to go to the door!”

  I nodded. “You know what gossips people are in this town. Sometimes I wonder why I bother putting out a newspaper.”

  Francine was leaning back in the chair, looking spent. “It didn't take long for Warren to figure out he'd made a mistake getting engaged to Ursula. He tried to break it off before she could move to Alpine, but you can imagine how Ursula reacted. It was as if he hadn't said a word. A whim, the usual cold feet, feeling strange about going home again—that's what Ursula told him. He'd get over it, once they were settled. Oh, she could have run right over a small army. Warren came back to town on a temporary basis, which is why he was staying at the ski lodge. Meanwhile he called me. I tried to be indifferent, to put him off, but the truth is …” Francine lowered her eyes and shook her head. “This is the really idiotic part, Emma. It sounds like a bad soap opera. Despite everything, despite Alexis, despite Ursula, despite virtually abandoning our daughter, despite the way I heard he treated his stepson by his second wife, I still loved the bastard. Can you believe that any woman would be stupid enough to love a man who behaved so badly after over twenty years?”

  I simply stared at Francine. “Yes,” I said. “I can believe it.”

  I could. I did. I had been stupid, too.

  I didn't unload on Francine. She was in no mood to hear my sad story, and in any event, I'd written finis to it. But Francine had not. She went on to tell me how Warren had been with her when I'd called Friday night about Ursula's death.

  “That's why I sounded so strange,” she explained. “That's why Alicia didn't come home that night. She knew her father was coming to see me. We—all three of us—hoped to iron things out. But Warren had to figure out how to deal with Ursula. He'd tried to talk to her earlier in the day, but she was drinking. She was always drinking. Frankly I think if Warren had stayed with her, he would have become an alcoholic, too. He's not a strong man, but he's not dumb, either, and he understood that much. Now I'm scared to death that Betsy's blabbing to the sheriff will make it look very bad for Warren. What on earth can I do?”

  Scarcely knowing Francine's ex-husband, I was loath to give advice. “Where were Ursula and Warren going when they went by J
ake and Betsy's house?”

  Francine regarded me with a helpless expression. “I don't know. I haven't talked to Warren since Betsy came in the shop. He didn't tell me they'd gone anywhere. He said he was having a beer with Cal Vickers.”

  “Is Betsy lying?” It was possible, though it seemed out of character. Betsy was as forthright as Francine. But, I reminded myself, Francine had been practicing her own brand of deceit.

  “Jake and Buzzy may have quarreled with their sister,” Francine finally said in a weary voice. “I honestly don't know. Family rows are so common in this town, they're like an epidemic. But that doesn't explain why Betsy would lie about Warren.”

  Francine was right. There was no explanation. I racked my brain, trying to sort out the O'Toole internecine dilemma. At a loss, I asked what seemed like an irrelevant question.

  “Whatever happened to Alexis?”

  “She died.” Francine made a face. “Not long after the divorce, actually. She had leukemia.”

  I paused just long enough to pay my respects to the memory of Alexis Wells, a woman I had not known, but who had clearly played a big role in Francine's life. “So Warren would have had to get only one annulment,” I said at last. “From you. How did Ursula plan to do that?”

  “Who knows?” Francine let out a dry little laugh. “It wasn't Warren's problem—not after he decided he couldn't marry her. Besides, Warren's not Catholic.”

  I hadn't realized that. “Hadn't Ursula converted him?”

  “Not yet. I'm sure she was working on it.” Francine again slumped in the chair. “What should I do, Emma? Go tell Milo all?”

  “I don't see why. I mean, if you're giving Warren an alibi, it doesn't play.” My half smile was apologetic. “He wasn't with you during the period that Ursula ended up in the river.”

  “But I could tell Milo that Warren didn't harm Ursula,” Francine said with fervor as her usual energy returned. “He wouldn't. He couldn't. Warren's not like Luce or even Buzzy. He doesn't hit women. He just… walks out.”

  “He should have walked on Ursula,” I noted, but didn't wait for Francine's argument. “Oh, go ahead and tell Milo. It might help.”

  “Help!” Francine snorted. “He shouldn't need help.

  But of course he does.” None too steadily, she got to her feet. “This is all so crazy. Here Warren and Alicia and I were trying to sort out a way to be one big happy family again. We thought maybe we finally had something. Now it turns out that we have nothing. Except for Warren.”

  I didn't quite get the gist of Francine's words. “You mean … ?”

  “I mean,” she said, turning towards the door, “that Warren has a motive. For getting rid of Ursula. I'm going to see the sheriff.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  VIDA HAD FOUND Betsy O'Toole, not at the sheriffs office, but in the Upper Crust Bakery. Betsy had already talked to Milo, and was certain she'd seen Ursula and Warren in his sports car around six-thirty. Betsy could pinpoint the time because she was getting ready to go over to Laura and Buzzy's to help pay bills. She'd just gone into the living room to get her purse when she saw the red car race by her house.

  Vida and I were eating a hurried, late lunch at the Burger Barn. Carla still hadn't returned with the photos, which meant that we were going to be right up against deadline before the afternoon was out.

  “Warren and Ursula could have been going to Laura and Buzzy's,” I noted between bites of my hamburger dip. “That was supposed to be Ursula's evening destination.”

  Vida laid aside the fork with which she'd been attacking her meat loaf sandwich. “Let's sort this out, and correct me if I'm wrong, Betsy saw Warren and Ursula at six-thirty. Betsy was seen at Icicle Creek Gas 'N Go around seven, as was Warren. They spoke, in a courteous manner, according to Craig Rasmussen, What did they say?”

  I thought back to my conversation with Craig. “Not much. I gathered they just greeted one another.”

  “Betsy didn't ask after Ursula? It would have been the natural thing to do, having just seen her with Warren.”

  If she did, Craig hadn't overheard her. I mulled over this while Vida consumed meat loaf. “That half hour or so doesn't allow much time. I wonder if Milo has talked to Cal Viekers about Warren's alibi between five and eight.”

  Vida chewed thoughtfully. “Cal usually leaves work around six. Would consuming two beers take more than half an hour?”

  “Probably not. But Milo did talk to Abe Loomis,” I said, smiling vaguely at a middle-aged couple I recognized from church. “Abe thought Warren was still at Mugs Ahoy around seven-thirty.”

  “Abe!” Vida was scornful. “The man's a mental midget. What would you expect of a tavern owner?”

  I repressed a smile. Vida was broad-minded in many ways, but she retained a strict Presbyterian outlook on people who were involved in the dispensing of alcoholic beverages.

  “Warren could have left and come back,” Vida pointed out, daintily wiping catsup from her lips. “On the other hand,” she continued in a more somber tone, “Betsy may have her own ax to grind. As she made clear when we lunched at their house, Betsy doesn't like Warren.”

  “Betsy's not fond of any of her in-laws,” I said, picking up my bill. “I'm surprised she was willing to help Laura.”

  “Betsy's good-hearted.” Vida was gaping at her own bill. “Six dollars! And they call it the special?”

  “That's why,” I replied dryly. “How was it?”

  “Passable.” Vida dug in her purse, then carefully counted out a dollar in change for her tip. “If Betsy's telling the truth, the explanation could be simple. Warren and Ursula drove to the river, quarreled, and Warren left in a huff. Ursula was inebriated, and passed out in the water. That does make it an accident. Naturally Warren isn't willing to talk about it. The encounter might be construed as something more sinister, especially since he was courting his ex-wife.”

  I had told Vida about my closed-door session with Francine. We seemed to have run out of ideas about Ursula's demise. Scurrying back to the office, we found Carla with the contact sheets from our various rolls of film. She had some excellent shots of the Mount Sawyer perps being carted into the sheriffs headquarters. My photos of the pilgrims at Polly's were merely adequate. Vida, however, stole the show.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed, pointing to one of the picnic punch-out shots. “That's Dutch Bamberg's left arm. There's Clancy Barton's elbow. Can you make out Norm Carlson's nose?”

  As usual, I was in awe of Vida's ability to identify her fellow Alpiners, even when it came down to body parts. The actual pictures of the combat between Luce and Bill Daley were very good, but I hesitated to use them.

  “Nobody's filed charges,” I pointed out. “I don't want to cause more problems.”

  “Emma!” Vida was flabbergasted. “This is Alpinel What's a community event without a little excitement?”

  “It's news,” Carla asserted. The astute comment was out of character, and it swayed me.

  “Well… everybody knows what happened,” I temporized. “Maybe we could use a shot of Milo, breaking up the brawl. A kind of happy-ending photo.”

  Vida eyed me with disdain. “Luce wasn't happy. I can't imagine that Bill Daley was happy. Milo certainly can't be happy about having to hit his constituents over the head.”

  W'e debated for the next five minutes. Finally Leo arrived. He swiftly scanned the contact sheet, then pointed to a shot that showed Luce and Bill grappling manfully, if awkwardly.

  “Run this one. They could be hugging. You can hedge in the cutline. 'Picnickers engage in old-fashioned horseplay' or some such ambiguous bullshit. It's a good crowd scene, too. You can pick out at least six locals. A couple of them might even be sober.”

  Vida's disdain turned to contempt. “Really, Leo, that's no way to talk. Kathryn Daley and Delia Lucci are not only sober, but practically hysterical. They'll be mortified.”

  Leo shrugged and sat down at his desk. “Do what you want. The one thing you can't do is ignore the f
ight.” His brown eyes swerved from Vida to me. “It'd make The Advocate a laughingstock, If anybody should be worried, it's me. I have to deal with Daley as an advertiser.”

  In the end we chose the frame that depicted Milo holding up Bill while standing over Luce's prone form. It wasn't exactly an action photo, but it conveyed a relatively peaceful conclusion. In my short article, I referred to the confrontation as “a fracas,” and tried to keep the wording lighthearted.

  It was close to five by the time we finished laying out the paper. I sent Carla to check on the visitors to Polly's shrine while I walked over to the sheriffs office. This was one week when I didn't want to miss any loose ends.

  When I arrived, Milo was closing up shop for the day. “Don't try to seduce me, woman,” he said with a wry little grin. “I'm going home and sleep for ten straight. Besides, I need to take out the garbage. I missed the pickup this week.”

  “The only thing I'm putting to bed tonight is the paper,” I assured the sheriff, not taking time to sit down. “Anything new on Ursula or the Mount Sawyer gang before we lock it up?”

  “Court appearances are scheduled for tomorrow, both here and in SnoCo,” Milo replied, taking his regulation hat from the top of a filing cabinet and settling it on his head. “We're trying to track down witnesses, but some of the campers who were assaulted are from out of state. We may not end up with much.”

  Accustomed to the tightrope of law enforcement, I sympathized briefly. “What about Ursula?”

  “Zip. I suppose you heard about Betsy O'Toole. I saw Vida chewing off Bill Blatt's ear this afternoon.” Milo tossed his jacket over one shoulder. “Betsy's so-called tip doesn't mean a damned thing. I don't know why she bothered.”

  I frowned at Milo. “But it puts Warren with Ursula not long before she died, right?”

  “So? I talked to Warren less than an hour ago. He says Betsy's full of it. At six-thirty, he was waving Cal Vickers out the door of Mugs Ahoy, and he can prove it. Which he did. Cal swears it's true. He didn't get home until almost a quarter to seven, and Charlene was furious. Her pork chops had dried out.”