The Alpine Nemesis

by Mary Daheim

  The Pines Villa Apartments were on Alpine Way, only a few blocks from my own house on Fir Street. Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro had lived there before she got married. The complex was comparatively modern, at least for Alpine. It had lost the distinction of being the newest apartment building in town since construction had begun on Clemans Manor, just west of Old Mill Park.

  Pines Villa had a security system. According to the call boxes, T Rafferty and T Eriks lived on the second floor. I punched the button and waited.

  “Yes?” It was Tiffany, sounding wary.

  “Emma Lord,” I said, my mouth close to the wire mesh box. “May I come up?”

  She didn't answer right away. “This isn't a good time,” she finally said. “Tim's still tied up.”

  “When is a good time?” I asked, no longer patient.

  “Um … tomorrow, maybe? Can you call first? Afternoons are best.”

  I knew that, since Tim was usually on the air in the mornings. “Okay,” I said, still irritated. “But I'd rather not be put off again.”

  “I'll let him know,” Tiffany said, her little-girl voice indifferent.

  “Please do,” I said, “or I'll turn his next stint on KSKY into a call-in program.”

  “Huh?”

  I didn't reply, but turned away and stomped off to my car. For a change of pace, I decided to pick up Chinese food at the mall, just a couple of blocks north on Alpine Way. To my knowledge, no Chinese people had ever lived in Alpine, unless you counted Dustin Fong and the recent arrival of a half-dozen community college students who had all been born in the United States. It was the Japanese and the Koreans—then spelled “Coreans”—

  who had built the railroads and dug the gold and silver mines in the area a century ago. For some reason, the Chinese had been prevented by law from working on the railroads during the period that the Great Northern tracks had been laid through Stevens Pass. Thus, Alpine had never had any authentic Chinese cuisine. I was stuck with the take-out place in the mall, run by a Norwegian and a German. The Mexican restaurant next door was no better; it was owned by a Dane.

  I made do with chicken chow mein, pork fried rice, and a couple of limp-looking egg rolls. Pd just sat down on the sofa to watch a Mariner away game while I ate when the phone rang.

  The voice was oh-so-familiar; the question was not. “Are you ready to set the date?”

  “Tom!” I gasped like a nincompoop. “Hi.”

  I could hear his laughter roll over the fiber-optic cables or bounce off the microwave towers or whatever the hell phone calls did these days. “Since when did I start scaring you?” he asked.

  “You didn't,” I said, hitting the mute button just as the Mariners grounded into a double play to end the inning. “I thought you were in New York at that publishers' meeting.”

  “I am,” Tom replied, still sounding amused. “But Pm supposed to fly back to San Francisco tomorrow morning. I thought it might be more fun to fly into Sea-Tac instead. That is, if you could put me up in Alpine for a few days.”

  “Of course.” I knew I sounded slightly breathless, which annoyed me. I couldn't help but resent the fact that Tom Cavanaugh still had the power to turn me into a moonstruck teenager.

  “Okay,” he said. “But how about my first question?”

  “Ahhh … Well…” I swallowed hard. “I still haven't come to a final decision. This has turned into a really wild week.”

  “I haven't talked to you for over two weeks,” Tom said, now solemn. “How wild can all that time actually have been?”

  “Oh, Tom…” I sat up straighter on the sofa. It wasn't fair to keep putting him off month after month. Except that he'd put me off year after year. Maybe the perverse streak in my nature was exacting revenge. “If you come to Alpine, I'll have my answer. I promise.”

  “Okay.” His tone had lightened again. “I'll see you tomorrow night. I think there's a direct morning flight out of here at nine. I should get into Sea-Tac around noon your time. There are a couple of people I need to see in Seattle, so don't wait dinner.”

  “I'll keep the welcome mat warm,” I said.

  “Good.” He lowered his voice to a deep purr. “And anything else you've got, too. It may be June, but it's chilly without you.”

  It was less than an hour later that my son called. Adam sounded so serious that at first I thought something was wrong. Now that he was less than a year away from being ordained a priest, I was accustomed to a more reflective son, a more contemplative son, a multidimensional son. But Adam had retained much of his easygoing personality and sharpened his already keen sense of humor.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, using that time-honored phrase of frightened mothers everywhere.

  “I'm fine,” Adam replied. “Are you?”

  “Yes, yes, I'm fine, too. But you sound so serious. I thought something was the matter with you.”

  “Not with me, Mom,” Adam said, and a hint of irony surfaced in his voice. “I hear Dad's coming to see you again.”

  “He told you?” I asked, characteristically resentful of the confidences shared between father and son.

  “I just got off the phone with him,” Adam replied. “Hey—are you going to give him an answer or what?”

  “I told him I would,” I said, suddenly on the defensive.

  “When?”

  “When he gets here,” I replied. “Tomorrow night.”

  “You sure you aren't still waffling?” Adam sounded suspicious.

  I didn't, couldn't, answer right away. “This is a very difficult decision for me, Adam. Surely you can understand that.”

  “I do,” my son responded in a more sympathetic voice. “But it has to be made, Mom. You can't keep Dad dangling forever.”

  As he did with me? But I didn't say it out loud. It sounded spiteful, and in fact, it was.

  “I know.” I sighed. “You realize it means giving up the paper, leaving Alpine, moving to San Francisco. That's a huge change.”

  “You're afraid you'll lose your identity,” Adam said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “That's selfish. If you marry Dad, you'll bring what you are to the union. It's you he loves, not the wife he wants to mold you into. Why does that scare you?”

  “Adam, you sound like some kind of goofy counselor,” I said with a shaky little laugh.

  “Counseling is what I intend to specialize in as a priest,” he said, quite serious. “Remember all those psych courses I took when I was in college?”

  “Yes.” I heaved another sigh. “When did you make that decision?”

  “About a month ago,” Adam answered.

  “You have no experience with marriage, you weren't even raised in a two-parent home,” I countered. “I don't get it.”

  “I didn't think you would,” he said in a tone that just might have held a note of sarcasm. “Hey, Mom,” he went on, suddenly sounding more like himself, “you've managed to steer this conversation off course. It's probably none of my business, except that I'd like to see my parents grow old together. I'd like to have parents who live together. I'd like to have married parents show up for my ordination next spring. Okay?”

  I bristled a bit. “Are you ashamed of us?”

  “No,” Adam responded wearily. “Of course not. But I honestly believe you'd both be happier with each other. You've never shown much interest in marrying anybody else, and Dad hasn't even dated since Sandra died. Imagine the pressure that's been put on him by friends and associates to take out this widow or that divorcee. Give the guy a break, okay, Mom?”

  “You're trying to make up my mind for me,” I complained.

  “No,” Adam asserted. “I'm trying to get you to make up your mind. As I said, it's not fair to Dad to keep him hanging.”

  That much was true. “Honestly, I told Tom I'd give him an answer when he got here. I just don't know what it is yet. I think I'll know what to say when I see him.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Okay, that sounds fair enough. I'll
pray on it. I'll send you ESP messages. I'll poke pins in a voodoo doll if it helps.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And don't think I am not appreciative of your efforts on my behalf. It's just that as your mother, I'm not used to you giving me advice. That's probably a normal reaction for—” I stopped as my doorbell sounded. “I've got company. Can I call you back?”

  “Not tonight,” Adam said. “I've got contemplative prayer at seven. Then some of the other guys and I are going out to drink the taverns of St. Paul dry before it's lights out time. Call me when you've given Dad your answer.”

  “I will,” I promised, already at the door. “I love you, even if you think you're smarter than I am.”

  “But you're older,” Adam said. “Love you. Bye.”

  I didn't recognize the young woman and the young man standing on the porch, looking faintly nervous. Taking a chance that they weren't criminals or Jehovah's Witnesses, I opened the door.

  “Ms. Lord?” the young woman said.

  “Yes.” The identity of my callers dawned on me. “You're Gina Ancich?”

  The young woman with the short jet-black hair and the large blue eyes looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

  I put out my hand. “Newspaper instincts,” I said. “This must be Nolan Curry.”

  “That's right,” Nolan said, his smile revealing a slightly chipped front tooth. “We're Brian Conley's friends. We heard you wanted to see us.”

  “I do. Come in.” My eyes drifted to the half-eaten Chinese food on the coffee table. “Sit down,” I said, turning off the TV and gathering up what was left of my meal. “May I get you something?”

  “We're fine, thanks,” Gina replied, then held up a slim hand. “Oh, we've interrupted your dinner. Please go ahead.”

  “That's okay.” I headed for the kitchen. “I can warm it up later.” Instead, I dumped everything that was left— except for the fortune cookie—in the garbage, then returned to the living room.

  Gina had sat down in the armchair; Nolan had taken the other side chair. I resumed my seat on the sofa.

  “As Wes Amundson may have explained, I own the local newspaper. I thought it might be appropriate to interview you about Brian. Do you mind?”

  Gina exchanged a quick glance with Nolan. “No, that's not a problem. I'm sort of over the real grief stage.

  I mean, when Brian wasn't found after the first week, I pretty much gave up hope.”

  “But,” I put in, “you still wanted to honor him.”

  Gina looked blank, her long, dark eyelashes batting up and down as she blinked at me several times. “You mean his memory?”

  “I mean going up to Tonga Ridge today,” I said.

  “Oh.” Again, she glanced at Nolan. “To see where he died. And leave some flowers. What else could we do?”

  I turned to Nolan. “You worked with Brian, I understand.”

  Nolan nodded. He had an angular yet boyish face, with unruly red hair falling over his high forehead. “We were best friends. We worked together at the consulate for four years.”

  “I don't suppose,” I said gently, “that either of you would know of anyone who might want to kill Brian.”

  Gina's pale face lost what little color it possessed. “Oh, no. The police asked me that on the phone. Brian was such a wonderful guy. Whoever did it must have been crazy.”

  That was probably true, if the mountain-man theory was right. “I understand that Brian wanted to be buried in Ireland,” I said. “But his parents apparently changed their minds.”

  “Did they?” Gina looked vague. “Yes, I guess they did. I talked to Mae Conley Monday night, but she was totally out of it.”

  I turned again to Nolan Curry. “Why do you think Brian said he wanted to be buried abroad?”

  “Well…” Nolan's hazel eyes darted around the living room. “A joke, maybe. I mean, you don't expect to die when you're only twenty-eight, right? And he worked for the Irish consulate, so maybe he just thought it'd be cool to say something like that. The Irish—the ones born over there—are kind of sentimental.”

  “Have you ever thought about such a thing?” I asked.

  Nolan looked startled. “Me? You mean, dying?”

  “I meant being buried in Ireland,” I said. “Because you work for the Irish consulate.”

  Nolan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he laughed nervously. “Heck, no. I'm only twenty-six.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. My line of inquiry seemed to be going nowhere. I wasn't sure where to take the conversation, but I gave it a try. “What do you do at the consulate, Nolan? I didn't realize that foreign missions hired Americans.”

  “Sometimes they do,” Nolan responded. “Usually, the jobs are mostly clerical. You know, checking visas, green cards, all that stuff. But sometimes both Brian and I would get to help out a tourist who was stranded or had gotten into some kind of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  Nolan shrugged. “A car accident, a robbery victim, whatever.”

  “No big crimes?” I inquired, keeping my voice light.

  Nolan's eyes wandered to the Monet print above the sofa. “Not really.”

  “But occasionally?” I persisted.

  His gaze shifted back to me. “Getting drunk, that kind of stuff. You know how the Irish like their dram. Once in a while, they don't know the local rules about drinking. It's no big deal. And anyway, it's not fair to make Irish people sound like all they do is drink. That's wrong.”

  “An unfortunate stereotype,” I allowed, then addressed my next question to Gina. “How long had you gone with Brian?”

  “Um … close to two years,” she replied, still sounding vague. “I'd known him for a while before that.”

  “Did he often go snowboarding alone?” I inquired.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I don't snowboard.” She looked at Nolan. “You went with him a few times.”

  “Up at Snoqualmie,” Nolan said. “Never around here. Brian liked the Stevens Pass area for snowboarding. He said there was more variety, plenty of steeps along with some more mellow runs.”

  They both seemed so oblivious that I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask a few more questions. Gina and Nolan didn't strike me as easily offended, or even as being curious about my motives. “Who else went with Brian?”

  Another exchange of glances. Were they cueing each other, or did they need constant support?

  “Howie?” Gina suggested.

  “I think so,” Nolan replied.

  “Who's Howie?” I asked.

  “Howie Schramm,” Nolan said. “He works for an import-export firm in the same building the consulate is in.”

  “What about T. C?” Gina inquired of Nolan.

  “Top Cat?” Nolan grinned. “He's the one who taught Brian how to snowboard when we were on vacation at Lake Tahoe. I don't think he's been around lately.”

  My line of inquiry wasn't going anywhere. Again, I gazed at Gina. “You're certain that Brian came here by himself?”

  “I think so,” Gina answered slowly.

  “You're not certain, then.”

  “Well…” Gina brushed at her round chin. “He mentioned he might go with somebody else, but he didn't say who. I just figured he'd gone alone.”

  Her Royal Vagueness was driving me crazy. Nolan Curry wasn't much better.

  “At least,” I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic, “you're sure that Brian was murdered.”

  Looks were exchanged. Gina blinked several times at Nolan. “That's what the sheriff said, wasn't it?”

  “That's what you said he said,” Nolan replied.

  I'd run out of queries. On the other hand, they had seemed to run out of answers first. We made more small talk and then they left, about five minutes later. I went out to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. The fortune cookie still lay on the counter. I broke it open and started to munch on it while I read the message on the blue strip of paper: Beware of lying eyes.

  That see
med like good advice. But whose eyes were lying?

  AFTER FORTIFYING MYSELF with three cups of strong, decent coffee Thursday morning, I called on Milo Dodge.

  “Java?” he offered, holding up his own mug, which no doubt contained the usual vile brew.

  “No, thanks,” I replied cheerfully. “I just finished a cup. Are you in a better mood this morning?”

  Milo frowned at me. “Better than what?”

  “Better than yesterday,” I said, still cheerful. “After the arraignment, you were kind of grumpy.”

  “Oh.” Milo sipped from his mug. “I guess so. You seem pretty chipper this morning.”

  My smile seemed to freeze. “Tom's coming tonight.”

  “So soon?” Milo looked surprised. “Wasn't he here just a few weeks ago?”

  “It was at Easter,” I said. “Two months ago. I told him this time I'd let him know if I intended to marry him.”

  Milo grimaced. “Do you?”

  For a moment, the short space between us seemed like a bottomless chasm, full of memories and deep feelings, of hope and despair, of love and hostility. None of it had anything to do with Tom. All of it had something to do with Milo. And with me. For that one startling moment, it occurred to me that if I jumped across that chasm, I'd land in the safety net that was Milo. But that wasn't a solution, it was an escape.

  My smile dissolved. “Oh, Milo,” I wailed, “I don't know what to do!”

  Milo carefully set his mug down on the desk. “I don't blame you. It's one hell of a decision.”

  I rarely cry, and I didn't then. Shoring up my composure, I tried to find my smile again. “Isn't it stupid? For almost thirty years, I've wanted to marry Tom. Now, when I have the chance, I don't know what I want.”

  Milo shrugged. “That's not so strange. If Tom agreed to move here, you'd know what to say, wouldn't you?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged again. “Then there's your answer. What difference does it make if he lives in San Francisco or Alpine? He always seems to be on the road.”