by Mary Daheim
“I think,” I said as Vida started out of my office, “I’ll check with Kip to see how many people hate my tree-poaching editorial this week. I haven’t gotten any calls, but some readers may have e-mailed their responses. Kip may not have had time to forward them on to me.”
But Kip had nothing. The only allusions to the poaching incident were a couple of anti-gun diatribes, a topic that always raised hackles in a former logging town. He did, however, inform me that after a slow start, Denise had seemed to grasp how to handle the classifieds.
“Good,” I said. “She’s used to dealing with the public, so that shouldn’t be a problem. You must’ve gone to school with the three Petersens. Did you know any of them well?”
Kip shook his head. “They were all younger than I was. I remember Frankie, the older one, best, because he was only a year behind me and played football and basketball. He was a pretty good fullback and was able to muscle his way under the basket for rebounds, but he couldn’t shoot, not even free throws.”
“He now calls himself Strom. Apparently he outgrew ‘Frankie.’ ”
“He was a jock,” Kip said. “I always figured he’d end up as a high school coach someday.”
“As a matter of fact, he has an MBA and works in finance.”
Kip looked surprised. “Guess I misjudged him. Cole was more of a nerd, so I suppose he’s a NASCAR driver.”
“You’re more on the mark with him,” I said. “He works for Microsoft, but in marketing, not as a techie.”
“That’s kind of funny,” Kip remarked, shaking his head. “People aren’t always what they seem to be, are they?”
“You’re right about that,” I said, checking the entrance from the front office to the back shop to make sure the door was closed. “What about Greg Jensen?”
Kip looked momentarily puzzled. “Oh—Denise’s ex? I don’t remember much about him. Kind of quiet, maybe in the same class as Frankie. I mean Strom. Nice kid, not a troublemaker.” Kip shrugged. “I think he was on the debate team.”
I smiled. “Sounds too bright for Denise.”
“He was no big brainiac. The high school was smaller when I went there. Anybody who liked to argue could get on the debate team then.”
“I guess he argued once too often with Denise,” I said.
Kip nodded. “Could be. Sorry I’m not much help about backgrounds. That’s Vida’s job.”
“Ah, yes,” I agreed, heading to the newsroom. “And she does it oh-so-well.”
My House & Home editor was smirking when she came through the door. “You will never guess who my dinner date is.”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “Who?”
“Strom Petersen.” She preened a bit. “I called Andy Cederberg at the bank and he gave me Strom’s cell phone number, so I got hold of Strom and he’s going with me to the Cederbergs’ for dinner tonight.”
I was only mildly taken aback. “What about Cole?”
“He already had plans,” Vida said with a trace of regret.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Denise couldn’t hear me in the front office. “With his sister?”
Vida shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“I think I missed something,” I said, eyeing Vida suspiciously. “Somewhere along the way, you left out Reba Cederberg’s invitation.”
“Oh.” Vida feigned surprise. “Yes, well, certainly. I did call Reba—it’d be unfair to spring that sort of thing on her, but having known the Petersens so intimately, I knew she’d realize how I’d feel if I didn’t get to see at least one of the boys while they were in town. My daughters all babysat for JoAnne and Larry years ago.”
That was the first I’d heard about the connection between the Runkel sisters and the Petersens. Of course that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Over the years, I’d discovered there were many things I didn’t know about my closest friends and associates in Alpine. Newcomers are still outsiders even after decades in a small town. As such, they put natives on their guard and, in small, almost unnoticed ways, are kept at arm’s length.
“Gee,” I said, “I didn’t realize you were so close.”
Vida gave me a sour look. “My father and Frank Petersen were dear friends.”
I kept a straight face, having heard an intriguing story about Mr. Blatt and Mr. Petersen from the usually uncommunicative Uncle Elmer. When the Bank of Alpine had been founded circa 1930, Elmer’s father, Frank, and his investment partners had come up short of capital. A silent partner had been found, a reputable family man with a secret weakness for women and games of chance. Like most gamblers, he lost more than he won, until he hit the jackpot—big time. Unable to explain to his wife how he’d gotten the windfall, he’d wisely—and discreetly—handed over most of the money to help start the bank. For years I’d wondered why there were five medallions on the bank’s lobby walls, but only four showed profiles and names of the founders: Frank Petersen, mill owner Carl Clemans, mill superintendent John Engstrom, and Vida’s father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, who’d also built the ski lodge that saved the town from extinction after the original mill shut down. After the death of Linda Lindahl and the arrest of Larry Petersen, Uncle Elmer had confided in me. The blank medallion was for the rakish rascal who had been the silent partner—Vida’s father, Earl Ennis Blatt. If Vida knew that I knew, she never let on.
I congratulated Vida on her coup. I was faintly envious, wishing I could find out more about the Petersen family now that I’d hired one of them. Maybe I could’ve gotten some insight about how to deal with Denise that didn’t involve tearing out my hair.
When five o’clock rolled around, Denise was still behind the front desk, going over what looked like a checklist that Kip had made for her. “It’s quitting time,” I said with a smile. “You don’t have to stick around until everybody else is gone.”
She looked at me with a slightly startled air. “Oh, I’m leaving in a few minutes. I made a five-fifteen appointment at Stella’s to have my hair done.” She ran a hand through the straggly multicolored strands. “She’s open until seven tonight. You could make an appointment, too.”
I didn’t take offense. I knew my unmanageable brown hair was overlong and overdue for cutting. “I’m going to do that either Friday or next week,” I said before adding an obvious understatement. “I’ve never been very good about styling it on my own.”
Denise eyed me critically. “It’s the shape that’s wrong. You need just a little height, and more tapering, because you have a round face. Stella should know that by now.” She demonstrated by moving her hands over her own hair. “It wouldn’t work for me. My face is too long.”
Suddenly, she looked stricken. “I forgot about Doof! I’ve got to go home first.” In a flurry of movement, she pushed the checklist to one side, grabbed her purse, and shrugged into her jacket. “Can you call Stella to let her know I’ll be a few minutes late?”
“Okay.” If I sounded unenthusiastic, Denise didn’t seem to notice. She was out the door before I finished punching in Stella’s number. Figuring that I might as well schedule an appointment for myself, I asked whichever stylist had answered the phone to set me up with the salon owner for next Wednesday at eleven. Feeling semi-virtuous, I collected my belongings and went home.
There were no calls, nothing but junk in the mail, and I made sure there were no parcels on the front porch. I’d hauled in some logs and kindling to build a fire. It hadn’t started to snow again, but it felt as if the temperature might drop to below freezing. After finding nothing in the freezer more appetizing than a frozen chicken pot pie, I turned on the oven, poured a Pepsi, and went into the living room to call the hospital.
The nurse who answered sounded older and vaguely familiar. “Hi,” I said, “this is Emma Lord. I’m calling about Craig Laurentis. How’s he doing this evening?”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” the nurse finally replied. “Mr. Laurentis isn’t here.”
I was momentarily speechless. “You mean he was discharged?�
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“No. I’m sorry, a patient is calling me.”
The phone went dead.
NINE
IT WAS USELESS TO CALL BACK. NO ONE WOULD ANSWER, OR I’d get the reception desk in the main lobby. Whoever was working there wouldn’t tell me anything. Or didn’t know anything worth telling.
I dialed Milo’s number. He answered on the third ring. “What do you mean, Laurentis isn’t there?” the sheriff demanded. “Are you sure you got the right number?”
“Of course I did,” I snapped. “I recognized the nurse’s voice. She’s a Peterson—not with an e, but an o. She’s an LPN.”
Milo didn’t speak for a moment or two. “Shit. I just got home and was going to catch some NBA action. Okay, I’ll send Dwight Gould over there to check it out and let you know what’s going on.” I could hear him cussing to himself as he hung up the phone.
I considered calling Vida, but remembered that she was going out to dinner at the Cederbergs’ house. Even if she hadn’t yet left, I didn’t want to distract her from soaking up every ounce of information she could squeeze out of the Petersen brood.
I also thought about trying to reach Doc Dewey or Dr. Sung, but they both put in such long hours that I hated to bother them. Milo would find out what had happened to Craig.
After putting the frozen chicken pot pie in the oven, I checked my e-mail. The only one that wasn’t junk had come from Adam less than an hour ago.
“Hi, Mom,” he began. “In case you’ve lost my first two Christmas gift lists, I’m adding a couple of items I can really use. (Needs, not wants—trying to follow your mature advice, only taken me thirty-odd years to figure out what it means.) Go to Cabela’s online and find the ColdGear outerwear Eras jacket and Coreman pants. I need these items because—in case you’ve forgotten—it’s kind of chilly up here in western Alaska. You might also take a look at their Gore-Tex Trooper Parka. Dodge has one like it and he doesn’t need it as much as I do. Remember—XL and Tall. Price is no object—for me. I work for God and He doesn’t pay big bucks. Love and prayers, Adam.”
I wrote back: “I work for me and I’m even stingier than God. I’ll check out the items as soon as I rob the Bank of Alpine. Please give me absolution in advance. Love, Mom.”
Adam didn’t respond. His part of Alaska was two hours behind Pacific Standard Time, so it was just after four in his part of the world. He could be anywhere, which was always a cause for worry on my part. In blinding snow, the only way to get from one place to another was by following a rope. If the rope broke, the danger was worse than taking a mere tumble. Since Adam had been at St. Mary’s Igloo, three people had suffered fatal falls, either going over cliffs or freezing to death. Every day I prayed that he’d be transferred to a less hazardous area, despite his dedication to his parishioners and the great beauty of his surroundings. When, of course, he could actually see them.
By seven o’clock, I was starved. I could’ve put the entrée in the microwave, but I preferred using the conventional oven, if only because it helped heat the house in cold weather. I went into the kitchen and checked the timer—fifteen minutes to go. And over an hour since I’d talked to Milo. I went back into the living room and was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.
“Laurentis apparently just walked out,” the sheriff said, sounding irked. “The nursing shift changes at four and it takes a while to go over charts. Nobody saw him leave, but when the new nurse who was assigned to him looked in his room, he wasn’t there. She thought maybe he’d gone to the can. Half an hour later, somebody named Enzo was delivering dinners and saw the bed wasn’t just empty, but stripped, except for the bottom sheet. The IVs were unhooked, too. Sounds to me like your favorite recluse artist got tired of being around other people and took off. No telling where he went, since he didn’t take his clothes. They’d been sent to the laundry.”
“Jeez!” I shrieked. “Are you crazy? He’s the one lead you’ve got in the poaching case, not to mention that the same perp tried to kill him. I don’t get it. You’re acting like your star witness played some kind of prank.”
“Bullshit,” Milo said, on the defensive. “The guy’s a head case. He didn’t see anybody, he doesn’t know anything. How am I supposed to find him in the dark when we could never find him in broad daylight?”
“But he’s not dressed for this kind of weather. He must’ve left the hospital in his gown with just a sheet and a couple of blankets over him. For God’s sake, Milo, somebody must’ve seen him before he headed back to the woods. If he walked out before or during the shift change, it wasn’t dark yet. The hospital’s in the middle of town. Don’t you dare tell me that Dwight or whoever else is on duty isn’t trying to find him.”
“You want to take over my job?” Milo shot back. “What’s wrong with you? Tracking down Laurentis would be like finding a needle in a haystack. For all we know, he stole somebody’s clothes before he left. Get real. I’m going to watch the Spurs finish hammering the Nuggets.”
“You do that. I’m calling two Ts on you and tossing you out of the game. You’re not scoring any points with me.” I slammed the phone down.
By the time my chicken pot pie was done, I’d lost my appetite. I ate about half of it before tossing the rest into the garbage. Back in the living room, I stared at Sky Autumn. “Where are you, Craig?” I wondered. I couldn’t bear the thought of him struggling to get wherever he was going with a bullet wound and hardly any clothes to ward off the chilly night. No shoes, only the flimsy bed socks provided by the hospital. No food since lunch. And no medicine to help him heal and ease his pain.
I finally turned away from the painting and told myself to worry about something else, like Adam falling over a cliff in St. Mary’s Igloo or Ben being run down in a pedestrian crosswalk in Cleveland. After a few minutes of torturing myself with those mental images, I realized I was being irrational. If anybody could take care of himself in extreme circumstances, it was Craig Laurentis. He’d been living on the edge for most of his life.
I settled in with a novel Edna Mae Dalrymple had insisted I read. According to her, the author was the Second Coming of Jane Austen. After the first thirty pages, I wished that the author was going … somewhere, anywhere, but it seemed more like nowhere. Edna Mae was a fine librarian, but she and I didn’t share the same taste in books. By the time I went to bed at eleven, I was already half-asleep.
———
Thursday morning there was no snow on the ground, just heavy frost on the grass and ice on a couple of puddles in my dormant garden. The gray clouds had lingered overnight, indicating that the wind had gone quiet, sleeping against the mountains like the rest of us.
Of course I thought about Craig as I drove to work. Hopefully, he’d made it safely home. Not for the first time, I wondered what “home” meant to him. A cabin, maybe, built with logs like my own little nest, but smaller and cruder. It could be an abandoned shack or a yurt or even a cave inside the granite cliffs. Wherever and whatever it was, I hoped he was there, nursing his wound.
Denise was on time, showing off her newly coiffed and foiled hair to Vida.
“Very nice,” my House & Home editor said with a tight little smile.
I, too, complimented Denise on her new do.
“Thanks,” she said. “You could do this. Not the cut, but the foil. You’d look good with blond in your dark hair.”
“I’ve never colored my hair. I thought about it back in the days when it was called frosting, but I lacked the nerve.” And the money. Raising Adam by myself, there was never much left over for luxuries like salon expenditures.
The day started on a busier note than the usual letdown of a Wednesday. As soon as my staff was assembled, I announced that we should all come up with some new and different holiday features. “Not just Christmas,” I said, “but Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Kwanzaa, St. Lucy’s Day, St. Nicholas Day, Boxing Day—whatever.”
“How about Debt Day?” Leo inquired. “Or is that in January?”
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br /> Mitch chuckled. “It’s every day.” He looked at me. “No offense, Emma. I wasn’t getting rich on the Detroit paper, either.”
Vida was looking at her wall calendar. “We’ll have to combine St. Nicholas and St. Lucy. Their feast days are a week apart, the sixth and the thirteenth. I’ll cover the Lutheran celebration for St. Lucy. Being on a Monday, they might have it Sunday.” She looked quizzical. “I can’t think of anyone in Alpine who does much for St. Nicholas. I believe that’s mainly a Dutch and German custom.”
“Clip art,” Leo said. “There should be all kinds of stuff we can use from one of those holiday CDs. Kwanzaa isn’t big around here, either. In fact,” he went on, turning to Mitch, “where’s the nearest temple or synagogue?”
“Everett,” Mitch replied. “I think.”
Leo’s expression was wry. “Sounds like you’re as lazy as I am when it comes to attending religious services. As Emma will vouch for me, I’m strictly a C & E-er.”
“You should both be ashamed of yourselves,” Vida said. “What’s the point of believing in something if you only attend church at Christmas and Easter, Leo?”
Before my ad manager could defend himself, Denise staggered in with the morning mail. “Where do all these catalogs go? There must be two dozen of them.”
“I’ll take those,” Leo said. “They’ll probably end up in the recycling bin, but I’ll check to make sure.”
Denise’s chin rested on top of the big stack that must’ve weighed close to twenty pounds. “What about the newspapers?”
“They’re exchange copies,” I replied. “You can put them on my desk. We get most of the state weeklies as part of the WNPA, but I rarely have time to look through them.”
“The what?” Denise asked as she lifted her chin so Leo could remove the catalogs.
“The Washington Newspaper Publishers Association,” I said. “It’s an organization and resource for smaller community papers like the Advocate. They also include some affiliate memberships for other kinds of publications.”
