by Mary Daheim
By the time I restocked at the Grocery Basket and got into my car, the revised weather forecast was calling for snow, at least above the two-thousand-foot level. Since Alpine is well within that range, I took notice. But if weathermen are sneered at in other parts of the country, their task in dealing with the Cascade Range is even more onerous. The Pacific Ocean sends the warming Japanese Current inland until it hits the mountains. Winds blow down from Canada and air floats up from the Columbia River. All sorts of strange currents buffet the coast of Washington. It’s a meteorologist’s nightmare, and advanced technology hasn’t helped long-range forecasting.
Still, I wanted to be prepared. I had rock salt for my walk and enough food to last through Wednesday. In case of a power failure—which could happen in any kind of weather in Alpine—there was a Coleman lantern left over from Adam’s camping days and a battery-run radio. My woodpile was well stocked, and during the most recent earthquake alarm, I’d purchased several gallons of well water. I should have felt secure as I unloaded the groceries in my pine-paneled kitchen.
And maybe I did. But I also felt lonely. There was one message on my answering machine, from City Librarian Edna Mae Dalrymple, asking if I’d host a bridge date the week after Thanksgiving. That, I realized, was the extent of my current social life. I finished putting away the groceries and poured myself an unusually large bourbon and water. Halfway into it, I called Milo Dodge.
“I’ve got enough salmon for two,” I said, which wasn’t true when taking Milo’s prodigious appetite into account. “Are you hungry?”
But Milo already had his TV dinner in the microwave. My only consolation was that he sounded genuinely sorry. I suspected, however, that his regrets were more for the fish than my company.
Briefly, almost nervously, I considered calling Leo. But that would be reckless. Then I wondered who had been Leo’s companion at King Olav’s. Perhaps he’d dined there alone. It didn’t seem likely; the restaurant wasn’t the sort of place where people ate solo.
Carla and Ginny had gone to Seattle; Vida had Roger. There were plenty of single people in Alpine who were probably as lonely as I was.
But I wasn’t unhappy. Being alone was quite different from being lonely. I was merely going through a bad patch, probably triggered by Ginny and Carla’s long faces. I marched out to the kitchen and put the salmon under the broiler. All of it.
And I ate it, along with a potato and some green beans.
I still felt lonely. Maybe I was unhappy, too.
* * *
Saturday morning didn’t exactly dawn, it hovered over Alpine like a pall. The clouds were low and gray, with the rain coming down in buckets. I did laundry and vacuuming and dusting. By noon, the rain had stopped, but the clouds were still there, so heavy that I could almost feel them.
In the afternoon, I decided to drive to Monroe. I had no reason, I simply wanted to get out of Alpine. Once I hit Highway 2, my mood began to lighten. So did the sky. As I descended the pass, the clouds lifted and brightened. My mouth twisted into a wry smile. Like most native Pacific Northwesterners, I wasn’t bothered by gray, rainy days. In fact, I like them. I didn’t blame my emotional slide on the weather. It was caused by something else, and I felt at a loss to figure out what it was.
The strip malls in Monroe helped. My only purchases were a couple of paperbacks and a shirt for Adam’s Christmas. I stayed long enough to eat an early dinner at a Japanese take-out restaurant, and arrived home shortly after six.
There were two messages on the machine, a fact that somehow cheered me. At least it did initially. Edna Mae wanted to know why I hadn’t called her back. The truth was, I hadn’t felt like it. I would ring her as soon as I listened to the second message.
The voice belonged to Vida, though it took me a few seconds to recognize her. She was squawking. I listened with half an ear as I took the price tags off Adam’s shirt. I started to smile, until I realized what she was trying to tell me:
“So awful … especially for Roger … young and sensitive … scarred for life, poor dear … dead as a dodo … that beat all?”
Startled, I rewound the machine and turned up the volume. Now my entire attention was fixed on Vida’s voice:
“It was so awful, finding Linda Lindahl dead. Especially for Roger. He’s so young and sensitive. No doubt he’ll be scarred for life, poor dear. Linda was dead as a dodo, and probably had been for several hours. Doesn’t that beat all?”
My hand fell away from the answering machine as if I had been burned. Edna Mae was forgotten. I punched in Vida’s number so fast that I misdialed and reached the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. Like a coward, I hung up without apologizing and dialed again. This time Vida answered.
“Where were you?” Vida’s voice practically shattered my ear. Nor did she give me a chance to reply. “Why aren’t you here?”
Because Roger is, I wanted to say but didn’t. Vida wasn’t being her usual rational self. “What happened to Linda?” I asked. “Is she really dead?”
“Of course she’s dead. Didn’t I say so?” Vida had lowered her voice, no doubt to spare Roger’s delicate ears. “Really, Emma, you must get right over to my house. I can’t tell you everything on the phone.”
Obediently I put on my coat and drove to Vida’s. The first few flakes of snow began to fall as I pulled up to the curb.
Roger was sitting in front of the TV, watching somebody shoot the bejesus out of somebody else. He seemed unmoved by the program and my arrival. Roger was stuffing his face with Fritos.
Vida was too preoccupied to bother forcing Roger to greet me. She ushered me into the kitchen where the teakettle was already heating on the stove.
“I want to be organized about this,” she declared, sitting across from me at the table. Vida still wore her hat, a furry toque that was about the same color as her hair. It was almost impossible to tell where one left off and the other began.
But Vida was indifferent to everything but the matter at hand. If I hadn’t already been alarmed by her news, Vida’s grim manner would have sobered me in a hurry.
“Roger and I were going to the mall today,” she began, speaking almost in her normal manner. “But he was so eager to shoot his BB gun, and I was certain it would snow tonight.” She glanced out the window, as if to give herself credibility. “So we drove up 187, as far as we could before hitting the new construction. As of now, that’s about a mile this side of the road to the ranger station.”
Silently I noted that Big Mike Brockelman and his crew had made considerable progress since Monday’s layoff. Vida kept talking as the kettle whistled and she rose to tend the tea.
“There’s nothing in those woods just off the south side of the road. In a fifty-foot area, it’s rather flat before the mountain starts to climb again. It was a landing stage for felled trees back in the Twenties. I thought that would be a good place for Roger to practice, as long as he didn’t aim across the highway. The golf course isn’t far from there, you know.”
I pictured the setting in my mind. No doubt I’d often passed that section of the forest. On the north side of the road was a Cyclone fence, marking the boundary of the golf course. The fairways were shrouded by evergreens, and beyond the east end of the course was a large gouge left by the most recent logging operation. Across the road, just past the Icicle Creek Bridge, stood Elmer Petersen’s farm. The rest of the road’s south side was covered with second-growth timber, planted seventy years ago by Carl Clemans’s men.
Vida paused to pour our tea, which was even weaker than what she’d fixed Monday night. I winced as I picked up the cup, remembering how I’d rushed to this same house to squeal on Linda Lindahl. I felt like a ghoul.
“Roger was doing beautifully,” Vida went on. “He almost hit a crow. Naturally, all the small animals have gone down the mountain to a lower elevation. That’s why I knew it would snow.”
I was getting impatient. “When was all this?” I asked, hoping to spur Vida along.
“We arrived shortly before
one. Roger wanted to eat lunch at the Burger Barn. He adores their cheeseburgers. You should see him sink his little teeth into—”
“Vida!” I’d turned snappish. “Tell me about Linda or I’ll call Milo!”
The threat worked, though Vida gave me a sour look. “Roger thought he’d hit a pigeon. I didn’t agree, but allowed as how Grams could be wrong, being older and of failing eyesight. I humored him”—Vida caught herself—“by starting to search the ground under a big hemlock when Roger called out that there was somebody in a stump.” She paused, rolling her eyes. “Naturally, I thought he meant someone had come along who was stumped—about directions or such. I looked, but didn’t see anything except Roger, standing by an old fallen log. He wouldn’t move, which is odd for Roger. So lively, you know. I walked over to where he was standing and realized he’d grown quite pale. Then I saw her.” Vida took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and then flared her nostrils. “It was Linda Petersen Lindahl, and even at a glance, I could tell she was dead.”
* * *
Vida had hustled Roger back to the car, despite his protests. He had never seen a dead body before, and who could blame the little fellow for natural curiosity? Or so Vida put it.
Vida’s first thought was to call from the Petersen farm, which would have the nearest phone. But upon realizing that Elmer and Thelma Petersen were the uncle and aunt of the dead woman, she decided to go another half mile into the Icicle Creek development and hope that Milo Dodge was home on a Saturday afternoon.
He was cleaning out his gutters. Vida’s shouted announcement almost caused him to fall off the ladder. Within minutes, he had asked two of his deputies to join him off Highway 187. Vida had at first refused to return to show Milo where Roger had found Linda.
“So gruesome—I didn’t want Roger to come with us, but the brave little man insisted on staying with Grams.” As it turned out, Milo had called Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt, Vida’s nephew. “Roger worships Billy, so it took a while for me to pry them apart. Milo and Sam were photographing the body when we finally left. That was about three o’clock. I took Roger out for a hot fudge sundae to distract him. Milo is coming by at any moment to take my formal statement. The sheriff’s office is no place for Roger.”
Maybe not, but the county jail suited the little ghoul just fine as far as I was concerned. Even now, Roger’s chunky little body was wedged in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey, Grams, I’m out of Fritos and pop. There’s nothing on TV. Can I watch Robocop again?”
Vida dashed to the cupboard, where she produced a bag of Cheetos, then removed a can of cola from the refrigerator. “Here, darling, frosty cold just the way you like it. You know how to run the VCR; go ahead and watch your little show.”
With a hostile glance for me, Roger left the kitchen. I felt distracted and disturbed. Vida’s ramblings about Roger had taken the edge off Linda’s death. That was wrong. It was also uncharacteristic of my House & Home editor. Under ordinary circumstances, Vida was the most down-to-earth of creatures. But Roger turned her mind to mush. He seemed to be doing the same to mine.
“Vida,” I began, giving up on my tea and wishing my hostess kept something stronger than cooking sherry on hand, “Linda didn’t crawl inside a hollow log and die. What did Milo say? Is it … murder?” The last word came out hushed, though with Roger immersed in bloody mayhem, I didn’t know why.
Vida, who drinks hot water almost exclusively at work, now dispensed with the tea bag, too. She sipped slowly from her cup and narrowed her eyes. “Of course it’s murder. Didn’t I say so?”
I gave a faint shake of my head. The sukiyaki I’d eaten in Monroe turned over in my stomach. I’d known all along that Linda had been murdered. But having Vida validate the fact out loud made me feel ill. I put my head in my hands, silently sending up a muddled prayer for Linda’s soul. “How?” The lonely syllable was a gasp.
“It would appear,” Vida replied, now sounding like her usual brisk self, “she was strangled with her own muffler. Her face was quite an unbecoming shade of puce.”
The sukiyaki declared war on Vida’s weak tea. I was about to head for her bathroom when the front doorbell rang. Naturally, Roger didn’t bother to get off his fat duff to answer it. By the time Vida brought Milo Dodge into the kitchen, I had my stomach under control.
Oddly enough, Milo didn’t look much better than I felt. His color was off and his long face looked drawn. There were snowflakes on his down jacket, and his usual long-legged lope faltered as he approached the table.
“I’ve just spent the last hour with the Petersens,” he said, dropping into a vacant chair. “You got any beer, Vida?”
“I don’t keep liquor in the house, Milo,” Vida sniffed. “You know that. I’m Presbyterian.”
Milo’s expression was wry. “I also know you’ll take a cocktail now and then. Where’s the beer?”
With an exasperated air, Vida reached into her highest cupboard, rummaging behind some empty fruit jars. She produced an unopened bottle of vodka. “I drink only on festive occasions. I was saving this for Thanksgiving. My sons-in-law enjoy a vodka martini.”
Milo preferred beer or Scotch. But he didn’t balk. Neither did I. We allowed Vida to mix drinks for both of us. She turned out to be a better bartender than she was a cook.
“Don’t let Roger see you,” she urged, handing us each a highball glass, which I suspected was the extent of her cocktail vessels. “Now give me that statement to sign, Milo. I’d like to be done with it.”
Milo looked chagrined. “I forgot the forms. We’ll do it tomorrow. Or Monday.” He made a face. “It’s going to take at least that long for the M.E. in Everett to have his report. Damn, I wish we had our own facilities in Skykomish County. This jerk-assed business of sending everything to Snohomish County hampers us too much.”
“Mind your language,” Vida said primly. “There’s a child in the other room.”
Milo shared my opinion of Roger. His skeptical gaze was ignored by Vida. “It was definitely foul play,” he said, perhaps for my benefit. Milo knew I needed some facts by Tuesday to meet our deadline. “That’s about all we can say until we hear from Everett. I’m not even going to try to guess how long she’s been dead. Linda left work around six-thirty Friday. As far as we know, she was never seen again.”
Vida gave a nod. “Yes, the bank stays open until six on Fridays. How are the Petersens taking it?”
A desolate expression passed over Milo’s face. “As you’d expect. Hard. Real hard, especially Marv and his wife. Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt went to Everett with the body. They’ll notify the daughter and Linda’s ex-husband while they’re there. I don’t envy them that one. The kid’s only twelve.”
Vida was shaking her head. I fingered the bridge of my nose, feeling waves of sympathy for Linda’s little girl. And the rest of the Petersens, of course.
“I hope,” Vida said at last, “that—Alison, isn’t it?—gets along with her stepmother. That will help.”
Milo seemed distracted. Indeed, he was now looking troubled. “Huh? Oh, right, the daughter. Kids adapt. God knows mine seem to think that creep Old Mulehide married is big stuff.”
Old Mulehide was Milo’s former wife. Upon her remarriage several years ago, she and their children had moved to Bellevue, across Lake Washington from Seattle. Maybe Milo’s distracted air was caused by thoughts of his fragmented family.
Vida, however, felt otherwise. “Well? What is it, Milo? What’s bothering you, besides the obvious?”
Milo let out a big sigh. “Probably nothing. But when I told Larry Petersen about his sister’s death, he acted more scared than shocked. Denise was there, too, and she damned near got hysterical.”
I regarded Milo curiously. “I don’t blame her. Linda was her aunt.”
But Milo wasn’t buying my argument. “Linda and Denise weren’t close, even though they worked together. What upset Larry and his daughter was fear. Nobody reported it to us, but Wednesday night, somebody tried t
o run down Andy Cederberg on his way home from work. The Petersens think there’s a plot to get rid of everybody who works for the Bank of Alpine.”
I started to scoff, but Vida was gazing at Milo with unblinking eyes. “Maybe,” she said in a firm yet chilling voice, “there is.”
Chapter Five
THE POLICE LOG is always fair game for the media. Andy Cederberg had now reported the alleged attempt at running him down. A near miss, however, is not news even in Alpine. But it could be an item for Vida’s “Scene Around Town.” Given her outspoken fear for the Bank of Alpine’s employees, eventually it could be much more. Since the Cederbergs lived only two blocks from Vida’s house, I drove down to Pine Street after finishing my drink. Milo was officially off-duty, but he felt an obligation to call on Elmer and Thelma Petersen at their farm. Thelma, after all, was Milo’s aunt.
My studded tires coped nicely with the fresh layer of snow. A few kids were outside, trying to make snowballs. They seemed entranced by the falling flakes. The novelty would wear off long before the first thaw.
I’d never been inside the Cederbergs’ house before. It was old, but well maintained. Reba Cederberg had an eye for decorating. Heavy Victorian furniture was offset by beige carpets and pastel drapes. Bright silk floral arrangements stood on the spinet piano, an oak credenza, and an end table. Still, a melancholy pall hung over the room.
Upon my arrival, Andy shooed his two children upstairs. A girl of twelve and a boy about nine seemed to obey, but later I noticed their feet planted on the landing. Obviously they didn’t want to miss any of the excitement that had so recently touched their family.
“Marv called us about Linda,” Andy said after we were seated in the living room and Reba had gone off to make coffee. “I still can’t believe it. Some nut passing through, I suppose. I wish those people would stay in the city where they belong.”
Reba returned, wringing her hands. While she was definitely overweight, especially through the hips, her golden hair was artfully styled to frame surprisingly delicate features.
