by Mary Daheim
“Well.” Garth leaned on the counter. “To be honest, Jess and Aaron have been darned good kids. Both of them have worked for us—and that’s not easy, having Mom and Dad as your boss. That’s why this thing with Jess quitting after just a day seems weird. Granted, it was her first full-time job, but Bree Kendall had worked there ever since Nystrom opened the practice. Tara and I are going to have to have a real sit-down tonight with Jessica.”
“Why did Bree quit?” I asked.
Garth frowned. “She’s not from here, you know. As I recall, Carter hired her out of Seattle. Maybe she didn’t like small-town life. Bree gave it two years. I suppose she missed the city.”
Vaguely, I could visualize Bree. We’d run her picture a couple of times: once when she started working for Dr. Nystrom and again when we had a co-op ad featuring our professional people and their staffs. She was blonde and rather good-looking, as I recalled.
“The personnel change could’ve been the problem,” I said as Mary Lou Blatt strode up to the pharmacy counter. “Dr. Nystrom must’ve been used to a routine with Bree. Maybe he was a little hard on Jessica. It’d be an adjustment for him, too.”
Garth shrugged. “It’s possible. But darned if Tara and I won’t find out. We’ve raised our kids so that they talk to us. Usually.”
Mary Lou harrumphed. “Talk to but not talk back, I hope. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s youngsters who sass. I need a refill on my blood pressure medicine. I had to see Vida over the holidays.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Mary Lou was the widow of Vida’s brother, Ennis Blatt. The two strong-minded women had never gotten along.
“I don’t know how you put up with that windbag,” Mary Lou declared, her sharp eyes pinned on me. “A know-it-all if there ever was one.” She turned back to Garth. “Let me tell you, and don’t I know, having taught school for many years, that parents are spoiling their children something terrible these days. Thank goodness I’m retired. I’d take a ruler to most of these kids—and then get sued by their silly parents. If they have parents, that is, with half the population either divorced or living together without benefit of clergy.”
I waved faintly and walked over to the first-aid section. Mary Lou could give as good as she got when it came to windbaggery.
Twenty minutes later, I was emptying my shopping basket for Tara. Band-Aids, Super Glue, Excedrin, liquid eyeliner, toothpaste, mouthwash, a sympathy card for the Nystroms, shampoo and conditioner—I had it all.
“Thirty-eight dollars and twelve cents,” Tara announced.
I ran my debit card through the machine, doing it right the first time, which was unusual for Emma the Inept. “What time do you get off?” I asked.
“We’re both working until we close at eight,” Tara said, sounding tired. “Our holiday help has gone back to the classroom. I guess we’ll have Jessica fill in until we get someone else. Aaron has a semester break coming up. We can put him to work, too.” She glanced across the wide front aisle at Mary Lou Blatt, who was studying the marked-down holiday candy. “I can’t believe it,” Tara said, lowering her voice. “Ed Bronsky came in this afternoon asking about a job.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Right.” Tara smiled at Barney Amundson, who had just entered the store. I smiled, too. Barney headed for the camera section. “Has Ed really lost his money? Or his mind?” Tara inquired.
“Yes. Yes.” I sighed. “He wants his old job back at the Advocate. It’s impossible, of course.”
“He wasn’t asking for himself here,” Tara said, handing me my receipt. “It was for Shirley. What do you think?”
“How strapped are you for employees?”
Tara grimaced. “We are a bit strapped. But Shirley?” She nodded in Barney Amundson’s direction. “His niece Carrie worked for us last summer and did fairly well. Maybe I could ask Barney if she’d consider coming back. She’s dropped out of college, too.”
“Jessica plans to stay in town, I assume.”
Tara nodded as Mary Lou headed for the checkout counter. “I hope so. I don’t want her at loose ends in the city.”
I signed the receipt and picked up my purchases. “Say, do you know if Bree Kendall is still in town?”
Tara looked surprised by the question. “I think so, but I really don’t know. I hardly knew her.”
I admitted I didn’t know her at all.
But I intended to correct that situation as soon as possible.
I used my cell phone to call directory assistance from my car. Bree Kendall still had a listing. I jotted it down and asked for the address. Dr. Nystrom’s former receptionist lived on Alpine Way. Judging from the street number, she was probably a resident at the Pines Villa Apartments.
I sat in the car staring out into Front Street. At five-thirty it was busy by Alpine standards. I had no excuse to call Bree Kendall. I didn’t even know why I wanted to talk to her. She’d apparently given notice to her employer that she would quit at the end of the year. That didn’t sound precipitous and thus couldn’t be construed as sinister. Like just about everyone else connected to the Nystroms, Bree was a stranger to me. So far, I knew only the Nordby brothers, and Trout hadn’t been much help when it came to moving the murder investigation forward.
Still, I decided to take the long route home and headed for Alpine Way instead of going up Fourth Street. Two blocks away from Fir, where my little log house stands, and a block shy of Pines Villa, I decided to stop at the Grocery Basket. The Christmas turkey had been recycled once too often, the larder was low, and I was hungry.
I treated myself to a Kobe beef steak, Brussels sprouts, and a Yukon Gold potato. Guilt came over me. It was a perfect dinner for Milo, except that the sprouts would have been replaced by green beans. When it came to food—and other things as well—the sheriff’s tastes were pretty basic. I would’ve liked to ask Ben to dinner, but I knew he had an invitation to dine with Bernie and Patsy Shaw from the parish. Having spent six months in Alpine, Ben had gotten acquainted with many of the locals. Many of them insisted on offering him hospitality during his short holiday stay, and that meant I wasn’t getting to see him as often as I’d have preferred.
I also selected a few items from the frozen food case. I’d put them in reserve for nights when I didn’t feel like cooking. I was wheeling my cart toward the front end when I saw Betsy O’Toole coming out of the far aisle. She was wearing her coat and carrying her purse, indicating that she was finished with her co-owner’s duties for the day.
“Emma!” she shouted. “What’s this about Ed?”
I reined in my cart by a soda pop display. “Not you, too?” I said.
“He was in here half an hour ago, trying to talk Jake and me into hiring a couple of his kids,” Betsy said. “It’s not a good time. Business slows down in January. The snowbirds all head for Arizona and California. Or they take a cruise. I can’t believe Ed’s broke.”
“Believe it,” I said. “But I’m glad to hear he’s trying to get his kids to work. It’ll be good for them.”
“Better if Ed got his own butt out of that stupid mansion and did something besides show off,” Betsy asserted. “Oh, I feel sorry for the guy, but he’s been such a pain since he inherited that money. Did he blow it all or what?”
“Bad investments,” I said. “Say, do you know Bree Kendall?”
Betsy laughed. “Of course.” She jerked a thumb toward the express checkout stand. “That’s her, right behind Edna Mae Dalrymple. Bree shops here all the time. She lives just up the street at Pines Villa.”
“Do you mind if I roll in behind her?”
Betsy shrugged. “Go for it.” But before I could move the cart, she blocked my way. “What are you up to, Emma? Does this have something to do with poor Elmer Nystrom having his head bashed in?”
I tried to look innocent. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Bree worked for his son,” she said. “You know that, of course.”
“Move it, Betsy,” I said. “E
dna Mae can’t dither forever. It’s an express lane, remember?”
Betsy got out of the way. “How can I forget? This morning I had to tell Darla Puckett that twenty-seven items are seventeen too many. That woman either can’t count or can’t read. See you.”
Betsy breezed off.
Edna Mae was trying to make exact change. “I’m sure I have another dime,” she insisted as the redheaded checker exhibited strained patience. “Dimes are so small. They get caught in the lining of my coin purse.” Edna Mae, our local head librarian, kept digging.
I stood behind Bree, studying her appearance. She was several inches taller than I was, probably was twenty-five years younger, and her shoulder-length blond hair looked like it might have been the original color. Her tan all-weather hooded coat was lined with black faux fur. She wore black boots with heels so high that I wouldn’t have dared wear them to walk farther than from my bedroom to the front door. Bree already had placed her purchases on the checkout counter: prosciutto, provolone, a small baguette, a yellow bell pepper, and a bottle of Pinot Gris.
“Trade you,” I said, leaning over my cart.
“What?” Bree turned around.
“I think I like your choices better than mine,” I replied with a friendly smile.
Bree gave me a cool look. “Oh.”
Edna Mae hadn’t found a dime, but she’d dumped the entire contents of her purse on the checkout stand and was counting out five pennies and a nickel. “There!” She beamed at Cara, the redheaded clerk. “I knew I had exact change! I hate making people wait while I write a check or give you a ten-dollar bill for five dollars and some odd cents worth of purchases.” She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye. “Emma? How are you? I meant to call you this evening. Can you substitute for bridge tomorrow night? It’s short notice, but the flu’s going around. Charlene Vickers and Francine Wells are both sick. Francine phoned me just before I left the library.”
“That’s fine,” I said, pressured not so much by Edna Mae as by the half-dozen people who were now lined up behind me. “Where is it?”
“My house,” Edna Mae said, carefully collecting each of her items one at a time and putting them back in her purse. “Seven-thirty, of course.”
Of course. I nodded. I’d been a regular member of the bridge club for several years, but for a short time a couple of the members had boycotted me for reasons that still rankled. The rest of the group finally had rallied and invited me back, but I’d played hard to get and told them I’d substitute only when needed.
Edna Mae finally pulled herself and her belongings together. Bree moved quickly, credit card and pen already in hand. My chance to get acquainted was slipping away as fast as a rock rolling down Tonga Ridge.
I leaned closer to Bree. “Can you tell the difference between the yellow and the red peppers?”
Bree, whose eyes were a mesmerizing blue, regarded me as if I were the local loony. “I find the yellow a bit more mild,” she replied through tight, glossy lips. She turned away and gazed at Cara, who had finished totaling up Bree’s groceries.
I was undaunted. Journalists are used to rejection. “Say,” I said in my most engaging voice, “aren’t you Bree Kendall?”
Bree all but glared at me. “Yes. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m Emma Lord,” I said, still friendly as I could be. “We’ve run your picture a couple of times in the Advocate.” I became somber. “I’m very sorry about your employer’s father.”
“He’s not my employer,” Bree snapped. “I resigned last week.”
“Oh—yes, I’d forgotten.” Bree had signed off on her purchases and turned away from me. “Then I guess you’re not a suspect,” I said loudly.
She almost dropped her plastic grocery bag. “What?” The deep blue eyes stared. Cara, who was already starting to tote up my items, also gave me a startled look.
I shrugged. “That’s how it works with a homicide investigation.”
Bree took two steps toward me. Menace can distort even the most attractive faces. “If I ever hear you or anybody else even mention my name in connection with that Nystrom bunch, I’ll sue for every cent I can get. You hear me?”
I blinked. “I hear you.” I steeled my nerve. “But you don’t realize what you’re saying.”
Bree may not have heard me. She was already stalking resolutely toward the exit in her mile-high boots.
And she was not aware that she’d told me what I wanted to know.
Chapter Six
“THEY’RE GONE,” VIDA said over the phone. “I’m so glad. The Bartlebys are very difficult to entertain. Regis said grace, and it must have lasted ten minutes. My casserole got cold and didn’t taste as it should.”
Maybe the vicar had been praying for something edible. Hot or cold, Vida’s casserole would have tasted like newspaper pulp. “Was your social gesture worthwhile in terms of information?”
“Oooh…” Vida paused. I could imagine that she’d taken off her glasses and was rubbing her eyes in frustration. “The Bartlebys are so maddeningly discreet! You’d think all those Episcopalians led blameless lives!”
“Including the Nystroms?”
“Oh, yes!” Vida’s sigh carried over the phone line. “Elmer was practically a saint. Polly is such a dear woman, ‘bless her heart,’ and I quote. Carter is a paragon of virtue. ‘Bless his heart,’ too. Elmer was an usher. Polly made tea towels for the church bazaar. Carter has very flexible payment plans for patients who are financially embarrassed. That’s the way Regis put it. So tactful. Whatever happened to—and now I must quote myself—‘broke,’ ‘lazy,’ or ‘spending paychecks at Mugs Ahoy’?”
“You didn’t expect them to dish the dirt,” I pointed out.
“I expected something,” Vida declared. “And I must say, there were some very small tidbits of interest, if one interprets them properly.”
“Such as?”
“Edith described Polly as ‘taking an interest in other people.’ Yet at another point in the conversation, Regis mentioned that the family kept to themselves. ‘A close-knit trio’—those were his exact words. The two things don’t go together.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning, of course,” Vida explained, “that someone who takes an interest in others usually has many friends. That person is a good listener and probably is sympathetic. However, if that person—Polly, of course—is merely encouraging people at church—and I don’t think the Nystroms had a social circle beyond Trinity Episcopal, because I certainly never ran any items about them entertaining guests—then I must conclude that Polly was pumping the other parishioners for information. Which, of course, is perhaps what Maud Dodd complained about. Polly is a gossip.”
I was glad Vida couldn’t see my expression. Pot, meet kettle, I thought to myself. “There are worse things,” I remarked.
“That may be so,” Vida allowed, “but it depends on whether or not Polly adhered to the truth and refrained from malice. I intend to visit Maud Dodd tomorrow on my lunch hour.”
With the cordless phone propped between my ear and my shoulder, I had wandered into the living room where I stood before my favorite painting. Sky Autumn hung above the sofa, replacing a Monet print I’d moved to my bedroom. I never tired of my recent acquisition. The tumbling river seemed to change color and movement with the light. Just then, with only one lamp burning on an end table next to the sofa, the rushing water looked dark and dangerous. It struck me as a metaphor describing Elmer’s killer.
“Is that all you found out?” I asked.
“Almost,” Vida replied. “Elmer’s funeral will be Friday morning at ten. I called that in to Kip so that he could add it to my obituary and your story. But,” she went on, “there was one other faintly curious comment by Regis. He mentioned that as an usher, Elmer always stood in the rear of the church during the service. Polly and Carter sat together in the third row and nudged each other frequently during the sermons. Regis was puzzled as to whether they were quibbling
with Scripture or with his—that is, Regis’s—interpretation.”
“That’s a clue?” I said, leaning so close to my painting that I could see the signature of the artist, Craig Laurentis.
“Well, no,” Vida admitted, “but it obviously disconcerts Regis. He wonders if he’s becoming too pedantic as he grows older.”
I sat down on the sofa and put my feet up on the matching ottoman. “At least he’s not senile like our poor old Father Fitzgerald. When I first came to Alpine, he was giving homilies about loose women with bobbed hair and short skirts doing the Black Bottom and drinking bathtub gin.”
“Yes,” Vida said. “I recall the St. Mildred’s people complaining about that sort of thing. Living in the past, poor soul. Of course it always seems a safer place.”
“By the way,” I said, “I ran into Bree Kendall at the Grocery Basket.”
Vida didn’t respond immediately. I sensed that she was checking Bree’s name in her prodigious memory bank. “Oh, the young woman who worked for Carter Nystrom. Really, Emma, you did not just happen to run into her.”
“In a way,” I said. “I didn’t follow her to the store. She was ahead of me in the express lane.” I related our brief encounter.
“Well, now,” Vida said, “Bree’s the first person I know who’s been openly critical of the Nystrom family. I wonder why.”
“I’d say it was because she and Carter didn’t get along,” I said, “except that she definitely referred to all of them. I wonder if Milo will talk to her.”
“He should,” Vida asserted. “He must. Disgruntled employees have motives. Though why Carter’s receptionist would kill his father seems very odd. I’m ruling out a mistake. Except for both men being fairly tall, they don’t look at all alike.”
I told Vida that I’d drop Bree’s name in Milo’s lap. On that note, I rang off. It was after nine. The Wesleys would be home from the drugstore. They’d probably spend the dinner hour having their little talk with Jessica. I gave them another twenty minutes before I dialed their number.