The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  Spence broke for another commercial. I turned off the radio and fumed. With Milo confined to the hospital, could my archrival have coerced one of the deputies into being interviewed? Was Carter Nystrom willing to go on the air because Spence had convinced him a public forum might help catch Elmer’s killer? Or had Mr. Radio dredged up some friend or neighbor who wanted to be in the limelight?

  But the Nystroms didn’t have any friends as far as I could tell. They were a world unto themselves. Or were they? I wondered.

  When I stopped at the sheriff’s office on my way to meet Tamara, Jack Mullins was the only one up front behind the mahogany counter. He was eating a sausage pizza, drinking a Diet Coke, and not answering the phone that was ringing as I entered.

  “Screw ’em,” he said with his mouth full. “They’re just a bunch of snoops.”

  “What if someone is reporting a crime?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged and swallowed. “Then they can call 911, just like regular victims do. I don’t mind sitting in for Lori, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to play phone operator.”

  “Any word on Milo?”

  Jack shook his head. “Doe stopped by the hospital just a few minutes ago. They’re still doing their damned tests—or waiting for the results. Dodge must be feeling better. Doe said Doc Dewey told her that Boss Man was being a pain in the ass. Or words to that effect.”

  “Milo’s not used to being sick,” I said. “Or when he is, he’s the type who never talks about it.”

  “That’s the problem,” Jack said. “For all we know, he’s been having these pains for a while. That bothers me.”

  It bothered me, too. “You’ve got my cell number,” I said. “Call me whenever you hear anything. Please?”

  “Sure.” Jack finished the last bite of pizza.

  “By the way,” I said, “did you hear Spence on the noon news?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t listen to the radio unless I pick up KJR with the sports bullshit. But with all these mountains, the reception sucks in the patrol car.” He gave me a curious look. “Why’re you asking?”

  I told Jack about Spence’s mystery interview. “Any ideas?”

  “Not any of us,” Jack said staunchly. “Maybe one of the Nordby brothers, looking for some free advertising. Or one of the girls from Carter’s office. Who knows with Fleetwood? Maybe he came up with some guy who was in tooth school with Carter. Or some kid who just got new braces. I’ll bet he’s reaching.”

  “You’re probably right,” I allowed.

  The phone rang again. Jack ignored it. I said goodbye and left. I never could resist a ringing telephone. If I hadn’t made my exit, I would’ve answered the call myself.

  Tamara was a couple of minutes late, though she floated into the café in the customary graceful manner that always made me think she could’ve been a ballerina with the Bolshoi. Her ebony black hair was pulled away from her face to reveal a classic profile, and her fair skin was flawless. If I didn’t like her so much, I could’ve hated her.

  “Students,” she said, joining me at the counter where we could place our orders. “They’re so helpless.”

  “Helpless or hopeless?”

  She grimaced. “Sometimes I’m not sure. I used to be so enthusiastic. Ever since I turned thirty, I seem to have less patience. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  “Not necessarily,” I replied. “In some ways, I’m not as patient as I used to be. I suffer fools less gladly. Life gets shorter as we get older.”

  “That’s a sobering thought,” Tamara murmured. “In that case, I think I’ll order cheesecake along with my sandwich and salad.”

  I liked her style. “Why not? You’re very slim.”

  “It’s my genes,” she said.

  “Mine, too.” I noticed the young clerk in a white apron staring at me. “I’ll have the pastrami on light rye with Havarti cheese, sprouts, mayo, and butter, the house salad with honey mustard, and the mocha cheesecake.” Late lunches always found me ravenous.

  Only three of the dozen tables were still occupied past one o’clock. Tamara and I chose a window setting that looked out into Alpine Way.

  “Scott told me I was going to be grilled, just like my panini,” Tamara said as we waited for our meals. “That sounds exciting.”

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “It’s pretty mundane. I understand you know Bree Kendall.”

  Tamara laughed softly. “In a way. The way, I mean, that sorority sisters know each other. When she moved up here with Carter Nystrom, I thought I should contact her. She was bound to be lonely. I know I was when I first started teaching at the college.”

  “You say she moved here ‘with Carter.’ Do you mean…what?”

  Tamara laughed again. “I don’t mean they were a couple,” she explained as the white-aproned lad strolled over with our salads. “He’d hired her and the other two girls in Seattle. That caused some hard feelings, you know.”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “In what way?”

  “There were at least a couple of girls—well, women, actually—who were trained orthodontist assistants already living here. That’s unusual, because there’s a shortage of them in the profession. Anyway, they’d sent their résumés to Carter when they heard he was coming back to Alpine to set up a practice. He never responded.”

  “Who were they?”

  Tamara lightly salted her salad. “Jeanne Hendrix, who’s married to Keith Hendrix, one of our science profs. Jeanne was really annoyed. She worked for an orthodontist in the Bay Area for years before she was married. Jeanne and Keith don’t have kids—it’s a second marriage for both of them—and she’s been at loose ends in Alpine ever since they moved here three years ago. She figured she was a cinch for a job with Nystrom. But that never happened.”

  When Tamara stopped to take a bite of salad, I posed the obvious question. “Who was the other persona non grata?”

  “Someone I don’t know, but Jeanne heard she lived here,” Tamara replied. She tapped a long, slender finger on the wooden tabletop. “It’s an Italian name…Della Something-or-other.”

  “That’s her first name?”

  Tamara shook her head. “No, her last name.” She paused. “Della Croce, I think.”

  I stared. “Anna Maria Della Croce, by any chance?”

  “Yes.” Tamara stared back. I must have registered surprise. “Do you know her?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, recalling my brief encounter on the porch next door to the Nystrom house. “But I certainly intend to get to know her better.”

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER EXPLAINING THAT the Della Croces were the Nystroms’ neighbors, I asked Tamara if she knew anything else about Anna Maria.

  “Not really,” Tamara said, licking panini crumbs off her lower lip. “Jeanne Hendrix mentioned that she was older by a few years. I’d guess Jeanne to be in her early forties, so maybe this Anna Maria is fiftyish.”

  That fit the description of the woman I’d seen on the front porch of the house next door to the Nystrom residence. “The Della Croces are supposedly members of St. Mildred’s parish,” I pointed out, “but I don’t know them. They aren’t regular churchgoers.”

  Tamara brushed panini crumbs off her red sweater. “I wouldn’t know anything about her if it weren’t for Jeanne. Somehow she knew there was somebody else in town who was qualified to work for Dr. Nystrom. Jeanne figured this Anna Maria was the only competition. It turns out nobody here was in the running.” Her eyes widened. “Surely that’s not…oh, Emma, you aren’t thinking…are you?”

  I shrugged. “Not seriously. But the Nystroms seem to be a very isolated family. I can’t imagine who’d want to kill any of them, especially Elmer. Tell me more about Bree. Scott said she brought Carter to your place for dinner, and Ginny Erlandson saw them together at the ski lodge one evening.”

  “I don’t know if they ever were a serious romance,” Tamara said as she scrunched up her paper napkin and put it on the table. “I thought—maybe I’
m wrong—that Bree seemed a little starry-eyed when they had dinner with us. Carter acted polite—he has terrific manners, I might add—but not what I’d call romantic. For all I know, he squired the other two girls who work for him around town. Or maybe he took them into Seattle on dates. He struck me as having outgrown small-town life.”

  “Interesting,” I remarked. “How do you mean?”

  “He talked quite a bit about different cultural and sporting events in Seattle,” Tamara related, discreetly checking her watch. “Apparently he went to Mariner baseball games and Husky football and basketball games and the symphony and the opera and…” She stopped, looking wistful. “I’ll admit, we get shortchanged up here when it comes to events like that.”

  I sensed what was going through Tamara’s mind. She wanted out. And she’d take Scott with her. “Yes,” I agreed. “It’s not easy to make that hundred-and-seventy-mile round trip into Seattle, especially in the winter. And traffic is so bad once you get beyond Sultan.”

  Tamara nodded vaguely. “Of course,” she said, perhaps to make amends for speaking of Alpine’s shortcomings, “it’s very expensive to live in Seattle.”

  “That’s true,” I said, then steered the subject back to the Nystrom matter. “If Carter is so enamored with city life, I wonder why he didn’t go into practice there. I suppose it was because there’s no competition here, though I’d think in the long run he could make more money in Seattle.”

  Our cheesecake slices finally were delivered. Despite the lateness of our lunch hour and the few customers who remained in the café, service was slow. But then, Alpine was slow. I still missed that upbeat big city tempo despite all the years I’d led a small-town life.

  Tamara, however, had picked up her own pace and was practically devouring her New York cheesecake. “I’m sorry,” she said between mouthfuls, “but I have a two o’clock class. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”

  I disagreed. “You have, actually. You’ve filled in some of Carter’s background and even his personality. Now if I could learn more about Polly, that would add several brushstrokes to the family portrait.”

  “Fascinating,” Tamara said, sounding as if she meant it. “I never realized until I met Scott that journalists get so involved with the stories they write. You’re like detectives.”

  “Crusaders,” I said with a grin. “For truth and justice. Or so we tell ourselves when we’re prying into other people’s private lives. It’s a good excuse for being nosy.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Tamara said seriously. “The media is a watchdog for society.”

  “The media can be not only self-righteous but self-serving,” I responded. “One trend that bothers me is that contemporary reporting is often more about the reporter than the subject. I hate that. We should be invisible communicators. Ego shouldn’t enter the picture.” I laughed. “Sorry. I’m preaching.”

  Tamara assured me that she didn’t care. “The more I know about what motivates Scott in his work, the better. I want him to understand why I teach, that I hope—maybe without reason—to make some kind of impression on at least a few students. Frankly, it’s an uphill battle.”

  “Life’s like that,” I said. “By the way, I wanted to treat you to lunch. This was a genuine business meal, approved by the IRS. I didn’t realize we had to pay when we ordered.”

  “Next time,” Tamara said, getting up. “It was a nice break from eating in the college cafeteria or bringing a sack lunch.”

  I smiled. But I knew that Tamara was telling me that sooner or later I’d lose my only reporter.

  There was still no news about Milo, according to a disgruntled Vida. I called Father Kelly as soon as I got back to my cubbyhole. Fortunately, he was in.

  “With your brother hanging out with me,” Father Den said, “I actually have five or six free minutes a day to be at my desk. I’m thinking of holding him hostage from the Lansing diocese.”

  “I think of Ben as a freelancer, these days,” I said. “A mercenary priest or a migrant worker in the fields of God.”

  “That fits,” my pastor agreed. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him and not to me?”

  “Yes. I’m snooping, but in a good cause. Do you know the Della Croce family?”

  “Yes,” Father Den said. “Do you?”

  “No.” I’d rehearsed what I intended to say. “Did Ben tell you that Milo Dodge is in the hospital?”

  “He did. Any word on how he’s doing?”

  “Not so far. It’s really frustrating, but I suppose they’re waiting for the test and lab results. But,” I went on, soothing my soul by reasoning that most of what I was about to say was true, “with the sheriff under the weather, the Nystrom murder investigation is going to stall. The Della Croces live next door to the Nystroms, but I’ve never seen any of them at Mass.”

  “They’re not regulars,” Father Den said. “I’ve only met them a couple of times, Easter and Christmas. But they’re registered parishioners, and I think they’ve been in town for a few years.” He chuckled. “Are you fishing for an invitation to their house?”

  “Well, yes. I also thought you might know them better, since apparently Mrs. Della Croce called the rectory the other day.”

  “Emma.” Father Den’s tone was reproachful. “Why don’t you come right out and say it? Obviously, your brother mentioned that call. Now you figure that Anna Maria or Maria Anna or Chiquita Banana or whatever her name is murdered Elmer Nystrom and was calling the rectory to make her confession. Which, even if it were true, I couldn’t tell you without violating the seal of the confessional. If you want to go snooping around the Della Croce place, you have my blessing.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Go with God—and good luck. Just don’t mention my name, okay?”

  I agreed that I wouldn’t—and, as soon as I hung up, realized that he wanted to find out what was going on with the Della Croces and felt it wasn’t his place to ask. It made me think that maybe there was a connection to Elmer’s murder.

  If so, he should have gone to the sheriff. Or, for the moment, one of the deputies. Whatever my pastor’s motivation, I was the chosen vessel—or goat, as the case might be.

  Around two forty-five, I grudgingly turned the radio back on to listen to Spence’s mystery interview. Vida heard it from the newsroom and tromped into my office. “What’s this?” she demanded, gesturing at the radio where fifties rock ’n’ roll music was blaring. “‘Great Balls of Fire’?” Are you reliving your youth?”

  “I was a mere child when this song came out,” I said. “I’m waiting for Fleetwood’s interview with someone connected to the Nystrom murder.”

  Vida leaned forward so abruptly that she had to grip my desk to stay upright. “What?”

  “You heard me. He mentioned it on the noon news.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She steadied herself and flopped into one of my visitor’s chairs. “Who on earth can it be?”

  “That’s why I’m listening,” I replied. “It’s not anybody from the sheriff’s office, according to Jack Mullins.”

  “I should think not!” Vida exclaimed.

  Jerry Lee Lewis was followed by Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti.” I turned down the volume and told Vida about my luncheon conversation with Tamara.

  “Well, now,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re going to follow up on this Della Croce woman and perhaps the Hendrix lead as well?” She frowned. “Didn’t you ask me about the Della Croce family even before we went to the Nystroms’ house?”

  I wouldn’t mention the phone call to Father Den, not even to Vida. “Yes. Do you want to take on Jeanne Hendrix?”

  Vida ruminated. “Do I know her? I think not. But certainly I can call on her. I’ll use the pretext of a faculty wife angle. The phone directory, please.”

  I handed her the SkyCo directory. Vida looked for the address, which turned out to be on Cascade Street, not far from her home. “Perhaps I’ll call on her after work. If Jeanne st
ill hasn’t found a job, she may be lonely, as well as frustrated. That will be my news peg—the educated woman in a small-town market.” Vida winced. “Ugh. That’s very negative. I shall think of another angle.”

  It was almost three. The Platters were singing “My Prayer.” KSKY often played three songs in a row before a commercial break. “How about the informal group of faculty spouses and partners? They’ve done some fundraisers along with their social gatherings. Why not use the postholiday season as your hook? Everybody locks up their wallets after the feel-good, do-good Christmas season. You can tie it in to any local needs that get neglected the first part of the new year. Maybe the women’s shelter would be a—”

  I shut up as the music ended and turned the radio volume back up. “Appropriately enough, it’s a Platters-in-the-Sky ad,” I murmured. “They’re having a big inventory sale. We carried the ad in today’s paper.”

  Vida nodded. “A co-op ad, I believe.”

  I nodded back at her. Spence and I had common ground when it came to advertising. We had worked together on many occasions, offering discounted rates to advertisers who would buy both airtime and newspaper space. Usually, the radio ads ran the same day the Advocate was published.

  Rey Fernandez had recorded the music store’s commercial, but it was Spence’s voice that uttered the words that followed:

  “This is Spencer Fleetwood with a live news report on KSKY-AM. As we promised our listeners on the Cascade slope, the voice of Skykomish County is bringing you an interview with an Alpine resident who has some exclusive insights into the brutal, unsolved slaying of Elmer Nystrom. Here with us at the microphone is a longtime friend and a loyal fan of KSKY, Ed Bronsky.”

  I thought for a moment that Vida would fall out of her chair. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly clamped her lips shut and glared at the radio.

  “Ed,” Spence was saying, “I understand that you were in the vicinity of the Nystrom house Monday morning, probably about the time that Elmer was killed. Can you tell us what you observed?”