The Alpine Scandal

by Mary Daheim

  “You shouldn’t. Ed’s a very foolish person. Shirley can’t be much better. People create most of their own troubles, if you ask me.”

  Tara’s hardheaded attitude mirrored Vida’s—and probably that of most Alpine residents. Rooting for the underdog is an American pastime, but God help the person who puts himself or herself on a pedestal.

  I left Tara, only slightly wiser than I’d been before she’d told me about the unhappy situation in Carter Nystrom’s office. Jessica Wesley might be exaggerating, but I doubted it. Still, I couldn’t see that the information did anything to help solve Elmer’s murder.

  Vida was gone by the time I got back to the office at nine-thirty. Only Leo remained in the newsroom, talking on the phone. I still had to come up with an editorial for the next edition. Maybe the idea for a safe driving award could be worked into an editorial. I started to look up the number for AAA. The corporate headquarters for Washington and northern Idaho was in Bellevue; the closest regional office was in Everett. But this was a job for Scott. I wrote him a note and put it on his desk. The editorial was stalled until we got some feedback on funding such an award, as well as securing approval from Polly and Carter.

  At loose ends, I dialed the rectory number. Father Den answered.

  “Your brother’s visiting a couple of parishioners at the nursing home,” our pastor informed me. “He’s seen just about everybody he met while he was filling in for me. He’s also buying some stuff to take on his trip back to East Lansing. I assume I can’t do anything for you,” he added in a self-deprecating manner.

  “I just wanted to make sure I’d see him before he leaves,” I said. “I’m going to miss him terribly. I’ll bet you will, too.”

  “He’s good company—and really helpful,” Father Den said. “Running this parish keeps me hopping. I’m on my way to a meeting at the chancery in Seattle. I could do without that kind of interruption, archbishop or not.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “I hate meetings. By the way, Ben told me about Anna Maria Della Croce’s problem.”

  “Oh. Right. Her biggest problem is not attending Mass and receiving the sacraments, but what’s the point in belaboring that one?”

  “None, I guess.” Who was I to offer spiritual advice?

  “Got to go, Emma. I’ve already said goodbye to Ben since I won’t get back in town until late.” Den sighed. “This is my second trip this week. I had a funeral Mass Wednesday at a parish clear in the south end of Seattle.”

  I wished Father Den a safe trip and hung up. It was almost ten o’clock. Maybe I would go to the funeral reception in the church hall at Trinity Episcopal. After all, I hadn’t yet met Carter Nystrom. I hated to think of him as a suspect, but it wouldn’t be the first time a child had killed a parent.

  The phone rang before I could refill my coffee to fortify me for the reception. It was Rolf Fisher, sounding chipper as usual.

  “Slow news day,” he announced. “I decided you should amuse me. Want to come down for the weekend?”

  “I’m not a traveling circus,” I declared. “We’ve got murder up here, remember?”

  “Ah, yes—the chicken coop mystery. Which came first, the killer or the victim?”

  “Not funny.” I paused. “Well, it is. But I intend to stick around. In fact, I’m off to the funeral reception in a few minutes.”

  “How’s the sheriff?” Rolf inquired. “We heard he was back in the hospital.”

  “How’d you find that out?” I asked in a vexed voice.

  “Oh, we have our ways,” Rolf said.

  “Spies, you mean.”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. The truth is—Why am I telling you this? Don’t you find me more fascinating when I’m being mysterious?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.”

  “One of our intrepid reporters was driving over the pass last night and stopped at your quaint fifties diner for a late dinner,” Rolf explained. “Somebody mentioned it. What’s wrong with Dodge? Suffering from a broken heart?”

  “Hardly. But,” I admitted, “the doctors haven’t figured out what’s wrong with him. Anyway, he walked out of the hospital during the night, and he’s back at work.”

  “Brave fellow,” Rolf remarked. “Are you sure you don’t want to come down and make passionate love to me?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there later this month. Try to control yourself.”

  “Not easy. I could come to Alpine.”

  I hesitated. It would be extremely pleasant to have Rolf around, especially since I’d be gloomy when Ben left. It also would be a distraction. I had to stay focused, particularly since Milo’s health was so erratic. Sometimes I felt as if I’d been deputized by the sheriff.

  “Maybe next weekend,” I said.

  “Darn. We’ll see. Ah. Something interesting just came across my desk. She’s very blonde and very nubile. Talk to you later.”

  I put the phone down. Rolf had a knack for making me smile—when he wasn’t driving me crazy. I still hadn’t figured out whether to always take him seriously.

  Still, one thing he’d said stuck in my brain: Which came first, the killer or the victim?

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’D BEEN IN the church hall at Trinity Episcopal a half-dozen times before this damp Friday morning. As always, I was impressed by—and a bit envious of—the good taste in both architecture and appointments. The building was small but made of granite quarried from the mountainside on which it was built.

  The hall was in the basement, furnished with faux wooden folding chairs and tables. The walls were decorated with three high-quality framed prints: Dale’s engraving The Interior of the Chapel of the Holy Trinity, Leadenhall, London, Edward Burne-Jones’s The Morning of the Resurrection, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s The Annunciation. I’ve always liked the Rossetti reproduction best. Mary looks very young and really leery of the wingless angel standing before her.

  I’d arrived just as the service was drawing to a close. After a quick peek through the window in the door leading to the sanctuary, I’d decided not to intrude. Downstairs, two middle-aged women stood by a long table where a tray of cookies, a punch bowl, and two silver urns apparently constituted the refreshments. I didn’t recognize either of the women, who I assumed were there to pour, and wondered if they were Nystrom relatives from North Dakota. I walked over to the portly one who was checking the coffee urn and introduced myself.

  She put out a plump, freckled hand. “How kind of you to come. I’m Ruth Nystrom Pollard, Elmer’s sister.” Ruth nodded at the other woman, who was arranging cookies on a silver tray. “This is Elmer’s sister-in-law, Dorothy Nystrom. She’s Will’s widow.”

  Dorothy aligned a stray chocolate chip cookie before giving me a tentative smile. “Hello,” she said, but kept her hands to herself. “Will died ten years past. Liver.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Was he older or younger than Elmer?”

  Ruth answered for the widow. “Two years older.” She smiled slightly. “I’m the baby of the family.”

  “When did you get here?” I inquired.

  “Yesterday,” Ruth replied, inspecting a cup for cleanliness. “We’re staying at that motel—Timber something or other.”

  “Is this your first visit to Alpine?”

  Ruth shook her head. “We came out west once before, the year that Mount St. Helens blew up. Just missed it. Twenty-odd years ago. All these mountains.” She shuddered. “They make me nervous. So big. So high. How do you stand it?”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Midwest natives complain about the claustrophobia our mountains could cause. “We like them,” I said, trying not to sound too apologetic. “Did Elmer and Polly visit you folks often?”

  Ruth glanced at Dorothy, who shook her head. “Not them,” Ruth declared. “Too busy. Too caught up with their new lives. North Dakota wasn’t good enough for them.” She pursed her lips. “Speak no ill…and so forth. But I never blamed Elmer, did I, Dot?”

  Dorothy shook her head again
.

  Voices could be heard in the distance. The mourners were on their way down to the reception. “I’m sure,” I said, “that Polly and Carter are glad you’ve come.”

  Neither woman responded. In fact, they turned away from me and posted themselves at either end of the long serving table. I snatched a sugar cookie off the tray and went over to study the Rossetti painting. Now that I thought about it, Mary looked more than leery—she appeared frightened. Perhaps the angel was about as welcome in Nazareth as the Nystrom kinfolk were in Alpine.

  The Nordby contingent led the way. Discreetly, I tried to figure which of the two young men was Bryce and which was Brad. Both were a little over average height with light brown hair and undistinguished features. One of them had a few pimples, so I guessed that he was the younger brother, Brad. He didn’t seem like a rakish seducer of young girls. But then, I didn’t know what Brianna looked like. For all I knew, she might scare small children.

  Vida entered with Edna Mae Dalrymple. “Ah!” Vida exclaimed. “You came! How kind!”

  The praise was for the benefit of Edna Mae and anyone else who might be listening, which, given my House & Home editor’s trumpetlike voice, was everybody within shouting distance. Vida, of course, knew exactly why I’d really come—to snoop, just as she was doing.

  “Such a lovely service,” Vida announced loudly, coming up to me with Edna Mae tagging along like a pet pup. “Dreary beyond belief,” she whispered. “I almost preferred listening to the Wailers.”

  “What did you say, Vida?” Edna Mae asked, panting a little.

  “I said,” Vida responded with a flinty smile, “‘Dear me, we should defer listening to the Wailers.’”

  “Oh.” Edna Mae blinked several times behind her glasses.

  “I didn’t realize you knew the Nystroms so well,” I said to her.

  “I knew Elmer,” Edna Mae replied. “He was such a nice man. He used the library quite often. In fact, at least once a week he’d come in on his lunch hour and read the Williston Daily Herald. He was always so eager to find out what was going on in his old hometown.”

  “Really?” I said. “I understood that the Nystroms never visited back there.”

  Edna Mae frowned. “That’s so. Polly Nystrom couldn’t stand the climate. That’s one reason they moved. So hot in the summer and so cold in the winter. Very bleak, I gather, though Elmer told me he never minded it. He found a strange beauty in the land, a sense of peace, he called it.”

  “That’s quite nicely put,” Vida declared, pushing at the jet poodles on her hat to get them out of her line of sight. “It’s a shame that Reverend Bartleby didn’t mention it in his eulogy.”

  “I thought,” Edna Mae said deferentially, “that the eulogy was very apt. Elmer was such a decent, pleasant man.”

  “We all know that,” Vida retorted, shoving the hat farther back on her head. “One hopes to learn something from a eulogy. Something that wasn’t common knowledge about the deceased. Take Cornelius Shaw, for instance. Such a fine, solid insurance man. Who would have thought he belonged to a nudist colony? Out of the area, of course, and Father Fitzgerald, who was St. Mildred’s pastor at the time, merely said that Corny was a fresh air fiend. But we knew. The altogether was what he meant.” Vida ignored Edna Mae’s astonished expression. “Arthur Trews is another example. I had no idea he’d been a bed wetter until he was twelve—or that Cass Pidduck raised night crawlers in his basement.”

  Edna Mae looked surprised. “Did he really? Goodness, I don’t think I’d care for that.”

  Vida shrugged. “Cass had always insisted he sold them to fishermen for bait. But he never did. He considered them his pets.” Vida was eyeballing Ruth and Dorothy. “Are those the out-of-towners? I saw them leave the service a few minutes early.”

  I nodded. “Sister and sister-in-law to Elmer.”

  “Ah.” Vida tromped over to the refreshment table.

  “I suppose I should have some tea,” Edna Mae said in an uncertain voice. “Perhaps a cookie as well. Excuse me, Emma.”

  Her departure was perfect timing for me. Polly and a tall good-looking young man I assumed was Carter were entering the hall. She was leaning heavily on his arm and fanning herself with the funeral service program. Regis Bartleby was bringing up the rear.

  I felt obligated to convey my formal condolences. Apparently the receiving line had been held in the vestibule upstairs. No one was hovering around the mother and son at the moment.

  “Mrs. Nystrom,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the church service, but work kept me away. Again, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh. Yes, thank you.” She looked up at the man who had to be her son. There was a marked resemblance, though he was a full head taller and hadn’t added the extra poundage that Polly carried on her shorter frame. “Carter, dear, I don’t believe you’ve met Erma Land from the newspaper.”

  Carter’s expression was quizzical as he shook my hand. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?” he said gently.

  “Yes.” His hand was very soft, almost like a baby’s. “Emma Lord.”

  Carter nodded gravely. “You and your colleague actually found my father. I’ve meant to call you, but there hasn’t been much spare time under these tragic circumstances. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course.” I, too, could be formal.

  Polly tapped her son’s arm. “I really must sit, dearest. I feel a bit faint. If you could fetch me a cookie or two, I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “Certainly,” Carter said, smiling at his mother. “Let me settle you at this empty table.”

  There were plenty of those. Only a couple of dozen mourners had shown up for the reception. My glimpse of the gathering in the church had revealed about twice that many people. I assumed that the others had had to return to work, probably at the Nordby Brothers dealership.

  I joined Polly as soon as Carter had her comfortably seated and she’d specified “sugar cookies only.” As he walked away, she placed the funeral program on the table and smoothed it several times with her hand.

  “Mr. Driggers has been very helpful,” she remarked. “Is he here now?” She craned her neck, searching for Al, the funeral director. He was nowhere in sight and usually wasn’t once his duties at the service had been fulfilled. I assumed, however, he’d be back on the job for the trip to the cemetery. I didn’t see Deputy Doe, either.

  “He’s probably organizing the motorcade,” I said. Maybe Doe was with him.

  “Oh,” Polly said, “there’s no need for that. It’s so damp today, and it’s always windy at the cemetery. Carter insisted that I mustn’t put myself through such an ordeal. He canceled the drive just before the service started. Mr. Driggers was very nice about it, Carter said. It was cremation, you know. The urn can be put in the crypt at any time.”

  I found it hard not to show my annoyance with Polly and her son. Even in death, Elmer seemed to be an after-thought. I also found it hard to understand why I was the only person sitting with Polly. The Nordby family was bunched together on the far side of the hall; Vida was talking to Ruth, Elmer’s sister; Edna Mae had corralled Carter on his way back from the refreshment table; Regis Bartleby was attempting a conversation with the closemouthed Dorothy Nystrom; Mrs. Bartleby was chatting with a tall, lean young man in an impeccably tailored suit; and two young, fairly attractive women were talking to each other at a table near the door to the restrooms. I assumed they were Christy and Alicia, Carter’s assistants. Contrary to Jessica Wesley’s report, they seemed on amicable terms.

  “It was good of your sisters-in-law to come out for the funeral,” I remarked. “I met them just now.”

  “Oh?” Polly showed only vague interest. “Whatever is taking Carter so long? Who is that small woman he’s talking to? I don’t know her.”

  I explained that she was the head librarian. “She thought a great deal of Elmer. He came in to read the Williston newspapers every week.”

  “Did he?” Polly seemed peeved by
the revelation. “He would, wouldn’t he?” she murmured. “I can’t think why he’d care.”

  “The Advocate has many subscribers who’ve moved away,” I pointed out. “Former residents like to keep up with their old hometowns and the people they knew when they lived there.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine why.” She brightened. “Here comes Carter.”

  Here goes Emma, I thought. As much as I knew I should stick with mother and son, I couldn’t stand it another minute. “Excuse me,” I said. “I should talk to some of the others.”

  Two of the others, anyway: I made a beeline for Christy and Alicia, remembering the means of recognition from what Tara Wesley had told me. Christy was dark; Alicia had blond highlights in her hair.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to be friendly. “I’m Emma Lord from the Advocate.” I held out a hand to the brunette first. “You’re Christy Millard, right?”

  She nodded. “This is Alicia Strand.”

  I shook Alicia’s hand despite her hostile expression. “Did you ever find it?” she asked.

  I sat down next to her. “Find what?”

  Alicia glared at me. “My grandfather’s obituary. The one I mailed a week ago.”

  I stared at Alicia. “You’re related to the Wascos who live here in town?”

  “That’s right,” Alicia said sarcastically. “Uncle Amer told me to mail it again, but once is enough. Our office is less than a mile from the newspaper. How could it possibly get lost? Unless you people tossed it.”

  I was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But honestly, we never received it. My House & Home editor, Mrs. Runkel,” I said, gesturing at Vida, who had joined Polly and Carter, “will gladly run it in the next issue if you can send us another copy.”

  “Forget it,” Alicia snapped. “The funeral was Tuesday in Seattle. It’s too late now.”

  Judging from Alicia’s hardened features, there was nothing I could do to make amends. Christy, however, seemed to be enjoying her coworker’s pique.

  “Serves you right,” Christy said. “You should’ve dropped off the notice at the newspaper. I never trust the mail.” She turned as the tall, lean man I hadn’t recognized came toward us. “Cool it, Alicia. Here comes the Money Man.”