by Mary Daheim
Replacing the phone in its cradle, I headed for bed. The house had cooled off some, but I left most of the windows open. As I pulled off the sheet and single blanket, I realized that I was upset. However, my distress was for the wrong reasons: Ursula's passing had shocked me, but I felt no grief. I tried to excuse myself on the grounds that I hardly knew the woman. The rationale was inadequate. The late Ms. Randall was part of the community, both in Alpine and at St. Mildred's. Had I become so callous that the untimely deatli of a fellow Catholic left me spiritually and emotionally unscathed? Maybe the tragedy would sink in later.
Or so I was consoling myself when I heard a noise outside my open bedroom window. It couldn't be the wind. The air outside had been still and oppressive when I'd taken the garbage out to the can in the carport around eleven-thirty. Maybe it was a deer. Sometimes they came through my yard to reach the next-door neighbor's vegetable garden.
When I heard the sound a second time, I flipped on the bedside lamp and got up. Before I could lift the shade, I heard two or three more furtive noises. Cautiously I peeked outside. A half-moon rose above the trees, but I couldn't see anything unusual in the yard. If it had been a deer or a cougar, perhaps the light had startled the animal. On the other hand, such creatures moved soundlessly. I went into the living room and then the kitchen to look outside. As I stood at the back door I heard a car start on Fir Street. Rushing back to the living room, I peered through the drapes. I saw nothing. The engine faded into the night.
Maybe I was more upset about Ursula than I realized. Her death had made me nervy. Shrugging off the noises, I went back to bed.
But not before I closed all the windows.
Since I'd skipped breakfast, I stopped at the Upper Crust Bakery before going to Vida's house. Carrying my white paper bag with its two Brie-filled brioches, I was heading for my Jag when Nunzio Lucci got out of his pickup.
“What do you think about that Randall woman?” he called across the Jeep Wrangler that was diagonally parked between our vehicles.
“I think it's a shame,” I shouted back. I think it's a shame the news is out before we can write the first sentence of the story. Naturally I didn't say so out loud. Like most nonmedia types, Luce wouldn't understand.
“Did somebody do her in?” Luce yelled.
I gritted my teeth. At least a half-dozen Alpiners had slowed their step to eavesdrop. Clutching the bakery bag, I made an end run around my car and the Jeep. “Why do you ask?” I finally said in my normal voice.
Luce fingered the stubble on his jutting chin. “Seems to me that nobody drowns in the Sky this time of year without some help,” he opined in his gritty voice. “Hasn't she riled up a lot of folks since she came back to town?”
I offered Luce a thin smile. “If everybody who riled up everybody else in Alpine got murdered, we'd have bodies stacked up like cordwood.”
“Well?” Luce glowered at me. “We sure as hell ain't got much cordwood, since they put through all those goddamn logging bans.”
I sighed. “You know what I mean.” Then, to change the subject, I posed a question. “Did you go to high school with Ursula when she was an O'Toole?”
“Naw,” Luce replied, rubbing at his hairy forearm. “She was four, five years younger than me. I was in the same class as Buzzy. Jake was two years ahead of us.”
It would be up to Vida to ferret out Ursula's peers and get some laudatory quotes for the obituary. “So you never really knew her, I take it?”
Luce lowered his gaze and shook his head. The bright morning sun glinted off the Miraculous Medal he wore around his thick neck. “I'd see her on the street, but she'd never so much as give me the time of day. Maybe she was always snooty—I don't know.”
“Maybe she got that way after she married a doctor,” I said. “That often happens.”
Luce looked at me sharply. “Oh, yeah? And why would she be proud of that?” He slammed a hand against the rusted fender of his pickup. “Why would she be proud of him?”
Startled, I was about to say that I had no idea. B©t Delia Lucci came out of Parker's Pharmacy before I could utter a word.
“Mrs. Lord,” Delia said with the deference I had noticed she reserved for college graduates, “how are you? Isn't this weather terrible?”
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “But I heard on the news this morning that we might have rain by Monday.”
Delia's plump, round face brightened. “Really? Gosh, I hope so! Somebody told me yesterday that we may have to cut back on using water. And just when I've let the wash pile up.”
Judging from Luce's grimy work clothes and Delia's stained summer shift, it had been a while since anyone had done the laundry at the Lucci house. But the unspoken criticism gave me a pang of remorse. Who was I to judge what went on with families who didn't have a steady, viable income?
The Luccis climbed into the pickup while I got into my Jag. The contrast in transportation modes made me feel even worse. Sure, my car was aging, but it was still a status symbol, at least in Alpine. So were my Anne Klein II sandals, and never mind that I'd bought them on sale at Nord-strom's discount outlet by the Alderwood Mall. I had a university degree, I ran my own business, I owned my home, and if everything fell apart tomorrow, I could probably go out into the world to start over. That was the problem with so many Alpiners. They had reached a dead end. There was no world outside of Alpine; there was nothing on the other side of the forest.
Vida didn't have a microwave and I didn't want her to turn on the oven, so we ate the brioches cold. She sat at her kitchen table, teacup in hand, looking like a general preparing for war.
“If we can't get any official word before our deadline, we'll have to do some research of our own,” Vida stated. “Who saw or talked to Ursula last night? Was it Warren? Put him down first.”
Vida never took notes. She had a comprehensive, infallible memory. I, however, needed jottings and scribbles. Obediently I wrote Warren's name on the top line of my spiral notebook.
“Had Ursula made new friends or taken up with old chums since she arrived?” Vida continued. “She didn't mention any names when I interviewed her. Jake and Buzzy might know. Or their wives, Betsy and Laura. Women are much better at keeping track of such things.”
“Ursula had only been here a few weeks,” I pointed out, writing down the other O'Tooles. “I don't recall seeing her talk to anyone at church except Father Den.”
“Ah, yes—add his name to the list. Monica Vancich, too. As the church secretary, she was bound to come into contact with a busybody like Ursula.”
“What about her first husband's family? Did they keep in touch?”
Vida shook her head. “His family—goodness, I don't recall the name offhand. Hedstrom? Hegstrom? Hed-berg? Anyway, the young man's father was a logger who moved the rest of the family to Idaho after the son was killed. Even if they'd stayed in Index, I suspect Ursula wouldn't have kept in contact. She had not only moved away, but up in the world. Or so she no doubt felt.”
Vida's canary, Cupcake, was hopping around and cheeping. She glanced up at his cage, giving him a fond look that was usually reserved for her odious grandson, Roger. “We have a start on names,” Vida declared, pouring more tea. “Let's call on Warren. We really ought to commiserate with him, poor man.”
I was familiar with Vida's sympathy ploy. “Why not?” I said, adding sugar to my cup. “I guess he's at The Pines. Shouldn't we phone first?”
Vida shook her head, unruly gray curls bobbing. “The element of surprise is very important. If he's not there, we can chat with the neighbors. Clancy and Debra Barton live next door, and the other closest house belongs to the Carlsons. But I believe Norm and Georgia are out of town.”
Norm Carlson was the owner of Blue Sky Dairy. He and his wife were Lutherans, which meant there was no church connection with Ursula. But as what amounted to being a CEO, even if it actually meant no more than that he got to drive the newest milk truck, Norm might have been worthy of his new neighbor's acqu
aintance. The Bartons' shoe-store proprietorship would put them in the same league, though Debra's announcement as a candidate for the school board might not have endeared her to Ursula.
We arrived at The Pines shortly before eleven. Unlike most of the dry lawns in Alpine, the residents in the upscale development had managed to keep their sweeping swaths of grass a lush emerald green. Along with the second stand of evergreens that had been left at strategic landscaping points, the well-tended neighborhood presented a fresh, relatively cool appearance.
The drive in front of Ursula Randall's house was full of cars, including Delphine Corson's Posies Unlimited van and Dennis Kelly's Honda. Vida parked her big Buick just off the winding street, next to a young Sitka spruce.
“Goodness, such a crowd!” she exclaimed, walking up the drive in her familiar splayfooted manner. “Mayor Baugh's Cadillac, Richie and Stella Magruder's Voyager, Brendan Shaw's Volvo, and … dear me … Ed's Mercedes. This doesn't bode well. How shall we get rid of them?”
“I don't like our chances,” I said dryly. “Fuzzy Bough will drip with Southern comfort, Brendan is probably here on business, Father Den is no doubt making funeral arrangements, and God knows what Ed is up to. The only ones who might leave peaceably are the Magruders and Delphine, or whichever teenager she's got delivering for her this week.”
“The Olson boy,” Vida said vaguely as she punched the button that set off Ursula's melodious chimes. Her mouth was very tight and her eyes had narrowed under the brim of her navy sailor hat. “Dear me,” she repeated on a little sigh.
It was Brendan Shaw who opened the double doors with their leaded glass panes. “Ah—Ms. Runkel, Emma! Come in, I was just leaving. Everyone is in the living room.”
It was quite a crowd, though the Olson boy, whose name I recalled was Matt, had just started for the door. In his wake, he'd left at least five lavish bouquets and a large potted azalea. While I merely nodded to Matt, Vida's greeting was effusive as she retreated with him into the entry hall.
Warren rose when he saw me, and put out a hand. He seemed smaller than I'd remembered from our encounter in the post office, and his anxious eyes looked sunken. I murmured the proper platitudes, then tried to figure out where I could sit without getting stuck near Fuzzy and Irene Baugh or Ed and Shirley Bronsky. I didn't want my ear talked off. But the Baughs, as well as the Magruders, were also on their way out. Richie still seemed shaken by his ordeal of the previous night, though Stella was her usual breezy self.
“This place is air-conditioned,” the buxom styling salon owner whispered on her way past the fringed and tufted mahogany bench where I'd decided to light. “I wonder what it costs?” The beauty parlor relied on fans in warm weather.
“Tapestries,” Ed blurted, snapping his pudgy fingers. “Look, Shirl—what do you think? Shouldn't we get some of those for the new house?” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of what looked like an authentic Gobelin depicting a falcon hunt. “We could have some made up with pictures of those old castles we saw in Europe this summer.”
Shirley, in a black linen sheath that was at least one size too small for her plump figure, gave her husband a mournful look. “Now, Ed, let's not talk about us. We're here to console poor Doubles.”
At first, I thought I hadn't heard right. Then Vida was leaning close, speaking softly in my ear: “Warren's nickname—for W.W., his initials.”
“Oh,” I said, glancing up, though Vida had already tromped over to a Louis XV side chair whose spindly legs looked as if they might not hold up my House & Home editor. They did, however, and Vida immediately took over the conversation.
“Goodness, what a terrible day!” she declared with a shake of her head. “I lost my dear husband in an accident, too.” Her gaze rested on Father Den, who was sitting next to Warren on the sofa where I'd last seen Ursula. “Did you know that, Father Kelly? Ernest wasn't much older than Mrs. Randall when he died.”
My pastor nodded solemnly. “Emma has told me, Mrs. Runkel. Isn't that when you started working for The Advocate?”
“Yes.” Vida actually managed to sound wispy. “I had three daughters to support, and my only experience was writing up the minutes for the PTA. But the other parents—and teachers—thought I had a knack. Marius Van-deventer, who owned the paper in those days, kindly gave me a job.”
Dennis nodded again, though this time with a slight smile. At forty-six, he was a pleasant-looking man who still had most of his curly black hair and a certain softness of features that concealed inner toughness. Father Den had been an army brat, who had suffered not only the frequent uprooting that his father's job required, but also the prevailing racial prejudices of the era in which he'd come to manhood. Though there were still some in Alpine who might consider him a curious foreign object, Dennis Kelly seemed perfectly at ease in Ursula Randall's baroque living room.
“So,” Vida went on as her gaze now drifted to Warren, “I understand how you must feel. Has the shock begun to wear off?”
Warren appeared more depressed than dazed. “I don't know,” he answered in a low voice. “Going to the morgue in Everett late last night sure has a way of making things seem real. But this morning …” His hands twitched convulsively.
Vida nudged the brim of her sailor hat, which had begun to slip down over her forehead. “So much depends on how the news is broken to you. I trust it was tactfully done.”
“I don't think it was,” Shirley interjected, sounding indignant on Warren's behalf. “Doubles told us that Dwight Gould was borderline rude. Milo should train his men to be more sensitive.”
Of all the sheriff's deputies, Dwight was the most withdrawn. He was a man of few words, and none that I'd ever heard had been impolite. I saw the questioning look that flickered across Vida's face, and knew she was thinking the same thing.
“Where did Dwight give you the sad news?” Vida inquired in her most earnest, sympathetic tone.
“Here,” Warren replied, one agitated hand gesturing around the living room. “I'd just pulled in, around eleven. There was Dwight, out in the driveway. I thought Ursula had reported a burglar.” He paused, and took a sip of coffee from an elegant cup. “Then he said he had something to tell me, so we came inside. The next thing I know, he's asking me all these damned questions. It was only after that when he told me Ursula was dead.” Warren hung his head.
“You see?” Shirley shrilled. “That's what I mean— rude! Imagine, asking poor Doubles questions! Dwight should have been offering condolences.” She wiggled around in her tight dress and turned to Ed. “You should talk to Milo about this. It's … it's criminal. Dwight needs reprimanding.”
Father Den shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “I'm sure Deputy Gould was only trying to do his job. There's no good way to deliver bad news.”
“True enough,” Vida agreed. “Tell me, Father Kelly, is the funeral set?”
My pastor's demeanor remained uneasy. “No.” He gave Warren a faint smile. “Nothing can be done until we get some word out of Snohomish County. Anyway, the funeral Mass probably will be held in Seattle. Most of Ms. Randall's friends live in the parishes she previously attended.”
My antennae shot up. “Parishes?”
Father Den now looked expressionless. “The Randalls moved quite a bit over the years, isn't that right, Warren?”
Warren gave a little shrug. “I guess so. Ursula lived near Lake Washington when I met her. That was after her husband died. I think they were on Mercer Island somewhere along the line, but they moved after the floating bridge fell down.”
I recalled the Thanksgiving Day disaster five years ago when the old span that connected Seattle to Mercer Island collapsed during a severe storm. Construction of a new bridge was well under way at the time, but commuters had temporarily faced severe gridlock.
Dennis Kelly was edging off the sofa. “I should be going,” he said, putting out his hand to Warren. “Let me know if there's anything I can do.”
None too steadily Warren rose along with Father D
en. “Sure, thanks, I will, Father. I appreciate it.”
Shirley also got up, though it required a good deal of tugging at her black sheath and wobbling on four-inch heels. “We should go, too, Ed. Aren't you supposed to be at the food bank?”
“Food?” Ed echoed, sounding hopeful. “Oh! The food bank! That's right, I'm in charge this afternoon.”
While Father Den exited promptly, it took the Bron-skys a full five minutes to get out the door. Vida and I remained alone in the living room, waiting for Warren's return. The ormolu clock on the mantel pointed to eleven-thirty.
“Where was Warren last night?” Vida hissed. “We must find out. The flowers are all from people in Seattle. I asked Matt Olson about them.”
“Old friends,” I murmured, taking in one of the enormous bouquets, which featured pink glads, white orchids, and bells of Ireland. “Delphine must be raking it in.”
“But she won't get the big orders for funeral flowers,” Vida responded. “Tsk, tsk.”
“Why were Ed and Shirley here?” I whispered. “Did they go to school with Warren?”
“Ed did. Shirley was a year behind them. They …” Vida's voice rose as Warren returned to the living room. “… Never know when an azalea will transplant well in this climate. Well, now! We seem to be the lollygaggers. Don't fret, Warren—we won't stay. Unless you prefer company.”
“Ah …” The remark evoked an anxious look. “I'm okay, I guess. There are so many people I have to call. I suppose I should go through Ursula's address book. The only one I phoned last night was her husband's sister in Seattle. I guess she already spread the word, but still…” He raised his hands in an uncertain gesture.
“It's a shame you didn't get home sooner,” Vida commented with a doleful expression. “You could have gotten some of this out of the way last night. But of course you must have been tied up.”
Warren hesitated before responding, then nodded vigorously. “I was.” He hadn't reseated himself, apparently momentarily expecting—hoping—to show Vida and me out. “I sure was. I'd decided to take a drive—you know, a sentimental journey around town. It's been twenty-odd years since I've been in Alpine, and I hadn't had much chance to do that until last night. Boy, was that something! A lot's the same, and yet there've been changes, too. Like The Pines—it was still Stump Hill when I left.” His enthusiasm seemed forced.