by Mary Daheim
Laura nodded. “I didn't want to, but he said it would be good for the parish. Besides, I won't; win.”
“You never know,” Vida remarked vaguely, then gave Laura a coaxing smile. “When do you expect Buzzy home?”
Dangling one of the sneakers from her bare foot, Laura gazed around the crowded, stuffy, shabby room. “I don't,” she said. “He's left.”
The rumors we'd heard were apparently true. “You're separated?” I tried to sound matter-of-fact.
“That's right.” Laura seemed unmoved by the concept.
Vida was now standing up in the middle of the worn carpet. “That's a shame. Where is Buzzy living these days?”
Tugging at her frayed denim shorts, Laura got up, too, but made no move to see us to the door. “In his van.”
That was another thought that didn't seem to disturb Mrs. Buzzy O'Toole.
“Honestly,” Vida exclaimed as we drove away from the dilapidated house by the railroad tracks, “you Catholics are very peculiar! Nunzio Lucci and Laura O'Toole, running your church and school—how could sensible people elect such a pair of imbeciles?”
“Laura's not elected yet,” I pointed out. “Luce is fairly conservative in his views. He doesn't have to be articulate or brilliant. All he has to do is vote the way like-minded parishioners think. Maybe that's why he asked Laura to run. She must share his attitudes toward the church and the school.”
“Laura wouldn't know an attitude if it bit her,” Vida snapped. The car slowed as we passed the last of the ramshackle houses on River Road. On our right, we could glimpse the river's tumbling passage as it headed into town. To the left, a new dirt road had been hacked out of the woods. It led to the Bronsky building site.
I had gone with Carla to take pictures when the foundation had been laid in late June. The house was about a quarter of a mile from the Sky, situated on a rise that overlooked the town. I thought perhaps that Vida wanted to see how the construction was progressing. But she kept going past the new road. I realized then that we were headed for the spot where Richie Magruder had found Ursula Randall.
“I brought my camera,” she said with a nod toward the backseat. “I'll save Carla a trip Tuesday.”
What had started in town as a paved two-lane street was now a narrow dirt track full of potholes. But we didn't have far to go. I recognized one of the old sheds and the remnants of the water tower that Milo had mentioned. Then I saw a small concrete building bearing a US West logo. While Vida drove slowly I kept watch for the underbrush that Richie had figured might conceal a fish or two.
“Right there,” I said suddenly, pointing to a cluster of bare branches that rose out of the river.
There was a convenient turnout on the opposite side of the road. Convenient for us, as well as for the vehicle that had brought Ursula to this secluded part of the Sky. Presuming she had been brought and had not come under her own power. Had the elegant wedgie shown signs of covering a lot of ground? I should have asked Milo. Was there any indication of a struggle? The sheriff would have said so if there had been. Could Ursula have been suffering from ill health? Would Doc Dewey or his partner, Peyton Flake, know? A dozen random thoughts tumbled through my brain as I got out of the Buick.
“Milo must have taken impressions,” Vida said, bending down to examine the dry brown earth. “Dear me—I doubt that he'd get much. Without any rain lately, I scarcely left any tread marks even with this big car.”
There was no bank to descend, just a path from the road that led directly to the rocks and boulders that lined the shallow river. We trod carefully, though Vida's canvas open-toed shoes had gripper soles, and my leather sandals were reasonably sturdy.
But there was nothing to see. Some thirty yards upstream, the Sky rounded a bend, then flowed straight as it headed west. We could hear the river, see the rocks that protruded, take in the riffle where the underbrush was caught on the bottom. But we had no idea exactly where Ursula had been found.
“It was getting dark when Richie came through here,” Vida mused, fingering her chin. “Do you know what color Ursula's pajamas were?”
I shook my head. “Richie was probably watching his footing, just like we were. If he saw anything up ahead, he may have thought it was litter. People—especially kids—are so careless about leaving stuff behind.”
Vida nodded. “This isn't as isolated as you'd think. Indeed, because of that turnoff in the road, it's the first place that picnickers or fishermen or teenagers would stop at this end of town.”
“That's true,” I allowed as my gaze wandered from the nearby birch, cottonwood, and vine maples to the fir, cedar and hemlock trees that climbed the mountainside. The rippling water danced among the rocks, swirling around speckled boulders. It was a peaceful late-summer idyll, with the river as deceptive as the scene itself. A month from now, two at most, the rains and then the snows would transform the benevolent stream into a deep, dark churning torrent. The rocky shore would disappear; trees might be swept away; the road itself could be swallowed up. That pretty stretch of amiable water was as mysterious as it was changeable. Ursula Randall wasn't the first secret it had kept and held. “There's no yellow tape to indicate an accident or …” I let the sentence trail off, as if borne away on the current.
“No,” Vida said. “Milo and his men must have collected whatever they needed last night.”
Looking back toward the road, I saw the sun glinting off Vida's Buick. “This part of the river is pretty exposed.”
“Yes.” Vida glanced over her shoulder. “But no one has gone by since we got here.” Taking the camera from her shoulder, she began to adjust the settings. “A pity we couldn't get Richie or Milo to point out the exact spot,” she murmured. “But you're not one for using posed pictures.”
That was true. Having Richie Magruder reenact his discovery was too contrived. Nor did I see the news value of Milo staring at a bunch of rocks.
“This will do,” I conceded. “We'll also run one of the pictures of Ursula we didn't use in your feature. A close-up.”
Vida clicked off a dozen shots from different angles. The sun was beginning its midday westerly descent, turning the river to gold. But there were a few clouds gathering overhead, a hopeful sign that the weather might break.
“Okay,” I said when we were back in the car, “what did you squeeze out of Betsy while putting lunch together?”
Vida uttered a frustrated groan. “Very little. She's fairly sensible, so I thought she might have some ideas about what happened to Ursula. We're operating on the process of elimination, of course. Was it an accident? Was it foul play? Was it suicide?”
“Suicide?” I shot Vida a skeptical glance. “That seems really stupid. Who would commit suicide by sticking their face in six inches of water?”
“They wouldn't,” Vida answered reasonably. “Not if they had good sense. But we don't know if Ursula did, do we?”
I recalled Francine's waspish comment about Ursula trying to attract attention. A day later it still didn't wash. “We should talk to Milo. That's what I told Betsy and Jake we were going to do.”
Vida was now turning onto Highway 187, also known as the Icicle Creek Road. “So we shall,” she agreed. “After we've interviewed the next person on our list.”
I'd forgotten about the list. “Who's that?”
Vida gave me a disparaging look. “Monica Vancich, your church secretary. She may not be a Jean Campbell, but she must know something.”
I didn't argue. Nor, as I had expected, was I asked where the Vanciches lived. Vida already knew, which I did not. To my chagrin, Monica, Verb, and their two young children resided two blocks from me on Fir Street. Like mine, the Vancich house was tucked up against the forest. Unlike mine, it was a split-level with pale green aluminum siding above and Roman brick below. Built in the Fifties, it was one of many homes in Alpine that had been constructed to meet a short-lived housing shortage caused by the boom in the timber industry.
“Let me think,” Vida mused a
s she pulled onto the dirt verge between the street and the lawn with its brown patches of dying grass. “The Dahlgrens, then the Almquists, and finally the Kincaids. They're all gone now, moved away—or dead. Gus Dahlgren was killed in the woods. The Almquists divorced. The Kincaids moved to Alaska.” Having summed up the house's history, Vida clasped her hat to her head and got out of the car.
Two small children were playing in a sandbox next to the house. I recognized them from church, but couldn't recall their names. Verb came out of the open garage under the house when he heard us approach.
“Did anybody tell you I got two of those bikes back?” he called, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Milo'd better find the rest of them. Or is that why you're here?” His thin face wore an anxious expression.
“I'm afraid not, but I'm sure Milo's trying,” I said, thinking that the sheriff had more important matters at hand. “Is Monica home?”
“Monica?” Verb seemed surprised, as if I'd asked after the queen mother. “Yeah, she's inside, sewing or something.” He continued to wipe his hands, and his high forehead creased in apprehension. “What's up? No more bad news, I hope. Man, I couldn't take anything else. This has been a lousy week.”
Vida fixed Verb with her most owlish expression. “You mean Mrs. Randall?”
Verb gave a start. “No! I mean the bikes. And all the stuff at church. But you go someplace else, don't you, Mrs. Runkel?” The smile he attempted failed badly.
“I'm a Presbyterian,” Vida answered primly. “We don't have such squabbles. It's not Christian.”
While I couldn't help but bristle, the remark didn't seem to faze Verb. “I try to keep my distance. That's Monica's turf.”
The two children, a boy and a girl about five and seven, were calling to their father. Verb excused himself and scurried off to the sandbox. The little girl was crying, a whining sound that indicated her will was injured more than her body.
The front door was open. I waited for Vida to make our presence known, which she accomplished with a push on the bell and one of her ear-rattling yoo-hoos. Monica appeared almost at once from the lower half of the house.
“Mrs. Runkel! Emma!” she exclaimed, pushing the straw-colored hair off her forehead. “Come in. I was doing the mending and thought I heard Verb talking to someone. My sewing room is over there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the garage. Monica's manner seemed as jittery at home as it had during the special parish meeting earlier in the week.
Monica led us up the carpeted stairs to the living room, which was furnished in what looked like well-worn castoffs. While not as cluttered or oppressive as the Buzzy OToole house, there was a general air of untidiness that seemed to emanate more from disorganization than from sloth. Vida and I sat down on half of the tweedy gray sectional; Monica took her place in a lime-rust-and-orange-striped armchair that evoked the worst of the early Seventies. Our hostess wore a curious expression.
“Weekend or not, we're on the job,” Vida announced in an ingratiating manner. “Don't be alarmed, Monica, but we're trying to figure out what happened to Ursula Randall. Surely you must have some ideas.”
Monica's faded features, which probably had been pretty twenty years ago, became distressed. “About what? Father Den called me this morning to say she'd fallen in the river. I don't have any ideas about that, except that she must have sprained an ankle or something.”
“That's possible,” Vida admitted, “though Doc Dewey hasn't indicated any such thing. Did you know Mrs. Randall well?”
“Oh, no!” Monica's response seemed both too hasty and too adamant. She must have noticed my surprised reaction because she shifted her gaze from Vida to me. “I mean, I hardly knew her. She's only been in Alpine a month or so.”
Vida wore a puzzled expression. “But she was active in your church. Surely you must have dealt with her.”
Monica's close-set gray eyes strayed to a framed piece of embroidery that proclaimed, LIVE IN CHRIST, DIE IN CHRIST, DWELL WITH CHRIST FOREVER. Maybe she was seeking inspiration. “Ms. Randall came to see Father Den several times,” she finally said in her light, nervous voice. “I hardly talked to her while she waited for him. Not that she waited long—I don't think she liked to be kept waiting.”
The observation seemed astute. “Was she experiencing a spiritual crisis?” I inquired, noting a faint nod of approval from Vida for coming up with the question.
Monica's gray eyes widened. “I don't know. I don't think so. Her attitude was … assertive.”
Vida started to say something, but Monica hadn't finished: “I didn't sense the Spirit moving in Ms. Randall. She seemed more material, more earthbound. Once, I did ask if she'd like to join our Thursday prayer group. She was actually kind of rude about it. She laughed, and said prayer groups were silly.” Dismay clouded Monica's face. “I didn't say anything, but she could tell I didn't approve. We've been praying for her ever since.”
“We?” Vida sounded ingenuous.
“Our prayer group,” Monica replied with a beatific smile. “Sister Mary Joan, Pia Patricelli, Debra Barton, Nina Mullins. There are some others who sort of come and go, depending on whether the Spirit is with them.” Still looking sublime, Monica turned to me. “You ought to join us, Emma. There's a real sense of community, of women getting in touch with themselves and each other. Sometimes we feel isolated from the Church proper, as if our role isn't valued. Women sharing their sense of spirituality among themselves is very important to our self-esteem. Marisa Foxx came once and said it was an unforgettable experience. I can't think why she hasn't come back. Maybe her law practice keeps her too busy.”
Maybe, I thought, Marisa wasn't a complete idiot. I'd gone to a prayer meeting once, twenty years ago in Portland. We sat around in a circle, with the putative leader urging us all to share our most intimate secrets. By the time they got to me, I'd developed a leg cramp and realized I was stuck in the beanbag chair. Announcing that I felt immobilized, my coreligionists took the statement as a spiritual, rather than a physical, malady and began to pray over me. With kindly pats on the head, they assured me that God would soon lift the veil from my soul. Then they all trooped off into the kitchen to drink coffee and eat cookies while I ended up rolling around on the floor, trying to get on my feet. Needless to say, I never went back to the prayer group. I suspected that Marisa Foxx, who struck me as a no-nonsense kind of person, had had a similar, if less clumsy, reaction. Such incidents definitely could be termed “unforgettable.”
I evaded Monica's invitation by pouncing on the mention of Marisa. “Do you have any idea if Ms. Randall had engaged Ms. Foxx as her attorney?”
Monica's response bordered on indignation. “Really, I know almost nothing about Ms. Randall. I don't know Marisa that well, either. She just doesn't seem to be someone who likes to share. The only time I've talked to her lately—except at church to say hello—was when she came to see Father Den a couple of weeks ago.”
I could see the alarm flares light up in Vida's eyes, and couldn't resist my next question: “A spiritual crisis?” Spiritual crises seemed to appeal to Vida.
Monica's face hardened. “I don't think so. She brought her briefcase.”
“Perhaps,” Vida suggested with a straight face, “Marisa had cataloged her doubts.”
“Well…” Monica considered the idea. “It's possible. She seems very organized.” The close-set gray eyes skipped around the living room's disorder, dancing from scattered toys to discarded winter sports catalogs to all manner of books, ranging from children's stories to pop psychology and pap theology. “It's much more important to organize your inner life than to worry about the externals,” Monica stated, as if to defend her careless housekeeping.
Looking pained, Vida stood up. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she murmured, then gave Monica an artless smile. “Of course that's a Presbyterian precept. I'm sure you Catholics would deem it heresy.”
“Oh, not necessarily,” Monica replied, very serious. “We don't think in thos
e terms anymore. We believe in openness.”
“But not in organization.” Vida was now smiling broadly, as if she had made a big joke. I knew better, and all but hustled her out the door.
The little girl was on her way into the house. “Mama!” she cried, stepping on my foot as she crossed the threshold. “John Paul broke my shovel!”
Bending down, Monica put a gentle hand on her daughter's arm. “Now, Teresa, don't be angry. Your brother is trying to tell you something, and he doesn't have the right words. Let's bring him inside and we'll share our feelings and say a little prayer. Remember, you must always see the part of him that's Jesus.”
“I saw his wee-wee!” Teresa screeched. “He piddled in the sandbox!”
“Teresa!” Monica's voice was firm, though not raised. “First of all, you're not to call body parts by crude nicknames. Second, you must be more open to—”
“Goodbye,” Vida called over her shoulder.
The gait that she achieved in getting to her car came the closest to a run that I'd ever seen on the part of my House & Home editor. By the time I got into the passenger seat, I was laughing so hard that I could barely speak. Vida, of course, was fuming.
“I don't believe I can stand interviewing these people,” she declared after running out of invective. “My acquaintanceship with the St. Mildred's crowd has been casual, for the most part. At least as far as the younger members are concerned. Really, Emma, how do you endure such silliness? I'm beginning to think Ursula Randall wasn't so dreadful after all.”
I started to give Vida a glib reply, then thought better of it. “The truth is, I don't socialize with most of them, and I don't participate much in church activities. In some ways, it's kind of like high school. People are thrown together for one reason. They share a certain thing— getting an education or belonging to the same faith—and they live in a specific geographical area. But that doesn't mean they have much else in common. In a way, it's one of the things I like about being Catholic. The Church— I'm talking with a capital C, Vida—is catholic. Little c. It has room for all sorts of people, from simpletons to saints. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. But I keep my distance because if I hung out with some of those people, I'd go nuts. They're enough to make me lose my religion—or at least to wonder about it. Losing faith is another matter.”