Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  Over time, I had heard occasional oblique references to Vida's predecessor. I knew little about the woman then called the “society editor” except that by the time Vida was widowed, Mrs. DeBee was in her eighties, and unwell. Still, Vida had hinted that she hadn't retired gracefully.

  “And Alicia?” I inquired, trying to keep my worry over Francine at bay. “She told me she doesn't speak to Warren.”

  “That's true,” Vida said equably. “Alicia was eight or nine when Warren and Francine divorced. She and her father had been very close. Then he was gone. Francine got custody, of course, and while Warren had visitation rights, he didn't exercise them. I suppose it was because of the new wife. Perhaps she hoped to give him more children.”

  I felt a breeze stir through the house. “Did she?”

  “Not that I know of. Really, I don't think they were together more than four or five years. It's surprising that it took so long for Warren to find someone new.” She set her empty glass down on the coffee table. “Shall we? I'm expecting Beth and her family for dinner. I believe I'll treat them at the ski lodge.”

  Beth was Vida's eldest daughter. She and her husband and their children lived in Seattle. Somehow the idea of a visiting daughter recalled Alicia Lowell. “That's odd,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Alicia told me she'd just gotten back from Snohomish. But Francine said she was coming home last night.”

  Vida was already at the door. “Perhaps she made a second trip. Snohomish isn't that far away.”

  Vida was right. Some forty miles separated Alpine from the larger town on the Snohomish River. Maybe Alicia had more than one friend who lived there. Or she'd gone back to browse in the many antique shops. The Wells family's problems were none of my own.

  Still, on the way back from Vida's, I took the long way home. Driving slowly down Front Street, I eyeballed Francine's Fine Apparel.

  The sign on the door read CLOSED.

  Marisa Foxx wasn't home, so I left a message for her to call me at her convenience. The temperature was dropping as the clouds periodically blotted out the sun, but I decided to barbecue anyway. I had no idea when Milo would arrive, but I knew he'd be hungry. At six-thirty I phoned Father Den.

  “I thought I'd catch you after five o'clock Mass,” I said. “Did you get a good voter turnout this evening?”

  “So-so,” he replied. “We had a lot of tourists. And we won't count the ballots until after Mass tomorrow. In fact, we probably won't count them until Monday. Jake and Veronica and I should do it together, to make sure nobody cheats.” His usually ripe laugh was a trifle weak.

  “Say,” I said as if the idea had just popped into my mind, “do you know who put the pressure on Everett to speed up Ursula's autopsy? Milo indicated it was somebody from the chancery.”

  “It could have been anybody,” Father Den responded.

  “I try to avoid the chancery. With any luck, they'll forget that St. Mildred's exists.”

  In layman's terms, the chancery could be equated with corporate headquartersTLike an employee working in the field, parish priests often felt that farther was better. All of western Washington made up the Seattle Archdiocese's flock. If a parishioner in the city had a complaint, it was easy to pick up the phone and dial the chancery. Out in the boondocks, not only did Church officialdom seem remote, but voicing criticism by long distance cost money.

  “Ursula must have had some influential friends,” I remarked. “Will you be one of the celebrants at the funeral Mass?”

  “I doubt it,” Father Den replied. “I'm not sure who's in charge. I asked Warren, but he seems kind of vague. Besides, I still intend to go see my mother for a couple of days. Sister Mary Joan can handle a prayer service for the daily Mass goers. We only get about twenty during the week anyway.”

  Maybe I imagined the faint note of reproach in Father Den's voice. I was not among the twenty faithful who attended Mass on weekdays. “I've got to ask you a tough question,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “This is strictly business. Do you have any reason to think Ursula's death was something other than an accident?”

  “Oh, man.” Father Den took a deep, audible breath. “Evil exists, no matter how much some contemporary Catholics try to downplay it. I won't bore you with theological or philosophical arguments, Emma. As an army brat, I saw—or heard—some pretty weird things. Some of them might technically have been accidents, especially when drinking or drugging was involved. But the result was the same. Evil—or sin, that old-fashioned word nobody seems to remember—played its part. An untimely death is often caused by sin, whether it's overindulgence, anger, jealousy, violence, whatever. It's not intended, but it happens. Does that answer your question?”

  “No.” I couldn't help being candid. “I mean, not with regard to Ursula. Unless,” I went on, trying to sift through Father Den's words, “you mean that somebody unintentionally got Ursula killed. Is that what you're saying?”

  “Yes. But that doesn't make it an accident.”

  I still wasn't sure what Den meant.

  It felt like rain by the time Milo arrived at seven-thirty. Since I'd already started the barbecue, I put the burgers on the grill but decided we might as well eat inside. After I'd handed Milo his Scotch, he admitted that Vida had made an impression on him with her doubts about the manner of Ursula's death.

  “I've gone over Dwight's notes with a fine-tooth comb,” Milo said, referring to his deputy's interview with Warren Wells. “Doubles wasn't much help. He claimed he was in shock. I suppose he was.”

  Hearing Milo use Warren's nickname evoked a question: “Did you go through school with Warren?”

  Milo shook his head. “He was three, four years ahead of me. But he was a pretty good ballplayer, shortstop, second base, sometimes behind the plate. The Buckers had a decent team in those years—Tank Parker got a look-see from a couple of major-league scouts and Dave Tolberg won a baseball scholarship to WSU.”

  The phone rang before Milo could get off the diamond and back on track. The caller identified himself as Murray Felton, a Seattle TV reporter. He was in town for the weekend, and his station had asked him to check out a couple of leads. Could he swing by for a few minutes?

  I grimaced at Milo, who was watching me with mild curiosity. “Can't we do this over the phone?” I finally said, trying not to sound impatient.

  Murray Felton chuckled, a rich, rather engaging sound.

  “Ms. Lord, do you prefer doing phone interviews? Or maybe you do, but we're talking TV here, not print media.”

  My journalistic pride was on the line. “Okay,” I relented. “Come on over. I can give you half an hour.”

  I could also give him directions, which I did. “I'll pull the burgers until he leaves,” I grumbled to Milo. “Meanwhile you figure out if you're the sheriff or my secret lover from Sultan.”

  “Shit,” Milo muttered, following me through the kitchen. “I don't want to talk to some Seattle TV guy. Maybe I should go home.”

  I turned around to look up at Milo. His long face was a mixture of annoyance, uncertainty, and yearning. Or so I thought until I noticed that his eyes rested not on me, but on the barbecue grill.

  Slinging an arm around his neck, I used my other hand to poke him in the chest. “Are you hungry for dinner—or dessert?”

  “Both.” Milo grabbed me roughly, covering my cheek and neck with kisses. “I'll stay,” he said into my left ear. “You got cheese?”

  “I think so.” I allowed myself to lean into him for a brief moment, then broke away to move the burgers. We had just returned to the house when I heard a car pull up in the driveway.

  Murray Felton was much younger than he sounded, late twenties, with dark hair that was already receding, dazzling blue eyes, and a sharply etched profile that could have cut cake. At five-ten, muscular, and tanned, he exuded a playful masculinity that I found attractive and Milo seemed to resent. Or so I judged from the sheriffs suddenly truculent expression.

  “Okay,” Murray said after I'd given
him a beer, “I understand you had an unexplained death here last night. Ms. Randall seems to have friends in high places. My boss thinks there's a story here somewhere. How are you handling it, Ms. Lord?”

  “With kid gloves,” I replied from my place on the sofa next to Milo. I'd introduced the sheriff by name, but not by title. “We don't know much yet.”

  The brilliant blue eyes seemed amused. “You must know more than I do, though. What was Ms. Randall doing here in Alpine?”

  “Living. Until she died.” A second bourbon was making me truculent, too.

  Murray cocked his head to one side and gave me a skeptical look. “Come on, Ms. Lord. You can do better than that. Why do you really think she moved up here to this mountain aerie?”

  “I told you—I don't know.” By reflex, I edged closer to Milo. “She was getting married. She and her fiance were both from Alpine. She'd bought a nice home here. She has family in town. What other reasons would she need?”

  Carefully Murray poured more beer into his pilsner glass. “How about the fact that she was a lush? What about the old cash flow not being what it used to be? Or maybe the need to keep a low profile because she was running away from her late husband's legacy?”

  As Murray calmly sipped his beer Milo and I exchanged puzzled glances. “What legacy?” the sheriff asked, speaking for the first time since being introduced to the TV reporter. Milo's tone was typically laconic but I could sense the underlying tension.

  Murray regarded us both quizzically. “I guess you really don't know.” He chuckled, but the sound wasn't as engaging as it had been over the phone. “According to my sources at the TV station, Dr. Wheaton Randall ran a real butcher shop. The malpractice suits are causing quite a logjam in King County Superior Court.”

  Again, Milo and I looked at each other, this time in surprise. “Say again?” the sheriff said, pulling out a cigarette.

  Murray shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “Those things'll kill you, Sheriff.”

  Milo paused in the act of flicking on his lighter. “Okay, Felton. How do you know who I am?”

  Patting the pocket of his army-surplus jacket, Murray grinned. “We do our homework in the Big City. Milo Dodge, Skykomish County sheriff, seems laid-back, don't be fooled, a stand-up guy who goes by the book. Emma Lord, editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, objective, fair-minded, sexy in a cranky sort of way.” Seeing my eyes spark, Murray put up a hand. “Hey, just kidding! I mean, that last part is a personal observation, and should be stricken as sexist and hearsay. Now don't tell me that neither of you knew about the late Dr. Randall's legal problems.”

  “How could we?” Milo exploded. “Do you think Ursula would advertise them in The AdvocateV

  “Background,” Murray said softly, now looking straight at me. “That's the name of the game in journalism, huh, Ms. Lord? But then again, maybe the good doctor's bungling doesn't have anything to do with his widow being found facedown in—what was it?—six inches of the Skykomish River?”

  Milo waved his cigarette at Murray. “It probably doesn't. Look, Felton, get to the point. What do you want from us?”

  Murray suddenly became self-deprecating. “Hey—not much, it seems. I'm beginning to think I'm trying to squeeze rocks through a sock. Humor me. How about that miracle?”

  I was momentarily puzzled. “What miracle?”

  Now Murray actually looked pained. “The old lady's vase.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “A Mrs, Patricelli. Somebody leaked word to us that she's got a picture of Jesus or somebody on it. Well?”

  Milo turned away in disgust. I shrugged. “I've heard about it. But I haven't seen it. Polly Patricelli is old and imaginative. I guess.”

  “I'd like to see it,” Murray said, finishing his beer and standing up. “How do I find her and Jesus?”

  “Try the phone book,” I snapped. “You won't find Jesus, but you might find Polly.”

  “Fair enough.” Murray gave me that engaging grin. “Thanks for the beer. I'll be in touch.”

  “Hey!” I was off the sofa and following Murray to the door. “How did you happen to be in Alpine in the first place?”

  For the first time there was a hint of vulnerability in Murray's sharp features. “I'm a hiker. It's a three-day weekend. And somebody I know told me to look up a woman in Alpine. Only she's not around, so maybe I wasted a trip—unless you can help me out with this Randall death or the miracle in the vase. As I said, we'll be in touch.”

  “Who?” I shouted after Murray as he started for his Mazda Miata. “Who is she?” Somehow I had a terrible feeling that I already knew.

  And Murray Felton knew that I knew. He laughed as he reached the car. “Your star reporter—Carla Steinmetz. Give her my love, okay? I hear she's hot.”

  Hot she's not, I wanted to say. But then Murray and I probably had different standards.

  Chapter Nine

  “I'M GETTING OLD,” Milo complained as he watched me turn the burgers on the grill. “I don't much like people under thirty anymore.”

  “It's the electronic media,” I said. “They're different from those of us who work in print. Besides, all this guy really wants is to score with Carla. I wonder why.”

  “Why do you think?” Milo was frowning up at the dark clouds. “Carla may be dizzy, but she's cute.”

  My head jerked up. “You think she's cute?”

  The sheriff gave a little shrug. “For a twentysomething girl. I like 'em fortysomething and cranky.” He winked, a habit I always found annoying. Maybe that's because I'm cranky.

  We took our burgers inside, where I'd already set the table in the dining alcove. I told Milo about the call from Alicia, asking after Francine. Like Vida, he seemed unperturbed.

  “Maybe she gave herself a holiday,” he suggested. “She deserves it.”

  “I might believe that if she was spending it with her daughter,” I responded, “but she isn't.”

  The subject obviously didn't interest Milo. He took up where he'd left off before Murray Felton had called. Dwight Gould's report termed Warren's account “garbled.” He hadn't seen much of his bride-to-be Friday, having played a round of golf with Clancy Barton, and then running errands, most of which he couldn't recall off the top of his head. The last time Warren had talked to Ursula was on the phone, maybe around five P.M. He'd called her from the ski lodge after visiting with the manager, Henry Bardeen. Ursula had sounded fine. She always sounded fine. After that, Warren had stopped at Cal Vickers's Texaco station to get his brakes checked. Cal was calling it a day by then, so he'd gone with Warren to Mugs Ahoy for a couple of beers. When Cal decided he'd better go home before his wife, Charlene, began to worry about him, Warren stayed on and jawed with some of his other old chums. He'd eaten a burger and then taken off on his sightseeing trip around town. It was going on eight by then, maybe eight-thirty. He enjoyed driving without the hassle of city traffic. Alpine was a pretty little place, when you came right down to it.

  The last part of Dwight's report had been relayed orally, and Milo didn't put much stock in it. “I dropped in on Abe Loomis this afternoon,” Milo said, referring to the owner of Mugs Ahoy. “He said he didn't remember seeing Warren in the tavern after seven-thirty. But it was a Friday night, a three-day weekend with a lot of tourists. Abe isn't the most observant guy in the world.”

  “So where was Warren?” I inquired, handing Milo his second burger.

  “Damned if I know. The classic scenario is that he went back to The Pines, got drunk with Ursula, and they ended up on the river, where she fell in and he passed out. But it doesn't make sense somehow.” The sheriff shook his head. “Somebody was with Ursula, that's for sure. There were two highball glasses on the coffee table in the living room.”

  I lifted both eyebrows, never having mastered the art of raising only one. “Prints?”

  Milo winced. “Smudged. Either by accident, or on purpose. The problem is, Dwight didn't cover all the surfaces. He was acting on the premise that U
rsula's death was an accident. He only checked the glasses as an afterthought. Sloppy police work, but there it is.” He avoided my gaze.

  I wasn't about to criticize. “What about the neighbors? Did they see any visitors?”

  “Dwight and Dustin were still interviewing at The Pines this afternoon. By the time I took off, I hadn't heard anything. But they hadn't talked to Debra Barton yet. She'd gone into Seattle for the day. The other nearest neighbors are the Carlsons and they went to the ocean for the weekend.”

  Chewing on a gherkin pickle, I tried to think why something was awry with Warren's story. Nothing came to mind, except the fact that Warren wasn't living with Ursula but up at the ski lodge.

  “This is a dubiously enlightened age,” I remarked. “If we were getting married, would you object to moving in with me?”

  Milo dropped his burger, smeared mustard on his shirt, and turned pale under his tan. “Married? Hell, Emma, I don't know…. I mean, we haven't even … Isn't it too soon to … ?”

  I was torn between annoyance and amusement. “Theoretical, Milo, it's theoretical. I'm talking about Ursula and Warren. Doesn't it seem strange that he was living elsewhere?”

  Milo recovered the burger from his lap, along with his equilibrium. I handed him a dishrag to wipe off the mustard. “Well … Maybe. I figured it was some kind of Catholic deal. You know, keeping pure before marriage.”

  I gave the sheriff a rueful smile. “Ideally, that's what should happen. But it doesn't these days, at least not often. Ursula and Warren were mature people. I don't know—maybe it was a case of maintaining appearances, but it seems odd.”

  “Maybe it was that damned frilly bedroom,” Milo said, now complacently chewing on his burger. “It'd scared the hell out of me. You see it?”

  I shook my head. “I didn't get beyond the living room.”

  Milo was laughing. “I checked out the house on my way over here. You wouldn't believe it—lace and ruffles and a great big canopy, like out of the movies. Everything was moving in the breeze, like somebody's wash on the line. Is that supposed to be erotic?”