Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  “Romantic,” I said. “Sensuous, maybe.”

  “Crap,” Milo retorted. “I like it better when you turn on a Mariner game and we hit the sack. There's nothing like a 6-4-3 double play to put me in the mood.”

  I didn't want to think what Vida would say about Milo's remark. And I sure wouldn't admit to her that I agreed with him.

  The Mariners had played the Orioles back at Camden Yards that afternoon. As it turned out, we didn't need a baseball game to inspire us. But later, as we lay in bed sipping Drambuie, I thought about Ursula's elegant boudoir.

  “Milo,” I said, my chin resting against his upper arm, “why was there a breeze?”

  “Hmm?” He turned a puzzled face to me.

  “The breeze in Ursula's bedroom. Where did it come from?”

  Milo shifted against the pillows. “Ah … the window, I guess. Why?”

  “You mean it was open?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” He paused, apparently trying to visualize what he'd seen earlier in the day. “That's right. The window by her dressing table was open.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was hot.” He nodded toward the window next to my bed, which was raised some four inches. “So what?”

  I traced his profile with my index finger. When it reached his mouth, he bit it. Gently. “Because,” I said, “Ursula's house is air-conditioned. You tell me—why was that window open?” I bit back. Not so gently.

  Five minutes later Milo was dressed and gone, berating himself for being an idiot. If it hadn't been almost nine-thirty, I would have insisted on going with him while he personally interviewed Warren Wells. Of course he probably would have refused to let me tag along.

  Still worried about Francine, I put on my light cotton robe and called her home number. To my relief, she answered on the second ring.

  “What a tempest in a teapot!” Francine laughed. “1 decided to take a break. It's a holiday weekend, remember? Labor Day tourists don't shop for clothes. They hike, picnic, camp, fish—whatever. I thought I told Alicia, but either I forgot or she didn't hear me.” She laughed again, though I thought I detected a false note.

  “Maybe I got it mixed up,” I said, trying to sound confused. “Maybe I assumed Alicia was puzzled because you weren't home.”

  “I had a lot of catching up to do,” Francine said blithely. “You know how that is—you're a working woman, too.”

  “I sure do.” Now I sounded downright ingratiating. “And kids—well, they're not kids, but you know what I mean—they get so wound up in their own lives that they don't pay attention. Alicia was probably full of news when she came home last night from Snohomish.”

  Maybe I also imagined the faint hesitation at the other end of the line. “Actually Alicia stayed over,” Francine said, not sounding as jolly as before. “I'll say one thing for the younger generation—if they've had a few glasses of wine, they don't drive. That's smart.”

  “Very smart,” I agreed. “So is having a designated driver. As irresponsible as Adam has been sometimes, he and his buddies are always good about …” Now I paused, hearing a noise that sounded as if it came from my bedroom. “Say, Francine, I'd better let you go. It's getting late.”

  “Thanks for worrying,” she said, again on a breezy note. “See you in church. Vote early and vote often.”

  I kept the phone in my hand as I exited the living room, entered the small hallway, and tiptoed to the bedroom door. I'd left the bedside lamp on. Cautiously peering around the edge of the door, I saw nothing that alarmed me.

  Except that when I entered the bedroom, I noticed that the window Milo had pointed out to me was now open almost a foot instead of four inches. Fleetingly I thought about looking in the closet and under the bed. But that seemed reckless. I left the room, closed the door behind me, went out onto the front porch, and called the sheriff.

  Bill Blatt answered. Milo was at The Pines, talking to Warren Wells. It appeared that Warren had checked out of the ski lodge and moved into his late fiancee's house. Bill seemed in an unusually chatty mood, but I cut him short. My account of a possible break-in seemed to impress him. Vida's nephew knew I wasn't the hysterical type. Dustin Fong was on patrol; he'd be dispatched immediately. I stayed on the porch, reasoning that if someone was in the house, I could run to a neighbor's for help.

  Dustin, however, arrived in less than five minutes, having just broken up a brawl at the Icicle Creek Tavern. He checked out the house thoroughly, found nothing of interest, and then came back into the living room, where I was anxiously waiting. I told him that this wasn't the first time I'd heard strange sounds, but figured it was an animal.

  “Tonight was different,” I said, wishing I'd had time to put on something more than my flimsy cotton robe. “Deer don't open windows.”

  Dustin allowed himself a small smile. He hadn't been in law enforcement long enough to be sure of what circumstances permitted humor. “You're positive that the window wasn't open that far earlier?”

  “Definitely,” I replied. “You can ask the … question over and over, and I'll give you the same answer.” It didn't seem prudent to say that Dustin could ask the sheriff. Our romance might not be a secret, but neither of us cared to flaunt it.

  “You were on the phone, out here.” Dustin surveyed the living room. “This is a small house. But it's very nice. I like the logs,” he added in his eager-to-please manner. “If someone had come in through the window, he or she could have heard you talking. Except that whoever it was might not have realized you were on the phone. The impression that you weren't alone may have scared the person off.”

  “Something did,” I said dryly. “There's nothing worth stealing in the bedroom. My purse was out here.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of the end table where I'd left my big shoulder bag when I came home.

  “There's a lot of weird stuff going down lately,” the deputy mused. “Some are tourists, some are kids, some are just plain troublemakers. Maybe it's the end of summer. You know—one last fling.”

  I knew from checking the crime log that Alpine seemed to be in the clutches of a veritable crime spree. The number of incidents during the past week had increased by more than half. “You probably expected a peaceful existence when you came up here,” I said with a smile.

  Dustin took me very seriously. “Well—no. You don't go into law enforcement because you want peace and quiet. It's just that there's been so much vandalism and domestic disturbances and rowdy teenage stuff. Not to mention Ms. Randall drowning. I've never had to deal with the Seattle media before. It seems like everything is happening at once. Maybe it's because we're short-handed. Maybe it's the weather.”

  After filling out his report, Dustin asked if I was afraid to spend the night alone. While the idea wasn't appealing, I assured him I'd be fine. He promised that a patrol car would come by at regular intervals. Knowing the sheriff's limited resources, I figured that I'd be lucky if they made it more than twice between now and three A.M. On a Saturday night, the Icicle Creek Tavern brawl was just the tip of the iceberg.

  Even in the best of circumstances, I tend to shortchange myself on sleep. During the week I'm rarely in bed before eleven-thirty; on weekends, I often stay up well past midnight. After Dustin left, I read for a while, but realized I wasn't absorbing much. At eleven I turned on the news. By chance, the local network affiliate I'd randomly selected was the station that employed Murray Felton. The item before the commercial break leading into the weather forecast was about Ursula Randall.

  “The widow of prominent Seattle surgeon Wheaton Randall was discovered drowned last night in the Skykomish River near the town of Alpine,” the dark-haired anchorwoman intoned. “Ursula O'Toole Randall had recently moved from Seattle to the small logging community where she grew up.” The screen showed stock footage of Front Street, obviously taken some years earlier before a Hollywood film crew painted The Advocate yellow. “Ms. Randall was well known in Seattle civic and church circles for her generosity and hard work. Skyk
omish County Sheriff authorities are investigating. Next, we'll see if rain is going to fall on the rest of the three-day weekend….”

  At precisely eleven-thirty the sheriff scared me witless by showing up at the front door. Dustin had told him about my alleged prowler, and Milo had decided to spend the night. It would be the first time that he had ever slept over. I was pleased, as well as relieved.

  After I had poured us each a nightcap, I told him about the TV news report, and inquired after his own investigation. “What did Warren tell you?” I queried.

  “Zip.” Milo took a deep drink. “The damned window was still open when I got there. Warren hadn't been in the bedroom. He's bunking in a guest room that doesn't look like it belongs to some Barbie doll.”

  “So who opened the window?” The question made me think of my own, and I couldn't help but shiver.

  “Warren doesn't know. But you're right—you don't open windows when you've got air-conditioning. It defeats the purpose. What's more, the screen had been removed.”

  “So had mine,” I said with a start. “It didn't dawn on me until now.”

  “It pisses me off,” Milo complained. “Am I getting careless? I should have gone over to The Pines right away. Even after I got there, I should have noticed that open window from the get-go.”

  “Hey,” I said, trying to soothe the sheriff, “I didn't notice that my screen was gone right away, either. I'm a trained observer, remember? All journalists are—or supposed to be. But oversights happen.”

  My words didn't have much effect on Milo. “Maybe,” he mumbled, “it doesn't have anything to do with what happened to Ursula. It could have been kids. We've had about three times as many prowler reports this last week as we usually get. It's a good thing school opens Wednesday.”

  Kids. The thought was quasi-comforting. I tried not to dwell on my own intruder. “Was Ursula's window forced?”

  “No. It's one of those vertical jobs that swings in. If it wasn't fastened right in the first place, it wouldn't be hard to jiggle open.” Milo's mood had now changed from irascible to brooding. “I checked for footprints inside and outside, but didn't get much. Warren says the gardener—one of the Amundson kids—has been working there quite a bit. The place is kept well watered, except for the flower bed on that side of the house. Ursula wanted to put in a bunch of bulbs, and it's too soon for that, so the ground's fairly dry.” Milo began to slide into gloom.

  “Did you ever talk to Debra Barton?” I asked, trying to keep my voice bright.

  Milo nodded without enthusiasm. “She was back from Seattle by the time I got to The Pines. The only thing she saw yesterday at Ursula's was Buzzy's van. That was around five, five-thirty. I'll check him out tomorrow, but there's no reason why he shouldn't visit his sister.”

  “He's living in that van,” I said. “Is there any reason why he couldn't live with his sister?”

  Milo squared his slumped shoulders. “Buzzy's living in the van? What happened? Did Laura throw him out?”

  “Laura said he left.” I shrugged. “Laura OToole isn't inclined to elaborate.”

  “Hell!” Milo whacked his thigh with the flat of his hand. “Just what we need—one more homeless Alpiner living in a car or a truck or a van or under the bridge or in Old Mill Park. Can't somebody build an all-purpose shelter in this stupid town?”

  I thought of Ed and his Spanish “villa,” of Ursula and her elegant house in The Pines, of a hundred other comfortable residents who seemed indifferent to the needs of the less fortunate. I thought of me.

  “It's something we should consider at St. Mildred's,” I said quietly. “The battered women's shelter isn't large enough to expand. Maybe that kind of new project was what Ursula had in mind when she talked about helping the rest of Alpine.”

  Judging from his vacant stare, Milo hadn't heard me. His face was in shadow, its planes and angles softened but not at ease. Even though I had closed all the windows, the house suddenly felt cool, almost chilly. In the midnight silence, I heard the first patter of rain.

  “Sometimes I hate this place,” Milo finally said, still not looking at me. “People call logging towns dead ends. They're right. Alpine is dead.”

  “No, it's not,” I retorted, surprised at my own vehemence. I was a city girl, not inclined to boost small towns except in a professional, self-serving way. “The college is coming. Commuters are still moving in. Many of the loggers are trying to reeducate themselves. Alpine's not dead. It's in transition.”

  Draining his glass, Milo turned to look me in the eye. “I mean for me. Where am I going? Where have I been? Nowhere, except to college. I'm forty-nine years old. Every four years I have to bust my hump just to get reelected and keep my job. Some job! Hustling drunks, trying not to get killed by warring spouses, pulling bodies out of car wrecks, chasing a family of five out of an old barn where they've set up the only home they've got.” Thrusting a finger in my face, Milo's features contorted. “You know what I did last Tuesday? I found the Almquists—Sid used to be the deckman at the old Cascade & Pacific Mill—living under the Icicle Creek Bridge. Mary Jean had a new baby, and there they were, less than a hundred yards from my house, with a bunch of dirty bedding, two old dinette chairs, a card table, and a tarp. I had to tell them and the three kids to move out, and the last thing I saw was Mary Jean, carrying that little baby and one of those damned dinette chairs with the plastic cover peeling off. I felt like the biggest shit in the world.”

  “Milo.” I cradled his face in my hands. “Let's do something. Together.”

  “Like what? Screw?” For once, the idea didn't seem to appeal to Milo.

  I shook my head. “I'll start an appeal in the paper. You can speak at the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis, all the service clubs and organizations. I'll ask Father Den to rally the other churches. Maybe Fuzzy Baugh can look into getting federal funds.”

  Milo wasn't energized by my enthusiasm. He looked tired and defeated. “It's a Band-Aid,” he said dolefully.

  “It's something,” I replied. “Would you rather just sit and bitch?”

  “No.” But the sheriff's expression was rueful. I knew that the homeless and the unemployment and the economic inertia weren't the only demons he was facing. Ursula Randall's demise seemed as much of a dead end as Alpine itself. He was frustrated and weary and middle-aged.

  But most upsetting was that in all of his unburdening, he hadn't mentioned me.

  I wasn't used to waking up with someone beside me. Milo wasn't used to waking up with someone who had to get to church. Somehow he found the situation paradoxical. I didn't. Pointing him in the direction of the pancake batter I'd whipped up, I headed off to St. Mildred's in the softly falling rain.

  Small knots of parishioners braved the weather to gather in the parking lot, presumably discussing Ursula's death, the school-board vote, and whatever else might have been going on under the camouflage of good Christian people attending worship. Inside, I gazed around the small frame building with its whitewashed walls, worn wooden pews carved from the forest's once limitless bounty, not-quite-life-size statues, and small stained-glass windows where the rain ran like tears. The church was full, with perhaps three dozen visitors. Two of them sat on my left, while the Bartons were on my right. Annie Jeanne Dupre thumped on the organ, signaling us to rise for Father Den's entrance in the green vestments that denoted what is known as “Ordinary Time” in the church calendar.

  As so often happens, my attention strayed during Den's sermon. Next to me, Debra and Clancy Barton seemed transfixed—or maybe they were merely in a zone. The sleekly groomed duo of Francine Wells and Alicia Lowell were across the aisle, contemplating their sins—or the Paris collections. Polly Patricelli fingered her rosary and prayed under her breath. The Bayards, the Mullinses, the Daleys, the Luccis, and the Jake O'Tooles all faced forward with benign if vacant expressions. Ed Bronsky twitched and Shirley shifted. Ronnie Wenzler-Greene appeared deadly earnest, while Monica and Verb Vancich struck me as ill at ease. Or perhaps
it was only Verb; on closer scrutiny, Monica may have been experiencing ecstasy or gas.

  Reproaching myself for lack of attention as well as uncharitable thoughts, I tried to concentrate on Father Den. He looked drawn, and his usually smooth, if somewhat soporific delivery, suffered from occasional hesitation. Maybe he was worried about his mother.

  Again, I drifted. So many different types of people, yet all here on this rainy Sunday morning, presumably honoring God. I knew their agendas were varied, and not always selfless. I was aware that there was ambition and pride and arrogance and pettiness under their pious exteriors. But they were here, and that must count for something. Nor did I kid myself that I was any better.

  Discreetly I turned just enough to see who lurked in the rear of the church. There was no Laura or Buzzy O'Toole but that didn't surprise me. There were others who should have been there but weren't. Maybe they'd gone to five o'clock Mass on Saturday. Maybe they were out of town. Maybe they didn't give a damn.

  But one face struck me as out of place: in the second to the last pew, I spotted Murray Felton. Everybody belongs in church, or so I've always felt.

  But Murray didn't belong in St. Mildred's. I sensed that he was working, seeking background, studying the congregation. The brilliant blue eyes caught me staring, and I quickly turned away.

  After Mass, I waited my turn to mark my school-board ballot. Ursula's name was there, indicating that the list of candidates had been run off on the school's venerable mimeograph machine before she died. The instructions said to vote for two. Feeling that memberships should be limited to Catholics, I skipped Derek Norman of fish-hatchery fame. I had faith in Debra Barton's basic good sense, so I checked her box with a certain amount of confidence. Then I came to Laura O'Toole and Rita Patri-celli Haines.

  Rita was of at least average intelligence, but I almost never saw her in church and I didn't know if her children were enrolled in St. Mildred's school. She could be stubborn as a mule; I had found that out in my dealings with her at the Chamber of Commerce. On the other hand, Laura O'Toole struck me as someone who might have trouble reading the ballot, let alone complex educational issues. But she was Nunzio Lucci's candidate, and while Luce might have a brain like a brick, he seemed rock-solid on basic Church doctrine.