Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  Monica had hung back, her pale face increasingly troubled. “Did Mr. Lucci really try to kill his wife?”

  “I doubt it,” Francine said, gathering up her Sharif handbag and London Fog raincoat. “Delia's got no spunk. Luce is the kind that if you call his bluff, he'll roll over. He's different from Buzzy.”

  An awkward silence engulfed the little parlor. “What do you mean?” Jake asked.

  A flush rose in Francine's fine skin. “I heard about the little episode at Emma's today. Betsy called me. I guess Laura told her.”

  “Damn!” Jake held his head.

  “Don't get worked up, Jake,” Francine counseled. “That's what I mean about Buzzy—he got out of control because he's like a cornered animal. His back's against the wall, and he lashes out. But he's really harmless. That's not true of Luce. He can be mean—in the way that bullies are.” Slipping into her coat, she poked Ed in the paunch. “You win, Bronsky. Welcome aboard. Enjoy the ride—while it lasts.”

  Monica burst into tears. I happened to be standing next to her, and automatically put out a comforting hand. “What's wrong?” I asked as Ed stared and the rest of the group looked only mildly surprised. I suspected that it wasn't unusual for Monica to lose the grip on her emotions.

  “It's … nothing.” Monica sniffed as she wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of what appeared to be a handmade cardigan. “It's just that … I can empathize … with Buzzy. I mean …” She sniffed again, trying to get herself under control. “What we need is more understanding. That comes from the Holy Spirit. Why can't people realize that?”

  The garbled response seemed to bewilder all of us except Francine. “Get a grip on it, Monica,” she urged quietly, though her sympathy had a hard edge. “It's fine to let the Holy Spirit sail around over your head, but keep both feet on the ground, okay?”

  Monica's swimming gray eyes hovered on Francine's face. “Will you come with me?”

  Francine took an abrupt backward step. “Come where?”

  Monica swallowed. “To Mrs. Patricelli's. I want to pray at her vision.”

  “Oh, hell!” Francine twirled around, colliding with Brendan Shaw. “No, Monica, I won't. That vase isn't the only thing that's cracked around here. I'm going home. Good night.” Francine's Chantal high-heeled boots car-ried her quickly across the faded carpet.

  Though she didn't say a word to me, I saw the appeal in Monica's teary eyes. “I'll go,” I said, surprising myself and probably Monica as well.

  It turned out that she had gotten a ride to the rectory from Brendan Shaw. Since I had discovered that the Vanciches lived so close to me, I insisted that it would be no trouble to drive Monica to Polly's house and then take her home.

  We had gone only one of the two blocks between St. Mildred's and the Patricelli residence when I realized that there was nowhere to park on the street. As I slowed in front of Polly's I saw why. There were at least two dozen people threading their way up the broken front steps that led through the rockery. Some of them carried candles, which flickered and sputtered in the rainy night.

  “Oh, my!” I breathed. “Polly's drawn a crowd. I suppose it was the TV exposure.”

  “Pardon?” Monica seemed puzzled.

  “One of the Seattle stations featured the vase on the news last night,” I explained, preoccupied with trying to find a parking place. “Damn! I wonder if this has been going on all day?” The thought of missing another story annoyed me.

  “Wonderful,” Monica murmured, her hands clasped together. “The Spirit is moving. How dare I doubt?”

  I dared to ease the Jag into a tight spot around the corner on Fourth. At least I had the camera with me. Hopefully the flash would work. It had functioned in the rectory parlor, but sometimes it was unreliable.

  “It's like a pilgrimage,” Monica said in an awed voice, not moving from the passenger seat. “Like Lourdes. Or Medjugorje.”

  “I've seen the vase,” I said, wrestling with the camera and my handbag. “You go ahead and do your thing. I'll stay outside, take some pictures, and interview people.”

  Monica didn't seem to hear me. Wearing a beatific smile, she slowly got out of the car and walked off as if in a daze. Clutching my things, I hurried after her. I had my own vision, of Monica stepping in front of an oncoming car.

  But she made it safely across the street. A moment later she was at the end of the line, which now stretched onto the sidewalk. I searched through the rain for a face I recognized, but found only one: Buzzy O'Toole.

  Apologizing for pushing my way up the uneven stairs, I greeted Buzzy with what a few dark looks told me was inappropriate enthusiasm. Buzzy, however, made a brave effort to smile.

  “This is for The Advocate” I warned him, fumbling with a notebook. “What made you decide to visit the vase?”

  The smile disappeared quickly. “My sister. I want to pray for her soul.”

  “Ursula?” I said stupidly. “Of course.” Given Buzzy's other troubles, it struck me as very generous that he was thinking of someone other than himself.

  Buzzy nodded faintly. “Yeah. I think Ursula needs some prayers. She wasn't always …” He stopped, staring at the notebook. “Sorry. I forgot you were taking this down.”

  “It's okay,” I assured him. “I won't mention anything personal.”

  The line moved up as three people edged past me on their way out. The too-thin woman behind Buzzy was a stranger. Introducing myself, I asked why she had come to the Patricelli shrine. Cancer, she replied through taut lips. The ascetic-looking young man in front of Buzzy had AIDS. A couple from Everett were praying for their daughter who was in prison. Another set of parents wanted to ask Jesus to help them find their son who had disappeared three years ago. The litany of human burdens went on, all the way to Polly's front door.

  Buzzy was now at the bottom of the porch. After clicking a few pictures, I tried to spot Monica. She was about where I had first encountered Buzzy. I decided to slip inside the house and ask Polly some questions about the phenomenon. Announcing “Press” in a discreet voice, I entered the dark hallway. The living room was jammed. Muffled sobs reached my ears, as did the muttering of a few prayers. I refocused the camera, but thought better of it. This wasn't the place for flashbulbs.

  Polly was standing by the arched entrance to the living room. Her eyes were downcast and she was fingering her rosary. I waited, but she didn't look up. At last I put a gentle hand on her arm.

  “When did all these people start coming?” I inquired in a hushed voice.

  Polly's cloudy old eyes scanned my face. “Oh. Mrs. Lord.” She sighed. “This morning, after Mass. They were waiting when I came home.” She signed herself with the silver crucifix, then kissed Christ's broken body.

  Again, I glanced into the living room, where long, wavering shadows trembled against the walls. In the crush of worshipers, I could barely see the votive candles. An old couple, weeping and clinging to each other, came out into the hall. A Vietnamese woman in her thirties carrying a baby moved into the room. So did a Hispanic man who held a holy card of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  “They've been coming all day?” I asked Polly.

  “Yes. Pete will be here soon so that I may go to bed.”

  I stared at Polly. “You mean—you'll let them in until they stop showing up?”

  Polly's gaze was uncomprehending. “What?”

  “I mean …” I fumbled for words.

  Polly's bowed shoulders shrugged. “It's not a store.”

  I pressed my knuckles against my lips. An ancient African American woman supported by a tall, graying middle-aged man who might have been her son, came out into the hall. “No. Of course it's not.”

  A silence fell between us, deep as the gap that divides generations, wide as the chasm that separates cultures. The ebb and flow continued. Buzzy, with a brief nod to Polly and me, now entered the living room. I wondered about Ursula, with her smug, self-centered sense of religion. Where was she now? Would Buzzy's loving intentions move her? Wo
uld she laugh? But I had no idea of how the dead responded to the living, or if they responded at all. I wasn't even sure of what was going on in Polly Patricelli's living room.

  “Ma.” It was Pete, a man I knew primarily as an advertiser for Itsa Bitsa Pizza. He leaned down to peck at his mother's cheek. “You're drawing quite a crowd, huh?” His gap-toothed grin took me in. “Hi, Emma. What do you think? A little stand down on the sidewalk, hawking rosaries and statues and prayer cards?”

  I didn't know if Pete was serious. But his mother made a sharp, slashing motion with one gnarled hand. “No, no! Don't blaspheme, Pietro! Why is it always money with you?”

  Pete hugged his mother and chuckled. “It's not, Ma. You know that. I'm only joking. Go to bed. I'm here for the next shift. Rita will be along about sunup if you've still got customers. Pilgrims, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily.

  I'd forgotten about Rita, the dark horse in the school-board election. I was about to mention her candidacy when Monica Vancich glided along in her pious daze to the living room. Someone near the shrine was wailing, a heartrending, keening sound that made me wince.

  It bothered Polly not at all. Maybe she'd already heard similar cries earlier in the day. Or even before. I had to admit that I was woefully ignorant of what had passed previously in this house. Pete was kissing his mother good night. Polly gave me a tentative smile and headed for the staircase in the deep, dark recesses of the hall. Pete took up her post, rubbing at one eye and belching discreetly.

  “I ought to be selling pizzas to this crowd,” he said in a tone that I suspected was only half-joking. “They must get hungry, waiting out there. I heard some of them had come all the way from British Columbia.”

  “I should interview more of the visitors,” I said, and failed to suppress a yawn. I couldn't see my watch in the dark, but knew it must be going on eleven. “What do you think, Pete?”

  Pete laughed. “Heck, I don't know. That vase looks like a bunch of cracks to me. I guess when it comes right down to it I'm not real religious.”

  Buzzy O'Toole was emerging, along with a teenager who had obvious Slavic features and a startlingly beautiful woman in a sari. Impulsively I touched Buzzy's arm. “Do you … feel better?” I inquired for lack of anything more profound.

  Buzzy, however, took the question very seriously. “I feel … more at peace. But I don't think Ursula does.” His pallid blue eyes fixed on my face. “I think she hasn't come to rest. Her soul is all messed up. I guess that's because she was murdered.” With a slight shake of his head, Buzzy walked away.

  Pete's chuckle was jagged. “That's putting it on the line. What do you think, Emma? I heard it was some dumb accident.”

  I shook my head. “I don't think the sheriff knows for sure. It's a problem I have to cope with tomorrow when we get ready to go to press.”

  “Wow.” Pete leaned against the wall with its peeling floral paper. “Why didn't Doubles figure it out before he brought that woman up to Alpine?”

  I regarded Pete with a curious stare. “Ursula? What do you mean?”

  “Oh …” Pete now looked embarrassed. “My delivery kid, one of the Gundersons, dropped off a pizza Friday night at Francine's. He said Warren came to the door and paid for it. So what was Doubles doing with his first wife when the bride-to-be was sitting around in her fancy house in The Pines? It sounds kind of funny to me.”

  It sounded more than funny. I was about to press Pete for details, if any, when a weeping Monica Vancich shuddered her way into the hall. She didn't seem to notice me, so I swiftly excused myself and followed her out onto the porch.

  “Are you okay?” I inquired, aware that she obviously wasn't.

  Monica kept walking. It was only when we reached the sidewalk that she answered. “I was praying for Verb,” she said, finding a tissue in her purse. Then she turned her tearstained face to me and fell into my arms. “Oh, Ms. Lord! I'm so frightened!”

  “About what?” Vaguely I noticed that the line of pilgrims now reached the end of the block.

  Monica didn't respond, and I felt her sag against me.

  She is slight, but at five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds, I'm not exactly big. I staggered, trying to hold her up. It was only when my back struck the overgrown rockery that I realized Monica had fainted.

  A recovering alcoholic from Bremerton and a heart patient from Tacoma helped me lower Monica onto the sidewalk. Both seemed to know more about first aid than I did. While they tended to the unconscious woman I satisfied the curiosity of concerned onlookers and wondered if I should make a run to the hospital emergency room.

  But Monica had come 'round, and was sitting up, begging the recovering alcoholic and the heart patient not to fuss over her. “Thank you, thank you,” she said repeatedly. “Bless you, bless you.”

  I escorted her to the car while she murmured apologies and expressions of dismay. My offer to take her to the emergency room was rejected, however. “I do that sometimes,” she said in an abject tone. “When I'm upset.”

  “You're upset about Verb?” I asked as we drove off through the rain.

  “Yes.” Monica sat up straight, her hands folded primly in her lap. “I prayed for him at the vase. I felt so … moved.”

  But apparently not reassured. Monica had said she was frightened. “What's wrong with Verb? I mean, besides having those bikes stolen.”

  Monica didn't answer directly. “It's very difficult to earn a living in Alpine these days. Sometimes it seems as if everything is against us. But you have to have hope. It's a Christian virtue, you know.”

  I knew. I hoped. I was often disappointed. “Does Verb feel hopeless?”

  “Maybe.” Monica sounded vague, even more so than usual. But at least she wasn't crying and it appeared that she wouldn't pass out again. We were turning onto Fir.

  My house lay to the left; the Vancich residence was on the right.

  “The ski season is coming,” I said after a moment of silence. “Verb's store does well in the winter, I would think.”

  “Fairly well.” Monica's slim body gave off a small tremor. “He hasn't had much competition. Until now.”

  Up ahead, I saw the Vancich house with the low clouds looming above the roof. The threat of Warren Wells also loomed over Verb and Monica. His proposed sporting-goods store definitely would cut into Alpine Ski's business. I didn't blame Verb for being worried.

  “He can diversify,” I said, pulling into the driveway. “It'll take Warren several months to get up and running. Verb can beat him to the punch.”

  Monica didn't say anything. As before, she was slow to get out of the car. Finally, with her thin fingers clutching the door handle, she turned to give me a pitiful look. “Why did it have to be Warren Wells? Why has it always been Warren Wells? I feel haunted. Why didn't God take Warren instead of that awful woman? God rest her soul.”

  Monica moved with unexpected alacrity, ignoring my plea for an explanation. To my astonished eyes, she seemed to evaporate into the rain. But of course she merely went inside the house. I chided myself for having too much imagination.

  Or maybe not enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WAS AFTER eleven-thirty when I got home. Anxiously, I checked my machine for a message from Milo. The red light showed the number “2.” Vida's voice came through on the first call.

  “Roger just got picked up by his parents. Naturally they're relieved that everything turned out so well. I warned him that he mustn't take up with children who don't know how to behave. I especially cautioned him to keep away from teenagers. But the little fellow seems to have overcome his misadventure and is quite his lively self again. I just wanted to reassure you, because I knew you'd worry about him.”

  Like I'd worry about Mussolini, I thought, waiting for the next message. I couldn't imagine that Roger had turned a hair over his escapade. I wished—no doubt futilely—that his parents might show more mettle in disciplining their son. So my thoughts were running when I heard Carla's voice
on the machine.

  “You should have come with me,” she declared in a breathless voice. “The sheriff and the state troopers brought in twelve suspects. They've been charged with reckless endangerment, possession, vandalism, and … I forget. There was a big confrontation up on Mount Sawyer, I guess. Some of the partygoers or whatever resisted arrest. Oh—they got charged with that, too. Anyway, a couple had guns and threatened to shoot it out with the sheriff and the troopers. But they finally brought them in, around ten. I wish I'd gone all the way up the mountain, but I got some good shots of the perps being hauled out of the squad cars. I got a totally cool close-up of Milo, bleeding. By the way, he's in the hospital. See you tomorrow. 'Night.”

  I was too upset to actually run out and strangle Carla. Instead I struggled into my jacket and headed back into the night. The hospital is located about halfway between my house and the newspaper office. It took me three minutes to get there.

  A weary-looking Marilynn Lewis was behind the desk, talking on the phone. She saw me at once and nodded. I glanced at the waiting room, where a young couple sat with a fidgety two-year-old, an older man held his head while his grim-faced wife stared at the opposite wall, and Ginny Burmeister Erlandson leaned against her husband, Rick.

  Despite my concern for Milo, I rushed over to Ginny. “What's wrong?” I asked, fearing that the worst can happen in the early stages of pregnancy.

  Ginny pointed to her left ankle. “I fell. There was a big hole in the street by Videos To Go, but you couldn't see it because of all the rain. Rick wants to make sure it's not broken.”

  With a sigh of relief, I patted Ginny's arm, then turned back to the desk, where Marilynn was hanging up the phone. “The sheriff?” I asked in a whisper.

  Marilynn rolled her dark eyes. “He'll be fine. Somebody hit him with a beer bottle. He's had about ten stitches and there'll probably be a scar, but he can go home in a little while. Dr. Flake wants to keep him under observation just to make sure there's no concussion.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders slumped in relief. “Should I stay so I can drive him home?”