Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

  Den pressed his fist against his lips. “They want me out,” he finally said.

  I jumped in the chair. “Who?”

  But Den wouldn't say, at least not specifically. “Some parishioners feel they can inject themselves into every facet of their church. Liturgy, budget, building—you name it. And the school, of course. That goes without saying. After Vatican Two, when the laity was encouraged to take a more active part, the floodgates were opened. Oh, changes were needed, they still are, no doubt about it. But unfortunately many Catholics got some weird ideas about participation. They don't—or won't— understand that the Church hierarchy is still in place, which means that on the parochial level, the pastor retains command. If that weren't true, there'd be chaos. The Church isn't a democracy. Americans, especially, sometimes find that galling.”

  Searching for his views on the latest parish-council debacle, I tried to sort through Father Den's soliloquy. “Are you saying that Jake and the others usurped your powers at the emergency meeting?”

  Father Den waved an impatient hand. “Oh, sure, of course they did. But they weren't being mean-spirited.” He gave me a sickly grin. “Another typically American response—if something's broken, we have to fix it. Now. That's what they did. And I'll have to try to unfix it, by doing the right thing, which will be to remove Ed and have him run for Luce's spot.” His hand fell away to his side and his face sagged. “It's just one more pain in the neck. There are days when I wonder why I bother.”

  “You're not thinking of leaving, are you?” I asked in alarm.

  “I don't know.” Den stared through the small window that looked across the parking lot to the church. “1 won't stay if I'm a bone of contention, like some icon for evil. The truth is, I may be a lousy pastor. I've never been very organized, and finances aren't my strong suit. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what I do have to offer the faithful.”

  “Faith,” I said. “Maybe that's enough.”

  Den responded with something like a cross between a snort and a sneer. “You know,” he said, putting the school enrollment papers aside, “last week I dreaded the idea of Ursula Randall getting on the school board. I saw nothing but trouble. Now I wonder. She would have been a force, possibly for good. I'm glad I'm not preaching her funeral homily. I would have made a lot of people mad.”

  “Why?” I asked, though I could guess.

  But Father Den kept his own counsel. Not having publicly uttered his condemnation of certain mind-sets among the laity, he wasn't about to do so privately. Thus we changed the subject, and I brought him up to date on Ben's misfortune in Tuba City. As he walked me to the door of his office, Den promised to try to raise some funds for a new church.

  “I hadn't thought about it before,” he said in wonder, “but your brother's in a situation similar to mine.”

  “How so?” Ben had been pastor in the home missions for almost twenty years.

  “He's the wrong race,” Den replied. “He can never be one of them.”

  “I don't agree,” I said. “Faith binds us together. That's what being children of God means. We're all the same.”

  Father Den held out his dark brown arm next to my pale white skin and smiled sadly. “No, we're not.”

  * * *

  If the funeral Mass for Ursula was held at noon, then the service and the reception should be over by three. On the chance that he'd attended one or both, I'd wait until four to call Murray Felton at the TV station. Maybe he could clear up the misunderstanding about Luce's lawsuit.

  On my way back from St. Mildred's, I'd stopped at the mall and bought teriyaki takeout for lunch. It was never very good, perhaps because the concession was run by a Norwegian and a Dane, but it was a change from the grease at the Burger Barn and the Venison Inn.

  I was stuffing myself with chopped cabbage and boiled rice and minuscule strips of beef when Ed thumped into my office. “Don't tell me you forgot about our meeting? I've come prepared.” He waved a file folder under my nose. “Promotional stuff, marketing concepts, big PR plans. Do you want to start with the TV spots?”

  I honestly couldn't recall having set a specific time for getting together with Ed to discuss his book publicity. Maybe by being vague, I'd hoped he'd forget, too.

  “Ed,” I began, “I don't have time for—”

  “Sure you do, it's Wednesday.” Ed's familiarity with my work schedule was an obvious drawback—for me. “I don't have much time, actually. I'm supposed to meet Father Den at two. I suppose it's about my appointment to the parish council.” Ed's buoyant humor faded a bit. “Have you talked to him about it?”

  I hedged. “Not in detail. I saw him just now, but we got off on other things.”

  Ed nodded sagely. “The school board, I'll bet. Derek Norman and Debra Barton are a standoff. They might as well not have bothered adding the new members.”

  I considered the complexities of church politics. Ursula Randall had been what I'd call an archconservative, a pre-Vatican II Catholic of the old school who'd just as soon hear the Mass in Latin with the priest's back turned to the congregation. Veronica Wenzler-Greene was poles apart, a liberal who interpreted anything the pope said as “optional.” The Monica Vanciches of this world were somewhere in the middle, or nowhere at all except in a spiritual la-la land where they viewed life, death, and the religion that guided them through rose-colored glasses. “You figure Bill Daley for the swing vote?” I asked. The conclusion was fairly obvious.

  “He always has been,” Ed replied, shuffling papers. “Greer Fairfax and Buddy Bayard never agree on much of anything. It's like Monica and Luce on the parish council. Complete opposites. They way I see it,” Ed went on, settling his elbows on the desk and leaning forward, “Luce was unpredictable, what I call a loose cannon. Hey!” Ed sat up and beamed all over himself. “That's good! A Luce cannon. Get it?”

  I nodded. Ed kept talking. “I could put that in the book somewhere, like the epilogue, where I'll write about how I saved the parish or whatever I do once I get going on the council. Where was I? Oh, now that Luce is out, the politics are harder to figure. Francine and Jake both like to put their fingers in the financial pie. They haven't always sided with Father Den, especially when it comes to money. Brendan Shaw's like Bill Daley—he sits on the fence. And of course the only thing that Monica likes about Den is that he's colored.”

  “What?” I thought that I hadn't heard Ed correctly.

  “Monica always upholds minorities,” Ed asserted in his condescending newly rich man's way. “Blacks, Indians, Indian Indians—you know, the ones from India—Orientals, the whole shot. So Monica has to say she likes Den, even though she doesn't because they don't agree on much of anything.”

  I thought I understood what Ed was trying to say. I also thought that Monica was practicing reverse prejudice. But that wasn't the issue. “So you're bringing the voice of reason to the council?” I said in solemn tones.

  “Sure,” Ed replied, sitting bunched up like a Kewpie doll in my visitor's chair. “I back Den most of the time, so he can't lose with me on his side. But I don't know about the others. I guess I'll have to talk turkey to Francine and Jake and Brendan, just like I did when they were my advertisers.”

  If Ed meant that he was going to support Dennis Kelly through thick and thin, then I wished him well and hoped that his appointment would stick. I suggested, however, that he might have to run for the post.

  The prospect didn't please him. “That would be two special elections in two weeks. Not good, it's like a merchant holding two sales back-to-back. People think something's fishy.”

  I'd managed to finish my lunch and was anxious to get back to work. “Say, Ed, why don't you leave your folder here and I'll go over it this evening. I want to get a head start on my editorial for next week. Research is required for this one. I'm beginning a campaign to make the sheriff an appointee, rather than an elected official.”

  “Oh, Emma!” Ed's disappointment was, I felt, for my lack of eagerness in discussing his promot
ional plans. But I was wrong. “You don't want to do that, not when you're … uh … well, you know … with Milo.” A hint of pink touched his chubby cheeks.

  I'd listened to Ed's criticisms of my conduct with the sheriff before. He was always quick to point out some imagined conflict of interest. For once, I fought fire with fire.

  “That's ridiculous, Ed. My relationship with Milo— not that it's anybody's damned business—has nothing to do with the philosophy behind how Skykomish County chooses its sheriff. If people want to talk, I can't stop them. I imagine half the town is saying that you bought your way onto the parish council.”

  “Whoa!” Judging from the quiver of his triple chins, Ed was definitely taken aback. “I haven't heard anybody say that. Yet.” The familiar doleful expression returned. “Anyway, I'm not the only rich parishioner these days. Jake and Buzzy are getting a pretty big bundle. In fact, they could end up richer than I am.” Ed became downright morose.

  “Hardly,” I remarked, knowing that all of Ed's self-esteem was tied up in his net worth. “It's only half a million each, which is quite a bit less than you inherited from your aunt.”

  Ed's cocker-spaniel eyes stared at me. “That's just the insurance money. They get everything, including the house in The Pines. Or haven't you heard?”

  I hadn't. “How do you know that?”

  “Doubles told me,” Ed answered. “I stopped by this morning before he left for the funeral. Since Shirl and I weren't going, I thought I should at least pay my respects.”

  I dumped the Styrofoam carton that had housed my teriyaki into the wastebasket. “So Warren comes out with nothing?”

  Ed nodded, the chins now merely bouncing. “It's a shame, really. He's never had much luck when it comes to women. At least he got some money from that second wife.”

  “He did?” My voice was faint, as I remained stunned by Ed's bombshell.

  “That was an insurance deal, too. Alexis, I think that was her name, wasn't rich or anything like that, but she had a fairly good-sized insurance policy. When they divorced, it was set up so that if anything happened to either of them, the surviving spouse would get the life insurance to help raise the kid. That's common, according to Brendan Shaw.”

  “You mean the stepson?” Ed had me muddled again.

  “Right. Except that Warren couldn't stand the kid, and he went to live with an aunt or somebody.” Ed was now speaking fast, as if bored with the subject. His pudgy fingers were sorting through his file.

  “What about the boy's father?” I asked as an odd, almost sinister feeling seemed to seep into the atmosphere of my crowded little office.

  “I don't think he was ever in the picture,” Ed said, handing me several sheets of paper that were stapled together. “It was one of those deals where the guy walked as soon as the girl got pregnant. For all I know, they weren't ever married. Some people have no sense of responsibility.” Apparently Ed saw my face tighten. “Hey, sorry, I don't mean … that is, I've never asked … everybody's different.” The last words came out in a mumble.

  I moved quickly to take the rest of the file from Ed. “Don't call me, I'll call you,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “See you, Ed.”

  For once, Ed left without another word.

  Ursula Randall's funeral Mass had been impressive, Vida grudgingly admitted when she returned to work around three-thirty. She'd been tempted to stay for the reception, but had felt obligated to head home. Of course she had some quibbles about the ceremony.

  “Such gaudy costumes—really, I don't see why priests and bishops and such have to dress up like something from the Middle Ages. A simple black robe—that's what Pastor Purebeck wears, no matter what the occasion. And never, never anything on his head. Honestly, I half expect to see one of your high muck-a-mucks show up with fruit on his hat, just like Carmen Miranda!”

  Assuming that Vida was referring to a miter, I asked if the archbishop had celebrated the Mass. Vida thought so—she rather fancied that she recognized him from his photographs. Naturally she had observed much more than the liturgy and its participants. The eulogy had lauded Ursula for her support, both moral and financial. The pallbearers had been unknown to her, though she assumed they were old friends from the Seattle area.

  Warren had behaved in a dignified manner, with Alieia at his side. All four of the OTooles had been in attendance, sitting enfamille. Vida assessed their demeanor as appropriately sorrowful. The cathedral was almost full, evidence of Ursula's impact on the community. There had been no untoward incidents, which clearly disappointed Vida. Her manner seemed to suggest that things would have gone differently in Alpine.

  I called the TV station at four and asked for Murray. “Not here!” the breezy young voice responded, and disconnected me with a decisive click. I'd try Murray again in the morning. There was no rush.

  A few minutes later Vida returned to my office. She had started getting caught up on phone messages that had accumulated in her absence. One of them was from her niece Marje Blatt, the medical clinic's receptionist.

  Polly Patricelli was in the hospital. According to Vida, the old lady had suffered a mild stroke. I waited for my House & Home editor to exhibit some kind of remorse for her grandson's carelessness, but none was forthcoming. Vida reiterated her belief that Roger had merely been curious, and who could blame the inquiring mind of a child? As ever, I marveled at Vida's blind spot.

  I decided to stop by and see Polly on my way home from work. The local hospital is small, with only fifty beds. Even so, many of them were empty. The recent changes in medical coverage didn't permit anyone to take up space for very long.

  Polly seemed to take up almost no space as she lay in the narrow hospital bed. Though always small, she appeared to have shrunken in the last twenty-four hours. Her cloudy old eyes were open, but she neither heard nor recognized me. I stayed for only a few minutes, then left her in the maze of monitors and IV tubing.

  Dennis Kelly was out in the hall, talking to Doc Dewey. I kept my distance, not wanting to interrupt. After a couple of minutes Doc returned to the nurses' station and Den turned in my direction. He looked pleased to see me, though still haggard.

  “Is she awake?” Den asked as I noted that he wore his stole under the black clerical jacket. I assumed he had brought Holy Communion to Polly. “Is she alert?”

  I shook my head. “Her eyes are open, though. Do you know when they admitted her?”

  “Pete Patricelli called for an ambulance this afternoon,” Father Den replied. “Rita had spent the night with their mother, and couldn't rouse her. I suppose it was that damned vase.” His expression was rueful.

  “You never saw it, did you?” I inquired.

  “No. I meant to, but I was gone for part of the weekend.” Father Den sighed. “In a way, I'm not sorry it got broken.”

  I was surprised. “What do you mean?”

  Father Den's pleasant, if unremarkable, features hardened. “Those so-called miracles often cause more harm than good. People get caught up in superstition, they mistake magic for grace. Why is it,” he went on, growing more quizzical, “that we can talk about cracks in a piece of ceramic, but not about God? Sidle up to a bar, get yourself a martini, and start in on 'How about that vase?' and everybody chatters like chimps. But mention that you've been reflecting on your commitment to Jesus Christ, and people look at you like you're some kind of circus freak. I don't get it. But it's true. Even among Christians, God's not a conversational topic.”

  “Religion is private,” I remarked. “It's like talking about sex or money.”

  “Oh, Emma!” Den's dark eyes were full of irony. “And I thought priests were supposed to be living in the Dark Ages. Everybody talks about sex and money these days. But they still don't talk about God.”

  I felt myself blush. “/ don't talk about sex and money.”

  Den uttered a choked little laugh. “You probably don't talk about God, either.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, this isn't the place for a homily. I'm out
of line. Maybe you're not like the rest of them.” Maybe.

  Milo had let Luce out of jail that afternoon. The charge had been reduced, and the judge had ordered the prisoner released on his own recognizance. Luce also had received a stern warning, which would probably do no good. I had conveyed Father Den's message to Delia via Jack Mullins's wife, Nina, who was working the afternoon volunteer shift at the shelter. Nina, an eternal optimist, assured me that Delia would jump at the chance to move to Seattle. I held my tongue. Delia wouldn't jump out of a ring of fire if it meant leaving her own comfort zone.

  It was still cloudy and had grown cooler, though I knew that autumn had not yet set in. September and early October often brought Indian summer. On the off chance that Milo might drop by later, I put on my better bathrobe, which was the one without the cigarette burns and the permanent grease stains.

  Glancing down at the aqua chenille that had long ago lost its fluff, I thought about Ursula and her satin lounging pajamas. I also thought about dry-cleaning bills. Only the rich could afford to sit around the house in glamorous outfits. Only the foolish would wear satin wedgies to the Skykomish River.

  But Ursula hadn't intended to go to the river. I realized that now, doubting that even an intoxicated woman would wear such footgear to walk along the Sky. When she unexpectedly found herself there on the rocky banks, she had removed those shoes. That was the only explanation for having one shoe on the wrong foot. Ursula had taken them off, but someone had put one of them back on after she was dead. He—or she—hadn't finished the task. There had been an interruption, or some kind of scare. The other shoe had somehow found its way up Mount Sawyer. How? I marveled that I hadn't thought through this scenario before.

  Milo wasn't home. It was not yet eight, so I assumed he'd stopped to eat dinner. I tried again five minutes later, but there was still no answer. I called Vida instead.

  “Well.” My House & Home editor was suitably impressed after hearing my theory. “You've come to the obvious conclusion, I see. Ursula was definitely murdered.”