Bitter Alpine

by Mary Daheim

  I managed not to smile. Vida’s diets were a joke to the rest of us, mainly because she really wasn’t fat. At five-ten, not counting her sensible chunky heels or her eclectic hats, she had a big frame and an imposing bust. I doubted if her weight had changed more than a few pounds one way or the other since I met her.

  Watching her move briskly toward Mitch and the pastry box, I decided to remain in my office. The Upper Crust sometimes had cupcakes with smiley faces on them. I wondered if my gloomy reporter had ever asked them to make ones with sad faces. Probably not, but he might like them if they did.

  Five minutes later, Mitch came into my cubbyhole holding a mug of coffee and a plain doughnut. Like Vida, he remained standing. “I’m off on my rounds. Were there any late developments Sunday on the Douglas woman’s murder?”

  Mitch slowly shook his head. “Nothing that won’t appear in the sheriff’s log,” I replied. Small-town homicides still seem strange to me after Detroit. Brenda wonders if we should have stayed back there. But with Troy…” He paused, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall behind me. “No use having regrets. We did what we had to do.”

  “Most of us are like that,” I said. “Twenty years ago, while I was working on The Oregonian, I never dreamed I’d end up in a small town like Alpine.”

  Mitch agreed and went on his way. As usual, he hadn’t asked why I’d made a similar move. But I would have told him that my parents had been killed in an auto accident on their way back from Ben’s ordination. My brother and I had put the family home up for sale and divided the proceeds. Ben had balked at taking his share after taking a vow of poverty as a priest. It had been a small house in a modest real estate market. I moved into student housing on the University of Washington campus. It was there that I met Don, a grad student who’d done his military duty. He fell in love with me and when he proposed, I said yes. I needed to belong to someone, even if I didn’t return his stronger feelings.

  But when I did my student internship with The Seattle Times, I met Tom Cavanaugh, who was the city desk editor. He and Sandra had been married for only a couple of years and had no children. The lovely Mrs. Cavanaugh came from a wealthy California family, but her inheritance wasn’t just money. She was also emotionally unbalanced. Tom and I began an affair; Don became collateral damage. When I became pregnant with Adam, Tom said he’d marry me as soon as he could end his own marriage, but Sandra held the trump card: she, too, was pregnant. Tom withdrew his proposal, though he vowed to help me support our child. I was so furious that I told him I never wanted to see or hear from him again.

  I spent the next two decades in Oregon, finishing my degree, working for The Oregonian, and raising Adam. Then I learned that Don had died and had never remembered to remove me from his Boeing insurance policy. The $400,000 allowed me to quit the reporter’s job and buy the Advocate—and a used Jaguar. It also meant moving to a small town. Alpine had little appeal for me. I figured when I retired I’d move back to Seattle. But Milo changed that idea for me.

  As for Tom, he had been acquiring weekly newspapers all over California and was now moving into Oregon and Washington. We managed to survive a weeklong visit without ending up in bed, but a couple of months later he showed up at a newspaper conference I was attending at Lake Chelan, and we couldn’t resist temptation. A few years later Sandra overdosed on her elaborate menu of prescription drugs. Eventually, Tom and I made marriage plans, and we decided that after Adam’s ordination as a priest, he and Ben would officiate at our wedding. Instead, we were all reunited at Tom’s funeral in San Francisco. Over the years my former lover had become involved in the Irish cause. A jealous, hotheaded fellow Irish sympathizer decided that Tom had it too easy, merely doling out money and never getting his hands dirty in the process. My future husband was shot during the annual Summer Solstice Festival Parade and died of his wounds.

  Ironically, when Tom had suddenly appeared in Alpine a little over a year after I’d bought the newspaper, Vida was much taken with him, despite his married status. She even called him Tommy, which he took with good grace.

  “Are you awake?” Leo asked as he leaned on my desk.

  I shook myself and laughed. “I started out trying to think of a subject for the special editorial and ended up mulling over how I got to be a newspaper publisher in the first place. It’s a new year, after all, and I suppose a little introspection isn’t a bad thing.”

  Leo cocked his head. “No regrets?”

  “None. Really.” Since Tom had recommended Leo to me despite having fired him for drinking too much, I wanted to reassure my ad manager that I’d made the right decision, including when it came to hiring him.

  He laughed. “Now you’ve got two of us. By the way, Liza and I looked at that house Saturday and it’s basically decent, but we’re wondering if we should buy a condo instead. No yard to keep up. I was never very good about it, and she figures she’s done enough to qualify for a green thumb.”

  “I’m sure she has,” I agreed. “I still like puttering around in my garden. It’s good mental therapy, and Milo does all the heavy lifting.”

  “Your old man keeps in good shape,” Leo conceded. “I gather he works out. I’m too lazy.”

  “Milo works out at least twice a week before he goes to headquarters. I don’t work out because I’m also too lazy.”

  “You don’t need to,” he declared. “What do you weigh? Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I stay about the same—close to a hundred and twenty. I used to weigh just under a hundred and twenty-five, but I lost weight after Tom was killed. For some reason, the five pounds never came back. It’s all because of my weird metabolism. It burns up calories.”

  “Lucky you.” Leo glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Don’t ever tell Liza. Both of us have struggled to keep off the pounds.”

  “Speaking of weight, I see Vida’s still here,” I said, noting that she had sat down at Liza’s vacant desk and was eating a second doughnut. “I suspect we’re all going to be asked for ‘Scene’ items.”

  “Guess I’d better check my memory,” Leo replied, and headed back to the newsroom.

  Reluctantly I got up and followed him. Maybe someone would come up with an item that would inspire my editorial. Maybe I should have focused on that instead of the special edition. Maybe I needed more coffee.

  Just then Liza entered from the front office. “Ah!” my former House & Home editor exclaimed to her successor. “You must have noticed some intriguing items while making your rounds. Do give me something I can use in ‘Scene.’ ”

  Liza stopped by the coffee urn. “I overheard someone waiting to cross Front Street say that one of the school bus drivers had forgotten to take off his chains after taking the team to Darrington for a basketball game Saturday. That made the kids late for early classes this morning.”

  “The driver’s name?” Vida asked.

  Liza grimaced. “I’m not sure. Hal or Al or…? Really, I was intent on watching traffic.”

  Vida didn’t hide her disapproval. “As you must know, in a small town, names make news. Perhaps you should call Principal Freeman and find out which driver it was.”

  But Liza was no pushover. “Wouldn’t that embarrass the poor guy? It might even get him into trouble.”

  I edged closer to the coffee urn and realized I was watching a turf war. Vida took no prisoners when it came to people who disagreed with her. Over the years, I’d been careful about treading on her toes. So were our readers. There were still some Alpiners, especially senior citizens, who thought she ran the newspaper and I was her dimwitted sidekick. I glanced at Leo, who looked more bemused than alarmed.

  “People,” Vida began with a lift of her chin, “should be held accountable for their actions. If I run this in ‘Scene,’ he may very well be reprimanded. It’s a safety issue for our children.”

  Liza cocked her
head to one side. “In that case, why don’t you write an article about it?” She shot me a quick glance. “I’m sure Emma would run it in the interest of saving lives.”

  It was time to intervene. “Let’s drop the item,” I said. “Nothing happened. My next-door neighbors, the Marsdens, had their grandchildren here from Mountlake Terrace over the weekend. They tried to make a snowman Saturday, but there wasn’t enough snow and they gave up. Who else has something for ‘Scene’?”

  Kip volunteered, “Betsy O’Toole found a stray cat in her office at the Grocery Basket Friday. She has no idea who it belongs to. No collar. Maybe the owners will see that in ‘Scene’ and rescue the little critter.”

  “Cats.” Vida said the word with disdain. She had no time for cats or other animals. Her only pet was Cupcake, a canary that had to be in his dotage by now. “Very well. That will do. Mitch?”

  I retreated into my office. Five minutes later Vida tromped in and sat down. “I would’ve appreciated more support from you, Emma. You stood there like a statue. Are you daunted by this newcomer?” She made the word sound obscene.

  “Of course not.” I smiled. “Let’s not get the week off to a bad start. Liza’s doing her best to fit in. It’s a big change for her.”

  “She should be elated that she escaped from Santa Fe,” Vida declared.

  “It’s Santa Maria,” I said. “Santa Fe is in New Mexico.”

  Vida shuddered. “So many Santas in the Southwest. How can anyone keep track of them except for the benighted souls who have to live in such places? Even some former Alpiners have retired to Arizona. Imagine!”

  She already knew the reasons people—especially retirees—loved living in the southwestern part of our country. Instead, I asked how she had spent the weekend. Settling into a less contentious mood, she described the visit she and her longtime companion, retired Air Force Colonel Buck Bardeen, had had with friends in Startup. He’d lived near there for several years before buying a Parc Pines condo. The get-together had been a very pleasant evening, Vida asserted. The dinner had been quite good, and she had asked their hostess to give her the recipe for the delicious chicken entrée. I prayed silently that Vida would never try to make it. Her lack of culinary talent was well known all over Skykomish County. When I’d come down with the overnight flu back in early December, she’d insisted on bringing dinner for Milo and me. I’d refused even to taste it, but my husband was braver. After one forkful, he swore it was boiled owl and threw it in the garbage.

  Getting to her feet, Vida started to turn toward the newsroom. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What’s going on with that cabin at Baring? Is someone living there? I saw smoke coming out of the chimney when we drove by.”

  “It’s an elderly couple,” I replied. “Milo got a call about a possible intruder the other day. There was no sign of anyone trying to get in, though.”

  Vida frowned. “Who owns it now that the Conley person is dead?”

  “I think the legal owner is Dean Ramsey’s daughter.”

  Vida frowned, and I could see her almost vibrating with curiosity. “Dean has always struck me as a bit of a milk toast. Surely Milo knows the name of the people who live there.”

  I nodded. “Yes, the man’s name is Waldo Danforth.”

  Vida stared at me. Then her knees started to buckle and she reached out to grab a visitor chair. “No!” she gasped before staggering into the chair and passing out.

  Chapter 9

  Mitch had seen Vida’s collapse, and he rushed into my office. “What happened?” he exclaimed.

  “Be careful!” I cried, getting up from my chair and coming around the side of my desk. “Her glasses fell on the floor.”

  Mitch scooped up the glasses and put them on top of some notes I’d made for possible future editions. “Is she…?” Just then Vida emitted a low groan. “Should we call the medics?” he asked.

  I was about to say yes when Vida lifted her head. “No!” she gasped. “No, no!” But she allowed Mitch to help her sit up while I handed over her glasses. I noticed she was very pale and her hands were trembling. She put the glasses in her lap, probably not wanting us to see how unsteady she still was. “Who else is here?” she asked, sounding more like herself.

  “Alison’s in the front office and Kip’s in the back shop,” Mitch replied, sitting down in the other visitor chair. “I just got back from my rounds. Can I get you some water?”

  “No, no. But thank you for offering.” Vida now sounded almost normal. “It’s this weather. So changeable this time of year. I felt as if I were coming down with a cold last night.” With a now-steady hand, she put her glasses back on and retrieved the pillbox, which had fallen onto my desk. “I really should be on my way. I’m supposed to meet Maud Dodd at the retirement home.” She glanced at the Bulova watch that her husband, Ernest, had given her over fifty years ago. Vida always swore that it had never needed repairing. “It’s twenty-six after nine. I told Maud I’d arrive at nine-thirty. I’ll call from my car to let her know I’ll be a bit tardy. I do hate it when people aren’t on time.”

  Mitch stood up. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered.

  But Vida shook her head, where the pillbox once again resided. “No, I’m fine. One can’t give in to a mere cold.” She got to her feet, a bit more slowly than usual, but her majestic exit was sheer Vida.

  “Amazing old girl,” Mitch said under his breath. “How old is she?”

  “A few years shy of eighty,” I replied, after Vida left the newsroom. “She never mentions her birthday. I think she ignores the aging process.”

  Mitch had also gotten to his feet. “Did something set her off, or do you think it was a small stroke? A TIA, I think they’re called.”

  I shrugged. “For all I know, she may really be getting a cold. Even Vida can have an occasional ailment.”

  “I suppose. Oh, well. Back to work.”

  I watched him walk away to his desk. Then I sat down and wondered why the mention of Waldo Danforth had sent Vida into a tailspin. The name meant nothing to me, but I was sure it meant something to her. It would take a lot of time and a lot of trouble to find out what it was.

  The rest of the morning was spent checking copy that Mitch had handed in for this week’s edition and going over Vida’s feature on a Gustavson relation of hers who had visited family in Wisconsin for the holidays. “Wisconsin!” Vida had exclaimed Friday afternoon when she handed it in. “All that cheese and Green Bay Packers and more snow than we have in Alpine! How can such a flat place have so much snow? At least we have mountains.” Despite her gossipy tone and often burying the lead halfway through an article, I rarely made corrections. Our readers—especially the older ones—seemed to like her style.

  I’d lost track of time when I checked my watch and saw it was five minutes to noon. Maybe Milo was free for lunch. I dialed his private line, but the call trunked over to Lori Cobb, who told me that her boss had already left.

  “He’s taking Consi to lunch at the ski lodge,” Lori informed me. “It’s the first chance he’s had to do that since she started work here. Is there a message?”

  “No, it was just a whim,” I replied. “Say, do you know anybody named Danforth who lives here? And no, I don’t mean the guy who called from the cabin at Baring. I wonder if he has relatives in town.”

  “Gosh,” Lori said after a pause. “I don’t think so. But it’s possible if there was someone a long time ago.”

  Lori was only a bit past thirty, so her answer didn’t surprise me. I thanked her and hung up. I saw Kip go through the newsroom, but he was only a couple of years older than the sheriff’s receptionist. Milo might know. I’d ask him when he got home. Suddenly realizing I was hungry, I called the Venison Inn and ordered takeout. If Milo was taking his new deputy to lunch at the ski lodge, I’d treat myself again to the VI’s rare beef dip. It was much better than the Burger Ba
rn’s overcooked version. I also ordered a small green salad. For some irrational reason, I was feeling a little green, but I told myself it wasn’t with jealousy.

  Or was it?

  * * *

  —

  Around three o’clock, our retired county commissioner Leonard Hollenberg wandered into the front office, asking for Vida. I heard Mitch tell him that she’d been in earlier but probably wouldn’t be back. Since Leonard liked to talk a lot and never could remember my first name, I stayed at my desk and kept my head down. He started to yak it up with Mitch, but my reporter’s phone rang. I could hear the former commissioner’s heavy tread coming my way.

  “Erma,” he barked at me as he crossed the threshold. “You got room for Violet’s story about our annual trip to Leavenworth to see all the Christmas stuff they put up over there?”

  The Hollenbergs had made that trip almost every year for as long as I could remember. Not that the Bavarian-style town wasn’t worth repeated visits. I’d gone there once with Tom and we’d spent the night. I still had the hand-carved madonna-and-child statue that he’d bought for me.

  Leonard was opening a manila envelope and hauling out what looked like the first chapter of a long Russian novel. “Violet’s a pretty danged good writer, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he asserted. “Maybe that’s why she’s not much of a talker.”

  I nodded politely. No doubt Violet never had much chance to get a word in edgewise.

  Not needing any further encouragement, Leonard rattled on. And on. The half-million lights on all the German village buildings along the main street, Father Christmas, the roaming Dickensian carolers, the hearty meals, the comfortable motel bed, the good cheer shown by the merchants…my eyelids began to droop. It was only when Leonard sneezed that I refocused on him.

  “Gesundheit!” I exclaimed, proving that I was still conscious.