by Mary Daheim
Vida emitted a huge sigh, her bosom straining the buttons of her candy-cane-striped blouse. “Must I? It’s a tiresome story.”
Alison was standing in the newsroom doorway. “Oh, please, Mrs. Runkel! I grew up in Everett, so I don’t know much Alpine lore.”
Leo was back at his desk. “This isn’t the first time the Eversons brought in bones. Were they all supposed to be Mama?”
Vida looked resigned, though I suspected she was dying to tell the story. I vaguely recalled an occasional find of bones and a couple of skulls, but after DNA testing, they were found not to be Myrtle’s. In fact, some had been from four-footed animals and at least one owl.
“Oh, very well.” She straightened the bow on her blouse and settled in to relate the mystery of Myrtle. “It was August 1988, wild blackberry season in the second growth after a timber parcel had been logged north of Carroll Creek. Myrtle was a widow in her early sixties living out on the Burl Creek Road where Roy and Bebe Everson do now. She’d told her daughter, Joyce—Joyce had just married Lyle Rhodes—that she was going to pick berries near Carroll Creek that afternoon. Joyce worked at …” Vida bowed her head, as if she kept notes in her lap on every Alpiner, past and present. “… the Sears catalog store. She talked to Joyce on the phone just before noon. Around two, Myrtle came to Edna Roberson’s house, asking where she—Myrtle—lived. Edna was startled. She told Myrtle her house was right across the road, saying, ‘Don’t you know that?’ Myrtle nodded and left. Edna assumed she was going home, though she’d noticed the bucket was empty. That evening Roy stopped by to deliver a parcel for his mother. The door was unlocked. Myrtle wasn’t there.” Vida paused to sip her hot water.
“Early Alzheimer’s?” Mitch suggested.
Vida shook her head. “If it was, no one recalled Myrtle showing any symptoms.”
“Good weather?” Leo asked.
“Yes, a fine August day,” Vida said. “But no one ever saw Myrtle—or her bucket—again.”
Alison shivered. “That’s awful. You think a bear ate her?”
“Dubious,” Vida said. “It was the first thing people thought of when the search parties found no trace. Bears and berries go together. But Myrtle was wearing a wristwatch, a large one, being farsighted and unable to see small numbers without glasses. The elder Dr. Medved—he hadn’t yet retired as a veterinarian—said that while a bear might eat an entire person, bones and all, the one thing the animal can’t digest is metal—such as belt buckles, buttons, and watches.”
“Yuck,” Alison said, grimacing. “That’s gruesome.”
Vida shrugged. “It’s Nature, dear. We live so close to it in Alpine.”
“So what about dem bones?” Mitch inquired.
Vida sighed. “The family became obsessed with finding out what happened to Myrtle. When any unidentified bones show up, they insist on DNA testing. This wasn’t possible until the last few years—except for the skulls. They’d check dental records. Don’t you remember, Emma?”
I nodded. “It was always a nonstory, at least regarding Myrtle. One skull showed up when Carla was our reporter,” I said, referring to the ditzy young woman who’d almost unhinged me with her typos and idiosyncratic approach to news. “I envisioned her headline, ‘Myrtle’s Still Lost Her Head,’ following up in the copy with ‘skullduggery.’ ”
“Too true,” Vida declared. “No doubt this time is no different.”
“Maybe they’ll give up,” Leo said. “Is it a hobby or a fixation?”
Vida sighed. “Both. It’s the end of the year. I wish it was the end of Myrtle.”
Leo chuckled, Alison was still dismayed, and Mitch looked bemused. I returned to my office, never guessing that this was far from the end of Myrtle’s saga.
———
Thursday was busy. Leo plunged into ad copy and mock-ups, skipping lunch before taking the fruits of his labors to our merchants for approval. He finished by four, heading to Sea-Tac Airport to catch an evening flight to California and his no-longer-estranged family.
Mitch’s hard news shrank the week before Christmas, with meetings postponed and guest speakers replaced by holiday parties. The sheriff’s log listed minor vehicular accidents, three burglaries at the upscale neighborhood known as The Pines, two prowlers, and the theft of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer from Old Mill Park. Mitch wrote a droll piece on Rudolph’s adventures after leaving his spot by the picnic tables.
I asked if there was any progress nailing the maple poachers who’d recently hacked down trees close to town. Mitch said that without the sheriff cracking the whip, there was nothing new. The poachers seemed to be lying low, perhaps scared off after our artist recluse, Craig Laurentis, had been shot near the site of the latest arboreal carnage.
“What about those burglaries?” I asked. “The Pines is our version of … what in Detroit?”
Mitch laughed dryly. “Royal Oak is nice and so are some other suburbs. But after seeing Seattle real estate prices, how does anybody afford to live there? I saw an ad for a shack that cost a quarter of a million dollars. Heck, even The Pines was out of our price range.”
“That probably wasn’t a shack,” I said, “but a garage. And you know what? As ugly as it was, I bet Casa de Bronska would’ve sold for six times as much in Seattle than what Ed Bronsky got for it here in Alpine.”
Mitch shook his head and walked away.
Vida wrote the background for Alfred Cobb’s obit, leaving space for funeral information. She was still receiving Christmas party news and photos from various social clubs for her section. Last but not least, Vida dealt with her advice column. Several queries came from people who didn’t want to spend the holiday with certain odious family members.
My tasks were easy. I wrote two editorials, the first lauding Alfred Cobb for his long service to the county. The second hit SkyCo’s highlights since January, ending with a wish for the new year to treat our readers kindly. I could’ve typed that one with my chin. I’d done the same thing every December since taking over the newspaper.
When I left the office, it was still raining enough for me to keep the windshield wipers on. I headed for the Grocery Basket to stock the larder. There was already a twenty-pound turkey jammed into the freezer; I’d purchased it for Thanksgiving before Adam and Ben canceled.
The store was busy, forcing me to circle the parking lot twice. Betsy O’Toole, the wife of the owner, Jake O’Toole, was helping an addled Grace Grundle with the cash machine by the door.
Betsy saw me and forced a tired smile. “Hi, Emma,” she said, abandoning Grace. “I’m glad your family’s coming for Christmas.” She glanced at the produce section, where her brother-in-law, Buzzy, was unloading a pallet of Idaho potatoes. “It’s a tough one for us.”
I nodded. “How are Buzzy and Laura doing? I’ve hardly seen them since Mike was killed.”
“They keep a low profile,” Betsy said, stepping aside for a young woman pushing a toddler in a grocery cart. “Especially Laura. She’s always been quiet. I put her to work in the storeroom. She needs to stay busy and not dwell on the truck accident.”
“Good.” I saw Grace chewing on her fist and staring helplessly at the cash machine. “Kenny’s still working for you,” I said, referring to Mike’s younger brother, who was carrying out an elderly couple’s bags.
“Kenny’s a great kid,” Betsy said. “Speaking of kids, is Ginny coming back to work for you or is she serious about being a stay-at-home mom now that they’ve got the new baby and two other little boys?”
I shrugged. “Ginny’s mulling. Alison goes back to teaching her cosmetology course right after New Year’s. If Ginny opts out, I’ll ask Amanda Hanson to take over. Once Amanda settled in, she did very well. She should finish her temporary post office job by next week.”
“Amanda’s changed,” Betsy said. “She used to be so flighty, not to mention a bit of a …” She stopped, apparently seeing my eyes widen as I looked beyond her to Grace, who had taken off one of her sensible shoes and was whacking it against
the cash machine. “Oh, Holy Mother!” Betsy exclaimed. “Gotta go!” Whirling around, she rushed off to save the money dispenser from destruction.
It was six-thirty when I got to my little log house. The phone rang just as I carted in the last grocery bags. Racing into the living room, I grabbed the receiver before the call went over to voicemail.
“Why haven’t you texted me?” Ben asked in his crackling voice.
“Because …,” I said breathlessly, just then realizing I’d left the cell at work. “Because I don’t know how.”
“Oh, for … Emma, you really are a moron. It’s not astrophysics. Any six-year-old can use those damned things.”
“Hey—we’ve been so busy that I forgot. I showed it to Kip yesterday, but we were pulling things together so I can entertain you and Adam without neglecting work. And did you forget I almost got killed?”
“No,” my brother said, “you alluded to that in an email. But your recent news has been brief except for nagging me about not standing you up again. We haven’t spoken for a while.”
“You’ve been busy, too. Are you canceling again?”
Ben chuckled. “No. How long could you put up with me beyond the five days I originally scheduled?”
His query was disconcerting. “What have you got in mind?”
“Den asked if I could stay through New Year’s. He wants a few extra days to go from Houston to see his brother in Pittsburgh. I need a break, so I asked for a six-week leave. I should get it. I haven’t had much time off in five years.”
“You’re burned out?”
“Not as a priest,” he replied, sounding more serious than usual. “But I am burned out with city life. Ever since I started doing temporary assignments, I’ve been sent to big cities. I miss the desert, I miss the Delta. I need to reconnect with the first thirty years of my life serving the Church. I want to see the sun baking on adobe, listen to blues by the Mississippi, see my old parishioners, and air myself out. I might even go up to see Adam’s frozen world in Alaska.”
I understood. “That’s wonderful. How long would you stay in Alpine?” I asked after only a faint pause.
“Why? Will I cramp your style?”
“No,” I fibbed. “I just stocked up on groceries. I’m thinking about food over the long term.”
Ben’s pause lasted long enough to make me more uneasy. “I don’t plan to impose on you. Why are you fussing over menus? You’re a lousy liar, Sluggly.”
The childhood nickname annoyed me as much as the accusation. “Okay, Stench,” I snapped, calling him what I always did when he was making my life miserable, “I do have a life outside of the Advocate.”
“Is it that AP guy who took off for a Loire Valley petit chateau or did you finally succumb to Mr. Radio’s feigned indifference?”
“Oh, God, you are evil!” I slid off the sofa onto the floor. “I haven’t heard from Rolf Fisher in weeks, and Spencer Fleetwood may seem like a dream walking and talking, but I do not find him appealing. The thing is, Vida will want to invite you to dinner and she’ll pester me until I give her your schedule.”
“Stop!” Ben cried. “Don’t threaten me with Vida’s ghastly exploits at a stove. I was thinking of leaving a few days after New Year’s, maybe. I don’t have any plans beyond getting to your little log cabin on the Sky. But I connect with Adam tomorrow at Sea-Tac. His flight arrives an hour after I do, so I’ll rent a car and try not to get cuffed by security while I wait for him.”
“Maybe if you’d wear your clerical garb and not look like a reject from Nirvana’s heyday, you’d get some ’spect, bro.”
“You’ve ruined my self-esteem. See you tomorrow, Sluggly.”
I smiled as he rang off. My brother could make me smile even when he made me mad. Or, in this case, uncomfortable. I knew I had to tell him what was going on in my life. Or not going on, at the moment.
Hauling myself up from the floor, I turned around to gaze at Craig Laurentis’s painting, Sky Autumn. The rushing waters over rocks and under fallen branches seemed to flow right off the canvas. I never looked at Craig’s work without marveling at how he could create such magic. Yet in recent weeks, I’d been afraid to look at all, fearing he might never paint again. After he’d been shot near the tree-poaching site, his life had hung in the balance. But he’d rallied, returning on a pale December morning to wherever he lived in his mountain aerie among the other wild, untamed creatures. If that’s what it took to create genius, so be it.
After dinner, I added the final touches to my holiday décor. I’d put the tree up on Sunday, but had overlooked a box of candles for the mantel. Many of them had belonged to my parents. I set them out, then I placed the painted resin figure of Mary next to Joseph in the wooden stable. The ritual was carried out one piece at a time, with Baby Jesus settling into His crib on Christmas Eve. I always offer a prayer and on this night I said one for my kinsmen’s safe journeys.
By the next afternoon, only half of my prayer was answered. Ben called from Sea-Tac around three to say he’d heard from Adam, who couldn’t leave the village because of a whiteout. “He may make it tomorrow,” Ben said. “There’s no point waiting here any longer.”
“Damn!” I slumped in my chair. A whiteout was a snowstorm that didn’t just snarl traffic, but prevented more than an inch or two of visibility. “Why didn’t he call or send an email? I’m his mother.”
“He can’t go online. He texted me because he can. I’m hanging up so I can join the other bad drivers on Highway 2.”
I cringed. The road to Alpine was called the Highway to Heaven because it was so dangerous, and my brother was reckless behind the wheel. Maybe it was his way of defying fate after our parents were killed in a car crash on their way home from his ordination.
“You’re glum,” Vida said when I entered the newsroom. “Why?”
I told her about Adam’s delay. “What if he never gets out?”
“Oh, heavens!” Vida cried. “He’ll be here. Who’s taking his place?”
“I don’t know—a Jesuit from the northern Alaska diocese, I think. But if Adam can’t get out, the other priest can’t get in.”
“But Ben’s going to be here,” she said in reassurance. “I must invite him to supper. It’ll have to be after Tuesday, since our family’s gathering in Bellingham at my daughter Meg’s tomorrow after church.” She frowned. “It’ll give Roger an opportunity to see the Western Washington campus. His old chum, Davin Rhodes, likes it there.”
“Could Roger enroll for winter quarter or is it too late?”
Vida straightened the red vest she wore over her white blouse. “Oh—I don’t know. He hasn’t gotten his transcripts together. Amy and Ted won’t nag. I wish Buck hadn’t left town to be with his children and grandchildren. I’d hoped he’d come with us to Bellingham and see what a nice campus they have. Very woodsy and not unlike Alpine, though larger. Viewing the lovely setting might make Buck forget the Marines.”
“The school’s grown since it became a university,” I remarked as Mitch entered the newsroom. “Any luck with New Year’s photos?”
Mitch ignored me, briskly walking to his desk. He acted as if I were invisible. “Hey, Laskey,” I called good-naturedly, “you deaf?”
My reporter waved an impatient hand and picked up the phone. He remained standing, his back turned to me. I looked at Vida, who was regarding him with fiercely curious gray eyes. “What’s this?” she hissed.
I shook my head. Mitch was speaking into the phone, but so softly that we couldn’t hear what he was saying. He paid no attention to Kip, who’d arrived with what looked like Photoshop art and was standing a few feet away, apparently waiting for Mitch to hang up.
Kip noticed that Vida and I were frozen in place. Alison had come from the front office, also acting bewildered. She motioned at Mitch, looked at me, and held out her hands as if to ask what was going on.
I shook my head. Kip backed off, moving toward Leo’s vacated area. I signaled for Alison to follow me into my c
ubbyhole. Before we could take more than a few steps, Mitch put down the phone in what seemed like a difficult act of self-control.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have a family emergency.” He took a deep breath, his face pale. “I’ll be in touch.” He grabbed his laptop and practically ran out the door, his black raincoat flapping at his legs.
“Well now!” Vida said, fist on hips. “What’s that about?”
Kip shook his head. “I haven’t heard sirens. It can’t be medical.”
“It has to be Mrs. Laskey,” Alison said. “Didn’t he say ‘family’?”
We all agreed. Vida drummed her fingers on the desk. I knew what she was thinking: Who among her vast network of relatives could help? “True, Kip,” she said after a long silence. “What does that leave?”
“Mental? Emotional?” I suggested.
“Possibly,” Vida allowed. “Didn’t I say Brenda’s odd?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Kip blurted, then shook his head. “I forgot, the Laskeys are Jewish, so they shouldn’t be in a holiday funk.”
I asked Kip if we were close to being done. “I’d like to shut down early in case Ben stops at my house before he goes to the rectory.”
Kip clasped the Photoshop art. “I wanted to ask Mitch about using this for our New Year’s greeting. Did he take any more pictures?”
“I don’t see his camera,” I said. “He must’ve left it in his car.”
“Then I’m almost finished,” Kip said. “Chili’s mom called last night about Roy and the newest batch of bones. What’s up with that?”
Vida grimaced. “Nothing new until they’re sent to the Everett lab.”
Kip’s wife was related to the Eversons on her mother’s side. “Is Chili caught up in that, too?” I asked.
“No,” Kip said, “but her mom is. Chili likes to think her grandma ran off with a man. Like that would happen at her age.”
“She was only sixty-two,” Vida huffed. “Love is ageless.”
Kip shrugged. “Well … sure. I’ll tell Chili that. It’ll make her feel better about the whole deal.” He headed for the back shop.