The Alpine Winter

by Mary Daheim

  “Oh, Adam … this is serious. You’re a priest, too.”

  “I’m your son. I don’t judge. I hand out penance and tell people to try harder. The ‘try’ part’s the tough one, but that’s what life’s about.”

  “You don’t think I’m a lost cause?”

  “I told you, I don’t judge. Do you feel lost?”

  “Until your uncle tore into me, I was happy. I guess I still am. But I keep hearing him—and my conscience—giving me hell.”

  Adam sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I don’t know what to say. Are you and Dodge talking marriage?”

  “Not yet.” I paused, not sure how to explain to my son that I’d finally laid his father’s ghost to rest. But I realized Adam saw Tom through realistic eyes. “I’ve always loved Milo, even when your dad was alive. I just didn’t think I loved him … enough. Then three weeks ago, I realized I did. I told your uncle about my feelings. When Milo came here Sunday night, I hadn’t seen him since early December. There’s been no time to make plans. He’s gun-shy about marriage and I’m … not sure.”

  “Mom!” Adam rubbed his head. “Sure of what? You guys are a couple, like you’ve been together forever. I knew you’d had a fight when I opened the door, then you’re nuzzling each other. Do it, make it legal.”

  “Milo was married in a Protestant church.”

  “So? Uncle Ben can’t get you an annulment? He knows all kinds of people from here to the Vatican. What’s wrong with him?”

  I’d never considered Ben’s network. “Why didn’t he think of that?”

  “Maybe he’s got his own agenda.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s not Ms. Foxx,” Adam said. “He can deal with that stuff. Other women have hit on hm. He’s good-looking—for an uncle. Ask him.”

  I felt as if a great weight had been lifted. But it had been replaced by a smaller weight that was Ben. “Now I’ll worry about him.”

  “He seemed chilly with you at first, but I thought he was just beat.”

  I smiled. “I did something right. You’re the only grown-up in the Lord family.”

  “Don’t flatter me. I might get vain.”

  “What are you going to do about your inheritance?”

  “Put it in some kind of trust.” Adam yawned. “That’s up to Ms. Foxx. It’s complicated. Except for her pass at Uncle Ben, she’s smart.”

  “Yes, but as Vida would say, smarts don’t equal common sense.”

  Adam grinned at me. “They sure don’t, Mom.”

  I didn’t argue.

  TWELVE

  THE NEXT MORNING, ADAM AGAIN JOINED HIS UNCLE AT THE rectory. A weary Kip met me at the door. “How bad was it with Andrews last night?” I asked.

  “He was a real jerk. I didn’t know whether to punch him out or call the sheriff. That is,” Kip amended, “one of the deputies. I knew Dodge was at your place.”

  Alison was shaking her head. “I’m glad I missed that. Who is this guy anyway?”

  “That,” I said, “is what I intend to find out first thing this morning.”

  Kip handed me a copy of our latest edition. “It looks fine, but I’ll admit I was bleary-eyed by the time I finished. I probably tossed more overrun into the dumpster than usual before I could focus.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said, seeing Vida and Leo chatting in the middle of the newsroom. “Maybe we can relax a little today.”

  “A lovely dinner,” she said in greeting, “despite that vile interloper. Leo and I were commenting on your excellent lasagna.”

  I tried not to stare at her red sweater with its Western Washington University emblem. She didn’t miss my curious gaze.

  “I bought this for Roger as a Christmas present,” she said, tight-lipped. “He didn’t care for it, and I won’t let it go to waste.”

  “It’s very … academic,” I said. Despite Vida’s big bust, I calculated that the sweater was too small for her grandson. And too academic.

  “Great French doughnuts this morning,” Leo said tactfully. “Good work, Vida. The Upper Crust only makes them once a week.”

  “I got there early,” she said. “They usually run out shortly after eight.” She sat down at her desk. “I must get a head start on my advice column. The letters simply poured in yesterday. So many family problems surfaced over Christmas. I shouldn’t mention names, but Marlowe Whipp’s parents went at it again at the retirement home. I thought we’d heard the last of that when Hector went into a coma last fall. Maybe it’s too bad he came out of it on Halloween.”

  “Not a good week for postal employees,” Leo commented, a French doughnut already in hand. “I suppose Marlowe will still be backed up on his mail route.”

  “We may have a substitute,” Vida said. “His mother, Reba, had to be hospitalized after Hector tried to smother her with a fruitcake. That reminds me—I must call Bebe and find out if Roy’s been released. I hope the medication Dr. Sung gave him helps.”

  Having heard far more than I needed to know about the always-combative senior Whipps, I poured coffee and grabbed a French doughnut. I had yet to peruse Vida’s current column, not having had time during our hectic prepublication days. I turned immediately to “AdVIDAvice”—her title, which I didn’t like much. The first letter was the one from Pastor Purebeck’s wife. Vida’s response was: “You are acting upon the flimsiest of suspicions. You indicate you have had a long and happy marriage. In the spirit of Christian charity, I advise you to dismiss any ugly thoughts and give your mate the benefit of the doubt. If you can’t, ask your husband if you have reason to doubt him. If he’s the kind, loving man you describe, he’ll be honest. Do pray on this matter.”

  As always, Vida’s common sense shone through in her answers. She’d pushed all the right buttons.

  After skimming through the rest of the paper and not finding anything egregious, I focused on other things, mainly Mitch. I dialed his cell—and got his message. Frustrated, I did a search on Charles G. Andrews to see if any of his recent cases had made the Seattle Times. There were three, going back to late 2003—he’d represented a builder who’d been sued by homeowners for shoddy construction, an investment broker who’d allegedly embezzled from a dozen elderly clients, and a surgeon accused of malpractice. Andrews settled the first, the second was on appeal, and the third was going to trial in February. I found no connection to Mitch.

  Then inspiration struck from out of the past. On my Oregonian beat, I’d often had to cross-check names between different kinds of news categories. It wasn’t usually necessary in Alpine, especially since I had Vida as a resource. I went back through the same time period searching for arrests. It took me an hour, but I hit pay dirt in the regional roundup. The builder’s name was Carlton Madison. On June 10, 2004, Kiefer Madison, twenty-two, had been arrested on charges of attempting to steal a Cessna airplane from a hangar at Harvey Field in Snohomish. Jim McKay’s name wasn’t mentioned as the owner, but it had to be the same incident Melody had related to me.

  A coincidence? Maybe, but there had to be a connection with Mitch and Andrews. Troy had escaped the first time on June 10 and was recaptured within forty-eight hours. Had he somehow been involved with Kiefer Madison? Were the two Madisons related? I put the would-be airplane thief’s name into the Times’s search engine. There was no follow-up, given that the crime had been foiled and had occurred in SnoCo, not Seattle’s home county, KingCo.

  My last link to Seattle news sources had been Rolf Fisher when he worked for AP. Now I had to rely on Spence. His contacts had been vital during Milo’s Bellevue crisis. Grudgingly, I dialed his number at KSKY.

  “May I bring you lunch?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Are you tired of being mauled by the sheriff?”

  “Don’t make me beg. I may be onto something that could be a big story for us both. I’ll go to Pie-in-the-Sky. What do you want?”

  “That’s a leading question.” He paused. “Corned beef on Russian rye. Mustard, mayo, lettuce, a
nd a dill pickle on the side.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Hey—who’s this Andrews character?”

  The question startled me. “Why do you ask?”

  “He came to the station last night around eight. I’d seen him at Laskey’s house on Monday, sitting in his Escalade as if on surveillance. I started walking to his car, but he took off. He caught me last night as I was leaving the station and asked if I knew where Laskey was. I said, ‘No hablo inglés, señor. Soy un peón solamente aqui.’ He wasn’t amused.”

  “No surprise. Your Spanish stinks. Did he say why he wanted to know about Mitch?”

  “He insinuated that your reporter was in some kid of big trouble—mainly with him, as far as I could tell. Basically, he tried badgering me, but finally realized I was genuinely clueless.”

  “Same here.”

  “I checked Andrews out,” Spence said. “A lone lawyer, offering hope to the awful unlawful. Office in One Union Square, with a ton of underlings. Chicago-born, Wisconsin undergrad degree, Northwestern University law school cum laude, blah-blah. Highprofile cases keeping corporate and professional types out of the slammer. Well?”

  “Those clients don’t sound like Troy or Mitch.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Here comes my new kiddy engineer. He’s late. Maybe the training wheels fell off of his console. See you later.”

  I dashed out to tell Vida my latest snippets of information.

  “Interesting,” she murmured. “But what does it all mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I’m doing some digging.”

  “Digging!” she exclaimed. “And you say those geo-whatever persons are involved? I should speak to Don Krogstad. I babysat him, you know. In fact, I have time to drive down to Index this morning. Would you like to come along?”

  “Won’t he be at work?” I asked.

  “I’ll call first.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

  “You have his number memorized?” I asked in astonishment.

  She frowned at me. “Of course. Do you think I have time to look up every person I have to—“Dee? How are you? … Yes, company for the holidays—so lovely.… Is Don home? … No, no, don’t bother him.… Goodbye.”

  “Ninny,” she said after hanging up. “Don’s taking this week off. He was outside doing something with wood. Let’s go now. I have to be back in time to meet Bebe Everson for lunch. Roy’s reaction to his medication is still being evaluated, but be should be released later today. Oh—Shirley called. She’s taking Ed home this morning. He was diagnosed as suffering from utter folly, an incurable condition for him.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Maybe I should stay here. We’re shorthanded.”

  “Nonsense! It is Wednesday. We’ll manage.”

  As usual, Vida ruled. Five minutes later we were in Vida’s Buick, crossing the Sky and heading for Highway 2. “You didn’t tell Dee we were coming,” I said suddenly. “Shouldn’t you have mentioned that?”

  “Dee chatters so. I had to shut her up so we could be on our way.”

  Traffic was heavier than usual, probably due to the holidays and the opening of the ski areas. Big patches of snow clung to the steep outcroppings on one side, while the river ran fast and gray on the other. We still made the seventeen-mile drive in good time. Turning off to go over the old plank bridge across the North Fork of the Sky, we entered the tiny town exactly at nine o’clock. The old-fashioned white church looked similar to St. Mildred’s, though Father Den and a couple of parishioners had repainted the exterior brown with green trim. We passed Doolittle Park, which showcased an enormous saw that had been used to cut granite from the town wall, which was a popular site for rock-climbing aficionados—very skilled, very brave climbers. I shuddered at the mere idea.

  Vida pulled up outside a modest two-story house. “Yes, Don’s car is there, so is Dee’s VW, and … now, who does that older pickup truck belong to? One of their children? They have two, both living elsewhere since graduating from college.”

  She led the way up the two steps to the front porch and rang the bell. There was no response. Vida peered through the lace curtain on the door’s oval window. “I can’t see … No, someone’s moving …”

  We waited almost a minute. Vida rang the bell again. Seconds later, a pleasant-looking middle-aged man I vaguely recognized opened the door. “Mrs. Runkel!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise. Dee told me you called, but I didn’t know you were coming to see us. Darn. I can’t ask you in. We’re just taking down the tree and it’s a mess. Dee would kill me. She’s probably afraid you’d put it in your ‘Scene’ column.”

  Vida offered him her cheesy grin while putting a foot on the threshold. “Oh, Don, I don’t mind a bit of disarray. We could come in the back way if you insist.”

  Don’s laugh seemed forced. “The kitchen’s even worse. Dee hasn’t had time to straighten things up this morning.” He was a solid man of six feet who somehow managed to edge just close enough to Vida that she had to back up on the porch. “Tell you what—we could drive down to Gold Bar for a cup of coffee. My treat.”

  Vida’s smile had become fixed. “I don’t think we should do that,” she said. “Why don’t you come outside and we can chat for a few moments? Oh—do you know Emma Lord, the Advocate’s editor?”

  She might as well have said “Emma the Afterthought.” I put out my hand. “Hi, Don. I’ve seen you in town.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Don said, his smile strained. He turned to Vida. “I have to help Dee, but if you’ve got a quick question for me …?”

  “Very well.” Her tone was brusque and the grin was gone. “I know Dee became ill when you found Gus’s body in the cave. So distressing.”

  Don nodded. “I saw the ID of the body online. I never knew Gus well—Matt and Pete were more my age. That’s a terrible thing.”

  “Of course,” Vida agreed. “But I want you to think very hard. Do you recall anything—in the cave, or around it—that was at all peculiar?”

  “Peculiar?” Don had managed to get onto the porch and close the door behind him. “No.” He rubbed at the back of his balding head. “Wait. I forgot Dee told me Melody McKay called last night. Melody and Jim were with us. In all the excitement, one of them picked up a camera. Melody, I think. She thought it was theirs, but when they got home—in fact, just last night after Jim got back from one of his airplane treks—they realized they had two cameras, almost exactly alike. That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? Maybe you should call them.”

  “Yes,” Vida said. “That’s very odd indeed. Thank you, Don.” She stalked off the porch.

  Like a good little stooge, I followed her to the Buick.

  “Well now!” she exclaimed. “Doesn’t that beat all? First, Don won’t let us in the house, and now duplicate cameras. Shall we go … where do these McKays live?”

  “Maltby, ninety-minutes round-way from here. The sheriff can handle it.”

  Vida shot me an arch glance before starting the car. “I assume he still can handle more than you.”

  I ignored the barb. “He’ll send a deputy. I’ll call Melody right now. We wouldn’t want to have her lock us out, would we?”

  “That was intolerable.” Vida sped over the old plank bridge so fast that the breaks squealed when she reached the arterial onto Highway 2. “And a lie. Don and Dee should’ve gotten their stories straight. While he was talking to us, she—or someone—turned on the Christmas tree lights. I could see them through that curtain. What on earth could they be hiding? Or should I say who?”

  “That pickup looked familiar,” I said.

  “Yes,” Vida agreed, slowing as we got behind an SUV with a Kansas license plate, “but there must be two dozen blue trucks like it in Alpine. I saw one at Cal’s Chevron station when we left town.” She smiled as we passed Baring. “I must say, I’ll be glad when Buck moves to Alpine from Startup. I’ve gotten so used to this road I could drive it in my sleep.”

  I thought Vida was doing that
now, virtually tailgating the Kansas vehicle. “Uh … Vida, aren’t you a little … close?”

  “Oh! They do have such handsome license plates with those wheat sheaves. I wanted a better look.”

  “So Buck really is buying a condo at Parc Pines?”

  She nodded. “He put earnest money down just before he left. His house in Startup goes on the market after New Year’s.”

  “That’s nice. I’m glad for both of you.”

  “Much more convenient and will save on gas,” she said. “Honestly, can’t these people from flat country drive in the mountains? I’m going to pass them after this next turn.”

  She did, frightening me only half out of my wits. Highway 2 is not for the fainthearted, no matter where they come from. We were still speculating—fruitlessly—when we got back to the office just before ten. I immediately called Melody McKay. Luckily, she answered.

  “Yes, wasn’t that a dumb stunt?” she said after I inquired about the camera. “It was lying by a log only a few feet away from our own gear. I must admit, I was agog about that body, so I picked it up and didn’t notice it was a slightly different Canon model from ours. I never looked at it again until last night. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m going to call the sheriff’s office. They’ll probably send someone to collect it. Will you be home today?”

  She said she would. I thanked her, disconnected, and dialed Milo’s number. Lori answered, saying he was on the phone, but she’d relay the message. He called me back five minutes later.

  “If you didn’t make such damned good lasagna, I wouldn’t send one of my deputies to Maltby,” he said. “Is this a hunch or what?”

  “It could belong to Gus,” I insisted.

  “And laid there on the ground since last June? A hundred hikers could’ve gone through that area.”

  “Mrs. McKay said it was by a log. Maybe nobody could see it until they put their own stuff in the same place.”

  “This better be good,” he warned. “By the way, I’m having lunch with Ben at the ski lodge coffee shop.”

  “Oh, no! Whose idea is that?”