The Alpine Winter

by Mary Daheim

  Later, just as I was about to quit for the day, I called the rectory to see if Vida was still there. Mimi wearily informed me she was. “I don’t understand why it’s taking so long,” she lamented. “Mrs. Runkel’s show only lasts fifteen minutes.”

  I felt like saying that off the air, Vida could go on forever. But I didn’t. My query had been answered satisfactorily. I called Milo and asked if he could meet for a quick drink at the Venison Inn.

  “I can’t,” he said with regret. “I just got back from that RV mess at the pass. It’s snowing further up. Three people hospitalized; one had to be airlifted to Harborview in Seattle. Some idiot biker cut off the RV just beyond milepost 63, and the driver lost control. The state patrol caught the biker just over the county line, so we’re stuck with him here.”

  “Gosh, that’s interesting,” I said. “It almost sounds like news.”

  “Shut up. It’ll be in the damned log.” He hung up on me. Again.

  I caught Kip at the door and gave him the latest from the sheriff’s office. He could put it on our site from home after he got official word from any county employee who might not hang up on him. “You are now a reporter,” I told him. “We’ll discuss that more tomorrow.”

  “But I’m not a good writer,” he protested.

  “That hasn’t stopped a lot of reporters I know,” I said.

  On the way home, I made a quick stop at the Grocery Basket to pick up cod for homemade fish and chips. I avoided running into anyone who might want to chat. I’d save my sociability for Adam and Ben.

  My son arrived half an hour later. I asked him if his uncle was joining us. He told me Ben had been invited to dinner at the senior Bourgettes’ home.

  “They asked me, too,” Adam said, between bites of raw cabbage I’d chopped for cole slaw, “but I figured I needed some Mom time.”

  I was touched—and said so. “Speaking of sentiment, get the manila envelope out of my purse. I want you to see something.”

  Adam took a sip from the can of beer he’d opened. “Is it alive?”

  “If it ticks, it’s a bomb. I got the envelope from Fleetwood.”

  He retrieved it, sat down at the kitchen table, and removed the pages. “Fleetwood wrote you love poems?”

  “Yes, and he always signs them ‘Myrtle.’ It’s his real name.”

  “Funny, Mom …” Adam read for a moment. “Mushy mush. Who’s Harold?”

  “Our retired superior court judge, now in a nursing home.”

  “Who’s Myrtle?”

  “The judge’s alleged girlfriend.”

  Adam sniffed the paper. “Lavender? No, more like musk ox.”

  “You’ve been in Alaska too long. It’s jasmine.”

  “Hunh. This would’ve been steamy stuff—in 1888.”

  “Is there a date? I didn’t have time to see.”

  He thumbed through the flimsy pages. “Some are dated, some not, May to August, 1988. Why did Fleetwood give you these?”

  Filling my deep-fry cooker with oil, I told Adam about Myrtle. He was bemused. “What is this place? A dump site for spare body parts?”

  “That’s part of forest life. Lost hikers, skiers, campers, climbers. Animals. Avalanches, flash floods, falling trees. Meth labs discovered by the unwary. Hermits who dislike company. It’s a good area to ditch a murder victim. KingCo figures there may be dozens of Ted Bundy’s and the Green River Killer’s victims who’ve never been found.”

  Adam shot me a curious glance. “And you worry about me?”

  I laughed. “You have more room up there for bodies.”

  “That reminds me,” Adam said, “I like your resident recluse’s painting. What’s he done lately?”

  “No clue,” I admitted, not knowing if Craig Laurentis was still alive and able to exercise his genius. “What about the poems?”

  “Mostly love stuff except for the last page. Myrtle sounds like she’s dumping Harold. Guilt. He had a wife.”

  I frowned. That sounded like a motive for murder.

  We passed the rest of the evening quietly. Ben hadn’t spoken to Adam about the lunch with Milo. My son thought his uncle brooded a bit afterwards, but had acted more like himself when Vida arrived. We went back to the Harold and Myrtle Show, which had caught Adam’s fancy.

  “How could she just disappear?” he mused aloud.

  “It happens,” I conceded, “but it is odd. Do you want to do some detective work with me tomorrow during my lunch hour?”

  Adam was game. More than game, since he had a plan of his own that had nothing to do with Myrtle. “I’ll go to the mall first and pick out a few of my needs as opposed to my wants.”

  My son was referring to an old maternal lecture. “On my credit card?”

  Adam gave me a wide-eyed look. “You’d rather pay cash?”

  My middle name being Sap, I simply sighed—and smiled. It was good to be a sap if it meant fulfilling my maternal needs.

  FOURTEEN

  ADAM AND I WENT TO BED BEFORE ELEVEN THAT NIGHT. I SLEPT like a log until my son woke me up around five A.M. Bleary-eyed, I struggled to focus on him. “What’s wrong?” I asked in a foggy voice.

  “Don’t panic,” he said, his face illuminated by a strange light that seemed almost otherworldly. “The carport’s on fire. I called 911. Come on, we’d better go outside.”

  “Oh, no!” I shrieked. “My car!”

  “Never mind that, just move.”

  I threw off the covers and grabbed my bathrobe. I couldn’t find my slippers. Then, as I realized Adam was holding some kind of flashlight, he beamed it on the blue slip-ons that were half-hidden under the bedspread. When we reached the living room, I could hear the sirens in the distance. I could also see an ominous orange glow in the front window beyond the Christmas tree.

  “How could that happen?” I demanded as Adam dragged me to the front door.

  “No clue. Have you got anything out there that might explode?”

  “I don’t think so.” I noticed he’d pulled a heavy sweater over his pajama bottoms and was wearing unlaced boots. “What woke you up?” I asked as we went out onto the front porch.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I was thirsty, so I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw the flames. The fire must’ve just started.” He cocked his head. “It’s a good thing I parked my rental further down the drive. The sirens sound like they’re close.”

  “They come from the courthouse, so it only takes a few minutes.” The rain had stopped, but everything around the house would still be wet. “This is awful! What would’ve happened if you weren’t here?”

  “Maybe Dodge would’ve been with you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  But Adam’s comment suggested a sinister idea. “So we could both burn to a crisp?”

  My son was startled. “You think this is some deliberate kind of thing?”

  “I don’t know. Here are the firefighters—and the medics. Damn!”

  “Let’s go inside. The living room should be safe.” He took my arm.

  “Wait,” I said. “Can you take a picture?”

  “Mom …”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, go sit on the sofa and don’t move. I’ll get my camera.”

  I obeyed, trying to shut out the shouts of the firefighters and the sounds of the hoses. I’d left the front door open, knowing that one of the medics was bound to show up. Sure enough, just as Adam reappeared with his camera, Vic Thorstensen came inside.

  “Emma! Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Are your parents watching my fiasco?” I inquired, referring to Tilly and Erwin Thorstensen, who lived across the street.

  “If they aren’t now, they will be,” he said cheerfully. “They’re early risers. Any idea what caused your little inferno?”

  I shook my head. “How’s my car?”

  “I didn’t get too close,” Vic said. “You’re not in shock, are you?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Let me hav
e a look.” He opened his kit, but I waved a hand.

  “Forget it. I’m fine. I’d just like to know how the fire got—” I stopped as Adam came back inside. “Well?”

  “It’s not too bad,” my son said. “It didn’t get to your car. As far as I can tell, it started with a bunch of papers by the woodpile next to the house. Some exterior log damage and maybe the carport roof. You’re lucky you’ve got a concrete floor.”

  “Papers by the woodpile?” I said, puzzled.

  “It had to be something like that,” Adam said. “It wasn’t spontaneous combustion.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, there was an odd smell—like …” His voice trailed off. “I’m not sure what. Let me check with the firefighters. I think they’ve almost got it out.”

  Adam started out the front door—and nearly collided with Milo.

  “Goddamn it, Emma,” he bellowed, pushing past my son and almost stepping on Vic, “what now?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I yelled. “I was sound asleep.”

  “Move it, Vic,” Milo said. “And close that damned door. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here.” The sheriff plopped down beside me. He was wearing his uniform, but his shirt wasn’t tucked in and he didn’t have on his regulation hat. Obviously, he’d been in a rush to find out what kind of nitwit stunt I’d pulled this time. “Are you okay?” he asked in a more normal tone.

  “Yes. Just upset.”

  He put an arm around me. “Beat it, Vic. I’m taking over now. Get your folks to make you some coffee. They’re out on their front porch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vic said. “Bye, Emma. Glad you’re in good hands.”

  I pressed my face against Milo’s chest. “I’m really not an imbecile.”

  He smoothed my tangled hair. “I know. That’s what worries me.”

  I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Wait until I finish talking to the firefighters. Mmm. You feel good. You always do.” He kissed the top of my head.

  “So do you, big guy.”

  “Hey, Mom,” Adam called from the doorway. “One of the firemen wants to talk to you and the sheriff. Shall I tell him to come back later?”

  Milo slackened his hold. I glared at my son. “Don’t be a smartass. Plug in the coffeepot and show some respect for your elders.”

  Adam headed for the kitchen. Milo let go of me and stood up. “I want to take a look out there first. You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes.” I got off the sofa and poked him in the chest. “Do your sheriff bit. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good.” He went out the door, making sure it was unlocked.

  I joined Adam in the kitchen, where I looked out the window into the carport. “I can’t see much from here. Should I open the back door?”

  “You better wait,” Adam advised. “The fire was pretty close to it. They’re probably showing that whole area to Dodge.”

  “I’d rather not see it,” I said, taking mugs out of the cupboard. The clock on the stove read 5:33. “There’s no point going back to bed.”

  “Probably not,” Adam said—and smiled. “You and Dodge are kind of cute—for old people. I like seeing ol’ Mom happy. I’m off the hook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Adam grew serious. “I feel guilty about not being around much. Now you’ve got someone to take care of you. Dad wasn’t good at that.”

  “He had so many other people to take of.” I leaned against the sink. “He lived in a world I was never part of. I used to long for an evening with him at the opera or the Top of the Mark. I envied Sandra, at least when she wasn’t shoplifting at I. Magnin or undressing in Gump’s display window. The social outings, the symphony, the ballet, the museums, baseball games … that Baghdad-by-the-Bay magic.”

  “Oh, he did that stuff,” Adam said, “but he didn’t like it much. He told me he never stayed awake for more than fifteen minutes of any opera Sandra dragged him to.”

  I was astonished, being an opera lover myself. “He didn’t?”

  “It was all business,” Adam said. “He was expected to do those things and Sandra made sure he did. Her money paid for his empire. Dad didn’t like baseball. He was strictly a pro football fan.”

  “He didn’t like baseball?” I was incredulous. “That’s horrible!”

  Adam shrugged. “Did you really know him?”

  “I guess not,” I said, reeling from my son’s revelations. “We never had time to talk about much except newspapers, even from the start.”

  “Those he liked,” Adam said. “All that other stuff was for show.”

  “Or for Sandra,” I said bitterly.

  “Both.” Adam looked past me. “Coffee’s almost ready, Sheriff.”

  “Good,” Milo said from the kitchen doorway. “Bring it in the living room. Come on, Emma. Ernie Holt’s here.”

  I knew only the name. Ernie was a relative newcomer, having moved from Oso in the late spring. He’d been the subject of Scott Chamoud’s last personal profile story. Before serving as a helicopter pilot in the Gulf War, Ernie was a smoke jumper for the Forest Service.

  “Hi, Ms. Lord,” Ernie said, holding out a grimy hand. “You look as if you survived your little scare.”

  “ ‘Scare’ is right,” I said. “Take a seat.”

  Milo waved at the armchair. “Go ahead.” The sheriff sat down on the sofa with me. Adam remained in the kitchen, apparently waiting for the coffee to finish perking.

  Ernie’s angular face was all business. He had a dark buzz cut and the keen blue eyes I’d expect of a former chopper pilot. “The fire was started with some kind of accelerant, probably kerosene on newspapers. The logs were pretty dry, so it took off, but luckily didn’t do much damage. You must’ve called in right after it started.”

  “My son called. You’re saying this was set on purpose?”

  “Probably,” Ernie said. “A noise outside might’ve woke your son.”

  I looked at Milo, but he was staring straight ahead. The sheriff had reverted to type.

  Ernie, however, was looking at me. “Do you have any enemies?”

  “I run a newspaper,” I said. “What more can I say?”

  Ernie showed the barest hint of a smile. “I understand. But can you think of someone you’ve offended recently?”

  Adam appeared with two mugs of coffee. He gave one to Milo and the other to Ernie. “I’ll get ours, Mom. What about Mr. Andrews?”

  “No,” Milo said. “That’s speculation. Andrews is not the type.”

  “Guess I’ll stick to making coffee.” Adam returned to the kitchen.

  “Okay,” Ernie said. “Anybody else?”

  Milo reached inside his jacket, presumably to get his cigarettes, but apparently thought better of it while sitting across the room from a firefighter, and took out a roll of mints instead. “Look, Ernie,” he said, “if it’s arson, I step in now. I wanted Ms. Lord to hear from you how the fire started. Finish your coffee. You earned it. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “I still have a report to fill out,” Ernie said.

  “Yes,” Milo agreed, “and it’ll come to me as well as to the county commissioners. This isn’t the army. This is SkyCo.”

  “Okay.” Ernie sipped from his mug and looked at the Christmas tree. “Those lights are kind of close to the branches. How long have you had your tree up, Ms. Lord?”

  “Ms. Lord never turns on the lights,” Milo said before I could answer. “Ms. Lord lives in a very dark world.”

  “That’s right,” Adam put in as he entered the room and handed me my coffee. “My mother is a creature of the night.”

  Ernie drank more coffee before he stood up. “I guess I’m finished. Thank you, Ms. Lord. Thank you, Sheriff. Thank you …”

  “Father Lord,” I said. “My son’s a priest.”

  “Right.” Ernie gave the mug to Adam. “Thanks … Father.” He left, looking bemused.

  Milo shook his head. “Poor bastard. He spent too much
time in that chopper.”

  I started to giggle. “Now somebody’s trying to kill me!”

  “Emma …,” Milo said.

  “Mom …,” Adam said.

  I sobered. “It’s stupid. Who’d do that? Andrews wouldn’t dirty his pudgy pink hands.” I paused, hearing the fire truck pull away. “Well?”

  Milo took out his cigarettes. “I’ve got some ideas of my own.”

  I got an ashtray from the end table. “Here. And give me one. How come you and Leo didn’t light up last night?”

  Milo made a face. “And have Vida yap at us? No thanks.”

  Adam had sat down in the armchair. “I haven’t seen you smoke in years, Mom. I thought you quit.”

  “I did. Often,” I said, taking the cigarette Milo had lighted for me.

  Adam looked askance at us. I turned back to the sheriff. “What ideas?”

  He gazed at me through a haze of smoke. “You know better than to ask me that.”

  I did, but I remained curious. “Fine. Should I make breakfast?”

  “Sure,” Milo said.

  “Pancakes?” Adam asked.

  I sighed. “You’re not saying Mass today with your uncle?”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Adam said. “In fact, I’d decided to sleep in for once. But pancakes are a good trade-off.”

  Milo was standing up. “How long does it take to make pancakes?”

  “Ten minutes,” I said, also on my feet. “Have you got amnesia?”

  “It’s been three weeks since you made me pancakes. Did you forget my watch broke?” He hitched up his belt. He had lost weight during his Bellevue ordeal. “I’m going home to shower and change.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “And shave. Take your time.”

  The sheriff left. “What,” my son inquired, “was that ‘three weeks’ about? You already said you hadn’t seen much of Dodge lately.”

  “Come in the kitchen and I’ll give you the brief version,” I said. “In fact, do you want to shower and shave, too?”

  “No. I’d rather hear what happened. It sounds interesting.”

  “That,” I said, leading the way into the kitchen, “is putting it mildly. I already told your uncle, but it didn’t seem to move him to compassion for Milo or me.”