The Alpine Xanadu

by Mary Daheim

  Mitch returned before I could decide what to do next. I met him in the newsroom.

  “Not much new at the sher—” he began.

  “There is now,” I broke in, but seeing his look of dismay, I changed tactics. “Are you caught up?”

  “I will be, as soon as I write up what’s in the log. It’s not very exciting, but it’s long because half the town reported seeing the escapee or somebody trying to break into their houses. The snowmobiler accident, Blackwell’s stabbing—that’s either old or no news.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then follow up on Blackwell and I’ll take the escapee story. That should be it for you. The head case is dead, by the way. I’ll have Kip put it online now.”

  “Jesus,” Mitch murmured. “Now I feel left out.”

  I smiled. “You can’t have it both ways.” I hurried to the back shop.

  Kip was stunned by my latest bulletin. “How’d he die? Exposure?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but Heppner’s going to tell the RestHaven people, so it’s official—or will be in a few minutes. Go with it, and say that his body was found by a local resident.”

  “Who? We should have a name.”

  “Not this time. It was Craig Laurentis, the recluse artist. He doesn’t want publicity, and I’m honoring that.”

  “Your call,” Kip said, though he didn’t seem too pleased.

  The phone rang just as I got back to my desk.

  “This is Kay Burns,” the voice at the other end said in a strained tone. “You don’t intend to announce the supposed death of our patient, do you? There’s no official confirmation of identification.”

  It occurred to me that technically she was right. “Wouldn’t he have some ID on him?” I asked.

  “No. Psych patients aren’t allowed access to their ID. It’s for their own good, of course.”

  “Then since we never knew his name, why shouldn’t we go with the news so that everybody can relax?”

  “Please. Wait for Dr. Woo to make the announcement. We heard about it less than five minutes ago. If it’s true, the body may not be recovered until later today.”

  I paused. “How about this? We say, ‘The body of an unidentified man who may be the patient …’ and so on. This would quiet everybody’s fears. It’s our duty as a newspaper to keep our readers informed when it comes to public safety. I’m sure Spencer Fleetwood will agree.”

  It was Kay’s turn to hesitate. “Let me ask Dr. Woo. I’ll get right back to you.”

  I thanked her and rang off. For the first time since KSKY went on the air, I called Spence to share a story. I needed him as a media ally. His reaction wasn’t what I expected.

  “I don’t know, Emma,” he said slowly. “This is a delicate matter. Patient privacy, the poor guy’s family … let’s sit on it for a while.”

  “You’re nuts. This isn’t just a news item, it’s in the public interest.”

  “Have you cleared it with RestHaven?”

  I winced and was glad Spence couldn’t see me. “I’m waiting for a green light from Dr. Woo.”

  “Okay, when you get it, call me back. Talk to you later.”

  Setting the receiver down, I pondered Spence’s attitude. Was he putting me on about Kay Burns coming on to him? That didn’t add up, given that Kay had ended up in bed the next day with Dwight Gould. Or was Kay a nymphomaniac? “Something’s off,” I said as Mitch came to see me.

  “What?” he asked, handing me a printout of the sheriff’s log.

  “May I ask an impertinent question?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  “Has Kay Burns made a pass at you?”

  Mitch laughed. “No. I mean, not overtly. She did strike me as probably not the kind who needed much encouragement, though.”

  I considered telling my reporter about Dwight’s defection but figured that Milo must be keeping the matter internal. If he wasn’t, one of the deputies—especially Jack Mullins—might have mentioned it. Maybe they’d stick with the sheriff’s earlier speculation that Dwight had gotten stranded chasing somebody on a logging road.

  “Forget I asked,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out how Fleetwood keeps beating us. By the way, Dodge was going to see Blackwell. Give him a call in a few minutes and then you’re good to go.”

  “Should I ask if they’re searching for the escapee’s body?”

  “Yes. If Dodge says they are, then I’m posting it online.”

  A few minutes later, Amanda brought the mail. There were more letters about my editorial, mostly against it. Fuzzy’s plan was going to be a hard sell until I got to specifics pointing out that reorganization would save taxpayers money—at least in theory.

  I’d just finished reading the last letter when Mitch showed up again. “Dodge wasn’t back from the hospital yet, but Doe Jamison and Dustin Fong had taken off to look for the dead guy by Carroll Creek.”

  “Good. It’s official.” I quickly typed up the bulletin and took it to Kip in the back shop. If RestHaven complained, I had the sheriff to fall back on. Milo had always had my back. And vice versa.

  By coincidence, he phoned me five minutes later. “Don’t ask me any questions about Blackwell.”

  “Uh … I think you just called me.”

  “You bet I did. I figured either Laskey or you would be after me as soon as I got back from the hospital. Fleetwood too. I’m not giving out anything until I sort through this frigging mess. I don’t suppose your in-house spy has any idea where Tiffany is?”

  “If she does, she hasn’t told me,” I said. “She’s up at the high school, grilling Karl Freeman about the porn.”

  “What porn?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No, and I don’t want to. I’ve got enough on my plate.” The sheriff clicked off.

  I went to tell Mitch he was off the hook. “Go ahead, get an early start to the airport,” I said. “It’s Friday traffic.”

  Mitch’s smile was grateful. “Thanks, Emma. I don’t want to get stuck on one of those floating bridges. Or should I go around the lake?”

  “I would. Take I-405 to the Burien Freeway. You’ll end up right by the Sea-Tac turnoff. Good luck.” I kissed his cheek, my version of an employee attaboy.

  It was going on eleven when Mitch left. Vida had been gone for two hours. She must be doing more than applying thumbscrews to Principal Freeman. I was beginning to worry when she finally showed up fifteen minutes later.

  “Karl,” she began, sitting down across from my desk and removing her scarf, “is a dreadful prig. And far too secretive. He’s as bad as those people up at RestHaven and their patient privacy. Has everybody forgotten the public’s right to know?”

  “Freedom of speech is being trashed,” I said. “Why not all the rest of our freedoms? Did the principal have anything to say?”

  “He allowed there’s porn at the high school,” she replied, taking off her coat, “but he wouldn’t go any further until he’s met with the school board. A lot of good that does us, given that it’s a closed meeting. The other members besides Harvey Adcock are Jim Medved, Henry Bardeen, Arnie Nyquist, Stella Magruder, Lois Hutchins, and Duane Gustavson. Scratch Arnie—he’s impossible. As a veterinarian, Jim may be closemouthed, believing in privacy for Grace Grundle’s cats or other animals he treats. Lois is Doc Dewey’s sister, and very discreet, like all those Episcopalians. Henry is Buck’s brother, but he’s another one who won’t talk, being so considerate of his ski lodge guests. Stella talks too much, as hairdressers often do, but they can keep secrets. That leaves Duane Gustavson.” She nodded more to herself than to me. “Yes, definitely Duane,” she said in triumph. “He may not reveal anything, but his wife, Anita, will. She’s my niece on the Runkel side.”

  I had become so fascinated with Vida’s mental gyrations about sources that I’d almost forgotten what she was trying to find out. “Wouldn’t it be easier to bug the meeting room?” I asked.

  Vida tipped her head to one side. “Th
at’s an inspired idea. Kip would know how to do that. Is it legal?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Let’s stick with Anita.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps I’ll invite Duane and Anita to supper tomorrow night. I have what sounds like a tasty new recipe for a cheesy ham and potato casserole. It came in this morning’s mail.”

  I wished they’d mailed Vida the casserole—or an antidote that could be given to the Gustavsons. I asked how much time Freeman had spent with her.

  “Less than twenty minutes,” she replied indignantly. “That’s not counting the first ten, where I tried to show interest in his wife, Molly, and their daughter, Katie.” She grimaced. “I even asked about their wretched Pekingese, Bandersnatch. An apt name for that little beast.”

  “I wondered,” I said. “I was starting to worry about you.”

  “You were?” She looked faintly puzzled. “Oh—I called on the Parkers. They’re still upset about Wayne’s death—and Tiffany, too.”

  “I always thought Dot and Durwood were pretty well grounded. And I’m not referring to Durwood being grounded by Milo because of his terrible driving record.”

  Vida had stood up. “Well … they are usually, but this is a double dose of woe. They’re not as young as they used to be, you know.”

  “True,” I allowed.

  Vida gathered up her coat, scarf, and purse before heading to the newsroom. I checked my watch. It was just after eleven-thirty. I had a sudden urge to visit the Parkers, too. Their home was on the way to the ski lodge. If I didn’t have to meet Beth Rafferty until after twelve, I’d have time to do a little sleuthing of my own.

  It was still chilly, but the sun was trying to peek out above Cowboy Mountain to the east. I turned right, making it unnecessary to get out my sunglasses. Seattle natives like me react to February sun like moles. It’s no wonder we buy more shades than anyone else in the nation. They’re needed so seldom that we can’t remember where we put them.

  The Parkers’ white two-story house with its half-wraparound porch looked as tidy as ever. The only oddity was that Durwood’s battered Chrysler was parked on the verge instead of in the empty garage. That seemed odd, given that both Parkers no longer drove.

  Dot came to the door. “Emma, dear!!” she exclaimed. “Are you lost? I haven’t seen you in months.”

  I laughed. “I know. I’ve been really busy these last couple of months. But I’m on my way to the ski lodge and thought I’d stop by to say hello. I did see Durwood yesterday outside the drugstore.”

  “Oh,” Dot said, leaning against the door, “I’m so sorry, but Durwood’s taking a nap. Why don’t you stop by later and have tea?”

  I grimaced. “That might work, but … I hate to say this … I have to use your bathroom. Ours was occupied and I don’t think I can make it to the ski lodge in time.” I gently nudged past Dot. “Sorry,” I said over my shoulder, moving into the entry hall. “Which way …” I stopped, looking into the living room. A young child sat on the floor. I’d gotten a close-up look at Holly’s youngest boy last October. In shock, I turned to Dot. “That’s not Tiffany’s kid,” I blurted.

  Dot put her hands to her flushed cheeks just as Durwood came down the hall. “No,” he said, not sounding like his usual cheerful self. “Please, Emma, try to understand.”

  I put my arm around Dot, who was crying. “I think I do. It’s the old switcheroo, right?”

  Durwood nodded. “Come, sit down, we’ll try to explain.”

  I nodded, still hanging on to Dot. The round-faced toddler eyed me curiously before taking a plastic hammer and whacking some big-eyed bugs on a sturdy blue stand. A saucy little tune played with each blow.

  “I think I get it,” I said, sitting next to Dot on the red and blue plaid sofa. “This is Vida’s great-grandson Dippy. Tiffany’s child is in Bellingham.”

  Durwood was bending down, apparently to turn off the toy’s music. “Vida’s idea, of course. Very clever.” He stood up and beamed at me. “You have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat her, eh?”

  I nodded. “I knew something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what.” I pointed at Durwood, who was sitting down in a recliner. “It was those toddler diapers in your shopping bag. Your granddaughter isn’t quite old enough for those. That and Vida spending so much time here.”

  Dot had composed herself. “You won’t tell anyone? Not even Milo?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “You think I’d cross Vida? Besides, who could compete with this kind of cunning? It’s sheer genius.”

  “I suppose it is,” Dot said, “but we miss Ashley. Hopefully she’ll be back this weekend. Roger’s supposed to bring her down Sunday. Or his parents will go get her. Vida was so afraid Holly might go to Bellingham, you see. But I hear she’s left for Centralia.”

  “She has.” I was trying to see if Dippy resembled Roger. Except for his round face and his coloring, I couldn’t see much of his father. But those curious eyes were sheer Vida. “Where is Tiffany?”

  Durwood adjusted his recliner, which seemed to have enough controls for a car. Maybe that was safe for him to drive as long as it didn’t have wheels. “She’s visiting a friend in Skykomish,” he said, keeping an eye on Dippy. “They may go to Monroe for some event at the fairgrounds this weekend. Her dad’s passing made her a bit gloomy.”

  I wondered if Tiff still had Jack’s Rover. That might explain the empty garage. “Has the burial service been set?” I inquired. “We haven’t heard anything since the revised autopsy came in yesterday.”

  The Parkers exchanged quick glances. “We’re not sure,” Dot said.

  “Heck of a thing,” Durwood declared. “A poison I never knew about. Just as well I unofficially retired. Hard to keep up.”

  Dot suddenly swerved to look at me. “Emma! Do you really have to go to the bathroom?”

  “I lied,” I admitted. “Working with Vida has made me cunning, too.”

  Dot poked me in the arm. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” But she laughed.

  I left a couple of minutes later, still amazed at my House & Home editor’s duplicity. I wondered if I should let on that I’d uncovered her deception. But as I pulled into the ski lodge parking lot, I figured she knew. Vida always knew everything.

  I got to the ski lodge before Beth Rafferty arrived. The coffee shop was filling up, so I waited for her in the lobby. The urgency in her voice had suggested she might want privacy. Two minutes later she hurried through the front door. Beth looked younger—and prettier—than she had even before the tragic death of her brother, Tim. I guessed that was due to her new beau, the man I’d seen with her at Delia Rafferty’s funeral.

  “Thanks for coming,” Beth said as we exchanged a quick hug. “Is the dining room okay with you?”

  I assured her it was. Henry’s daughter, Heather Bardeen Bavich, was on hostess duty. She led us to a relatively private table away from the bar. We both declined any beverages except ice water.

  “Nobody,” Beth remarked after Heather moved on, “wants a sloshed 911 operator, though I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind having a drink.”

  “In days of old, everybody expected a sloshed newspaper editor,” I said, “but times have changed. You look great, Beth. How’s Keith?”

  “He’s fine.” She grimaced. “I just hope he doesn’t decide to take a job somewhere else now that the RestHaven project’s finished.”

  “Is Nyquist running out of work or doesn’t Keith like small towns?”

  “Arnie’s starting an addition to the college dorms next month,” Beth said. “At least the state has a few spare dollars. But Keith doesn’t get along very well with his boss. Nyquist can be a jerk.”

  “Yes, he can,” I agreed. “At least Keith seems to like you.”

  Beth revealed her dimples in a smile. “I like him. If you and Dodge can find love in middle age, maybe I can, too.”

  “We found it a long time ago. I just didn’t know what it was.” I glanced at the menu, wondering if
Beth had come to discuss her romance. But I didn’t think so. “You sounded upset on the phone. If you need advice, write to Vida.”

  “I’m not that desperate,” Beth said. “You’re right, though.” She paused. “Here comes our blond waitress du jour. Brittany or Brianna?”

  “Brandy,” I said out loud, seeing the server’s name tag. “I’ll have the tuna salad on limpa toast.”

  Beth quickly scanned the lunch options. “The Reubenssen,” she said, handing the menu to Brandy. “Thanks.” As the young, buxom blonde left us, Beth shook her head. “How does Henry Bardeen find so many of these fair-haired girls whose names begin with B? I’m blond. Maybe I should have tried to get a job here when I got out of high school.”

  “You also have a brain.” I shrugged. “I shouldn’t say that. It makes me sound like a snarky aging brunette. You were saying …?”

  Beth leaned closer. “You remember that after Tim died, Toni Andreas moved to Alaska. She gave you a carton of Tim’s baseball memorabilia that you turned over to me.”

  “Of course,” I said, my mind drifting back a year and a half to Tim’s tragic death. Milo’s former receptionist had been in love with Beth’s brother. The affair had been triggered in part by Tiffany’s shrewish, selfish behavior after she got pregnant. “Tim gave the sports items to Toni because Tiff thought they were junk.”

  Beth nodded. “Typical. Unlike the items that were burned in the fire, the ones in the carton had some real value. I checked them out. The Ken Griffey Jr. autographed rookie card is worth at least three hundred and fifty dollars. Alex Rodriguez’s is two hundred and fifty. There’s Randy Johnson, Edgar Martinez, Jay Buhner, and Jamie Moyer, along with some other big names from different teams. I’ve no idea how much it’s all worth, but probably three, four grand.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “I recall seeing Edgar’s signed bat. If he isn’t voted into Cooperstown because he was mainly a designated hitter, it’ll be a terrible injustice. What are the sportswriters thinking? His career numbers hitting for average, RBIs, and home runs are—”