by Mary Daheim
Words seldom failed me, but they did then. I reminded myself to make allowances for Cookie, who could still be in a state of shock. She had, after all, lost a son in a rafting accident. If Tiffany had been at home Monday night, she might have lost her daughter and grandchild, as well.
“She can stay with us as long as she wants to,” Cookie went on, beginning to pace around the living room. “We have three bedrooms. Though we’ve turned one into a den.” She paused and cleared her throat. Maybe the den had once been Ringo’s room. “Tiffany’s old bed is where it always was, but when she moved in with Tim a while ago, she took everything else. That’s all gone, too.”
The poor woman seemed wound up like a spring toy. Vida had complained about self-absorption on Tiffany’s part. It must run in the family. My heart went out to Beth Rafferty, who was now left alone with a helpless mother.
“Was there insurance?” I asked in a mild voice.
“What?” Cookie jumped as if I’d poked her with a sharp stick. “Insurance? I don’t think so. Tim didn’t expect to die young.”
“I meant for the house,” I said.
“Oh!” Cookie put a hand to her long graying blond hair, which was more or less held in place with a big silver clip. “Yes, I think so. Tiffany thought so. We’ll have to check. Wayne can do that, maybe. He went to work today. They needed him at the PUD.”
More than he was needed at home? But I was being unfair; I was trying to help, not hinder. “You can call Bernie Shaw,” I pointed out. “He handles most of the homeowners insurance in Alpine.”
Cookie nodded in a jerky fashion. “Yes. Yes. He probably has ours. I let Wayne take care of all those business and money things. Tim handled all of theirs.”
I couldn’t figure out how Durwood and Dot Parker had raised such a nincompoop. Cookie was in her fifties, a baby boomer whose peers had fought for women’s rights. But maybe they never marched as far as Alpine. It wasn’t the first time I’d met a local female in her age group who seemed helplessly dependent. Apparently Tiffany had followed in her mother’s timorous footsteps. I’d never had the choice of letting a man take over or even share the burden of running a household. My independence had been a necessity.
I decided to change the course of the conversation. “So Doc Dewey told Tiffany that she and the baby are doing fine?”
Cookie nodded again, not quite so jerkily. “I don’t know how Doc can be so sure, though. Dr. Sung is Tiffany’s regular doctor. He’s young, he knows all the latest methods. Doc’s old-fashioned, almost as stodgy as his father was.”
Cedric Dewey—Old Doc, as he was known—had been a wonderful family practitioner, still making house calls until his death a few years after I moved to Alpine. At that time, it was his son, Gerald, who was considered the modern medicine man. Over a decade later, Elvis Sung was a newcomer and a member of the younger generation. The comparisons were inevitable, as was the criticism: The older folks didn’t feel that Dr. Sung knew them as well as Gerald Dewey did—just as young Doc was said to lack his father’s personal touch.
“Besides,” Cookie went on, “Doc gave Tiffany something to help her sleep. Imagine! Everybody these days knows that pregnant women shouldn’t take medicine except vitamins. Anything else can harm the baby. No alcohol, either. My dad says it’s all nonsense, but what would you expect, him being a pharmacist and all. It cuts into the drug companies’ profits.”
I remembered being eight months pregnant, sitting with Ben in tin shacks on the Mississippi Delta, listening to amazingly talented black blues players, and drinking whatever was available at the homely little bars. Those evenings were the best of a bad time, and Adam hadn’t seemed to suffer from the outings. But what did I know? Maybe I was just stupid. Or lucky.
“Did Tiffany take what Doc prescribed?” I asked.
“No!” Cookie was shocked. “She knew better. But of course she hardly slept a wink. Oh! Here she comes now. How are you, honey?”
Tiffany Eriks Rafferty wandered into the living room, wearing a green cotton bathrobe that would have been two sizes too small for her even if she hadn’t begun to show. I assumed the robe belonged to Cookie. Tiffany wasn’t a large person, but she was well proportioned, unlike her skinny, shapeless mother.
Tiffany didn’t look at me. “I’m thirsty. Is there any more apple juice?”
Cookie’s face expressed alarm. “Oh, dear! I’m not sure. I’ll go see.” She left the room, leaving me alone with her daughter.
Tiffany finally gazed in my direction. “I have to lie down on the sofa, Emma. Can you move?”
“Sure,” I said, getting up and going over to an armchair near the fireplace. “I’m so sorry about what’s happened. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Tiffany collapsed onto the sofa. She was barefoot, and her right arm dangled toward the floor. “What can you do? It’s all too awful.”
“Yes,” I agreed, but felt obligated to assure Tiffany that she wasn’t the only person who had to navigate rough waters. “As you know, I raised a child by myself. After I did that, his father was killed years later, before we could be married. In fact, Tom died in my arms, murdered just as Tim was.”
A faint spark lit in Tiffany’s eyes. “Are you saying I should have been there when Tim died? Is everything my fault?”
“Of course not,” I said firmly. “I’m trying to tell you that many other people have suffered tremendous losses. Look around you. It’s hard to find anyone who hasn’t suffered. It’s part of life.”
“I guess.” Tiffany looked unconvinced. She seemed to be sulking. For a woman in her early thirties, she struck me as incredibly immature. But she’d led a sheltered life. In many ways, growing up in a small town is difficult enough. But after the death of her brother, I guessed that her parents had been overly protective. Then, upon coming of age, she’d fallen in love with Tim, who took over where her parents had left off. One of his virtues was that he’d always seemed concerned for her welfare.
“I realize you lost your brother, too,” I said, making my voice gentle. “How old were you then?”
Tiffany scowled at me as if I were Torquemada, leading the Inquisition. “Seventeen. Ringo was four years older. Why do you want to know? I wasn’t there when it happened.”
Her defensiveness was becoming a leitmotif, like the ominous Fate chords in Carmen. “I know,” I said, although I didn’t remember the story very well. I made a mental note to check it out in our back issues. “I imagine the two of you were close.”
Tiffany held up one hand and stared at it, as if she were deciding on whether or not to get a manicure. “He was my big brother. Sometimes they’re okay, sometimes they’re a pain.”
“That’s true,” I allowed. Ben was older than I was by almost the same number of years. When we were growing up, he’d always treated me with a superior air. It was his due, of course. Sometimes he still pulled rank. And sometimes his attitude maddened me.
Cookie returned with a yellow plastic tumbler. “I couldn’t find any more apple juice, hon. Is orange okay?”
Tiffany made a face. “Orange juice gives me heartburn. I’ll just have some bottled water.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot! I’ll get the water. If I can find it.” Cookie retreated to the kitchen.
I had several questions I wanted to ask Tiffany, specifically about the circumstances of Tim’s death. But her self-absorption and her suspicious manner stymied me. Nor did I want to upset her. People showed their pain in different ways. I couldn’t get a good read on Tiffany Eriks Rafferty.
I stood up. “I should be going. I understand you have an appointment this afternoon. I don’t want to keep you.”
Tiffany glanced across the room at a clock with hands and numbers on a wood slab decorated with a painting of an idyllic farm scene. “I’ve got plenty of time to get ready.” She looked at both hands. “I should do my nails, though. They get ruined using the cash register so much.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t think of wh
at else to say. I made my way out before Cookie returned with the bottled water.
IT WAS AFTER noon, and I was hungry. But instead of heading for a restaurant, I drove to the Grocery Basket. I could pick up something from the deli and, with luck, talk to Jake O’Toole. If I got even luckier, Betsy O’Toole might be there. She would not only be more candid, but wouldn’t abuse the English language the way her husband did.
The store was busy. I saw Buzzy, Jake’s brother, in the produce section, unloading ears of corn into a bin. Jake was talking to a man wearing a Budweiser jacket and holding a clipboard. If Betsy was around, she’d be in the office. Katie Freeman, the high school principal’s daughter, had just finished checking out Bertha Tolberg, who had purchased a half-dozen bags of groceries. The Tolbergs raised chickens on their farm, so I assumed Bertha wasn’t buying eggs.
With a nod to Bertha, I approached Katie, a tall, fair-haired teenager who wore transparent braces. “Is Betsy in the store?” I inquired.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Lord.” Katie’s smile was self-conscious. “Yes, she’s working on invoices. Should I page her?”
“No, I’ll surprise her,” I replied. I needed privacy. “Thanks, Katie.”
The O’Tooles’ office was only slightly bigger than my own cubbyhole and even more jammed with materials. I knocked first, then opened the door as I heard Betsy respond.
“Emma,” she said in a pleasantly surprised voice. “To what do I owe this honor? Or did we sell you a bad ham?”
I shook my head. “I’ve come to grill you, not your meat.”
Betsy smiled. “I’m not sure what’s worse.” She pushed her chair back a few inches from the desk and removed her glasses. “Let me guess—it’s about Tiffany and Tim, right? Have a seat—if you can find one.”
The only other chair in the little room was piled high with folders. “May I?”
“You can toss them in the Dumpster for all I care,” Betsy said. “Jake’s overorganized. I drive him nuts because I’m not.” She waved a hand at her surroundings. “He saves every scrap of paper and files it away for God-only-knows-what. Then he gets ticked off at me because I don’t keep everything in here neat. I tell him I keep our house tidy, why should I have to be the cleaning lady at the store? Men!” She shook her head.
I set the files on the floor next to a Campbell Soup carton that was filled with yet more folders. “I just came from calling on Tiffany and her mother,” I said. “Have you gotten to know Tiffany very well since she started working here?”
Betsy shook her head again. Maybe she was showing off her recent foil job, which had turned her shoulder-length hair into leonine streaks of brown and gold. “It’s hard to communicate with fog. Talking to Tiffany is like talking to a phantom. Honestly, the poor girl isn’t very bright.”
“But she could handle her job?”
“Once she caught on,” Betsy said. “It took a while to train her. Katie Freeman is half her age, and she learned in about an hour. But the real problem with Tiffany is her attitude. She’s rude with customers, especially the older ones who get a little fuddled. A week ago, she practically had Grace Grundle in tears.” Betsy hung her head. “I shouldn’t be talking about Tiffany like this, especially after what’s happened. But frankly, Jake and I would have fired her if she hadn’t been pregnant, and we knew she’d be quitting in a few months. We hoped she wouldn’t want to come back to work. Now that Tim’s dead, I suppose we’re stuck with her.”
Betsy was more than candid; she was downright blunt. But that was her style. She’d honed it over the years with the public wrangling she practiced with her husband. After the visit with Tiffany and Cookie, I found Betsy’s attitude refreshing.
“Do you think that pregnancy caused her irritability?” I asked.
“Maybe. But Tiffany never has been the cheerful type.” Betsy sighed. “I suppose you’re trying to figure out if she was having problems at home with Tim.”
Having had people wonder about the status of her own marriage over the years, it was natural for Betsy to assume that any outward display of discontent would indicate relationship problems. “Well,” I said, not entirely sure what I was trying to find out, “I was thinking more along the line of money trouble. Tiffany must have had to work. Obviously, she isn’t cut out for a career.”
“She sure isn’t,” Betsy agreed. “She has no ambition, and she’s lazy. But they bought that property by you and they built that house. Tim’s jobs never paid very well, though I understand he did some of that E-trading on the Internet.”
“He also had a baseball memorabilia collection,” I pointed out.
“Oh, that’s right.” Betsy paused as the phone rang. “I’d better take that. I’m expecting a call from our produce people. They’re mad because we’ve been buying so much local stuff this summer.”
The call, however, was from Ryan O’Toole, their oldest son. Betsy made it quick. “The big black suitcase is in the basement behind the furnace. Don’t touch the rest of the luggage. The red ones are strictly for your dad and me. And take out the garbage.”
She set the receiver down in its cradle. “Ryan’s off to WAZZU. They start early because of the semester system. He leaves for Pullman tomorrow. Would you believe he’s a sophomore already?” Once more, she shook her head. But before I could say anything, she snapped her fingers. “That’s right! Ryan bought some baseball stuff from Tim a couple of years ago. He saved his money from working as a box boy here and got some autographed cards. Only four or five, but they cost him fifty dollars. I thought it was a gyp, but then I’m not a baseball fan. Jake and I like hockey.”
No doubt the fighting part, I thought. “Then Tim did sell some of his collection,” I remarked before confessing that I’d never noticed his ad in the Advocate.
Betsy shrugged. “So what if you can’t keep track of every detail? That’s what a staff’s for. You think I know every item we stock in the store? I don’t. For one thing, Jake’s always changing brands or trying something new.”
“So you think Tim and Tiffany got along okay?” I said.
Betsy considered the question. “Oh, shoot, Emma, how do you ever really know?” She winked. “Take Jake and me, for instance.”
I smiled. “You’re right. I suppose I’m trying to judge Tiffany’s sense of loss. She seems so wrapped up in herself. And the baby, I think.”
“That’s Tiffany,” Betsy said. “She and Tim lived in a very tight little world.”
“No friends?”
“She doesn’t mention them,” Betsy replied. “Oh—yes, there was another girl she talked about, somebody she’d gone to high school with, but who’d moved to Snohomish. What is her name?” Betsy frowned. “The family was here only for a couple of years. I think the dad worked for the fish and game department. Wylie or Wilder or Willard. Something like that. Does it matter?”
“Not really. I just wondered.” I got to my feet. “I didn’t recall ever seeing them hang out as a couple with their peer group. Tim apparently chatted it up with customers at the Venison Inn.”
“That was his job,” Betsy pointed out. “That’s how you stay in business. Jake and I ought to know. And now that Tiffany’s a widow with a baby on the way, she’d better learn that lesson fast.”
“SO PREDICTABLE,” VIDA declared after I told her about my visit to the Erikses’ home. “That’s exactly how I’d expect Tiffany to behave. Sulky. Selfish. And Cookie takes the wrong approach. Can you imagine me babying my daughters like that?”
Of course I couldn’t, though she’d certainly spoiled her grandson, Roger. Maybe she’d saved up all her spoiling for him, as grandparents often do. But I was more interested in what Vida had found out at the courthouse—if anything.
She had succeeded. Vida never took notes, keeping every detail in her remarkable brain. “The vacant house was built in 1931, right about the time the ski lodge opened. It belonged to a ski instructor, in fact. His name was Ole Knutson. He lived there for three years until he moved on. He was a bachelor
at the time, I gather, and rootless.”
In Vida’s biased lexicon, that translated as not being enchanted with Alpine. “Ole sold the house?” I asked as I unwrapped the bagel, lox, cream cheese, and dill pickle I’d bought at the Grocery Basket’s deli.
“Yes, to a couple named Hornby.” She sat down in one of my visitor’s chairs and removed her hat, a net confection covered with daisies. “They lived there until the war, when he went into the service and she moved away to be closer to her family. The house sat vacant for a year or so, and then she—Marcella Hornby—sold it. I couldn’t help but wonder if her husband was killed in battle.”
“That’s possible,” I said. Certainly that would give him an excuse in Vida’s mind for not returning to Alpine.
“A man from Monroe—Russell Byers, aptly named, as it turns out—purchased the house from Mrs. Hornby in 1943. Apparently, he owned several houses from here to Snohomish and rented them out, mainly to mill workers. He died in 1968 in a nursing home in Everett.”
I swallowed a bite of pickle and gazed quizzically at Vida. “How did you find out these details just from records of sale?”
“I happened to run into Dolph Terrill at the courthouse,” Vida replied, looking smug. “Dolph is much older than I am and he has to use a walker, but his mind is still sharp. Or at least his memory for the past is good. I must admit, after we spoke, I saw him go into the women’s restroom. I don’t think he sees too well.”
“That depends on what he wanted to see,” I remarked.
“Now, now,” said Vida. “Anyway, he recalled that Mr. Byers left everything to his son who lived in Everett. The son—his first name was Clinton—rented the house to a series of tenants, but wasn’t much of a landlord. Dolph told me that he didn’t think Clint Byers ever bothered to visit Alpine. Imagine!”
“So the place went to pot?”
“In more ways than one,” Vida said darkly. “The last tenants were hippies. That was back in the early eighties. Apparently, Clint Byers died or simply faded from the picture. He didn’t keep up the property taxes, and the city put a lien on the place. Fuzzy Baugh became mayor not long after that, and has never done anything about the house. It’s just sat there, except for the occasional squatters.”