The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Stress!” Vida spoke the word as if it were obscene. “Such an excuse for lack of self-discipline! I’ve always believed that Toni is a ninny!”

  I didn’t utter a peep as Vida stomped out. She’d be even more annoyed when—and if—I told her what Janet Driggers had said about the possibility of Toni having suffered a romantic disaster.

  Five minutes later I was heading out through the newsroom on my way home when Leo came through the door.

  “I thought you’d gone for the day,” I said in surprise.

  “I had,” Leo replied with an aggrieved expression. “But I stopped in at Harvey’s Hardware to buy another fan, and he’d given me the wrong information for his ad in this week’s paper. He’s selling some new kind of house paint that’s an acrylic and he mistakenly identified it as latex-based. The whole point is that the makers claim acrylic lasts longer or some damned thing than the latex. Harvey’s afraid the vendor will sue him or cancel the line, so I’ve got to put together a radio spot for tonight on KSKY.”

  “Hey,” I said, annoyed. “Since when do you do ad copy for Fleetwood? Isn’t it bad enough that Vida’s got a show on the station?”

  Leo made a face. “I’m doing it for Vida’s show, because it’s got such good ratings. But I’m doing it because I don’t want Spence to make it sound like it was our mistake and not Harvey’s. On the other hand, the ad can’t make Harvey out to sound like an idiot. It’s all of thirty seconds long. Do you trust me or do you trust Fleetwood?”

  “You,” I admitted. “It sounds tricky.”

  Leo had sat down and was already writing on a notepad. “Not for the clever likes of me. Hold on.”

  I sat on the edge of Vida’s desk and kept my mouth shut.

  “Okay,” Leo said after about two minutes had passed. “How’s this? ‘Harvey’s Hardware is proud to announce that its new line of Paragon AAA house paints has gone beyond latex to a new acrylic coating that will withstand even the roughest and toughest of Alpine weather. Sun or snow, wind or rain—Paragon provides protection for you and your mountainside home that will last for years to come. So drop by and ask your old friend Harvey Adcock for the latest in all kinds of paint—interior, exterior, enamel, glossy, latex—and the new acrylic from Paragon. Remember, Harvey works hard for all your household wares.’ ” Leo took a deep breath. “Think Spence can handle that?”

  “It lets Harvey and us off the hook,” I said, “but why not let Vida read it?”

  Leo nodded once. “Good idea. I’ll e-mail it to KSKY right now. Harvey already had a spot later in the evening, but I’ll tell Spence to cancel that one. It was for more window fans, but he’s almost out.”

  I stood up, ready to leave. But Leo held up a hand. “This’ll only take a minute. Want to go to the Venison Inn for a drink?”

  I didn’t have anything better to do—as long as I was home in time for Vida’s Cupboard. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Leo nodded again. “Good. Order me a Miller Lite.” He began to enter the ad copy on his computer.

  I walked out into the late afternoon sun, taking my time to pass the dry cleaners and reach the Venison Inn. At almost three thousand feet above sea level, the air isn’t particularly thin, and on this semihumid August day, it felt oppressive. One of the few renovations I liked at the inn was the air-conditioning that had been installed when the owners remodeled. It had seemed like a luxury, but the past couple of summers had proved its worth. I felt slightly rejuvenated as I entered the bar.

  “Hot enough for you?” Oren Rhodes asked as he came over to the small table where I’d sat down.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “The next person who asks that is going to get hurt.”

  Oren chuckled, displaying a fairly recent second chin. “It’s hotter than Dutch love, as my granny used to say. She wasn’t Dutch, though. She was Swiss.”

  I wasn’t interested in Oren’s heredity. But it dawned on me that he could answer some questions about Tim. On a Wednesday at five-thirty, the bar was just beginning to fill up. A clutch of workmen sat at the bar, regulars who worked in the woods and the warehouses and the mill. Logging, however, had been curtailed because of the tinder-dry conditions. I recognized a couple of the loggers. No doubt they were griping about the stoppage. The rest of the drinkers were probably complaining about the hardships caused by the weather, too. A bar is always a good place to bitch.

  “I’m waiting for Leo,” I said, giving Oren a friendly smile. “I’ll have a screwdriver and Leo wants a Miller Lite. That’ll save you a trip.” I grew somber. “You must be shorthanded with Tim gone.”

  “Thanks, Emma. Yeah, Tim helped out fairly often. Though he hadn’t put in the hours lately like he used to. I’m teaching Mandy Gustavson to tend bar. Damned shame about Tim.” Oren shook his balding head.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It’s awful. It doesn’t seem right that a young couple with a baby on the way should have a tragedy strike like that.”

  “It’s a rough world out there,” Oren remarked, his gaze going past me. Maybe he was seeing that world, which isolated small-townsfolk often try to ignore.

  “It is rough,” I said, still perfectly agreeable. “This should have been the happiest time of their lives.”

  Oren’s eyes turned back to me. “Oh—well, yes, I guess so. Even with Tim not feeling good.”

  I was surprised. “He was sick?”

  “Not seriously sick,” Oren said quickly. “But he’d had a lot of complaints lately, especially for a young guy. That’s why he hadn’t worked so much.” Oren glanced at the bar where someone had called his name. “Excuse me, Emma. I’ll get your order.”

  Leo arrived as soon as Oren left me. “No drinks?” my ad manager said. “How can you get drunk if you’re not drinking?”

  I laughed halfheartedly.

  “What’s wrong?” Leo asked, sitting down. “Do you still think I may fall off the wagon and have to crawl to work on my hands and knees?”

  “No, no,” I replied. After a decade I believed that Leo’s battle of the bottle was over. He had never been a true alcoholic, but the type who drank too much in order to cope with that rough world out there. In all the years I’d known him, he’d never taken more than two drinks at a time. A ruined marriage and an almost equally bankrupt career had sobered him up. “I was thinking about Tim Rafferty. Oren mentioned he missed work lately. Spence told me the same thing. I wonder why.”

  Leo cocked his head at me. “Are you sleuthing?”

  I sighed. “I suppose I am. Everybody’s jumping to the conclusion that Tim was killed by a burglar or that recluse, Old Nick. It seems too pat.”

  “It also seems reasonable,” Leo pointed out. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “My contrary nature,” I retorted. “And I don’t like easy answers. Most of all, I hate it when someone like Tim is treated like a nobody. He was somebody. Maybe I feel guilty because I always dismissed him—and Tiffany, too—as unimportant. That’s not right, it’s not fair.”

  “Emma Lord, Champion of the Underdog.” Leo smiled. “I’m not kidding. You championed me when I was down and out.”

  It was true. I’d met Leo by accident when I was visiting in Port Angeles. He was suicidal, up from California, but definitely down and almost out. Tom, who had been his former employer, had recommended him. Ed had just come into his inheritance from an aunt in the Midwest, and I needed an ad manager, but I’d had my doubts about Leo. On the other hand, anything had to be better than Ed, with his distressing aptitude for not selling ads. Leo had more than justified Tom’s advice.

  Oren returned with our drinks. “Hey there, Leo. Is it hot enough—” The bartender stopped and laughed in embarrassment. “Never mind. Shall I run a tab?”

  Leo shook his head. “This is just a pit stop. We’re on the pay-as-you-go plan.” He pulled a ten out of his wallet.

  “You can’t afford to treat me,” I said as Oren took the bill and went off to the bar to get change.

&nbs
p; “It makes me feel like a big spender,” Leo said. “So what are you thinking? Tim just didn’t like to work or he was making enough money so he didn’t have to?”

  “Why not say so?” I responded, declining Leo’s offer of a cigarette. “I gather Tim liked to brag. I’m wondering if he really was sick. Sometimes, I’m told, men whose wives or girlfriends are expecting don’t like mommy and baby getting all the attention. Maybe he was feigning illness. Or maybe he really was ailing, but it was psychosomatic.”

  Leo licked beer foam off of his upper lip. “Tim’s always seemed to be the dominant one in that lash-up. Tiffany’s the clingy type.”

  “Yes,” I said. “She seems semihelpless. Tim’s always been very protective. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be jealous of the baby. It happens.”

  “Oh, I kind of remember that with our kids,” Leo said with a shake of his head. “Especially Katie, the first one. Liza couldn’t talk or think about anything else. She read every expectant mother and baby book that was in print. Old Dad is bound to feel left out. Our work is done, and suddenly we’re in the background.” He wore his wry off-center grin. “Maybe Tim fell off his mountain bike to get some sympathy.”

  “He had a fall?” I said in surprise. “When was that?”

  Leo and I both looked up and waved at Skunk and Trout Nordby, who owned the local GM dealership. “About a month ago,” Leo responded. “Right after the Fourth of July, I think. I should have given it to the Duchess for ‘Scene,’ but I forgot. Don’t tell her.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I’m already in trouble for one of my omissions. Was Tim badly hurt?”

  Leo shook his head. “Just banged up. I think he was kind of klutzy by nature.”

  “Oh. I was wondering if he was too debilitated to defend himself against whoever killed him.”

  “Doubtful,” Leo responded. “I don’t think he even went to the doctor.”

  I was halfway through my drink. It was going on six. The bar was filling up. It looked as if many Alpiners were seeking air-conditioned sanctuary.

  “Do you want to eat here?” Leo asked.

  I considered the suggestion. “Sure. I wouldn’t dream of turning on the stove. Just as long as I get home in time for Vida’s Cupboard.”

  “Me, too,” Leo said. “Let’s order now.” He signaled to Oren.

  Our conversation changed after we’d perused the menus. Leo requested the pork sandwich; I chose the crab Louie. It was a pleasant hour, and I was back in my stuffy log cabin by a quarter to seven.

  After opening both doors and raising the windows as far as the screens would permit, I started to turn on my laptop computer. Before I could hit the START command, I rethought my open-house policy. Maybe there was a burglar loose in the neighborhood. Maybe it was an arsonist. Maybe Old Nick was still hanging around, just a few yards away from my home.

  Swearing silently, I got up from the sofa and closed both the front and the kitchen doors. Security wasn’t usually a consideration in Alpine. But I’d had one break-in already during the last year. I didn’t feel like being a victim again.

  By the time I returned to the living room, it was almost seven. I switched on the radio, poured a Pepsi over ice, and sat back down on the couch. Spence—or whoever was at the studio’s controls—was playing some of the golden oldies that always led into Vida’s show. The music seemed appropriate.

  The sound of a creaking door announced Vida’s entrance after the hour turn.

  “Good evening from Vida’s Cupboard to everyone in Alpine and the rest of Skykomish County,” she began in her slightly strident voice. “We’ve had another hot day here in our beautiful part of the world, but not to worry—it’s a mere month until autumn begins and we can welcome the rain.”

  Only in the Puget Sound basin would the promise of less sun and more rain be good news. Like the indigenous trees and plants, natives in particular need their roots watered. Vida went on to talk about garden care and summer suppers.

  “Lloyd and Jean Campbell are hosting an ice cream social Sunday for family and visiting friends from Fargo, North Dakota. Lloyd is going to make the ice cream himself with his special blackberry recipe. The berries are in season right now, ripe for picking all around Burl Creek, Second Hill, and the areas west of the fish hatchery. Just be careful that the bears aren’t feeding, too. You all remember what happened last year to Scooter Hutchins when he didn’t leave that Mama Bear alone. Scooter, by the way, is looking much better now that he’s finished a series of operations on his nose, which were done by a very skilled Seattle cosmetic surgeon.”

  Vida reminded her listeners that they could read all about the Campbells’ gala in next week’s Alpine Advocate. She did not give the name of Scooter’s surgeon, although it would have been helpful just in case some other local decided to go one-on-one with Mama Bear this year. But she cautioned that berries and bears were not a safe combination during August.

  Vida continued with her chatty tidbits until the commercial break. Leo got his way about the Harvey’s Hardware ad; Vida read it live, and with much enthusiasm.

  “I know,” Vida intoned, beginning the final segment of her broadcast, “that I promised Delphine Corson would visit us this evening to give some fascinating tips on late summer floral arrangements. But due to recent events in town, I’ve asked Delphine if she can postpone offering her wonderful ideas until next Wednesday. Thank you, Delphine, and all your helpers at Posies Unlimited. We anxiously await your colorful advice.”

  There was a very brief pause. I leaned closer to the radio. Vida continued. “Due to the tragic events surrounding the death of Tim Rafferty, a popular fixture on KSKY-AM, I’m enlisting the help of all Alpiners to investigate leads in the unfortunate homicide and arson case. Our hearts and prayers go out to the Rafferty, Eriks, and Parker families at this time. Of course, we know how hard Sheriff Milo Dodge and his able deputies are working to solve this heinous crime. However, we also know that the sheriff’s office has limited personnel.”

  I frowned. Was Vida treading on Milo’s toes?

  “One of the potential witnesses is a recluse known to many of you as Old Nick,” she went on. “It appears that he has been living in the vacant house on Fir Street near Fifth, next to the cul-de-sac where the Rafferty tragedy occurred. First, let me give you an eyewitness description of Old Nick, who was last seen Sunday night.”

  I noticed that Vida didn’t identify Wayne Eriks by name. Perhaps she didn’t want to make him a target in case Old Nick really was on a rampage. As she described the recluse, she spoke slowly, having urged her listeners to take notes.

  “It is very likely,” she said, “that Old Nick has returned to the woods. During the summer we have many able, strong young bodies with free time. One of our fine college students is organizing a search party to help find Old Nick in order to assist the sheriff’s department in its investigation. Dear listeners, let me introduce my grandson, Roger Hibbert, who will lead this crime-solving crusade.”

  I almost fell off the sofa. What was Vida thinking of? I was aghast, appalled, amazed, and anything but happy.

  “Roger,” Vida was saying, “can you tell us about your plan?”

  There was a pause. Vida must have provided notes. Roger was probably trying to read them. If he could read.

  “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock we’ll meet by the picnic tables at Old Mill Park,” Roger said in a voice that had grown surprisingly mature since I’d last spoken with him. “Anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one is invited to join us in our search for Old Nick. We’ll have trail maps available. Snacks will be on hand before we start because we want to be well nourished. Please bring a bottle of water and wear sturdy walking shoes.”

  He read the announcement well. I had to admit that when Roger had made his acting debut in an ill-fated amateur production a year and a half ago, he’d shown hints of acting talent.

  “Thank you so much, Roger,” Vida said in a voice bursting with pride. “Now can you te
ll us how you decided to head this vital search?”

  Another pause. Roger must be gathering his wits. They could be anywhere.

  “That is,” Vida interjected, “how you came up with this idea on your own?”

  “Oh—well, yeah, right.” I thought I heard a gulp from Roger. “It seems like, well, you know, like older people these days think kids don’t have any responsibility. So, well, like I figured I could show them—the older people—that we do. Have responsibility, like. So I thought we could help. Plus, I think being a detective is really cool.”

  “Ah.” I could practically see Vida beaming. “You’ve had some experience,” she continued, “being a detective, haven’t you, Roger?”

  “Yeah. A while ago I lost my retainer. You know, for my teeth. My folks were kind of upset ’cause those retainers cost like a grip of money. So I thought I should find it. I went back over where I’d hung out and what I was doing, and like, you know, retraced all that, and that’s how I found the retainer in the dumpster at the high school. I’d left it in my lunch bag under some Twix wrappers.”

  “Brilliant!” Vida exclaimed. “A perfect example of sound logic and keen detection!”

  Roger, Master of the Obvious. Even I could have figured out that the kid would take off his retainer when he ate, which occurred frequently. But at least he’d saved Amy and Ted Hibbert several hundred dollars.

  “So,” Vida was stating with enthusiasm, “all of you young people out there listening have a chance to be a detective, too. Remember, ten o’clock tomorrow morning at Old Mill Park. Further instructions will await you. Before I close Vida’s Cupboard this evening, I’d like to thank Roger once again, as well as KSKY for the opportunity to perform this public service. Good night and a pleasant week to everyone until we take another peek into Vida’s Cupboard.”

  The closing of the cabinet’s sound effects concluded with a gentle click, presumably keeping Vida’s gossip from running amok until next Wednesday. I sat back on the sofa and questioned her wisdom. Not to mention her sanity. Two minutes later, I was sipping Pepsi when the phone rang.