by Mary Daheim
“I do know Beth,” Donna said. “She’s a nice woman. I feel sorry for her, too. With her mother in such poor shape, Beth has no real family left. Except when the baby comes, of course.”
Alfred Cobb was being stuffed into the car in the handicapped spot. Unfortunately, he was put in the driver’s seat. His son and Rip Ridley stepped aside. Alfred gunned the engine and shot straight over the curb and across the sidewalk. The Chrysler slammed into the library wall.
“Oh, my God!” Donna cried. “Was that Mr. Cobb?”
“It wasn’t Durwood,” I murmured.
Donna ran toward the car. Rip and Alfred’s son were already there. So were a couple of other people who had barely escaped getting hit by the Chrysler. Fearing that medical help might be needed, I got out my cell phone and dialed 911. I recognized Evan Singer’s voice on the line.
“The public library?” Evan echoed. “I’ll send an ambulance right away. Is that you, Emma?”
“Yes,” I replied, keeping my eye on the activity around the Chrysler and wishing I’d brought a camera. “I can’t tell about injuries. Alfred only went about fifteen feet, but he went fast.”
“Okay. Is Dodge still there?”
I looked around the parking lot. Milo’s Grand Cherokee was parked a few spaces away from the side entrance. In fact, the sheriff was coming out of the building even as I answered Evan’s question.
“Yes. I see him. I called you first because I thought Alfred should be treated before he was arrested.”
Whatever damage the crash had done to Alfred, it hadn’t harmed his lungs. He was swearing his head off as Rip and the younger Cobb—whose name I suddenly recalled was Myron—disentangled him from the air bag.
“Air bag meets Windbag,” I muttered as Edna Mae Dalrymple twittered and twitched over to my side. “I don’t think Alfred’s seriously injured.”
“But what about the library?” Edna Mae asked in her birdlike voice. “I can’t tell from here. I don’t want to get too close in case there’s blood. I can’t take the sight of blood. Oh, dear! Alfred sounds very upset!”
“I’ll check out the building,” I said, watching the sheriff approach the damaged car and the cussing Alfred.
The ambulance siren sounded nearby. I couldn’t see into the Chrysler. Milo’s big form blocked Alfred from sight, if not from sound. Close to the library’s outer wall, I could see that the Chrysler’s grille was badly mangled and a headlight was broken. The building’s brick facade was intact, though undoubtedly marred. The flower bed that bordered the walkway apparently hadn’t been crushed, because the front tires never got farther than the concrete.
“A scrub brush should take care of it,” I told Edna Mae as I rejoined her by the curb. “The main thing is that no one seems to be badly hurt, including Alfred.” Indeed, Alfred was now demanding to know who had moved the goddamned building.
“Thank heavens he’s alive!” Edna Mae’s small face was still stricken. “I really must go back inside and sit down. This is so terrible! Oh—here comes the ambulance.”
“I’ll go in with you,” I said. “We need to give the EMTs some room to work.”
That wasn’t precisely true, but I wanted to talk to Edna Mae. I’d forgotten to contact her about the Rafferty disaster.
She led me back into the meeting room, which was now empty except for the custodian who had begun to tidy up. The urns that held coffee and hot water for tea had been unplugged, but were still warm. Edna Mae insisted that I join her in a cup of tea.
“Poor Mr. Cobb,” she lamented. “He really shouldn’t be driving. He’s not only hard of hearing, but doesn’t see as well as he used to.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That seems to be the case.”
She shot me a quick, anxious look. “Do you think he might sue us? I mean, we didn’t move the building, of course. But Mr. Cobb is a county commissioner.”
“He’s lucky he doesn’t get cited for reckless driving,” I replied. “Besides, there were a half-dozen witnesses in the parking lot who saw that it was his own fault for not putting the car in reverse.”
“Yes . . . yes, I suppose that’s so.” Edna Mae plucked at her lower lip. “Goodness, this has been a very nerve-racking week.”
She had segued into my line of interrogation. “It certainly has. You were the one who called in the fire, weren’t you?”
Edna Mae shuddered. “Oh, I certainly did! I was sitting up late, reading the new Anna Quindlen book. Such an excellent writer, so adept at touching the heart.” She smiled softly. “Then I heard this crackling sound. I thought it was fireworks, left over from the Fourth of July. I peeked outside—I always draw the drapes at night, even in the summer—and I could see flames coming from across the street.” Edna Mae shuddered again. “I thought it was the Rafferty house, but I couldn’t be sure. It was dark by then, you see, and even though the fire cast a glow, it was hard to see with the smoke. So I called 911.” She pursed her lips, and the hand that held the paper cup of tea trembled. “If only I’d noticed sooner. Maybe I could have saved Tim.”
“I doubt that,” I murmured. “It’s probable that the fire was started after Tim was already dead.”
Edna Mae leaned forward on the folding chair. “But you can’t be sure, can you? I feel so guilty!”
“You mustn’t,” I insisted. “What you can do, though, is to try to remember if you saw anything unusual at the Rafferty house lately. Someone watching it, maybe, or even Old Nick, who was allegedly living in the vacant place next door.”
Edna Mae’s eyes grew huge. “I’ve never seen Old Nick. I’m sure I’d know if I had. He’s very peculiar-looking, isn’t he?”
“He’s got a long gray beard and wears ratty old clothes,” I said. “You’d notice someone like that in the neighborhood.” I hadn’t, I reminded myself. Emma, Professional Observer, flunks another test.
“Oh, my, yes, and anyone like that who came into the library. Not,” she added, “that we don’t get some old and rather odd fellows from time to time. Occasionally, a strange old lady, too. It’s very sad. They spend hours, just reading the newspapers, especially in the winter when it’s cold.”
I nodded. “They’re lonely. And maybe they have no heat where they live.”
“You’d think there would always be firewood around here,” Edna Mae remarked. “It’s certainly hot enough now. I was so afraid that the fire at the Raffertys’ might jump the street. Everything’s so dry. I think summer is a much more dangerous time around here than winter.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone else around the Raffertys’ house lately,” I said in a casual manner. “They seemed to keep to themselves.”
Edna Mae looked faintly indignant. “I’m not like some who go around keeping track of their neighbors’ every move.”
I knew that Vida was first and foremost among those some, but I merely nodded.
“Of course,” Edna Mae continued, “you have to keep an eye out. For one thing, that cul-de-sac was always a magnet for teenagers before Tim and Tiffany built their house. The high school and college youngsters would go there to party and do heaven-knows-what.” She shuddered yet another time, though not so strongly. “And of course, the vacant house was always a problem. Remittance people, that’s what I thought. You know—or runaways and such who’d move in. Squatters, too, if you count any of the older ones who lived there.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That section of Fir Street’s always caused problems.”
“It’s very close to the high school, too.” Edna Mae looked worried. “I do like to keep an eye on the playfield. You never know what’s going to happen there at night when it’s deserted.”
“Not much if it’s deserted,” I noted.
“What?” Edna Mae stared. “Oh! Yes.” She smiled. “You always have your little jokes, Emma. But you know what I mean.”
“So you haven’t seen anyone out of the ordinary around the Rafferty house?” I repeated, steering Edna Mae back to my original query.
The custodian looked as if he was getting impatient for us to leave him to his business. I wasn’t getting very far with my own. “Did you bring your car?” I asked Edna Mae. “If not, I could give you a ride.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’ve been here since nine o’clock this morning. I don’t like to walk in hot weather.”
“I don’t blame you.” I stood up. “I should go. I suppose I’d better check to find out if Alfred’s okay.”
Edna Mae also got to her feet, though she teetered a bit. “I do hope so. He’s really quite frail.”
I agreed. Moments later, I was back in the parking lot. Milo was still there, along with Coach Ridley and a tow truck driven by Cal Vickers from the Texaco station. I inquired after the county commissioner.
“Alfred wouldn’t go in the ambulance,” Milo replied, “so Myron took him to the clinic. He looked okay to the EMTs, at least as far as they could tell. The old fart wouldn’t let them come near him.” The sheriff nodded at the Chrysler, which Cal was studying with professional aplomb. “That’s a fairly new car,” Milo went on. “It’s got some other dents and scrapes. I guess Durwood Parker’s got a successor as the worst driver in SkyCo.”
“How are the Parkers?” I asked. “I haven’t spoken to them since Tim died.”
“Dwight Gould went to see them Tuesday afternoon,” Milo replied. “Dwight worked in the pharmacy while he was going to high school. He told me they were holding up pretty well. They’re tough old birds.”
“They’re smart, too,” I noted, “Durwood’s driving record notwithstanding.”
Coach Ridley chuckled. “I remember my first season as the Buckers’ coach. Sultan was down on our four-yard line, going for the winning TD in the final seconds. Durwood drove his car onto the field and damned near wiped out both teams. Time expired while everybody was running for cover. Durwood claimed he had to work late at the drug store and was only trying to find a parking place.”
The sheriff and Cal Vickers laughed, too.
“I don’t know how many times I had to tow Durwood’s cars,” Cal put in. “He was always so good-natured about it all, too. Hell of a guy.”
The three men were absorbed in their conversation. They didn’t notice me. I went over to the Honda and headed for home.
The library is located on First, between Pine and Cedar streets. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a big truck stalled on the hill, so I took a right instead of a left and drove along Pine. Slowing to a stop before turning right on Fourth, I noticed a figure leaning against the side of the Alpine Building. It was almost dark. My first thought was that whoever it was had staggered out of Mugs Ahoy across the street and couldn’t quite manage walking. But then I looked closer.
The man was tall and slightly stooped. Or maybe he seemed that way because he was propped up by the building. His T-shirt and pants were old and ratty. He had a long gray beard.
I was certain that he was Old Nick.
ELEVEN
THE SIGHTING OF a man who looked like Old Nick presented a logistical dilemma. There was nowhere to park, except for a loading zone by the tavern across Pine Street. The object of my curiosity lifted his head and looked straight at the Honda. His reaction was the same as if he’d been a deer. He froze for just a second, then turned away and started scampering down the street toward Front.
A car coming uphill had the right-of-way. The driver was going very slowly, not more than ten miles an hour. I had to wait. As the vehicle crossed the intersection, I thought I recognized Darla Puckett. She wasn’t the worst driver in SkyCo, but she was the slowest, never going over twenty-five, even on the highway.
As for the man I thought was Old Nick, he was much fleeter of foot than I’d imagined. By the time Darla had passed by, he’d turned the corner on Front. A quartet of teenagers was crossing the main drag, apparently headed for the late show at the Whistling Marmot. I had to wait for them, too. By the time I turned onto Front, Old Nick had disappeared.
“Damn!” I swore under my breath, scanning Front Street. Several people were on the sidewalks, coming or going to the movie theater, the Venison Inn, the video store, the Burger Barn. That section was always busy by Alpine standards, especially on a warm summer night.
I was driving almost as slowly as Darla Puckett, trying to see where Old Nick had gone. If the man was the recluse, it seemed unlikely that he’d gone into any of the business establishments. The only escape route was the narrow alley between the theater and Dutch Bamberg’s Videos-to-Go on the corner.
But I didn’t see him from the car. He could be hiding in a doorway or even have reached Pine Street. Again, I was amazed at his quickness. Discouraged, I turned up Fifth, looking in every direction when I reached Pine again. The street was now deserted except for a couple who were just coming out of Mugs Ahoy. I kept going, cutting back to Fourth where the middle school blocked the street.
I called Vida as soon as I got home. “I think I saw Old Nick,” I said.
“No!” Vida sounded flabbergasted. “Where?”
I recounted my little adventure. “For an old guy, he moves pretty fast,” I added.
“You’re sure you aren’t mistaken? It’s dark; it may have been someone else with a beard.”
“It wasn’t that dark,” I responded. “This happened ten, fifteen minutes ago.” I started at the beginning, with dinner for Milo and his talk at the library.
“Alfred Cobb!” Vida exclaimed when I got to the part about the accident. “The old fool! He should have had his license revoked years ago! He must be ninety if he’s a day!”
“He has an outstanding guardian angel,” I remarked.
“Worn to a frazzle, I should think.” But Vida still had objections about my sighting. “I can’t imagine Old Nick—or any other of those hermits—staying so long in town, especially in the summer. They come for a day or two, get what they need, and go back to their lairs. It’s utterly uncharacteristic for one of them to linger.”
Vida had a point, but I wondered if she wasn’t dubious because it would mean her search—Roger’s search—was in vain. “All the same, I’m going to tell Milo,” I said.
“Oh, Milo, my foot! He couldn’t find Old Nick under his desk!”
“Well,” I said, piqued by Vida’s disbelief, “Roger and his buddies didn’t find Old Nick in my backyard.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s where I found them when I came home from work a half hour early.”
“You did?” Vida paused. “They were resting, of course.”
It was useless to reveal the truth to Vida. She’d accuse me of lying, of causing trouble, of being blind as a bat. Worse yet, she’d be on the peck—as she’d put it—for the rest of the week.
“Ask Roger,” I said, and let it go at that.
There was another pause at the other end of the line. “They’d probably been to the cul-de-sac, looking for clues. Or at the abandoned house.”
“You haven’t talked to him this evening?”
“No,” Vida admitted. “I only got home about ten minutes ago. I had dinner with the Thorvaldsons in Sultan. They’re distant cousins, you know.”
If I’d ever known, I’d forgotten. It was impossible to keep up with all of Vida’s relatives.
“I tried to drop off those geranium cuttings for Mandy Gustavson on my way to Sultan. Unfortunately, she wasn’t home,” Vida continued. “I’ll try again tomorrow, or perhaps Saturday. She may be working evenings at the Venison Inn. I certainly don’t want to meet her in the bar.”
I assumed she shuddered at the mere thought. “Bars are good places for gossip,” I pointed out.
“Anywhere is a good place for gossip,” Vida retorted. “I’ll call Roger right now. Don’t you dare ph
one Milo until I call you back.”
I agreed. For all I knew, Milo had gone off to Mugs Ahoy with Coach Ridley and Cal Vickers. The sheriff was, after all, off duty.
It was going on ten o’clock. I hadn’t checked my e-mail since I got home from work. Sure enough, there was a message from Adam.
“Mom,” he wrote. “If Toni was seeing Tim Rafferty, that’d explain the e-mail I got from her today. I’m forwarding it on to you. Make of it what you will. Love and prayers, Adam the Popsicle.”
Lucky Adam. Apparently, he wasn’t suffering from ninety-degree heat.
Quickly, I read through Toni’s message.
“Hi, Adam—I’m not at work today because I don’t feel good. Is it true that men outnumber women in Alaska? I’m thinking of moving there. Where’s a good place? I don’t think I can live in Alpine anymore. I trust you. Please help me. Your friend, Toni.”
The message sounded like Toni: immature, naïve—and trusting. If she’d trusted Tim Rafferty, she’d made a big mistake. But at least she’d had the good sense—or dumb luck—to confide in Adam. I suspected that Toni always trusted the men she dated. My son was probably one of the few that she could still locate, let alone trust.
I thought about the matter for several minutes before finally replying to Adam. Maybe he was still online. His message had been sent only a half hour ago, our time.
“Dear Adam—Upon sober reflection (no, your mother hasn’t been drinking, not for the past four hours anyway), I’ve decided that this is a perfect opening for me to talk to Toni. But first, you should e-mail and tell her what she needs to know about jobs and locations and such. Then I can take it from there. Are you really cold? I envy you. Love, Mom.”
I waited, hoping that Adam would respond. The phone rang a minute or two later.
It was Vida. “I spoke to Roger,” she said in a brusque voice. “I was quite right. He and the other searchers were merely taking a break on their way back to Old Mill Park. They’d decided to do a thorough search of the abandoned house and the murder site.”
“And?”
“They were impeded by smoldering rubble at the house,” Vida replied in a hostile tone. “There’s still a danger of flare-up there, though I can’t think why. Doe Jameson was patrolling the site and shooed them away. Honestly, you’d think that with all the water and chemicals they use on fires now, there wouldn’t be a problem. It’s been four days.”