The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Only three, really,” I pointed out. “The fire was late Monday night. This is only Thursday.”

  “Well,” Vida huffed, “it seems like much longer. In any event, Roger and the other brave souls went through the vacant property, though why Milo put up crime-scene tape around the house, I’ll never know.”

  “To keep out trespassers?” I suggested.

  Vida took umbrage. “Roger and his chums certainly aren’t trespassers, they’re on a mission. The sheriff should thank them. But they did get in and had a very good look around before Doe showed up a second time and made them leave.”

  Doe had had a busy day. Maybe I could learn to like her.

  “What did they find?” I inquired as a new message from Adam showed up in my in-box.

  “All sorts of things,” Vida said cryptically. “Of course, Milo had taken away items that might have fingerprints or be traceable. But there was still a great deal to sort through.”

  I was torn between reading my son’s e-mail and listening to Vida puff up her grandson’s importance. “Such as?”

  “What you might expect from hippies and squatters,” Vida said in a self-righteous tone. “Wine bottles, candles, drug paraphernalia, music tapes, artsy-craftsy things, even some kind of kiln. Or that’s how Roger described it, though he thought it was an oven. Which, of course, it really is.”

  “Yes.” I was distracted. “Good for him,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m still going to call Milo.”

  “If you must.”

  I would—but as soon as I hung up, I read my son’s latest missive.

  “Mom—Will do, along with a warning for Toni to ignore ads that promise big bucks and may sound like they’re some kind of official Alaskan site but are a scam. I’ll do it now while I have time and CC the message to you. I’m not cold now, but I will be in about two weeks. Envy is a sin. You’d better stick to drinking.”

  I smiled, as if I could see Adam’s face on the laptop’s screen. I tapped out a brief reply. Then I called Milo on his cell. He picked up, sounding irritated.

  “Why didn’t you call me at home?” he demanded. “I thought this was another damned emergency.”

  “I didn’t know you were home,” I said innocently. “I thought you might be out drinking with the boys.”

  “What boys?” Milo grumbled. “Cal Vickers isn’t far from sixty, and Coach has got to be over fifty. Hell, they’re as old as I am. As for Myron Cobb, he’s close to seventy. Myron rode a bicycle to the library, for God’s sake.”

  “You can’t blame him for not wanting to ride with his father,” I pointed out. “Guess who I think I saw coming home?”

  “Roger?”

  “No. Old Nick.”

  “The hell you did.”

  “This guy fit the description,” I insisted before describing the encounter.

  “That’s weird,” Milo said when I’d finished. He knew that I wasn’t given to flights of fancy, so his tone was thoughtful. “Maybe he got wind of those goofy kids and their search party. Maybe he decided the best place to hide was in town.”

  “Did any of them find a shack or any kind of place where a hermit might hole up in the woods?”

  “Oh, a couple of old lean-tos we already knew about,” Milo replied. “They’ve been there forever, but nobody lives in them. There’s an abandoned cabin up on Martin Creek—some others around the county, too. From time to time, they’ve been occupied, but not lately. Summer people, homesteaders, whoever built those places a million years ago just left them standing vacant. They should be torn down, but that’s not my worry. Most of them are on what’s now state or federal forest service land.”

  I already knew that story. Over the years, we’d run articles on the subject, hoping that rightful owners or their heirs might step forward. The only responses we’d gotten were bogus. As for the hermits, they wouldn’t set up housekeeping on property that the authorities had on record.

  “One thing bothers me,” I said. “If this was Old Nick, he’s in terrific shape. He ran like a racehorse. How old is he supposed to be?”

  “How should I know?” Milo retorted. “He’s always been described as having a long gray—sometimes even white—beard. That goes back twenty, thirty years. If I had to guess—which I hate to do—I’d say in his seventies.”

  “He ran like he was eighteen,” I said. “Or closer to that than to eighty.”

  “That’s possible,” Milo said after a pause. “Those hermits have to keep fit just to survive. They have to haul their supplies, often uphill. You’ve heard about the Iron Man of the Hoh?”

  “Of course,” I replied, “but he wasn’t a hermit. He had a ranch on the Hoh River over on the Olympic Peninsula.” The old guy had been so strong that he’d allegedly carried a cast-iron stove for miles and miles over rough country trails and streams. When encountering a neighbor who asked if the stove was a heavy burden, the Iron Man responded that it wasn’t too bad—but the hundred-pound sack of flour inside the stove kind of slowed him down.

  Milo’s point was well taken, however. Forest-dwelling recluses didn’t need to work out in a gym to keep in good physical condition.

  After assuring the sheriff that he’d made a very effective presentation at the library, I rang off. My work was done. But I had a busy Friday ahead of me.

  VIDA GOES TO all the funerals. She always has a wonderful time, despite the tragic circumstances or her criticism of the deceased. I go only when it’s someone I’ve known well. It’s not that funerals disturb me so much, but that I can’t endure the Wailers, a trio of black-clad women who attend every service for the dead whether they know the person or not, and who constantly moan, shriek—and wail. I’ve tried to ignore them—as Vida manages to do—but they drive me nuts.

  I’d heard back from Adam shortly before going to bed Thursday night. The message he’d sent Toni was informative and relatively concise, directing her to the state of Alaska’s web page. He also wanted to make sure that she understood the size of Alaska, not to mention the harsh weather conditions. He’d suggested that she might consider seasonal work, particularly in the seafood industry, rather than making a permanent move.

  I don’t know why, but I always find it surprising when my son exhibits a mature and compassionate nature. Priest or no priest, I still think of him as seventeen and utterly irresponsible. I suppose it’s one of the occupational hazards of being a mother.

  Adam had also told Toni that I’d be checking in with her, as I was familiar with the situation in Alaska. That wasn’t exactly true, but what he really meant was that at least I knew where to find it on a map.

  Thus, the first thing I did after securing coffee and a glazed doughnut was to call the sheriff’s office and find out if Toni was at work. She wasn’t, Doe Jameson informed me rather testily. Toni was still ailing. It was possible, Doe added, that Toni might come in later in the day.

  I tried Toni at her home. She didn’t pick up. All I got was a prerecorded message informing me that the party I was trying to reach wasn’t available. And all I could do was wait.

  “You really must come,” Vida declared, standing in the doorway to my office. “The funeral could be very revealing.”

  “How so?”

  Vida began ticking off reasons on her fingers. “Tiffany’s reaction. The attitude of her parents. Beth’s manner. Dot and Durwood, not to mention anyone else who shows up and makes us wonder why.”

  “You’re referring to suspects we haven’t suspected?”

  Vida shrugged. “Something like that. Still,” she added quickly, “I think finding Old Nick is important. If not the killer, then he may be a valuable witness.”

  I considered Vida’s proposal. “It’s a memorial service, right? It won’t go on forever, right?”

  “Well . . . it is at the Lutheran church. Some of them tend to be quite long-winded, though Pastor Nielsen isn’t too loquacious. He’s Danish, I believe. It’s the German Lutherans you have to worry about. Of course, the pr
oblem with you Catholics is that your clergymen give rather short sermons. You get very restless if anyone speaks for over ten minutes.”

  I couldn’t argue the point. My brother, Ben, had counseled Adam about long homilies. Ben recalled that when he was in the seminary a priest had insisted that each of his students deliver a sermon while holding a twenty-pound squirming pig. This, the veteran priest asserted, was the equivalent of a parishioner trying to control a baby while attending Mass. It was a lesson my brother never forgot, and one that, I gathered, Adam had taken to heart.

  “I can’t promise,” I told Vida, “but maybe I’ll look in. Okay?”

  Vida seemed satisfied. I spent the next hour working on my Wild Sky Wilderness editorial, urging the state’s congressional delegation to unite across party lines and get the bill passed. The issue had been pending for some time. The vast area, with some of the oldest forests in the state, was north of Highway 2, and included Mount Baldy and the north fork of the Skykomish River.

  I got so caught up in seeking the right verbiage to move lawmakers that I lost track of time. It was five after ten when I glanced at my watch. Vida had already left around nine-thirty, presumably to make sure she got an excellent vantage point in the church.

  She needn’t have worried. The church seats approximately four hundred people, but no more than fifty were scattered among the comfortably padded pews. Vida was in the third row on the aisle. Her broad-brimmed black hat with the white daisies was easy to find.

  Not wanting to be noticed as a latecomer, I kept to the rear. The Wailers sat a few rows in front of me, like a trio of vultures. At the moment they were mercifully silent, perhaps in deference to Beth Rafferty, who was on the altar, speaking of her brother.

  “Tim heard many people’s troubles over the years,” Beth was saying. “That’s part of the job when you work in a restaurant.”

  I noticed she didn’t say “bar.” Maybe that was because some of the mourners were anti-alcohol. At least a dozen of those present weren’t known to me, even by sight. I assumed they were relatives or friends who lived out of town. But I knew many quite well. Dot and Durwood Parker seemed to have shrunk since I’d last seen them. They sat very close to each other in the second pew, right in front of Vida. Tiffany was with her parents. I couldn’t see anything but the back of their heads. Poor old Mrs. Rafferty was sitting next to Al Driggers. I hoped she didn’t know what was going on. I also spotted Dwight Gould in attendance, wearing his civvies. He was probably doing double duty. Not only had he known the Parkers quite well, but Milo always attends a funeral involving a homicide or else sends one of his deputies to observe.

  Beth was still talking. “. . . the radio where Tim made many new friends . . .”

  Sure enough, Spencer Fleetwood was sitting off to one side. He was wearing an earpiece. I noticed that Beth wore a microphone. Damn all, Spence was broadcasting the service live over KSKY.

  Well, I thought, Tim had been Spence’s employee. Why not? I scrunched farther down in the pew as Beth continued: “. . . his love of baseball and his memorabilia collection. Tim hated to part with any of it, but he wanted to share with other fans so he . . .”

  Tiffany was shifting around in her seat. Her back probably bothered her. It was a good thing she didn’t attend St. Mildred’s, where the old fir pews are as unyielding as steel and no pastor has ever suggested replacement or padding.

  Beth had finished. The organ was playing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Pastor Nielsen returned to the middle of the altar. The Wailers were wailing. I tried to shut them out, but it was impossible. They covered the scale from deep, dark moans to high-pitched, shattering shrieks.

  I tried to focus on my immediate surroundings and ignore the Wailers. It was impossible, of course, but movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I saw a side door open ever so slightly. Through a pane of frosted glass, I could make out a curly dark head I thought I recognized. I scooted out of the pew and went over to the side aisle. The door closed quickly. I kept moving, if only to escape the Wailers.

  I wasn’t really surprised to see Toni Andreas going toward the main entrance.

  “Toni!” I called to her. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  Toni blinked several times. “You have? Why?”

  “Did you get Adam’s e-mail about moving to Alaska?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “He asked me to talk to you about it.”

  “I—” She stopped, lowering her gaze. “I have to go outside. I can’t breathe in here.”

  The foyer hadn’t yet grown stuffy from the morning heat, but I pretended to agree with her. “I don’t blame you. I can’t stand listening to those Wailers.”

  I helped Toni push the heavy door open. She seemed not only agitated, but weak. Maybe she really was sick.

  “It was nice of you to come to Tim’s service even though you’ve been ill,” I remarked as we stepped outside. “I didn’t realize you were close to the family.”

  Toni stared across the parking lot to the nursing home where Mrs. Rafferty now resided. Her long curly black hair made her look even more waiflike. “I knew Tim,” she said softly.

  “Oh?”

  “I used to talk to him at the Venison Inn.” Toni continued to stare.

  “He must have been a good listener,” I remarked.

  “Yes.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.” She finally turned slightly but didn’t look at me. “Better.”

  “Flu? Or just this awful heat? It can make people sick, you know.”

  “Yes. It must be the heat.”

  “Why don’t we go over to that bench? We can sit under the shade of the horse chestnut tree.”

  Toni didn’t move. “I really should go.”

  “Why? You just got here, didn’t you?”

  “Well . . .” Toni looked in every direction, her movements jerky. “I really don’t like funerals.”

  “Nobody does,” I said, “except people like the Wailers.” And Vida, who considered such occasions as sources of unfettered gossip. People, she once said, let their defenses down when they were mourning.

  “I should go,” Toni muttered, glancing anxiously at the front entrance. “The service must be almost over.”

  “They’ll be going to the reception in the church hall,” I said.

  Toni shifted from one foot to the other. “Not everybody will stay.”

  The sun was getting in my eyes. “Is there someone you don’t want to see?”

  “I’m going now.” Toni turned her back on me and started walking toward the street. I followed.

  Toni crossed Cedar, moving toward John Engstrom Park. I saw an older dark blue Nissan parked in the middle of the block. I’d seen it often outside of the sheriff’s headquarters, and figured it was her car. Sure enough, she jaywalked to the driver’s side. I did the same, reaching her just as she slid behind the wheel.

  The window was halfway down. I leaned against the door. “Come on, Toni. Don’t act like a goose. Adam asked me to help you with your move to Alaska. What’s wrong with you?”

  Maybe it was the hint of maternal concern in my voice—something that I thought might be missing from Toni’s life in recent years. God knows it’s hard to keep a long-distance relationship going, even when you try. I wasn’t sure how hard the ex-Mrs. Andreas was trying. Second marriages can create problems with children of all ages.

  “Why do we have to talk now?” Toni asked in a petulant voice.

  I noticed that her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Because you’re not working at the moment and I’m taking a break. Let’s go get a cup of coffee somewhere.”

  “No.” She shook her head defiantly.

  “Then,” I said, “let’s sit in the park. It’s cool with all those trees.”

  Toni stared straight ahead through the windshield. A minute passed. I heard voices in the distance. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a half-dozen people coming out of the Lutheran church. Apparently, Toni h
ad spotted them in the rearview mirror. She looked in the direction of the park with its statue of John Engstrom, one of the Alpine Timber Company’s early and much loved superintendents.

  “Okay.” She seemed defeated, as if her will had been sliced in two by a buzz saw.

  She got out of the car on the passenger side, scurrying into the park like a hunted animal. I followed at a more leisurely pace. The mourners who were leaving had gone straight to the parking lot. As far as I could tell, they weren’t paying any attention to us.

  Two curving benches flanked the life-size statue. We sat under a big maple tree. Its leaves didn’t stir in the still, warm air. Only the sound of water rippling over rocks into a small pond offered any sense of coolness. But the grass was green and lush, watered regularly by Fuzzy Baugh’s command.

  “Let’s talk about Alaska,” I said. “It’s huge, you know, and very different from Alpine.”

  “We have snow,” Toni replied. “We have rain. I don’t mind bad weather.”

  “Do you want to live in a city?”

  “I think so. Fairbanks, maybe. Or Anchorage.”

  “Anchorage has about a quarter of a million people,” I said. “Do you want to live in a city that large? Fairbanks is much smaller, maybe twice the size of Monroe.” I was guessing about the comparison, but figured I was close enough to show Toni the difference.

  She surprised me. “I looked up Anchorage on the Internet. They have over three thousand more men than women.”

  That, I gathered, was Toni’s main interest. “You’re assuming that all three thousand of them aren’t losers?”

  “There’s bound to be some good ones,” Toni replied. “They can’t all be like the men around here.”

  “How’s that?”

  For the first time, she looked me right in the eye. There was no sign of tears now. “You’ve never gotten married. How come?”