The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Beth!” I spoke sharply, but softly, aware that we were being watched by several of the other customers. “Let me help you.”

  Beth shook her head. “No. No, I don’t need help.” She scrambled to her feet and all but ran from the restaurant.

  I swore under my breath. I could chase her, but that would cause a scene. Becky was at a nearby table, waiting on two of Vida’s sisters-in-law, Mary Lou Blatt and Nell Blatt. Both women had married Vida’s brothers and had been on poor terms with her for years. I didn’t want to draw any further attention and create a gossip fest that inevitably would involve Vida. I waited until Becky had left their table.

  Luckily, Becky saw me wave. “I’m afraid Beth suddenly became ill,” I explained. “The strain, you know. Can you cancel her order and make mine to go?” Having been dumped by Rolf and now by Beth, I didn’t feel like eating alone at a table for two.

  Becky clenched her fists. “I knew it! I shouldn’t have said anything about Mom calling 911! But I feel so bad about Tim, and Mom has been having a fit ever since he died!”

  “Why is that?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  Becky struggled for composure. The couple at the next table—thankfully unknown to me—were discreetly gazing at us. “I can’t say. Honest.” Her plump features contorted with distress. “Ask Mom. God, she’s going to be so mad at me!” She smoothed the skirt of her apron with its blue and white Norwegian snowflake pattern. “In fact, please don’t say anything to her. It’ll only make it worse.”

  “Wait, Becky,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  But she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Honest. Let me cancel Beth’s order and get yours to go. Excuse me.” She moved away almost as quickly as Beth had done.

  Annoyed, I finished my drink and waited. Not patiently. Mary Lou and Nell had noticed me and were staring. I waved. They waved back. They must have noticed Beth’s departure. Neither of them was as curious as Vida, but they were equally opinionated and strong-minded, which was why my House & Home editor had never gotten along with her sisters-in-law.

  They had turned back to each other. I knew they were talking about me—and Beth. Not to mention Tim and Tiffany and her parents and the Parkers and whoever else was connected to the tragedy. No doubt everybody in the restaurant—except the out-of-towners—were also chattering about the homicide. I could sense the speculation clinging to the air, along with the Edvard Grieg sonata for cello and piano that played in the background.

  I decided not to wait for Becky to deliver my meal and the bill. Beth’s bill, too, I realized, though I’d only have to pay for her cocktail. As soon as I reached the desk, Becky appeared, carrying a takeout box featuring a Viking ship motif.

  “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about upsetting Beth,” Becky said in a low voice. “I ruined dinner for both of you. Never mind the bill. It’s on the house.”

  “Nonsense,” I declared, opening my handbag and taking out two twenty-dollar bills. “I insist,” I said, pressing them into Becky’s hand. “You can’t blame yourself for Beth’s behavior.”

  Reluctantly, she took the money. “Gee, Emma, that’s really nice of you. That’s more than enough. Don’t you want change?”

  I shook my head. The only change I wanted was to see some progress in finding out who killed Tim Rafferty. Still, I’d seen a big change come over Beth, and I wondered how it might help find a solution to her brother’s murder.

  EVEN THOUGH BECKY had asked me not to talk to her mother, I hadn’t promised any such thing. Journalists can’t make promises when they’re on the trail of a hot story. I ventured out of the house at five to ten Saturday morning, heading for kIds cOrNEr. Its quirky lettering, etched on oversize children’s blocks, highlighted the owner’s first name, Ione.

  I parked in front of Francine’s Fine Apparel, next door to kIds cOrNEr. Luckily, Ione had just opened the store and had no other customers. I wasn’t going to bother with subterfuge.

  “I’m out of line,” I declared. “But I have to ask you a question.”

  Ione, who is as dark as her daughter is fair, frowned at me. “What kind of question?”

  “You called 911 last week. Why?”

  Ione seemed prepared. I guessed that Becky had confessed her indiscreet remark to Beth Rafferty. “I could say it’s none of your business, Emma.”

  “Yes, you could,” I replied. “You’re not a fanciful person, Ione. If you called 911, it should be a matter of public record. Your call was never logged. Scott Chamoud checks the police log every workday. There was nothing listed for your neighborhood. I want to know why not.”

  Ione’s sharp features didn’t soften one jot. “I’ve never been a troublemaker. I’m not going to start now.”

  “Would you rather get Beth into trouble because she didn’t make an official entry in the log and didn’t respond in any way?”

  Ione uttered a four-letter word she wouldn’t have dreamed of using in front of her clientele. “You’re blackmailing me,” she accused.

  “No,” I asserted. “I’m doing investigative reporting. Oh, I know that some people call 911 for really stupid reasons or because they imagine something. But that’s not your style. I’m guessing your call was about Tim and Tiffany. That’s why Beth didn’t log it. Milo thought she’d simply forgotten.”

  Ione’s eyes widened. “Dodge knows?”

  “He knows she skipped a beat,” I said. I’d let Ione figure out what else he knew—or in this case, didn’t know.

  “Okay, okay,” Ione barked. “So I overreacted.” She paused, the faint lines in her high forehead deepening. “You never knew my husband,” she said in a more matter-of-fact tone. “Kris was a logger who lost a leg in the woods. He blamed me. Can you beat that?” She made a disparaging gesture with her hand. “He was verbally abusive, day in, day out. Finally, he blew his brains out with a twenty-gauge shotgun. The girls weren’t home, thank God. They were staying at their grandmother’s. I was the one who found him. I threw up, but I never shed a tear. Becky and Dani and I were better off without the bastard.”

  “That’s horrible,” I remarked, wondering why Ione was telling me this sad story.

  “While I was married to Kris, nobody talked about verbal abuse,” she continued. “I guess back then it was called constructive criticism.” Ione made a face. “Or if a woman did it, she was just a nag. But it gets to you. It erodes your self-confidence. You get so damned unsure of yourself that you start making mistakes, dropping things, stumbling over your own feet. For six years, I was a nervous wreck. So were our daughters, though Kris wasn’t as hard on Dani and Becky as he was on me. In fact, he ignored them most of the time, probably because they were girls. They were two and four when Kris killed himself, and hardly remember him, which is just as well. I’d like to forget him, too.”

  I was wondering—not too patiently—where all this Erdahl family history was going. Before I could say anything, Ginny Erlandson entered the shop with her two boys in tow. She greeted me with a surprised expression. “Don’t tell me you’re buying toys,” she said with a smile. “Or clothes?”

  I hesitated for only a moment. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’m going to send some things to Adam for the young members of his flock in Alaska.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” Ginny said, keeping one eye on her sons, who were pawing the merchandise. “Our plastic pool sprung a leak.” She looked at Ione. “Do you have any left?”

  “Two,” Ione replied, her sales smile in place. “Neither is the same as the one you bought, but I’ve marked these down since summer—hopefully—is coming to an end. They’re at the back of the store. The turtle is the best deal, although you’ll have to put it on top of your car to take it home. It’s fairly big.”

  Ginny gathered up her children and headed down the main aisle. Ione was still wearing her customer-friendly expression. “What are you interested in, Emma? I don’t have much for cold weather right now.”

  I had to think. Like most men, m
y son was vague when it came to ages—let alone sizes—of children. “Pants,” I said. “Two in each size for boys and girls. And tops—same thing, as long as they aren’t sleeveless.”

  “They’re all on sale, too,” Ione said, leading me to the round racks that held the appropriate items. “Or don’t you read our ad in the Advocate?”

  “That’s Leo’s job,” I replied. “You know I’m not used to shopping for kids.”

  We were out of earshot from Ginny and her boys, though they were both making enough noise to drown out a symphony orchestra.

  “Are you going to tell me why you called 911,” I said in a low voice, “or do I have to give you a rubber check?”

  Ione turned grim. “Are you buying toys, too?”

  “Yes.” What did I know about toys? How was I going to pay for all this? First, she accuses me of blackmail; now she wants a bribe. “Of course I want toys.”

  Ione nodded once. “I walk our dog, Charley, every night.” She was speaking quietly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Ginny wasn’t coming closer. “Over the years, he got in the habit of doing his business in the cul-de-sac. He won’t go anywhere else, even after the Raffertys built their house. I take a baggie, of course. The last couple of months, I could hear Tim and Tiffany fighting, yelling, screaming. It reminded me of my own marriage. That can escalate, you know. Last week, it was really bad. I stayed awake all night fussing about it, so the next day I called 911 before the situation got out of hand. Beth answered. I told her what was going on. She was really upset, but I don’t think she did anything official about it. Now that Tim’s dead, I don’t know if I did the right thing. Maybe I made the situation worse somehow. If Beth confronted Tim and Tiffany—”

  Ione shut up. Ginny and the boys were hauling a large pool shaped like a turtle down the aisle. “We’ll take it,” she said. “I’ve got some rope in the car. If you help me, I’ll tie it on top.”

  “I’ll help,” I volunteered.

  Ginny gave me a grateful look. “Thanks, Emma. You’re a good boss.”

  She paid for her purchase and ordered the boys to get out of a fire engine made for two. Ione held the door open for us. Lugging the pool down Front Street, we turned the corner. Ginny had parked halfway up the hill. I was out of breath by the time we got to the car. The boys were whooping and hollering, triumphant over their new acquisition.

  It was a struggle, but we managed to get the blasted thing secured. In truth, it wasn’t heavy—just very awkward. Ginny thanked me again before settling the boys into the car and driving away. Slowly.

  I went back to kIds cOrNEr. “Well?” Ione said, arms folded across her chest. “I picked out the clothes for you. What about the toys?”

  “You choose,” I said, already perspiring in the morning heat. “Try to keep it under a hundred, okay?” I gave her my credit card number and Adam’s address.

  “I’ll select items for all ages,” Ione said, running my card through her machine. “I’ll call you later with the total.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I sounded beat.

  “The winter clothes should start coming in by the end of the month,” she said, returning my card. “You aren’t going to put anything in the paper about what I said, are you?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. I’d make no promises to her, either. Like mother, like daughter.

  “I hope not. I feel like a meddler. But,” she added, “I think it’s terrible the way Tiffany treated Tim.”

  I did a double take. “You mean . . . ?”

  Ione nodded. “It was Tiffany who was doing most of the yelling. I’d say that woman is a first-class abuser.”

  FOURTEEN

  I DIDN’T KNOW what to do or what to think about Ione’s account of the Rafferty relationship. I wanted to talk to Beth, but I’d already flunked that course. I hadn’t done much better with Tiffany. Cookie Eriks would never admit that her daughter had a problem. If anything, Cookie seemed intimidated by Tiffany. I’d taken the older woman’s coddling as concern for her pregnant offspring. But maybe there was another reason for Cookie’s humble servitude.

  Wayne Eriks might be more forthcoming. He’d had dinner with Tim just a few days before the tragedy. I wanted to know why. It was Saturday, however. Wayne probably would be home with Cookie and Tiffany.

  I’d been cruising Front Street, trying to think. KSKY played on the car radio, C&W classics, which was Spencer Fleetwood’s standard Saturday-morning fare. As Willie Nelson’s “Always on My Mind” ended, Rey Fernandez began the eleven o’clock news. I wondered if I was on Rolf’s mind over in Spokane. He’d been on mine—at least, at the back of it. I still couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to call him.

  Nothing of interest caught my attention in Rey’s newscast. At least we hadn’t been scooped on a breaking story. I was about to turn onto Alpine Way and head home when Rey delivered the weather forecast: a high of eighty-nine, a low of sixty-four, with gathering clouds and the possibility of thunder and lightning in the Cascades. No rain, though. That wasn’t good news.

  But the forecast gave me an idea. I turned right instead of left on Alpine Way and headed for the newspaper office via Railroad Avenue. Parking behind the building, I went in through the quiet back shop to reach my cubbyhole.

  Unlike Vida, I don’t have most Alpiners’ phone numbers filed in my head. The phone book had only two listings for the last name of Eriks—Wayne and his cousin, Mel, who worked for Blue Sky Dairy. Cookie answered. I inquired about how the family was doing, especially Tiffany.

  “She’s resting,” Cookie replied. “Jake and Betsy have given her a few days off to recover. With pay. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Very,” I said, though knowing Betsy, she had to grit her teeth to do it. Betsy runs a tight financial ship for her husband’s grocery store. “Is Wayne there? I’ve got an electrical problem at the office.”

  Wordlessly, Cookie turned the phone over to her husband. “Yeah?” he said by way of greeting.

  Since Cookie hadn’t bothered to identify Wayne’s caller, I told him who I was and asked if he ever moonlighted.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “If I call an electrician on a Saturday, I’ll have to pay double or triple time,” I explained. “I’ll make it worth your while, of course.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  That was the tricky part. “We’ve got a satellite dish on the tin roof at the Advocate. We’re supposed to get thunder and lightning tonight, and I’m afraid something might happen.” I didn’t want to mention that lightning might cause a fire and burn the place down. Under the circumstances, that seemed tactless. Besides, I had no idea what I was talking about. “Could you check it out and make sure everything is grounded?” Whatever that meant.

  “Call the cable guy,” Wayne said. “That’s his job.”

  “You know he won’t come until Monday or Tuesday,” I said, sounding dismal.

  “What about Kip MacDuff? Isn’t he your jack-of-all-trades?”

  “I can’t reach him,” I lied.

  “Do you know how hot it’s going to be on that damned roof under the noonday sun?”

  “Well . . . yes. I could go up with you and hold a parasol over your head.”

  To my surprise, Wayne chuckled. “I’d like to see that. Okay, I’ll come by and take a look. See you in a few.”

  My thank-yous were effusive. As soon as I hung up, I rushed outside, got in the car, and drove six blocks down Front Street to the 7-Eleven. Eight minutes later I was back in the office with a six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s Private Reserve. Maybe a couple of beers would loosen Wayne’s tongue.

  Wayne arrived ten minutes later. “I got a ladder on the truck,” he said. “This part of the building’s so low I could practically jump it.”

  “It was an add-on,” I replied. “Marius Vandeventer had it built thirty years ago.”

  “Old Marius.” Wayne grinned. “Is he still kicking?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s alive and well in Arizona. V
ida hears from him every now and then. I get a Christmas card. But he was a real help when I bought the paper from him.”

  Wayne went outside. I followed him. He was right about the overhead sun. It was hot, too damned hot for Alpine or any other place north of the equator, as far as I was concerned.

  “Looks fine to me,” Wayne called. “Why don’t you put a different roof on this thing? Nobody uses tin anymore.”

  “They use aluminum or some kind of metal on some of the new buildings in Seattle,” I quibbled. “Although I think most of them are ugly.”

  He descended the ladder, folded it up, and started for his truck, which he’d parked by my Honda. “I can’t charge you for a look-see.” With ease, he put the ladder in the back of the vehicle, where other tools of his trade were stored.

  “At least you can have a beer,” I said. “I’ve got some Henry’s, cold.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Wayne said with his gap-toothed smile.

  We went back to the newsroom. I’d stashed the beer in the small fridge next to the coffeemaker. “Paper cup or the bottle?” I asked, taking out two beers. Ordinarily, I don’t drink beer, although I make an exception during hot weather.

  “Bottle’s fine,” Wayne said, giving me a quizzical look. “How come you got so worried about that satellite dish? Hasn’t it been up there for years? We get thunder and lightning all the time.”

  “But not this much prolonged hot, dry weather,” I replied. “And,” I went on, tactless or not, “I’m terrified of fires.”

  Wayne shuddered. “Who isn’t?”

  Having broached the subject, I plunged ahead. “It was probably what happened to Tim and the house that got me so upset. Of course, I know that fire wasn’t started because of the weather. I just wish Milo would find out who did it.”

  “Don’t we all,” Wayne murmured.

  “This should have been the happiest time of Tim and Tiffany’s lives,” I remarked, leaning against a file cabinet. “For everyone in the family. I imagine the baby brought you all closer.”