The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Come in,” I said, setting the laptop aside and getting up. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Cookie shook her head in a frantic manner. “Not really. Could I get a glass of water?”

  “Sure,” I replied, starting into the kitchen. “This way. Don’t tell me you’re out walking in this heat.”

  Cookie shook her head. “My car broke down.”

  I filled a glass with ice. “Right here?”

  She shook her head again. “About a block away, at Third on Fir. I was going to the mall.”

  Cookie had gone out of her way to reach the mall from her home in Icicle Creek. After filling the glass with water from the tap, I handed it to her. “I don’t get it,” I said frankly. “Let’s go back in the living room. It’s cooler there, with the fan.”

  Cookie flopped down into one of my easy chairs. “I couldn’t help myself. I had to drive by the house. I mean, what’s left of it.”

  “Oh.” That made sense, at least in terms of Cookie’s route. “Unfortunately, it’s just rubble.”

  “Yes.” Cookie’s expression was dismal. “It’s not smoking or anything now. It’s just . . . nothing.”

  “Everyone feels terrible about it,” I said. “How are you coping?”

  “Not well.” Cookie regarded me as if the question was futile. It was, of course. “Anyway, I got as far as Third and that was when the car broke down. I think the radiator overheated. May I use your phone to call Cal Vickers?”

  “Sure.” I picked the receiver up from the end table and gave it to Cookie. “Do you know his number?”

  “Yes. It’s an easy one to remember.”

  I went in the kitchen to get a cold Pepsi while Cookie made the call. She was disconnecting when I returned.

  “They’re coming with the tow truck in half an hour,” she said. “I don’t need to be there. I’m glad. There’s no shade where I left the car.”

  “How’s Tiffany?” I inquired.

  “She’s feeling better, I think.” Cookie sipped her water. “She’s exhausted, of course. I don’t know when she’ll be able to go back to work. Maybe she shouldn’t.”

  “Dr. Sung can advise her about that,” I said. “It’s a fairly long time until the baby arrives.”

  “Well . . . yes, but . . .” Cookie’s voice trailed off. “You know Sheriff Dodge quite well, don’t you?”

  The question seemed guileless. “Of course. We’re friends as well as working colleagues.”

  “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “You mean with the homicide investigation?”

  “Yes.” Cookie shifted uneasily in the chair. “He came to our house twice this afternoon, asking for Wayne. The sheriff was wearing regular clothes, but he acted as if he’d come on business. I know he lives just a few doors down from us, but it seemed . . . odd. In fact, it upset me.”

  “Did Milo talk to Wayne?”

  “No.” Cookie lowered her eyes. “Wayne wasn’t there.”

  “Then why would you be upset?”

  Cookie started to take a sip of water, but the glass slipped out of her hand. It bounced on the carpet, spilling the contents all over her sandal-clad feet. “Oh! I’m sorry! I’m so clumsy!” She bent down to retrieve the glass.

  I was on my feet. “I’ll get a towel,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. In this weather, ice water probably feels good.”

  “What?” Cookie picked up the glass—and dropped it again. “Oh, no! What’s wrong with me?” she wailed.

  I stopped halfway to the kitchen and turned back to her. “Hey—you’ve been through a terrible time. You’re probably ready to collapse. Sit, take a deep breath. I’ll take care of the water. The glass isn’t broken.” I gave her a gentle shove into the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  I collected the glass, went to the kitchen, got out a clean glass, filled it with more ice and water, and grabbed a towel off the rack by the sink. When I returned, Cookie was crying softly.

  “Go ahead,” I said, setting the glass down on the side table and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re entitled.”

  Cookie dried her eyes with her fists and shook her head. “I’m . . . trying to be . . . brave . . . for Tiff. She . . . needs . . . me.”

  “Of course she does,” I soothed. “But she seems to be holding up rather well.”

  “She’s strong,” Cookie replied, the tears staunched. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

  Was there irony in Cookie’s voice? Probably not, though I felt there should have been. Maybe tough wasn’t the right word. Selfish could be more apt.

  Cookie made no attempt to reclaim the water glass. Maybe she was afraid she’d drop it again. Instead, as I sat back down on the sofa, she leaned forward and stared at me with searching eyes. “Why do you think the sheriff wants to talk to Wayne? What could he possibly know?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe Milo wanted to hear more about Old Nick. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if Tim had any expensive sports memorabilia stored somewhere other than in the house. Maybe he’s just double-checking alibis.”

  “Alibis?” Cookie’s body jerked into a rigid position. “That sounds awful! As if Wayne was a suspect!”

  “A poor choice of words on my part,” I said in apology. “It’s routine. I’m sure he’s asked everyone connected to the family about where they were that night. Hasn’t he asked you already?”

  Cookie scarcely moved a muscle. “We were home. We watched TV until we went to bed around eleven. The phone woke us up a little after midnight with the terrible news.”

  She’d rehearsed that story. Maybe it was true. “That’s what you told the sheriff?”

  “Yes.” She still didn’t move, except for her thin lips. Suddenly, jerkily, she got to her feet. “I must go. Cal should be coming. I’d better ride with him to the service station.”

  I followed her to the front porch. Cookie didn’t turn around. She kept walking at a brisk pace, turning left at the street’s edge until she was out of sight.

  But not out of mind. Cookie Eriks hadn’t come to my log house by chance. She’d never visited me before. Obviously, she was desperate to pick my brain about the official investigation. I sensed that Cookie was scared. She had at least two reasons—Wayne and Tiffany.

  Or maybe there was a third. Cookie might be scared for herself.

  SIXTEEN

  I FELL ASLEEP on the sofa a few minutes after Cookie left. To my dismay, I didn’t wake up until after five o’clock. The heat had gotten to me. Ninety-degree temperatures not only rob me of my appetite, they steal my energy. I woke up cursing myself for wasting the rest of the afternoon.

  Groggily, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. Nothing appealed to me. Cooking—even heating a bowl of soup in the microwave oven—made me cringe.

  The phone rang while I was staring at the refrigerator. A pert voice at the other end announced herself as Felicia Royce. “You called earlier,” she said. “So did Rick Erlandson, who told me you were trying to get in touch. His sister, Donna, asked him to give me a ring. I know your name from the Alpine paper, Ms. Lord. I see it sometimes. My grandmother lived there years ago.”

  I apologized for bothering her and told her about the Craig Laurentis painting I’d put on hold. “I’m very interested in the artist,” I continued, “but I can’t find any information about him. He could be a wonderful subject for an article in the paper. It turns out that Donna Wickstrom has never met Laurentis. She sends his money to your bank. That is, the branch where you used to work. I wondered if you knew more about his background.”

  Felicia laughed, a cheerful trill. “Even though I don’t work at the bank anymore, someday I may have to if we can’t get along on one income. You know I can’t reveal customer information.” The mirth evaporated from her voice. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I understand.” I paused. This was hardly the first time I’d encountered client confidentiality or a variation thereof. “How about this? Let me make some suggestions. You
can say yes or no—or whatever wouldn’t breach banking ethics. Okay?”

  “Well . . . Go ahead, try it. I can’t promise anything.”

  “Let’s play true or false,” I said. “You’ve never met Craig Laurentis.”

  The concept apparently amused Felicia. She uttered that trilling laugh again before answering. “True.”

  “He does all his banking online.”

  “True. This is sort of fun.”

  “Good. Let’s try this one. You’ve never spoken to him on the phone.”

  She hesitated. “False.”

  I was surprised. “You often talked to him on the phone.”

  “False. Do I get a prize?”

  “A free subscription to the Advocate for your grandmother,” I replied. “But we’re not finished.”

  “Oh.” Felicia didn’t sound overly disappointed. “Okay.”

  “You only spoke to Craig Laurentis once or twice.”

  “True.”

  “He was . . . terse.”

  Felicia didn’t respond immediately. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “He was abrupt.”

  “False.”

  I considered other options, assuming my crazy premise was correct. “He wasn’t very articulate. He sounded as if he wasn’t used to dealing with people, over the phone or otherwise.”

  “True. Yes, that’s true.”

  “That makes sense,” I responded, wincing as I noticed that the thermometer outside my kitchen door had edged over ninety-one. “Let’s try one last question. His voice wasn’t that of an old man, but somewhere between forty and sixty.”

  “Huh.” Felicia was silent for a moment. “That’s tricky, over the phone. But basically, I’ll say true.”

  “Good. Your grandmother just won two free years’ subscription to the Advocate.”

  “Wow! She’ll love that!” Felicia sounded as excited as if I’d given away a sports car. “Let me give you her name and address. She’s a Larson, spelled with an O.”

  I wrote down the information. “I really appreciate your help,” I said. “I suspect that Craig Laurentis is a dedicated artist who doesn’t have much of a social life. I also assume the bank has no address for him.”

  “True. Do I get a bonus?”

  “Sorry. I already knew that. Donna told me he has a PO box in Monroe. If there’s a phone number, the bank probably has it, and I’ll bet it’s a cell.”

  “They won’t give it to you, I’m afraid,” Felicia said. “Are you really going to write an article about Craig?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  I could hear a baby crying in the background. Yelling, actually. “Excuse me,” Felicia said. She must have turned away from the receiver. I could barely hear her asking Jeff to get Parker out of the cupboard. Or maybe it was Barker. Parents pick some odd names for their offspring these days. “I’d love to read it,” Felicia said, again speaking into the phone. “I’m sorry I made this so tricky for you.”

  “I respect confidentiality,” I replied. “I have to regard that in my business, too. You’ve been a big help.” The baby had stopped squalling. I took a chance. “Is Barker okay?”

  “Barker? Oh!” She laughed once more. “Her name is Marker. My grandmother—the one who lived in Alpine—was a huge Shirley Temple fan. She came up with the idea from one of Shirley’s movies, Little Miss Marker. Jeff and I loved it.”

  “Cute,” I said, not adding that the younger generation wasn’t the only peer group who came up with weird names. I thought it was too bad that Grandma hadn’t liked Shirley’s version of Heidi better.

  THE BANK IN Monroe might not give me Craig’s phone number, but they’d give it to the sheriff. If I could get Milo to ask.

  “You’ve got more weird ideas lately than any of the psychos we pick up,” the sheriff declared when I called him a few minutes later. “Why the hell do you think this artist guy is Old Nick?”

  It had taken me a while to give voice to my suspicions. “Because it fits. I saw him near the art gallery in the Alpine Building. Maybe he comes into town to take a peek through the windows or to be near his paintings. The kids who went looking for him found some art supplies—paints or brushes or something. He has no known address, deals only through the Internet, and apparently isn’t accustomed to social situations. I figure he’s some creative type who can’t deal with people, only with nature. Maybe he was a hippie. I’ll bet he’s not more than fifty or so and went gray prematurely. He certainly ran like a reasonably young man.”

  “So he’s this crazy artist who goes off his nut and kills Tim Rafferty because . . .” Milo was definitely irked. “Hell, because why?”

  “I never said he killed Tim,” I replied, trying to stay calm. Maybe I could keep composed if I stuck my head in the fridge’s freezer unit. The thermometer read ninety-two. “But if he was hanging out at that vacant house, he might have seen or heard something that’d help find the killer. You should try to question him. Wasn’t that your whole point all along?”

  Milo hesitated. “Well . . . he could have been a witness.”

  “Right.”

  “A hermit with a cell phone?”

  “Why not? He’s also a businessman.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He’s trying to earn a living,” I contended. “Not that he’s in it for the money. Donna says his prices are far under market value, considering his talent.”

  “Good for him.” There was, however, a note of resignation in Milo’s voice. “We’ve been looking for him, goddamn it. The guy’s elusive as hell, like all those other hermits. He doesn’t want to be found.”

  “But you could get his cell number.”

  “And then what? Call and say, ‘Hi, Nature Boy Artist, this is the sheriff. How about a sit-down at my office?’ Gimme a break.”

  “You’re smarter than that,” I said.

  “He won’t come,” Milo replied doggedly, “and we won’t be able to find him. Even,” he added grudgingly, “if you’re right.”

  “Then you’ll have to set a trap,” I said.

  “Oh, there’s a good idea,” the sheriff said sarcastically. “Ever hear of entrapment?”

  “Not like that,” I argued. “Something to do with his art. Maybe we can talk Donna into doing it once you have his cell number. He’s underpricing his work. She could play on his vanity, tell him that he has to come in to discuss prices with her, because money talks. She could say how he’ll never be recognized as a serious or important artist unless he triples his market value.”

  “Think Donna could handle that?” Milo sounded skeptical.

  “She’s a surprisingly astute businesswoman,” I replied.

  “It sounds more like a job for you.”

  “Well—I’d do it if I had to,” I allowed. “But he knows Donna—in an Internet kind of way. He must trust her.”

  “That’d break the trust,” Milo pointed out.

  “Maybe not. It would depend on how it was handled.”

  Milo still didn’t sound convinced. “Why couldn’t they discuss that stuff on the phone or the Internet, like they always do?”

  “Because she’d want to show him things,” I said a bit vaguely. “Catalogs from other artists. Comparative prices. Comments from art buyers. Whatever. It has to be visual. Donna could do this. She knows how to handle patrons. I can vouch for that. And she certainly has a knack for dealing with other artists and craftsmen. Besides, it’s in her interest. She gets a hefty commission. I’m guessing, but I think I’ve heard that gallery owners receive anywhere from thirty to fifty percent of the sales.”

  “This all sounds pretty wacky to me,” Milo said glumly. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks that even if you can pull this off, it won’t help solve the homicide.”

  “You’re on,” I said, although I didn’t blame the sheriff for being dubious. “You make the call to the bank. I’ll take care of Donna.”

  “I still think it’s dumb.”

  I didn’t argue. But as I hun
g up the phone, I smiled.

  DONNA WAS ABOUT to close up shop when I arrived at exactly six o’clock.

  “You decided you had to have the Laurentis now?” she asked with a smile of surprise.

  I offered her a regretful expression. “I’m sorry to keep disappointing you, but unless I win the lottery, it’ll have to wait until next month. Actually, I’m doing some weekend work. I want to write an article about Craig Laurentis. I checked him out on the Internet, and it’s obvious that many of his paintings have been done in Skykomish County.”

  “I believe that’s true,” Donna said, though her smile had been replaced by a slight frown. “I have to say that I doubt he’d be open to publicity. He’s an intensely private person.”

  “I realize that,” I said. “I understand creative types. Many reveal themselves only in their art or writing or whatever it is that they create. But from what I can tell—and from what you told me—Craig is undervaluing his work to the point that he’s practically giving it away. That discredits his talent. It almost equates him with people who sell their paintings at shopping malls.”

  “Please! You’re talking about one step beyond paint-by-numbers,” Donna declared fervently. “Craig’s very close to being a genius when it comes to his genre.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “That’s why it’s so unfair to him. Not to mention,” I added, “that it also cheats gallery owners.”

  A spark glittered in Donna’s eyes. I had the feeling she’d give up her day care business in a wink if she could improve art sales profits. For all I knew, some of her other artists were also lowballing their work.

  “It’s true,” she admitted. “I could sell a Laurentis like Sky Autumn for two thousand dollars. Still, I doubt that he’d talk to you.”

  “But he’d probably agree to meet with you,” I pointed out.

  Donna remained doubtful. “I think he’d insist on using the Internet. Besides, I don’t have a phone number for him.”

  “That can be arranged,” I said cryptically. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have to conduct a face-to-face interview.” Like hell, I wouldn’t. But Donna didn’t need to know that yet. “I could give you some questions, and you could describe him as a person. The story has to have some personal touches.”