The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Well . . . I can see that.” Donna’s eyes roamed around the gallery. Maybe she was trying to calculate how much she could bump up the prices on her other artwork. “When should I call Craig?”

  “I’ll have the number Monday,” I replied. Milo might need reminding. In any event, he wouldn’t try to get hold of the bank manager in Monroe until after the weekend. “Thanks, Donna. I really appreciate your help. And I hope it benefits you, too.”

  Donna, however, still looked uncertain.

  THE OLD SONG claims that Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week. Certainly this Saturday in August was just that for me. I spent the evening watching the Mariners, and even though they won, my spirits didn’t lift much. Maybe I should have asked Milo to join me. But the truth was that I was afraid I might seek consolation in his arms, which wouldn’t have been fair to either of us—or to Rolf.

  At least Father Kelly showed Christian mercy by keeping his homily short Sunday morning. St. Mildred’s is a small wooden church with poor ventilation. Indeed, it had been built when winters were colder and longer. The architectural premise—I assumed there had been one—was to keep the heat inside the church and the fresh air out where it belonged. I suspected everyone was perspiring. Certainly Ed Bronsky looked like a greased pig. I felt like one.

  But there was no escaping Ed and Shirley and their brood after Mass. The entire clan confronted me at the bottom of the church steps.

  “I need help,” Ed declared, wiping his brow with a soiled napkin from McDonald’s. “This bond issue deal for the Mr. Pig theme park is darned complicated. Can you write some kind of think piece on the editorial page about it?”

  That meant the thinking would all have to be done by me. “Ed,” I replied, trying to remain calm if not cool, “that’s not something I know much about, either. You need to talk to a lawyer.” I pointed toward Marisa Foxx, who was heading toward her dark green Saab in the parking lot. “Marisa can steer you in the right direction. She’s the parish attorney, after all.”

  Ed shuddered. “You know what attorneys charge. Hundreds of dollars an hour just to sit and think about stuff. Gosh, Emma, you’ve had to research bond issues and referendums and all that legal gibberish for your election editorials. You must know quite a bit.”

  Flattery—if that’s what it was—would get Ed nowhere, especially on an overly warm August morning. I shook my head. Can’t. Won’t. Would prefer going to guillotine than help Ed with his stupid bond issue.

  “This is something so special for the two of you,” I said, glancing at Shirley. “For the whole family, in fact. Now that your kids are older, they should join in with the project. After all, some day the Mr. Pig theme park will be part of their heritage.”

  Shirley nudged Ed. “Emma’s right, honey. You’re building something for the ages.”

  Ed scratched a mosquito bite on his bald spot. “When you put it like that . . .” He turned to his children, who were looking as if they wanted to be someplace else. “Joey,” he said to his teenage son, “you’re a computer whiz. See what you can find out on the Internet.” His gaze shifted to Molly, who was attending Skykomish Community College. “Aren’t you signed up for political science this fall?”

  “Economics, Dad,” Molly replied.

  Ed shrugged. “Same thing. Sort of. Anyway, somebody at the college must teach political science. Talk to whoever it is.”

  Even Ed could sense the lack of enthusiasm on all five of his children’s plump faces. “Hey, hey, you guys—don’t worry. I’ll do my share. I’ll take a meeting with the mayor. Fuzzy must know how to work this.”

  “Don’t forget the county commissioners,” Shirley put in.

  Ed looked as if he’d like to, but nodded. “I already talked to them. You know what happened at the last meeting. They don’t get it. Progress stopped for them around 1975.”

  Ed had a point there. “Once you put everything together for them,” I said, edging away from the group, “the county commissioners will probably approve the idea. Besides, you have such a gift for selling things.” How could I lie so blatantly after I’d just been to church? Ed had been a terrible salesman, frequently convincing merchants that nobody read newspaper ads, except maybe for the grocery specials.

  “You’re darned tootin’,” Ed responded, moving his fists as if he were in a sparring match. “I can do that.”

  “Great,” I said with what I hoped passed for a genuine smile. “I’d better get out of this sun. It’s making me cross-eyed.”

  I headed not for home, but to the Bourgettes’ diner. I’d slept just late enough that I’d had no time to make breakfast, and the idea of turning on the stove—or even the toaster—hadn’t appealed to me in my muggy kitchen.

  The diner wasn’t air-conditioned, but ceiling fans that actually worked were part of its 1950s décor. The restaurant was reasonably cool. But it was also crowded, apparently with the rest of the churchgoing residents. I could tell that they were mostly Protestants because they were wearing their Sunday best, unlike Catholics, who seem to dress as if Saint Vincent de Paul himself had handed out their wardrobes.

  Terri Bourgette, who served as hostess for her brothers’ enterprise, greeted me with a frazzled smile. “I’m sorry, Emma,” she said, “but there’s a twenty-five-minute wait, even for the counter. Everybody seems to want to eat breakfast out this Sunday.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll wait. It’s cool in here.”

  I joined the dozen or more patrons who were crammed into the area by the door. The oldsters had managed to find seats on a couple of red vinyl couches. I nodded at some Gustavsons; said hello to my dentist, Dr. Starr, who was with his wife, Carrie; and smiled at a couple of faculty members I recognized from the college. I was trying to find a spare bit of wall so that I could lean when I spotted Beth Rafferty standing at Terri’s podium. Beth and Terri were speaking in a serious manner. I couldn’t help but watch them. And then I stared. Beth and Terri were both looking at me.

  Terri came from around the podium. “Emma?” she called, beckoning with a finger.

  I advanced toward Terri, smiling at Beth en route. “What is it?”

  Terri lowered her voice. “Beth invited Tiffany to breakfast but she hasn’t shown up. Beth’s been waiting for half an hour. I couldn’t seat her until Tiffany got here. There’s a booth for two free now. Would you like to join Beth? She says it’d be okay with her.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, giving Terri and Beth big smiles.

  They both thanked me. Terri led us to the section that was decorated with photos of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis in their comic duo heyday. I was suddenly so hungry that I wouldn’t have cared if there’d been pictures of Ivan the Terrible and Attila the Hun.

  “I appreciate this,” I said after Beth and I were seated. “I have no appetite unless the temperature is under seventy-five degrees. Those big fans really help.”

  Beth glanced up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said in a vague voice. “They move the air around.”

  An awkward pause ensued. Beth seemed as ill at ease at breakfast in the diner as she’d been at dinner in the ski lodge. Once again, she appeared to be studying the menu, but didn’t really appear to focus.

  “Is Tiffany feeling ill?” I finally asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Beth replied, putting the menu back behind the chrome napkin holder. “I tried to call her at the Erikses’ house, but nobody answered. We made the date for ten-thirty. It’s twenty after eleven now. I thought about driving over to her parents’ house, but I was afraid we’d cross paths and lose our place in line for a table.” Beth made a face. “That’s typical. Tiff really isn’t reliable.”

  “Or considerate,” I noted, and promptly apologized. “Sorry. I realize she’s going through a horrible time.”

  Beth’s expression was skeptical. “Is she? Tiff never has been somebody who thinks much about other people. I’ve been pretty inconsiderate myself, walking out on you at dinner the other night. The l
east I can do is treat you to breakfast.”

  “No need,” I asserted.

  Our waitress was not one of the typical blondes who worked as servers in the Alpine restaurant business, but a rail-thin brunette, possibly another Bourgette. I ordered pancakes, ham, and eggs, my standard fare when I ate breakfast out. Beth took some time to think over her decision, but didn’t refer back to the menu.

  “I’ll have the mushroom omelet,” she finally said. “No hash browns, white toast, and just two eggs, please. There’s no point in breaking more than you have to. I couldn’t eat it all.”

  The waitress, who had identified herself as Clare, assured Beth that would be no trouble and that she wouldn’t charge her for the three-egg omelet on the menu. After filling our heavy white mugs with coffee, Clare hurried away.

  “My plan,” Beth said, “was to go from here with Tiff to visit my mother. I suppose it’s silly, but I thought if Mom saw Tiff pregnant, she might understand that there’s a baby on the way. I don’t think Mom realizes that, especially since Tiff’s only beginning to show now.”

  “It can’t hurt,” I allowed.

  Another uncomfortable silence arose. “Beth,” I said, leaning forward, “how well did Tim and Tiffany really get along? I have to be frank; I’ve heard some rumors.”

  Poor Beth, I thought. She looked so tired. Her usually flawless skin was reddened from the sun, and the dark circles under her eyes made a stark contrast. She seemed to have aged overnight.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that Tiff was hard to get along with after she got pregnant. She should’ve been happy, but I guess all those hormonal changes can alter a woman’s personality. These last few months were hard on Tim.” Beth turned away, staring at one of the Martin and Lewis photos. Judging from her miserable expression, she found nothing funny in their staged antics.

  “Tim always seemed to be the one in charge,” I remarked.

  “Yes.” Beth turned back to me. “He was very protective. My brother was basically a good guy. He had his faults, but there was never a mean streak in him. That was lucky, in a way. I mean . . .” She made an unhappy face. “Our dad drank. I think I told you that. It wasn’t all the time, usually paydays, but when he’d come home, he’d be ornery. More than ornery. He—”

  Beth stopped as Clare delivered our orders. “Violent?” I said after Clare had left us.

  “Yes.” Beth sighed heavily. “He’d beat Mom, and sometimes go after Tim and me. That’s when Mom would step in. She’s tougher than you might think. Or at least she was back then. The next day Dad would be full of remorse, swearing he’d never do it again. He’d even cry. But it was a cycle he couldn’t seem to break. The worst of it was, neither Mom or Dad would consider counseling. They were too embarrassed.” Beth hadn’t even looked at her food and seemed on the verge of tears. “Oh, Emma, why am I telling you all this?”

  “Because you’ve probably kept it all bottled up inside, simmering until you must be ready to boil over,” I said, looking sympathetic despite slathering butter on my pancakes and putting salt and pepper on my egg. “Besides, you know I can keep a confidence. It’s part of my job.”

  She sighed again, but this time the sound was more like relief. “Yes. That’s true. Anyway, Tim wasn’t like some children who grow up with an abusive parent and believe that’s how a relationship should be. Or whatever they think. And of course I never let my own anger get out of control, even when I was married and things fell apart.”

  “You learned that violence doesn’t solve problems,” I said. “It only creates more. Unfortunately, some victims don’t understand that. They think it’s acceptable behavior because that’s the way they were brought up.”

  “I know,” Beth replied. “How many 911 calls do I get in a week involving domestic violence? Maybe a half-dozen, even in a town like Alpine.” She grimaced and shook her head.

  Even as I stuffed my face with ham and pancakes I wondered if Beth was thinking about the call from Ione Erdahl that had never been logged. I was trying to figure out how to tactfully approach the subject when my cell phone rang.

  “Damn,” I said softly. “I hate it when people answer phones in restaurants. I think I’ll let it ring.”

  But I couldn’t. It might be Adam, wrestling with a bear. Or Ben, in a car accident in Milwaukee.

  It was the sheriff. “Emma?” he all but shouted, since the reception inside the diner was poor. “That you?”

  “Yes.” I tried to keep my voice down. “What is it?”

  “I’m giving you a heads-up,” he said over the buzz and hum of the phone. “We just arrested Wayne Eriks for Tim’s homicide.”

  SEVENTEEN

  BETH, WHO WAS nibbling on a piece of toast, stared at me. I must have looked shocked. I certainly felt that way. For her benefit—and to make sure I’d heard Milo correctly—I repeated what he’d told me.

  “You arrested Wayne for killing Tim?”

  Beth dropped the toast and collapsed.

  “Gotta go,” Milo shouted.

  “Wait! Send an ambulance to the diner!”

  “What?”

  “Beth just passed out.”

  “You need—” The connection was lost.

  The Starrs, who had just been seated in the I Love Lucy booth across the aisle, were already at Beth’s side. Clare came up behind them, followed by Terri Bourgette. Beth was lying at an awkward angle, half on the vinyl seat, half under the table.

  “What happened?” Terri demanded, looking apprehensive.

  “I think she fainted,” I said.

  Dr. Starr was bending over Beth, trying to see if she was conscious.

  “Pour water on her,” Carrie Starr said.

  “No!” cried Deputy Mayor Richie Magruder, who had suddenly appeared in the aisle. “Pinch her!”

  “You’re crazy, Richie,” said his wife, Stella. “Put her head between her knees.”

  “I think she’s coming around,” Dr. Starr murmured.

  “Should I call 911?” Terri asked, her hands trembling.

  “I think I already did,” I said, sounding stupid. “I mean . . .”

  Terri, however, was now engaged in trying to keep some of the other customers away from the area. “It’s fine, it’s nothing serious. Please, go back to your places. Everything’s under control.”

  Dr. Starr had Beth sitting up. Her eyelids were fluttering and her lips were moving, although she made no sound. Clare offered a glass of water, but Beth shook her head.

  “I’m . . . okay,” she murmured. “I don’t think I even blacked out.”

  The gawkers were reluctantly returning to their seats. Terri stood guard in the middle of the aisle. She had stopped shaking and seemed in control of herself as well as the situation. I still felt stunned, but pulled myself together. My appetite had fled, however. I glanced at my half-eaten breakfast with a tinge of regret. Beth hadn’t eaten anything except a bite or two of toast. The two eggs had been broken in a lost cause. Poor Beth didn’t seem able to share a meal with me.

  The ambulance siren announced its approach. Beth heard it and went rigid. “Is that for me?” she asked with a stricken expression.

  I nodded. “Let the medics tend to you. Frankly, you’re a nervous wreck. You may be suffering from exhaustion—not to mention this damned heat.”

  Beth looked as if she wanted to argue, but maybe she lacked the strength. She merely pressed her lips together and hung her head.

  “I’ll get out of the way,” I said, scooting across the seat. “I’ll check in with you later, okay?”

  Beth nodded once. The familiar medics were already headed toward our booth. I turned tail and took the longer route out of the dining area. Terri met me at the front.

  “What made Beth collapse?” she asked. “It couldn’t have been anything she ate.”

  “No. It’s nerves,” I said. “Here.” I handed her my overworked Visa card. “Run it through, I’ll sign it, and you can figure out the total later. Add a tip for Clare. She lo
oked sort of pale, too.”

  “Forget the bill,” Terri said. “Besides, I have to go back to the kitchen and bring my brothers up to speed. They can’t leave the food cooking. The poor guys must wonder what’s going on.”

  I didn’t argue. I was in too much of a hurry to get to the sheriff’s office. Before I started the car, I called Vida to tell her what had happened. But Vida wasn’t home. Maybe she’d stayed for the fellowship hour at the Presbyterian church. It was a good place to pick up gossip.

  I spotted Milo’s Grand Cherokee in front of the sheriff’s office, but saw no sign of Spencer Fleetwood’s BMW. Maybe my archrival hadn’t been contacted. Not that it mattered—Spence would still beat me with the story. Whoever was manning the radio station would pick up the arrest on the police scanner.

  The only person in the reception area was Dustin Fong. Whoever else had been called for extra Sunday duty must be in the back, either in the interrogation room or the waiting area for friends and relatives of suspects and witnesses.

  “Sheriff Dodge said he called you,” Dustin said, polite and calm as ever. “He thought you’d want to know.”

  “Of course.” I smiled, always amazed that even after several years as a deputy, Dustin never seemed to grow callous or indifferent. “What happened?”

  He also remained discreet. “I’d better let Dodge tell you,” he said. “He and Bill Blatt made the actual arrest about an hour ago.”

  “Is Cookie with Wayne? What about Tiffany?”

  “Cookie’s here,” Dustin replied, looking troubled. “She’s pretty distraught. Tiffany’s still at the Erikses’ house.”

  “That’s just as well.” But I didn’t like the idea of her being alone. “Do you know if she’s okay?”

  Dustin’s expression changed only slightly. “I believe Mrs. Runkel is with her.”

  “Vida?” I cried. Before Dustin could respond, I waved a hand. “Of course. Bill, her nephew, was one of the arresting officers.” I had no idea how Vida had found that out, but didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d gotten the news before I did.