The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Thank you, Spence,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to disclose what Cookie Eriks told me in our remarkable conversation. You can read all the details in the next edition of the Advocate. We’ll have the entire story, along with comments from Sheriff Milo Dodge and other revealing aspects of this unfortunate crime.”

  I smiled even more broadly at Spence and backed away from the mike.

  That was one of the rare instances when I’d seen Spence look flabbergasted. There was dead air for at least four seconds before he spoke to his audience again. “I appreciate your discretion, Emma. I understand that you—as is true with all of us in the media—must protect our sources. Stay tuned for more breaking news on KSKY—the only place you can get on-the-spot coverage in Skykomish County.” Angrily, he switched off the microphone. “That was a really low blow.”

  I shrugged. “You didn’t actually expect me to tell all, did you?”

  Before Spence could respond, Evan Singer came out from the hallway on the other side of the reception area. “Is Dwight Gould the only deputy on patrol right now?” he asked Dustin.

  Dustin nodded. “Bill’s supposed to be out there, but he had to help out Dodge with the arrest. Why?”

  “Because,” Evan replied, “I just got a call from the nursing home. The old Rafferty lady has wandered off again. It may take more than one deputy to find her.”

  EIGHTEEN

  MY IMMEDIATE THOUGHTS went to Beth Rafferty. The last thing she needed was to have her mother roaming around Alpine in ninety-degree heat. There should be limits to what one person had to endure in the course of a week.

  “What about Roger Hibbert’s volunteer searchers?” Spence said to Dustin. “As far as I know, they haven’t done much since that first foray.”

  “You’re right,” I put in. “Vida has been very quiet about Roger and his band of blunderers.”

  “I’ll check with Dodge,” Dustin said. He asked Evan if Jack had been contacted.

  “Right away,” Evan replied, his lanky frame restless as always. He’d been in Alpine for over ten years, and was not only a serious student of film, but an artist. He was also a bit of an eccentric and rarely showed off his drawings, which were usually rather morbid. Instead, he restricted his commercial efforts to more conventional art for local merchants. The rest of the time he ran the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre and filled in taking 911 calls. He was a loner whose nervous energy seemed to be expended in various pursuits. It suddenly dawned on me that I should have talked to Evan earlier.

  “How long are you on duty today?” I asked him.

  “Until six,” he replied with a curious expression.

  “Can we meet for coffee after you get off?”

  He ruffled his unruly reddish hair. “How come?”

  “I have some art questions for you.”

  “Sure. Fine. Starbucks okay?”

  I said it was. Evan returned to his inner sanctum.

  “I wonder,” I said, “if Beth’s been told about her mother.”

  “The nursing home would’ve called her,” Dustin said. “They always notify family when one of the residents disappears. That is, if they have family or anyone who cares.” There was a sad note in his voice.

  I was torn. I wanted to wait for Milo, but I felt I should try to get in touch with Beth. If not yet friends, we’d formed a bond in the past week. I realized, however, that even after the sheriff had put Wayne Eriks in a cell, there’d be no further news. Spence could fill up the airways with words such as alleged, possible, awaiting developments, and promises of bulletins to come, but he’d have nothing hard-core—and neither would I. As for Cookie, she’d go home—where Vida waited like a duck hunter in a blind. That situation was covered.

  I made my brief farewells and went out to the Honda, where I immediately called Beth on my cell.

  She didn’t answer. Maybe she was still at the hospital. I called the emergency room, but was informed that she’d been released. Perhaps she’d been summoned to the nursing home. I decided it was worth a try, and pulled out onto Front Street.

  Margaret Peterson was behind the front desk. She recognized me at once and frowned. “Are you looking for Beth?” she asked.

  “Is she here?”

  Margaret nodded. “She’s talking to some of the other residents, trying to figure out where Mrs. Rafferty may have gone. This isn’t the first time, you know.”

  “Delia seems so feeble,” I remarked. “How could she get far?”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Margaret sighed. “You’d be amazed at how some of our residents find the strength to do what’s impossible. Two weeks ago Dorothy Phipps moved a bookcase from one side of the room to the other. She’s been in a wheelchair for five years, but she suddenly got the notion that the bookcase shouldn’t be by the TV. It must have weighed fifty pounds, but she did it—and then she couldn’t get out of the wheelchair to use the toilet.”

  “Malingering?”

  “No.” Margaret gave me a doleful look. “Oh, for some, maybe. But so many people who end up in the nursing facility—not the retirement residence,” she added hastily as two well-dressed couples in their seventies came through the lobby and headed for the elevator. I guessed that they’d been to church and out for brunch. Margaret greeted them before she spoke to me again. “People like that. They keep active, they’re in fairly good health, they have outside interests, but they don’t want to be bothered keeping up a house. It’s the other type that simply give up. Their families have given up on them, too. I’ve seen some sad cases of neglect and indifference.”

  “But not with Delia Rafferty,” I said. “She has Alzheimer’s. She can’t live alone.”

  Margaret nodded. “True. The situation became impossible for Beth. Her job is very stressful, and she’d gotten to the point where she couldn’t focus on it as she should because she was always fretting about her mother being alone and doing heaven-knows-what. Beth tried to get help during the day, but that’s so difficult in a small town like Alpine. Caretakers are hard to find, and frankly, there’s always the danger of elderly abuse. Alzheimer victims are particularly hard to deal with.”

  “Where did Delia go the last time she wandered off?” I asked.

  “Downtown,” Margaret replied. “Ione Erdahl found her at the children’s store. They often go somewhere that’s familiar, usually from the distant past. Delia wanted to buy something for Tim—in a toddler two size.”

  “I’ve heard that’s typical,” I said as Beth came into the lobby.

  “Emma!” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here? Have you news?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said in apology. “I thought I’d see if I could help you in any way. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she replied, despite the fact that she looked even worse than when I’d last seen her slumped in the diner booth. “I mean, I just sort of caved in at breakfast when I heard about Wayne’s arrest. It was such a shock. One of the nurses checked me out and agreed that I was overwrought, so I went home. I hadn’t been in the house five minutes when Margaret called about my mother. Is there no end to this?”

  I went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Beth had never been fat, but she’d always seemed substantial. Now I could feel bone instead of only flesh. I realized she’d probably lost at least ten pounds since I’d last noticed.

  “It’s a nightmare,” I agreed, “but you’ll manage. You’re strong. Did you find out anything from the other patients?”

  “No.” Beth lowered her voice, apparently to prevent Margaret from overhearing. “They’re mostly gaga in that wing. Half of them don’t even know who my mother is.”

  I nudged Beth over to a Victorian love seat away from the front desk. “Tell me what happened. When did they realize your mother was gone?”

  Beth gazed up at a grandfather clock, which stood in the corner. Its elegant hands indicated that it was ten minutes after one. “Her lunch was brought to her room at a quarter
to twelve,” Beth said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Mom rarely eats in the dining room. The first week she was here, she got into the kitchen and turned the stove on high under a kettle of water. It boiled over, and I guess one of the orderlies chewed her out about it. Those people ought to know better. But she wouldn’t go back into the dining room unless I was visiting and insisted. Anyway, whoever brought her meal—her name’s Cristina—said Mom wasn’t in her room. Nobody could remember when they’d seen her last except after breakfast when they cleared away her tray. That would’ve been around nine, nine-thirty.”

  “Did she take her wheelchair?”

  “No.” Beth grimaced. “She took her walker, though. At least, I think so. Sometimes the patients steal each other’s walkers, even their dentures.” Putting her head in her hands, she shuddered violently. “If only I could have kept her at home! This is such an awful place!”

  Margaret’s head jerked up. She stared at us, looking annoyed. I didn’t really blame her. Hopefully, Margaret and the rest of the staff were doing the best they could—given the pathetic circumstances.

  “Milo may ask those students to help look for your mother,” I said. “She can’t have gone far in this weather.”

  Beth shook her head. “Heat doesn’t affect her the way it does the rest of us. Her circulation is so poor. She’s always cold.”

  “Still . . .” I began, and stopped. “Shall we go together and look around Front Street? Not that many stores are open on Sunday.”

  “She’d have been seen by now if she’d gone there,” Beth said.

  That was probably true. The eating places on Front Street were doing business, as were assorted other establishments, including Donna’s art gallery, the movie theater, and Videos-to-Go. But most Alpine merchants firmly believed that “if you can’t make it in six days, you won’t make it in seven.”

  “Would she go to the mall?” I asked.

  “Mom hated the mall,” Beth replied. “She was old-fashioned. She liked the stores on Front Street, even during those years when many of them closed or moved because of the downturn in the timber industry.” Beth paused, obviously considering the possibilities. “She might have gone anywhere, even back to the house. I asked the neighbors to watch for her.”

  “What about Tim’s? I understand Alzheimer victims often go to familiar places. Could she make it uphill?”

  Beth calculated. “It’s only two blocks up, and then two more on the level when you reach Fir. She might, if she has her walker.” A flash of fear crossed Beth’s face. “But if she did, she could have gone off into the woods. The cul-de-sac is surrounded by trees. That’s another thing,” Beth added fretfully, “the patients often wander off into the wilds, especially around this part of the world.”

  Nobody knew that better than I did. “Let’s go that way,” I urged. “If she’s around town, someone will find her. We can take my car.”

  “No. I’ll follow you,” Beth insisted.

  “Fine.”

  As soon as I got into the Honda, I called Milo’s headquarters. Dustin answered. He told me that Bill Blatt had been trying to contact his nephew or cousin or whatever relation Roger was to the deputy, but that Amy Hibbert said her son wasn’t home. He’d taken an inner tube with him and presumably was going to float His Royal Chubbiness in the Skykomish River.

  Despairing briefly because the river was so low that Roger couldn’t possibly drown, I realized that neither could Delia Rafferty, should she also head in that direction.

  I could see Beth in the rearview mirror, keeping just a few yards between our cars. It took less than five minutes to reach what was left of the Rafferty home. The crime-scene tape remained, sagging under the bright sun.

  I knew how hard this was for Beth. She didn’t get out at first, but sat behind the wheel, staring through the windshield. I waited between our two cars, already feeling enervated by the heat.

  “This is hopeless,” she declared, finally joining me. “Everything is such a mess. How could we tell if Mom had been here?”

  “Somebody has,” I said, pointing to a strip of crime-scene tape that had been pulled off from one of the temporary supports.

  “You think so? Maybe it was those kids, when they were searching for the hermit.”

  “Maybe.” I walked over to where the tape had been removed. Judging from what I knew of the original house layout, the section could have been a bedroom. There had been two, as I recalled—one for Tim and Tiffany, the other for the nursery.

  “That’s odd,” I said.

  Beth had stayed put, staring blankly at the pitiful scene. “What?”

  “There are footprints in the ash,” I said, leaning down to get a better look.

  Beth still didn’t move. “So? Those kids, probably.”

  “No. The kids I saw wore sneakers or hiking shoes or sandals,” I said, standing up. “Whoever came here was barefoot.”

  Beth finally walked over to where I was standing. I noticed that she was trembling. I didn’t blame her. We were probably very close to the spot where her brother had died.

  “Good lord,” she whispered. “You’re right.”

  “They had to be recent prints,” I said. “No one would have walked barefoot through this . . . debris until it was completely cooled down. That took at least two or three days, as I understand. Whoever was here had fairly big feet and didn’t seem to go very far, though it’s hard to tell because of the rubble. We’d better notify the sheriff. They can make casts from the footprints.”

  “Yes,” Beth agreed. “I’ve heard about that, but usually it’s from shoes.”

  “True.” I had no idea how footprint casts would help unless the sheriff happened to have access to the feet’s owner.

  “Shall we start walking through the woods?” Beth asked. “We could go in different directions.”

  I surveyed our surroundings. Most of the wild berry vines, ferns, and other underbrush had been cleared away when the Rafferty house had been built. The small garden area—like my own—abutted onto the encroaching forest, which marched up the face of Tonga Ridge.

  I was wearing sandals—my churchgoing footwear; Beth was more sensibly shod, in Birkenstocks. On the other hand, if Delia Rafferty had tried to climb the hill, she may have been wearing bedroom slippers. Certainly she couldn’t get far.

  There was a rudimentary trail, perhaps made by the Bourgettes when they built the house or used by Tim and Tiffany to gather kindling or mushrooms or whatever the younger Raffertys may have sought. Beth and I decided to stick together and follow the trail. It seemed like the most likely place that Delia would go.

  It was somewhat cooler under the tall trees, and the air smelled of evergreens. The footing, however, was tricky: dry dirt in places, exposed roots, rocks, fallen branches, and scatterings of brown evergreen needles.

  We had meandered along the switchback path for about a hundred yards when I stopped, leaning against a hemlock tree and catching my breath. “I haven’t seen a single sign of anybody using this trail recently. I can’t imagine your mother managing to get this far, given so many obstacles.”

  Beth, who was about six feet behind me, shook some fir needles off her Birkenstocks. “Maybe she didn’t follow the trail. Should we go back and search closer to the cul-de-sac?”

  I was dubious. “I wonder if she came here in the first place.”

  “Yes. It was just a guess, after all.” Beth pondered for a moment. “Okay. We’ll head back down. The going seems to get rougher from here anyway.”

  I agreed. The trail became narrower, the terrain much steeper. Beth turned around and started the descent. As I took a step forward, the sole of my sandal caught on a half-hidden root. I tripped, falling to my knees before I could grab a rotting log to steady myself. The only damage was a few splinters in my fingers. Carefully, I pulled them out before I started to move again, this time keeping my eyes focused on the ground.

  I’d gone only a few feet when I heard a noise. At first, I thought it w
as Beth, out of sight, but somewhere below me on the zigzagging trail. But the sound—a branch, a bird, a deer?—had been either behind or above me. I looked up into the ceiling of fir and hemlock. I saw no chipmunk, no jay, no crow, no wildlife of any kind. I stood very still and listened.

  Nothing but the silence of the forest. Any creek that had tumbled nearby had dried up by early August. Even at this level of over three thousand feet, there was no snow. The only living creature I saw was a deerfly. I waved it away, not wanting to become its next meal.

  But I definitely felt a presence. I was being watched. I’d lived next to nature for too long not to be able to sense intrusion, if not actual danger. I’d had the same feeling several times over the years when I’d been out in my backyard, and later found fresh deer tracks in the damp ground just beyond the tree line.

  But the noise could have been made by a bear, even a cougar. I debated about whether or not I should move. Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them—or so I’d been taught. Cougars were another matter. I decided to start down the trail.

  But I was unnerved, and when I slipped again in my frivolous sandals, there was nothing to grasp. I tumbled into a heap at the bend in the trail. And swore.

  I’d twisted my right ankle, skinned my knees, and bruised my left arm. For a few seconds after I stopped cursing, I huddled on the ground, wondering if I dared test the ankle to make sure it wasn’t broken. Like an idiot, I’d left my purse—and cell phone—in the car.

  I didn’t hear the sound again. But after I flexed my ankle enough to make sure it was still in one piece and brushed the dirt and gravel off my knees, I finally looked up.