The Alpine Recluse

by Mary Daheim

  “Goodness,” Vida said with a shake of her head. “How lucky! It could have been the worst disaster Alpine’s ever suffered. Is there any word yet on fatalities?”

  Milo grimaced. “All I know is what the doctors and one of the medics told me. At least a couple of them probably won’t make it. There were only twenty patients in the infirmary at the time, about the usual number. It’s a hospice, too, so half a dozen of them probably don’t have much chance of lasting very long anyway.” He spoke dispassionately, but his hazel eyes were melancholy.

  “Yes,” Vida murmured. “I know several of them. I’ve been preparing obituary backgrounds.”

  I’d also declined hot tea and was drinking ice water. “Any idea of how the fire started?” I asked.

  Milo shook his head. “Not exactly. Somebody going in there for a cigarette or even a joint is the best guess. A couple of employees have been caught—and canned—for doing that. When the weather’s bad in the winter and they don’t want to smoke outside, they go to some enclosed space so they don’t screw up the oxygen tanks. It happened around the time they change shifts, so the medical staff was meeting to exchange information.”

  “There will have to be another investigation,” I said, noticing that Vida had stiffened in the rocking chair where she was sitting. “What?” I said to her.

  She blinked several times. “Oh—nothing. It just makes me so upset to think what might have happened. Not that it wasn’t bad enough. But still . . .” She made a dismissive gesture.

  “Say,” I said, turning back to Milo, “where was Fleetwood?”

  “On the other side of the infirmary,” the sheriff replied. “He did his broadcast from Cedar, not Cascade. Doe Jameson was over there. She refused to be interviewed. Doe told him she was busy and to buzz off.”

  I laughed. “I still don’t know her, but I’m getting to like her better all the time.”

  Milo pulled himself up out of the chair. “Doe’s not going to like working the desk until we get somebody to replace Toni. I hope I can find a new hire fast. Toni should never have left without notice. That pisses me off.”

  “Now, Milo—” Vida began.

  But the sheriff waved aside her disapproval. “You’re lucky I didn’t say something worse. Like what Toni could do with herself. She may not have been the sharpest knife in the butcher block, but at least she could handle the job once she learned it.”

  “Perhaps you should insist that she stay on until you do find someone else,” Vida said, rising from the rocking chair to accompany Milo to the door.

  The sheriff shrugged. “She’s already bought her plane ticket.”

  “So?”

  “Look,” Milo said to Vida, “it’s a hassle, but frankly, Toni’s been a pain in the ass the last few weeks anyway. On top of it, Beth’s a mess. I need to get somebody in that office who isn’t a train wreck.”

  Vida neither argued nor reprimanded. “I suppose you know what you’re doing,” she said.

  Milo gave her a dirty look. “I already did what I had to this week. I caught Tim’s killer. Now I’m going home and work my way through a half rack of Budweiser.”

  The sheriff left.

  “He really isn’t going to do that, is he?” Vida said in a horrified voice.

  “No,” I replied. “But he needs to unwind.”

  “He needs to eat,” Vida declared. “If I were a wagering woman, I’d bet that he’s hardly stopped to have a decent meal all day. I should have offered to make him something. Scrambled eggs, perhaps, or an omelet.”

  I didn’t want to contemplate what outrage Vida could commit with eggs. Years ago, she’d prepared breakfast for me when I was laid up with a minor injury. The toast was barely browned, the bacon was burned to a crisp, and the scrambled eggs had somehow managed to come out both watery and lumpy. There had even been bits of shell in them. I’d been unable to finish the meal and had given the excuse of an upset stomach. Which, after a few bites, was true.

  “Good grief!” Vida exclaimed.

  “What?”

  She stared at me, her eyes wide. “Eggs. It’s all about eggs. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  I didn’t know what Vida was talking about. Nor would she tell me.

  “I have to think,” she insisted. “I may be wrong. Please, Emma, be a dear and don’t ask any more questions.”

  Baffled, I surrendered. I was too tired to argue, and the Excedrin was wearing off. “In that case, I’ll go home.”

  “Yes, you do that. And be careful. You’re limping rather badly.”

  Despite the cautionary words, Vida practically shoved me out the door.

  As I was about to turn off Fir into my driveway, a car came from the other direction. I had my blinker on, so I waited for the other vehicle to pass by. But it didn’t. The driver—without any right-turn signal—swerved abruptly, narrowly missed my mailbox, and stopped on the verge where the grass met the gravel that led to the street.

  Slowly, I made the turn, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. In the dark, I could just barely recognize Toni Andreas. She had gotten out and was going around to the trunk. I pulled into the carport. Slowly, I opened the door and emerged on tired, aching legs. Toni was coming toward me, carrying a big carton.

  “Can I leave this stuff with you?” she called as she walked toward the carport.

  “What is it?” I asked wearily. It was almost ten o’clock. I really didn’t need any more burdens or impositions on this hot, horrible day.

  She joined me at the back door. “Just some things I don’t want to take with me to Alaska. I don’t have any place to store them. You’re a baseball fan, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t know you were, too,” I said, opening the door and letting Toni enter ahead of me.

  “I’m not.” She dumped the carton on the kitchen table. “Ooof! That’s heavier than I thought it was.”

  The unmarked carton was sealed with strapping tape. “What’s in it?” I asked, wondering if I should listen to see if the damned thing ticked.

  “I’m not sure,” Toni said in her vague manner. “Baseball stuff. Tim asked me to keep it for him. I don’t care about baseball, but I hate to throw it away. I’d have asked Sheriff Dodge to store it—I know he’s a sports fan—but he’s mad at me. Then I thought of you.”

  “I see.” But I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. “When did Tim give this to you?”

  Toni shrugged. “I forget. Last spring? Around Easter, maybe.”

  Easter. April. The opening of baseball season. “Did Tim say why he wanted you to keep this box?”

  “He wanted it to be in a safe place,” Toni replied.

  “It wasn’t safe at his house?”

  “I guess not,” Toni replied, then looked at me as if I were the one who was short on brain cells. “It wouldn’t have been, would it?”

  I thought she meant the fire. But I didn’t think that was what Tim had been trying to say.

  “Maybe,” Toni went on, “I’ll figure out what to do with it after I get settled in Fairbanks. I’ll let you know.” She started for the back door, but stopped. “The thing is, Tim said if Tiffany had a boy, he wanted him to have what’s in the box.”

  I gave Toni my best impersonation of an investigative reporter’s stare. “Why don’t you give it to Tiffany?”

  Toni looked faintly exasperated. “Because,” she responded in a tone that suggested she really was dealing with a nitwit, “Tiff would have thrown the box away. That’s why he gave it to me in the first place, don’t you see?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  That’s what I’d been wondering all along.

  TONI LEFT. I gazed at the carton for about ten seconds before I got out my kitchen shears and cut the strapping tape. Inside, the items were safely preserved in varieties of plastic: a baseball signed by members of the 1995 Mariners’ team that had played for the pennant; scorecards autographed by Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Edgar Martinez, and Randy Johnson; a
full-color poster signed by Chris Bosio commemorating his 1993 no-hitter; two fielders gloves, one bearing Jay Buhner’s autograph, another with Ichiro Suzuki’s signature in English and in Japanese; an album of baseball cards in mint condition, most signed by all-star players from all over the major leagues—Derek Jeter, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, Curt Schilling, Roger Clemens, Cal Ripken Jr., and many, many more. There were signed photos, autographed game programs, and even a few roster cards with the players’ names written in by several famous managers.

  I had no idea how much these items were worth on eBay. Maybe none of them individually would bring in more than a few hundred dollars. But taken altogether, the collection was probably worth several thousand. Yet, from what I understood, Tim hadn’t tried to sell many of these treasures. Suddenly I could imagine Tiffany, pregnant, standing on her feet for long shifts at the Grocery Basket, berating her husband for not cashing in. And threatening to destroy his beloved souvenirs in retribution.

  As a woman, I felt sorry for Tiffany. As a baseball fan, I sided with Tim. I wished he’d collected coins. Then I wouldn’t have been torn.

  But while my emotions might be in conflict, my brain was not. The collectibles legally belonged to Tiffany. I should turn them over to her as soon as I got the chance. Whether she had a boy or a girl, the child should inherit the father’s belongings. Besides, lots of women—like me—loved baseball.

  I closed the box and resealed it. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would’ve pored over each item. Tomorrow I’d take the collection to the Erikses’ house. Maybe.

  The storm seemed to have passed. I hadn’t heard thunder or seen lightning for the past half hour. So far, there was no sign of rain. I started into the bathroom to get ready for bed when the blasted phone rang. I was tempted to let it trunk over to the answering machine, but shuffled back into the living room and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.

  “Emma?”

  I didn’t recognize the agonized voice at the other end of the line. “Yes?”

  “Can you come over? Please?”

  It was Beth Rafferty, speaking almost in a whisper.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. Please come. I don’t know who else to call.”

  Desperation seeped from every syllable. “I . . .” Taking a deep breath, I resumed speaking. “I’ll be right over.” I was already getting my car keys out of my purse. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s . . . a . . . confession. I must see you before I call the sheriff.”

  She hung up.

  Even as I drove to Beth’s house, I wondered if calling the sheriff might not be a bad idea. I didn’t know what I was facing. Had Beth finally gone over the edge? Certainly the last few days, even weeks and months, had taken their toll on what had seemed to be a stable personality. I’d known other people who had cracked with less provocation.

  But I’d kept her confidence before. I could do it one more time. I hoped. And prayed. Mostly for Beth.

  The Rafferty house looked normal. Despite its own tragedies, it didn’t exude the aura of misery that I’d sensed when I’d gone to see the Eriks women earlier in the day.

  Beth was waiting for me at the door. “Thank God, Emma,” she said in that same voice of muted desperation. “I was afraid you might not come.”

  “I’m here,” I said, feeling wobbly. “What’s going on?”

  Beth led me into the living room, where we sat down on the sofa. The surroundings were more tangibly poignant than the house itself. Several bouquets, probably from Tim’s funeral, were wilting. Dust covered all the surfaces, and a stack of unopened mail had toppled over from a side table onto the floor. Beth had closed the door behind us. All of the windows were shut tight and the drapes were drawn. The room smelled stale and unhealthy.

  “I brought Mom home,” Beth said. She looked defiant. “Physically, she’s okay. Doc Dewey advised against it, but I couldn’t bear to put her back in the nursing home. Mom should be in her own environment right now.”

  I was blunt. “Does she know the difference?”

  “I think so.” Beth nodded. “She’s asleep. Doc gave me some pills for her. I’ll pick up the rest of her medication tomorrow.”

  “You’re not going to work?”

  Beth shook her head. “I can’t.” She looked away.

  I waited. But Beth remained silent, her nervous fingers tracing circles on the sofa’s arm.

  “You mentioned a confession on the phone,” I finally said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Did you refer to removing your mother from the nursing home?”

  “No.” Beth still didn’t look at me. She shuddered, and I thought she was going to cry. But when she finally met my gaze, her eyes were dry. “I killed Tim.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I WAS STUNNED. “You killed your own brother?” I gasped. “Beth, I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s true.”

  The simplicity of her words struck me like a strong wind. Maybe I should have been frightened. But I was too shocked to have room for fear.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” I demanded. “You loved your brother. I know you did. What happened?”

  “Let me explain.” She swallowed hard, but kept her voice down. “I knew that Tim and Tiff weren’t getting along, not after she got pregnant. Tiff had always been a whiner and she was spoiled. Her parents—her mother, anyway—doted on her after her brother was killed in that rafting accident. Tiff could do no wrong. And once she found out she was going to have a baby—which she’d wanted for years—her whole personality changed. In fact, it wasn’t unlike the way my mother’s did with Alzheimer’s. It’s chemical I gather, or hormonal, in Tiff’s case. She began to criticize Tim for everything. She even got physically abusive. When Ione Erdahl called 911 to report a disturbance at their house, I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t log it. I didn’t need to send a response; Tiff wasn’t strong enough to do any serious damage, and I . . . well, I figured Tim could defend himself without hurting her. I believed—I tried to believe—he could handle the situation, and that after she had the baby, Tiff would change.”

  I wanted to mention Tim’s affair with Toni, but I couldn’t risk getting Beth sidetracked. I was still in shock over her admission of guilt. Beth was uncomfortable in more ways than one. She’d paused to shift her position on the sofa, making an effort to fold her hands and hold them steady in her lap.

  When she spoke again, it wasn’t of Tiffany and Tim. “Visiting with Mom was so hard,” Beth lamented. “It was impossible to carry on a real conversation. I ran out of mundane things to say—not that it mattered. Then I started voicing my concerns about Tim and Tiff. It was like therapy, I suppose, just rambling on about how they weren’t getting along and the quarrels and the abuse. Mom didn’t seem to pay attention. She never made a comment. Her gaze was always far-off, and if she said anything, it was like, ‘Look at the bird out in that tree,’ or ‘I never did like popcorn.’ ”

  Beth’s face suddenly crumpled. “How could I know?” she all but shouted.

  I jumped. Until that moment, her voice had been so low and controlled, almost as if she was giving advice to a 911 caller. “Know what?” I asked.

  “That she did understand . . . enough.” Beth had turned away again. “That she recognized a bad marriage and abuse. That a baby was on the way. And that’s why I might as well have killed Tim with my own hands.”

  It took me a few seconds to understand what Beth was saying. “Your mother killed Tim?” It was incredible. I actually recoiled in horror. “Her own son?”

  Beth held a hand to her forehead. “She thought it was my dad. She told me she’d finally stopped Liam. He’d never hurt anyone again.”

  Footsteps nearby startled me out of my shock. Someone was coming down the hall from the bedroom. Either Beth didn’t hear anything or she didn’t care. She simply sat on the sofa, holding her head.

  I got to my feet, heedless of the pain in my ankle. The onl
y way out of the living room was through the hall. If Delia Rafferty was strong enough to wield a baseball bat, she might do anything. I’d confronted some dangerous people in my life, but never a crazed old lady who had no compunction about bashing in the head of the son she thought was her husband. What might she do to a virtual stranger?

  I started to speak Beth’s name, but before I could say anything, Vida walked into the living room.

  “There now,” she said in her usual brisk manner. “Your mother finally settled down.” Vida stared at me. “You really shouldn’t be here, Emma. You’re worn out. I could have handled this.”

  My mouth was dry. I could hardly speak. “Beth asked me to come,” I finally said.

  Warily, Beth looked at Vida. “Emma’s been a good friend. You have, too, Vida, but I . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, too.”

  Vida looked faintly miffed. She wasn’t used to being a secondary confidante. “Yes, you should have. After all, I knew what your mother had done.”

  Beth and I both stared at Vida. “How could you?” Beth asked in a breathless voice.

  “It was the eggs.” Vida sat down in an armchair. “You know the old adage, ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking the eggs.’ Your mother rattled on about that, and I wondered why. Then she was obsessed with my hat and the eggs in the bird’s nest. It all dawned on me earlier this evening when Emma was at my house after the fire. Eggs are a fertility symbol, a sign of new birth. I called Margaret Peterson and asked if she knew what your mother was doing in the kitchen when she let the water boil over. Margaret thought she was trying to boil eggs. Delia not only wouldn’t have her meals in the dining room after that—unless you insisted—but she never ate eggs again.”

  Beth seemed dazed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand how her mind works, either,” Vida admitted. “But she associated eggs with babies. She knew there was going to be a new baby in the family—but she was confused. Maybe she thought she was having the baby. She didn’t want the baby—or the mother—to be abused in any way, not after what she’d gone through with your father in his drunken rages. Yes, she’d heard you talk about Tim and Tiffany and mention the word abuse. It all came back to her.”