by Mary Daheim
I waited by the window to make sure Oscar and Travis had taken off in a brown Range Rover. Throwing my purple car coat over my shoulders, I turned to Carla. “What’s with the bridegroom? I thought he had a nurse at home.”
Carla giggled and blushed, blushed and giggled. “Travis Nyquist is just a friendly kind of guy. You know, the type who makes you feel like a woman.”
“So how come you’re acting like an idiot?” The response was more cutting than I’d intended. Immediate remorse set in, and I gave Caria a crooked smile. “Sorry, Carla, but someday I’ll tell you the story of my life. It’ll cure you of friendly men who wear wedding rings.”
Carla sobered suddenly, and her complexion returned to its usual smooth olive hue. “Do you mean Adam’s dad?” If nothing else, Carla was direct.
With a resigned sigh, I perched on her desk. “Yeah, that’s right.” So far, I’d confided only in Vida about my ill-starred love affair with Tom Cavanaugh. But with Adam due home for Christmas break and no doubt headed back to the Bay Area to visit his father over the holidays, my secret was about to come out. “It wasn’t just a flirtation, though. It was the real McCoy. But that hasn’t made it any easier for the past twenty-plus years.” I lifted my chin, attempting dignity. Carla frowned. “Hey,” I went on, shaking her arm, “I don’t mean to deliver a lecture. I’m overreacting. But Travis reminds me of Adam’s dad—on the surface, that is. Smart, good-looking, charming, ambitious, talented—and married. Seeing the two of you together at your desk brought back those days at The Seattle Times when I was an intern and Adam’s father was a copy editor. I was just about your age, maybe a year or so younger. Do I sound sappy?”
Carla considered. “A little. Gosh, Emma, it’s tough up here in Alpine. Most of the unmarried guys have grease under their fingernails or have lost a few digits in the woods. Where do you find a guy who isn’t married and who uses good grammar?”
My brown-eyed gaze met her black-eyed stare. “Good question. Where, Carla? Where?”
Carla giggled. But she didn’t blush.
The one man in Alpine who might have qualified, as far as I was concerned, was sitting in his office with the phone propped up against his ear and his long legs stretched out on his desk. The problem with Milo Dodge was that there was no chemistry between us. Then there was Honoria Whitman, his current woman of choice. Also, he was divorced, and I was Catholic. But most of all, there was Tom Cavanaugh. As long as I remained stupidly, stubbornly in love with Tom, Milo’s flaws and virtues counted for naught.
Milo gestured for me to sit down, then went on with his monosyllabic side of the conversation. Whoever was at the other end was monopolizing the call. With a promise to see to it ASAP, Milo rung off.
“Dot Parker,” said Milo with a sigh. “Durwood bought a snowmobile.”
Durwood Parker, retired pharmacist, and unarguably the worst driver in Skykomish County, had been grounded by Milo for six months. Obviously, he was chafing at the bit and had discovered a new way to make mayhem. I clapped a hand to my head and gave Milo an incredulous look.
“Where is he?” I inquired, hoping it was nowhere near civilization.
“Somewhere up the Icicle Creek Road,” replied Milo, rubbing his temples. “He got Averill Fairbanks to give him a lift as far as the ranger station. Ave saw a UFO land near the campground up there this morning.”
“Oh.” I marveled that Ave hadn’t called the paper to report his latest sighting. He usually did. In fact, we could have kept a standing headline for Averill Fairbanks and his alien spacecraft. “Is Dot worried?”
“Yeah, a little. She wants Jack or Bill or somebody to go check on him if he’s not back by mid-afternoon. You had lunch?”
Since it was only eleven-thirty, I hadn’t. But breakfast had been meager: cinnamon toast and coffee. Tired out from my decorating efforts, I’d slept in, almost twenty minutes later than usual. I decided that if we could find a discreet table at the Venison Inn, it would be as appropriate a place as any to tell Milo about Oscar Nyquist’s concerns.
Since we had beaten the usual lunch crowd to the restaurant, we had our choice of seating. I steered Milo to a back booth, next to a window. Red paper bells hung from the ceiling, with silver tinsel looped wall-to-wall. Springs of holly stood in slim white vases and red felt stockings were hung over the fireplace at the rear of the main dining room. “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” was prancing along the restaurant’s music track.
“What’s up?” Milo inquired after he’d ordered a steak sandwich medium-well and I’d opted for the beef dip because I could get it rare this early in the lunch hour.
I relayed Oscar’s complaints, as well as my empty promise. Milo looked mildly exasperated. “Jesus, those Nyquists think they own the damned town. Old Lars used to face off with Carl Clemans about once a month. Luckily, Carl usually won,” said Milo, referring to the fair-minded mill owner who had been Alpine’s unofficial founder. “Oscar followed in his father’s footsteps, then Arnie, and now Travis, I suppose. I wouldn’t bother myself with that marquee crap—kids have been doing that for years around here. Remember The Mail and Louse! Then there was Lethal Peon 2. We found the extra letters in the litter can. Same with The Prince of Ties. My favorite, though, was Silence of the Lamps—they turned the b upside down …”
“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, for Milo was starting to chuckle himself into a small fit. “But that’s definitely kid stuff. Stealing isn’t.”
“Arnie didn’t lock the damned van.…”
“It’s still stealing. Did you even bother to get prints?”
Having recovered from his bout of mirth, Milo gave me an irked stare. “Sure. We got a bunch of smudges. In this weather, who isn’t wearing gloves?”
I paused as the waitress brought our salads and poured more coffee. “Okay, let’s skip the silly stuff,” I said, a trifle tight-lipped. Reaching into my purse, I took out the note Oscar had written to me. Milo’s long face twisted in what might have been dismay, but more likely was disbelief.
“Hunh. So the old fart thinks he can get us moving by making a claim like that?” Milo tossed the sheet of notepaper back.
“Can you disregard it entirely?” I asked. “Especially with dead bodies floating down the Sky?”
With a wave of his fork, Milo guffawed. “Now how the hell can you tie in one spare leg and an unidentified girl with the Nyquists? If the body was one of ours, okay. But nobody’s missing from Alpine. I’ve checked. The only person unaccounted for as of this morning is Durwood.”
“Okay, okay,” I said hastily. “But I promised I’d talk to Oscar about it tonight after work. I think I’ll ask Vida to come over, too.”
Milo rolled his eyes, then stuffed his face with salad. “Don’t you have enough to do with Ben in town and Adam on his way and the paper and all?” At least that’s what his remark sounded like through the lettuce.
“Oscar Nyquist isn’t exactly the fanciful sort. And he’s far from senile.” I speared a piece of tomato and gave Milo what I hoped was a steely stare. “I’ll hear him out. Vida thinks Bridget is behaving a bit oddly. Maybe the reason is because she feels her life is threatened.”
“Vida!” Milo chuckled again, though he spoke the name with affection as well as scorn. “By the way, those weren’t letters on that dead woman’s body.”
“What?” I held my coffee cup poised in mid-sip. “What do you mean?”
“They were numbers. One-Nine-Eight-Seven. The year, maybe, 1987. And it was B-H-S, not B-H-F, or whatever we thought it was at first. Doc Dewey used his microscope.”
“BHS?” I gave a little start, spilling some of my coffee. Quickly, I mopped it up with my napkin. “That means Blanchet High School to me. I went there. The 1987 could be the year she graduated. Well, Milo?”
An unsettled look came over Milo’s long face. “Is that right? In my line of work, it stands for Bushy-Haired Stranger. You know, the suspect who wasn’t there,” he said in an unusually tentative voice. His gaze fixed on
the remainder of his salad. “You’re right, it could be a high school. But why Blanchet? What about Bellevue? That’s where my kids have gone since Old Mulehide and I split up. Or Ballard or Bremerton or Bellingham or … hell, any place in the country with a high school that starts with the letter B.”
“That’s true. It’s just that those initials mean Blanchet to me,” I pointed out. “Had you figured that it might stand for a high school?”
Milo looked a trifle sheepish. “No. I was thinking more of a person. A guy, maybe.” He finished his salad, shoved the plate to one side, and nodded at a couple of loggers who were going into the bar. “There are about six missing women in the state who fit her description, but none of them are named Carol. If we could access a data base for high schools beginning with a B, then we could narrow it down to any Carols from the 1987 class. At least we’d have some place to start.”
“Then what?” I asked as the waitress removed the salad plates.
Milo lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Then we’d try to find out if any of them are missing. That’s assuming the dead woman’s name is Carol. It would be one hell of a job. I doubt that we could do it out of this office. If we found out that there are no missing Carols from Blanchet, Ballard, Bellevue, or any of the other ? high schools in the state, then maybe we could get the FBI to come in.”
“For starters, I could call Blanchet,” I offered. “Mrs. Hoffman is still in the tuition office. She’s very helpful.”
“I could get my kids to check out the Bellevue annuals,” said Milo. “In fact, my oldest daughter graduated in ’eighty-seven.”
The waitress returned with our entrees and more coffee. There was still no one sitting directly across from us, though I’d seen four men move into the booth at my back. I couldn’t hear them, so I assumed they couldn’t hear us. I decided it was time to reopen the subject of Oscar Nyquist’s biggest worry, but I’d do it in a roundabout way. I started by asking Milo if any of the Nyquists had reported a Peeping Tom incident.
“Not officially,” said Milo, drenching his meat with steak sauce. “But Arnie mentioned it when he was in with one of his numerous other complaints. Bridget Nyquist is a knockout. It’s no wonder some guy felt an urge to watch her undress. She should have pulled the shades.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Hell, no. Sam Heppner tried to pin Arnie down, but he suddenly became vague. It makes me wonder if Bridget didn’t know damned well who the peeker was, but got skittish about saying so.” Milo wiggled his sandy eyebrows at me.
“You mean she knew the guy?”
“I mean she sure did, and maybe he thought he had a right to be there, but her husband wouldn’t have agreed.” Milo chewed his steak complacently.
“But they’re still newly weds,” I protested. Then I thought of Travis, apparently flirting with Carla. I also remembered Travis’s warning to his grandfather. Had Travis been trying to keep Oscar from saying anything more about the Peeping Tom? I tried a different tack. “So you wouldn’t tie this peeker in with a threat on Bridget’s life?”
Milo gave a little grunt of a laugh. “If it’s what I think it is, the only danger she’s in is from Travis. In fact, the most likely victim would be the peeker. But if there’s something going on between this guy and Bridget, Travis is the type who’d want to save face. He’s got a big reputation in this town as an all-around success story. Four years on the job and he retires. Hell, why couldn’t I have found a boondoggle like that?”
“Luck,” I noted. “In my opinion, playing the stock market isn’t much different from betting on the horse races. You might as well pick out the corporate logo you like best, just like choosing a horse by the jockey’s colors.”
“He sure knew how to pick them,” said Milo. “Travis knew how to pick women, too, or so I thought until the so-called Peeping Tom showed up. If she’s playing around on him, he’s not so lucky after all.”
I wasn’t as ready as Milo to dismiss the peeker as a love-struck suitor waiting for Bridget to give the all-clear. In fact, I was beginning to get the uneasy feeling that the Nyquists weren’t entirely wrong in their criticism of the sheriff’s department. I was getting anxious to hear what Oscar would have to say when he came to my house.
“How’s Saturday?” Milo was watching me expectantly. I’d been wool-gathering, and hadn’t heard the first part of the question. Judging from Milo’s quirky smile, he knew he’d caught me unawares. “For dinner at King Olav’s? Paging Emma Lord, paging Emma Lord …”
“It’s fine,” I said hastily. “Adam won’t be in until early next week. Ben will have the Saturday evening mass. What about Honoria?”
“She’s going to spend Christmas with her family in Walnut Creek,” said Milo. “She leaves Saturday morning.” His expression grew wistful.
“Do you want to have Christmas dinner at my place?” I asked.
“I’ll have the kids.” Milo didn’t seem thrilled by the prospect.
“So bring them.” His son, Brandon, was almost the same age as Adam; Tanya was a couple of years older, and Michelle was a high school senior. My brother related beautifully to young people. We could have a real family gathering. I rocked a little in my seat, excited at the idea.
“I don’t know.…” Milo was still looking uncertain. “They’ll be driving up from Bellevue Christmas morning. Tanya is probably bringing that five-star jerk she lives with. It’d be a lot of bother, Emma.”
“No, it won’t. I’d love to have you. The jerk, too. Honest.” Impulsively, I put my hand on Milo’s. “I’ll get a twenty-five pound turkey. Stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, and mince pie. Oh, rolls, too—I’ve got the Clemans family’s potato roll recipe. Vida gave it to me.” As far as I was concerned the matter was settled.
“It sounds good.” Milo was weakening, enticed by the vision of a groaning sideboard. “I could bring some wine.”
“Ben’s doing that. You can get sparkling cider or pop. And maybe some rum so I can make Tom and Jerrys.” I was very pleased. It would be the first big holiday dinner I’d fixed in years. In Portland, Adam and I had spent the first three Christmases by ourselves. I had been absolutely miserable.
Putting his free hand over mine, Milo gave me a surprisingly diffident smile. “It could be fun, huh?”
“It will be fun,” I assured him. “We can play board games and act goofy. We can have a snowball fight. We can eat ourselves into a big fat fit.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve done that,” Milo mused. “Had a big family-style Christmas, I mean. Last year the kids and I ate at the Venison Inn.”
“Vida asked you to come to her house,” I reminded him. Adam and I had gone there, joining Vida’s three daughters, their husbands and children, and Carla. It had been lively, it had been lovely—but it hadn’t been my own.
“It would have been too crowded,” Milo asserted. Slowly, he removed his hand. I did the same. Our gazes locked, just for a moment, then fell away. “How about those Seahawks?” said Milo.
We returned to the outside world, once again firmly closing the door on our inner emotions. If we had any. I could never be quite sure.
“ … So it could be Blanchet or Bothell or Burnaby, up in B.C., or any—” Vida stared at me, her eyes wide behind the big round lenses. “Don’t you remember my wedding story?” She gave a swift shake of her head. “No, probably not, you weren’t here, you were out of town. Bridget Nyquist went to Blanchet. And if memory serves, she was in the class of ’eighty-seven.”
Chapter Six
I HAVE SEEN the mountains scarred by logging; I have seen the loggers scarred from living. The great gouges along Mount Baldy and Tonga Ridge speak to me. But so do the men who made them, and their voices keep me awake at night. I have heard the cry of the spotted owl. I have seen tears in the eyes of rough-and-ready human beings whose pride has been destroyed along with their livelihood.
In early September, when newly restricted logging activit
ies were further curtailed by the danger of forest fires, I’d interviewed several loggers and their families. The image I’d carried in Seattle and Portland of two-fisted, hard-drinking, poorly educated louts armed with chain saws and no brains had begun to change. In its place, a new portrait began to emerge, not in bright red and green plaid, but in more somber colors. Despair, discouragement, depression were etched in the worried faces of the men, women, and children who depended upon the woods to make their living. A logger is a logger, and can’t—not won’t—think of himself as anything else. In Alpine, as many as four generations in one family had worked in the timber industry. Some had lost a leg or an arm, many were missing fingers and toes, a few were paralyzed, and the death toll was too high for any business. But the risks didn’t scare off these gutsy woodland knights. What frightened them was the possibility of losing their livelihood—and their pride. The threat of shutting down the forests hovered over these people like an axe. I decided it was time to take my stand.
Culling my research from a number of sources, I started to outline my piece for next week’s issue. After returning from lunch with Milo, I had called Blanchet High School in Seattle, but Mrs. Hoffman wasn’t in. Supposedly, she would call me back.
“Look,” Vida said, not exactly appearing out of nowhere, since I could hear her coming from a mile away. “I put together a Nyquist family tree.”
Sure enough, Vida had scrawled a genealogy of sorts on a sheet of typing paper. Lars, the Norwegian emigrant and founder of the dynasty as well as of the Whistling Marmot Theatre, had married Inga Fremstad in 1909. Oscar was born a year later; his sister Karen came along in 1917. Oscar had taken Astrid Petersen as his bride in 1932. Karen had become Mrs. Trygve Hansen in 1938. Astrid Nyquist had passed away three years ago. Two children had been born of that union—Thelma, who married a man named Peter Nordoff and moved to Spokane, and Arnold, whose wife, Louise, had been born a Bergstrom. Their son, Travis, was an only child.