The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  “Not as well as you do,” I admitted. “Take it easy. You got re-elected by an overwhelming majority last month. And I’ll bet the Nyquists all voted for you.”

  Milo looked askance. “I’ve got a murder investigation that’s going nowhere. I don’t need distractions like the Nyquists.”

  I had sat down in an armchair opposite Milo. I’d given up expecting him to notice my new dress. Or how nice the house looked, with all the Christmas decorations. Only the tree was missing. Briefly, I visualized it standing in the corner between the bookcase and the window next to the carport.

  “Speaking of Nyquists,” I said, hoping to steer him a bit off course, “I’m puzzled about their peeker. Oscar and Louise gave two different descriptions. Bridget is vague.”

  “Bridget is brainless. Travis didn’t marry her for her mind.” Milo tugged at his polka-dot tie. He hated getting dressed up. His concession to King Olav’s dress code was a herringbone sport coat, flannel slacks, a pale blue dress shirt—and a tie. “You ought to know that eyewitnesses never see the same event.”

  “This is different,” I persisted. “Louise said the guy was medium height, stocky, in workman’s clothes. Oscar described him as tall and skinny, wearing jeans. They were both relaying what Bridget said, and when Vida and I asked her, she insisted she only saw an outline. What’s the official rundown on this bird?”

  Milo sipped his drink and shrugged. “As I said, people aren’t good at giving descriptions. It can make us law enforcement types crazy, especially when they testify in court. Or at a lineup. Now there’s the worst possible scenario. About four years ago last summer, Darla Puckett filed a complaint about some guy who’d broken into her house and stolen some money and a watch and a berry pie. Shaggy hair, a beard, big son of a gun. We actually threw together a lineup and…”

  I have never considered Milo Dodge loquacious, not even after a shot of Scotch. He’s a good conversationalist—direct, candid, humorous. But he never runs on. I half-listened to his elaborate account, which I’d heard a long time ago from Vida. I knew the punch line, which was that Darla Puckett had fingered a visiting state law enforcement official from Olympia, she’d given the money to the milkman, the watch had fallen into the garbage, and the berry pie had been eaten by a bear. It was amusing, it was cogent, it was very Alpine. But it wasn’t like Milo to talk my ear off. I suspected him of fobbing me off.

  “ … And the bear had left the empty pie plate out by the woodshed!” Milo chuckled richly.

  “And you’re dodging me, Dodge.” I stood up, glancing at my watch. “We’ve got a seven-thirty reservation. Let’s go. You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

  Milo was still protesting his innocence when we got to the turnout for the ski lodge. The Overholt family owned the property bordering the county road that took off from Front Street at the edge of town. The big old rambling farm house was ablaze with Christmas lights, and a Star of Bethlehem glowed on the barn roof. The Overholts were close to ninety, but their son-in-law, Ellsworth Griswold, still actively farmed the land and kept a few cows. The family had leased the big rolling front yard to Henry Bardeen to allow diners to park their cars before getting into the sleigh.

  Milo and I weren’t the only customers waiting for Evan Singer. Neither of us recognized the other two couples. From their excited talk about the snow and treacherous driving conditions, we guessed they were Seattleites. Milo regarded the quartet with bemusement. He clearly considered them effete.

  The sound of sleigh bells jingled on the cold night air, signaling Evan’s approach. Sure enough, the sleigh pulled off the Burl Creek Road, with Evan at the helm and two giggling young women passengers. They looked vaguely familiar, and Milo nodded to them both after they allowed Evan to assist them in alighting from the horse-drawn conveyance. Evan was dressed in a Regency coachman’s costume, complete with a tall black felt hat. He looked quite imposing, especially when he flicked his long whip.

  The two other couples got in first, then Milo and I squeezed in. There were lap robes to ward off the chill and a tub of popcorn to alleviate hunger pangs. Evan had greeted me politely, if indifferently, as if he’d forgotten I’d spent part of yesterday in his rude cabin. Maybe he had. It wasn’t easy to figure out how Evan Singer’s mind worked.

  Discreetly, I clicked off a few frames of 35mm black and white film. Evan must have been used to having his picture taken. He paid no attention to the camera.

  Our companions were exclaiming about the quaintness of the sleigh, the endurance of the horses, the beauty of the snow-covered wonderland. Indeed, for a man whose imagination usually seemed to be set at simmer rather than boil, Henry Bardeen had come up with an enchanting idea: the small bridge that crossed Burl Creek halfway up the hill to the ski lodge was decorated with tiny white lights and big green wreaths. Lamp posts, also of the Regency period, stood at each end. As our route wound through the trees, more fairy lights twinkled among the branches. The effect was magical, a charming mesh of Old World beauty and contemporary commercialism.

  The sleigh glided ahead; our fellow passengers chattered on. Evan cracked the whip, but spared the horses. Milo and I remained silent. This was hardly the place to discuss a brutal homicide.

  Evan Singer stopped for the arterial at Tonga Road, which was well traveled, since it hooked into Alpine Way over by The Pines. A single car went by, perhaps heading for Arnie Nyquists’s Ptarmigan Tract west of town. The horses plodded on across the road, their big hoofs making comfortable clip-clop noises that seemed to provide a bass note for the jingling bells.

  Through the trees, we could hear the rushing sound of Burl Creek as it tumbled down the mountainside. There were more fairy lights, and somewhere a discreet speaker serenaded us with a choir singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” I couldn’t resist grinning at Milo.

  “This is the best thing to hit Alpine since Vida,” I said in a low voice.

  Milo grinned back. To my astonishment, he took my hand under the lap robe. “You’re a Christmas nut, Ms. Lord. Whatever happened to your hard-bitten newspaper cynicism?”

  I was about to reply that I put such negative emotions on hold every December, but the sleigh was suddenly zipping along at a surprisingly rapid speed. We were almost to the ski lodge; perhaps the horses sensed it and picked up the pace. They weren’t exactly galloping, but my guess was that they were executing either a canter or a very fast trot. The two other couples had finally shut up. I tightened my grip on Milo’s hand and gave him an inquiring look.

  Before Milo could say anything, a car came down the road from the opposite direction. It moved slowly, since the access was narrow and had been cleared of snow to allow passage of only one vehicle at a time. I noticed the familiar Mercedes symbol first, then recognized the occupants: Bridget Nyquist was driving; Travis was at her side.

  Evan Singer let out a howl, and the horses both reared up, pawing the freezing air. The Mercedes rolled past us. Instead of getting his steeds under control, Evan turned around and stared at the car. With a shudder, the sleigh sprang forward, then sideways. The horses were making for the trees. We hit the piled-up snow along the roadside with a jolt. The sleigh tipped over, and we all fell out. The horses kept going.

  I was still clinging to Milo’s hand when I tumbled into the snowbank. One of the other women was screaming, while her male companion cursed a blue streak. Now hatless, Evan Singer sat wide-eyed, virtually dumbstruck. The horses had stopped a few feet away, balked by the deep snow and the heavy underbrush beneath its surface.

  Milo sat up, pulling me with him. “You okay?”

  I wasn’t sure. I felt stunned, battered, and bruised. Otherwise, I decided I’d live. My main concern was that I hadn’t ripped my new dress. “Yeah, except that black and blue aren’t my favorite Christmas colors. How about you?”

  Milo was shaken, but also unharmed. The couple that hadn’t been screaming and swearing had descended upon Evan Singer, berating him and threatening lawsuits. The other two were a
lso on their feet, still making nasty noises. Milo hesitated, then finally let go of me and approached the city folks.

  “Excuse me, I’m the sheriff. If you have a complaint, file it with my office,” he told the quartet of strangers. “However, I’ll testify that there was no negligence involved. It was an accident. If you’re going to go for a sleigh ride in the mountains this time of year, you’d better be prepared for just about anything.”

  Our fellow passengers didn’t exactly look mollified, but at least they stopped yapping at Evan Singer. He had retrieved his hat and appeared indignant. He didn’t bother to thank Milo for intervening, but made straight for the horses.

  “You’d better walk the rest of the way,” he called without turning around. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  The parking area for the ski lodge was just around the bend in the road. Of course Milo and I knew that, but the others didn’t. They were still bitching when we turned the corner and saw the lodge in all its yuletide glory.

  The slanting roof with its dormer windows was decked out with yet more fairy lights. Garlands of evergreens hung from the eaves, tied with huge red bows. Off to one side at the parking lot entrance was a miniature Dickens village, complete with rosy-cheeked carolers, a gaunt lamplighter, frolicking children, and a terrier wearing a green scarf. The photo that Carla had taken didn’t do the decor justice. I found myself smiling again. Indeed, even the out-of-town foursome was beginning to pipe down and cheer up.

  Inside the lobby, a huge spruce soared up into the high beamed ceiling. There were smaller trees placed in various spots, all touched with fake snow and trimmed with blue and white ornaments. The restaurant continued the color theme, but highlighted Scandinavian traditions: St. Lucy with her crown of candles; a sheaf of grain tied with a blue and silver ribbon; Jul Tomten, the tiny old Swedish Santa, with his hunk of bread and bowl of milk; a Danish horn of burnished brass; the Norse god, Baldur, holding a sprig of mistletoe; a small evergreen hovering over silver straw to commemorate the manger. Henry Bardeen—or his decorators—had done their homework, casting a Christmas spell from out of Europe’s northern reaches.

  Milo and I were shown to a table near the massive stone fireplace. The restaurant itself might be brand-new, but the design had taken up where the original lodge left off. More high ceilings with great beams, natural pine, and a Swedish floor gave the room a spacious, open look. The Indian motif which was featured in the other public rooms had been discarded in favor of a Viking theme. The longboats, horned helmets, furs, and spears now took a backseat to the holiday decorations. However, I imagined that once Christmas was over, the old Norse decor would fit the dining room just fine.

  We started with cocktails and an hors d’oeuvre of pickled herring in sour cream. I didn’t badger Milo until he was halfway through his drink.

  “You’re holding out on me, Sheriff.”

  “No, I’m not. I won’t hear from the folks at King County until Monday.”

  “I don’t mean about the Seattle angle,” I said, noting that the quartet from the sleigh now seemed to be happily draining wineglasses at a nearby table. King Olav’s cellar was rumored to be an improvement over the Venison Inn’s limited stock of domestic red, white, and rosé that could be purchased for a third of the price at Safeway. “I’m referring to Bridget’s lurker. You know something you’re not telling me.”

  Milo looked faintly exasperated. “And if I do? I’m the sheriff, for God’s sake.”

  I gave him my most wide-eyed stare. “You want Vida and me to muck it up for you?”

  “You two …” Milo speared another piece of pickled herring. “Okay, let me clarify one point. Just one.” He tapped his index finger on the linen tablecloth. “There may be two men hanging around the Nyquist house. I don’t know much about the tall, skinny guy in jeans. But the so-called workman is from the PUD truck.”

  I made a face. “The PUD? Why? Are the Nyquists wasting electricity?”

  Milo slowly shook his head. “I didn’t say he worked for the PUD, I said he was from the PUD truck.” His hazel gaze fixed on my face. I had the feeling he thought I was being stupid.

  “A cover? Are you talking about a stakeout?”

  Milo hummed an off key tune and looked beyond me to the sextet of high school students who were dressed à la Dickens and singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” to a table of eight near the bay window.

  I wiped my fingers on my napkin and leaned my elbows on the table. “Okay. To what purpose? Who is this man watching? Bridget? Or Travis?”

  Milo kept on humming. I was getting annoyed. He was playing a game, supposedly keeping his confidences while forcing me to guess what was going on. This was not like Milo. Which, I realized, meant he was out of his mind or out of his league. I opted for the latter.

  “FBI,” I asserted. “Or some such Federal agency. Keeping an eye on … Travis.” I had a fifty-fifty chance. Usually, I make the wrong choice. But this time, I could tell from Milo’s swift glance of approval that I was right. “Why?” I demanded.

  Now Milo stopped humming and ended the game. “I’m not sure. We’ve been asked to cooperate, but only to give these guys permission to maintain surveillance. If we need to know more, they’ll tell us.”

  “Travis,” I murmured, recalling Vida’s attempt to pin Bridget down about her husband’s former place of employment. “Have you checked him out?”

  Milo made a dour face. “What for? As far as we’re concerned, he hasn’t done anything except break his leg.”

  I had to admit that Bridget’s uncertainty was no indictment of Travis. Still, I persisted. “Do you know where Travis worked in Seattle?”

  “Sure, Bartlett & Crocker. Jack Mullins went to high school with Travis. They weren’t best buddies, but they kept in touch.”

  Bartlett & Crocker struck only the dimmest of bells. Or half a bell, since I remembered Bartlett, but not Crocker. “Local?” I asked.

  Milo shrugged. “You mean in Seattle? I guess so. Not one of the big international houses, but well established. What are you driving at?”

  I didn’t know. Our waiter, whose name was Vincent and who looked like a ski bum, stopped to ask if we’d had time to consider the menu. Milo had—and ordered the Danish roast loin of pork, which went by the name of Stegt Svinekam. I scanned the entrées swiftly, choosing the Norwegian duck stuffed with apples and prunes.

  The conversation turned to Evan Singer. Milo dismissed my idea that the unexpected appearance of Bridget and Travis Nyquist had anything to do with our crash landing.

  “You’ve got Nyquists on the brain,” he chided me. “Evan Singer’s a terrible driver. He’s already been picked up by us three times, once for speeding, and twice for illegal turns.”

  “Drunk?”

  “No, just out of it. He’s not a world-class driving disaster like Durwood, but give the guy some time. Evan isn’t thirty yet.” Milo wore a pained expression. If there was one thing his deputies didn’t need, it was a contender for Durwood Parker’s reckless driving crown.

  “He’s weird,” I asserted as Vincent showed up with our beet salads. “Very weird.” The high school chorus was coming closer, now serenading the next table with “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

  Milo made no further comment on Evan Singer. Except for exceeding the speed limit and turning out of the wrong lane onto Alpine Way, the multitalented, mega-bizarre Mr. Singer didn’t seem to trouble Milo. Yet I knew the sheriff had something on his mind, and it didn’t take a swami to figure out what it was.

  “You’ve been getting calls about the bodies?”

  Milo sighed and put down his fork. He had gobbled up all his pickled beets, which was more than I could manage. “You bet. Winter’s a bad time to have a murderer loose. People feel trapped, especially the old folks. On the face of it, we’ve got two dead young women. There may or may not be any tie-in—except for their youth and gender. But try to convince an eighty-year-old arthritic woman living alone up on Icicle Creek that she’s per
fectly safe, and you might as well talk to a Norway spruce. Of course there are the calls from worried parents who have daughters in that age group. That makes more sense.”

  I thought of Carla and Ginny. My spine tingled. Between Ted Bundy and the Green River killer, we of Western Washington weren’t strangers to serial murderers. “Do you really think these women were killed by the same person?”

  Milo’s hazel gaze was steady. “I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know who these women are. We may never figure out who the first one was if we don’t find more than that damned leg.”

  It wasn’t the right moment for Vincent to bring Milo’s loin of pork and my carved duck. Milo sucked in his breath; I regarded the drumstick with dismay.

  But I ate it anyway.

  It was delicious.

  After Milo polished off his lingonberry mousse and I devoured my egg flip with a side of macaroons, we climbed back into the sleigh and headed down the mountain. Evan Singer seemed subdued, even glum. There were three other couples crammed into the conveyance, two from Alpine, though they were merely nodding acquaintances to Milo and me.

  Milo walked me from his Cherokee Chief to my front door, but declined my invitation to come in. It was just as well. We had talked ourselves out over dinner, and one—or both—of us might feel compelled to do something foolish. I suspected that we didn’t want to ruin a beautiful friendship. Or that we were chicken.

  Virtue cannot dispel loneliness. In the cold quiet of my living room, I set a Wise Man up next to one of the camels in my Nativity set. I should be accustomed to being alone, I told myself, or at least used to not having a male companion. Oh, there had been men in my life since Tom Cavanaugh, but only a few, and never for very long. A single working mother has to give up many things. Intimacy is only one of them, but it may be the greatest sacrifice. Raising a child alone takes time and energy. As the only parent who can drive, clean, cook, cheer, chastise, teach, nurture, and listen, you discover there aren’t many minutes of the day left to yourself. And even after that child has gone away, the mold in which life has been cast for almost twenty years has grown virtually unbreakable. After all, it’s a safe haven, with those thick, high walls, like the womb that put you there in the first place.