The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  Stefan Horthy obviously didn’t share my concern. With another scowl, he closed and locked the apartment door. When we reached the foyer, he indicated a row of brass mailboxes. “Letters may be inside or in that pile by the stairs. People are careless pigs.” He selected another key from his big silver ring and unlocked the slot for 116 with a show of grudging condescension. “Let yourself out,” he said abruptly, and then banged the door as he made his exit.

  Five minutes later, I put my stash in the Jag and headed back to collect Adam. He was standing in line to pay for his purchases at the cashier’s counter.

  “Nick o’ time,” he said with that engaging grin so like his father’s. “I can pay cash for the bindings, but I need some of your plastic to cover the gloves and the boots and the ski wax.”

  “Adam …” The motherly lecture died aborning. With his six-two stature and his once-boyish features sharpening into Tom’s chiseled profile, I knew I was sunk. Nor was it just the resemblance that turned me to jelly. This was my baby, my son, the only man who had been a real part of my life for the past twenty-one years. I produced the plastic; Adam offered a pat on my head. It was, I suppose, a fair exchange.

  * * *

  I hadn’t planned on serving dinner for five, but that was the way it worked out. Adam and I had stopped for a late lunch at the venerable Deluxe Tavern on Broadway, so it was going on six o’clock by the time we reached Alpine. We swung by the newspaper office, where I discovered that Vida was still working. I invited her to join us for dinner, at which point she informed me that Ben had called and said he’d be able to come, too. My brother was anxious to see his nephew.

  I was anxious to show Milo the photos I’d filched from the Villa Apartments. I took a chance that he was also still on the job and asked him to eat with us. No arm-twisting was required. Adam and I rushed off to the Grocery Basket, where I tossed chicken breasts, French bread, cauliflower, two bottles of Chardonnay, and a frozen lemon meringue pie into my basket. Dinner would be late, but, along with the rice I already had at home, it would be ample.

  Milo and Ben studied the framed photograph with somber expressions. At last Milo looked up, his hazel eyes showing pain. “It’s her. She looks different here, but I’d swear to it in court.”

  Milo didn’t need to explain that his memory was based on Carol Neal being at least four years older and maybe three days dead. Ben concurred with Milo’s opinion.

  For the first time, my son evinced interest in the case. “She was a mega-babe,” he murmured, looking over Ben’s shoulder. “What a waste! Who’d do something like that?”

  I eyed Adam carefully. He’d turned pale, and it occurred to me that in Carol Neal, he had come face-to-face with his own mortality. Twenty-two-year-old women shouldn’t die. Neither should twenty-two-year-old men.

  “The worst of it,” put in Vida between mouthfuls of trout pâté and crackers, “is that there are two of them. Let’s see that tennis shoe again, Emma.”

  I handed it to Vida. It was an Adidas, but, like the Reebok Milo had found, it was a size seven and a half. Vida looked up at Milo, who was now on his feet by the fireplace, fiddling with a candle in the shape of a choirboy. “Inconclusive?”

  “Of course. But suggestive, if nobody knows where Kathleen Francich is. The King County people will be on this first thing tomorrow. It’s their case now, too.” Milo wore a faint air of relief. The law enforcement officials in Seattle had far greater resources than he had in Alpine. Indeed, Milo was still smarting over the failure of a bond issue on the November ballot that would have allowed him to hire two more deputies and acquire more sophisticated equipment. Skykomish County voters had also turned down a proposal to expand the fire department. My editorials urging passage of both measures had gone for naught.

  I went into the kitchen to turn the chicken breasts over. Vida was perusing the address book. I’d only had time to glance through it. I wasn’t sure if it belonged to Carol or Kathleen, but whichever it was, she had certainly jotted down a lot of masculine names, and strange ones at that. Corny. Stitch. Porky. Big Wheel. Diver Dan. Shaft. I was curious to know what Milo would make of it.

  The cauliflower was aboil, the rice was steaming nicely, and the buttered bread loaf was heating along with the chicken breasts. I returned to the living room, where Vida was tapping the open pages of the address book.

  “Prostitutes,” she asserted. “These names are clients. Disgusting. But part of life. What else would you expect of a table dancer and a cocktail waitress?”

  “I don’t know about cocktail waitresses …” Ben began.

  “You don’t know about prostitutes,” interrupted Vida. “At least I hope you don’t. You’re a priest.” She whirled around on the sofa to give Adam a sharp look. “I hope you know better than to get mixed up with that sort of woman. They’ll take your hard-earned money, give you a dreadful disease, and tell you you’ve had a wonderful time. Men are silly enough to believe them. Oh! It’s maddening!”

  Milo, either out of professional duty or in an attempt to ward off his turn on the spit of Vida’s tongue, ventured that prostitution was a good guess. “Which means we may have a typical serial killer on the loose. Most of the Green River victims were hookers, or at least runaways who turned a trick to make survival money.”

  On the face of it, Milo’s argument made sense. But the Green River ran its course near the Sea-Tac airport strip, a bit of real estate notorious for its vice crimes. The Skykomish River was far removed from the sins of the city. I had to disagree with Milo.

  “If Carol and Kathleen are both dead, and even if they were both part-time hookers, they still had something else in common,” I pointed out. “They were roommates. That means they were probably also friends. They had more in common than just turning tricks.”

  “An excellent point.” Vida nodded vigorously, then carefully turned the pages of the address book to the middle. She studied the listings, gave a slight shake of her head, and then flipped back toward the front section. “Ha!” She waved the little blue book in triumph. “Just as I thought! Dunne, Bridget!”

  All three males looked puzzled, but I practically jumped up and down. “Bridget Dunne Nyquist,” I cried, for the elucidation of Milo, Ben, and Adam. “Is there an Alpine address?”

  “No.” Vida offered the book to Milo. “It looks like a Seattle number, no address. But one—or both—of these girls knew Bridget.”

  “Of course,” I said, squeezing in between Vida and Ben on the sofa. “They went to high school together. I wonder if Kathleen Francich went to Blanchet, too.” I poked my brother. “Call Bill Crowley. He’d know.”

  “Now?” Ben regarded me with reluctance. I poked him again, harder. He got up and went to the phone, then turned back to look at me. “I don’t have his home number. He used to be in residence at Christ the King, but I’m not sure he’s there anymore, with priests being moved all over the place lately. I’ll call Mrs. McHale. My address book is at the rectory.”

  Teresa McHale, however, did not answer. Ben remembered that she was taking Father Fitz’s Volvo out for the evening, to visit an elderly shut-in. He promised to call the Blanchet chaplain first thing in the morning.

  Milo was going through the little blue book page by page. I told him to check on a listing for Rachel Rosen. Ever methodical, Milo told me to hold my horses; he was only as far as the Gs.

  He’d gotten to M by the time I announced that dinner was served. Speculation was rampant, but I must admit we didn’t get much beyond what we already knew or guessed. There were so many ifs in the case. If the other dead body was Kathleen Francich. If one or both of the young women had been prostitutes. If Carol had maintained contact with Bridget Dunne Nyquist. If Kathleen had gone to Blanchet.

  We ran out of conjecture about the same time I ran out of chicken. By then, everyone was full, sleepy, and content to stare into the fireplace. Milo offered to drive Ben back to the rectory. Vida wanted to help clean up, but I told her to head home. It was starti
ng to snow quite hard. Adam could lend me a hand.

  Adam, however, had dozed off on the floor by the hearth. Apparently, his exertions on the ski slopes the previous day had worn him out. After throwing an afghan over him, I went out into the kitchen. I was emptying the second load of the evening from the dishwasher when I realized that I hadn’t finished my editorial, let alone even begun to lay out the newspaper.

  It was after eleven. I dithered briefly, then decided it was better to get off to an early start than to make a late finish. I put the last of the silverware away, wiped off the counters, and headed for bed.

  I stopped at the Nativity scene to add the second Wise Man. The first was hiding behind a palm tree, peering out like a German spy from a bad World War II movie. Adam was still asleep in front of the dying fire. I left him there, offering up a prayer to keep him safe and happy. As I kicked off my shoes, I wondered if Carol Neal’s parents had ever said the same prayers for her. If they had, their supplications had been stamped denied. Of course Ben would tell me it didn’t work that way. Prayer acknowledges faith; it’s like sending a thinking-of-you card to God. And sometimes even that gets returned to sender.

  Chapter Twelve

  We can’t turn back the clock. But neither can we turn our backs on history. Washington State was built on a firm foundation—of logs. Trees are still our major crop. Scholars and scientists tell us we can have both a healthy environment and a prosperous timber industry. People must remain our top priority. We can keep the spotted owls in the trees, but let the logs keep rolling. And let the good times roll again in Alpine, and in other logging communities of the Pacific Northwest.

  I hit transfer, save, and print. The editorial was finished, though my day had only begun. I turned my attention to Vida’s story on Oscar Nyquist and the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. It was long, and, as was Vida’s style when she got her teeth into a meaty feature, a bit rambling. She started with the theatre’s early history in the social hall under the reign of Lars Nyquist, moved up to the new building site, mentioned that the Marmot had been designed by Isaac Lowenstein, a well-known West Coast architect specializing in movie houses, and then jumped to the postwar renovations and the most recent updating in the 1960s. The exterior had been repainted last summer, another product of the film location company, but with happier results than our garish yellow facade. The quotes from Oscar were mundane, but Vida had done a telephone sampling of local Marmot aficionados, who had waxed eloquent over such varied historic occasions as the first talking picture, a visit by Betty Grable on the vaudeville circuit, Bing Crosby passing through on a fishing trip during World War II, and the crush of females who had showed up for Elvis’s movie debut in Love Me Tender. Amazingly enough, Vida had managed to track down Mabel Hubbert Bockdorif, who had played the piano for Lars during the silent-screen era. Mabel was ninety-seven yeas old, but still sharp and living on her own in Wenatchee.

  Only in the next to the last paragraph did Vida allude to the Nyquists’ recent rash of pesky problems: “Running a movie theatre isn’t all roses and popcorn,” wrote Vida. “Oscar Nyquist and his son, Arnold, have experienced their ups and downs, including an outbreak of vandalism on both their private and professional properties. The elder Nyquist has expressed a strong desire to see these culprits apprehended, but so far no arrests have been made.” Vida summed up with a lengthy paragraph about all the excitement and romance and laughter and thrills the Marmot had brought to Alpine. She gave credit to Lars for being farsighted, to Oscar for his perseverance, and to Arnie for bringing a bowling alley to the town. I suspected that the last remark was made tongue-in-cheek, but I let it ride.

  “Nice work,” I told her, as Carla handed me the pictures of Evan Singer in his coachman’s costume.

  Vida made a harumphing noise. “I wasn’t exactly interviewing Sol Hurok. If Lars Nyquist had owned an insurance agency, Oscar would have peddled policies door-to-door. If Lars had been a blacksmith, Oscar would still be pounding on the forge, and never mind that the horse and buggy has been gone for three generations. Oscar has no imagination. I doubt that he ever watches the movies he shows. At least Lars had enough emotion to get a crush on Greta Garbo.”

  Carla was looking at the photos Vida had selected to go with the story: the social hall, the Marmot’s opening night, an amateur production of You Can’t Take It With You, a head shot of the late Lars, and three generations of Nyquists standing under the marquee with It’s a Wonderful Life in big block letters.

  “When did you take this?” I asked Vida.

  “Yesterday, while you were out gallivanting. See, Travis has thrown his crutches away, just like Tiny Tim.”

  I edged closer to Carla and scrutinized the photo of Oscar, Arnie, and Travis Nyquist. I noted Oscar’s bald head, Arnie’s receding hairline, and Travis’s wavy brown locks. “I wonder how soon Travis will start losing his hair,” I mused.

  Carla gasped. “Don’t say that, Emma! He’s so cute!”

  “Knock it off, Carla,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s a shame my son is too young for you.” Of course it really wasn’t. The role of Carla’s employer was bad enough; being her mother-in-law would be worse.

  Carla gave me an irked look. “You’re a washout when it comes to helping me meet men. Adam’s still a college kid and your brother is a priest. Don’t you know any eligible guys?”

  “If I did, I’d have first dibs,” I replied, shoving one of the Evan Singer photos in her direction. “Here, don’t you think he looks dashing in that coachman’s rig?”

  Carla’s dark eyes grew very wide. “With a whip? Why not shackles and chains, too? I told you he was weird, Emma. You were pretty brave to go out to his cabin the other day. I would have taken Milo Dodge along.”

  Milo, in fact, was entering the door. He looked very purposeful this snowy December morning. “Things are beginning to hum,” he announced. “The King County people are sending up one of Carol’s co-workers to officially identify her. Whoever it is knows she had a tattoo on her backside.”

  If Milo was expecting congratulations, he got more than he’d bargained for. Carla zipped across the room, grabbed the sheriff, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him soundly. “Mistletoe!” she chirped. “Hey, Sheriff Dodge, you’re eligible!”

  Milo reeled “For what?”

  “Nevermind,” I sighed, shaking my head at Carla. “The sheriff’s taken. Honoria Whitman, remember?”

  Vida, who had removed her glasses, drank from a mug of hot water. “How is Honoria? I haven’t seen much of her lately.”

  Milo was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “She left for Carmel Saturday. She isn’t used to the snow and doesn’t like to drive in it. And I’ve been pretty tied up. I wasn’t able to get down to Startup last week.”

  I made sympathetic noises. The sheriff’s current lady-love was hampered by more than a lifetime in California’s warmer climate: Honoria’s ex-husband had taken out his rage against the world by throwing his wife down a flight of stairs. Mr. Whitman had paid for his temper tantrum with a bullet fired by Honoria’s brother. He’d served ten years, but had told his sister it was worth it. Honoria’s sentence was longer—she would never walk again.

  We were expressing our admiration for Honoria’s independence and spunk when Arnie Nyquist stormed into the office. I’m used to irate readers, so I braced myself for a tirade. Arnie’s target, however, was not me but Milo Dodge.

  “That’s it! You’re a waste of the taxpayers’ money, Dodge! Haven’t you ever heard of patrol cars? Not only are those morons still screwing up the Marmot’s marquee, but my house has been robbed!” Arnie Nyquist flailed around the office, gesturing wildly. I had a perverse wish for him to stand under the mistletoe so Carla could kiss him.

  Keeping calm, Milo held his coffee mug in both hands. “Have you reported this?”

  Carla jumped in between the two men. “I should take a picture! What does the marquee say this time?” She could hardly contain her glee.

 
; Arnie glared at her exuberant form. “What the hell difference does it make? Some damned fool silly thing—‘Under A Low Stiffel:’ Jesus!”

  Carla clapped her hands. “Cute! A Stiffel’s a kind of lamp, get it?” She dashed to her desk to grab her camera.

  “No, you don’t!” yelled Arnie. “My dad and I don’t want you poking fun at the Marmot!”

  I shook my head at Carla. She hesitated, then docilely put the camera back on her desk. “You’ve got to admit it’s clever,” she muttered with a flash of dark eyes for Arnie.

  Arnie ignored her, turning his ire back on Milo. “I reported it, all right. The robbery, I mean. That’s how I knew you were here.” He was still barreling around, bumping into Vida’s desk. She gave him a frosty stare.

  The sheriff had kept his expression bland. “The robbery happened this morning?”

  Arnie finally stood still, just as Ed Bronsky came in, grumbling and brushing snow off his overcoat. “The mall! How can those merchants want all that advertising next week for end-of-year clearance sales? The paper will come out the day before Christmas Eve! Nobody’ll read the damned ads!”

  I would save my lecture on the importance of post holiday bargains in a depressed economy until after Arnie finished pitching his fit. And Arnie was indeed blustering away: “The robbery was last night, while Louise and I were gone. We drove down to Sultan to visit some friends. It was late when we got home, almost midnight. We went right to bed, and didn’t notice we’d been robbed until this morning.” He shot Milo a defensive look.

  Ed was pouring coffee. “Robbed, huh?” he said over his shoulder. “You know, Arnie, if you didn’t take out those two-inch ads every week for Nyquist Construction, nobody’d know who you were. Then they wouldn’t realize you had anything worth stealing. You plaster your name all over the paper, and there you are—a sitting duck.”

  Not for the first time did I resist the urge to strangle my advertising manager. In fact, I secretly hoped Arnie Nyquist would do Ed in and save me the trouble. But Arnie chose to ignore Ed, which was probably what I should have done, had he not been on my payroll.