The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  Louise beamed at me from across the kitchen island where she was pouring homemade eggnog into tall mugs. “I found the album, thank goodness. It had fallen behind a box of Travis’s high school mementos. But you’re right,” she went on, leading me back into the living room. “Those were treasures we can’t ever replace. Now why would anyone take them?”

  I was sitting in a tapestry-covered armchair; Louise was perched on an amber brocade sofa. Even with its cheerful Christmas decor, the room seemed stiff and formal. But it was also very beautiful. I wondered if the same person had done both this house and the younger Nyquists’ decor.

  “Mischief, maybe,” I replied, taking in a Lalique vase, a Baroque mirror, and a brilliantly colored bowl that might have been crafted by Dale Chiluly. If the thief had had a pack like Santa’s, he could have thrown in those three items and made off with six figures worth of goodies.

  “Drugs,” Louise was saying. “That’s what Arnie suspects. Whoever it was thought we might have some—or cash lying around—and when they couldn’t find anything, they just grabbed the first thing that came to hand. You know how those people are. They don’t think rationally, like the rest of us.”

  I tried not to look dubious. But I recalled that Vida had said that Louise was no dope. Perhaps I could trust to be candor. “You know, Louise, that doesn’t seem likely. If the burglar was a drug addict, he would steal something he could sell or pawn.” I waved a hand to take in the vast living room with its many-splendored things. “You have some valuable pieces. Sterling, too, I’ll bet. Who designed all this? It’s lovely.”

  Louise’s gaze wandered around the room, from the demilune-inlaid console table to the satinwood urn filled with holly. “Designed it? We did. I mean, Arnie, really. But we always discuss what we’re going to buy. Once in a while he comes up with a clinker.”

  I gaped at Louise. I couldn’t imagine that Tinker Toy could possess such elegant tastes. But of course the houses he built—at least the ones that didn’t fall down—were handsome structures. I had assumed that he used an architect. I said as much to Louise.

  “Sometimes he does,” she said. “He did for this house. But Arnie has quite an eye. He has to, since there’s no real architect in Alpine. He couldn’t be running into Seattle all the time for consultations. Besides, talented architects are very expensive.”

  It seemed to me that if Arnie Nyquist was going to spend money, he preferred to do it on himself. However, Louise and I had strayed from the point of my visit. If there was a point—Louise wasn’t exactly pressing confidences on me.

  I steered the conversation back to the burglary, but Louise dismissed my remarks with a small smile and a shake of her head. “What’s the use? Maybe it’s just mischief, like stealing Christmas lights and rearranging the Marmot marquee. I have to be honest, except for Travis’s baby things, I won’t miss any of it. Who really looks at old birth and wedding and engagement announcements after thirty years? As for the rest—it was Arnie’s, and I don’t think I ever took the trouble to go through his Tyee yearbooks from the UDUB in my life. I went to Pacific Lutheran.” Her smile grew quite merry.

  “But your M.A. is from the UDUB?”

  Pride surged through Louise’s plump body. “I wanted to do that for years. Arnie couldn’t see why. But nowadays you have to have a master’s to teach in most districts. The truth is,” she went on, lowering her eyes, “I enjoyed my time in Seattle. Being in the city was an adventure. Of course I would never admit that to Arnie.”

  I could see why not. “You went to high school together, right?”

  Louise abandoned her memories of independence and nodded complacently. “I was two years behind Arnie. We didn’t date until he graduated from college. It was cute, really.” She settled comfortably onto the brocade sofa, looking more at home with her memories than with her furniture. “It was summer break, and I came back home to work at the Marmot, taking tickets. Grandpa Lars was still alive, and on weekends he liked to get all dressed up in a suit and tie so he could greet the customers as they came in the door. We were showing a Paul Newman film that night—I forget which, I think his wife was in it, too—and I just adored Paul.” She emitted a girlish sigh, and I responded with a flutter of my own. I was not immune to Mr. Newman, either. “Grandpa Lars teased me about my crush and said if I wanted to meet a handsome young man, why didn’t I come to dinner at Popsy’s on my night off? Popsy—Oscar, I mean—and Mother Nyquist had huge meals—courses, really—with soup and salad and fish and meat. Everyone said they ate like kings and queens. I wasn’t as anxious to meet a handsome young man as I was to see the spread they put on. And they did.” Louise rolled her blue eyes. “Gravlax and sweet soup and butter dumplings and veal sausages and potatoes cooked with anchovies and onions—oh, it went on and on. I was such a skinny little thing then, but I ate until I almost passed out. Then Grandpa Lars said, ‘See this wee one. She can eat like a logger, ya? Maybe she can cook, too. You better marry her quick, Arnold, before she gets away.’ ” Louise’s laughter bubbled over.

  “That fast?” I asked, eyebrows lifted.

  “No, no. I’d barely noticed Arnie, poor dear. And to be frank, he wasn’t exactly bowled over. But we did agree to go to a church picnic, and the next thing I knew, I was having dinner at the Nyquist house whenever I had a free evening. I still had to finish college, but we wrote letters. Arnie was quite a good correspondent. We got engaged the day I graduated. His family welcomed me as if I already was their daughter.” She gave another little shake of her head, apparently still overcome by the memory of such familial warmth.

  “That’s a charming story,” I remarked, now racking my brain for a way to get Louise Nyquist to open up. I must have been mistaken. The pleading look I’d seen in her eyes at the mall had sprung from an urge no more specific than a need for female companionship. I’d risked my neck and my Jaguar for nothing. Except, of course, to be kind to another human being. Sometimes I’m surprised by my own crassness.

  “We’ve done the same with Bridget, I hope.” Louise had gotten up, going to the kitchen to refill our eggnog mugs. I followed, with an eye on my watch. It was almost eight, and planning commission meetings seldom lasted more than an hour unless there was something controversial on the calendar. According to Carla, who was covering the session, tonight’s agenda was pretty tame.

  “Bridget could use a maternal figure,” I noted, admiring if not particularly liking the stark black and white modernistic design of the kitchen. “Her own mother and father are dead, I hear.”

  “Yes, very sad.” Louise handed over my replenished mug. “She never speaks of them. I must say, it hasn’t been easy. Making her feel loved, I mean. Oh, she’s agreeable enough. I was so afraid she might put up a fuss about being married in the Lutheran church.” Louise kept talking as we headed back into the living room. I noted with some alarm that the snow outside the tall windows was coming down so thick that I couldn’t see anything but a film of white. “She was raised Catholic, you know. That can cause problems. That is,” Louise went on, a bit flustered, no doubt because she suddenly remembered that I was one of Them rather than one of Us, “it used to be that way. Things have changed, I’m told. Bridget didn’t protest at all.”

  Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. Catholic education has become so ecumenically-minded since Vatican II that the younger generation has problems telling the difference between a Christian and a Jew, let alone understanding the finer distinctions between Catholics and Protestants.

  “But you’re fond of Bridget,” I said, allowing only the hint of a question in my voice.

  “Oh, yes,” Louise replied quickly. “So is Arnie.” She hesitated, caressing her eggnog mug. I had noticed that while my portions were as pristine as I’d requested, hers contained a fair dollop of rum. I wondered if the second shot would make Louise more prone to revelations. “The truth is, she’s not an easy person to get close to. I suppose losing both parents while she was still young has made her a bit guarded. And I
can be too affectionate. Or so Arnie tells me. He insists I spoiled Travis. But what could I do? Arnie was always so busy and Travis was our one and only.”

  “So’s my son,” I remarked. I didn’t add that Adam wasn’t spoiled, at least not as far as I was concerned. I’d had enough trouble just keeping up, financially and emotionally.

  “Once the babies start coming, I’m sure we’ll grow closer.” Louise’s expression was now sentimental. “Babies have such a way of bringing people together, don’t you think? If you want to know the truth, Arnie and I never had a lot in common until after we had Travis.”

  I murmured something inane about babies, but my thoughts were wandering. Louise Nyquist had a lot of love to give—I didn’t doubt that for a moment. But Arnie’s courtship of her sounded oddly perfunctory, as if it had been orchestrated. Not once had I heard exclamations of “love at first sight” or “mad about the man” or any such indication that Arnie and Louise had been drawn together by a strong romantic attraction. The beautiful house with its handsome furnishings suddenly spoke volumes. Under that brusque, burly exterior, Arnold Nyquist aspired to champagne and caviar. Louise was satisfied with eggnog and cookies.

  I hadn’t worn out my welcome, but the Baccarat clock on the mantel told me that it was time to go. Louise protested, insisting that I have one more eggnog, a piece of homemade fruitcake, a taste of her Mexican wedding rings. I demurred, and after nervously negotiating the steep curves that led down First Hill, I slowly drove home through blinding snow.

  Adam and Ben surprised me. They had brought my tree inside and set it up in the sturdy cast-iron stand fashioned by my father thirty years ago.

  “It’s been out there for a week,” Ben said as Adam turned the tree to display the best side. “We thought we’d start decorating it.”

  I had planned on leaving work early Wednesday to put up the tree, but as long as my son and my brother were willing to help, there was no time like the present. Having decided on the fir’s best angle, Adam began testing the lights, while Ben unwound the tinsel garlands and I opened the first box of ornaments. I had four cartons of them, each individual piece wrapped in tissue paper. Every year, I went through the same ritual, smiling and sighing over the ornaments’ history: “This bell belonged to my parents … That reindeer came from Aunt Rylla in Wichita … The skinny Santa was a freebie at a toy store … Adam made this one with his picture when he was in first grade.” Naturally, it took a long time to trim the tree, but every ornament was like a present, a gift from the past, a garland of memories. My son thought I was a real sap.

  The topper went on first, an angel from Germany clad in blue velvet and silver tissue, with spun-glass hair and a golden halo. My grandmother had bought her over fifty-six years ago for three dollars, ignoring Adolf Hitler and his schemes to conquer the world. Hitler was gone and so was his ruthless ambition. Germany had been conquered, divided, reunited, and gone on to produce copies of this same ornament at twenty times the price. No wonder my angel looked a little smug.

  The lights were next, no easy task. Adam didn’t start them up high enough. Then he left gaps about a third of the way down. One of the plugs wouldn’t reach the outlet to the previous string. The white electric candles tipped every which way. The last set, miniature colored bulbs, went out as soon as it was connected. Like the lights, Adam also blew up.

  “Jeez, Mom, you’re so picky! You’ve got six strings on the tree already! You want to blow a fuse?”

  “I always have seven,” I said doggedly. “Try plugging the little ones into the wall.”

  Muttering, Adam did as I suggested. Nothing happened. Ben intervened, fiddling with the plug. No luck. “I think these are shot, Sluggly,” he said. “You got a spare?”

  I did, but it was old, another hand-me-down from our parents. Some of the wires were frayed. I was a bit nervous about using them, but Ben assured me that there was no danger as long as we didn’t keep the lights on too long at a time.

  The silver tinsel was next, wound carefully around the tree by Ben and me. Adam had decided to take a break and watch TV. I would lure him back with popcorn later. We were halfway through the first box of ornaments when Vida called. She was practically chortling.

  “I figured out a way to get Bridget Nyquist to talk to us,” she said.

  I was momentarily distracted from admiring a bright pink pine cone made of glass. “How?”

  “We tell her that Evan Singer has been asking impertinent questions about her.” Vida sounded as smug as my angel looked.

  “Vida!” I protested. “That’s unethical! You’ll have to come up with something better than that. It’s not worthy of you.”

  Vida harumphed into the phone. “It most certainly is. I don’t need anything better.” She paused just long enough to speak sharply to her canary, Cupcake, who apparently had not settled down for the night under his cloth-covered cage. “It’s true, Emma. Evan Singer left here not five minutes ago, on his way back from the lodge. He made some very strange remarks about Bridget. I wouldn’t like to repeat them over the phone. We’ll talk more in the morning.” On an imperious note, Vida hung up.

  Ben, who had been inserting a Jessye Norman Christmas CD into my player, stared at me. “What’s up?”

  Jessye’s rich voice filled the room with the strains of “The Holy City.” I tried to explain. “This is all very strange. What did your buddy at Blanchet have to say about Carol Neal and Bridget Nyquist?”

  “Bill Crowley?” My brother turned Jessye down a notch. “Not much. He remembered them both, but they weren’t very active in school. He wasn’t even sure if they were friends. Or if they had friends.”

  I had resumed decorating the tree, clipping on a red and white mushroom, Santa climbing down a chimney, and a bird with a silvery tail. “If Bill Crowley was the chaplain, why didn’t he help Bridget and Carol fit in?”

  “Probably because they didn’t ask him.” Ben had joined me, hanging a yarn snowman with ebony eyes. “I got the impression they went their own way and were perfectly content. What are you getting at?”

  I put up a gold glass rose, a silver pear, and a purple cluster of grapes. “I don’t know, Stench. I really don’t. But it can’t be a coincidence that Carol Neal came to Alpine and got herself killed. I mean, why come here except to find Kathleen Francich, who probably was also murdered?”

  “But Kathleen didn’t go to Blanchet,” my brother pointed out. “Why would she come to Alpine?”

  I gave my brother a blank look. Somewhere, there was a common denominator. Was it Bridget? Was it the private school connection? Was it someone or something else we hadn’t thought of?

  “Let’s face it,” I said, opening another box of ornaments. “There are only four thousand permanent residents in this town. Oh, sure, people come here to hike and ski and fish and camp. Maybe that’s what Kathleen Francich did. But Carol Neal didn’t think so. Otherwise, she would have reported her missing to the Forest Service or to the sheriff up here. I figure that in the beginning, Carol didn’t know where Kathleen went. But six weeks later—more or less—Carol comes to Alpine, too. Why? What did she learn in that time period that led her to believe Kathleen had come up here? And why didn’t she go see Milo?”

  My brother knew my questions weren’t idle speculation. “If those two girls were engaged in prostitution, Carol may have been chary of contacting the police. Oh, sure, she called King County to report Kathleen as missing, but she waited quite a while, right? Maybe she was going to see the sheriff here after she saw somebody else.”

  “Somebody like Bridget?” I raised my eyebrows over a pair of turtle doves.

  “You keep harping on Bridget,” Ben remarked, getting on his knees to hang some of the heavier ornaments down low on the sturdiest branches. “Are you sure she’s the only Blanchet High grad in Alpine?”

  “She’s the only one who went to school with Carol Neal,” I replied. Seeing Ben look up at me with a mildly incredulous expression, I waved a plastic Rudolph
at him. “Vida would know. She keeps track of every newcomer, every bride, everybody who arrives in town other than on a slow freight. It’s not just being nosy, it’s watching out for a story angle.”

  Ben stood up, rustling through the ornament box. In the background, Jessye Norman put her heart and soul into “I Wonder As I Wander.” I wondered, too, about many things. So, apparently, did Ben. “Did Vida do a story on Teresa McHale when she took over at the rectory?”

  “No.” I set Rudolph on an inner branch, his red nose poking out between the thick green needles. “We ran a paragraph in our Community Briefs column about her.” I paused, fingering my upper lip. “You know, that’s kind of odd—as I recall, Vida wanted to do more, but Teresa said she wasn’t interested.”

  Ben had resumed crawling around on the floor. “Not everybody is keen on publicity. Some people like to keep their private lives private.” He put a plush calico cat on the lowest limb just as Adam resurfaced, seemingly refreshed by his thirty-minute break in front of the television set. My son admired the tree, hands jammed in his pockets. It was, I thought, an unconscious attempt to pretend he didn’t have hands and thus avoid work. “Hey, cool! You’re almost done.”

  “Guess again,” I replied, nudging an unopened carton with my foot. “Get with it, Adam my son. The hour grows late and the old folks grow weary.”

  With a heavy sigh, Adam unwrapped a crystal snowflake. I wasn’t kidding about being tired. It was after ten, and we were an hour away from completion. A glance out the window showed me that the snow was still coming down hard. I could barely see the outline of the Jag in the carport, a mere four feet away. Ben was going to have a difficult drive back to the rectory.

  “Why don’t you stay here tonight?” I suggested.

  But Ben declined. “I don’t want to take a chance on being marooned and missing morning mass. Besides, I walked. Teresa needed the car.”