The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  Vida’s eyebrows lifted above the rims of her glasses. “So that’s what causes it,” she murmured. “Now why didn’t I think of that before?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  WEEKLY LULL OR not, the season brought its fair share of news that Wednesday. Trinity Episcopal Church had collected two hundred pounds of clothing and four hundred pounds of food for the needy of Skykomish County. A California couple had gone off Stevens Pass four miles below the summit and were being treated for minor injuries at Alpine Community Hospital. Two Sultan residents had been arrested for cutting Christmas trees on U.S. Forest Service land near Martin Creek. The number three lift at the lodge had broken down, stranding a half-dozen skiers for almost an hour. Mayor Fuzzy Baugh’s Santa Claus suit had been stolen from his office in broad daylight. The usual number of outdoor lights, none of them at properties owned by the Nyquists, were reported as broken or missing.

  Returning from a late lunch with Ben and Adam at the Burger Barn, I had just waved my companions off when I saw Arnie Nyquist getting out of his van in front of the bank. I paused at the corner, and he waved me down.

  “Hey—you heard the news?” he called, causing a half-dozen shoppers to turn and stare.

  “What news?” It wasn’t a response to add luster to my reputation as a journalist, but it just sort of tripped off my tongue.

  Arnie approached, jerking his thumb in the direction of City Hall, two blocks down Front Street.

  “Fuzzy’s suit. What did I tell you? This town’s going down the drain. Now the crooks can walk into the mayor’s office and steal the clothes right off his back!”

  I gave Arnie my most ingenuous look. “Fuzzy was in the suit? Funny he didn’t notice.”

  “No, no!” Arnie waved a hand, batting at a few drifting snowflakes. “It was hanging up. He was in a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce. But what’s the difference? Milo Dodge has a crime wave on his hands. Murder, arson, robbery, vandalism—what’s next, riots, like L.A.?”

  Since the racial mix in Alpine is virtually nonexistent, and a Welshman is defined as a minority, I didn’t bother to attempt reasoning with Arnie Nyquist. His remarks, however, had given me an idea.

  “Say, speaking of clothes, what did you do with that stuff you found last week at the bowling alley site?”

  Arnie looked momentarily blank. I waited, gazing at the city’s Christmas decorations, the garlands and bows and bells and candy canes touched with snow. The lone traffic light blended in: red, green, amber-gold.

  “Oh, yeah!” Arnie finally responded. “I tossed them in the Dumpster. Any floozy who uses my property to make out doesn’t deserve to get her stuff back. I hope she froze her butt off.” He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, I got carried away. These kids nowadays, all they think of is sex, sex, sex. In my time, a fellow might sow some wild oats, but he didn’t hop into the sack with every girl he dated. He had some respect for her. And she respected herself. Now that’s the way it ought to be.”

  Arnie Nyquist was only a decade or so older than I, but his romantic experiences were a world apart. The men I’d known in my younger years had used every ploy imaginable to get a female into bed. By my junior year in college, I’d heard everything from the possibility of facing certain death in Vietnam to suffering from hypothermia. A member of the Husky varsity crew had told me that sex would keep him from catching crabs. Justifiably confused, I had refrained, not realizing it was a rowing term.

  I had not stopped to talk to Arnie Nyquist about sexual mores, however. At least not about the philosophy thereof. “Were you able to pin down about what time your van was broken into?” I asked.

  Again, Arnie’s expression was temporarily blank. “Heck, that was a week ago. I was at Travis’s place for an hour or so. Eight, nine o’clock, maybe.” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at me. “Say, are you deputized or something? Why do you want to know?”

  I gave Arnie a big smile which seemed to thaw him a bit. “No, it’s just that if we do this in-depth piece we mentioned to your father, we need to know details. Besides, I think we’ve got a picture frame of yours at the office.”

  “What?” Arnie would have jumped up and down if he hadn’t been mired in six inches of slush. “How come?”

  I explained that it had been recovered from the rubble at Evan Singer’s cabin. Nyquist’s reaction was less than I had expected. His high forehead furrowed, and he gave a little shake of his head. “Singer? That goofball who drives the sleigh for Henry Bardeen? He may be nuts, but he doesn’t strike me as a thief.”

  My assessment of Arnold Nyquist shifted yet again. Originally, I had considered him a typical rough-and-tumble small-town builder, shrewd, but not smart; cunning, but not canny. Yet he was a UDUB graduate, which didn’t stamp him as a genius, since I knew several people with college diplomas who could barely tie their own shoes and wouldn’t qualify for anybody’s brain trust. However, he’d gotten through the school, and that meant that he wasn’t as dense as I’d figured. Then I had discovered that Arnie was blessed with inherent good taste. That had come as something of a shock. Now, it seemed, he wasn’t entirely a things-oriented person as I’d suspected, but was occasionally given to ac curate perceptions of people. Tinker Toy was full of surprises.

  “I agree with you,” I said, because it was true. “Evan Singer isn’t a thief. Maybe he was looking for something.” I watched Arnie carefully.

  But Arnie merely shook his head. “Like what? My granddad’s fountain pen? Or those photographs? How would he know what was in the van in the first place?”

  “I take it you don’t know Evan?”

  “Heck, no,” Arnie replied, looking mildly aghast at the mere idea. “In fact, when I heard he was out of work after he got canned at the video store, I was on my guard. I thought he might come around and ask to go to work for me. No thanks. I know trouble when I see it. I’d heard enough from Dutch Bamberg. If you ask me, Henry Bardeen made a big mistake hiring him. You hear how he dumped all those folks out of that sleigh the other night and they ended up in the emergency room at the hospital?”

  “Not quite.” I didn’t want to press the issue. It’s useless to try to squelch rumors in a small town, either in print or in person. Besides, Arnie Nyquist had told me what I needed to know for now. And a good thing, since I had a feeling that when Travis revealed how Vida and I had barged in this morning up at The Pines, Arnie might close up like a clam.

  “Scratch Evan,” I said to Vida as I entered the news office.

  She glanced up from a spread of engagement photos. “I know, Billy already told me. According to the report, Evan Singer would have been driving the sleigh up at the ski lodge when Arnie’s van was broken into.” She looked vexed. “So how did he happen to have that picture frame? Is Arnie going to come get it?”

  “I don’t know—to both questions.” I got out of my car coat, which had grown quite damp and even frozen in places while I had stood on the street corner jawing with Arnie.“Unless the fire was set, and whoever did it left the photograph at the site.”

  Vida rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Emma, that makes no sense! I expect better of you!”

  So did Ed Bronsky, who all but begged me to call the mall owners and ask them to cancel a full-page ad for a three-hundred-dollar shopping spree drawing to be held on New Year’s Eve Day. “Now why would they go and do a thing like that?” Ed groaned, wringing his hands. “Are they so rich they have to give stuff away? Why not just donate it to the poor and keep quiet?”

  His rationale sent me to the phone, not to call the mall, but Milo Dodge. The sheriff was back on the job, but sounding harassed. I hesitated briefly, but went ahead with my suggestion. Milo’s reaction was predictably grudging.

  “The Dumpster? What if it’s been emptied since then? What do you think we’ll find?”

  “I told you, clothes. Carol Neal’s, maybe. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

  Milo started to mutter, mostly incoherently: “ … Other agencies … Seattle …
Damned computers … The brother, he’s not so surprised …”

  “Stop!” I ordered. “Whose brother? Speak up, you’re talking into your socks, Milo.”

  “What?” Milo seemed to get a grip on himself. I could picture him behind his cluttered desk, his skin a sickly green under the fluorescent lights, his bony hands delving into his pockets for a roll of mints. “You mean Murray Francich? I talked to him about thirty minutes ago. He works for some software company on the Eastside.”

  “And?”

  “He was afraid of something like this. He hadn’t heard from Kathleen for six months. He figured some crazy John did her in.”

  “And?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You’re waffling, Dodge.” I could picture him squirming in his fake leather chair. “You don’t really believe that.”

  “We can’t discount it, not with either of the girls.” Milo sounded slightly affronted.

  “So Murray knew his sister was hooking?”

  “He guessed. They haven’t been close for years.” Milo paused, and I heard papers being shuffled. “Kathleen was the youngest of a family of four, sort of an afterthought. Murray is closest to her in age, some seven years her senior. The other brother and a sister live out of state, California and Illinois. The parents, who are retired, moved to the Spokane area a couple of years ago. I gather they wrote Kathleen off.”

  I waited for Milo to go on, but he didn’t. “That’s it?”

  “What else? He hasn’t seen Kathleen in over a year. They talked on the phone last spring. We’re presuming, remember? We can’t ask this guy Murray to identify limbs. But finding the car is pretty conclusive.” Again, Milo sounded put out that I wasn’t waxing enthusiastic over his disclosures. “I got some background on Evan Singer, too.”

  I decided it was time to give Milo a verbal pat on the back. “You’ve been busy. I’m surprised you’ve gotten so much done, after being up all night.”

  “Hey, Emma, this job’s a backbreaker. We’re understaffed, underpaid, and with jerks like Arnie Nyquist, underappreciated. Now Fuzzy Baugh is on my trail because his damned Santa suit got swiped. I told him to go ask his elves about it.”

  “Hmmmm. Good for you, Milo. What about Evan Singer?”

  “What about a drink? I’m not officially on duty, wouldn’t get paid for it if I were, so why don’t I meet you at the Venison Inn? I could go for a hot toddy about now.”

  I started to say yes, then went into a stall. “Give me twenty minutes. Say,” I added, apparently as an afterthought of my own, “what’s Murray Francich’s phone number?”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Vida will get it if you don’t give it to me.”

  Milo heaved a deep sigh, but capitulated, relaying both the work and home numbers. As soon as he hung up, I called the software company in Redmond where Francich was employed. It took three transfers, but I finally got him on the line.

  I introduced myself, offered condolences, and explained that we were planning to do a background article on the murder victims. This was not a favorite part of my job. Murray Francich and his sister may not have been close in recent years, but he was obviously shaken.

  “I was about to go home,” he said a bit curtly. “I’m going to leave tonight for Spokane to see my folks. This is a hell of a thing to happen at Christmas.”

  “I suspect it actually happened back in October,” I pointed out, wondering how families could become so estranged that one member could be missing for months and the rest wouldn’t notice. Or give a damn.

  “Kathy was too trusting,” Murray Francich’s remark came out of nowhere, except some sad corner of his soul. Was he making excuses for Kathy? Or for himself? “She was such a cute little kid, dimples, big eyes, curly blonde hair. But shy. My brother and I used to tease her about…”He stopped abruptly, aware that somebody was actually listening to his reminiscences. “What do you need to know, Mrs … ah …?”

  “Lord,” I filled in quickly. “She went to Holy Names, I understand. How did she get off track?”

  Murray let out an exclamation that was part snort, part hiss. “How do I know? She was the baby, and my folks spoiled her. No, that’s not fair—they were older when they had her. They couldn’t do what they’d done for the rest of us, like driving to music lessons and soccer practice and debate team meets. So they made up for it by sending her to private school—the rest of us went to public—even though they weren’t well off. They tried to give her the right clothes and all that fad stuff, whatever was the craze that particular year. But Kathy never had many friends. She didn’t date much, either. And then …” His voice faltered. “Is this what you’re after? I don’t like it.”

  Neither did I. “We’re not a tabloid, Mr. Francich. We probably won’t use most of what you’re telling me. Does it help to talk?”

  He sounded bleak. “I’ve tossed this around a hundred times with the rest of the family. What good can it do now?”

  Of course he was right. I shifted to different ground. “Was Kathy a good student?”

  “Oh, yes.” His voice brightened a bit. “At least until her junior year. That’s when she changed. But she did graduate.”

  Ginny Burmeister appeared with a bundle of Advocates, fresh off the press. I signaled my thanks, then glanced at the grim headlines:

  SLAIN WOMEN FOUND

  IN ALPINE AREA

  ARSON DESTROYS

  SECLUDED CABIN

  As always, bad news looks even worse in bold, black type.

  “What happened when Kathy was a junior?” I asked as Ginny discreetly made her exit.

  Murray Francich sighed. “That’s it—we never knew. At first, my mother thought she had a boyfriend, some creep who wouldn’t make muster with my folks. Kathy started wearing a lot of makeup, flashier clothes, keeping odd hours. My folks confronted her, but she wouldn’t tell them anything. There were some godawful fights. I was still living at home, and it got pretty ugly. Kathy moved out for a while—with a friend, I guess—but my mother was so frantic that she begged Kathy to come home. Then Kathy bought a car, with her own money, and more clothes, and she was gone every weekend. It was hell, I can tell you. I got an apartment that winter, and as soon as Kathy graduated, she was gone. The next day, in fact. She came home once, to pick up some tapes she forgot. My folks were heartbroken.”

  My own heart went out to Mr. and Mrs. Francich. How do children go wrong? Where do parents fail? Who’s to blame? I may not be my brother’s keeper, but I am my child’s custodian. Still, I don’t like pointing the finger at parents who haven’t been as lucky as I have.

  “What about drugs?” I knew I was pushing my luck with Murray Francich. He’d been far more loquacious than I’d expected. Maybe he’d underestimated talking through his sister’s troubled life.

  “It’s possible. I wondered at the time. I know there was alcohol.” Murray was beginning to sound weary. It was going on four o’clock, and he’d had a terrible day. The trip to Spokane still lay ahead.

  “One last question.” My tone had turned ingratiating. “Did you know Carol Neal?”

  “No. She’d been Kathy’s roommate for quite a while, but I never met her. I don’t know how they teamed up. A mutual friend, maybe.” He gave a sudden, harsh laugh. “They weren’t good for each other, I guess.”

  They certainly weren’t. And someone had been very bad for them both.

  Milo’s generic hot toddy turned into his standard Scotch. I, however, kept to the season and drank what the Venison Inn called a Yule-a-Kahlua. It tasted better than it sounded.

  “Who gets these girls together?” Milo mused after he’d scanned the front page of The Advocate that I’d brought along for him. “How many were there? So far, we’ve culled four out of that address book, which, by the way, must have been Carol’s. There were no Franciches, but there’s a Burt Neal in Grants Pass, Oregon. Her dad, it seems, but there’s no answer.”

  Burt Neal didn’t interest me as much as the four
culls. “What do you mean? Who are they?”

  “Rachel Rosen. Bridget Dunne, now Nyquist. Tiffany Matthews. And April Johnson. Tiffany went to Bush, April to Seattle Lutheran.” Milo was reading from his notebook. “Tiffany overdosed two years ago on Christmas Eve. April married a soldier and is living at Fort Hood, in Texas.”

  Bush was an exclusive private school near Lake Washington. I didn’t know much about the Lutheran setup, except that it was over in West Seattle. “Has anyone contacted April?” I inquired.

  “King County did, this afternoon. She hung up on them. They also tried to reach Rachel at the UDUB but they’ve gone on Christmas break. There was no answer at her home number.” Milo regarded his Scotch as if he expected it to elude him, too.

  I was silent for a bit. The sound system played “The Little Drummer Boy.” Pah-pah-pah-pum … Pah-pah-pah-pum. “How about Tiffany’s family?”

  “Kid gloves,” Milo replied, again on friendly terms with his Scotch. He signaled for the waitress to bring another round. “The Matthewses are very rich, very influential. Old money, big house on Lake Washington Boulevard. To complicate matters, they’re in Europe.”

  “Swell.” I gazed around the room, with its red and green streamers, big paper bells, and real stockings affixed to the fireplace’s temporary cardboard brick mantel. Half the tables were occupied, and a handful of customers sat on stools, joshing with each other and with Oren Rhodes, the full-time owner and part-time bartender. It was too early for any of the clientele to be drunk or unruly. Serious daytime drinking in Alpine was reserved for private homes and the Elks Club.

  Oren himself brought our drinks, ribbing Milo about having his hands full. His attitude toward our recent tragedies was detached. Like all good bartenders, he took death, divorce, and other debacles in professional stride.

  “Why single out these girls?” I asked after Oren had retreated to his post behind the bar. “That address book had a lot of names.”

  Milo nodded. “They’ll all be checked out. But a red flag went up at King County on anybody with a private school background. It may mean nothing, but it’s the only link we’ve got between Carol, Kathleen, and Bridget. And Bridget is the only Alpine link to Carol and Kathleen.”