by Mary Daheim
“Bridget’s scared,” I admitted. “Or pretending to be. But she denies seeing Carol and Kathleen recently. I have a hunch she’s lying. I don’t suppose you want to tell me who was doing the surveillance at the young Nyquists’?”
Milo grimaced. “I don’t know why, but I could say who. It’d be off the record, though.”
I hate off-the-record information. If I know something, I feel that the public ought to know it, too. But I can keep a confidence when necessary. “Who, then?”
“State police,” said Milo Dodge. “They went home yesterday.”
“Having been successful?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Halfway into his second Scotch, Milo had visibly relaxed, although he still looked tired. “Evan Singer went to Lakeside.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Rich, huh? Lakeside costs a bundle. Where does the money come from?”
Milo again consulted his notes. “Father is Norman Singer, a prominent plastic surgeon. Mother, Thea, is a rabid patron of the arts. Grandfather was an architect. One sister, dabbling in the New York theatre scene. Varied academic career, no degree. Arrested twice, once for disturbing the peace, the second time for disorderly conduct. Plea bargains, fines, but no jail time.” Milo closed the notebook.
“Spoiled rich kid,” I murmured. Evan’s claim to have lived all over the world was probably pure hokum, invented to add exotic zest to his suburban upbringing. “Has he ever invested with Bartlett & Crocker?”
“His money’s tied up in trusts. Dr. Dad apparently realized Evan wasn’t stable.” Milo was grinning at me. “Well? Have you and Vida solved the case yet?”
I sniffed at Milo. “All this stuff is interesting, but not very helpful. Evan’s too old to have known any of these girls in high school. We need some serious leads.”
“We need another drink.” Milo waved his empty glass at Oren Rhodes. I, however, demurred, and urged him to do the same.
“You’re still beat, Milo. Go home, eat something, watch TV until you fall asleep.” I stood up, ready to head back to the office to see if the place had gone to hell in a handcart during my absence.
Milo was gazing up at me with an off-center grin. “Emma, are you mothering me? Haven’t you got enough men in your life at the moment?”
With Adam and Ben around, I certainly should. But without Tom, all the men in the world weren’t enough. The ridiculous thought crossed my mind in a haze of rum and Kahlua. “I’m a jackass,” I announced in my best imitation of Vida. “Go home, Milo.”
He was still grinning as Oren appeared with another Scotch. But before Milo could take a sip, Bill Blatt hurried into the bar. I stepped aside as the young deputy nodded at me in greeting and addressed his boss.
“We found the clothes, Sheriff. They’re girl’s stuff. Jeans, sweater, jacket, and … ah, bra and panties.” Bill blushed, though not as deeply as he had when Carla had kissed him.
“Damn!” Milo drained his glass and got up. “Back to work. We need the lab to check the stuff out, match it with the victim, see if…”
Milo and Bill had outdistanced me. I shrugged and wandered out through the restaurant. Oscar Nyquist was sitting alone at a corner table. A napkin was tucked under his chin, and he was engrossed in the Advocate story about the Marmot. I hesitated, then saw the waitress approach with his order. Oscar put the paper aside and began to eat.
“How’s the story?” I asked, resting a hand on the vacant chair across from Oscar.
He looked up from his meatloaf, his blue eyes wary, his bald head shining pink under a grouping of red Christmas lights. “Okay, so far. That Vida writes like she talks. A lot of words, blah, blah, blah. It sounds like that architect fella built the Marmot instead of my father.”
“Lowenstein? Vida wanted to make sure he got credit because the theatre is such a structural gem. Apparently he was well known for his work all over the West Coast.”
Oscar speared a chunk of over-browned potato. “Yeah, sure, he was clever. That’s how he got rich. My father paid him a bundle.” His wide face turned sullen, making him look like a big wrinkled baby due for a crying spell. “Better to have run him out of town.”
I shifted in place, wishing Oscar would ask me to sit down. “Why is that?” I asked.
Oscar waved his fork. “Never mind. What’s done is done. I’m too old for grudges. You eaten?” He pointed the folk at the spare chair.
I rested one knee on the seat cover. “No, I still have some work to do. I’ll eat later at home.”
Oscar nodded. “I always eat early, except on Sundays. For forty-eight years, my wife had supper on the table every night at five. Then I’d go to the Marmot to open the doors at six-fifteen. Astrid’s gone, but I still eat at five. And I still go to the Marmot at six-fifteen.” He spoke with pride.
“Let me know what you think of the rest of the story,” I told Oscar with a smile. I almost wished I could join him. How many nights did he eat alone? I was feeling sorry for him as I walked up the street with my head down to ward off die wind and snow. The Burlington-Northern whistled as it started its climb to the summit. There was more traffic than usual on Front Street, caused by Alpine’s usual exodus from work and the Christmas shoppers returning home. The amber headlights glowed in the scattered snowflakes. I glanced up, seeing the town perched on the mountainside, windows shining, trees lighted, decorations ablaze. The sight cheered me. Oscar Nyquist not only had family, he was probably the object of many Alpine widows. He was also the type who enjoyed his solitude. I realized that he hadn’t exactly jumped for joy when I showed up at his table.
Everyone was gone at the office except Ginny, who was finishing the weekly mailing to out-of-town subscribers.
“I’ll just make it to the post office by five-thirty,” she said, dumping the last bundle of papers into a mailbag. “We had more calls than usual after The Advocate came out. They were mostly people upset about the murders, but some of them phoned to say they liked your owl editorial. Then there were some who didn’t.”
I laughed. “I expected that. If it weren’t the Christmas season, I might get bomb threats.”
Ginny, always serious, gazed at me from under her fringe of auburn hair. “You think people really behave better this time of year?”
“No. They’re just too busy to make mischief.” I glanced at the old clock above Ginny’s desk, with its Roman numerals and elaborate metal hands. It was 5:24. “You’d better hurry, Ginny. But be careful.”
She was putting on her blue anorak. “I’ll get there. I made one trip already. I couldn’t find our mailbag. This is a new one I got from the post office this afternoon.” She hoisted it over her shoulder, looking from the rear like a small Father Christmas. “See you tomorrow.”
“Right. Good night.” I went into my office, swiftly sorting through the phone messages. Nothing urgent, nothing startling. Ginny had made notes on some: “Green River killer loose again?” “Saw stranger Monday night in Mugs Ahoy. Saw man from Mars there last week.” “Owls have big hooters.” “Bride wore teal going-away suit, not veal.” “Buckers got robbed on charging foul in last twenty seconds against Sultan.” “You’re an idiot.”
It was the usual assortment, many anonymous. The only one that held my attention read, “Ask Oscar Nyquist about Karen.” The space for the caller’s name was blank. I wondered if Ginny had recognized the voice. She often did.
Karen, I thought, as I started my uphill climb for home. Who was Karen? The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. Vida might know. I’d call her after Adam and I had dinner. Ben was dining with Jake and Betsy O’Toole. The zealous Teresa McHale couldn’t coax him out of eating with the owners of the Grocery Basket.
My son, however, had spent the afternoon with my brother. To my amazement, Adam had helped Ben with some fix-up chores around the church. They’d repaired pews, shored up the confessional, replaced light bulbs, and gone through the decorations which would be put up on Christmas Eve Day.
“Tomorrow we’re going to do som
e stuff at the rectory,” Adam declared matter-of-factly as we dined on pasta, prawns, and cauliflower.
I couldn’t help but stare. Here, in the home I’d created for the two of us, rafters could fall down, sinks could overflow, walls could collapse, and Adam would wander through the rubble, looking for the TV remote control. “Gosh, Adam, what happened? Did your heretical Uncle Ben introduce you to the Protestant—gasp!—work ethic?”
Adam didn’t get the joke—or didn’t want to. I dished up tin-roof-sundae ice cream for him and listened to his account of Ben’s Tuba City chronicles.
“They’ve got all these great Indian ruins around there, way back to the Anasazis. There’s Betatakin, with dwellings just like big apartment buildings carved into the cliffs from over eight hundred years ago. It’s real green at the bottom of the canyon, not like the desert up above. Uncle Ben says there’s aspen, elder, oak, and even Douglas fir. I want to go there next summer.”
I gazed fondly at Adam, who was finishing his ice cream. Over the years, he had seen Ben an average of once, maybe twice a year. They rarely wrote and never talked on the phone. Yet there was a closeness between them, born of a solitary man’s need to love and a child’s instinctive response. Adam had only recently met his own father. They had started to forge a bond, and I was glad. Typically, my son hadn’t regaled me with details, but his attitude toward Tom seemed friendly. And now, he was seeing Ben, not just from a nephew’s point of view, but man-to-man. I was pleased by that, too.
“You ought to go down there,” I agreed. “Maybe you could get a summer job.”
Adam nodded, a bit absently. “That would be so cool—archaeology, I mean. Or is it the other one—anthropology? I wonder how long it takes to get a degree?”
I said I didn’t know. I refrained from adding that it probably wouldn’t take as long as it had for Adam to declare a major. At twenty-one, it seemed that it was time for him to decide what he wanted to be when he grew up. Or, having grown up already, he might consider his future in terms of … a job. I would say this later. Maybe it would be better coming from Ben. Or even Tom.
I caught myself up. For over twenty years, I’d never delegated an ounce of my parental responsibility. I wasn’t about to start now. I rose from the table and went to call Vida.
She wasn’t home. I’d forgotten that she was going to her daughter Amy’s house for dinner. The question about Karen could wait. So could relaying Milo’s various pieces of information. I settled down to watch a video that Adam had picked up earlier in the day. It was the remake of Cape Fear, and it scared me witless. How could anyone be as evil as the Robert De Niro character?
“Hey, Mom, it’s only a movie,” Adam said, laughing at my dismay while he rewound the tape. “Lighten up.”
Adam was right. It was only a movie.
But out there in the drifting snow, among the festive lights, with the sweet strains of carols in the air, evil, real and terrifying, was on the loose. Who was the killer?
The only thing I knew for sure was that it wasn’t Robert De Niro.
I would do Elvis. And the Wise Men. Ben had to attend the St. Mildred’s Christmas Pageant, so I decided to join him on Thursday night and cover the event. Adam was noncommittal. He had met Evan Singer’s replacement at Video-to-Go, and her name was Toni Andreas. I vaguely recognized her from church. She looked as if the wattage in her light bulb was pretty dim.
The day had dawned crisp and clear, with the wind blowing the snow clouds out over Puget Sound. Alpine sparkled in the early morning sun, and I could have used my sunglasses. Native Puget Sounders are like moles—for nine months of the year, they see the sun so seldom that their eyes can’t take the glare.
The first thing I noticed downtown was the Marmot’s marquee. It was the last day for It’s A Wonderful Life, which was just as well, since the letters had now been rearranged to read A Wide Full Fir Stone. The Nyquist staring up at the scrambled title wasn’t Oscar, but Louise.
“Now why do people do things like that?” she asked in exasperation after hurrying over to meet me at the corner. “Popsy will be wild.”
“Where is Popsy?” I asked, as Louise fell into step beside me.
“He slept in,” she replied, her brown boots mincing through the rock salt. “He needed his rest after last night.” Her profile was uncustomarily grim. When I made no comment, she turned to give me a sidelong look. “You haven’t heard? It’s that same demented young man, Evan Singer. Two nights in a row he’s caused problems for Popsy! Really, something’s got to be done about him!”
“What now?” I asked. Trucks from UPS, Federal Express, and the U.S. Postal Service were already out and about, making early deliveries of Christmas presents and mail order gifts. Something about the vehicles rattled my brain, then melted away. Maybe I’d forgotten to mail a parcel. Or a greeting card. It’d come to me, hopefully before Christmas.
“It’s crazy, just crazy,” Louise was saying. “He came to see the movie—again—but this time, he was dressed as Santa Clause, complete with a pack over his shoulder. That was strange enough, but then he got into an argument with somebody because he insisted on sitting in their seat. The usher came, then Popsy, and finally the other person moved, just so they could start the movie. It’s not as if there was a full house—the picture’s been showing for over a week—but Evan Singer wouldn’t back down. Popsy should have thrown him out, but he didn’t want to upset the other customers.”
We’d reached The Advocate. I invited Louise to come in, but she said she was going to the bakery. “We’re having Travis and Bridget to dinner. Travis is so fond of the Upper Crust’s sourdough rolls. Maybe I’ll get a dessert, too.” She gave me a faintly wistful smile. “I could make one. But the last few days have been so upsetting. Arnie thinks Evan Singer stole that Santa suit from the mayor. If he did that, then I think he was the one who robbed our house and van. But Arnie doesn’t agree with me, he says just the suit. I think.” Louise looked confused over her own words, and I could hardly blame her. Confusion seemed to have the upper hand in Alpine these days.
I said as much, and Louise heartily agreed. Certainly anything was possible with Evan Singer. I had to talk to Ben, to ask if Evan had showed up at the rectory. But it was eight o’clock, and my brother would be saying the morning mass.
Louise scurried off to the bakery. Inside the office, I found Ginny and Carla, both still wearing their coats and fiddling with the thermostat.
“No heat,” Ginny announced, pulling off her white earmuffs. “It’s freezing in here. The pipes are okay, though.”
“I can’t type with my mittens on,” Carla complained. “I’ll make a lot of mistakes.”
I suppressed the obvious rejoinder. But she and Ginny were right about the heat. The electrical unit wouldn’t turn on. Otherwise, we had power.
“Call Ross Blatt over at Alpine Service and Repair,” I told Ginny. Ross was, of course, a nephew of Vida’s, and thus Bill Blatt’s first cousin.
“How old is Ross?” asked Carla, loading her camera. “Is he married?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He’s got a couple of kids. He must be ten, fifteen years older than Bill. Why? Are you giving up on the local lawman?”
Carla shrugged, heading for the door. “Maybe. You did.” She left.
“I never …” But there was no one to hear me. Ginny had gone into the front office to call Alpine Service and Repair. It was useless anyway to point out that Milo Dodge and I had never been a romantic item. Everyone assumed that because we were peers, single, and enjoyed each other’s company, we ought to fall in love. Everyone, that is, except Vida, who knew better, and who was crossing the threshold carrying a Santa Claus suit.
“I found this in my front yard,” she announced. “I’ll bet it belongs to that old fool, Fuzzy Baugh. Why is Carla taking a picture of the Marmot’s marquee? Haven’t we given the Nyquists enough coverage?”
I thought so, too, but apparently Carla couldn’t resist capturing for posterity one of the
scrambled movie titles. It was the kind of photo we could use as a novelty: “Alpine Outtakes,” or some such filler feature for a slow news week.
“Vida, what do you know about somebody connected to the Nyquists named Karen?”
Vida was taking off her coat. She cocked an eye at me from under the brim of her red veiled fedora. “Karen? She’s Oscar’s sister. Why?”
I told Vida about the anonymous phone call. Vida put her coat back on. “Oooooh! It’s like ice in here! What happened?”
My explanation was brief. Vida gave a curt nod. “Ross knows his craft. It’s too bad he’s such a noodle otherwise. Now what’s this about Karen Nyquist and asking Oscar? What’s to ask? She moved away from Alpine when she got married back in 1938.”
I sat down on Ed’s desk. He’d be in late, this being the morning of the Chamber of Commerce’s Christmas breakfast. “You mean she never came back?”
“Of course she came back.” Vida yanked the cover off her typewriter. “She and her first husband, Trygve Hansen, and Oscar and Astrid were all close to Lars and Inga. Then the war came, and Trygve got a patriotic urge to serve. Maybe it was because Norway was occupied or some such silliness. He and Karen had no children yet, so the army took him just like that.” She snapped her gloved fingers. “He was killed in North Africa. Karen went to work for Boeing, where she met her second husband, a scientist. He was a Jew. I told you that already.” Vida fixed me with a reproachful look.
“I forgot.” Vida was right. She’d mentioned that someone in the Nyquist family had married a Jewish man. But their genealogy, like that of so many Alpiners, was too complicated for a poor city girl to follow. “What happened then?”
“Nothing.” Vida sorted through a stack of news releases, discarding most of them in the wastebasket. “Old Lars disowned Karen, more or less. He never mentioned Karen’s new husband by name. Oscar went along with it like the lump of a lamb he is. Arnie was still a boy. Goodness, I was in high school at the time.” She rolled her eyes at the marvel of her youth.