The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  Milo grabbed a cinnamon twist and started for the door. “Plenty. Evan Singer’s got some explaining to do. We may have cracked this case.” He left.

  Vida snorted. “This case isn’t cracked. Milo is.” She dropped the Eastside phone book back into the pile of directories.

  I’d sat down at Ed’s desk. He was breakfasting with the Rotarians this morning. Ed Bronsky might not enjoy selling advertising, but he certainly relished the job’s fringe benefits. “Listen, Vida—Evan shows up here in early October. Kathleen Francich is murdered about that same time. Then Carol Neal. Evan is photographed hanging around Bridget’s house. He said he knew her in Seattle. Now how much more …”

  “That’s not what he said,” Vida broke in. “Evan was never clear on that point. It sounded as if he’d known Bridget and Travis for some time. And he had—not personally, but as his long-lost relatives.”

  “True.” My hypothesis wasn’t totally destroyed, but it certainly had suffered some dents. “I suppose we could ask Evan.”

  Vida looked as if she considered the idea worthless. But before she could put her reaction into words, Ginny Burmeister appeared with the mail. I remembered to ask her if she had recognized the person who had called with the message about Oscar and Karen.

  But Ginny had no idea who it was, other than that it was an adult female. “I don’t think I ever heard her voice before,” said Ginny, filling Vida’s in-basket with an assortment of items addressed to the House & Home editor. “She was brief. Businesslike.”

  I sighed. It could be anybody. But it wasn’t Evan Singer. “Okay,” I said to Vida after Ginny had finished her delivery chores and returned to the front office. “With or without Evan Singer, we need a motive. Why kill two out of five prostitutes—the sixth one being dead already?”

  Vida looked up from the typewriter. “Blackmail. There’s no other reason, except a mania. This is not a maniac, not in that sense. A true sociopath would have killed any young woman he encountered. She might be a prostitute, she might not. But Kathleen and Carol had something in common. They were chosen deliberately. And before that happened, they chose to come to Alpine. Deliberately. Carol probably came looking for Kathleen. Why did Kathleen come here? Why has nobody come forward saying they saw her?”

  Vida had made some good points. I decided to tackle the last one. “As far as we know, Kathleen didn’t check into either of the motels, the hotel, or the lodge. Her car ended up in the mall parking lot, but the killer might have driven it there. Where did Kathleen go after she got to Alpine? Where did Carol go? Did they call on Bridget Dunne Nyquist?”

  Vida was sitting with her hands folded under her chin. She seemed to be staring at the opposite wall, where Carla had hung a cardboard cutout of a jolly gingerbread man. “Of course they did,” she said in a hushed voice. “Where else would they go?”

  Evan Singer had come down with a case of Constitutional rights. He demanded to call his attorney, who turned out to be a senior partner in one of Seattle’s most prestigious law firms. He was also Evan’s uncle, on his mother’s side.

  I felt my breath catch as Milo Dodge finished his recitation. Another piece of the Singer-Nyquist puzzle might be falling into place. “What’s the uncle’s name?” I asked, leaning on Milo’s desk.

  Milo looked down at his notebook. “Benjamin Stern. You know him?”

  I felt deflated. “Mrs. Singer was a Stern before her marriage? Drat! I was sure it would turn out to be Lowenstein.”

  Slouching against his imitation leather chair, Milo frowned at me. “Lowenstein? Who’s that? Composer? Third baseman? Furniture-mart mogul?”

  I bit back the urge to ask if he ever read The Advocate. “I had this crazy theory—except it wasn’t so crazy, since I figured out that Evan Singer was related to the Nyquists—that somehow the guy who designed the Marmot was also a relative. Evan’s maternal grandfather, maybe.” I saw Milo lift his bushy eyebrows. “Hey, it’s not so weird—it would explain where Evan got his interest in art and how his sister ended up in the theatre back in New York.”

  Milo gave me a patronizing look. “His mother’s a big art buff, remember?”

  “Patroness of the arts. It’s not the same.” I turned mulish, reluctant to let go of my idea.

  Milo ambled over to the hook that held his down jacket. “Let’s eat,” he said. “It’s almost noon. I suppose Evan Singer is halfway to Monroe by now.”

  “Heading for Hoquiam,” I said with a sigh. We started through the reception area only to be confronted by Caria, who flew in the door. She was coatless, and her long, black hair was dappled with snowflakes.

  “Emma, your brother is on the phone! He needs to talk to you quick!”

  Running in the newly-fallen snow was prohibitive. All the same, the three of us hurried as fast as we could, covering the block between the sheriff’s office and the newspaper in less than a minute. I took Ben’s call in the front office, where a startled Ginny Burmeister was waiting on a customer who wanted a classified ad.

  “Emma,” said Ben, his voice crackling more than usual, “those film cans are gone! Mrs. McHale thought she saw Evan Singer rushing out of the church about ten minutes ago!”

  “Out of the church?” I stopped myself. There was a covered walkway that connected the rectory to the church. I’d momentarily forgotten. “Evan’s still in Alpine then.” I turned to Milo, my comment as much for him as for my brother. I put my hand over the receiver so Ben wouldn’t hear. “I have a confession to make, Milo. Evan stole an old movie from the Marmot. He’s got it with him.”

  “An old movie?” Milo looked unimpressed. “The guy steals Santa suits and old movies? Whatever happened to bearer bonds and diamond rings and money?” All the same, Milo was out of the office like a shot, presumably to launch a manhunt.

  Ben had lost Evan Singer, and I’d lost my lunch date. I went into the news office, where Vida was munching on a carrot stick, Carla was brushing the snow out of her hair, and Ed was getting ready to go to the Kiwanis Club Christmas lunch. The bells went off on the AP wire, signalling a late-breaking bulletin. We all ignored the sound. It was hardly unusual.

  “Santa Claus,” chuckled Ed, letting his belt out to the final notch. I didn’t know if he was referring to the AP bells or his ever-expanding girth. “I’ll be late getting back. If Gus calls from the Toyota dealership, tell him this isn’t the right time of year to sell cars.”

  I tried to coax Vida into going to the Burger Barn, but for once she was adamant about sticking to her diet. “There are too many temptations this time of year. If I eat my carrot and celery sticks and hardboiled egg and cottage cheese, I’ll be able to have two pieces of Grace Grundle’s pecan pie at the John Knox Christmas Fun Fest on Sunday.”

  I started to remind Vida that John Knox had been virulently opposed to the celebration of Christmas in any form, but decided against it. If we Catholics had survived Vatican II, there was no reason the Presbyterians shouldn’t have their own share of revisionism, too.

  Takeout was the only answer. Carla said she’d go fetch me a hamburger, fries, and a Coke before she and Ginny went to lunch up at the lodge. “It’s our pre-Christmas treat,” she explained. “We might be a little late.”

  Absently, I nodded. It was, after all, the last Friday before Christmas. I wasn’t in a position to hand out holiday bonuses, only modest presents. Why not offer the hired help a gift of time? Carla scurried off to pick up my meager repast. I dialed the rectory to check in with Ben. Teresa McHale answered.

  “Father is counseling an engaged couple,” she said smugly. “His afternoon is quite full. He plans to join the school faculty’s Christmas party, then he meets with three sets of new parents to give Baptismal instructions, and this evening, he intends to start going over the parish books for year’s end. May I give him a message?”

  I was hungry, frustrated, and annoyed. “This is his sister, not somebody selling a new format for the parish bulletin.” I paused, seeking a more conciliatory note. “I’
m upset. Teresa, what happened with Evan Singer?”

  Teresa McHale also became more human. “Evan Singer! What did I tell you? Now he robs us blind. See how much good it does to extend charity to people who don’t deserve it? I can guess who stole Father’s gun.”

  I could, too. Probably. Except that if Evan Singer had taken Ben’s Browning, Milo would have found it on him. At least that was a plausible scenario.

  Ed left for Kiwanis. Carla returned with my lunch. Vida snapped off more carrots and celery between bouts with the typewriter. I worked on my next editorial, which would be benign and brief. It didn’t take many words to wish our readership a Merry Christmas. They could save their eyes and I could spare my brain. I polished off my hamburger and fries, then went out to check the wire. It shut off at two P.M. Caria had let about two hours worth of news pile up on the floor. That wasn’t so strange. Most stories that come in after eleven are late-breaking developments from earlier pieces, sports summaries, stock market reports, and other details that don’t suit a weekly’s needs. Indeed, I often wonder if we could get rid of the wire and save some money. The only time we really need it is on Tuesdays, when we might otherwise miss a hot story with a local angle. The rest of the week, it’s just a legacy from the Marius Vandeventer era.

  Still, I always scan the long strip of paper to see if we’ve overlooked something. Once in a while there’s a feature on Fridays that’s aimed for weekend editions that we can pick off for filler on Wednesday if The Times and the Post Intelligencer don’t use it first.

  “Oh, my God!” My jaw dropped as I clutched the long ream of news. Vida looked up from a set of contact prints. I ripped the paper midway off the wire and brought it over to her. “Standish Crocker is dead! He died in a fire last night at his Hunts Point home! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Vida took off her glasses, regarding me with unwavering gray eyes. “Of course. Shall we go see Bridget?”

  “What about Milo?”

  Vida was getting into her tweed coat. “Milo’s out playing sheriff. Let him have his fun. Meanwhile, let’s go catch a killer.”

  Travis Nyquist met us at the door. His handsome face looked tense. The walking cast was gone, but his limp was more pronounced. He didn’t ask us in.

  “Bridget’s not home,” he said curtly. “Excuse me.”

  For once, Vida’s protests went for naught. We were left staring at the red and gold wreath on the front door. Vida frowned at the two-car garage. It was closed on both sides.

  “No fresh tire tracks in the new snow,” she noted. “Don’t tell me Bridget walked. It’s not her style.”

  We had started down the drive to the road where I’d parked the Jag. “You think she’s home?”

  Vida didn’t answer. I glanced back over my shoulder. The big oak’s branches framed the front window. Travis was looking out, watching our progress.

  We got into the car. “It’s just a matter of time,” said Vida. “Travis is as guilty as sin.”

  I gave a little jump and accidentally hit the brake instead of the accelerator. The Jag stuttered, then eased down the winding road. “Of what? Murder?” I sounded incredulous.

  “Maybe. Certainly of other things, à la the late Standish Crocker.” Vida twisted around in the passenger seat, trying to look out through the rear window. The Nyquist house had disappeared from view. “If only we knew where Bridget is … I feel as if I’m swimming in cheese soup.”

  Vida insisted that we stop at the sheriff’s office. Milo was still out, looking for Evan Singer. Bill Blatt was manning the front desk. His aunt had orders for him.

  “Billy, I want you out there combing this town for any sign of Bridget Nyquist. Any sign. Do you understand me?”

  Bill’s freckled face grew distressed. “But Aunt Vida, I can’t leave until Sam Heppner comes back from highway patrol!”

  “Radio Sam and get him over here right now. Hurry, Billy, this is a matter of life and death. Start with Travis Nyquist’s house.”

  Torn between his appointed duty and his aunt, Bill Blatt naturally gave in to Vida. After a few more instructions, Vida led me back outside. “That’s all we can do for Bridget. Let’s hope I’m wrong.”

  We left my car in front of the sheriff’s office and walked to The Advocate. It was snowing harder, and the air felt raw. “Do you really think Travis killed those girls? And set fire to Evan Singer’s cabin and Standish Crocker’s house?”

  Vida was trudging along in her flat-footed manner. “Heaven help me, I don’t know. But the killer is somebody close to Bridget. I’d stake my soul on that. Who could it be but Travis? Oscar, Arnie and Louise wouldn’t want it known that their daughter-in-law is a former prostitute and their son is a crook, but none of them strikes me as a killer. As for Evan Singer …”

  Across the street, Evan Singer was coming out of the Marmot. He wasn’t alone. Oscar Nyquist was at his side, an arm draped around the younger man’s shoulders. My first reaction was that Evan was being forcibly ejected. Again. But as Vida and I plunged across Front Street, we saw that the pair was engaged in deep, intimate conversation.

  Most people wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding on Oscar and Evan in what was clearly a private moment. Vida, however, was not most people. She was Vida, and she marched straight up to confront the two men.

  “Oscar,” she nodded her cloche, then jabbed a finger at Evan. “Milo Dodge is scouring the town for you, young man. You stole something besides a Santa suit.”

  Evan, looking bewildered and very young, started to answer, but Oscar broke in: “He didn’t steal anything. He borrowed it. Come here.” Oscar led us back into the empty Marmot, which would be showing Fantasia that evening. I glanced at the lobby’s sidewalls, divided by art-deco columns, and featuring individual murals of forest creatures in sylvan settings. We climbed the half-dozen stairs to the upper foyer where the auditorium was dark behind the parted velvet curtains. “In there,” said Oscar, his voice unusually hushed, and his eyes never leaving the blank screen, “we watched greatness. Greta Garbo in her first important moving picture. It runs three hours. My father, Lars Nyquist, ran it every year on his birthday. He was Garbo’s biggest fan. I haven’t seen it since he died.”

  The words were spoken simply, and I felt slightly embarrassed. Oscar Nyquist was not given to emotional outbursts, except anger. Yet he could not have made more of an impression had he wept and wrung his hands.

  Some of the steam had escaped from Vida. “Well, now.” She turned to Evan Singer. “You returned the reels to Oscar?”

  Evan took his time replying, and when he did, his voice was very thin: “I wanted to see it. This is the only full-length copy of Gösta Berling. The director, Maurice Stiller, died in 1928, and his assistant cut the movie by half. A few years ago, the Swedish Film Institute tried to restore it, but some of the footage was lost. Only the Marmot has the complete motion picture.”

  “It must be worth a fortune,” I remarked, noting Vida’s frown. “How did you know it was here, Evan?”

  “My grandmother told me.” He darted a look at Oscar Nyquist. “May I, sir? What difference does it make? It all happened almost seventy years ago. Your father and Mr. Lowenstein are both dead.”

  Oscar’s barrel chest lurched as he emitted a big sigh. “My sister talks too much. I always said so.”

  Evan’s usual gawky animation began to return, but he seemed oddly in control of himself. “Isaac Lowenstein came to Alpine to design a new movie theatre. He was brilliant, but like a lot of creative people, he short-circuited now and then.” Evan gave us a self-deprecating smile. It was obvious that he considered himself both brilliant—and short-circuited. “Lowenstein had a passion for beauty. He also had a yen for little girls. My grandmother was eight years old, golden-haired and pretty.” He looked at Oscar for confirmation; the older man gave a single nod, his eyes half-shut. Evan continued in quiet lucid tones: “Lars Nyquist, my great-grandfather, caught him in time. He told him to leave Alpine and never come back.
But Lars had already paid a portion of the money for Lowenstein’s work. He’d bragged to everyone that Alpine would have a theatre designed by the great Isaac Lowenstein. So he ended up paying Lowenstein off to not design the Marmot. Lars Nyquist did it himself, creating one of the first art-deco movie palaces in the world. He was very talented, don’t you think?”

  My eyes scanned the graceful columns, the elegant arches, the charming frescoes. Lars Nyquist was indeed a talented man; he might have been a genius. I was flabbergasted. But Evan’s story explained a great deal, at least about the Nyquist family’s inherent good taste. It was in their blood. Arnie, perhaps Travis, and now Evan had all come by their artistic talents naturally.

  Vida wedged herself between Oscar and Evan. “Honestly, Oscar, after all these years you’re going to acknowledge Karen’s family as Nyquists? What’s come over you?”

  In the lobby’s soft blue lights, Oscar’s face flushed. One bearlike hand gestured at the classic flocked wreaths that adorned the walls. “It’s Christmas,” he muttered, then added under his breath, “it’s about time.”

  Vida spent the rest of the day fuming over Oscar’s change of heart. “Why wait so long?” she’d say at intervals. “Karen is an invalid, Norman and Thea have never known the rest of the Nyquists. What a waste!” Or, “Stubborn Norwegian. Oscar wouldn’t have caved in now if Evan hadn’t played on his sympathy by showing an interest in that old movie. But Lars was such a sap about Greta Garbo—and Oscar fell for the soft soap.”

  In between grousing about Oscar, Vida fussed over Bridget. By late afternoon, Milo and Bill hadn’t turned up any trace of her. They had finally obtained a search warrant and showed up on Travis’s doorstep. Travis told them that Bridget had left Alpine. He also told them to go to hell, but Milo wasn’t listening. He and Bill went through the house, finding nothing. Some of her matched luggage was missing, as was a chunk of her wardrobe. The lawmen began to wonder if Travis wasn’t telling the truth.