by Mary Daheim
“I hope Bridget is far from here,” Vida said as we prepared to close up for the weekend. “I don’t like it, though.It’s easy to ditch some clothes and a couple of suitcases. Of course it’s not so easy to ditch an entire person.”
I shared Vida’s concern, but I had no idea what to do about it. Finding Bridget was up to Milo. Perhaps a check of the airlines, trains, and buses would turn up a lead.
“With both cars in the garage, how did she get out of Alpine?” I mused, looking up and heading into the heavy snow.
Vida’s car was parked in front of The Advocate; mine was still down the street, in front of the sheriff’s office. Vida gazed into the flying flakes, chewing on her lower lip. “I called Louise Nyquist. She said Bridget went to Seattle with Travis yesterday. She never came back.”
Chapter Eighteen
I CONSIDERED STOPPING in to see Milo before I got in the Jag, but Peyton Flake was coming out of the sheriff’s office, carrying a sleek medical bag.
“Why don’t they deputize me and get it over with?” he grumbled. “Dodge and Blatt are out, Heppner’s off-duty, Gould’s on the desk, and Mullins is trying to break up a fight at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Your editorial pissed off some people.” Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Flake’s eyes were gleeful.
“My editorials are often controversial,” I sighed, then pointed at his case. “As you off to patch up the losers?”
Flake shook his head, the ponytail swinging under an Aztec print wool cap that matched his fleece pullover. “I’m rescuing Durwood Parker. He took that freaking snowmobile up to the ranger station and ran over himself. Let’s hope I can find the old fart in this weather. If not, I can cut some firewood.” He pounded on the rear door of his Toyota van. I could see a gun rack, an axe, a maul, and a brown paper bag that may or may not have contained a fifth of Wild Turkey.
I wished Dr. Flake well, musing on how different he was from his predecessor, the late Cecil Dewey. Or from Gerald Dewey, who was almost as tradition-bound as his father. Maybe Peyton Flake’s brand of medicine would eventually catch on in Alpine. Certainly he seemed to have the skill and the dedication. I watched the rust-colored four-wheel drive pull into Front Street and wondered why the forest rangers hadn’t brought Durwood back to town. Probably, it dawned on me, because Peyton Flake relished taking off into swirling, hip-deep snow with his medical case and a mission. He might not seem suited to Alpine, but Alpine was certainly suited to him.
At home, I discovered that Adam was going night-skiing with Carla and Ginny. I shuddered at the lack of visibility, but he laughed at my fears. Then I shuddered at the thought of my son in Carla’s clutches. But this was a buddy event. They were a threesome. Surely Adam would be safe. Carla was two years older. Nineteen months, actually. Put like that, I shuddered some more.
The lamb steaks went back in the fridge. I wasn’t in the mood to cook for myself. Maybe Ben wasn’t as busy as Teresa McHale had let on. I dialed the rectory; there was no answer.
Adam came into the living room, carrying his skis. He saw my worried look. “I forgot to tell you,” he said, running a finger up and down one of the skis to test the surface, “the phone’s out. Or some of them are. I got disconnected from Carla, and when I called back, it rang and rang, but she didn’t answer.”
I sighed. First the electricity, now the phones. It was annoying, but it wasn’t unusual, given Alpine’s hard winters with so much snow, ice, and wind. I decided to walk down to the rectory after Adam left.
I felt restless. Anxious, too. Vida’s concern for Bridget Nyquist was contagious. I wondered if Milo had made any progress. Maybe Vida was right—Bridget had never returned to Alpine. She was in Seattle, staying with friends.
But Bridget had no friends, except for the girls who had formed the ring of hookers. Three were dead, one was in Texas, and the other’s whereabouts were as big a question mark as Bridget’s. My anxiety mounted. Irrationally, I started to worry about Ben.
But at the rectory, all was well. Ben was in the study, poring over Father Fitz’s files. He wasn’t aware that the phone was out; he was merely thankful that no one had called to distract him from his duties. Teresa McHale was in her room, watching television.
“This isn’t your responsibility,” I told Ben as I sat down in the room’s only other chair, a straight-backed oak number that probably had been part of a dining room set sixty years ago.
“I know, but somebody’s got to do it. Peyton Flake told me today that Father Fitz isn’t rallying. He may have to go to a nursing home.”
I sighed. “I’ll miss him. We all will. He’s a good man.” I gazed around the small study with its open bookcases, filing cabinets, and more religious artwork. Our Lady of Mount Carmel, holding Baby Jesus, stood on a slim wooden pedestal. The Agony in the Garden was painted in murky colors above the desk. “Can I help?” I asked.
Ben shook his head. “I’m not balancing the books or anything like that. The parish council can do it. Mainly, I want to make sure all the masses have been said by people requesting them, that any queries from potential converts or fallen-away Catholics have been answered, that I’m covered on weddings and baptisms—you know, all the usual parish stuff. Bridget Nyquist, by the way, put her father’s name in for All Souls’ Day masses. She was generous—fifty bucks.”
“I’m surprised,” I admitted. “Given what she’s been through and her marriage in the Lutheran church, she might have given up on Catholic trappings.”
“Old ideas die hard,” Ben muttered, checking names off a list. “Bridget’s been a Catholic for a lot longer than she’s been a Lutheran. Or was a whore.”
“Right.” I sat back, watching Ben go through file folders.
“Gripes,” he said, putting one aside. “Kudos,” he said, setting down another. “Crackpots,” he said, fielding a third.
Ben kept at it. I felt useless. After ten minutes, I saw a well-worn book of devotions on top of the nearest filing cabinet. I got up and flipped through the pages. It was very old, with fragile paper and heavy ink. Red rubrics and line engravings decorated the beginning of each section. Prayer cards, mostly for deceased priests, marked favorite passages.
“Father Fitz’s?” I asked when Ben reached a lull.
He smiled and then, surprisingly, turned quite serious. “I was looking at that this morning after Evan Singer vacated Father Fitz’s room. You know, I shouldn’t be surprised when I discover that every priest has suffered some pretty severe temptations. Nobody knows it better than I do. But with an old guy like Father Fitz, it still brings me up short.”
I gave my brother a curious look. “Temptation? Like what? Wild women?”
“Worse. Determined women. Or just one.” Ben opened the middle desk drawer. He took out a single sheet of pale blue stationery. “This was stuck to the back of the prayer book. Look at the date. Father Fitz must have been in his late fifties. I guess that’s not too old for midlife crisis, especially for us socially retarded priests.”
I took the flimsy paper from Ben and began reading the close-knit handwriting. It wasn’t easy to decipher.
May 23, 1960
My darling:
I can’t believe you don’t [won’t?] love me. I saw it in your eyes. I felt it in your arms. No matter what else you are, you’re still a man! Act like one and defy old laws [?]. Why should you care about generations of cold-blooded robots who blindly obeyed instead of following their hearts? Why does religion have to put up barriers [farriers? fanciers? financiers?] between people? Isn’t love [?] everything? Please! I’ll wait forever, if I have to!
With all my heart,
Your loving MA
“Ma? Isn’t that carrying the Irish mother bit too far?” I handed the letter back to Ben.
“It must be initials. I wonder what happened to her?” My brother looked wistful as he studied the letter again. “He must have thought something of her, or he would have thrown this out.” Ben returned to his file folders. My watch told me it was almost eight. I
hadn’t eaten dinner and was suddenly ravenous. I asked my brother if he might be hungry, too.
Ben shook his head. “Mrs. McHale fixed me a crab omelette and a green salad. Delicious.” His puckish expression showed that he still delighted in taunting me.
I waited until he seemed absorbed in his work. “Any leftovers?” I, too, could be a pain.
“What? No, I ate the whole thing.” Ben looked very pleased with himself. “The salad, too.”
I got out of the chair. “In that case, I’ll go forage for myself.” I headed for the kitchen.
The rectory refrigerator was not only immaculate, but virtually empty except for the usual dairy products, condiments, and a crisper drawer full of vegetables. Except for a wedge of cheddar cheese, there wasn’t much with which to make a meal. The freezing compartment was small and looked as if it had been recently defrosted.
“Try the big one in the basement,” said Ben, lounging in the doorway. “But don’t let Mrs. McHale find out I said it was okay. She lives in mortal fear that somebody will screw up her food-filing system.”
“She files food?” I wrinkled my nose. “What is she, a frustrated Department of Agriculture clerk?”
Ben chuckled. “She’s the most organized woman I’ve ever met. Peyton Flake keeps telling me how Father Fitz tries to give orders and practically gets himself worked up into another stroke. The poor old soul needn’t worry—Teresa McHale will keep this place running like a Swiss watch.”
We headed out the back door. The basement stairs were at the rear of the house, off the small porch. “Father Fitz is lucky to have her,” I noted, as a blast of snow and wind hit us. “He ought to stop fussing and put his energy into recovering.”
“I know,” Ben agreed as we carefully trod the dozen wooden stairs that led to the basement. Although the steps were covered, snow had drifted onto them, making the descent treacherous. I worried about Adam skiing. Then I worried about Adam not skiing. But if he was sipping mulled wine in the lodge with Carla, Ginny would be there, too. Somehow, I wasn’t consoled.
Ben tried the door; it was locked.
“Damn,” he muttered, unhooking a set of keys from his belt. “Which one is it? I’ve never been down here before. Frontdoor, backdoor, church, garage, car ignition, car trunk … here, it’s got to be this one.…”
It was. The hinges creaked, and we couldn’t see a thing inside. Ben felt for a light switch, but couldn’t find one. At last he made contact with a thick string. One pull illuminated the unfinished basement. The usable area wasn’t much bigger than the parlor. Above four feet of concrete and several beams, we could see piles of dirt and some large rocks. The mountainside pushed up beneath the rectory. It was no wonder that the basement smelled damp, even rank.
“This place needs airing out,” Ben remarked, grimacing. He moved toward the old freezer, which was wedged between a large fruit cupboard and a stack of cartons tied with twine. Next to me was an ancient, black steamer trunk with rusted locks. I wondered if it had made the original crossing from Ireland with Father Fitz. Like its owner, it would probably never see the Emerald Isle again.
Ben put his shoulder to the heavy freezer and lifted the lid. I was wrinkling my nose. The basement really smelled terrible, an odor I couldn’t define. Ben bent over the freezer. And let out a horrible cry. I think I made an exclamation, too, of shock. Ben allowed the freezer to slam shut. He reeled, then stumbled toward me and held on for dear life.
“Ben …”He was clinging to me so tightly that I could scarcely speak. “What…?”
Taking deep breaths, Ben kept his arms around me but steered us to the door and onto the stairs. The snow swirled around us; the wind howled in our ears. Ben’s face was in shadow from the basement light, but I could see that he was pale under his tan.
“It’s a body,” he finally gasped, then groaned. “Some of a body … Oh, God!” He let go and crossed himself.
I fell back against the side of the house. “Ben …” I couldn’t think clearly. Had he said it was somebody … or some body!
My brother put his hands over his mouth and took more deep breaths. Then he squared his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual crackle. Indeed, he sounded faintly giddy. “Oh, Emma—I think we found the rest of Kathleen Francich!”
Maybe I always knew we would. Or that someone would. My knees turned to water. I kept leaning against the house, oblivious to the snow that blew in under the overhang, impervious to the sharp wind that came off the mountains. In truth, I was turning numb, and that was just as well. Maybe I could go to sleep and not have to deal with what was left of poor Kathleen.…
But Ben rallied. “Come on, let’s call Milo.” He snatched at my hand, which hung limply at my side.
“Milo?” I spoke his name as if I’d never heard of him. “Oh. Milo.” I felt Ben tug at my hand and I gave myself a shake. “Yes … Milo.” We started up the stairs but I stopped behind Ben at the door. “Wait—the phones—maybe we’d better drive over and find him in person.”
Ben’s brown eyes darted this way and that, indicating he was considering our options. “Right. But we’d better tell Teresa. What if she happens to go down to …”’
He saw the awful look on my face and his jaw dropped. “Oh, Jesus … Emma … What are you thinking?”
My voice came out as a rasp. “Ben—that letter. Quick, let’s take another look. Please.”
Furtively, we moved through the rectory, past Teresa’s room, which was now ominously silent. Ben closed the study door behind us and locked it. I grabbed the blue sheet of stationery and put it directly under the desk lamp. The cramped handwriting wasn’t improved by the illumination, but my brain was illuminated instead. “Oh, Ben—this doesn’t say defy old laws—it says defy old Lars.”
“Lars?” He sprang toward me, reaching for the single sheet. “Let me see!” Scanning the page, Ben was incredulous, then puzzled. “So what does it mean?”
A kaleidoscope of seemingly unrelated bits and pieces of knowledge spun in my brain: Bridget’s mother’s suicide, Arnie Nyquist’s former girlfriend, Teresa McHale’s desire for a public swimming pool, Francine Wells’s remark about Teresa seeking a job, Ben’s comment about Bridget’s request for masses for her father, and now, the letter signed MA.
“This wasn’t written to Father Fitz,” I said in a hushed voice. “It was sent to Arnie Nyquist, from his Catholic girlfriend. Who, I might add, was quite a swimmer.” Ben’s puzzlement deepened, but I rushed on; there wasn’t time for detailed explanations. “This woman was begging Arnie to defy his grandfather, Lars Nyquist, and not let religion stand in their way of getting married.”
“I don’t get it.” Ben’s forehead wrinkled. “What’s it doing in Father Fitz’s prayer book?”
“It wasn’t in the book, remember? You said it was stuck to the bottom. I’m guessing there were more letters, which have been destroyed.” I swallowed hard, trying to figure out what to do next. “They were stolen from Arnie’s house, along with his UDUB-yearbook and that other stuff. Ben, let’s get out of here.”
But my brother was still looking baffled. “Hold it, Emma. Are you saying … Oh, come on, Sluggly, you don’t think …”
A noise in the hall made both of us freeze. Ben’s face turned grim as he positioned himself at one side of the door. “We’ve got company,” he whispered. “Do I attack first and ask questions later?”
Frantically, I shook my head. “She may have your gun,” I whispered back.
“Oh, God!” Ben glanced at the doorknob and recoiled. Maybe he thought that Teresa McHale was going to blast her way into the study. Maybe he was right. “The window,” Ben breathed, shoving me across the room. “It opens. I smoked one of Flake’s cigars in here today and had to air the place out.”
It was only a two-foot drop into the snow. A last look over my shoulder caught the doorknob turning. Of course Teresa had a key. Ben and I ran as fast as the snowstorm would permit. We were on the side of the rectory directly a
cross from the darkened church. To our left was the garage and woodshed; to our right, the street. Teresa hadn’t followed us through the window. My guess was that she was going out through the front door. Ben was already heading that way.
“Wait!” My voice sounded hoarse. Ben turned, cocking his head. “Let’s go the back way and around the church,” I urged, shivering in my green sweater and flannel slacks. “We can get to Fourth Street. There’s bound to be some traffic there.”
Looking as chilled as I felt, Ben followed my lead. As I fought through the snow that had drifted up against the sanctuary, I kept looking back. To my relief, there was no sign of Teresa. Maybe she had decided to make a clean getaway. Maybe she didn’t feel threatened. Maybe my hypothesis was dead wrong.
There wasn’t time to open the garage and get out the old Volvo. Across the empty church parking lot, Cascade Street was obscured by the blowing snow. A dash for the nearest house might be smarter than trying to get down to the intersection. I felt Ben at my elbow as I tried to make out any nearby lights. My face stung from the cold, and my feet felt numb. We pressed forward, and I uttered a sigh of relief to find that the snow was only a few inches deep in the parking lot. Apparently some Good Samaritan was keeping it plowed.
But nobody could keep it from icing up under foot. I slipped and would have fallen had it not been for Ben. We teetered, then started forward again, moving at an agonizingly slow pace. On any given Sunday, the lot always seemed too small; tonight it was vast, windswept, like the frozen Arctic tundra.
The voice came out of a void. Or so it struck me at first. Then, when I turned, I realized it had come from the rear entrance of the church. Teresa McHale’s shadowy form was barely perceptible through the flying snowflakes. She had used the covered walkway between the rectory and the church. No wonder we hadn’t seen her.