by Mary Daheim
“Come here,” she called, her voice strong and steely.
I glanced at Ben. He gave a faint shake of his head. We plunged forward. Teresa called out again. We kept going.
The single shot ripped past us, maybe between us. It was impossible to tell. We were both jarred, and fell against one another.
“Stop.” Teresa’s voice now sounded very near. I looked around Ben to see her approaching, the Browning high-power clutched in both hands.
“Is that what you used on Standish Crocker before you set his house on fire?” I had no idea what prompted me to make such an inquiry under the circumstances. Begging for mercy would have been more appropriate, but a journalist’s quest for truth dies hard. Right along with the journalist, it suddenly occurred to me.
Teresa was now within ten feet of us. Still, I could barely make out her heavy orange jacket and brown slacks. “You don’t need to know about Crocker. Get inside the church.”
Priest or not, this was one time Ben didn’t seem drawn to the altar. Neither was I. Our only hope was for someone to drive by, realize something was amiss, and bring help. But Cascade Street was obliterated by the snow, and seemingly untraveled. On this stormy Friday night before Christmas, Alpine’s residents must be keeping cozy at home, wrapping gifts, sipping eggnog, listening to carols. There was no reason to expect them to cruise the town in a blizzard, looking for a homicidal housekeeper and her would-be victims.
“Listen, Mrs. McHale,” Ben began, the crackle back in his voice, “you’re going to get caught. If you shot Standish Crocker, the police have found the bullet. The law will exact its price. But you are a Catholic. What about the higher law? Have you thought about your soul?”
I couldn’t see her expression, but I could hear the contempt in her voice. “My soul died with my heart a long time ago. What did being a Catholic ever do for me? If I’d been something else—or nothing at all—I wouldn’t have lost the only man I ever loved. I’ve been dead for thirty-two years. The only pleasure I’ve had is watching Bridget marry into that stiff-necked bunch of Lutherans. That, and making money by making fools out of men. Don’t give me a homily on the state of my soul, Father. I’ve been in hell since I was a girl.”
Despite the imminent danger of dying in the freezing snow, I was aghast. “You turned your own daughter into a whore just to avenge yourself on the Nyquists?”
Teresa gave a little snort. “On all men. A woman has the power to reduce any man to the status of an animal. But I did it for the money, too. My husband ran his trucking business into the ground. He’d even let his life insurance lapse. When that oaf died, I had nothing. I couldn’t make ends meet as a sales clerk in a boutique.” She gave a toss of her head. “So I put Bridget and the others to work. They loved it. It was party time, ’round the clock. Young ladies of the finest backgrounds, groomed to please silly businessmen. Catholic, Protestant, Jew—take your choice. I was sorry I never had a real minority. That was my goal, but the girls graduated first.”
For someone who didn’t want to tell us anything, Teresa McHale seemed to be revealing a lot. And why not? Where else could she brag about her brilliant call-girl scheme? Maybe she wasn’t going to shoot us; we could freeze to death instead.
But I was too optimistic. Teresa gestured with the Browning. Maybe she was cold, too. “Enough. You’re trying to stall. Let’s get on with it.”
An even stronger gust of wind blew down from Tonga Ridge. Briefly, Teresa disappeared in a flurry of snow. Siblings have their own wavelength. Ben and I ran for the street. We slipped; we slid. Teresa screamed at us to stop. The gun fired again, not quite so close, but near enough to make my heart skip. No doubt she was right behind us, more than halfway across the parking lot. Or maybe we’d reached the sidewalk. It was impossible to tell. If there was a streetlight in the vicinity, we couldn’t see it. Teresa shouted another warning. The people who lived in the houses across the street didn’t hear a thing. The sound of the wind muffled not only her voice but the shots from the gun.
I turned to see if she had us in range. She did. I made a misstep, and fell off the curb. Ben reached down to help me. Teresa stopped at the edge of what must have been the sidewalk.
“I’d rather not do it this way,” she said grimly, “but you’re giving me no choice. Maybe it’s just as well. The snow will cover your bodies. I’ll have left the country long before the thaw sets in.” She laughed, a hideous, grating sound.
Ben got me on my feet just in time to see Teresa aim the Browning at us. I was so cold, I could barely react to the incredible notion that my brother and I were about to die. My heart was pounding, and a strange rumbling sound assaulted my ears. Teresa seemed to appear and disappear between flurries of snow. I heard a click; the safety? Ben would know. I gazed up at him—my brother, my friend, my only close family besides Adam.… How ironic that we should die together.
The large black form seemed to rumble out of nowhere, sailing along the sidewalk and striking Teresa with full force. The gun went off, and this time I saw its flash. I also heard a masculine voice, letting out an obscene exclamation. I gasped; Ben swore. Teresa lay on the ground, writhing in pain. A thud echoed on the wind, then more curses. Dazed, I grabbed Ben’s arm and followed him to where Teresa lay. The Browning was a couple of feet away, already dusted with snow.
“My back!” Teresa groaned. “I can’t move!”
Ben was kneeling at her side. “We’ll get help!” He put a hand on her forehead. There was blood along her hairline and a gash in one cheek. Her left leg protruded at an unnatural angle. “Mrs. McHale, would you like me to hear your confession?”
The laugh was twisted, agonized. She stared up at Ben, her eyes glassy. “You’re incredible, Father.” Her face was wrenched with pain. “You really believe all this swill, don’t you?”
Ben nodded, an offhand response. “So do you. The day Father Fitz had his stroke, you went to confession. Why?”
Teresa let out a series of little keening cries before she answered. “Habit, I guess. What difference does it make?” Her eyes closed and her body went limp.
Ben made the sign of the cross on her forehead. “It made a difference to Father Fitz,” he muttered, sounding angry. “Her confession probably gave him the stroke.”
“Is she dead?” I was shaking all over, from relief, shock, and the aftermath of terror.
“No.” Ben was standing up again, peering into the snow. “Now where did … ah!” His shoulders slumped as he waved a hand. Peyton Flake was limping toward us, looking furious.
“What have we got here? I told that goddamned old fool he ought to let me drive that snowmobile.” Flake, his vocation as automatic as my brother’s, bent down to examine Teresa McHale. “She’s a mess. We’ll have to get an ambulance. I feel responsible. I was supposed to be rescuing one patient and now I’ve got another one. Shit.” He turned back in the direction he’d come. “Hey, Durwood, let me see if I can get a can-opener and pry you out of that freaking snowmobile.”
“Actually,” I said, trooping along after Dr. Rake like a pet pup, “you saved our lives. We’ll explain all this later, but now I’ll go see if the phones are working.”
Flake didn’t seem to hear me. Or at least he didn’t seem to understand. He tripped over the Browning. “Hey—is this yours, Ben? What happened, did your housekeeper make you a crummy casserole?”
Ben’s smile was thin. He was still standing next to Teresa’s inert form. I was struck by the irony. She had tried to kill us, had murdered at least three other people, had corrupted six young women, including her own daughter, and yet my brother wouldn’t abandon her. Peyton Flake and Durwood Parker might have saved our lives, but for me, Ben was the real hero.
Chapter Nineteen
THE WHISTLING MARMOT Movie Theatre’s marquee had again suffered at the hands of pranksters. Overnight, Fantasia had turned into Ana is Fat. I’d seen the rearrangement on my way to the sheriff’s office Saturday morning. Milo Dodge had put off taking depositions fr
om Ben and me due to our half-frozen, totally exhausted state.
Teresa McHale had been transferred from Alpine Community Hospital to Harborview in Seattle. She was in critical condition, but despite internal injuries, a concussion, and broken back, ribs, and leg, Peyton Flake thought she would recover to stand trial. Frankly, it was a good news/bad news prognosis.
Of course she wasn’t Teresa McHale, but Mary Anne Toomey Dunne. Vida was still shaking her head over the events of Friday night when she approached the impromptu buffet supper I had prepared the following evening.
“It’s bad enough that I never knew Lars Nyquist had designed the Marmot, though I still can’t imagine him being so clever. He certainly hid it well. But I’m ashamed of myself that I didn’t figure out Teresa McHale,” she complained, spearing slices of ham and roast beef. “Of course, I’m not a Catholic.” She managed to say the words with a mixture of accusation and relief, as if she was sorry that I had a venereal disease but thankful that she didn’t.
“You never heard her make a fuss over Alpine’s lack of a public swimming pool,” I pointed out, handing Milo Dodge a paper plate etched with boughs of holly. “You never saw the letter she wrote to Arnie Nyquist. And you didn’t know she’d applied for a job at Francine’s Fine Apparel.”
Ben looked up from his mound of potato salad. “If I’d known that about Francine, I might have wondered. I assumed she’d been sent up here by the Chancery. But of course she was already in Alpine and only needed an okay from the Chancery office. It was just a coincidence that Edna McPhail died not long after Teresa followed Bridget to town.”
Milo dumped horseradish on his beef, tossed two dill pickles onto the plate, and scooped up a spoonful of black olives. “This has been the damndest case I ever saw. Jack Mullins threw up when he opened that freezer in the rectory basement.”
Ed Bronsky nodded from his place in my favorite chair. The springs would have gone if he’d had any more food on his plate. “It was pretty bad, I guess. You’ll have to get a new freezer, Father. Alpine Appliance is having a sale after New Year’s. If they get pushy, you’ll see the ad in next week’s paper.” He sighed with resignation.
Shirley Bronsky, who was squatting on the floor at her husband’s feet and revealing a great deal of fat white thigh in the process, clasped both hands to her bulging bosom. “Honestly, what’s this world coming to? A mother who turns her daughter into a prostitute? But I still don’t understand why Mrs. McHale—or whatever her name is—had to kill those poor girls!”
“Simple,” said Milo, sitting down next to Vida on the sofa. “Blackmail. Once Bridget got her hooks into Travis Nyquist, Teresa figured it was time to retire and gloat. She staged her own suicide with that phony cancer story, jumped off the Bainbridge Island ferry coming into Seattle, and swam over to the Smith Cove marina. It’s not that far, at least not for a strong swimmer.”
“Which,” I noted, “Teresa was. Olympic class, in her youth. It appears that without Teresa running the show, the two girls who wanted to continue hooking didn’t do so well on their own. Until Teresa comes around—or Bridget opens up—we won’t know exactly what happened, but one theory is that Kathleen came to Alpine to hit Bridget up, and Bridget panicked and told Kathleen to go to the rectory. I doubt that Kathleen knew Teresa was still alive, so imagine her shock at discovering Mary Anne Dunne taking care of a small-town parish and a deaf old priest. I can imagine how Teresa met a demand for money.” Sadly, I shook my head.
Milo made a crunching sound with one of his dill pickles. “The body had to be disposed of. Father Fitz apparently never went in the basement because of his arthritis. There was an axe in the woodshed which has bloodstains on it.” Milo glanced at Ben. “Didn’t you say something about how she wouldn’t let you use the fireplace? She didn’t want you near that woodshed, just in case there were some incriminating traces left.”
Ben ran a hand through his dark hair. “There I was, eating omelettes and oyster stew and oven-fried chicken, and meanwhile Teresa had already confessed to my predecessor that she was a murderess.” He pulled his hair straight up on end.
Vida wagged a finger at him. “Now just a minute, Father Ben. I thought you priests weren’t allowed to tattle about what you heard in confession. Don’t tell me that old fool of a pastor blabbed!”
Ben gave Vida his most somber expression. “Mrs. Runkel, how could you? An upstanding Presbyterian gossip-mongering? Tut! I can only speculate on what Teresa said to Father Fitz in confession. But a few minutes later he suffered a stroke. And then Peyton Flake said Father’s been acting agitated, passing on instructions. I wonder if he wasn’t trying to give a warning instead. Without naming names or deeds, of course.”
“Poor old guy,” remarked Milo. “He was oblivious to everything that happened. Not that you could blame him, given his age and health problems. Teresa sure took her time to hack up.…”
Shirley Bronsky let out a squeal. “Stop! We’re eating! Please, Milo, I have a very delicate stomach.”
I tried not to lift my eyebrows. Shirley’s stomach looked about as delicate as a blast furnace. Ben came to Milo’s rescue. “Teresa had the luxury of time with Kathleen. But then Carol Neal came along looking for her friend. We assume she went to see Bridget, too. And got the same response: head for the rectory.” He shrugged. “Same result, except that I showed up, neither deaf nor feeble. Teresa must have put Carol in the freezer for a couple of days and then used the Volvo to transport the body to the river, at which point the temperature rose—which explains why Doc Dewey noticed some signs of thawing.”
Carla flipped her long, black hair over her shoulders. “Really, it’s too dumb! Why not get another pimp or madam or whatever? I mean, it’s totally weird to expect somebody to hand over money for nothing.”
There were days when I felt as if I were doing the same thing with both Carla and Ed, but this was hardly the time or place to say so. “It wasn’t that simple,” I pointed out. “Kathleen and Carol were over their heads in debt, and they’d have a tough time finding anybody as efficient as Teresa. Remember, she was a terrific organizer. She booked her stable with several different businesses at first, then got in thick with Standish Crocker, who was also peddling cocaine. So was Travis, which is what made him wealthy, if nervous. He didn’t get out of the investment business because he was tired of making money. He was afraid he’d get caught. And, along with Crocker, he did.”
Adam, flanked by Carla and Ginny, brought their plates over to join the circle. “So Teresa bumped off Standish Crocker with Uncle Ben’s gun and set his house on fire because she was afraid he’d squawk about the call-girl ring?”
Milo nodded. “You bet. And he would have. Travis will do it now instead.”
Ginny, with her usual serious mien, fingered her small chin. “How can Travis do that when his own wife is involved? And why didn’t Mrs. McHale get rid of Travis, too? Then Bridget would have been a rich widow.”
Milo sipped from his tankard of ale. “Travis might have been next, but I think Teresa was hoping he’d never have to testify. As for Travis and Bridget, that marriage was doomed from the start. Bridget dazzled Travis, and of course Teresa egged her on. It was the perfect revenge, full circle on the Nyquist family. But let’s face it, I wouldn’t call it a love match. Bridget is better off back in Seattle with Rachel Rosen.”
Vida heaved a sigh. “Thank God Rachel and Bridget are safe. Where did you say Rachel had gone for a few days? Portland?” The question was for Milo.
“Eugene. But she came back a day or so before Bridget went to Seattle with Travis,” Milo explained. “At that point, Bridget suspected what was going on with her mother. I don’t think she knew—or would believe—that Teresa had killed Kathleen and Carol until she couldn’t duck the truth any longer. Bridget had to get away. She used the trip to Seattle with Travis as an excuse. She told him she wanted a trial separation.”
My idealist’s scenario called for Bridget to follow in Rachel’s footsteps and go to col
lege, to put Travis and prostitution and even her mother in the past, and to try to pick up the pieces of a life that had been broken at seventeen. It could be done, but the realist in me painted a grimmer picture.
Adam had gotten up to turn the CD player on. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” at less than the usual ear-shattering decibels my son preferred.
“It was the masses,” Ben said, seemingly apropos of nothing. We all looked at him. “For All Souls’ Day. Bridget had asked Father Fitz to remember her own father among the dead. But she didn’t request any remembrance for her mother. That made Sluggly here wonder why. The answer was obvious. Mrs. Dunne wasn’t dead.”
“That and a lot of other things,” I said, “including all those trips Teresa kept making with the Volvo. She didn’t appear to have any friends in town, and yet she went out quite a bit. As it turned out, she was disposing of bodies, setting fires, and shooting people.”
Carla leaned back in her folding chair, the long hair dipping toward the carpet. “Talk about a hectic holiday season! Wow!”
Ed, however, was once again looking puzzled. “Now wait a minute—you mean Mrs. McHale set the fire at Evan Singer’s place? Why?”
Sometimes Milo’s patience astounds me. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so exemplary if he’d had to work with Ed on a daily basis. “She was trying to divert suspicion. Evan was a likely target because he’s a bit strange. She also needed to burn all that stuff she stole from Arnie Nyquist’s house and van. The old letters he’d saved, even the college yearbook with her pictures and inscription had to be destroyed, just in case anybody ever found them and made the connection. I don’t think she and Arnie ever ran into each other, but if they had, the middle-aged Teresa McHale didn’t look much like the young Mary Anne Toomey. I figure she hoped Arnie’s van was unlocked with the keys in the ignition. She probably wanted the one for the house. Teresa couldn’t count on Louise Nyquist not locking up. The picture of Bridget and Travis was a bonus. It was the sort of thing a lovesick swain would take—and burn.”