Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  The browser had picked up a commode and was juggling it experimentally. He nodded once, then put it back, and moved on to bath chairs.

  “It was that Driggers woman.” Now Will was whispering. “She stopped me just as I was about to step out to see the optician. Ms. Driggers comes in from the travel agency every so often, asking for the most outrageous items, often of a prurient nature.” The proprietor exuded an air of revulsion.

  I didn’t dare inquire what Janet might have wanted, but my eyes strayed to the spare parts on the near wall. Fortunately, none of the prostheses resembled a dildo. There was, however, a nice selection of massage vibrators in the glass case behind me.

  “Then Ms. Whitman and her brother arrived,” Will went on in his painstaking manner. “After they left, I received two phone calls from customers. The next thing I knew, there was all that excitement about the poor woman at the beauty parlor. I didn’t get my glasses until almost four o’clock.” Sadly, he shook his head.

  The elderly man departed without a word. Maybe he stopped in to ponder the items he didn’t need. Yet.

  “How long were Honoria and Trevor here?” I asked.

  Another pause ensued. “Oh—twenty minutes. I had to check out the loaner chair, of course. Ms. Whitman didn’t care for the first one I brought out. The seat bothered her. She’s very slim, and needs all the padding she can get.”

  A couple I recognized but couldn’t place entered the store warily. They were around sixty, and the man wore a particularly anxious air. Taking in my presence, they both stopped in their tracks.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Eriks!” Will greeted the newcomers warmly, as well as soothingly. “How was your surgery, Mr. Eriks?”

  “Fine,” Mr. Eriks replied tersely, his full face reddening. “That’s why we’re here.” He glared not at Will or me, but at a doughnut-shaped object near the door.

  “Of course!” Will exclaimed, all smiling sympathy. “My brother-in-law must have performed that procedure a thousand times. What you need is a soft yet firm support so that you can sit comfortably while the tissue heals. We have three different models, but—”

  On that appropriate note, I murmured thank you and farewell. It was after nine-thirty, and there was work to be done. I skipped calling on Milo. I’d already invaded Vida’s turf by talking to Will Stuart. I hadn’t learned anything, but Vida would be displeased when she found out that I’d meddled. And of course she would find out. She always does.

  There was no message yet from Cal Vickers about my car. I took that as a bad sign. The office was empty, with my staff members off on their appointed rounds. Not wanting to leave the front desk untended, I sat down in Ginny’s usual spot and went over the news coverage for the upcoming Presidents’ Day edition.

  Carla had written a surprisingly sprightly piece about George and Martha Washington. While she leaned a bit heavily on romance-novel language, the feature was cohesive and interesting. I tried to avoid suspecting her of cribbing.

  Vida’s contributions included three cherry-pie recipes, a fashion article on Civil War styles, and a peek inside the White House during Lincoln’s presidency. I had reworked a three-part series I’d done long ago for The Oregonian on life in Virginia before the Revolutionary War. Though I’d shortened it considerably, it would still take up a page and a half. That was good. We needed filler for the special advertising section.

  The mail arrived as I was editing Vida’s account of Steve and Donna Wickstrom’s Valentine’s Day party for the high-school faculty. Steve taught math and science at Alpine High, and his wife, who was Rick Erlandson’s older sister, and now Ginny Burmeister Erlandson’s sister-in-law, ran a day-care center. I left off at the point where a blindfolded Principal Karl Freeman had pinned the heart on the wrong woman, namely Dixie Ridley, wife of the football coach.

  Ginny and Rick had sent a postcard from Hawaii. The scene was cliché Diamond Head, but the message was a Burmeister original:

  Dear Advocate Gang, Ginny wrote in her meticulous hand. The sunshine is wonderful, the beaches are heavenly, and marriage is fun. Glad you’re not here. (Ha-ha.) Love, Ginny & Rick. It was typically Ginny; concise, honest, and uncomplicated.

  The rest of the mail was unexciting, with the usual handouts, releases, and letters to the editor wherein I was generally described as a knucklehead. Three of the writers expressed dismay over the latest murder, but none of them blamed me directly. That was a relief. I’ve been accused of many vices in my tenure at The Advocate, though never of being an exponent of murder. Ed’s remarks still rankled. I kept seeing myself as a modern-day Madame DeFarge, with computer keys clicking instead of knitting needles.

  Vida came in just as I finished sorting the delivery. I was reminded of Laurie’s strange reaction after dumping the salon’s mail on the floor. When I related the incident to Vida, she stared at me with her owlish expression.

  “You don’t know why Laurie behaved so oddly?” she demanded.

  I shook my head. “No. But I don’t really believe she saw a spider.”

  Vida removed her velvet beret and ran a hand through her jumbled gray curls. “I’ll have to find out when I go for my four o’clock appointment. Really, Emma, you should press harder.”

  Goaded, I confessed to calling on Will Stuart. To my mild surprise, Vida didn’t seem upset. “I intended to talk to him on my way to Stella’s. Do you think I should bother now?”

  “Will didn’t seem to have much to offer,” I said. “Maybe you could get more out of him.”

  “Maybe.” Vida’s gaze roamed around the small reception area. “Will’s a fussbudget with no imagination. It’s a deadly combination.” My puzzlement must have shown, for Vida shot me a faintly exasperated look. “He sees everything, but notices nothing. Or perhaps there was something he didn’t see which he should have done. Yes, I’ll talk to him.” In her splayfooted style, she went into the news office.

  As so often happens, she left me feeling inadequate. I couldn’t help but suffer a bit of resentment, but it turned out to be a sensation I deserved.

  Chapter Eight

  IDA FRICKEY WHITMAN Pratt Foster Smith made her entrance at exactly one o’clock. She furtively slipped into the Advocate office with the collar of her faux leopard jacket turned up around her chin. Vida and I were the only staffers on hand; Carla was trying to track down Toby Popp, and Leo was consulting with advertisers.

  “I came to say goodbye,” Ida said in a nervous voice. “Honoria and Trevor are across the street, with Sheriff Dodge.”

  Professional etiquette required me to invite Mrs. Smith into my private office. But if I excluded Vida, I might as well throw myself off Spark Plug Mountain. Thus, I indicated Vida’s visitor’s chair to our guest, and seated myself in Leo’s swivel model, which I scooted across the floor.

  “So you’re leaving immediately,” I said with a smile that I hoped would put Mrs. Smith at ease. “Is Trevor still planning to fly to California tonight?”

  Mrs. Smith nodded. She had taken a baby-blue handkerchief from her purse. “Honoria and I will start out tomorrow morning, very early. I’m so thankful there’s a break in the weather. With any luck, we’ll see sunshine by Friday. It’s a short flight, but it takes two days by car. We can’t drive straight through, so we’ll have to stop along the way in Oregon.”

  “Grants Pass,” Vida put in. “It’s a logical break.”

  The suggestion seemed to float past Mrs. Smith, who was wringing the handkerchief. “I feel so silly, really. But there’s something I want you to understand.” Her blue eyes pleaded from behind the white-framed glasses. “Honoria may seem a bit reserved to you. Oh, I realize you’ve known her for several years, but I can tell by talking to her that except for Mr. Dodge, she hasn’t formed any close friendships, especially with women. You must find that strange.”

  The truth was, I’d never thought about it. In five years the only real friends I had in Alpine were Vida and Milo. Leo might qualify if I didn’t keep him at arm’s length for profess
ional purposes.

  Vida, however, was nodding in an understanding manner. “There’s a difference between being friendly and being friends,” she pointed out. “Your daughter has always been quite friendly. But you’re right, Mrs. Smith—she’s never opened herself up to friendship.”

  Mrs. Smith sighed, a painful sound. “I know. Trevor isn’t one for having chums, either. It’s not their fault. I blame myself. I’m afraid I’ve had a rather rocky romantic history.”

  I said nothing. Vida said, “Oh?” The syllable was fraught with meaning.

  “Their father was a circus acrobat.” No hint of humor showed on Mrs. Smith’s carefully made-up face. “Oliver Whitman lived the life of a circus performer, going on the road for eight months of the year, wintering in Florida for the other four. It’s not conducive to family stability. I put up with it for ten years, and then I divorced him.” Now her eyes glistened with tears, which made the handkerchief come in handy. “The fact is, I still loved him. But our home life was so unsettled. When a man’s gone for so long, you never know what he’s going to do with all those trapeze artists and magicians’ assistants and elephant riders.”

  “Seal trainers,” Vida put in, looking very solemn. “I understand they’re most promiscuous.”

  I had no idea where Vida came up with such an idea, but Mrs. Smith nodded vigorously. “Oh my, yes! Marvela, that was her name—she was shameless! You wouldn’t believe the rumors I heard out of Omaha!”

  “Yes, I would.” Vida nodded gravely, the beret slipping back on her gray curls.

  “Then,” Mrs. Smith went on, removing her glasses and dabbing at her eyes, “there was Dennis Pratt. He was in the Merchant Marine when I married him and we moved to Oakland. It was a terrible mistake on my part—Denny was never home, either. And when he was, he drank and … well, Honoria was a budding teenager by then. You can guess what happened.” She put her glasses back in place and lowered her gaze.

  This time I shook my head; Vida nodded in a manner that was both understanding and disapproving of the delicate subject. For my own part, I wondered why Mrs. Smith had been such a lousy judge of character. Apparently, she was the kind of woman who had to have a man—any man. I’d only wanted one.

  “I had better luck with Dick,” Mrs. Smith said, taking up her laundry list of mates. “Dick Foster was a cook, or a chef, depending upon who he worked for. The trouble was, you see, he didn’t work very often.” Her apologetic air may have been for her confession, or for Dick Foster’s lack of stability. “I simply couldn’t face another divorce, so I stuck by Dick for almost twelve years. Finally, I had to let go. Three years later I met Chad Smith.” Mrs. Smith dimpled, reminding me how very pretty she must have been fifty years ago. “He was several years younger, you see, but so thoughtful and such fun! Chad drove a bus and rode motorcycles.” The smile disappeared and the handkerchief returned to her eyes. “The motorcycles were his undoing. Four years ago he was killed in an accident. I was bereft.”

  “I lost my husband in an accident, too,” Vida said, scarcely moving a muscle in her face. “Perhaps I mentioned it when we visited in Startup.”

  Mrs. Smith sniffed a bit, then offered Vida a sympathetic look. “You mentioned being widowed, yes. It’s very hard, isn’t it?”

  “Terrible,” Vida replied, still stoic.

  Mrs. Smith nodded. “That explains it, you see.”

  I inclined my head. “Explains … what?”

  “My children.” Mrs. Smith’s gaze was wide-eyed, apparently due to my lack of comprehension. “They’ve been through so much. It’s why Honoria married so young. It’s why Trevor has had … problems. And now this.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “The worst of it is that Trevor and Kay were so happy together. You can imagine how good it made me feel to know that somebody in the family had made a lasting marriage. Naturally, I’ve always hoped that Honoria would have better luck the second time around. I’m beginning to think she’s afraid to get married again.”

  Vida had picked up a pencil and was idly twirling it. “That’s possible. No one could blame her, given all the circumstances.” She carefully laid the pencil next to a copy of this week’s paper. “Honoria has never been one to ask for pity. I admire her courage greatly. But it might have been better for her if she’d been less reticent. Keeping things bottled up can make life harder in the long run.”

  The little speech had the desired effect on Ida Smith. “Oh, isn’t that so? But Honoria was always like that. Even when she was a little girl, she kept things to herself. Every so often, I’d take her aside and say to her, ‘Now, honey, it’s time for us to have a mother-daughter talk. Tell me what’s on your mind.’ But she’d never open up. It was so frustrating!” Mrs. Smith’s white hair with its streak of black waved around her ears. “That’s why I’m telling you all this, so you’ll understand. I wouldn’t want you to think ill of Honoria. Or of Trevor, for that matter, even though you don’t really know him.”

  I could tell from the way Vida sat, so seemingly at ease, but actually poised for combat, that she had a laundry list of questions for Mrs. Smith. But our visitor was getting to her feet, leaning with one hand on Vida’s desk and suddenly looking very tired.

  “I must go,” Mrs. Smith declared. “Honoria and Trevor are probably waiting for me in the car. They didn’t want to take up much of the sheriff’s valuable time. It’s so important to us that he finds poor Kay’s killer.”

  Vida was also on her feet, practically shoving me out of the way as she followed Mrs. Smith to the door. “Just one thing,” she said, placing a hand on the other woman’s arm. “In my follow-up article, I should mention Honoria’s married name. Newspaper style, you know.”

  It was no such thing, but it appeared that Mrs. Smith was ignorant of journalistic protocol. Still, she turned a puzzled face to Vida. “Well—Honoria never used her former husband’s name after … afterward. She had it legally changed, you see.”

  Vida said nothing, but her hand remained in place.

  “Oh, where’s the harm?” Mrs. Smith murmured as her cheeks grew pink. “He’s been dead for twelve years. It was Mitch Harmon. Mitchell Edward Harmon, to be exact. He was an airline mechanic. Do you need to know anything else about him?”

  Of course Vida did, but even my House & Home editor has her limits. “That’s fine, Mrs. Smith. Thank you. Do have a safe journey.” Her hand finally slipped away, permitting Ida Smith to depart into the sunless afternoon.

  “Well!” Vida shot me an ominous glance, then stalked back to her desk. “Now, what was that all about?”

  “She feels guilty,” I suggested. “Mrs. Smith wants us to think fondly of Honoria and Trevor. Now that Kay’s been murdered, all those matrimonial escapades have come back to haunt her.”

  Vida arched her eyebrows. “The sins of the mother? Perhaps. Or is Mrs. Smith afraid that in the course of the investigation, we’ll learn things that will harm her children’s reputations?”

  Replacing Leo’s chair, I shrugged. “We know—” I caught myself. “We think we know that Trevor killed Mitch Harmon. Maybe Mrs. Smith doesn’t realize that Honoria has admitted that much.”

  Vida was peering through the small window above her desk. “There’s Honoria’s car. They’re leaving. Now, why didn’t Honoria call on us as well as on Milo?”

  Edging next to Vida, I watched the Nissan go down Front Street, heading for Alpine Way. “Honoria is coming back. She said so.”

  The right-turn signal flashed, and the specially rigged car headed for the bridge and the road that led to Highway 2. My eyes scanned the heart of the business district, taking in the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, Harvey’s Hardware, the Bank of Alpine, Parker’s Pharmacy, the Venison Inn, and, of course, the Clemans Building. Beyond those anchors of Alpine commerce, I could see the hospital, the medical and dental clinics, St. Mildred’s Church, and a patchwork of houses, mostly small, some with tin roofs, others painted garish colors to defy the omnipresent leaden clouds.

&n
bsp; The Whitmans were heading toward a different setting. I imagined palm and cypress trees, the roar of the ocean, the warm sun casting shadows on Spanish-mission architecture. If I’d ever been through Pacific Grove—and maybe I had, on some long-ago trip down the coast—I didn’t recall the town. But it was home to Ida Whitman, and to Trevor as well. No doubt they would find some comfort there.

  “Why Startup?” I asked, the thought seemingly born out of nowhere.

  Vida, however, wasn’t taken aback. “You mean Honoria? Yes, I’ve wondered about that. It seems an unusual choice. Milo might know,” she added grudgingly.

  “There are several arts-and-crafts enclaves in this state,” I pointed out. “LaConner comes to mind. Port Townsend, the San Juan Islands, Stanwood, Seattle itself.”

  “Honoria didn’t want to live in a big city.” Vida had resettled her beret and was putting on her brown tweed coat. “She never said as much, but I’m sure it’s true. The rustic life appealed to her.”

  So it seemed. But I still found Honoria’s choice odd, since Startup is so small that it doesn’t always appear on maps and isn’t known for anything except its natural tranquillity.

  “Where are you going?” I inquired as Vida started for the door.

  She didn’t break stride. “The sheriff’s. Alpine Medical Supply. Stella’s. The phone company.” Vida was out of the office before I could ask any more questions.

  Carla returned five minutes later, looking smug. “I got pictures,” she announced, patting her camera. “The workmen didn’t catch me until I’d shot almost a whole roll.”

  “Terrific,” I said with enthusiasm. “What about Toby Popp? Was he there?”