Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

My House & Home editor was understanding. “It’s the immediacy. You discovered the body. We all know Stella and the others at the salon, not to mention Honoria and her family. The killer has struck very close to home.”

  Vida’s words struck home, too. As we walked through the rain I noted that Front Street was now virtually clear of snow, and so was Third, at least as far as where it crossed Cedar. In Alpine, looking south means looking up, viewing the town as it climbs Tonga Ridge. I could see all the way to the cul-de-sac off Fir Street, which is where my log house sits nestled among the trees. Until today, snow had clung to the evergreens that flank the mountainside almost to the crest. The steady rain had washed the branches clean. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen the trees so bare since November. Maybe spring was coming after all.

  Bill Blatt’s offer of a chair for his aunt was declined. “I can read standing up,” Vida asserted with a wave of her hand.

  I tried to look over her shoulder, but since Vida is almost six inches taller, my success was limited. “Interesting,” she remarked, pushing the fax along the counter in my direction. “Don’t you think so, Billy?”

  Billy looked bewildered. There was no sign of any other sheriff’s personnel except for Toni Andreas. I saw Vida dart a glance her way, and knew that Toni was next on the interrogation list.

  But Vida bided her time. “See here, Emma,” she said, pointing to the record of calls made on Monday, February 13. “There’s only one long-distance charge, at four fifty-two, to Pacific Grove. That would be the undertaker. Isn’t that correct, Billy?”

  Bill Blatt was once again squirming under his aunt’s scrutiny. “We haven’t had time to check. Should I do it now?”

  Vida nodded solemnly. “I should hope so, Billy. Or do you have a reason to wait?” The sarcasm was almost hidden behind her mild tone.

  I, however, was beginning to feel a bit like Bill. Then Vida’s point dawned on me. “There’s no call to Castro Valley,” I said. “That’s where Honoria’s sister lives, isn’t it?”

  Vida gave another nod. “Exactly.” She pursed her lips, watching Bill dial the number in the 408 area code. “That means no one notified Cassandra of Kay’s death until Tuesday. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Honoria or Trevor could have called from Alpine,” I pointed out. “Maybe from here.”

  Bill spoke a few words into the receiver, then hung up. “You’re right, Aunt Vida. That was the Pacific Grove funeral home. They received Ms. Whitman’s body last night.”

  “Ah!” Vida said in an undertone. “Trevor has arrived, then.”

  “The funeral is Monday at ten o’clock,” Bill added, obviously eager to please his aunt. “Actually, it’s a memorial service. Mr. Whitman requested cremation.”

  Vida had retrieved the list of phone calls. “Do you remember if Honoria or her brother telephoned their sister from here on Monday?”

  Bill’s face worked in concentration. “They made some calls,” he said at last. “But I think they were trying to get hold of their mother in Startup.”

  Vida lifted her eyebrows. “ ‘Trying’? What do you mean, Billy?”

  “Well …” Bill cleared his throat. “I don’t think she answered the first couple of times. Ask Toni—she might remember.”

  Toni Andreas was pretty in an angular sort of way, with a boyish figure and close-cropped brown hair. During Adam’s brief courtship of her, my son had decided that she was dim and had no sense of humor. With the arrogance of youth, he couldn’t endure the lack of either. Milo, however, had informed me that Toni was reasonably bright and fairly efficient. Otherwise he wouldn’t have hired her full-time. The sheriff apparently didn’t care if Toni could keep the rest of the staff rolling in the aisles as long as she helped keep them on their toes.

  I trailed along after Vida as she approached Toni’s area at the far end of the curving counter. Toni looked daunted as my House & Home editor approached.

  “We keep a log of all calls,” Toni said, in answer to Vida’s first question. “It’s done by computer. I can print out the Monday list, if you want it.”

  “We do,” Vida replied, at her most majestic.

  Toni fiddled around with her computer keyboard, then went over to the printer, which was next to the far wall, close to Milo’s office door.

  “Here,” said Toni, handing Vida a three-foot-long sheet of paper. “Incoming calls are on the left, outgoing in the right-hand column.”

  The gaze Vida riveted on Toni was enough to melt the snow on Tonga Ridge. “We should have access to this list all the time, not merely when a homicide has occurred.”

  Toni sat down again, virtually huddling in her chair. “You’ll have to ask Sheriff Dodge about that,” she mumbled.

  “So I shall.” Vida scanned the list. “My, my! I see you have some of the same cranks we have at The Advocate! Certain persons seem to have nothing better to do than bother the local law-enforcement agency and the weekly newspaper.”

  Vida, who probably had half of Alpine’s phone numbers memorized, referred to the usual bothersome calls we received during the week. Some criticized our grammar, some objected to our content, some simply wanted to complain about something. And then there was Averill Fairbanks, who was always sighting a UFO in his backyard, atop Mount Baldy, or up his rear end. My staff and I knew the various types of pests, and accepted them as part of the job. Sometimes they were a nuisance; often they were amusing; only rarely were they helpful, though I held a secret theory that many journalists actually enjoyed the calls and letters because they added spice to what is often routine.

  Vida was still studying the list. “Darla Puckett must have hardening of the arteries—she never used to be so silly.… Ellsworth Overholt is always insisting there’s a cougar roaming his pasture—that’s ridiculous this time of year.… Now, whatever is Elmer Kemp calling about? That one beats me.…”

  But Vida finally gave up musing over the vagaries of Alpine residents and concentrated on the matter at hand. “No, there aren’t any calls to California on Monday. There are three of them to Startup, however.” She shoved the printout in front of me. “Is that Honoria’s number? I must confess, I don’t know it.”

  I did, and verified the fact. Switching gears, I gazed at the list faxed to the sheriff by the phone company. Stella’s Salon registered only outgoing long-distance calls. The beauty parlor was a total blank, but a swift perusal showed that Honoria made quite a few out-of-area calls: Seattle, Tacoma, Everett, Bellevue, Edmonds, Issaquah, Kirkland, LaConner, Bellingham, Yakima, and, of course, Alpine. Though barely thirty miles separated the two towns, toll lines ran between them. I turned to Toni. “Can you tell if a call went through from this?”

  Toni shook her head. “No, only that it was placed and at what time.”

  Vida was wearing a bemused expression as she handed the list back to Toni. “This is most interesting. Thank you, Toni. By the way, have you any notion of where Becca might have gone?”

  Toni’s aquiline features looked pinched. “I sure don’t. Becca’s solid. She’d never run out on her job. I’ve been majorly upset since she didn’t come back to work this afternoon.”

  Vida was very serious. “We’re all upset, Toni. Had she been seeing anyone?”

  “Not really.” Toni’s limpid brown eyes glistened with tears. “There was some salesman she kind of liked, but they’d never gone out. Becca met him at the Venison Inn when he was on his way to eastern Washington. He gave her his card, but I don’t think he’s come back this way since.”

  “When was that?” Vida inquired.

  Toni sighed. “A week or two ago? I honestly don’t remember. I told Becca I bet he was married.”

  Vida recognized a dead end when she saw it. Thanking Toni, she started for the door. But Dustin Fong entered before we got that far. Vida pounced.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe haven’t any idea where their daughter might have gone,” Dustin reported. “They’re pretty upset. I got a search warrant to check out her apartment
, but I didn’t find anything.”

  “What about a description of Eric Forbes?” Vida asked.

  Dustin wore a penitent expression. “They only met Eric once, when he and Becca came for Christmas. Mrs. Wolfe said he was tall, dark, and handsome. Mr. Wolfe said he was runty, brownish hair, and homely. The Wolfes don’t agree on much, I’m afraid.”

  Vida inclined her head, the pillbox slipping precariously over one ear. “Neither of them is very observant, alas. I trust you found no photographs at Becca’s apartment?”

  “No, ma’am.” Dustin sighed with regret. “Not even a wedding picture.”

  Adjusting her hat, Vida smiled warmly at Dustin. Obviously, she considered him an outstanding rookie on her roster of informants. “No doubt Becca didn’t feel sentimental when it came to Eric or her marriage. It’s a pity that her parents are so self-absorbed.” For Vida, the comment was extremely charitable.

  On the way back to the office, Vida couldn’t contain her excitement. “What can it mean? I simply don’t understand. Oh, dear—I so hate to be baffled!”

  We were waiting to cross Third Street, with a brisk wind at our backs. I felt baffled, too. “Are you referring to Cassandra or the three calls to Mrs. Smith?”

  “Both,” Vida replied as we hoofed it to the next curb. “Don’t tell me that Trevor or Honoria called Castro Valley from a pay phone. That makes no sense. Why would they do such a thing when the call could be made from Milo’s office? The only communication between the Whitmans and Cassandra occurred when she called while we were visiting. Do you remember what Mrs. Smith said?”

  I reflected back on our Wednesday visit to Startup. We had commiserated with the Whitmans only forty-eight hours earlier. Somehow, it seemed like weeks.

  “Mrs. Smith talked about the grandchildren and how worried Cassandra was,” I said, feeling the west wind pushing me ever forward. “She mentioned Cassie’s concern a couple of times.”

  “Indeed she did,” Vida replied. “If you ask me, Mrs. Smith put too much emphasis on her other daughter’s concern.” We had passed Parker’s Pharmacy and were now crossing Fourth as a yellow school bus returned from its daily run. “But why was Cassandra worried? As far as we can tell, she was never notified of Kay’s death.” Turning into The Advocate, Vida gave me her gimlet eye. “I don’t believe Honoria or Trevor or their mother bothered to notify Cassandra. I think she called her family in Startup by chance. What do you suppose that means?”

  Leo Walsh was getting ready to go home. When he saw Vida and me return to the news office, his face took on a sheepish look.

  “I’m off to eat some humble pie,” he declared. “My hot-shit source in Carmel dried up on me.”

  At first, I couldn’t think what Leo was talking about. Then I remembered his old pal, Jake Spivak, who supposedly was going to dig the dirt for us.

  “That’s okay,” I reassured Leo. “Honoria probably moved away before Jake arrived in Carmel.”

  “That’s true,” Leo allowed, fastening the hooded down jacket that he’d acquired after his first winter in Alpine. “Jake moved there just a couple of years ago. Still, he might have asked around. But his wife, April, doesn’t expect him back until Monday.”

  “We won’t be back until then, either,” I said, glancing at the clock, which stood at almost five. “Enjoy the weekend.”

  Leo flipped the hood over his head. “I’ll enjoy it more than poor Jake will. He got stuck in San Francisco with our old boss.” Snatching up an almost empty pack of cigarettes, Leo shook one out, clicked his lighter, and exhaled. “Jesus, sometimes I think I’m luckier than some people—all my wife did was run off with another man. That’s normal, for chrissakes. But this poor bastard married a broad who’s not only nuts, but now she tries to kill herself. It’s too bad she didn’t do it right. Her husband’s a hell of a guy. Tom Cavanaugh deserves better. See you Monday.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I READILY ACCEPTED Vida’s offer to follow her home and have a cup of hot tea. The Buick’s taillights led the way up Sixth Street to Tyee, while my windshield wipers seemed to keep time to an old folk song, “Delia’s Gone.” Except it sounded like, “Sandra’s gone, one more round, Sandra’s gone.…”

  But she wasn’t. Sandra had survived. It was Tom who had gone, out of my life and over the edge and free-falling into my past. What did it matter that his wife had slashed her wrists or swallowed sleeping pills or hooked up a hose to the Rolls-Royce exhaust pipe? I’d finished with Tom. He had no power to affect my life.

  “Emma lies,” went the wipers, “one more round, Emma lies.…”

  Vida’s tidy bungalow was filled with a different song, the melody spun by her canary, Cupcake. Vida greeted him with little cooing noises, then turned the burner on under the teakettle.

  “You should have pressed Leo for more information,” she said in faint rebuke. “It would have been natural enough. I almost quizzed him myself, but your reaction put me off. I’m glad Leo didn’t notice how pale you turned.”

  I had now regained much of my composure. “It’s stupid. I’ve put all that behind me. But having Leo mention Tom out of the blue … I was surprised, that’s all.”

  “Flummoxed,” Vida agreed, setting two exquisite English bone-china cups on the kitchen table. “Flabbergasted. All those things. Do sit, while we wait for the kettle to boil. I’ve got some cookies somewhere.…” Vida twisted around, glancing at shelves, cupboards, and counters. “Danish shortbread, quite delicious … Now where …? Aha!”

  As I’d suspected, the cookie tin was decorated with merry elves and prancing reindeer. No doubt Vida had avoided the holiday offering because of her diet. If the contents had been tightly sealed, they might still be fresh.

  But except for the pleated paper containers, the tin was empty. Vida’s jaw dropped, and then she chuckled.

  “Roger! I thought I heard him rustling around in here a week or so ago. So cunning, the way he figures out where Grams hides her treats! And so adorable when he nibbles away like a little chipmunk!”

  Having seen Roger cram a mound of mashed potatoes into his kisser and create an illusion that he’d swallowed a softball, I didn’t quite buy Vida’s affectionate version of her grandson’s eating habits.

  “I’m not going to tell Leo,” I declared. “There’s no reason for him to know about Tom and me.”

  Vida had emptied the cookie wrappers into the garbage and resealed the tin. “Perhaps not. The question is, I suppose, why you find it so important to keep Leo in the dark.”

  I had no difficulty meeting Vida’s steady gaze, but giving her an answer was much harder. “Well,” I began as the teakettle whistled and Cupcake sang along, “it isn’t just Leo. It’s everybody else in this town.”

  Vida waited until I finished speaking before she got up and went to the stove. “Frankly, Emma, that doesn’t make much sense. Nobody in Alpine knows Tommy,” she said, using the nickname that my House & Home editor considered her exclusive prerogative. “Oh, he was here for a few days four years ago, but except for the Advocate staff and Milo and a handful of others, no one actually met him. Adam’s existence is proof that he had a father. Why would you care if Grace Grundle or Harvey Adcock or Jack Mullins could put a name on him?”

  Staring at Vida’s plaid place mat, I tried to think through her query. “You’re right,” I finally said. “I don’t care about Grace or Harvey or Jack. But I do care about Leo knowing, because he knows Tom. Maybe I’m merely guarding my privacy.”

  Having waited longer than usual for the tea to steep, Vida poured us each a steaming cup. “I can understand that. But I think you’re being overly protective. You worry too much about what Leo thinks, perhaps because you don’t want him to invade your life. Now, that’s wise from a professional point of view,” Vida went on quickly before I could interrupt, “but personally, I’m not so sure. You’ve built such sturdy walls around yourself, Emma. You’re isolated.” Vida lowered her eyes and picked up her teacup. “Just like me.”

>   I’d expected Vida to compare me with Honoria, rather than herself. Or to say that small towns are good hiding places for the heart. Until that moment I hadn’t thought much about the similarities between us.

  Cupcake had stopped singing while the rain spattered against the kitchen windows. Buck Bardeen had been the first man in Vida’s life since her husband’s death. His arrival had led her out of self-imposed exile, and now it seemed that she wanted me to follow.

  “I’m not in love,” I said flatly. “Not with Tom, not with Leo, not with … anybody.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Vida replied calmly. “Being ‘in love’ is a state of mind which comes unbidden and often goes in the same way. Nor do I refer to celibacy. Intimacy is so much more important. I’m speaking about friendship, about affection, about trust. None of us should cut ourselves off from these very basic human needs. I almost learned that too late. You still have time.” Daintily, Vida sipped her tea.

  I, too, drank, though I noted that my hand shook a bit as I raised the cup. “Change is tough,” I remarked in a hushed voice.

  “Oh, yes.” Vida nodded. “Don’t I know it?”

  “You’ve done it, though.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know how I feel. About Tom and Sandra.”

  “I know.” Vida nodded again.

  “I’ve tried to hate him.”

  “That only works for a short time.”

  “I’ve tried to forget.”

  “That takes much longer.” Vida got to her feet. Cupcake was hopping around in his cage, flapping his wings and cheeping. “Dear me, he gets so fractious this time of night. I believe he needs a bath. Tomorrow, precious.” Vida made a clucking noise with her tongue.

  Resting my head on one hand, I tried to focus on my goals in life: Being a good person. Being a good mother. Being a good journalist. Surely they were worthy ideals, of which I’d often fallen short. Was something missing? Of course it was, and I’d always known it, but so what? Nobody has everything. That was part of the human condition.