Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  Vida seemed to take the rebuke in stride. “Oh, very well, have it your way.” Getting to her feet, she offered the sheriff a frosty smile. “I do hope you’re being more aggressive about Becca. You’ve checked up on Eric Forbes, of course.”

  Milo finally lowered his gaze. “Yeah, right. KingCo can’t locate him. Nobody’s seen him since yesterday.”

  Vida sniffed. “Nobody in King County has seen him, you mean. I suspect he’s been sighted in Skykomish County, though.” My House & Home editor started for the door. “Let’s hope,” she added with a glance over her shoulder, “it wasn’t by Becca. Good night, Milo. Come along, Emma. I must put Cupcake to bed.”

  Saturday dawned predictably gray and wet. I tried to think of a good reason to crawl out of bed, and thought of my son. I still hadn’t talked with Adam since our gloomy conversation earlier in the week. After a shower and a cup of coffee I dialed Tempe.

  Adam didn’t answer. It was an hour later in Arizona, not quite ten o’clock. On a whim, I called my brother at the Tuba City rectory in the northern part of the state. Ben’s crackling voice came through on the second ring.

  “Hey, Sluggly,” he said, greeting me with my childhood nickname, “what’s happening? I haven’t talked to you since I got those gruesome pictures. I figured you were going to surprise me and take a midwinter break. It’s sunny and sixty-five on the reservation. How about a visit?”

  Why not? The thought lodged in my brain with unexpected excitement. I didn’t give a hoot about the sunshine, but I cared deeply for my brother. A side trip to Adam in Tempe was immensely appealing. To hell with debt and bank balances and deadlines and homicides and screwy wives who shackled their husbands to the bedpost.

  “Early March,” I said, breathless. “I’ll take a four-day weekend. Are you sure you want me to come?”

  “Hell, yes,” my brother replied, as thrilled as I was. “Really? I’ll make tacos. No, I’ll buy tacos. Shit, I’ll treat you to tacos at the Tuba City Truck Stop Café. They’re the best. How come you finally decided to head for the great Southwest?”

  “Oh,” I replied, trying to sound casual, “maybe because two of my favorite fellas live there. Have you talked to Adam lately?”

  Ben’s voice dropped a notch. “Yeah, last night. He’s going through A Crisis, capital A, capital C. The kid’s serious about this social-work thing, Sluggly. It’s not just a whim. Honest.”

  “Stench …” The familiar retaliation was borne on a sigh. “You don’t know Adam like I do. Everything is A Crisis with capital letters. Maybe I’ve spoiled him. He’ll work his way out of it, though. He always does.”

  “Well …” Ben’s chuckle was almost a choking noise. “Adam’s old enough to make some serious decisions about his future. I’ve had a chance to watch him work with people, and he’s good. He cares. He listens. Oh, he’s still too young to realize that you can’t rush into solutions, or to accept the fact that sometimes there aren’t any solutions. But that’s okay. Whatever he does, it ought to involve people.”

  “He’s likable,” I allowed. “I can’t see him in sales. Or teaching. He sure wouldn’t want to go through medical school. Human resources, maybe.”

  “Maybe.” My brother didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Look, we can talk about it when you get here. But let Adam have his say. Better yet, maybe you’ll be able to see him in action on the reservation. He’s learned some Navajo.”

  “He has?” I was surprised. Adam had struggled mightily with high-school Spanish, having neither an aptitude nor a liking for foreign languages.

  “He’s read a lot about their culture,” Ben continued in a serious voice. “In fact, he’s immersed himself in Native-American lore. That started when he worked on the Anasazi dig two years ago.”

  Adam, with a book. Adam, studying a language. Adam, listening to people whose problems were not his own. I was beginning to feel as if I didn’t know my own son.

  “You’re biased,” I said, irritated. My brother had invaded my maternal turf. “Adam’s grades are strictly average. That’s not because he’s stupid—he’s not—but because he’s lazy. As far as I can tell, college—all three of them—has been one big kegger and dozens of girls.”

  Ben chuckled again, a more natural sound this time. “You’re right—up to a point. But I’ve seen Adam change in the last year. He’s growing up, Sluggly. He’s discovered that the world doesn’t stop at the end of his arms.”

  My child was becoming a man, and I wasn’t aboard for the journey. Adam hadn’t spent much of the previous two summers with me. He’d been with Ben, in Tuba City. Thanksgiving and Christmas always were so busy, so rushed. Maybe I’d treated him like a houseguest, instead of a son. A sense of loss swept over me, as if the rain had come indoors.

  I didn’t expect Ben to understand. He was childless, yet he seemed to know Adam better than I did. For twenty years I’d been unwilling to share my son with his father. Now, it seemed, I’d given him up to his uncle by default.

  “I’m a crappy mother,” I blurted. “It looks as if I’m the one who hasn’t been listening.”

  “Stick it, Sluggly,” Ben said cheerfully. “Adam is always going to sound like a kid to you. Even when you’re about ninety and eating soup with your hands, he’ll still be immature. I may not have children, but I’ve watched them interact with their parents. Mississippi, Arizona, wherever—it’s a cross-cultural thing. It’s called generations.”

  I tried to take comfort from Ben’s words. But I still felt a void deep inside. “I’ll see for myself,” I mumbled. “Two weeks. I’ll call Sky Travel right away.”

  “I’ll order the tacos,” Ben said. “Does Adam know you’re coming?”

  “Ah … no.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d made my decision so impulsively. “I tried to call him a couple of times, but he wasn’t in. I’ll try again later today.”

  “You’re a lousy liar. Don’t bother to confess it. Lame efforts like that don’t count.” Ben now laughed heartily, though his good humor wasn’t entirely for my sake: “Veronica Whitegoose is here to arrange her grandson’s baptism. I’ll talk to you later when you know your arrival time. Chin up, Sluggly. You may not be smart, but you sure are dumb.”

  Usually, Ben lifted my spirits. But upon hanging up, I felt depressed. Instead of phoning Sky Travel, I decided to get dressed and drive downtown.

  Janet Driggers was on duty, apparently having just opened the office at ten. A steaming cup of coffee sat on her desk as she listened to the accumulation of messages on Sky Travel’s answering machine.

  “Just a sec, Emma,” she murmured, signaling for me to sit down.

  I sat while Janet scribbled some notes. Her piquant features grew bored as Leonard Hollenberg droned on about his proposed trip to Hawaii. As one of our three county commissioners, Leonard was definitely a blabber-mouth. I considered going across the street to the Upper Crust to fetch some coffee and maybe a sweet roll, but the call finally ended.

  “One more,” Janet said, holding up an index finger as the next voice played over the tape. It was female, vaguely familiar, and when Becca Wolfe called herself Mrs. Eric Forbes, I jumped in my chair. Janet turned pale and stared at me with startled green eyes.

  “… to go to Cabo San Lucas. I’ve got some coupons from when I worked at the airline in Seattle.…” Becca sounded perfectly normal, allowing for the usual answering-machine distortion. “We’d like to leave a week from today, if Stella will give me the time off. Call me tomorrow at my home phone. The number is …”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “JESUS!” JANET BREATHED after the message had played out. “I thought Becca was missing in action! It sounds like she’s going on a second honeymoon!”

  I was literally on the edge of my seat. “Where did she call from? When? Try her home number. I’ll wait.”

  Janet dialed, a frantic series of motions. Then the travel agent spoke in an anxious voice. As usual, Janet Driggers didn’t worry about tact: “Becca, you idiot, where t
he hell have you been? You’ve had the whole town worried sick! We thought you were dead!”

  I gave another start as I heard Becca’s voice; Janet had turned on the speakerphone. “I’m not.” There was a faint giggle. “I feel totally stupid, but … well, Eric and I reconciled. He’s changed. Really, he has. That’s why we want to go to Cabo. We can get married again there.”

  “Jesus.” Janet’s voice dropped this time as she shook her head in disbelief. “Listen, Becca, if you think any man can … oh, fuck it, you spent the night in the sack, right? Where were you—some motel on Highway 2?”

  Becca didn’t seem to mind Janet’s frank speech. She giggled again. “No, we went to the Lumberjack. At first, we were just going to talk everything out in private, but then—hey,” Becca interrupted herself, apparently catching on to the amplified echo in Janet’s voice, “is somebody listening in?”

  “You bet,” Janet replied. “Emma Lord’s here, and if I had my way, I’d call in Stella and Milo and Fuzzy Baugh and everybody else in Alpine! Goddamn it, Becca, we honest-to-God thought you were cut up in pieces and lying in somebody’s bait box! Why in hell didn’t you tell Stella where you’d gone?”

  Becca’s tone turned defensive. “I tried to. I called Stella twice from the motel, but the line was busy. Then I got … well, involved. Back off, Janet—it’s none of your business. Have you and your husband ever broken up and then tried to get back together?”

  For once, Janet seemed nonplussed. So was I. The idea of the bloodless Al Driggers erupting with any kind of emotion apparently stupefied us both.

  Or so I thought. Janet, however, worked out of a different manual. “You don’t reason with men, Becca,” she said after a pause to marshal her forces. “You haul out the black lace goodies and perform, for chrissakes! Keep ’em loose, keep ’em hungry, keep ’em happy! Power? It’s not fists or guns or politics—it’s sex. Remember that, Becca. Where do you want to stay in Cabo? I’m recommending the Finisterra.”

  Reeling in my chair, I scarcely heard the rest of the conversation. Indeed, before Janet finished, I left Sky Travel, motioning that I would return. Less than a minute later I was in the sheriff’s office. Jack Mullins was on duty, looking sleepy and less than his usual jocular self.

  I gave him my big news. Jack’s incredulity faded swiftly as he contacted Milo, who apparently was at home. After delivering the bare bones about Becca, Jack winced as Milo exploded in his ear. I could hear the sheriff’s irate voice from where I was standing.

  “You didn’t need a phone,” I remarked in a weak attempt at humor after Jack hung up. “What’s Milo going to do, arrest Becca for deceiving an entire county?”

  Jack’s sleepy demeanor had disappeared. “I think he’s going to personally check on the nonmissing Ms. Wolfe and her ex. It could be phony, some kind of setup.”

  It didn’t seem to me that Jack believed what he was saying. And while it wouldn’t do to take chances, I suspected that Milo’s real intention was to confront Becca over her gross negligence. Maybe he’d haul Stella and the Wolfes along for good measure. I couldn’t really blame the sheriff. Becca’s behavior had been inexcusable.

  I stated as much, but Jack merely shook his head in a bemused manner. “You’d be surprised,” he said with an air of apology, “at how many women will take a man back, no matter how he’s treated them. The hardest part of our job is convincing wives and girlfriends to file charges. Sometimes it gets downright dangerous when we get called in to break up a domestic brawl. We turn into the bad guys, while the couple shows a united front.”

  I was aware of the problem, though I’d never understood why women, in particular, defended abusive men. Loyalty should have no part in it, and love was not enough.

  But then who was I to criticize? Abuse comes in many forms, along with broken promises. How long had I put up with Tom hurting me? Maybe I was an even bigger sap than Becca.

  Returning to Sky Travel, I got down to business with Janet Driggers. We decided that my best route to Tuba City was via Phoenix, where I could rent a car and pick up Adam in Tempe. We’d have to drive over two hundred miles to Tuba City, but we could spell each other. Maybe I’d rediscover my son along the way.

  Having completed my travel arrangements, the rest of Saturday loomed empty before me. Briefly, I considered driving into Seattle. I got as far as the bridge over the Skykomish River when I decided that I was starting out too late to accomplish much in the city and also cover a hundred-and-sixty-mile round trip.

  But having gotten as far as the edge of town, I kept going. When I reached Highway 2, I automatically turned west. The Cascade Mountains divide the state of Washington into two very different halves. The eastern part is mostly rolling prairies, farmland, the coulees of the Columbia River, the wheatlands of the Palouse. It is drier in the summer, hotter, with a hint of the Great Plains. In winter, the weather turns cold and snow frequently covers the vast landscape under the broad, brumal sky. For at least half the year it is brown and gold, and would be arid, save for the great dams that provide enough irrigation to feed the masses and make a few farmers rich. The region is almost as foreign to me as the Dakotas or the Missouri River Valley. I am much more at home in western Washington, with its rain, its forest, its more temperate climate, and its rush-hour traffic jams.

  Thus, I drove in the direction that was familiar, down the wet highway with its twists and turns and weeping waterfalls that splashed across the rocky face of the mountains. Somewhere around the Skykomish Ranger Station, I realized where I was going, at least in a vague sort of way: Paula Rubens lived in Gold Bar. The town was sufficiently tiny that she shouldn’t be hard to find. When I pulled into Gold Bar Gas, I made the proper inquiries. Paula lived on the road to Wallace Falls State Park. I couldn’t miss her place, according to the man with the jet-black goatee—she had stained-glass windows all over her house, her barn, and even her privy.

  The privy turned out to be a separate building that was Paula’s studio and hot tub. She laughed when I offered the service-station attendant’s description.

  “There was a privy on the site when I bought the place,” Paula said, ushering me into what had apparently once been a farmhouse. She was a big, cheerful redheaded woman of fifty wearing a caftan that could have covered a small room. “That was eight years ago. I modernized. Hell, I could afford to, at the price I paid for this dump.”

  Paula’s dump was virtually one big room with airy stained-glass windows from floor to ceiling. She had removed the walls, save for a few structurally required beams. The result was an open space that somehow still managed to be cozy.

  “Drink?” Paula offered, the black-and-white-striped caftan swaying around her ample form as she moved across the uncarpeted terra-cotta-tiled floor. “It’s almost noon, and I’m not against a good hit before lunch.”

  Not wanting to be ungracious, I said a small shot of bourbon with water sounded fine. Paula’s bar was what looked like a very ancient armoire in the Spanish style. Or maybe it was Portuguese. My hostess poured herself an ample dose of gin and a slightly less hefty measure of bourbon for me.

  “So you’re the Alpine editor person,” she said with an infectious grin. “I read your paper. It’s pretty well done for a small-town weekly. But then I was raised on The Washington Post. My father was a minor-league spook.”

  Silently cursing myself for not knowing of Paula Rubens’s presence along the Stevens Pass corridor, I made a mental note to send Carla out on an interview. The stained-glass artist sounded like an interesting feature story.

  But for now, I had to limit myself to questions concerning Honoria Whitman. Acknowledging that Paula was a no-nonsense type, I went straight to the point.

  “Naturally, we’re covering Kay Whitman’s murder in Alpine. I gather you’re friendly with her sister-in-law, Honoria. How did you react to the news of Kay’s death?”

  Paula chuckled richly. “Hey, Emma, this sounds like one of those TV encounters! You know, ‘What was your reaction whe
n the nuclear bomb fell on you?’ Shoot, I didn’t even hear about the murder until Honoria asked me to take her cat. Come to think of it, she never brought the animal over here.”

  As if on cue, a pair of Siamese sauntered out from behind the cushion-covered couch. To my surprise, Paula Rubens addressed the cats in French.

  “My little conceit.” She laughed as the cats climbed up on the couch beside her. “I named them Rheims and Rouen after two of my favorite cathedrals. The stained-glass windows, you know.”

  Acknowledging the remarks with a nod and a smile, I grew serious. “Honoria’s cat—Dodger—had an accident. He’s dead, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, shoot!” Paula Rubens couldn’t have looked any more distressed if I’d told her that the cathedrals in Rheims and Rouen had fallen down. “What was it—a car?” She picked up both Siamese and plopped them on her lap.

  “No,” I replied, trying to walk a fine line between candor and discretion. “Somebody strangled him.”

  Paula held her own pets close, though neither seemed pleased at the display of protectiveness. “Oh, good God! What’s wrong with people? Do you blame me for keeping these two indoors most of the time?”

  “Is that because there’ve been other cats killed?” I asked.

  Paula nodded with vigor. “At least two have been shot in the past couple of years, and once in a while some animal gets them. Last fall I heard that a black bear was coming right up to some of the houses around here and mauling both cats and dogs. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere other than in the country—cities are a canker—but let’s face it, there are dangers here, too.” My hostess’s broad face still looked disturbed.

  I could read nothing other than genuine anguish in Paula’s demeanor. There had been far less dismay in her attitude toward Kay’s murder than Dodger’s demise. I sensed that Paula was as open as she seemed, incapable of dissembling. If she hadn’t known Kay Whitman, she wouldn’t pretend to a grief she didn’t feel. The cat was another matter.