by Mary Daheim
“Che bella!” Moroni burst into the office, making straight for Carla. His parents had been immigrants from Palermo, and while Eeeny had been born in Seattle, he retained a few fragments of their native tongue, especially when he wanted to impress pretty women. “Hey, Carla, you want to make pesto with me?”
Carla giggled. “I can’t. I have to interview Henry Bardeen about the improvements at the ski lodge.”
Moroni, who was spare and sinewy, looked over the top of Carla’s head to Vida. “Vida, cara mia, let’s go in the broom closet and make beautiful music, eh?”
Vida gave him her gimlet eye. “I’ll play the dust mop on your head, Eeeny. Why don’t you marry one of those silly widows who are always having you to dinner?”
Moroni pulled a long face. “You’re a widow, Vida, but you never feed me. How come?”
Vida’s expression was sour. “Because you’re an idiot, that’s why. Isn’t Moroni the Italian plural for moron?”
The former sheriff laughed and made a slashing gesture with his hand. “Ahhh! You never forgave me for arresting your husband as a Peeping Tom, right, Vida? Give up the grudges. Think of the good times we could have.”
Vida shot back in her chair. “Ernest never peeped! That was his brother, Elmo! And that halfwit cousin of theirs, from Skykomish!”
Eeeny leaned on Vida’s desk and wagged a finger at her. “Now, Vida, you know what I always say—The Family ‘That Peeps Together, Keeps Together,’ eh?”
Vida was about to boil over with outrage, but Moroni had already swung around to face me. “Say, what’s this I hear about young Chris? Harvey Adcock just told me he showed up at the hardware store not half an hour ago. Where’d he come from?”
“Hawaii,” I replied as the phone rang and Ed answered it in his lugubrious voice. I’d dropped Chris off at the house about an hour earlier. He hadn’t mentioned any plans to go out, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t. Yet I somehow felt uneasy. “I brought him in from the airport this morning.”
Moroni was studying me closely through his thick glasses, his usual leer displaced by a scrutiny that I felt he’d probably reserved for hardened criminals in bygone days. “Does Neeny know?”
“I don’t think so.” I glanced at Ed, who seemed to be trying to talk Driggers Funeral Home out of its standing four-inch ad. “Chris came over here all of a sudden. He quit school.”
“Aaargh!” Moroni made another slashing motion with his hand, this time more emphatic. “These kids! No staying power!” His dark, lined face displayed a grimace. “So why come to Alpine? Does he expect a big welcome-back party?”
I shrugged, trying to ignore Ed’s doleful arguments and Vida’s aggressive typing. Carla had slipped out the door, presumably to interview Henry Bardeen up at the lodge. “Alpine is home, after all. Where else would he go?”
Eeeny Moroni seemed to take the question seriously. He rocked back on his heels, rubbing his hands together. “Damned if I know. But why is he trying to buy a gun?”
I blinked. Unfortunately, I thought I knew. But I was not going to say so to the ex-sheriff.
Chapter Three
WEDNESDAYS ARE USUALLY set aside for catching up. The paper is finished for the week; the reactions haven’t yet started to come in; and the next edition is just beginning to take form in my mind. After Eeeny Moroni left, I went into my cubbyhole of an inner office and sat down to look at the books. It was the end of the third quarter, and I needed to assess The Advocate’s current financial position. A cursory scanning of the columns told me we weren’t in any worse shape than I feared. But we weren’t any better, either.
Ginny Burmeister had come to The Advocate directly from high school three years ago. She ran the tiny front office, which had its own entrance and led to the former back shop, which was now mainly used for storage in this age of high tech. Ginny answered the phone, took classified ads, sold stationery supplies, filled out small printing orders, and handled the books. A tall, thin girl with auburn hair, she was far more reliable than Carla but had no literary gifts whatsoever. Money was her metier, and I was glad of it.
I opened the drawer of my old oak desk and took out some gum. No wonder my teeth kept trying to fall out, but at least I wasn’t smoking a pack and a half a day anymore.
It was almost noon, and I suddenly realized I was starving. I also knew I should go out looking for Chris. Handguns—if that’s what he was trying to get—were sold in the sporting goods section of the hardware store, but I convinced myself that he wanted a rifle. For deer, or maybe birds. The season was upon us, after all. I didn’t care to dwell on its being open season on Neeny Doukas.
Not that I was an avid fan of Neeny’s. Like a lot of big frogs in small puddles, Neeny was borderline obnoxious. He was accustomed to getting his own way, whether buying people or things. Since his wife’s death in 1986, he had lived alone in a big old stone and stucco house on what was known as First Hill, beyond the high school. Frieda Wunderlich, maybe the homeliest woman I ever saw, came on a daily basis to cook and clean. It was said—by Vida—that employer and employee rarely spoke. Frieda, in fact, might have been the only person who ever got the better of Neeny Doukas.
Before heading for the Venison Eat Inn and Take Out next door, I called my house to see if Chris was there. I didn’t get an answer, except for my own voice, babbling on the recorder. Buzzing Ginny on the intercom, I discovered that she’d already left for lunch. Still stalling, I checked the little mirror above the filing cabinet. I looked awful, with circles under my eyes and the faint mark of a cold sore lingering on my lower lip. Not that I could ever put in a claim to beauty—but there were days when I was quite presentable. This just didn’t happen to be one of them.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low over the town, gray and heavy. The trees that marched up the hills into the mountains looked black and somehow sad. Above the dense forest, Mount Baldy brooded, its long ridge not yet wearing its first cap of snow. In late summer and early fall, Baldy’s crest boasted wild flowers and heather. The colors had faded now, leaving the mountain dark and seemingly bare. I tied the belt to my black trench coat and wondered if autumn had really arrived. Judging by the gold and red and russet of the maples and birch, it had. I didn’t mind; fall is my favorite season.
Front Street was busy, at least by Alpine standards, with a half-dozen cars and twice as many pedestrians. A couple of scaffoldings and several ladders were lined up along the sidewalk, evidence of the third annual Clean-Up, Paint-Up, Fix-Up project. Obviously, the merchants who had postponed their refurbishing would have to hurry before the bad weather set in. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that we should have made some improvements to The Advocate—other than getting a new doorstop for the front entrance.
The noon train, a freight bound for Chicago, slowed, whistled, and kept going. So did I, but not to the inn. Instead, I tramped across the street in the direction of Harvey’s Hardware and Sporting Goods, two blocks away. On the near corner, I glanced up at the marquee of the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. Oscar Nyquist, the bombastic owner, was contenting himself with having the glass on the outside poster displays washed. Originally, the Marmot had been housed in the social room above the old pool hall on Railroad Avenue; but during the 1920s, Oscar’s father, Lars, had built a real theatre on Front Street at Fifth. A miniature, if less lavish version of its art deco city cousins, the Marmot had also undergone a name change early on. Carl Clemans had mused in his droll manner that Lars Nyquist ought to choose something more imaginative than the Alpine Bijou, perhaps a name that would evoke the majesty of the surrounding mountains and forests.
“Goddamn, Carl,” replied Lars, whose origins on the edge of a spectacular Norwegian fjord had hardened him against any less dramatic beauty, “look out the vindow and vat do you see? Nothing but trees and more trees and those goddamn pesky warmints that pop out of the ground and act sassy. Yah, sure, you got it—Vistling Marmot it is, and vill serve you right, py golly!”
> Clemans, finding himself hoist on his petard (or perhaps secretly amused), didn’t argue. The grand opening had taken place in 1924, with Greta Garbo’s first film, Gösta Berling’s Sagg. The show was a big hit with Alpine’s Scandanavian population, but residents of different nationalities demanded Hollywood movies. Lars Nygnist never booked another foreign film. Over seventy years later, Oscar Nyquist was offering Dances with Wolves. It, too, was popular, though some of the old-timers ventured that Kevin Costner couldn’t hold a candle to William S. Hart.
The hardware and sporting goods store, which was divided into two separate sections, smelled of sawdust and paint thinner. Harvey Adcock was a pixie of a man, no taller than I am, with pointed ears and a balding head and quicksilver movements. He was behind the counter of flooring samples, waiting on, of all people, Mark Doukas. I considered beating a hasty retreat, but figured Mark couldn’t stick around forever. Besides, I really should talk to him, too.
Harvey looked past Mark and smiled with lots of small, perfect teeth and twinkling green eyes. “Mrs. Lord! Don’t tell me your hallway panels have come unglued!”
I smiled back. “I’m the only one who has come unglued, Harvey. No, I wanted to get…” I paused, and nodded at Mark, realizing that there was a considerable resemblance between him and his cousin, Chris. Mark was older, taller, and heavier, but the long mouths were the same and so were the jawlines. Both had dark eyes, but where Chris’s were vaguely hooded, Mark’s were faintly shifty. Still, Mark was the better-looking of the two, possibly owing to style, rather than substance. In fact, Mark Doukas was incredibly handsome. That, coupled with the inheritance he would no doubt one day receive, should have made him the catch of Alpine. Yet he remained single, reputedly antagonizing young women such as Heather Bardeen at regular six-month intervals.
“Hi,” he said in a laconic voice, leaning against the counter. His brown bomber jacket looked new; his faded blue jeans looked old.
I was still pausing, now waiting for Mark to mention his cousin’s arrival. But he said nothing about Chris. Harvey was looking at me expectantly.
“Oh—I wanted to get some attachments for my cordless screwdriver,” I said, latching on to the only excuse I could think of, despite the fact that I already had two extra sets, one courtesy of Adam, the other, a birthday gift from my brother, Ben.
Mark kept lolling against the counter. “Go ahead. Harvey and I were just shooting the breeze.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I smiled at Mark. “By the way, we’ve got a small story in the paper today about your prospecting. Frankly, I’m not sure if we got all the facts.” Never admit you’re wrong when it comes to reporting—that’s one of my basic rules of journalism. Allow a margin for error or a lack of detail, but don’t suggest you might be mistaken. I tried to look ingenuous, but at forty, I don’t do it very well.
To my surprise, Mark drew back. “What about it?” he asked.
Since the paper would hit the streets in less than three hours, I opted for candor. “Carla Steinmetz got a call this morning from Kevin MacDuff. He said you’d found gold near Icicle Creek.”
Mark’s face darkened, and he banged his fist down on the glass counter. “Hell! That kid’s as big a jerk as his brother! Wait till I get hold of him” The rest of the threat faded as Mark rushed out of the hardware store.
Harvey Adcock’s eyebrows, which were only a sketch of red-gold hairs, lifted quizzically. “Gold? Mark never said anything about gold. He wanted to buy a crowbar.”
I considered buying one myself and using it on Carla. “Did he mention his cousin, Chris?”
Harvey leaned both elbows on the counter and looked unusually solemn. “Oh, Mrs. Lord, I just about fell over when that young man came in here and told me who he was. He didn’t want to, you know, but I had to ask when he inquired about handguns.”
I tried to keep my voice casual. “Did you sell him one?”
Harvey shook his head with vigor. “Of course not. I had to ask to see his driver’s license. He isn’t twenty-one. Even if he were, there would be a sixty-day waiting period since he’s just come in from another state.” He looked up at a newcomer I recognized only vaguely from the Groeery Basket and called out a greeting. “Hello, Virgil. I’ve got your lumber out back. Do you want to bring the truck around?”
Virgil did, and Harvey called to his nephew through the door behind the counter. “Jason will help Virgil load up. I didn’t say anything to Mark about his cousin. Do you think I should?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure his arrival is all over town, or will be, before the day is out.”
“Neeny will have a stroke.” Harvey came out from behind the counter and headed in his sprightly manner for the tool section. “Unless he’s already had one. Mrs. Runkel tells me he’s in very poor shape.” He hesitated, his hand on a large cellophane-sealed package of more screwdriver attachments than I could ever find uses for in fifty years. “Gibb Frazier told me Mrs. Pratt left town last week. Do you suppose she and Neeny had a spat?” Harvey spoke in a near whisper, though there was no one to hear us.
“I doubt it,” I said, automatically lowering my voice, too. “I saw her Monday driving on the ski lodge road.” There was no mistaking the upswept hairdo of Phoebe Pratt or the bright red Lincoln Town Car she’d recently acquired. The car, along with most of Phoebe’s other expensive possessions, was rumored to have come from the indulgent hand of Neeny Doukas, her longtime lover.
“People are odd,” remarked Harvey, fondly looking at the screwdriver attachments as if he found tools more reliable than humans. “This set has everything,” he asserted.
I was dazzled. “Gee, it sure does. Can it decorate cakes, too?”
Harvey laughed, much harder than the comment warranted. He looked more like a pixie than ever. A loud crash out back wiped the mirth from his face. “Oh, that Jason! He’s so clumsy! Let me ring this up, and I’ll go see what I can to do to help.”
“Never mind, Harvey,” I said. “Just hold it for me. I’ll get it later.” Maybe I’d forget. With luck, so would Harvey. “Say—do you know where Chris went after he left here?”
Harvey was already at the back door. “No, I can’t say that I do. He should be easy for you to find, though.”
“Oh?” My curiosity was piqued. “How come?”
From the doorway, Harvey gave me his impish smile. “Because he’s driving your car. That big green Jaguar is hard to miss.”
Sure enough, I sighted Chris, pulling in down the street at the Burger Barn. I ran along the uneven sidewalk, calling his name against the wind that had blown off the mountains.
He stopped in the parking lot and waited for me. When I got closer, I noted that his expression was more sullen than ever, and that he didn’t seem very glad to see me.
“Chris!” I started to shout, but thought better of it. Two members of the local Chamber of Commerce were just emerging from the Burger Barn. “Chris,” I said, mustering calm and waving at the merchants, “why the hell didn’t you ask if you could use my car? Where did you get the keys?”
Chris looked almost as vague as Carla. “I thought I did ask,” he mumbled. “Do you mind? The keys were underneath, by the left rear door.”
They were, of course, since I always kept an extra set with the car in case I locked myself out. Or more likely, if Adam lost the keys, which he had already done four times in two years, despite the fact that he had spent twenty of those months in Hawaii.
I sighed. “Okay. But be careful. I love that car, even though most of the people here think I’m a snot for owning it.”
“Most of the people here are snots,” Chris said. He scowled at the length and breadth of Front Street. “They’re worse than that. They’re pricks.”
“Some are, that’s true. One thing about a small town: at least you know who’s a prick and who isn’t.” I tried to keep my voice light as I put a hand on Chris’s arm. “Have you eaten lunch? I’m famished.”
With only a minor display of reluctance, Chris le
t me lead him into the Burger Barn. It was busy as usual, with two women clerks from the drug store; the local insurance agent; Dr. Starr’s dental hygienist and her new beau; the Episcopal rector and his wife; a quartet of loggers who were passing through—and Heather Bardeen with a girlfriend I knew only as Chaz.
Now and again I have been accused of having a perverse nature, but I prefer to call it puckish. Thus, I steered Chris over to Heather and Chaz, which wasn’t difficult since they were seated in the booth next to the door. They were also about to leave.
I introduced them and watched Heather’s cornflower blue eyes narrow. “So you’re the long-lost cousin from Honolulu,” she said, sounding pleasant, if not actually friendly. “You must have heard that Neeny is about to croak.”
Chris regarded her coolly. “You said it first.”
Heather’s pouty mouth opened slightly. “Huh?” She gave me a questioning, sidelong glance.
“Chris just got in this morning,” I explained a bit too hastily. “He hasn’t seen any of his family yet. He’s staying with me.”
Heather picked up her purse and the bill. “Well, if you run into Mark the Shark, tell him to go screw himself. For a change,” she added with bite. “Come on, Chaz, we’re going to be late getting back to work. Dad will flip his toupee.”
Heather and Chaz flounced off. I decided not to make an awkward moment any more so by standing around waiting for a booth, so I sat down in the seat Heather had just vacated. The waitress, whose name was Kimberly and who was some relation to Vida, came over to clear the table.
“Heather’s the girlfriend?” Chris inquired after Kimberly had departed in a clatter of dishes and rattle of silverware.
“Ex-girlfriend.” I picked up the menu, though I knew exactly what I was going to order. “She works for her dad at the ski lodge. He runs it for the Norwegians. They all live some place else now—Seattle or Palm Springs.”