The Alpine Kindred

by Mary Daheim

  John, who seemed to be the spokesman for the brothers, nodded. “That may not be realistic, though. We haven't put out for bids yet. Maybe we'll do that next week.”

  “You'll need an architect,” I remarked. “There're only two in town.”

  “Our younger brother, Kevin, is a budding architect,” John said. “He's studying back in New York, but we're letting him have a go at it.”

  Father Den smiled at the Bourgettes. “Keep it in the family, guys. There's plenty of you to go around.”

  “That's why we're doing all the clearing away ourselves,” Dan said, speaking for virtually the first time. “We don't want anybody else to get their hands on the buried treasure.”

  All three men chuckled, but I looked puzzled. “Have I missed something?”

  John and Dan seemed a bit embarrassed, but Father Den cocked his head to one side and regarded me with a quizzical expression. “The firemen's discovery? The old steel chest? The gold?”

  I still drew a blank. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Den cleared his throat. “It was in the paper, Emma. Your paper.” He gave me a bemused look.

  The fire had occurred while Vida and I were in Cannon Beach, Oregon. Carla had covered the disaster and come up with some excellent pictures. By the time I got back to Alpine, the only article I'd proofed was a follow-up from the investigators stating that the cause was undetermined, but might have been set by kids horsing around with leftover Fourth of July fireworks.

  I was at a loss. “I honestly don't remember anything about a steel chest or—did you say gold?”

  All three men nodded. “A day or so after the fire, the investigators found an old metal box buried under the warehouse floor,” John said, speaking kindly and somewhat slowly. No doubt he thought I was an imbecile. “They opened it up and found what looked like gold, so they turned it over to Sheriff Dodge. He gave it to Sandy Clay, the assayer, who said it was nuggets, probably from one of the mines that were worked around here at the turn of the century.”

  Behind his glasses, Dan's eyes were sympathetic. “It wasn't much of an article. I mean, it was sort of buried in one of the fire stories.”

  Buried treasure, buried news, I thought. Admittedly, I'd only scanned Carla's articles, since they were already printed by the time I got back. My main concern at the time had been for backing an initiative to get a full-time fire department for Alpine, instead of the traditional volunteers. And Vida had remained in Cannon Beach on family matters for another week. Given the distractions that had claimed her attention, I couldn't blame her for not scouring every line in The Advocate. But Carla should have followed up on the gold angle. Maybe she'd been too busy making like a mink with Ryan Talliaferro.

  “So where did this gold come from?” I asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  John Bourgette seemed a bit sheepish. “It's still in Sandy Clay's safe. I think Sheriff Dodge has been trying to trace the metal box, but hasn't had much luck. He hasn't mentioned it to you?”

  If I didn't know the Bourgettes very well, they didn't know me, either. I noticed Father Den wince slightly as my chin jutted.

  “No. The Sheriff has said nothing to me.” Nothing. Not even Hello, Emma. I added Milo to my mental list of idiots and incompetents.

  Dan's gaze was somewhere over my left shoulder. “Maybe you should ask him. Here he comes now. Hi, Sheriff.”

  I didn't turn around.

  Chapter Three

  IF I HADN'T seen Milo Dodge approaching, I suspect he hadn't spotted me surrounded by Father Den and the Bourgettes. Otherwise, his long face would not have registered such consternation.

  “Long time no see,” said the Sheriff, who I'd never described as glib even in happier days. Collecting himself, he shook Den's hand and nodded to the Bourgettes. “Nice party. Anybody try the chicken wings?”

  “Good idea,” John said, a bit too eagerly. “Come on, bro, let's attack the buffet. I'm starved.”

  The Brothers Bourgette departed, while Father Den, who knew what had passed between Milo and me, looked as if he'd prefer talking to someone in deep spiritual crisis.

  “I should be heading back to the rectory,” Den murmured, perhaps reading my mind. “I have to put together my Pentecost Sunday homily. So long, Sheriff. See you in church, Emma.”

  Visions of priests martyred by pagans, infidels, and Nazis came to. mind, but I couldn't picture Dennis Kelly among them. My pastor wouldn't even stand by me in my hour of social and emotional need. But of course I was being too hard on Den. Maybe I was even being too hard on Milo. But I doubted it.

  “So what's this about gold at the old warehouse site?” I asked, and heard the harsh tone in my overloud voice.

  “What do you mean?” Milo, all six-foot-four of him, was looking as awkward as I felt.

  “Just that. Nobody ever told me about a box full of nuggets, and it seems I missed Carla's reference in her story about the fire.” My tone hadn't softened, but at least I was no longer shouting.

  “Oh, that.” Milo scratched at his forehead where the graying sandy hair fell in minor disarray. He was wearing his uniform, though his regulation jacket and hat must have been deposited with Molly Bronsky. “Jeez, I put that on the back burner. So far, it's come to a dead end.”

  “Is it worth anything?” Finally, I sounded almost normal.

  Milo gave a short nod. “Sandy Clay says it's probably valued at around three hundred thousand. Gold's down right now, though.” The Sheriff wasn't looking at me, but in the direction of the bar. “I could use a drink. I only got off duty ten minutes ago.” He pivoted from one foot to the other, and gave me a quick glance. “You need a refill or are you … ?” Milo's laconic voice trailed away.

  I knew he wanted me to say that I was fine so that he could leave me. I wanted to say so, too, but the truth was, my glass contained only ice. “I'll go with you,” I said, and wanted to kick myself.

  One of the things I hate most about small towns is that everybody knows everybody else's business. At least two dozen pairs of eyes followed us as we made our slow, difficult way to Tim Rafferty. I could imagine the whispered comments: “Look, it's Emma and the Sheriff!” “Are they back together?” “Did they make up?” “Do you suppose they'll get into a big fight so we can watch and choose sides?”

  Even Tim could barely suppress gaping at us. But he assumed his professional stance, poured our drinks, and then turned to Rick Erlandson, who was requesting two white wines, presumably for himself and Ginny. Since little Brad hadn't attacked me, I assumed that his parents had actually left him with a sitter.

  Milo edged away from the bar and took a deep swallow. “I've missed you like hell, Emma,” he said in a growl. “I'd like to know if you're happy these days. You look like birdshit.”

  “Thanks, Milo. That's what I really wanted to hear.” I gave him a fierce look, then caught stares from Edna Mae Dalrymple and the Dithers sisters. “We can't talk here,” I said, dropping my voice. “Let's go outside.”

  “How the hell do you get outside in this place?” Milo muttered. “I don't want to use the front. Ed keeps running out there to greet his latest guests.”

  I'd been inside Casa de Bronska often enough to know that there was a side entrance beyond the so-called ballroom. “Come on,” I said. “We can talk in the rose garden.”

  En route, Milo tripped over a stack of magazines and I put my foot in an empty pizza box. In times gone by, we would have laughed over our clumsiness, but now we were merely embarrassed. Eventually we arrived outside, where a cherub spewed water into a marble fountain and the rosebushes showed their first buds of the season.

  There was also a stone bench where I gratefully sat down. Milo joined me, but kept his distance, which wasn't much because the seat was only about four feet wide. I marveled that Ed and Shirley could sit there at the same time.

  “I feel terrible that you're so angry,” I said, and meant it.

  “You should,” Milo declared. �
��I'll be damned if I can figure out why you dumped me. We seemed to be doing just fine.”

  I flashed an angry look at him. “Define fine.”

  “I asked you to marry me.” In the light from the three-quarter moon, his expression was truculent, more adolescent boy than middle-aged man. “What else did you want?”

  “You were too late.” I bit my lip. It was a stupid answer, and I knew it.

  A silence spread between us. At last, Milo spoke, his tone weary. “You know what? I always felt like a backup quarterback to a Heisman Trophy winner. It's late in the game, the score's thirty-five to seven in our favor, so I get to come off the bench. I complete a couple of passes for short yardage, but all the glory goes to the big stud. You know what I'm saying?”

  I did. “No,” I said.

  Milo sighed. “Emma, you're the most impossible woman I've ever met. Even my ex, Old Mulehide, couldn't beat you when it comes to kidding yourself. Tom Cavanaugh is never going to ride into town on a white horse and carry you away. Get over it, for Chrissakes!”

  To my horror, I felt like crying. But I didn't. I hadn't cried for the sake of love since Tom admitted he couldn't leave his wife to marry me even though I was carrying his child.

  “I haven't talked to Tom in two and a half years! For all I know, he's dead!” The anguish in my voice made me cough.

  Milo slapped me on the back. “You know damned well he's not dead. Adam would have told you. He talks to his father, doesn't he?”

  “Yes.” I snuffled and snorted and made other unladylike noises. My son, who was now at a semirtary in St. Paul, had kept in contact with his father for the past few years, even though I'd done my best to keep them apart for the first two decades of Adam's life. It was punishment, I suppose, for Tom's loyalty to his wife, Sandra.

  Shoulders slumped, Milo cradled his drink in his big hands. “You're right. It doesn't matter. It's not just Tom. It's me. I'm not good enough for you. I'm just a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. You like caviar. Or pretend you do.”

  The Sheriff isn't usually given to introspection, but I realized he'd spent the last seven months thinking about our relationship. If the food analogy wasn't entirely accurate, his basic conclusion was probably right. My horizons were broader than his; Milo would call me “cultured,” which he'd translate as snobbishness. Yet we'd shared some interests, and more importantly, had been comfortable with each other. I could hardly tell the Sheriff that it hadn't been enough.

  “Don't knock yourself,” I said with as much vigor as I could muster. “You're a wonderful man. Hey, didn't I fight—and win—to help you get appointed instead of having to stand for election every four years? Would I do that if I didn't believe in you?”

  Slowly, Milo turned to face me. A frog croaked somewhere in the garden, and the fountain made soothing noises. The heady fragrance of hyacinths all but eclipsed the pervasive scent of the evergreen trees. Except for the empty Fritos bag and the Coke cans lying on the grass, I could almost imagine I wasn't in Alpine. It dawned on me that therein lay the real difference between Milo and me: he could never think of being anywhere else.

  “I appreciate your efforts,” Milo said stiltedly. “We broke up just before the election. I never got a chance to thank you. Consider it done.”

  “It's done,” I said tonelessly. “I thought we were going to stay friends.”

  Milo shook his head, a gesture that seemed to drain him. “I can't do that. Not after… not when we were …”

  “Because we slept together,” I put in. “Okay, maybe I understand. But give it time. We were friends for years before we were lovers.”

  Milo didn't respond. He got to his feet, finished his drink, and stared through the twilight in the direction of a rose trellis. “It's easier to avoid you,” he finally said.

  “I've noticed.” My tone was wry, but my heart sank. “I don't have a lot of friends in Alpine,” I admitted. “Vida and you have been about it. I still feel like a stranger here.”

  “Big deal.” Milo paused to light a cigarette. “How many friends have I got? Mainly my deputies, and that's tricky because they work for me. Who else wants to be buddies with the local lawman?”

  The conversation was degenerating into a self-pity contest. “Making and keeping friends isn't easy,” I said a bit brusquely. “That's why it's stupid to throw away what we had.”

  Through a haze of smoke, Milo narrowed his hazel eyes. “I'm not the one who did it.”

  We were back where we started, which was nowhere. “I give up. I can't help you, Milo.”

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then chucked it into the fountain. “You're wrong, Emma. You can't help yourself.” With his long-legged stride, he stalked back toward the house.

  I decided to go home a few minutes later. No one, least of all Ed and Shirley, would miss me. But on the drive back to my house, I realized I hadn't seen Vida. It wasn't like her to skip such an event. Usually, she'd be on hand with all her senses heightened and her camera ready to roll.

  I called Saturday morning to see what had happened. Vida's explanation was, as usual, sensible: “I chose to go to Henry's party first,” she told me after apologizing for any distractions while she gave her canary, Cupcake, a bath. “I knew it would be an early evening, so I left Startup shortly before nine-thirty. I must have just missed you. Ooops!”

  I imagined that Cupcake had temporarily eluded his toilette. “What did you think of Birgitta?” I asked.

  “Aloof. Private. Cool. A Swede.” Vida's comments weren't prejudiced, but the product of her upbringing in a Scandinavian majority. “However, I arranged an interview with her for Monday morning. She was reluctant at first, but I coaxed. Oh, dear!”

  I pictured Cupcake flying around Vida's kitchen. “Did you get any pictures of the party? Or did Carla show up with her camera?”

  “Carla didn't come. As far as I know.” There was a pause and some rather strange noises in the background. Now I envisioned Vida and the canary in a wrestling match. “And yes, I took some pictures. Really, I wish Fuzzy Baugh would try not to edge his way into every frame. He doesn't come up for reelection for another year and a half.”

  “We need to talk,” I said, carrying my cordless phone and my coffee mug out into the living room.

  “So I understand.” Vida had lowered her voice.

  “What?”

  Cupcake let out a squawk. No doubt he had been submerged in his tiny porcelain tub. Or were canaries cleansed by dusting? I tried to picture Cupcake in a bubble bath or wearing a shower cap. My knowledge of avian hygiene was very limited. “You and Milo reportedly had a confrontation,” Vida said while I imagined her ruffling the bird's feathers with a small loofah. “I've been wondering what came of it.”

  Exasperated, I surrendered my canary fantasy and sighed. “It wasn't a confrontation,” I fibbed. “And that isn't what I was talking about. It's something we missed in a story Carla wrote about the warehouse fire.”

  “Missed?” Vida sounded aghast. “What could we miss? Oh, drat!”

  I wasn't sure if Vida's outcry was caused by Cupcake's latest misconduct or her chagrin at having committed an oversight. “If you have time, drop by and I'll make tea,” I offered. “Or lunch, if you come around noon.”

  “Dear me, I can't today,” Vida said with what sounded like genuine regret. “I'm going to Everett with Amy to shop at the mall. One of her girlfriends is getting married for the third time, and she's had the nerve to register at the Bon Marche.”

  Naturally, a shopping expedition with Vida's daughter would have priority. Amy Runkel Hibbert was the only one of her three girls who lived in Alpine. The other two resided in Seattle and Bellingham.

  I left Vida to her canary, and spent the rest of the morning trying to get my garden in shape. The growing season comes later to Alpine. In Seattle, the daffodils would be past their prime and the tulips in full bloom. But here at the three-thousand-foot level, my bulbs were just beginning to unfold. Except for a few early crocuses
and one brave yellow primrose, my yard looked barren.

  But gardening is therapy for me. After filling two plastic bags and one metal bin, I felt marginally better than I had for some time. I also felt filthy, and was heading for the shower when the phone rang.

  It was Leo. “I've got some damned bug,” he said in a hoarse voice I barely recognized. “It came on last night, which is why I didn't go to Ed's big party. Can we do dinner next week?”

  To my surprise, I was very disappointed. Though I hadn't thought much about the proposed trip to Seattle, I must have been looking forward to it. “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too bleak. “But we'll have to wait two weeks. The RUB dedication is next Saturday, and I should stick around for that.”

  “I thought it was in the afternoon,” Leo croaked.

  “It is, it starts at three, but there's a reception afterward, and I told President Cardenas I'd be there.” Now I was wondering why I'd made the commitment. Carla had the assignment, and my attendance wasn't required except as a PR gesture.

  “Okay, that's fine. I'm not going without you.” Leo coughed several times. “Sorry. Hope I can make it into work Monday.”

  “Don't push yourself,” I said, and meant it. Leo was well organized, and probably could put the ads together Tuesday to meet deadline.

  My mood had plummeted again as I faced another empty Saturday night. Briefly, I considered checking out the latest offerings at Videos-to-Go, but somehow that seemed like running up the white flag on my personal life. I'd simply stay home and watch the Mariners on TV. Just like Milo was going to do. Just like the way we used to do together.

  The Mariners lost to the Orioles at home.

  On Sunday after Mass, I tried to call my brother Ben in Tuba City, Arizona. He was out, no doubt making the rounds of his parishioners on the Navajo reservation. I longed to call my son in St. Paul, but having chosen to follow in the godly footsteps of his uncle, Adam was only allowed a certain number of telephone conversations per month at the seminary. We'd already used up his allotment for May.