by Mary Daheim
“Early thirties? He was at WSU when the bank tragedy unfolded. He came back to help JoAnne move to Seattle.” She frowned. “I wonder if Cole will come, too. He’d just started at Western Washington State back then. Denise will know what he’s up to. I hope she knows something.”
“If she doesn’t, Strom will,” I said as Mitch emerged from the back shop.
“Any late-breaking news?” he asked.
“Alas, no,” I said, “except that Laurentis is improving. He insists he didn’t see who shot him or when it happened. He lost track of time, which is understandable, given the bullet wound and blood loss. Besides, I don’t think Craig owns a watch. Time isn’t important to him.”
“Dr. Sung figured it had to be after midnight, judging from the amount of blood he’d lost and given the type of wound,” Mitch said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Craig wouldn’t come into town until after dark, and he must’ve dropped the painting off while the Wickstroms were at the late movie. Their kids probably didn’t hear him. He would’ve stopped by their house between nine-thirty or ten and midnight.”
Vida wore a troubled expression. “Do we assume that Craig lives near the poaching site?”
“Nobody knows where he lives,” I said. “I see what you’re getting at. How did he happen upon the poachers unless he lived nearby?”
“It was beyond the old Petersen farm, correct?”
“That’s what Milo told me,” I replied.
Vida shuddered. “That’s in the same vicinity where Roger found Linda Lindahl’s body. I shall never get over that grisly experience. Poor Roger!” She suddenly stared at me. “Maybe that was so traumatic for him that he finally had to use drugs to cope with the memory.”
“It took him a long time to get to that point,” I said in a neutral tone. “Unless he started much sooner than anyone thought.” Which is damned likely, I thought, trauma or no trauma. At the time, Roger had taken a ghoulish delight in discovering Linda’s corpse.
Vida had ignored my last comment. “I must talk to Thelma Petersen. She should be in touch with some of her husband’s family. Perhaps I’ll stop at the retirement home after work.” She squared her shoulders. “Last call for ‘Scene.’ It’s tasteless to use the Strom Petersen sighting and the new Laurentis painting this week. I need two more items to fill the four column inches.”
Mitch and I exchanged glances. “Why,” I asked, “can’t we mention Amanda returning to the post office? That’s not self-promotion for us.”
Vida nodded. “That’s fine. I might, however, mention that she did a good job in her temporary post.”
I agreed. Having done my duty, I looked back at Mitch. “Your turn.”
He frowned. “I wish I recognized more of the locals. I noticed somebody on the courthouse steps dropping a folder yesterday and chasing the papers all over the place in the wind.”
“Man or woman?” Vida asked.
“Woman. Five-six, five-seven, thirties, good-looking, black fur-trimmed jacket, red slacks.”
“Ah!” Vida exclaimed. “Rosemary Bourgette, the prosecuting attorney. The Bourgettes all have a sense of humor. Rosemary won’t mind being in ‘Scene.’ Anything else? I can squeeze in one more. Leo gave me three.”
Mitch looked as if Vida had thrown down the gauntlet. “I was out of town for a few days,” he reminded her. “Let me think back to last week after the Thanksgiving edition went to press …”
“You’re a good photographer,” Vida said. “Pretend your eye is a camera. I often do that.”
It occurred to me that Vida’s mental photo album could probably reach around the world twice over. Mitch, however, was game. “Two preteen boys at Old Mill Park dressed like Pilgrims going down the big slide,” he said, obediently shutting his eyes. “Irate curly-haired woman honking at car with flasher lights blocking her VW on Alpine Way and Fir. Older guy with telescope standing in the middle of the football field at the high school.” He opened his eyes. “Any help?”
“That last one was undoubtedly Averill Fairbanks,” Vida said. “I never put him in ‘Scene.’ He was probably looking for aliens who’d stolen his turkey drumstick. In a pinch, I could use the Pilgrim boys, but it does seem a bit dated now. By the way,” she went on, turning to me, “I finished Larry’s obit. See what you think.”
I sat down by her desk, noticing that she had a file photo of Larry that had been taken at least fifteen years ago. “Do you think we should run that?” I asked.
“Why not? I’d do it if he hadn’t died in prison,” Vida replied. “Larry was a member of a very important Alpine family. I’m certainly not going to show any pictures of him from the trial or in his jail costume.”
I tried not to wince at the word “costume,” but agreed with Vida’s rationale. “One column,” I said, and began reading:
Lawrence (Larry) Franklin Petersen, 53, died Saturday in Walla Walla, Washington. A third-generation native of Alpine, Mr. Petersen had worked for many years at the Bank of Alpine, which had been co-founded by his grandfather, Franklin (Frank) Petersen. A graduate of Alpine High School and the University of Washington, where he received a bachelor’s degree in Business, Mr. Petersen’s survivors include his parents, Marvin and Cathleen Petersen of Chandler, Arizona; sons Franklin (Strom) of Seattle and Cole Petersen of _________; and a daughter, Denise Petersen Jensen of Alpine. He was predeceased by his sister, Linda Petersen Lindahl. A private service will be held at a later date.
“It sounds fine,” I said. “Most people will know the story behind it. How are you going to find out where Cole lives?”
“I’m going to call Rick right now,” Vida replied. “If he doesn’t know, he can get hold of Strom—or Denise. I debated about listing his memberships and affiliations, but decided not to. Though Larry was very active in the community, it didn’t seem right to lavish too much praise on him.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I wonder if the family wants any kind of memorial donations in Larry’s name.”
“That would be up to JoAnne,” Vida said. “She seems to be in charge, divorced or not. Maybe she hasn’t made up her mind. We could run something on that later.” With an impatient sigh, she picked up what looked like a handwritten letter. “One more for the advice column. This idiot addressed it to ‘Vida Rankle.’ Really, now!”
I laughed. “Is it from Carla?”
“It could be, given all her typos,” Vida grumbled. “I will not even repeat what she did with Darla Puckett’s name years ago. It’s a good thing we caught it in time.”
“Ah, yes.” I stood up, glancing at the time. It was after four. Leo entered the newsroom wearing a big grin. “Christmas bonuses for everybody! I finally talked Gus Swanson into running a full-color double-truck co-op with two other Toyota dealerships in the area for next week. Fleetwood’s getting a piece of the action, too.”
Mitch chuckled. “There go a few hundred more jobs in Detroit.”
I congratulated Leo.
“Just trying to make you stop regretting losing Ed all these years,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh—almost forgot.” He reached into his briefcase. “I stopped by Le Gourmand to get the gift certificate for Amanda as a thank-you. Your fifty bucks and the other fifty the rest of us put in was gratefully appreciated, but I mentioned that since the Hansons’ dinner there would probably be in ‘Scene’ and thus free advertising, they threw in another fifty, figuring it’d cost that much to get a really good bottle of wine.”
I took the embossed envelope from him. “Nice,” I said. “I’ll give it to her just before she leaves.”
An hour later, I was ready to go home, but not until I stopped by the front desk, where Amanda was packing up her belongings.
“Here’s a little something for your good work.” I slid the Le Gourmand envelope across the counter. “Take time out during the holidays to use this up.”
Amanda looked genuinely surprised. “You didn’t have to do anything. I was a real twit the first week. Or so.”
/> “Then you became anything but a twit,” I responded.
She opened the envelope and her eyes suddenly grew moist. “Oh, Emma!” She leaned across the counter and awkwardly hugged me. “Thank you! If you ever need me again …”
“Who knows?” I said as she let go of me. “It’s not carved in stone that Ginny will come back. Bon appétit—and merci beaucoup.”
She gathered up her belongings, and I opened the door for her. “Let me know if you hear any news kiddy-wise,” I called after her.
“I will,” she said over her shoulder. “But Vida will probably find out before we do. She always hears everything first in Alpine.”
I returned to my cubbyhole and collected my coat and handbag. Everything except the county commissioners’ meeting was set. I left Kip in charge, knowing if there were any last-minute problems, he’d let me know. After a brief stop at the Grocery Basket to pick up something ready-made for dinner, I pulled into the carport and went inside. I was unwrapping the fried chicken, mac and cheese, and small Caesar salad when I remembered to go over to the Marsdens’ house to collect the package from Paris.
I got there just after Val had come home from work at the fish hatchery. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, letting me in. “Viv tells me you got something from Gay Paree. How do you rate?”
“Maybe it’s a bomb,” I said, looking at Viv. “Does it tick?”
“If it does, I can’t hear it. I’ll bring it to the living room.”
Val put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let me fetch and carry. I don’t think I’ve ever handled a package from France.”
Viv stepped aside. “Hop to it, then. I’m excited to see what it is. I’ll bet you are, too, Emma.”
“Well … that depends,” I said.
Viv seemed surprised by my reaction. “On what?”
“It’s a long and boring story.”
“It can’t be,” Viv asserted. “Not if it involves Paris. Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I forgot. That’s … you and … oh, Emma … I’m an idiot.”
The Marsdens had gotten to know Tom when he’d come to Alpine for a lengthy visit. We’d told them about our wedding and honeymoon plans. In a matter of hours after giving them our happy news, Tom was dead. And so was Paris, as far as I was concerned.
“Hey,” I said, “don’t feel bad. If I burst into tears every time I hear somebody mention Paris, I’d have drowned a long time ago.”
“I know, but still …” Viv couldn’t stop looking chagrined.
Val entered the living room with the package. Before either of the Marsdens could say anything else that might embarrass them, I suggested we should open it together. Assuming the parcel had been sent by Rolf, the worst that could happen would be a gift of flimsy lingerie. The size and weight of the package, along with the sticker saying the contents were perishable, seemed to indicate something more substantial than sexy underwear.
I was right. It was a huge gift basket full of cheeses, chocolate truffles, cookies, crackers, crisp breads, jam, two kinds of pâté, and a single bottle of wine. There was also a small enclosure card, which I managed to palm before Viv and Val could see it.
“Wow!” Viv exclaimed. “Somebody must really like you! Who is it?”
I decided to tell the truth—or half of it. “A guy who worked for the AP and did a lot of digging for me when that college dean was murdered onstage a few years ago. He’s retired now and living in France. Very nice of him.” I gripped the sparkling Vouvray by the neck. “Here—I’m not a wine drinker. I’ll give you some of the cheese, too. Take your pick.”
“Oh, Emma,” Viv protested, “you don’t have to.”
“I can’t eat this all by myself,” I said. “Even cheese doesn’t keep forever. Take a box of crackers, too.”
“What about your co-workers?” Val asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to spoil them. They get plenty of pastries every morning from the Upper Crust.” The truth was that I didn’t want to have to explain to my staff where the gift basket had come from. The Marsdens finally made their modest choices. Val said he’d dispose of the wrappings. The basket was easy to carry; it was only the unread card tucked inside that felt heavy.
Once I got home, I put away the perishables, dished up the chicken and the mac and cheese on a plate to warm in the microwave, and poured some Canadian and 7-Up over ice. With drink in one hand and gift basket card in the other, I went into the living room. Before sitting down, I looked at Sky Autumn. Maybe, I’d reflected off and on since seeing Forest Watch, Craig’s change of style wasn’t as drastic as I’d first thought. But it was. Despite the tumbling water, the fallen leaves, the rotting tree trunks, Sky Autumn was vibrant, alive, comforting. The new work was gloom and doom—at least that had been my first reaction. Craig had undergone some sort of change between the two paintings. I wondered what, if anything, he’d produced in between. Donna might not know. He sold some of his work to other galleries in the region, though the owners who acquired them never met with Craig face-to-face. I always wondered how he conducted the nuts-and-bolts part of his artistic life. Donna had told me he had an account in a Monroe bank. She also said he’d contacted her from a pay phone a couple of times. According to her, he could sell his paintings for much more. Given his simple lifestyle, I understood that making money wasn’t important to Craig. But his lack of social intercourse seemed to preclude any sort of tragedy that might alter his artistic style so drastically. The only thing I could think of was that even recluses can suffer midlife crises.
I sat down, took a sip from my drink, and looked at the envelope: “Emma,” it read, purple ink in Rolf’s spiky handwriting. I took another sip and removed the card.
“You don’t know what you’re missing in France,” he’d written. “Me, I hope. I know you don’t like wine, but Vouvray is sweet. You are not. But I still wish you were here.” He signed it simply “Rolf.”
Damn! The man didn’t give up. Or did he delight in torturing me? I shoved the note back into the envelope, not caring if I bent the elegant stationery that the galling words were written on. Maybe Rolf thought it was a Christmas present. But Rolf was Jewish. Hanukkah? No. There was nothing to indicate any kind of holiday, celebration, or remembrance. Rolf was just being Rolf. I took another sip from my drink.
Five minutes later, I’d put my salad in a bowl and was taking my dinner out of the microwave when the phone rang. I’d left the receiver on its cradle in the living room, so I had to hurry before the call trunked over to voice mail.
“I just got back from visiting Thelma Petersen,” Vida announced. “She is surprisingly upset about Larry. Elmer, of course, was uncommunicative. You’d think it might be the other way around, since Elmer is Larry’s blood relative.”
“Elmer was never very communicative about anything,” I said.
“Except when it came to trouncing every Republican president since Abraham Lincoln,” Vida noted with bitterness. “Old fool. But to get back to Thelma. She’s convinced that Larry was killed by another inmate. She insists it happens all the time in prison. I know that it does sometimes, of course, but I hate to think there’s a cover-up in Larry’s situation. Do you think Milo could find out?”
“I wondered about that,” I admitted. “Maybe he should. If Thelma’s blabbing about it at the retirement home, everybody in town will eventually hear the rumor. Why don’t you ask your nephew Bill to prod the sheriff?”
“I’ll do that,” Vida said, “though I believe Billy is on duty tonight. I hope he’s not out patrolling the highway if the weather gets bad again.”
“Was that all Thelma had to say?” I inquired.
“Oh, certainly not. Both of Elmer’s sisters are dead. They were older than the two boys. Thelma tried to get Elmer to call Marvin and Cathleen in Arizona, but he refused. He insists he’s too deaf to hear his brother, and his brother’s too addled to make sense. He never cared much for Cathleen, he thought she was snooty, but that’s because she woul
dn’t let him bring his goat into their house. Marvin and Cathleen had lovely Persian carpets. I wonder if they took them to Arizona. I always picture people who live there wearing sandals for every occasion.”
“I assure you, Vida, that Ben and most of his parishioners in Tuba City often wore real shoes.”
“You told me yourself that Ben even wore sandals when he said Mass. I found that shocking.”
“I think Jesus and his disciples wore sandals,” I said, accustomed to Vida’s occasional diversions from the topic at hand—or at foot, in this case. “People who live in the desert consider sandals appropriate footwear.”
“Perhaps.” Vida paused, no doubt shifting mental gears. “Thelma should call Marvin and Cathleen. Someone from the family certainly should. I ought to ring them and offer my condolences.”
“Do it,” I said. “You’ve known them forever. What about Cole?”
“Oh—yes. Now that was a surprise. Cole is in Alpine. He came to have Thanksgiving with Denise.”
I was taken aback. “Why? I assumed he’d be with JoAnne and Strom in Seattle.”
“Denise couldn’t leave the dog, and she didn’t have a carrier for him, so she was afraid to drive all that way with such a big animal loose in the car. She thought about putting him in the trunk, but that struck her as inhumane. It is over a hundred-and-fifty-mile round-trip, and not an easy drive with all that traffic.”
“I’m surprised Denise had that much sense,” I remarked. “So Cole’s still here? Is he staying with Denise?”
“No,” Vida replied. “He’s allergic to dogs. He could manage, I suppose, for a few hours. He’s staying with his cousin, Alison Lindahl. She rented an apartment at Parc Pines.”
Something wasn’t making sense. “It’s been going on a week since Thanksgiving. How come Cole is staying on? Has it got something to do with his father’s death over the weekend?”
“According to Thelma, it has more to do with Alison’s roommate, Lori Cobb. She and Cole dated in high school.”
“Lori is rooming with Alison? How did we miss that?”