by Mary Daheim
“How good of you to share duties with your wife,” Vida said. “And Cole, I believe I heard you’ve been visiting your cousin, Alison, and her roommate, Lori Cobb. We must talk about that later. I haven’t seen Alison since she moved from Everett.” She paused as the Nordby brothers from the local GM dealership walked by, stopping long enough to pay their homage.
“How’s that Buick running these days?” Skunk Nordby inquired.
“Quite well,” Vida informed him.
“You’re due for a tune-up the first of the year,” Trout Nordby reminded her. “Put it on your calendar.”
“I always do,” Vida declared, “just as soon as Parker’s Pharmacy sends me their new calendar.” She leaned out into the aisle to wave at someone. “Speak of the devil,” she said with her toothy smile, “here come Dot and Durwood Parker now. Yoo-hoo!”
I’d almost forgotten how wearing it was to lunch with Vida. Between her family disaster and it being the busy month of November, with the town’s social activities in full swing, it had been at least six weeks since we’d shared a meal. Another dozen or more Alpiners had paused to meet and greet her by the time our food arrived. I’d begun to wonder if I could remember how to talk. When I finally had a chance to test my vocal cords, I refrained from telling her about the letter I’d received. Too many ears were too close to the ground in the Venison Inn, especially with Cole Petersen across the aisle. It was only after we got back to the office that I brought up the subject.
Vida, naturally, was appalled, but quick to zero in on practical matters. “If Milo finds out that other people involved in the murder trial are getting these peculiar mailings, that might help us understand the reason behind the letters, though the timing would still be odd. Why wait ten years?”
“How do we know this person did?” I said. “What if Milo finds out that the judge and the jury and everyone else involved in Snohomish County have been receiving similar letters since Larry went to jail?”
Vida dismissed the idea. “Surely someone would’ve said something over the years. Since the crime occurred here, we’d have heard.”
What Vida meant, of course, was that she would’ve heard. But her argument was convincing. There had always been a strong link between not only the towns of Alpine and Snohomish but the city of Everett as well. Many former timber industry families had moved farther down the road when the original mill had closed, and later, when logging was sharply curtailed in the 1980s. Everett was as far west as you could go on Highway 2 without ending up in Puget Sound.
Later that afternoon, Vida received a phone call from Al Driggers informing her that the autopsy had been performed on Larry Petersen. The Walla Walla County medical examiner had confirmed that the deceased had died of heart failure.
“The interment will probably be Monday,” Vida said after relaying the news to me. “Al talked to JoAnne. Cremation is in Walla Walla, perhaps even today, and the ashes will be shipped here.”
“I assume Strom and Cole will stay on. Did Al mention if JoAnne was coming to Alpine?”
“He thought she would,” Vida replied. “I’m going to try to reach Marv and Cathleen again. Maybe I should do that now. Certainly they can’t be gadding around in the afternoon sun.”
“Arizona can get rather cool in December,” I said, then lowered my voice. “How come you aren’t including Denise on your program tonight?”
Vida looked askance. “I simply couldn’t deal with her on the air. Besides, it seemed like a conflict of interest now that she’s working here.”
That excuse sounded as good as any. “Does she know her brothers are going to be on your show?”
Vida sighed. “I’ve no idea. Strom told me he stopped to see her at the bank on Monday, but they didn’t have much chance to visit. She was fairly busy. As for Cole, I couldn’t say. It’s rather sad. The rest of the family has all moved on, or at least away, except for Denise and Elmer. From what Thelma tells me, Denise doesn’t visit very often.”
“No surprise there,” I murmured.
“Not that Thelma cares,” Vida went on. “She’s too upset about her great-niece Tanya being married in a windmill.”
“I don’t think Milo’s daughter is actually being married inside the windmill,” I said. “It’s in a park.”
“There’s still a windmill involved,” Vida said, obviously taking Thelma’s side. “It’s ridiculous. What if the day turns windy? That’s dangerous with those big things blowing all over the place.” She shuddered. “I mustn’t think about that anymore. I have to finish a few things before I go to the radio station.”
Just before I was about to leave, Leo showed me the mock-up for the Grocery Basket special recipe insert. “Looks good so far,” I said. “I like the nineteenth-century holiday art.”
He pointed to a Thomas Nast Santa Claus. “It’s easy to find Christmas and New Year’s art from that era, but not for the other holidays. A dreidel, a menorah, yes. They don’t change much.”
“Just don’t put a sprig of holly on it.”
“No mistletoe, either. Isn’t that a Druid thing?”
“I think we can skip Druid holidays,” I said, “unless we include Winter Solstice. Now that I think about it, we probably should.”
“Good idea. I’ll find some Stonehenge art.” Leo started out of my cubbyhole. “Did Denise put the pervert through to you this afternoon?”
I didn’t know what Leo was talking about. “What pervert?”
“The guy who wanted to take out a too-personal personals ad,” Leo replied. “She switched him over to me twice, but he hung up both times. I thought maybe she’d tried to let you handle him.”
“No. He may be sleeping it off. Denise said he sounded drunk. And with the holidays approaching, we’ll get more just like him,” I said. “It’s a bad time for lots of people.”
“Oh—one other thing,” Leo said, moving back closer to my desk. “Incredible as this may sound, my ex and our kids would like me to join them for Christmas this year. It’s a Saturday, so I was wondering if I could take off Thursday and come back Sunday night. I’d have everything set for the next edition because so many of the merchants will be holding their post–holiday and pre-inventory sales.”
“Sure, Leo,” I said. “You haven’t used up your vacation. We’ll be fine.” I smiled. “I’m glad. This will be your first family Christmas in a long time, right?”
“First one with all of us together in over ten years,” he said. “I’ve burdened one or two of the kids with my presence—and presents—a few times. It’s going to be sort of strange, but we made it through Thanksgiving.” He shrugged. “We’ll see. Maybe Liza won’t make me sleep on the sofa this time. We’re going to be grandparents in February.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “If you need an extra day, come back on Monday. You’ll still have time for any last-minute work before deadline.”
He blew me a kiss. “Thanks, babe. See you tomorrow.”
I started getting ready to bail out, too. Kip poked his head in just as I was putting on my coat. “Did Denise say anything about not feeling good this afternoon?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s sounds like she’s in the restroom, throwing up.”
“Oh. Well … it is flu season. Let’s hope it’s not contagious.”
“That’s for sure,” Kip said. “Do you think it’s okay to leave her all by herself if she’s sick?”
“I can stay,” I said.
“No, I will. I’ve got a couple of tech problems I want to resolve anyway. I’d rather get them taken care of now instead of waiting until morning. That sort of stuff always gets me off to a bad start.”
“You’re sure?”
Kip nodded and grinned. “I’ll just keep my distance from Denise. I don’t want to catch what she’s got.” He disappeared toward the back shop. It occurred to me that what was giving our new staffer the heaves might be something that Kip would never have to worry about catching.
TEN
MILO SHOWED UP AT SIX-FIFTEEN, BEARING TWO RIB steaks, a fifth of Scotch, and an apple pie. “Some woman in Monroe makes these,” he said, showing me the label on the pie. “Jake O’Toole swears they’re better than Betsy’s.”
“How could he remember that far back? Poor Betsy hasn’t had time to make a pie since she began to help run the store ten years ago. And when Buzzy O’Toole took time off last month to recover after Mike died in the truck crash, Betsy managed the produce section, too. I know Jake told his brother not to worry about coming back until he and Laura had recovered from the initial shock of their son’s death, but it’s been over six weeks and this is a busy time at the store.”
“Buzzy started work again just before Thanksgiving,” Milo said, opening the cupboard where I kept my liquor. “Canadian or bourbon?”
“Whichever is easier to reach.” I opened the oven to check the potatoes. “The younger generation around here has been through the mill lately. If it isn’t drugs or road fatalities, it’s emotional trauma. I’m surprised the Petersen boys agreed to be on Vida’s show tonight. What do you make of it?”
“Not much,” Milo said, pouring our drinks. “Is this going to turn into one of those ‘let’s search our souls’ evenings or what?”
I’d just opened the package of steaks. “You want to jump into the sack right now and skip Vida’s program? I thought you must be hungry.” I gestured at the counter. “You’re the one who brought a special pie.”
“It looked good.” Milo had the grace to seem contrite. “You look good, too.”
I held up one of the steaks. “Well? This meat or …?”
“Oh, hell,” the sheriff said, taking a big gulp of Scotch. “Let’s eat first. We can’t miss Vida and her damned show.”
It didn’t surprise me that Vida could win out even over sex. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll put your steak on now so it’ll get done to your usual old-catcher’s-mitt preference. Grab my drink and go sit down in the living room. Better yet, start the fireplace. I set it up last night, but never got around to lighting it.”
Milo obeyed wordlessly. When I joined him a couple of minutes later, the regional section of the Seattle Times was burning under the kindling and the sheriff was studying Sky Autumn. “It’s realistic, all right,” he said. “Where is it?”
“The creek? I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Carroll Creek, maybe, above the town? Or it might not be a specific creek. Craig could’ve taken different elements from anywhere around here.”
Milo shook his head. “I don’t think so. It looks familiar.” He took another sip of Scotch. “It’s late spring. The leaves are out on the vine maples, the water’s a runoff from higher up. We’ve had two, almost three years of drought. I figure he painted this awhile back. Otherwise, the creek would be trickling, not rushing, over those rocks.”
I realized what Milo meant. I’d always reacted to the painting on a visual and emotional level. But typical of the sheriff’s approach to just about everything, especially his job, he responded to the basics. Who, what, when, and why—that was how his mind worked, and everything had to fit before he could come up with an answer.
“It’s odd that you should mention that,” I said. “When I saw his latest painting at Donna’s gallery, I almost wondered if this one had been painted a long time ago. The style was radically different. Artists seldom go off on tangents. Their work changes more slowly. I don’t know how long it takes Craig to paint a picture or if he starts one and stops, does something else, then goes back to the other one, or what. I’ve no idea how he makes decisions about selling his art. Given the way he lives, I can’t imagine he has a weatherproof storage facility.”
Milo chuckled. “For all you know, he lives in a downtown Seattle penthouse and pretends he’s a hermit just to sound interesting. He can probably make more money as a weirdo.”
It wasn’t the craziest idea I’d ever heard, but I didn’t believe it. “He’s been sighted around here for years,” I pointed out. “Furthermore, Donna says he could charge more if he wanted to because he’s so talented. The really peculiar part is why nobody has come across where he lives and works.”
Milo finally sat down in the easy chair by the hearth. The logs had started to catch. I could feel the fire’s warmth as I took my usual spot on the sofa across the room. I could smell the wood smoke, too. My little log house felt cozy. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I recalled that only a week ago I’d been miserable, spending Thanksgiving alone and full of self-pity.
“Maybe,” Milo said after lighting a cigarette, “somebody has found his place, but didn’t live to tell the tale.”
“Oh, no.” I was vehement. “Sure, there are hermits who kill anyone venturing onto their turf. You’ve told me horror stories about the forest freaks who decorate their hideaways with intruders’ skulls, but Craig’s not that type.” I craned my neck in the direction of the painting above me on the wall. “The man who did that could never kill anyone.”
“Don’t kid yourself. Anybody can do anything, if they’re desperate. Good God, haven’t you seen enough of that as a newshound?”
I grudgingly admitted that was true. “Never mind. I hope Craig got back to wherever he lives. Did anyone see him after he left the hospital?”
“If they did, nobody told me,” Milo said with irritating indifference. “I got busy following up some leads on those tree poachers.”
“What?” I practically shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“They’re leads, damnit. If we arrest somebody, it’ll be in the log.”
I was used to the sheriff’s closemouthed attitude about investigations, but the poachers and Craig were linked in my mind. And his, of course. “Okay, okay. I have to turn your steak and put mine on. We’ll eat out here and listen to Vida’s show.”
Five minutes later, I started back to the living room, but the sheriff was coming into the kitchen, seeking a refill of his drink. “Just half a shot,” he said. “Did you know you were almost out of Scotch?”
“That’s because you haven’t been here for a while,” I said. “You know I don’t drink that stuff. I can’t stand it.”
Milo glanced at the kettle on the stove. “Fresh green beans?”
“Canned. I don’t buy fresh beans this time of year unless I have company. They’re too expensive.”
“I’m not company?”
“I didn’t have time to stop at the store.”
“I did.” He reached for the almost empty bottle of Scotch and poured what was left into his glass before opening the fridge to get more ice. “What’s with all this fancy French cheese?”
I was hoping Milo wouldn’t notice. “A gift.”
The sheriff dropped two ice cubes in his drink, closed the refrigerator door, and looked at me with obvious disappointment. “I thought you were done with that AP guy.”
“I am,” I said. “I didn’t solicit the cheese or any of the other expensive delicacies he sent from Paris. If I had, I’d have asked him to overnight haricots verts for your dinner.”
“What the hell is an ‘arocover’? It sounds like it should be in a zoo along with the asshole from the AP. And why is there smoke coming out of your stove?”
“Oh!” I yanked the oven door open, filling the kitchen with more smoke. “It’s grease. I meant to clean it over the weekend, but …”
I started to cough and my eyes began to water. Milo elbowed me out of the way. “Go sit down. You’re a mess.”
By the time the sheriff had opened the back door, turned the oven off, and rescued the potatoes, it was five to seven. “All clear,” he called. “Come and get whatever’s left of it.”
I’d already set the plates and the cutlery on the counter. “Thanks,” I said in a sheepish voice. “The last week or so has been a real downer.”
“That’s okay.” He used a big cooking fork to put my steak on a plate. “At least you didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving finding out that you’re going to be bankrupted by your daughter’s wedding. I
keep hoping she’ll dump him like she did with her last couple of future bridegrooms. Tanya’s not a good picker when it comes to men.”
“How many are on the invitation list?”
“Would you believe three hundred? Mulehide and I didn’t have more than thirty when we got married, and that included the two of us.”
“As the mother of a priest, that’s one problem I’ll never have,” I said as I finished filling my plate. “I’ll turn on the radio.”
One of Spence’s college students was updating the weather and traffic. Possible chance of snow at the three-thousand-foot level, temperatures tonight in the high twenties, winds up to twenty miles an hour, ice and snow possible on Highway 2 and surrounding areas as well as in Alpine itself. Traction tires required for going over the pass. In other words, normal for December in SkyCo.
A trio of commercials followed, first for Harvey’s Hardware, second for Barton’s Bootery, and third for the Grocery Basket. Next was Spence’s recorded voice saying, “Here’s what we’ve all been waiting for on Thursday nights from KSKY-AM—it’s Vida’s Cupboard. Let’s open the door for an intimate chat with Alpine’s favorite neighbor, Vida Runkel.”
The sound of a creaking door could be heard, followed by a slight pause before Vida greeted her listeners. “Good evening, dear friends and neighbors. Tonight I have the great pleasure of chatting with two members of one of Alpine’s first families, Franklin and Cole Petersen. How lovely to have you …”
Vida continued briefly, explaining that the elder brother preferred going by Strom these days in honor of his Bergstrom grandfather. “Like any family,” she continued, “you’ve had your triumphs and your tragedies, just like the Windsors and the Kennedys and the Roosevelts.”
I marveled that Vida could get out the latter two famous names—unless she was referring to the Roosevelt named Teddy rather than FDR.
Vida continued. “We were saddened by your father’s death this past weekend, and also by the circumstances in which he found himself at the time of his demise. Do you think that his situation had an adverse effect on his health?”