by Mary Daheim
“How'd she seem?”
“Okay.” Paula paused, apparently thinking through her perception of Crystal. “If anything, she was kind of revved. I thought she was being enthusiastic about my glass pieces, but in retrospect, it may have been more than that.”
“Like Victor?”
Paula shrugged. “Could be. I'm not sure how serious that relationship was. I'm guessing it wouldn't be because of Aaron. That guy was nothing but trouble.”
Trouble was what Crystal seemed to have found, enough of it to force her to take her own life.
I wondered if Milo knew where those sources of trouble might have come from. Aaron Conley or Victor Dimitroff, perhaps.
Or even Milo.
But I didn't want to think about that possibility.
THERE WAS SOMETHING of a buzz about Crystal after Mass Sunday morning. Francine Wells, who seemed friendly if a bit uncomfortable in my presence, said she'd never met Crystal but figured her for an oddball.
“Most women come into my shop to at least look,” she told the little circle that had gathered around Father Den on the wood-framed porch of St. Mildred's. “Not Crystal. Somebody told me she wore nothing but ethnic outfits.”
“She wasn't wearing anything at all when I saw her,” I put in. “She was in the hot tub.” I glanced at Father Den, who acknowledged my statement with a slight incline of his head.
However, Ed and Shirley Bronsky's heads turned as if they were on springs. “You met Crystal?” Shirley gasped, huddled in her black mink coat. “I thought you two hated each other.”
“And a meaningful Advent to you all,” said Brendan Shaw, wearing his insurance agent's grin. “Hey, Father Den—maybe we should go back and start over with Mass. I don't think it took the first time.”
Everyone laughed except Shirley, who was still regarding me with a curious expression. It was pointless to keep my meeting with Crystal a secret. In Alpine there are no secrets. The grapevine is long and active, even without Vida's considerable help.
“Gosh,” Ed said in wonderment when I'd finished my brief recital, “you must have been about the last person to see her alive.”
“It's possible,” I allowed, darting a furtive glance at Den.
“I don't get it,” Ed declared. “People shouldn't kill themselves. Life's full of surprises. Look at me, for instance.”
I did. Ed Bronsky had worked—well, sort of—as The Advocate's ad manager until a few years ago. He was full of gloom and complaints, lacking in ambition and energy, and it was only my soft heart and softer brain that prevented me from canning him. Then an aunt in Iowa had died and left him several million dollars. Ed had quickly retired to a squire's life and built a so-called villa above the railroad tracks. He and Shirley were the quintessential nouveaux riches, hosting the occasional lavish party “to show off,” as Vida put it, and often asking the guests to bring along “a little surprise.” Like the booze or the steaks or the hot dog buns. Ed was that kind of guy.
“We're looking at you, Ed,” Francine said in a dry tone. “Your point would be …?”
“That if you live right, everything will turn out fine,” Ed asserted, sweeping a pudgy hand over the luxuriant length and considerable width of his fur-trimmed camel-hair overcoat.
Father Den flinched. “I don't think that was the same kind of camel-hair outfit that John the Baptist wore in the desert,” he said, alluding to this morning's gospel from St. Mark.
“Huh?” Ed gave our pastor a curious look. “No, I guess not. It was hot over there in the Holy Land. You wouldn't need a coat.”
Marisa Foxx had slipped between Shirley and me. “On the other hand,” she said in an undertone, “you saved yourself the price of a lawsuit.”
“Did I have one?” I asked, turning to look at Marisa.
She smiled and shrugged. “I don't know. I was going to check into it this afternoon at home. I don't mean to be callous, but Crystal saved several people some trouble.”
“Did she?” I wanted Marisa to elucidate, but Brendan Shaw had caught her attention. My gaze wandered out to the parking lot, where vehicles were making their way through the unplowed snow. It occurred to me that Ed could have used his idle time to help out Father Den by clearing the lot. In fact, I recalled that Ed had originally been in charge of the shelter project, as St. Mildred's liaison with the other churches. As usual, he had kept a low profile, burrowing down in Casa de Bronska.
“Hey, Ed,” I said, grabbing him none too gently by the camel-hair sleeve, “what kind of progress have you made with the women's shelter?”
Ed stared at me. “Progress? How do you mean? The Alpine Hotel site is all mired down in legal stuff. You know those Californians.”
“That was months ago,” I said. “How recently have you checked in with them?”
Ed turned to Father Den. “You talked to somebody in Santa Barbara a while ago, didn't you, Father?”
Den shook his head. “I thought you were going to do that.”
“Gosh.” Ed removed his expensive fedora and scratched at his bald spot. “I guess I got mixed up. I'll give them a buzz tomorrow.”
Shirley tugged at Ed's arm. “You can't, Ed. You're going into Bellevue tomorrow to meet with your publishers.”
Ed smacked himself alongside the head. “Right! Gosh, I can't keep up with everything these days.” He offered Father Den and the rest of us an ingratiating smile. “The meeting tomorrow is huge. Skip and Irving didn't like the offer from Spielberg. To tell the truth, I didn't either, though Mr. Ed is a natural after that big war movie he's got coming out. In fact, we played around with changing the book title for the movie and calling it Saving Mr. Ed.”
Having read the original manuscript, I felt there was no possible way of saving Mr. Ed. The only thing I could save was myself, and I quietly ducked out of the little group as Ed raved on about other film deals, tossing around names like Coppola and Lucas and Cameron as if they were on his Christmas-card list. Maybe they were. I wouldn't put anything past Ed.
That afternoon, I drove over to the college to see the glass exhibit. I'd promised Paula that I'd take it in, though I had assigned Scott to cover the story. He'd gotten the photos back from Buddy Bayard on Friday. They looked okay, though it was a shame we couldn't run them in color.
All the works had been done as windows or door insets. Most were mediocre, though there were a handful—including three by Paula—that were quite beautiful. I was surprised to see that one of the names on a luminous sunset was Melody Eriks.
I was admiring the delicate pinks and lavenders and blues when a young woman came up beside me. “Do you like it?” she asked in a shy voice.
I turned. Even without the name tag identifying her and stating her credentials as an exhibitor/guide, I would have recognized Melody Eriks. She was a younger, prettier version of her mother, April. The daughter was taller, but small-boned, with the same big brown eyes. The fair hair hadn't gone gray, but the mouth and the nose were almost identical to her mother's.
“Yes,” I responded, looking again at the sunset, “it's beautiful. You must have a gift for glasswork.”
“I love art,” Melody enthused. “I've always drawn and painted. But this is much more interesting. I'm working on a sunrise to match.”
Holding out my hand, I introduced myself, then waited for Melody's reaction. There was none.
“Do you like stained glass?” she inquired.
“Very much,” I said, nodding to the Episcopal rector, Regis Bartleby, and his wife, Edith. “I'm a friend of Paula Rubens. One of these days I'm going to splurge and buy a piece from her.”
Melody's face brightened at the mention of Paula's name. “Ms. Rubens is the most wonderful teacher. If you signed up for her class next quarter, you could make your own. There were several older students taking it fall quarter.”
My smile was strained. There were some days when I didn't mind being middle-aged. There were very few when I enjoyed being reminded that most of my forties were in the rear
view mirror.
“I met your parents yesterday,” I said, changing the subject. “Mrs. Runkel and I stopped in to offer our condolences.”
“Because of Aunt Crystal?” Melody sounded open to other ideas. Certainly she didn't seem aggrieved by the reference.
“Yes. How is your mother doing today?”
“Okay.” Melody gave a little shrug, then strolled over to the next exhibit. “Mom and Aunt Crystal weren't close. What do you think of this one? It's my cousin Tiffany's. We took the class together.”
Tiffany Eriks, whose family I knew better than Melody's, had done something with a seagull. It was perched on a piling with the ocean in the background. As clichés go, it was adequate. At least I could tell it was a seagull.
“The colors are a bit muted,” I said. It was a kinder description than dull.
“I don't think Tiffany's really into it,” Melody said without malice. “She has trouble focusing. That's why she's never finished college.”
I figured Melody for nineteen, maybe twenty. Tiffany was a few years older, and currently working for Platters in the Sky at the mall. She had bounced around between jobs over the years, which meant she didn't focus on a career, either.
“My brother's too focused,” Melody said as we moved on to the last piece, which was another of Paula's. “He's starting his master's next quarter at the University of Washington. Thad wants to be a Wall Street wizard.”
My eyes widened in surprise. Seldom had I heard Wall Street mentioned in Alpine, and upon those rare occasions when it came up, the context was always derogatory, as in “Those bloodsucking bastards on Wall Street.”
“Your brother must be an ambitious guy,” I remarked.
Melody giggled, a rather unmusical sound, considering her name. “He wants to get rich. He's been reading Forbes and all those other magazines since he was fifteen.” She pointed to Paula's final piece. “Isn't that great? Look at those colors.”
The stained glass was also large, intended, perhaps, for a tall window on a staircase landing. The central figure was a breast-plated goddess, with her sword raised on high, and the ruins of a city in the background.
“Minerva?” I guessed.
“No, Hera,” Melody replied. “This shows her after she helped the Greeks destroy the Trojans. Isn't she magnificent?”
She was. Her armor, sword, and shield were a burnished gold, which was reflected in the flames of Troy. The flowing skirts seemed to move, and the handsome face was exultant.
“How long did it take Paula to do this?” I asked.
“I don't know,” Melody said. “A long time, I'd guess. The detail is so rich.” She looked beyond me and made a face. “Here come the old folks. Reverend Nielsen brought a vanload in from the Lutheran retirement home. Excuse me, I've got to show them through.”
I studied Hera for a few more minutes, then headed out of the RUB. On the way to the parking lot, I spotted Nat Cardenas, looking as if he'd just come off the ski slopes.
“Emma,” he said in that charming tone he reserves for civic leaders, the press, politicians, and whoever else he figures can do him some good. “How are you?” He whipped off a heavy glove and put out his hand.
“You've been skiing?” I asked.
Nat shook his head. He was a rugged, handsome man in his fifties with thick iron-gray hair and deep-set dark eyes. “Snowmobiling,” he answered, then gave me his engaging smile. “It's not a good day for it, though. I decided to come back to the campus and get some work done before I went home.”
“I was taking in the glass exhibit,” I said in a conversational tone. “Paula and her students have turned out some nice things.”
Nat gave a single nod. “Paula's an excellent instructor. She has rapport with the students and she knows how to teach. We were lucky to get her.”
“You've been able to hire some first-rate people,” I said, hoping the praise wasn't too transparent. “After three years, does Alpine feel like home?”
Nat tipped his head to one side, gazing up at the snow-covered evergreens that had been left standing as a backdrop for the campus. “Yes, it does. Of course, it's quite a change from L.A.” He laughed in his self-deprecating manner.
Skykomish Community College had recruited Nat from a JC in Los Angeles. His previous years had been spent in various parts of the Southwest, and his Hispanic roots were from somewhere in Texas, where he had grown up poor but ambitious.
“Alpine is a huge change,” I remarked. “I'm glad you've adjusted. Many people who come to the Pacific Northwest from sunnier climates often find this part of the world depressing.”
Nat gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Not at all. I like the weather changes.”
“Good for you.” I smiled. “You've been here long enough to know you can take it. The rain and snow drive some people over the edge. Which reminds me,” I continued, not needing any such reminder and finally weaving my way to the subject of my quest, “you have to wonder how much effect all our snow had on Crystal Bird. I lived in Portland for years, and some winters we didn't have any snow at all. She must have felt isolated down there at Baring when the roads got impassable.”
Nat's charming facade disappeared. The expression that emerged was distant, even austere. I actually liked it better. “I figured she enjoyed being alone in her little aerie,” Nat said.
“All the better to sharpen her claws on the rest of us?” I forced a small laugh.
Nat made a noise that sounded like “Hmm-mm-m.” Then he cleared his throat and put the glove back on his right hand. “Public figures are always fair game. Or so the expression goes. I've never seen anything fair about it.” The glove was back on; so was the mask. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Emma,” he said with his big smile, “I'd better head for the office so I can get home in time for dinner. Justine is making something special.”
Justine was Mrs. Cardenas, a rather handsome, if somewhat asocial, woman. I sensed that she came from money, and wondered if her bank account had helped put Nat through graduate school. As Crystal had done with Dean Ramsey—but with less fortunate results.
As soon as I got home, I called Ben in Tuba City. For once, he was at the rectory.
“What's up?” he asked in his crackling voice. “Did you get Adam's message?”
“I did. I've tried to call you four times this week, but you were always out. How come you never called back?”
“Because my answering machine is broken,” Ben replied. “It seems to take messages, but it's only a tease. I never get them at this end. Bob Spotted Dog is coming to fix it tomorrow.”
Bob Spotted Dog was the Navajo handyman who could fix just about anything. He had been invaluable to my brother, who could fix nothing, and had long ago given up trying.
“I'm not really happy about you and Adam visiting Tom Cavanaugh,” I said, disdaining small talk. “How come?”
“How come?” Ben sounded puzzled.
“Don't be dense,” I retorted. “You aren't in San Francisco. Neither is Adam.”
“But that's where I'm going for a two-day meeting,” Ben replied. “Thus, Adam will fly in from St. Paul and meet me there instead of going straight through to Seattle. It gives me a chance to finally meet my nephew's father. Why are you pissed?”
I'd been asking myself the same question for a week. “Because I seem to be the one factor left out of this entire equation,” I said. “Tom and I are Adam's parents. Tom has, upon occasion, declared his undying love for me. Tom is now a free man. And, while everyone else seems to be yukking it up with Tom, including my ad manager, I have not heard word one from the SOB.” The last few words fell from my tongue like hot lead.
My brother is a compassionate man, a priest who has devoted his life to God and to the service of others. He lacks neither charity nor patience. Ben's virtues are admirable, enviable. But he is human.
“You know,” he said, his voice deeper but still crack-ling, “I'm damned pissed with all your melodrama. What's wrong—you don't have a p
hone? How the hell did you call me? You can't do the same with Cavanaugh?”
“It's not up to me to call,” I snapped. “I'm not the grieving spouse.”
“Bullshit. How many times do I have to tell you that you enjoy all this thwarted-passion crap?” He stopped to take a quick breath. “How's this? I tell Tom you want to marry him. I insist he gives me an answer. If he says, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I cannot go on without the help and support of the woman I love, ‘ what do you say?”
“You wouldn't dare.”
“I would.”
I didn't doubt Ben. But I doubted myself. “I'd say yes.”
“Liar.”
“Try me.”
“I will.” Ben paused again. “Do you want me to bring him gift-wrapped and stuff him under your Christmas tree?”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, sounding unintentionally sarcastic. “I want to hear his answer to your question first.”
“Do you.”
There was no question in Ben's voice. But there was sarcasm to match my own.
On Monday morning, I sent Scott Chamoud to interview Victor Dimitroff at the hospital. According to the sheriff's log, Victor's accident had occurred Friday night at ten-forty. He had been traveling eastbound at the time.
When Vida heard about Scott's assignment, she flew into my office. “How could you? Talk about sending a boy to the mill! Why wasn't I given this Russian?”
Looking up from the Wenatchee Forest news release that had showed up at The Advocate Friday, I offered Vida my most innocent expression. “Because it's an accident story. Because it's hard news. Because it's Scott's beat.”
“How often do you interview people who've been in auto accidents?” Vida demanded, leaning on my desk. “If you did, Durwood Parker would be an entire series.”
“Okay,” I allowed, sitting back in my swivel chair, “so this is a little different. But if Victor Dimitroff really is a composer, it's a feature. He's going to be released today, and for all I know, he's leaving the area. You don't do this kind of feature, Vida.”