The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  “I do culture.” She resumed standing straight up. “Just last week, I had the Merry Methodists' Musicale. This issue, I'm writing up the Burl Creek Barbershop Quartet's trip to Monroe.”

  There was indeed a fine line between such assignments. Basically, they depended on who received which news release. The established groups, such as the churches and private organizations, sent most of their releases to Vida. In the past, anything else was parceled out between Carla and me. As the new mother's successor, Scott had taken over the stories I wouldn't or couldn't do.

  I didn't mind offering Vida an apology, however. “Maybe I should have let you interview Victor. But I need to load Scott with work so that he gets a sense of urgency and makes his deadlines. As you may recall, he hadn't finished two of his features for last week's issue, and we had to fill the holes with holiday recipes.”

  Vida inclined her head, which was covered with a faux-fur hat sitting so low on her forehead that it almost obscured her eyebrows. “You have a point. However, you should have considered that an interview with Victor—at least as conducted by me—would not have been limited to musical composition.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “But what's the point of digging around in the guy's private life? Crystal's dead, he's probably out of here, and anything you find out would be inappropriate in an article about his musical background.”

  The eyebrows merged with the fur. “There's always curiosity.”

  “I know,” I said, grinning at Vida. “To be frank, I want to forget about Crystal and move on. She was a sour chapter in my life. For once, I'm not curious about the rest of her miserable life. Just hearing about it would get me mad all over again. The poor woman killed herself, and that's that. Which reminds me, you do the obit, and I'll do a brief page-one story.”

  “You have confirmation from Milo as to cause of death?” Vida inquired as the hat slipped still farther and her eyebrows disappeared, gobbled up by the animal on her head.

  “Not yet,” I said, “but Jack Mullins told Scott that they expected to hear from the ME in Everett by this afternoon. Surprisingly, it was a slow weekend for dying in Snohomish County.”

  “Not surprising,” Vida responded, turning toward the door. “This time of year, so many sick and elderly people are determined to hang on until Christmas. You know what the obituary page in The Seattle Times and P-Ilook like the last ten days of December. A half, maybe even a third of a page from the nineteenth until the twenty-ninth. Then—whoosh!” Vida's arm flew up. “They have to jump the death notices to a second page.”

  I knew Vida was right. To make up for not having given her the Dimitroff assignment, I told her about Crystal and Dean Ramsey's runaway daughter.

  “Now where did you hear that?” she demanded, leaning back into my office.

  “Paula Rubens,” I said without apology.

  Vida sniffed. “I trust she knows what she's talking about. How long ago did the girl run away?”

  Paula hadn't said. “Several years,” I estimated. “Amber was seventeen, and Crystal was married to Aaron. I suppose the daughter would be in her early to mid-twenties by now.”

  Vida's expression was enigmatic. Then without further comment, she walked away in her splayfooted manner while I went back to the timber ban story. Leo, meanwhile, was on the phone, getting a jump start on his calls for the annual double-truck Christmas church advertising. The two center pages of the December 17 issue would feature each house of worship's special holiday services.

  The mail was late that morning, no doubt due to the Christmas rush. Ginny arrived in my office around eleven with her arms full of envelopes and a couple of parcels.

  “Carla's on her way home,” she said, dumping everything into my in-basket except for the parcels. “I'm taking a casserole over tonight for their dinner. Do you want to make something for tomorrow night?”

  “I thought Carla's mother was coming up from Bellevue,” I said.

  “She is. I mean, she did. But Mrs. Steinmetz doesn't cook.” Ginny pulled her red hair into a ponytail and slipped on a green scrunchy to hold it in place. “Did you know that they're rich?”

  “I always wondered,” I said. “Despite the lowly salaries I can afford to offer, Carla never seemed to have any money problems.”

  “I'm sure that both the Steinmetzes and the Tallia-ferros helped them buy that house in Ptarmigan Tract,” Ginny said. “Carla's hinted as much, but I hate to ask.”

  Vida and I had driven by the Talliaferros' home when we called on April and Mel Eriks. Carla and Ryan had bought one of the larger houses, with four bedrooms and a triple garage.

  “You're probably right,” I said. “College professors don't make that much and Carla certainly didn't earn enough to save money. Which reminds me—how much of a Christmas bonus can I afford to give all of you?”

  Ginny not only worked as our office manager, but as our bookkeeper. It was an ideal situation, since her husband, Rick, handled our account at the Bank of Alpine.

  “Mmm.” Ginny pressed her lips together. “About the same as last year. Maybe fifty dollars more each if Leo pulls in a lot of advertising the last three weeks. Oh, and there's the Christmas-card printing. That should do it. Everybody's due to pay up by the end of the year.”

  Revitalizing the back shop under Kip MacDuff had added much-needed revenue the past three years. “Good. We'll issue the checks a week from Friday, on the nineteenth.”

  Ginny nodded and headed back to the front office. It was a relief not to see her dragging little Brad around with her. The Erlandson offspring was going on two, and his mother had brought him to work with her on a daily basis until September, when she finally put him in the day-care center run by her sister-in-law, Donna. Even though it had been my idea for Ginny to bring Brad, he had gotten to be a nuisance after he became ambulatory. The last straw had occurred when he'd somehow managed to open a printer cartridge and poured it into Vida's ever-present water glass. She hadn't noticed, and her teeth had turned black. The Reverend Bartleby had come by with a story about the newly appointed choir director, taken one look at Vida, and become hysterical. She had been on the verge of calling for help, when he finally simmered down enough to explain. It was hard to tell which of them was the most embarrassed.

  It was almost noon when Milo came into my cubbyhole and closed the door. I was surprised at the gesture, and steeled myself for a personal confrontation.

  I was wrong. Without asking my permission to smoke, the sheriff took out a cigarette, lighted it, and looked around for an ashtray.

  “Here,” I said, reaching into the bottom drawer of my desk. “You know I quit.”

  “Often,” he remarked. “Thanks.” He inhaled, exhaled, and leaned his elbows on the desk. “We got the autopsy report back from SnoCo. Crystal Bird died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Her wrists were slashed after she was dead. We're not sure we're looking at a suicide. Foul play may have been involved. It could turn out that she was murdered.” Milo held the cigarette a few inches from his mouth and gazed at me with shrewd hazel eyes. “What do you think of that, Emma?”

  On the surface, I was shocked; deep down, I wasn't surprised. Then I made the mistake of saying so.

  “Crystal certainly didn't act like somebody who was contemplating suicide,” I said, flipping to a clean sheet on my notepad. “You'd better give me the particulars.”

  “That can wait,” Milo replied. “It's only Monday. Now I want you to tell me exactly what happened while you were at Crystal's cabin Friday night.”

  I know Milo well enough to realize when he's immersed in his role of sheriff. In a town like Alpine, there are times when he can be on duty, but still one of the boys. I've seen him talk fishing and hunting to the locals, then turn around and arrest one of them for felonious assault. Milo doesn't work in a big office building, isolated from the citizenry; he has to live with these people, from gassing up the Grand Cherokee at Cal's Texaco to standing in line at the Grocery Basket. He can josh and laugh and j
oke as he makes his inquiries, but Milo gets the job done.

  I forced a laugh of my own. “If Crystal was murdered, am I a suspect?”

  Milo just looked at me. He wasn't laughing. Neither was I.

  DETAILS.

  Though only two full days had passed since I'd been with Crystal Bird, it seemed like much longer. Maybe that was because I was determined to erase her memory from my life. She had created an anger and a hostility that had soured my soul.

  But I had to think back to Friday night. Piece by piece, I recounted what had happened from the time I arrived at seven-thirty until I left around eight.

  “You poured the rum punch for yourself and Crystal?” Milo asked when I got to the part about my hostess's request.

  “Yes. She was in the hot tub.”

  “Was Crystal eating or drinking anything else?”

  “No.” I tried to picture the kitchen. There had been a partial brick of cheese on the counter and some fruit in a glass bowl. I'd seen no signs of actual food preparation.

  “Were you wearing gloves?”

  “Not when I got the punch. I took them off. Otherwise, I couldn't have gotten my fingers through the handles on the mugs.” Damn. My prints were all over the place.

  “How much punch did you drink?”

  “Do you think I killed Crystal in a drunken rage?” I snarled. Then, seeing that Milo was unmoved by my wrath, I answered the question. “About two swallows. I didn't like it. It tasted bitter.” Just like Crystal. Just like me.

  “What did you do with your mug?”

  “I…” My mind was blank. I'd been angry when I left the deck. I'd gone into the kitchen to make my exit and the phone had rung. “I don't remember. I was on the way out when you called.”

  “Right.” At last, Milo's gaze shifted away from my face. “You left after that?”

  “I went back out onto the deck and set the phone down. I told Crystal who was calling. Then I left.” It was my turn to offer a hard stare. “How come, Milo? Why did you call Crystal?”

  “That's irrelevant.” He stubbed out his cigarette and the hazel eyes resumed their hold on me.

  “Did you go there that night?”

  Silence. Then, just as I was about to explode, he asked if Crystal had mentioned anyone else who might have been coming to see her.

  “We didn't chitchat,” I responded frostily. “It was all business.”

  “Did you see any sign of anyone having been there?”

  I'd noticed only the Merlin motif and the crystals and the goddesses. There'd also been the older, if sturdy, living-room furnishings. The rest was a blur.

  “You mean like a straight-edged razor?” I asked in a dry voice.

  Milo had left his sense of humor in the Grand Cherokee. “Like anything that obviously didn't belong to Crystal.”

  “No. I really didn't.” I gave the sheriff a helpless look. “Have you checked up on Aaron Conley and Victor Dimitroff?”

  The muscles tightened in Milo's face. “What do you know about them?”

  I couldn't tell if he meant there hadn't been time to question the men or if he'd never heard of them before. I recounted what little I knew about Aaron, then added the even sketchier information on Victor. “He's being released from the hospital today,” I said in conclusion. “He may already be gone.”

  This time, Milo couldn't hide his surprise. “This is the same guy who was in that wreck the other night?”

  “So you didn't know he was a friend of Crystal's?”

  “No,” Milo admitted. “I knew about Conley, though.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “We're checking on that.” Milo stood up. His head almost touched the low ceiling. “Don't leave town.”

  I grimaced at the cliché. “I wasn't planning on it.”

  I'd lost my appetite. The news office was empty by the time Milo left. Ordinarily, I would have expected Vida to stay through the noon hour until she found out why he'd come, but she was taking her sister-in-law Nell Blatt to lunch at the ski lodge for her birthday.

  My hands were opening the mail, but my mind was deciphering the sheriff's words. Why would anyone slash the wrists of a woman who was already dead? To indicate suicide, perhaps. On the other hand, it was still possible that Crystal could have taken the sleeping pills herself. None of it made sense.

  What bothered me most, of course, was Milo's suspicions. Even more disturbing was that if I thought he'd called Crystal on a nonprofessional basis, he himself could be a suspect. He wouldn't tell me anything about their relationship. But someone must know. I'd talk to Toni Andreas or Jack Mullins or one of the other county employees. Discreetly, of course.

  My brain was still going ‘round and ‘round when I opened the last of the morning mail's news releases. It was from the state department of agriculture, announcing the retirement of Hector Tuck as extension agent for Skykomish County, effective December 31. Tuck, according to the story, had served SkyCo since 1967.

  Replacing Mr. Tuck is Dean Ramsey, former extension agent for Marion County in Salem, Oregon. Mr. Ramsey has been training with Mr. Tuck since December 1.

  I read the news release twice. By chance, maybe by design, Crystal Bird's first husband was moving—probably had moved—to Alpine. It seemed like too much of a coincidence, even in a town where former residents often came home to their roots. I dialed the courthouse, but Hector Tuck was out to lunch. So was Dean Ramsey.

  I tried Milo next. If I was going to be a suspect, I might as well spread the misery around. The sheriff, however, wasn't in his office.

  “He should be back by three,” Toni Andreas informed me.

  Maybe it was just as well that I didn't speak directly to Milo. I gave Dean Ramsey's name to Toni.

  “He was married to Crystal many years ago,” I said, always careful to be specific with the sheriff's receptionist. “It may be just a coincidence that he came here about the same time that Crystal died.”

  “Dean told me he didn't even realize Crystal was living here,” Toni said. “In fact, he just stopped by. He feels awful about her death.”

  “You know Dean Ramsey?” I said, surprised.

  “Sure,” Toni responded. “He introduced himself the first day he started training with Hector. His family's not here yet. I guess they wanted to have Christmas at their old house in Oregon.”

  I was chagrined at not having run into the newcomer on my regular treks to the courthouse. Even more curious was the fact that Vida apparently hadn't known about Dean Ramsey's appointment.

  “Where's he staying?” I asked.

  “At the Lumberjack Motel,” Toni said. “He's a real nice guy.”

  “So Sheriff Dodge knows he's here?”

  “Sure. They had dinner together last week.”

  I grimaced into the phone. “I must be the only idiot who didn't know about Ramsey,” I said. “Hey, Toni—tell me something. I know this sounds indiscreet, but were Milo and Crystal friendly?”

  Toni seemed to hesitate. “I don't really know. She called in a couple of times about some vandalism at her place. He went up to see her at least once. Gosh, do you think they were dating?”

  That's what I wanted to know. “I've no idea,” I admitted. “Probably not,” I added. There was no point in starting idle rumors.

  But of course I already had. “Wow!” Toni exclaimed. “Dodge and Crystal Bird! That's wild!”

  “Now, Toni, as far as I know there's absolutely no—”

  “He's been pretty miserable since you guys broke up,” Toni interrupted. “Maybe he was desperate. Wasn't Crystal sort of weird?”

  “We're all a little weird,” I said, more tersely than I'd intended. “Thanks, Toni. I've got to run.”

  Just as I set the phone down, Scott Chamoud rapped on the door frame. It was a habit of his, despite the open-door policy I had with my staff. Unless the door was closed.

  “Dodge stopped in to see you, I hear,” he said, easing his six-foot-something physique into one of the visi
tor's chairs. He saw me nod, and continued. “I've talked to Mullins and Fong. They've given me all the details, including the kind of sleeping pills that killed the Bird woman.” He gave me an off-center smile. “Sorry. Don't mean to disrespect a dead woman. Anyway, here's all the data.”

  Scott laid a couple of sheets of notebook paper in front of me. “Dilantin,” I said, noting the name of the sleeping drug. “That sounds familiar. Hunh—'time of death, nine P.M. to two A.M.’ That's plenty of latitude.”

  Scott nodded. “That's because she was in the hot tub. The water kept the body warm.”

  I frowned at Scott. “Don't those things turn off automatically as a safety feature?”

  Scott's limpid brown eyes grew musing. And more limpid. “They do in public places. I'm not sure about the ones people have in their homes.”

  “They should,” I said. “People are far more careless at home. Of course, the tub could have shut down and been turned on again.”

  Scott grinned, revealing wonderfully white teeth. “You trying to solve this on your own?”

  I almost told Scott that I felt compelled to find the killer—assuming there was a killer—to exonerate myself. But he didn't need to know that—yet. “It's an occupational hazard,” I explained. “When you cover crime, especially major crimes, in a small town, you get caught up. The old investigative-reporter skills come to the fore. Journalism is seeking Truth. But of course you know that.”

  “Totally,” Scott replied. “Truth is tight. But you can lose sight of all that on a daily basis.”

  I nodded. “I'll have you do the sidebar pieces on the coverage. In a situation like this, I usually cover the straight news.”

  “Sidebars?” Scott blinked. “Like what?”

  “We'll see what develops,” I replied, though I already had a few ideas in mind. As if changing the subject, I asked Scott about his interview with Victor Dimitroff.