The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  But that was far off in the future, and for all I knew, Kip didn't intend to spend the rest of his life in Alpine. I never asked about his long-term plans for fear they didn't include the newspaper. I honestly didn't know what I'd do without him.

  Vida and Scott left at the same time, but Leo was still on the phone. “All these special Christmas promotions,” he said with a sigh as he finally rang off. “I'm not knocking them, but some of our advertisers can't make up their frigging minds about what they want. Just now Clancy Barton changed his mind for the fifth time. He's decided that elves peeking out of Florsheims would be a terrific idea.”

  I'd gathered up my belongings and was halfway to the door. “You dissuaded him, I trust?”

  Leo shook his head. “Not yet. I'm going to let him sleep on it. Maybe he'll get the idea that just because he owns a shoe store, he doesn't always have to show the damned shoes.”

  Leo's phone rang again. I glanced at the clock, which said that it was two minutes after five. Maybe Clancy had already changed his mind. Again.

  But as Leo listened to the caller, his face froze for just an instant. “Yeah, right, good to hear from you,” he said, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Nothing important. Go home.”

  I paused on the threshold. Leo was chuckling into the phone, his face turned away from me. That seemed odd. Maybe Leo had a new lady in his life. With a little shrug, I made my exit. Leo deserved his share of happiness. We all did.

  I wondered what had happened to mine.

  At home that night, I made some notes about Crystal's murder. Victor Dimitroff and Nat Cardenas had been in the vicinity about the time that the killing had occurred. Of course time of death couldn't be pinpointed, because the warm water in the hot tub had complicated matters. Victor had wrecked his car around ten-forty. According to the sheriff's log, Nat had been cited for drunken driving at ten seventeen. Until then, I hadn't noticed how closely the two incidents had followed one another. Notepad in hand, I picked up the phone and called Vida.

  “Goodness,” she said after I finished reciting the times, “they must have barely gotten Victor's car towed before they arrested Nat. It was Dustin who was on patrol, correct?”

  “That's what Milo told me,” I said. “Don't you find this kind of odd?”

  “Certainly.” Vida paused, apparently reflecting upon the coincidence. “Did the two men meet somewhere? Did they know each other? Were they both calling on Crystal?”

  “Nat might have gone to see Crystal for the same reason that Father Den and I did,” I suggested. “To reason with her.”

  “Not that you could,” Vida broke in.

  “I know, but that's not the point,” I said. “We had our hopes. But it's possible, especially if Nat had a few drinks to buoy himself up.”

  “He may have had drinks with Crystal,” Vida pointed out.

  “Dubious,” I said. “You'd have to drink about a gallon of that rum punch to get really drunk, and you'd probably get sick first. It tasted awful. I also doubt that Crystal was a serious drinker.” I didn't want to rile Vida by quoting Paula Rubens, who had said that her late friend was no boozer.

  “Vodka,” Vida put in. “If Victor was staying there, he'd have vodka on hand. You know those Russians.”

  “Not all Russians drink,” I said, but allowed for the possibility. “I wonder how solid Aaron Conley's alibi is. I should have asked Milo when we had lunch today.”

  “It's no alibi,” Vida scoffed. “Taverns close at two A.M. Crystal might have been still alive by then.”

  Again, Vida could be right, though I recalled that two was the outside limit given by the ME. “We don't know when Aaron left the tavern in Monroe. Milo must be having trouble pinning that down. The bartender might be the only one who'd have any idea.”

  Vida sniffed. “I don't frequent taverns, though I'm aware of what goes on. Accuracy, like neatness, doesn't count.”

  “The real question is motive,” I pointed out. “Was it a crime of passion or of gain?”

  “Not passion,” Vida replied without hesitation. “It was planned, don't you think?”

  I uttered a mirthless laugh. “Planned to frame me. Or was I just a scapegoat?”

  “Probably the latter,” Vida said. “Which of these possible suspects knew about your sleeping pills?”

  I sighed. “Any of them could have known, because I blabbed about them so much. The only doubtful one is Victor. It appears he hasn't been around much. Besides, he's a stranger, and who'd feel compelled to tell him that the local newspaper publisher was taking sleeping pills?”

  “Crystal,” Vida answered promptly. “Can't you just hear her? ‘That ridiculous Advocate editor is so upset over my lambasting of her that she's had to resort to sleeping pills.'”

  Unfortunately, the remark suited Crystal. “Why me?” I asked in a peevish tone. Of course I already knew the answer.

  “Because you had a motive,” Vida said reasonably. “As did Father Den, Nat Cardenas, and heaven knows who else. But—to my knowledge—they hadn't gone around town making announcements about their sleeping pills. The pity is that Milo wasn't able to find any evidence concerning who stole your pills in the first place. Indeed, has it occurred to you that they weren't stolen in the robbery?”

  It hadn't. But Nat Cardenas had stopped by my house shortly before Thanksgiving to drop off a news release that his overworked PR person had forgotten to give me. I'd offered him a drink at the time. To my surprise, he'd accepted, though he barely touched it until the ice had melted. A public-relations gesture on his part, I'd assumed, though he asked only for a soda because he didn't drink.

  He didn't drink. Excitedly, I recounted his statement to Vida.

  “In public,” she said.

  “Well… maybe so,” I admitted.

  “Who else?”

  “Father Den,” I said. “You know he was here for Thanksgiving because you were here, too. Not to mention Carla and Ryan Talliaferro and Leo.” I thought back to when I'd quit taking the pills, which would have been when I'd quit paying attention to their presence in my medicine cabinet. “I went off the blamed things right after Halloween. I don't exactly hold open house around here, but quite a few people have been in and out. In fact I had bridge club the first week of November. Just about everybody used the bathroom that night, except the Dithers sisters. They never go to the bathroom.”

  Vida harrumphed, apparently in disapproval of the toilet reference—or of the Dithers sisters in general. “What about your friend Paula?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “she dropped in, too. So did Edna Mae Dalrymple, even when she wasn't playing bridge. Carla came twice without Ryan, and Mary Jane Bourgette, who wanted some help with the parish bulletin.”

  “And Milo?”

  “The only time Milo's been here recently is when I called about the break-in.” I was growing impatient with Vida's grilling.

  “He could have taken the sleeping pills then,” Vida said in a too calm tone.

  “What?” I practically dropped the phone.

  “There've been rumors,” Vida said, still overly calm.

  I hadn't told her about the sheriff's phone call to Crystal on the night of the murder. I wasn't about to do that now. “You're being crazy,” I declared. “What have you heard?”

  “They dined,” Vida replied.

  “They…When? Where?”

  “At the ski lodge, a week before Thanksgiving. November twentieth, I believe.”

  “Like a date?” I was incredulous.

  “I'm not sure. Marje Blatt saw them. She has a new beau, from Index. Quite a nice young man, but suffering through an unfortunate divorce.”

  “Why didn't you tell me this earlier?” I demanded.

  “It didn't seem important.” Vida cleared her throat. “Perhaps it is now.”

  “I hope not. Vida, can you honestly think Milo …?” I couldn't finish the question.

  “Really, Emma, you never know what people will do. Just because Milo is a law-
enforcement officer doesn't mean he's not human. But then,” she added, with an edge to her voice, “you already know that.”

  THE REVEREND OTIS Poole dominated the pulpit at First Baptist Church. He was a big man, well over six feet, with white hair and a barrel chest, who would have looked equally at home as the foreman of a construction crew or in the cab of a logging rig.

  But he'd heard the call forty years earlier while harvesting corn on his father's farm in Nebraska. After serving in churches throughout the upper Midwest for the first ten years after his ordination, Pastor Poole had started his western migration, first to North Dakota, then Idaho, and finally Washington. He'd arrived in Spokane fifteen years ago. It was his first big-city calling, and his wife had hated it. According to Mrs. Poole, after much prayer—and probably even more bitching—they'd ended up in Alpine.

  On this snowy morning in December, Pastor Poole's baritone rolled out over the small gathering that had come to pay its respects to Crystal Bird. There were perhaps forty people in attendance at First Baptist, including the Wailers, a group of women who attended all local funerals, and let out a chorus of high-pitched moans and groans at intervals, both appropriate and inappropriate.

  Vida, who didn't miss many funerals herself, ignored the quartet, who looked like four crows on their favorite perch in the last pew. All of them were dressed in black, including their hats and stockings. In a town where weight is great, they were tall and spare, and, according to Vida, three of them were sisters and one was a sister-in-law. When the sister-in-law's husband had died some ten years earlier, they had put on quite a show of vocal mourning. Apparently, it had given them the impetus to expand their talents, and they had begun attending virtually every funeral in the vicinity. None of their fellow mourners ever said out loud that they minded, but of course they did. You could tell by the grimaces and winces and curious stares from the uninitiated when the performance began with the customary slow, rolling moan that suddenly turned into an outright shriek.

  But there were others on hand besides the Wailers, those who had actually known and perhaps even loved Crystal Bird: her sister, April, and brother-in-law, Mel, along with their two children, Melody and Thad; Aaron Conley, let out of jail for the occasion, and accompanied by Milo Dodge; Paula Rubens, with Dean Ramsey on her left, and Victor Dimitroff on her right; Del and Luana Eriks, offering comfort to their relatives; and Father Den.

  Vida gave me one of her bruising elbow nudges. “Why is your priest here?” she asked in that stage whisper she seems to reserve for solemn occasions.

  “To pay his respects, I suppose,” I whispered back. “After all, he found the body.”

  Vida clucked her tongue. “Poor taste. People will talk.”

  “Vida!” Sometimes her devious mind could still dismay me.

  “A promiscuous woman. The contemporary clergy.” Sadly, she shook her head. “Conclusions will be drawn.” Just for good measure, she nudged me again. “People are also staring at you.”

  They were. Some of the Eriks clan, two of the Wailers, and a couple of people I didn't recognize were looking my way and talking behind their hands. I set my jaw and stared straight ahead.

  Pastor Poole concluded his eulogy, which had consisted mostly of praising Crystal for her enterprising spirit and alluding to her good sense in moving back to the Alpine area. A hymn followed, accompanied by much practiced wailing. Then Thad Eriks rose from the congregation and went up to the pulpit.

  Thad was a pleasant-looking young man in his early twenties, a slimmer, trimmer version of his father. He seemed much more self-possessed and articulate than Mel Eriks.

  “My aunt was a pioneer,” he began, his eyes making contact with his listeners, one by one. “Crystal Anne Bird set a course for herself and never veered from it. There were some who challenged her or disagreed with her, but they couldn't ignore her. She had a powerful voice, and it was heard.”

  “Piffle,” murmured Vida.

  “Social conventions were obstacles to be trampled, not observed,” Thad went on, his voice steady and secure. “Aunt Crystal had spent a lifetime discovering not just the world around her, but herself. The real tragedy is that just as she had begun to understand who and what she was, her life was brutally ended. Aunt Crystal had finally found her mantra.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Vida muttered.

  I saw Victor Dimitroff frown and Dean Ramsey give a slow shake of his head. Maybe they were hurt because they hadn't been part of Crystal's so-called mantra. Meanwhile, Aaron Conley stared into space, as if in a daze. If he hadn't been in custody, I would have guessed that he was strung out on his drug of choice.

  “Aunt Crystal had goals,” Thad continued, “which she was determined to reach. She had her own approach, particularly through her newsletter, Crystal Clear. Critics and naysayers couldn't deter her. She marched to her own drummer, but the route she took always followed her social conscience.”

  “Conscience indeed.” Vida sniffed. “Twaddle.”

  As Thad Eriks further lauded his aunt, I tried to turn a deaf ear. Neither his words nor the Reverend Poole's homage had moved me in the slightest. Vida was right. Thad was spouting meaningless drivel. As for the minister, I couldn't fault him. He didn't know Crystal Bird from Larry Bird. His intentions were good, his faith apparently genuine. But I felt no compassion for Crystal. I still hated her. It would have been much better if I'd felt nothing at all. I was beginning to hate myself.

  My gaze wandered about the church, which was unadorned, except for a plain cross on the altar, a stained-glass window depicting the Good Shepherd, and an American flag. The Wailers had remained mercifully silent during Thad's eulogy, which was beginning to wind down. Two rows in front of me, I saw the Eriks clan. Only Melody seemed moved by her brother's words. The rest sat as stone-faced as Al Driggers, who stood discreetly off to one side, waiting to tend to his duties as funeral director.

  Thad finished and joined the rest of the family. A final prayer was offered by Pastor Poole. Then the organ played another hymn and the service was concluded except for a few last bleats and shrieks from the Wailers.

  Crystal had been cremated, and a solemn Al Driggers now moved to the urn and held it up in front of him, like a priest offering the wine at Mass. No one looked at him. With Mel Eriks in the lead, the family all but bolted out of their pews. The rest of us weren't far behind.

  We didn't get far. Aaron Conley had stopped by the pew where Dean Ramsey was patiently waiting for Paula to help Victor with his crutches. Aaron lunged toward Victor; the sheriff grabbed him from behind.

  But Milo couldn't stop his prisoner from shouting: “You and your precious, pretentious talent! There's no truth, no life, no guts in what you do, you big phony! You ruined Crystal! By God, I'll bet you killed her!”

  The last words were uttered as Milo dragged Aaron down the aisle. The remaining mourners froze momentarily in shocked silence. Then, as if pushed by a giant hand, everyone moved forward practically at a gallop.

  At the door, I turned to look over my shoulder. Al Driggers had also disappeared. The church was deserted; the urn again sat on the altar.

  It was a sad reminder that everyone had left except Crystal. She wasn't going anywhere. She was already gone.

  “Amazing,” Vida declared after we were outside. “I wouldn't have thought that a musician like Aaron would be so articulate.”

  “Or so angry,” I said as the rest of us began to file out of the church. “Aaron must deeply resent Victor. I wonder if it's because they're both in the music business, or if it's more personal.”

  “The latter,” Vida responded as we paused at the edge of the parking lot. “I can't imagine a rock musician or whatever they call themselves these days would care about a symphony-orchestra player. But it would appear that they both cared about Crystal.”

  “Or about her money,” I put in. “Victor may have advised Crystal to cut Aaron off.”

  “If so,” Vida noted, tucking her plaid scarf inside the collar o
f her tweed coat, “he failed. As far as we know, Crystal was still helping Aaron financially.”

  “True,” I admitted. “But not anymore.”

  “Yes,” Vida said, looking up at the gray clouds that hung so low they obscured the trees on the face of Mount Baldy. “Aaron is on his own.” Her gaze shifted to Dean Ramsey, who was getting into a county vehicle which no doubt belonged to the extension agent's office. “They're all cut off. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

  It did, of course. “Don't you find it odd that no one took the urn from Al Driggers?”

  Vida touched her upper lip with her gloved hand. “Perhaps there was some confusion about the arrangements. Still,” she went on in a musing tone, “it is rather strange.”

  “I thought so,” I remarked, but didn't elaborate. It had grown colder, and my black raincoat might have been appropriate for a funeral, but not for subfreezing weather.

  Vida and I had come in our separate cars. Reluctantly, I steered the Jag in the direction of the Erikses' house. I would have preferred going back to work to get a jump start on next week's edition of The Advocate, but felt duty-bound to attend the family reception.

  Since the Wailers never show up for postfuneral events, and Milo had escorted his charge back to the county jail, the reception attendees were small in number.

  Paula had brought Victor with her. “Despite what Doc Dewey said initially, he really can't drive,” she explained as we selected cookies provided by the Upper Crust Bakery and accepted coffee from Luana Eriks.

  “Where's he staying?” I asked.

  Paula made a face. “With me. He couldn't be on his own at Crystal's, and he despises hotels and motels. It seems he's spent too much time in them while traveling with various orchestras. Anyway, what could I do? It seemed like a last favor for Crystal.”