by Mary Daheim
We had moved away from the dining-room table to a spot by the fireplace. Vida was across the way, in a head-to-head conversation with Melody Eriks. Pastor Poole and Father Den were in the far corner, perhaps engaging in an ecumenical discussion. I'd always been struck by the contrast between the two men in both style and appearance. The white offspring of a Nebraska farmer and the black son of a career army man had bonded long before Crystal's attacks on the clergy. Yet they found common ground, even when poles apart. Each understood compromise, and out of willingness to give and take, a friendship had been formed. I thought of Crystal's apparent inability to bend an inch and how much grief her intransigence had caused, perhaps even her untimely death.
I must have frowned. Certainly I'd lost the thread of conversation, and Paula had to prod me. “Are you there, Emma? Knock, knock.” She made a pounding gesture with her fist.
“What? Oh!” I laughed in embarrassment. “Sorry. I was mulling over the differences in temperament between people. I'd meant to say that Victor leaves tomorrow,” I noted, recalling Janet Driggers's words at the travel agency.
Paula shook her head. The masses of red hair had been tamed in deference to the solemn occasion and tucked under a silver turban that Vida no doubt envied. “Doc Dewey insisted Victor shouldn't travel—especially by plane—for another week. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with him.”
“Is he a problem patient?”
“You bet. Very demanding, very unappreciative.” Paula eyed Victor, who was sitting in an easy chair with his fiberglass-encased leg propped up on a footstool. “He was quick to inform me that my pathetic little house in Startup is not the Ansonia in New York City. Which, I gather, is where he's headed eventually. Like so many artists, he calls it his spiritual home. About now, I wish it was a ten-story walk-up.”
I glanced at Victor, who was being waited on by Thad Eriks. “Maybe I should pay Victor a condolence call.”
“For what?” Paula retorted. “His broken leg? His rotten disposition? His supposed sense of loss?”
Paula's tone was caustic, but I couldn't blame her. She had become an unwilling nursemaid to a stranger. House-guests of any kind could be bad enough. But maybe I had lived alone too long. Maybe Paula had, too.
Thad had just delivered a plate of cookies and a cup of tea to Victor when I sidled up next to the easy chair. “I'm Emma Lord,” I said in my brightest voice. “I was visiting a friend in the hospital when you were there.”
Victor's granite-gray eyes narrowed. “Whose friend?” His accent was barely noticeable, his voice a basso profundo.
I explained about Carla and my connection with her through the newspaper. Victor was clearly bored.
“Babies,” he said. “There are too many babies. The world cannot hold them all. We are already overcrowded, like pilchards in a tin.”
“Have you ever seen Saskatchewan?” I shot back, and immediately felt silly.
Victor, however, ignored my implication. “Only Vancouver, Toronto, Winnipeg, and Montreal have adequate musical talent,” he replied. “In all of North America, there are no more than six outstanding orchestras.”
I was an opera, not a symphony, devotee. “Which is the best?” I asked, deciding to appear humble.
Victor frowned. Seated, he appeared to be a big man, with broad shoulders and a large head. What was left of his dark hair continued into a neat beard and mustache, all sprinkled with white. His eyebrows were thick, his nose almost delicate. Had the gray eyes not been so cold and penetrating, Victor Dimitroff would have looked almost benign.
“Best?” he echoed, clearly thinking my question idiotic. “Best conductor? Best strings? Best woodwinds? Define your terms.”
I tried not to look as stupid as I felt. “In general.”
Victor spewed peanut-butter cookie crumbs all over his lap. “You should refer to interpretation, performance. Which composer? Beethoven? Bruckner? Sibelius? Rimsky-Korsakov?”
“Such fine points,” I murmured, trying to save face. “As a mere listener, I don't understand. Though,” I added, “I suppose I can see why a rock musician such as Aaron Conley would resent other musical forms.”
Victor's frown deepened. “He doesn't begin to understand music. He is part of a fad, and personally unsuccessful. What will endure of his sort of music? Fifty, even ten years from now, who will recall what so-called song sold the most copies?”
The statement was certainly grounds for an argument, but I declined to take part. “Did you know Aaron before you visited Crystal?”
“We had met.” Victor bit off the words. “In Portland, some time ago. Crystal used poor judgment when it came to love, though it's understandable. As the product of a small town, she married too young the first time.”
Victor finally had a point. I was growing tired of standing next to the easy chair, however. Gingerly, I placed one knee on the footstool. “I'm sorry about your accident. How did it happen?”
Now it was Victor's turn to look discomfited. “Why do you ask? Is this an interview for your little newspaper?”
I reined in my temper, which was always ignited by any slights to The Advocate. “It's my job. I'm covering the story. In this week's issue we wrote about the main facts, along with a background piece on Crystal's life and the official obituary. Next week we'll follow up with some of the details.”
“The details of my life are private,” Victor declared, scowling at me from under those thick eyebrows. “Why does my misfortune make news except in your traffic-accident reports?”
The truth was, I had no good reason to interrogate Victor. But he had given me an idea. “That's the point,” I said. “We're not just interested in your accident and any connection with Crystal, but we plan on doing a winter driving article. With so many newcomers in the area, not to mention the skiers, we thought it would be helpful to tell drivers how to avoid mishaps. Naturally, we need a few examples.” Naturally, I'd had no such story in my head. Now that it was there, I'd pawn it off on Scott.
Victor was still scowling. “To show me off as a bad example?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn't even use your name.” I resurrected the bright smile with which I'd begun the conversation. “We'll talk about when to put on chains, front-wheel drive, studded tires, black ice, compact snow, fresh snow—”
As I'd hoped, the litany obviously bored Victor. “Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “But this is of no importance. If you must persist in interviewing me, then speak of my work, my compositions. Your callow young reporter didn't bother to probe. Now I shall explain what I'm trying to do with my music.”
My knee accidentally slid forward, knocking against Victor's cast. He let out a yip and I hastily withdrew from the footstool. “Sorry,” I gulped. “Are you all right?”
Judging from Victor's fierce expression, I might as well have set off a dozen sticks of TNT under his leg. “Of course not! I am in pain. I suffer. Mightily.” He leaned forward, grasping the cast.
“To get back to the accident itself,” I began, keeping my distance from the footstool. “Did you—”
“Enough!” he bellowed, causing some of the Erikses to turn and stare. “What of my oratorio?”
The fish was fighting on my line, and I was about to lose him. “Please, Mr. Dimitroff, could we get this minor matter out of the way so we can concentrate on your wonderful music?”
Incredibly, the ploy worked. Victor uttered a huge sigh and leaned back in the chair. “Very well. It won't take long. My accident was of a simple nature. The car I'd rented had studded tires, but no chains. I am not used to driving in snow. Indeed, until recent years, I have not been used to driving at all. No one of intelligence has a car in New York or other large cities.”
“That's so.” I nodded with what I hoped was encouragement.
“The car was a standard-model medium-sized sedan, a Ford, I think.” He paused, perhaps trying to recall the model. “In any event, I lost control and it skidded off the highway.” Victor struck his right fist into his left
palm. “Kablow! The car hits a rock, a log, who knows? It is impossible to tell with so much snow. And I am in terrible pain, in delirium. I know immediately that my leg is badly injured. Fortunately, someone with a cell phone stops and calls for help. I think I pass out at least once. The next thing I know, I am being removed from the car and put in an ambulance. Is that what you want to know?”
“Exactly,” I replied, though it wasn't the truth. “Were you wearing a seat belt?”
Victor looked embarrassed. “No. That was a mistake on my part. You may use my carelessness as your bad example.”
“A reminder,” I said, now smiling in sympathy. “Seat belts are mandatory in this state, but it's amazing how many people forget to put them on.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I forgot. That was very stupid.”
“We all forget things sometimes,” I remarked. “I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this when you must be in pain. Physical, as well as emotional. You must feel Crystal's loss deeply.”
Victor lowered his large head onto his big chest. “Yes. We had been good friends. Though she had no true appreciation for music. Happily, she had other qualities. She was a humanitarian and politically aware. While she didn't understand my current composition, she encouraged me.”
“What is it that you're composing?” I asked, trying to pretend that I hadn't heard the word humanitarian in connection with Crystal Bird. “You mentioned an oratorio.”
“Yes, about the fall of France. It will be brilliant in its contrasts. The cowardice, the bravery, the entire gamut of raw human emotions.” Victor smiled, more to himself than to me. “I call it Vichy.”
My gaze was wandering around the living room. Father Den was taking his leave, shaking hands with April and Mel. Vida now stood at the picture window, talking to Thad. Pastor Poole was with the rest of the Eriks clan, though he, too, seemed to be edging toward the front door. Dean Ramsey stood alone by the TV set, looking lost. Paula, who had been refilling her coffee cup at the dining-room table, joined him.
“Your oratorio sounds very ambitious,” I said, for lack of a better word.
“Of course.” Victor shrugged his wide shoulders. “What else would be the point?” Apparently, he'd also spotted Paula. “I'm very tired now and need my medication. Would you please inform my escort?” He slumped in the chair, his body as limp as laundry after the rinse cycle.
Paula noticed, but took her time breaking away from Dean. Victor's cave-in signaled my move in Vida's direction. She had just concluded her conversation withThad, and was looking sour.
“I'm going now,” she murmured as I caught up with her by the coat closet. “We'll discuss this fiasco at the office.”
Not wanting the Eriks family to think that Vida and I were leaving on some sort of cue, I lingered until she made her farewells. Dean Ramsey, however, beat me to the coat closet.
“I have to get to work,” he explained. “It was really kind of Hector Tuck to let me take this much time off when he's breaking me into the job.”
I didn't know the present extension agent that well, but he'd always seemed like an easygoing man. “I'm sure he understands,” I said as Dean put his navy-blue parka on over his dark suit. “Was this awfully hard for you?”
“Well …” Dean tugged at one ear. “It sure brought back a lot of memories. The funny thing is, they were mostly good ones. Until today, I didn't think there were that many of them.”
I gave Dean a wry smile. “As time passes, we tend to repress much of the unpleasantness. I've often felt that was a shame. It would be easier to miss people if you only remembered the bad stuff.”
Dean turned up the collar of his parka. “Oh, I still remember plenty of bad stuff. Crystal had a real mean streak, right up until the end.”
“Divorce is always sad,” I said. “Maybe you were lucky to end the pain she caused you.”
Briefly, Dean seemed puzzled. “Yes, of course. I was lucky.” He offered his hand, then moved to the door.
When he left, he still looked lost.
* * *
“Worthless,” Vida declared half an hour later as she munched carrot and celery sticks in my office. “The Erikses are not a communicative family. What's worse is that they are so obvious in their personality traits. April, feeling inferior to Crystal and intimidated by her, even in death. Mel acting subdued, yet clearly callous about his sister-in-law's death. Melody trying to be a grown-up in a world she doesn't yet understand. And Thad, so arrogant and extremely defensive about his aunt. One wonders why.”
“The heir?” I offered, taking a bite out of the chicken-salad sandwich I'd picked up at the deli in the mall. It was going on two o'clock, and a couple of cookies hadn't been sufficient to stave off my hunger pangs.
“The heir to what?” Vida said scornfully. “I can't imagine that Crystal had accumulated any fortune. Yes, she had the bank buyout, and perhaps she'd made some investments along the way. But,” she added, averting her eyes,“I doubt Crystal had any substantial savings.”
My gaze was reproachful. “Vida—you didn't.”
Her head snapped up. “Certainly not. Just because I work with Ginny doesn't mean that her husband, Rick, would violate customer confidentiality. But one can't help noting when a statement is left in plain sight on someone's desk.”
I could imagine the wheedling and cajoling and perhaps even threats that Vida had used to get Rick Er-landson to print out a copy of Crystal's account at the Bank of Alpine. “How much?” I sighed.
“A bit over fifty thousand dollars. Crystal was living off of it, of course,” Vida went on, once again making eye contact. “She didn't solicit advertising for her silly newsletter, and I doubt she had any other income.”
“Still,” I said, “fifty grand would make a nice nest egg for graduate school.”
“Thad's not the only one who could use that amount, I suppose.” Vida paused to sip from her mug of hot water. “Aaron certainly needed money, not merely for his drugs, but to live on. I can't guess at Victor's financial status, since I've no idea what kind of salary tuba players earn.” She made a face. “Such a silly instrument. All that oompah.”
“Do you think Crystal had a will?” If anyone would know, it'd be Vida.
But for once, she pleaded ignorance. “It's doubtful, isn't it? She was still a young woman. Have you made a will?”
I had, in fact, but only because of a fluke. The fiancé of my youth, a Boeing engineer, had made me the beneficiary of his company life-insurance policy. Though we had parted and Don had married someone else, he'd neglected to change the policy. When he died of a sudden heart attack at forty-five, I had come into five hundred thousand dollars. After months of litigation from his deserved heirs, I ended up with the entire sum. Somewhat guiltily, I used the money to pay off my legal counsel, purchase The Advocate, and buy my secondhand Jag. Thus, in one of my wiser moments, I'd asked the attorney I'd been forced to hire to draw up a simple will. I'd designated Adam and Ben as my sole heirs.
“Milo should know about the will,” I said.
“Yes.” Vida carefully peeled a hard-boiled egg, another basic item in her ongoing attempt to diet. “There was one conversation of interest at the reception, now that I think about it.”
“Which was?”
Vida sprinkled the egg with the tiny packets of salt and pepper she guiltlessly lifted from the Burger Barn. “Mel was grumbling about the expenses for the funeral and reception. Thad spoke rather sharply to his father, saying that if he—Mel—and Mom—April—ever saved any money, then he—Thad—wouldn't be … something-or-other. I couldn't quite catch the last of it.”
“Indicating that the family wasn't going to inherit?” I suggested.
“Perhaps.” Vida carefully cut her egg into quarters. “It might also indicate they don't yet know who gets the money. One assumes, if Crystal hadn't made a will, everything would go to April as next of kin.”
“As I said, Milo might know whether there's a will.” I paused, tossing the sandwi
ch's plastic container into the wastebasket. “I'm betting Crystal had one.”
Vida didn't comment as she finished her low-calorie lunch. I called Scott in and gave him the winter driving assignment. He didn't look pleased, but spared me any protest.
Having requested and received a photo of Dean Ramsey, I typed up the slightly skewed interview Vida and I had conducted Monday. We could have run it in this week's edition, but I'd deemed it in poor taste to carry the story of his new appointment in the same issue that contained coverage of his ex-wife's untimely demise. Besides, now we had time to do a feature on the departing Hector Tuck. That assignment would go to Vida. She knew the Tucks better than I did, and it would fit as neatly on her House & Home page as in the straight news section of the paper.
Around four o'clock, I was about to call Milo and ask if there had been any new developments, or if he knew about the existence of a will. But the phone rang before I picked up the receiver. I heard the vaguely familiar fragment of a masculine voice at the other end just before the lights flickered and the line went dead.
“Power failure,” I called to the news office, though I wasn't sure if anyone was there.
Leo strolled into the office as the lights gave one more blink and then went completely out. “I'm still not used to living with a mountain PUD.” He sighed, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Damned good thing I'd just hit the save key on my computer.”
I nodded, shoving the candle I kept at the ready toward Leo. “It happens even in good weather,” I said. “This is the first one since Scott came aboard. I must warn him. Is he out there?” I gestured toward the news office.
Leo shook his head as he lighted the candle first, then his cigarette. “He went over to the courthouse to check something-or-other. Hey, babe”—he grinned—“want to play some games in the almost dark?”
I grinned back. “Like what? Guess whether my automatic save actually worked and I haven't lost the feature I was doing on the candlelighting ceremony at Old Mill Park?”
“You were there?” Leo slipped into one of my visitor's chairs.