by Mary Daheim
“I can’t think when I’ve been so upset,” Reba said, sitting next to her husband on the floral print-covered sofa. “It’s not safe to go out alone anywhere these days. Not even in Alpine.”
It occurred to me that Linda might not have gone out alone. Her killer could have been her companion. But I didn’t want to say so. The idea raised too many ugly questions.
A tremor seemed to pass over Andy’s thin frame. “Linda, of all people!” There was awe in his voice. “Now, there was a woman I would have thought could take care of herself. Savvy, cautious, did everything by the numbers. Boy, it sure goes to show you never can tell about people.”
I agreed, casting about for a way to discuss Andy’s near miss with the errant driver. But both Cederbergs were wound up in Linda’s death. I couldn’t blame them.
“Andy asked Marv if she’d been robbed,” Reba said, nervously entwining her fingers. “Or … assaulted. I guess he didn’t know.” She gave her husband a questioning look.
Andy nodded. “That’s right. Sheriff Dodge didn’t have all the facts yet. It’s just a darned shame that everything has to be sent over to Snohomish County. We’re like a bunch of stepchildren here in Alpine.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been motivated to start an editorial campaign to put a law-enforcement bond issue on the ballot. The problem was the economy: Skykomish County residents were more concerned with putting food on the table. It would be a tough sell to convince them that there was a corollary between poverty and crime.
“I don’t suppose Linda told anybody at work Friday what her plans were for the weekend,” I remarked.
Andy looked blank. “She didn’t tell me. But Linda was always closemouthed. She kept her private life private.”
Reba had gotten to her feet, presumably to fetch the coffee. “Oh, how true! When she moved back here after her divorce from Howie, I made a real effort to be friendly. We belong to Gut-Busters, the gourmet dinner group Vida writes up sometimes, and I asked Linda to join us. I tried to get her involved in the Lutheran church—the rest of her family is quite active, you know. Then I asked her to go with me and a couple of other women into Seattle for the annual garden show at the convention center. She always had some excuse, so I finally gave up.” With an air of lingering resentment, Reba headed for the kitchen.
I decided her absence would provide an opportunity to ask Andy about the attempted rundown. “This hasn’t been a very good week for the bank,” I said in my most sympathetic manner. “I heard you almost got hit by a car Wednesday night.”
Andy removed his wire-rimmed glasses and let his head loll on the back of the sofa. “Golly, that was something! It scared the heck out of me! I wasn’t going to tell Reba about it, but I was still shaking by the time I got home. She guessed something was up.”
“Where did it happen?” I inquired, wishing I had the nerve to take notes. Unlike Vida, my memory is not infallible.
Another tremor passed through Andy’s body. “Right by John Engstrom Park, just after I passed Driggers Funeral Home.” Andy’s expression was ironic as well as anxious. “I’d left the bank a little later than usual—around six-thirty—except Fridays, of course, when we’re open late.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “It was foggy again, even though it had started to warm up. There I was, just walking along, minding my own business, and … whaaang!” He smacked a fist into his palm. “This car comes up over the curb and sends me flying. I landed right at the base of old John’s memorial plaque.”
“You were actually hit?” I asked, aghast.
Andy shook his head and put his glasses back on. “Gosh, no. I mean, I heard the guy coming and I jumped out of the way. I suppose he lost control, or else he couldn’t see in the fog.”
The explanation was logical. Having had the luxury of publication day when there is seldom any pressure at work, I’d gone home around four-thirty on Wednesday. The fog hadn’t yet settled in and there was still considerable daylight. About the same time that Andy Cederberg was being chased by a car, I was settling in with my laptop to write some letters. As usual, I’d included a weather report. It had definitely been foggy. And dark.
“Maybe it was Durwood Parker,” I suggested. When it comes to vehicular assault, Durwood is always the usual suspect. He supposedly has had his driver’s license revoked, but that hasn’t stopped him from taking to the road—and the sidewalk and an occasional storefront.
“Oh, no, it wasn’t Durwood. I know his car.” Andy’s certainty wasn’t questionable. Everyone in Alpine knew Durwood’s car; they had to. It was a matter of life and death.
“Then you don’t think it was deliberate,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Andy sighed. “I don’t know, Emma. It could have been kids. You know how crazy they can be.”
I did. Cruising Front Street, especially on weekends, was a favorite hobby of Alpine teenagers. Milo and his deputies tried to curb the activity, but it wasn’t easy. The town didn’t offer much for young people. Besides, Milo admitted that he, too, had been a world-class Alpine cruiser in his day.
“The main thing is that you didn’t get hurt. Badly, I mean.” The amendment was caused by Andy’s wince. Apparently he’d suffered some bumps and bruises.
“It took me ten minutes to find my briefcase,” Andy said, rubbing his left forearm. “It landed next to the pond.”
Reba returned, carrying a tray with a coffee carafe, three mugs, sugar, cream, and napkins. “You’re talking about Andy’s accident? My goodness, it scared me out of my wits! I wish he’d gotten the license number.” She gave Andy a glance of mild reproach.
“Heck, hon, I couldn’t eyeball it. As I told Emma, I heard the blasted thing first. By the time I looked around, it had taken off like a shot. All I know is that it was a car, not a truck or a van or a bus.”
Reba handed me a mug of hot coffee. “He tore his overcoat and ruined his pants. I took the coat over to Everett to be mended properly, but it won’t be back until next week. And now it’s snowing!” She grimaced as she looked out through the bay window. The snow was coming down much harder.
“Hon, I’ve got my down jacket,” Andy reminded her. “I’d probably wear it anyway if this stuff gets really bad.”
Reba had sat down again on the sofa. “Kids,” she said in a disgruntled voice. “Every year they get worse. All these broken homes. I see it every day at school. Divorce, remarriage, more divorce, live-ins, liquor, dope, and no jobs. I wonder what’s going to become of this generation. It’s pathetic.”
Andy put a skinny arm around his wife’s plump shoulders. “Now, hon, don’t get started on all that.” He gave me an amused look. “Just about this time of year when the first report cards are due, Reba gets really down on the kids. And their parents.”
Reba’s green eyes flashed. “Why shouldn’t I? Everybody blames the teachers for students being so poorly educated. They have no discipline because they aren’t being raised properly at home. It’s not easy being a parent, I know that, but Andy and I’ve tried to raise our children the old-fashioned way, with rules. Too many others are ruined before they ever get to kindergarten. Maybe it’s a good thing Linda didn’t get custody of her daughter. Look at what a mess the poor girl would be in now!”
I didn’t try to suppress my surprise. “Linda was in a custody battle?”
Andy appeared to give Reba a warning nudge, but she wasn’t about to be intimidated. I suspected she never was. “Linda would never confide in anyone, of course. But Marisa Foxx let it slip that she knew Linda.” Reba leaned forward on the sofa, regarding me in a conspiratorial manner. “You must know Marisa—she’s one of the new lawyers in the Doukas firm, and I believe she goes to your church. I got her to join Gut-Busters. She’s marvelous with pasta.”
I recognized Marisa only by sight. She was in her early thirties, and because of her short-cropped hair, long-legged stride, and interest in softball, was rumored to be a lesbian. The only thing I knew about Marisa for certain was th
at she was very bright and, along with another young lawyer, Jonathan Sibley, had brought in some new clients from along the Highway 2 corridor.
“So what else?” Reba was saying.
Distracted by conjuring up Marisa Foxx, I hadn’t been paying close attention. “What? Ah—you mean the custody fight?”
Reba nodded, both chins waggling. “The divorce was final a long time ago, there was no haggling over money because they didn’t have any, and Howie has remarried. What could Linda have wanted but custody? And why didn’t she get it in the first place?” She turned to Andy, chins jutting. Reba looked as if she’d scored a tie-breaking point.
“Don’t ask me, hon.” Andy was perfectly amiable. “Linda wasn’t the type to blab all her personal stuff around the bank. I’m not complaining. Over the years, we’ve had some personnel who didn’t know when to shut up. Mostly women, and especially the younger ones, like Denise Petersen. No offense,” he added hastily, lest Reba and I gang up and snap him in two like a twig.
Being neither young nor a Petersen, I wasn’t offended. I’d been exposed to Carla and Ginny all week. Ginny had moped around the office in comparative silence, but Carla had voiced her sufferings to anyone who would listen, including the Federal Express driver, the Audit Bureau of Circulation representative, and any poor soul who brought in a news release. I understood Andy’s gripe. I also knew it was time to take my leave. The only news value in the near-miss incident was for Vida’s “Scene.” I asked Andy if he would mind being included in next week’s column. Usually we don’t request permission, but I try not to hurt anyone’s dignity. And Andy, after all, was an extension of Marv Petersen’s dignified image.
“Heck no,” Andy replied as he and Reba accompanied me to the door. “Maybe somebody else saw what happened. I doubt it, though. I couldn’t see a foot in front of me in that blasted fog.”
I, however, could still see four feet up on the staircase landing. Maybe the Cederberg kids were breaking some of their parents’ rules. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I’ve never been one to squash natural curiosity. It was, after all, one of the reasons I’d gone into journalism.
But as I left the Cederberg house, I knew I didn’t have any answers.
I drove by John Engstrom Park on my way home. Under the pristine white blanket of snow, the half block of trees and shrubs took on a magical aura. Unlike Old Mill Park on the other side of town with its picnic tables and bandstand and tennis court and life-sized statue of Carl Clemans, this small oasis is not just a monument to the Alpine Mill’s beloved superintendent, but a microcosm of local flora. The park was built among existing evergreens, and the other plantings are native growth, from trilliums to wild ginger. Only the pond and the plaque are artificial, but they are artfully integrated. There is no purpose to the place, except to provide a memorial to John Engstrom and a haven in the middle of commercial and residential structures. City dwellers might scoff at the need for such a refuge when the town itself is surrounded by nature’s grandeur. But I find the park quaint, charming, and a reminder that sometimes our vision is limited. We cannot see the forest for the trees. And often, we cannot see the mountains for the rooftops.
It was after nine o’clock by the time I got home. At least an inch of snow had fallen. I called Vida. She was watching TV with Roger.
“Giraffes,” she said, “on PBS. I thought Roger needed something educational. He’s all tuckered out from our Big Day.”
I recounted my so-called interview with the Cederbergs, including Reba’s claim that Linda was in a custody battle. Vida pounced on that tasty tidbit.
“My niece, Stacey, works for the Doukas firm,” she said. “I’ll see what she knows. She’s been very lax lately about keeping me informed.”
I had forgotten about Stacey. Indeed, I required a family tree to keep track of Vida’s relatives. “The Cederbergs think some outsider killed Linda,” I noted. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “Anything is possible,” Vida allowed. “I would like to believe that, naturally. Do you?”
I gave a truncated laugh. “How would I know, Vida? My experience with murder in Alpine is somewhat limited, but the victim usually knows the killer.”
Vida refused to comment. Instead, she returned to Andy’s close call at John Engstrom Park. “I don’t like that. If it wasn’t Durwood Parker, who could it be?”
I repeated the earlier theory of teenagers, lost in the fog. “They don’t take weather factors into account,” I said, recalling some of Adam’s vehicular disasters. Fortunately, they had all occurred before I bought the Jag.
“Perhaps.” Vida sounded noncommittal. I suspected she was still considering the possibility that the Bank of Alpine’s employees were all potential victims. “I’m not going to use it in ‘Scene.’ It’s too morbid. I’m also cutting out Darla Puckett’s tidbit on JoAnne Petersen scurrying around Safeway to buy crackers and cheese spread. I certainly wouldn’t embarrass Ginny by running Heather Bardeen’s report of Rick Erlandson and Denise Petersen necking at the Whistling Marmot. Besides, we shouldn’t have anything frivolous in this issue that involves the Petersens or the bank. Just because Leo has a filthy mouth doesn’t mean we should lower the rest of our standards.”
I quite agreed with Vida, though it always amused me when she delivered a lecture as if I were the green reporter and she the veteran publisher. “Andy thought a mention of the careless driver might elicit a witness,” I said.
Vida snorted. “In that fog? If anyone had been there, Andy would have noticed. It’s best to leave it out. I have more than enough this week, what with all the items from the Baptist church’s Fall Follies.” She paused, then spoke away from the phone, presumably to Roger. It sounded as if she were cautioning him not to pull the pin on a hand grenade, but I probably didn’t hear her correctly. “There are several things bothering me,” Vida said, the worry coming through in her voice. “It’s odd that Marv Petersen never called back. I don’t like that, either.”
I, too, had found the lack of communication peculiar. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to think that there’s a buyout in the wind after all?”
Vida’s sigh was eloquent. “I’d hate to think it. But it’s happening everywhere. Hardly a month goes by without some big bank taking over a smaller one somewhere in the state. I suppose it’s unrealistic to believe that … Eeeek!” Vida’s screech startled me. “Roger is throwing up! All this violence! I must run!” The phone clicked in my ear.
Attributing Roger’s stomach troubles to gluttony rather than gore, I wasn’t alarmed. I was, however, disturbed. I hardly knew Linda Lindahl, but her death had shaken me. As if suffering from an aftershock, I found myself suddenly unnerved. I checked both doors to make sure they were locked. I left the light on in the carport. I spent five minutes staring out the front window. The snow was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see beyond my split-rail fence. Surely no homicidal maniac would be out in this kind of weather.
Or so I told myself as I prepared for bed an hour later. When the phone rang just before midnight, I was still awake. Anxiously I picked up the receiver and said hello. There was a slight pause before the caller hung up.
A wrong number, a coward like me. I hadn’t had the courage to tell the Whistling Marmot that I’d made a mistake in dialing. A few minutes later, I drifted off to sleep. I’d expected grisly dreams, of bodies stuffed in rotting logs, of murderers lurking in the shadows, of Roger eating Fritos.
Instead, I dreamed of Tom Cavanaugh. It was a familiar, frustrating dream I’d had for over twenty years. We were working together on The Seattle Times, and trying to conduct our affair with the utmost discretion. In the dream, as in real life, we were always trying to find an opportunity to be together. Unlike real life, we never did. The city editor, my ex-fiancé, Tom’s wife—someone would intrude to keep us apart. Every time, the dream ended on the same note, with me sitting alone, watching Tom walk away. Never once had I ever drea
med of making love with Tom, not even after our ecstatic reunion at Lake Chelan the previous June.
It had been twenty years since we’d been together. We hadn’t even seen each other for almost that long. When Tom’s mentally unstable wife, Sandra, had gotten pregnant about the same time I had, all hope of marriage had evaporated. Stubbornly, I refused Tom’s help.
I’d headed for Mississippi where Ben had his first parish in the home missions. When I returned with little Adam, I put Seattle behind me and finished my schooling in Eugene, at the University of Oregon. After graduation, I’d gone to work for The Oregonian in Portland. There Adam and I remained until I got the opportunity to buy The Advocate.
It was then that Tom reentered my life, having heard about my purchase through his weekly newspaper grapevine. He had been based in Sandra’s hometown of San Francisco for years, using her inherited money to fund his entrepreneurial activities. Or what was left over from that money after paying for bail bondsmen, lawyers, court costs, fines, hospitals, and custodial care. Sandra may have been rich, but she didn’t come cheap—not in terms of upkeep or emotional erosion. It was a testament to Tom’s character that after twenty-five years, he wasn’t as crazy as she was.
I was still thinking about Tom the next day after returning from Mass. I’d had to put chains on the car because Alpine was now under five inches of snow. Had it been a Monday, the city might have roused itself to plow the streets. But it was Sunday, and Mayor Fuzzy Baugh could walk to the Baptist church. If he felt like it. Besides, the latest forecast called for a warming trend, with the snow turning to rain by afternoon. If that happened, come the March elections, Fuzzy could boast that he’d saved the taxpayers money.
The Sunday paper had nothing on our local murder. The edition delivered to Alpine was printed earlier than the one received by Seattle subscribers. Perhaps tomorrow The Post-Intelligencer or The Times would carry an inch or two in their Northwest sections.
Indeed, for all its pages, I found little of interest in the current edition. Or maybe I was still in the clutches of my dream. I hadn’t seen Tom since Lake Chelan, though I had spoken with him on the phone as recently as mid-October. He had called to ask if I thought Adam had finally found his niche in anthropology. Tom knew I wouldn’t know, so I presumed he’d also called to hear my voice. Having finally relented and let him meet Adam, I was still adjusting to Tom’s active interest in our son’s well-being. Adam was adjusting, too, and seemed to like Tom. Or maybe Adam merely liked the money that Tom gave him for plane tickets. I had the feeling that Tom’s belated arrival in Adam’s world conveyed an aura of impermanence. Fathers who suddenly show up after the first twenty years must seem ephemeral, like a wizard materializing out of a puff of smoke.